You Live Your Life in the Shadow of the Mountain by darthfingon

PART ONE: Graveyard of the Lavazat Oichimyaiva

Read PART ONE: Graveyard of the Lavazat Oichimyaiva

On the day that the Oraistar came, Sidaizon was set to dig a grave. A young woman had died, at the age of only forty-five, in the birth of her first child. Her body lay shrouded and waiting on a bier just inside the courtyard door. On the other side of the gate, her family stood with candles in their hands, swaying and singing prayers to Nienna. They had threatened to set the courtyard alight.

A great fury of debate had raged through the city over the woman's death. Not because she had died, as the life of one poor woman hardly mattered in the vastness of the world, but because she had the misfortune to be a convert. Her husband was Valadávan. He wanted her buried. Her father's family was Yaranénon, and they demanded a pyre. And though the husband's request had triumphed in the end, the anger that divided the people of Valmar down the line of their beliefs refused to abate. Three men had nearly been killed because of it.

Sidaizon glanced over his shoulder as a boy, some cousin or brother of the dead woman, shouted at him to leave before they burned the courtyard with him in it. The boy rattled the gate and brandished his candle. Sunset, they had promised: they would have their fire by sunset, with the body or without. Either way, something would burn. Half of an afternoon was left for Sidaizon to make a proper grave. He turned back to his work, facing toward Taniquetil, and sighted along his outstretched arm to the mountain's peak. A grave must be exactly aligned. The stake he had placed to mark the head needed to move slightly to the left.

As he dug, the family behind the gate wailed their protests, and he hummed a song to Manwë to keep his mind from the noise. He kept his back turned as much as he could. There was no sense in watching their grief as well as hearing it, nor risking too much pity for them. The woman's body needed to be buried. Already four days had passed, and it had started to decay. The stale smell of death hung over its shroud. Sidaizon held his breath as he carried it, back still turned against the gate, across the courtyard and to the grave. He lowered it in by the ends of the shroud, and there it lay. All that remained of the task was to fill in the hole. He glanced up at the sky; there would still be two hours or so before sunset.

The boy who had shouted before loosed a tirade of curses as Sidaizon shovelled the first layer of dirt back into the grave, and threw his candle, though it sputtered and extinguished itself on the damp grass. Three more candles followed. None of them stayed lit; the courtyard was too green. A young girl reached her thin arm as far as she could through the gate's bars, trying to burn the leaves of a nearby bush, but could cause no more damage than some singed edges and smoke.

Only when it was done, and the grave made into a neat mound of fresh earth, did Sidaizon approach the gate. Twelve or more members of the woman's family stood on the other side, and they watched him with hateful eyes.

"Her body is buried," he said to them. "But if you will come peacefully, I will open this lock and let you through to sing your prayers. You may make a fire on her grave. I only ask that you enter this place with peace and good will."

"Let us in and our fire will follow," the boy replied. "You deserve to burn with her for what you have done."

"Be quiet," said a second voice, and a man stepped forward to swat the boy aside. He frowned as he approached Sidaizon, knotting his brow over eyes so dark they were nearly black. Contemptuously, he sucked on his teeth. "Who are you?"

"Almatar Sidaizon."

"And you think that this title of Almatar gives you the right to do as you wish with the bodies of my people?"

"I think that gives me the responsibility to follow the requests I have been given. This woman's husband came to me with his grief. Who should I be to refuse him?"

"Who should you be to disregard her family?!" the man shouted back. "That is the body of my only daughter, my only child, you have buried! My daughter, who should have a proper pyre and her ashes thrown to the wind! Now her cold body will rot in the ground. How is this fair, Almatar Sidaizon?"

Sidaizon lowered his head. "How is it fair for you to come to my courtyard and threaten me? To disturb the sorrow of your daughter's death with violence? I am sorry for your loss. But this anger will change nothing. She is dead. Please, come in peacefully." Reaching down, he released the lock and let the gate swing open. Then he stepped back.

He watched the man's hard expression waver and fall into uncertainty. Nobody moved in that moment, as the dead woman's father tried to resolve his next step. His face seemed to flicker between defeat and the need for honourable vengeance. But before anyone could speak, a woman in a dirty pink shawl pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

"I am her mother," she said quietly. "I would like to have a fire on the grave."

Gently, the woman linked her arm through her husband's and led him through the gate. Sidaizon bowed to her as she passed, but she, head held nobly high, kept her eyes only on the grave ahead. And she proceeded like a queen. The crowd rumbled and hissed, neither satisfied nor discouraged, but the lady lifted her free hand in a gesture to still them before they could make to follow her.

She did not even turn to look at them when she spoke. "You all may stay. You have done your part. Authimer and I will continue alone."

The father, Authimer, allowed himself to be led by his wife's more confident footsteps, though Sidaizon could sense the unease in him. He had drawn his shoulders in defensively, and his black eyes scanned the surrounding walls for any hidden threat; he had clearly never been inside the courtyard of a Lavazat. Tension squeezed his body like a snake. Still he did not falter in his duty, but knelt to help his wife in gathering dry, fallen twigs from beneath the trees to build a small fire. He stood his candle upright in the earth beside it.

Though the gate hung open, none of the others dared to pass through even after Sidaizon retreated to the Lavazat door. He watched them in the corner of his vision, over his shoulder. They shuffled impatiently but did not come inside. Whether they agreed with the mother's compromise or not, they did not challenge it, and Sidaizon took a deep breath of relief as he pushed open the door that led from the courtyard to the inner hall.

The dead woman's bier still stood just beyond, and upon it, the thing that Sidaizon sought: a tightly wrapped bundle of cloth. Handling it carefully, touching as little as possible with only the tips of his fingers, he carried it back out to the courtyard. The family at the gate had not moved in the seconds he had been inside. At the foot of the grave, the mother and father coaxed their fire to life. He knelt beside them without a word, and handed over the cloth.

The father took it, though hesitantly. "What is this?"

"Something I would have had to burn anyhow... you can add it to your pyre in place of her body. It is the dress she died in."

For the first time, the mother fully looked at Sidaizon. Her eyes flicked to his and paused, but just briefly, before glancing back down to the safety of her hands. She took the wrapped cloth from her husband and let it unfold onto the ground. The edge she held showed itself to be the collar and shoulders of a nightgown, which rolled out to reveal a hideous stain within. The father gasped and coiled back at what he saw. A choked groan of horror escaped his throat. All of the nightgown, from the waist down, was coloured with the dark red-brown of dried blood: so much blood that the fabric had stiffened like plaster into ridges where it had been folded. The mother held it up for only a moment longer. Then quickly, with the smallest of shudders, she lowered it onto the fire. The smoke that curled up in the seconds before the flames caught carried a sickly sweet and acrid stench, like hot metal mixed with the charring of flesh. Sidaizon clenched his teeth to keep from retching. The dead woman's parents, though, remained woodenly still, watching as their fire grew. They who had been prepared for a burning corpse thought little of the smell of blood alone. In perfect silence, they sat a vigil over the pyre, and shed soundless tears as they waited for it to finish.

When it was over, the mother gathered the ashes of the nightgown into a wooden bowl while the father wiped tears from his smoke-stung eyes. He stood to leave and Sidaizon followed. Though the air away from the smouldering grave was less smoky, the smell still lingered in the courtyard as a subtle haze.

"Thank you for your kindness here, Almatar Sidaizon."

Sidaizon, having nothing to say in return, only bowed his head.

The father made a jerky movement with his arm, as if to reach out to Sidaizon, but thought better of his action and corrected himself. Instead, he put his hands together and touched his brow. "Thank you," he repeated. The words were quick and awkward. Their momentary understanding had passed.

He left the courtyard then, guiding his wife along the path back to where their family waited. She had protectively curled herself so far over the ash bowl that she was nearly bent double. At the gate, they passed through the crowd as quietly as they had left Sidaizon. Neither spoke any further word, but continued down the road leading to the northern edge of the city and disappeared from sight.

It was only after the remaining crowd had murmured itself out and grudgingly dispersed that Sidaizon dared to go lock the gate. He had the lock in his hand when the carriage pulled up: gold and white, and marked on the side with the harma-like symbol of Manwë. It stopped directly in front of the gate, so close it nearly scraped the garden walls, and the door slid open as soon as the wheels were still. Sidaizon pulled the gate open again as the man in the carriage stepped down. He wore fine robes of gold with an indigo sash: the costume of an Oraistar.

"I would speak to the Almatar here," he announced to the courtyard air. His nose wrinkled as he spoke, and he fanned his face with his hand in a useless effort to brush away the smell of the pyre.

Sidaizon bowed low. "Alla. Manwë greet you. One moment, lord."

"Hurry. I have dire news." His eyes remained haughtily high and never left the clouds.

For the filthy work of digging a grave, Sidaizon had stripped down to the plain corima trousers he wore under his robe. The rest of his clothing hung on a peg inside the Lavazat hall. He paused at the little fountain by the door before retrieving them, washing the dirt from his hands and the sweat of labour from his bare skin. Once clean, he pulled on the white robe and green sash of his station, and smoothed his hair. A quick transformation from labourer to proper Almatar would have to suffice.

The Oraistar's eyebrows rose when he saw Sidaizon reappear. "You?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dirty at the gate here? Have you no-one else for such tasks? No serving brothers?"

Sidaizon shook his head. "Alas no, lord Oraistar. Not today. We have only one other, and he is here just once in every four days. There is no money for anything more, so today I am alone. We poor folk must manage as we can."

"I see," said the Oraistar. Distaste showed plainly in his small frown. "Then I suppose it is you I must warn, Almatar. Threats have been made against your Lavazat. The family of that girl who died threatened to burn this place at sunset unless you gave up the body. I have been sent by the King to protect you on his authority."

"My lord, I am afraid you are too late. They have come and gone."

"Come and... Come and gone?" The Oraistar's frown deepened as he looked to the west, where the fiery colours of sunset began to flood the horizon. "They left?"

"They arrived before I began the grave, and stayed until the body was buried. Then they left peacefully."

"There must be another group approaching. I can smell their fire. The air stinks with the things they burn."

Sidaizon shook his head. "I am sorry, sir. That smoke is my fault. It was dead woman's clothing, you see; it was soaked with her blood. I had to burn it to destroy the curse of death."

"And then they just left peacefully," the Oraistar murmured. Though his face showed every sign of suspicion, he asked no further questions.

"I spoke to them. After the body was buried. Yes, they were unhappy at first, but as you can see, they did not burn my courtyard. A small few threw their candles onto the grass, but by the grace of Manwë, alla, the ground was too wet and green. They made no earnest efforts to set a fire. They were mostly grieved, sir, not angry. Once the burial was done there was no sense in argument. I spoke with them briefly, we arrived at an understanding, and they left."

"What manner of understanding?"

"Nothing unlawful, my lord," Sidaizon assured him. "I merely explained why things needed to be done the way they were. The woman died Valadávan. Therefore, it is only proper to respect her beliefs and have her buried. Once they realised I meant neither them nor their daughter disrespect, they were appeased, and went on their way."

"And they did nothing further? After all those threats, they did nothing to foul your land with their heathen hands? They did not enter these walls?"

Sidaizon looked to the Oraistar's face with a calm and even gaze. "Of course not, sir. I could never allow that."

"You are lucky then, Almatar." Pausing, he tapped his fingers against his chest. "But perhaps foolish to believe they have gone for good. I would not be surprised to see them return in the dark of night to make their violence."

"I would be," Sidaizon replied. "I have seen their faces, and even if they wished to do harm, they could not be so stupid as to do it when I know who to blame. Whatever they do, the law will catch them. I have faith in that and will not worry needlessly. But now, Lord Oraistar, I must ask you to excuse me. The day is nearly over and I must sing my sundown prayers."

The Oraistar nodded and made a gesture of dismissal with his hand. "Very well. You are excused, Almatar. Be sure to lock this gate when you leave. I will make a report to the King that the situation has calmed, but we will stay wary. Someone will return soon to be sure things remain stable. Good night and Manwë keep you. Alla."

"Alla, sir, good night."

---

Chapter End Notes

Oraistar and Almatar: Title of religious office. To give rough equivalent in Christian terms, an Oriastar would be a Bishop while an Almatar would be a Priest.

Valadáva (Láva) and Yaranéno: Two main and opposing religions of Valmar.  Valadávar follow the new faith started by Ingwë, and revere Manwë alone, while Yaranénor adapted ancient pagan beliefs of Cuiviénen to include all Valar.

Lavazat: temple.

Alla: Greeting or farewell: 'blessings to you'.

Black Tidings

Read Black Tidings

The dark had settled thickly by the time Sidaizon arrived home. Only a sliver of the moon shone that night, giving little light to the streets of Valmar, but still he could see well enough the familiar walls surrounding his house, silhouetted by the neighbourhood's lamps and cooking fires. Pale smoke and a sweet, spicy smell rose from the shared courtyards.

"You're late, Attu," said a voice from atop the garden wall.

He looked up with a grin. "And you're far too big to be sitting on the walls. How did you get up there?"

"Climbed the fig tree."

"That's hardly ladylike."

"You said I don't have to act like a lady for another two years!"

"You're right," Sidaizon said, smile growing. "I did say that. Now you'd better come down. If I'm late for supper, you must be too." He held up his arms, and the thin, shadowy figure of Nautalya slid over the edge of the wall and into his embrace. "Och. You're also far too big for me to carry... What have you been eating, stones?"

Nautalya only laughed in reply and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his shoulder. She pulled back almost immediately. "Your hair smells like... bad smoke."

"I had to burn some things at the Lavazat."

"What?"

"Just some old things," he said. There was no need to elaborate. He shifted Nautalya's weight to his other arm, giving her a gentle squeeze as he did, and carried her up the path to the house. "Now tell me what we're having for supper."

Nautalya said nothing. She fidgeted, and let her hair fall across her face.

"Alya?"

"Márathul hasn't cooked anything yet."

"Why not?"

Her eyes were wide with uncertainty when she looked up at him, and she hesitated on her words. "Tarmanaz isn't home yet so Márathul can't go out to cook because... Amma won't let him leave the house. Somebody's here to see you and Márathul has to wait on him."

"Who is here to see me?"

"I don't know who he is. A Yaranénon man."

Sidaizon abruptly stopped in his steps. He lowered Nautalya to the ground, but kept a protective hand on her shoulder. "Did he say why he's come?"

"No," Nautalya whispered. Her voice wavered, and her eyes seemed to grow even wider. "He only said he needed to see you. He said he's your cousin."

It took only three strides for Sidaizon, pulling Nautalya behind him, to reach the front door and throw it open. "Sinya?" he called.

No answer came. He stepped inside, but gestured to Nautalya to stay by the door. "Máro?"

Márathul's head appeared from around the corner, followed by one hand. "Attu," he said quietly, clearly trying not to be overheard. "There's someone-"

"I know," said Sidaizon. "Nautalya told me. What does he want?"

"He wouldn't say."

"Where is your mother?"

"With Haruni. In her bedroom. They won't come out."

Sidaizon nodded. "Good. Then go with your sister out back. Start supper. Alya, you help him. I will deal with this."

Obediently, Márathul took Nautalya's hand and led her back outside. Sidaizon shut the door behind them. He could hear no sound from the next room: no clearing of a throat, no clink of a cup on the floor. Some ghost of a man lingered in there. He took a breath, willed his arms to relax at his sides, and stepped out from the corridor.

The Yaranénon man was standing with arms crossed over his chest as he stared at the simple pattern of tiles on the back wall. Unlike those that had come earlier to the Lavazat, this man was clearly wealthy: he wore a robe of orange and red, made of a fine fabric, and heavy decorations of gold hung all over his body. Gold clips covered his plaits, gold bands circled his wrists and ankles, and gold earrings hung down to his shoulders. He lifted his hand to lazily brush a strand of hair from his eye; gold and gems gleamed as rings on his fingers.

"So it is you," Sidaizon said. His voice echoed in the silence of the room, and the man snapped his head to look toward the sound of it. "I half feared some impostor had taken your identity to come here and kill me." He bowed in a jerky, perfunctory way. "Culurossë."

Culurossë returned an equally meaningless bow. "Sivairon."

"Oh, now. If you impose on me to come into my house in the dark of night and frighten my family, I think the least you can do is learn to say my name properly."

A slow and mocking smile broke across Culurossë's face. "Ah. Yes. Forgive me; I forgot. You are still pretending you're not Noldorin."

Fury sparked, and then subsided. After all the day's exhaustion, Sidaizon could not even dedicate himself to proper anger. Instead he sat down on the floor opposite Culurossë and poured himself a cup of tea from the pot that somebody- Márathul, certainly- had left. "Culurossë, if you came to bait me, I'm afraid I will be poor sport. I haven't the energy for it. But if you want to talk, you can sit down with me and have some tea. We can talk as reasonable folk."

It seemed at first that Culurossë would refuse. He stalled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and crossing and uncrossing his arms. He rubbed his toe on the tiled floor, examining for dirt through mean eyes. Finally, he sat, but stiffly.

"Tea?" Sidaizon asked, gesturing to the pot.

"You know I can't have anything here."

"I know you would rather not. But I think it is polite to have some tea, don't you?"

"No, I cannot, by-"

"How many times have I eaten at your mother's house? Cousin?" He stressed the word, stretching out the sound of it.

Culurossë leaned back with a frown, as if he could somehow dodge Sidaizon's barb of speech.

"Have some tea. Or leave now. There are your choices: either we sit and drink and talk pleasantly, or you go. What will it be?"

"Tea, thank you," Culurossë spat.

Sidaizon took a sip. "I've not poisoned it." He watched and waited over a treacherously long pause, as Culurossë poured a cup and passed it from one hand to the other in an extravagant show of blowing on the tea to cool it. Culurossë would not look up to meet his gaze. Which was just as well: he had not seen his cousin in years. He stared, scrutinising, and tried to reconcile old memories with what he now saw.

Despite a difference in age of less than a year, he and Culurossë had never been close. They had not even met until Sidaizon was thirteen years old. On the few occasions after that, Sidaizon had always remembered Culurossë as being taller and more muscular. Now, he seemed average or even small. His face still bore the fresh roundness of youth; he had never grown into the sharper features of adulthood. He had darker skin in a coppery red tone, darker hair, and darker eyes: that Yaranénon blue-black like the father of the dead woman. It felt strange for Sidaizon to look at him, foreign as he was. The two of them were nothing alike.

Culurossë finally lifted his cup. "Ech... too bitter."

"I apologise," said Sidaizon. "Had I honey to spare, I would give it to you. Alas, I do not. So we suffer through bitter tea. Now do tell me, why are you here?"

"Can you not guess?" Culurossë asked. He took another sip from his teacup, grimaced, and set it down as far away from his body as he could reach.

"That dead woman again."

"Of course."

"I am beginning to think she will haunt me until the ending of the world..." Closing his eyes, Sidaizon downed the rest of his tea all at once. Its soothing heat only compounded his weariness. "It must be a trial from Manwë." He shook himself, trying to rouse some energy, and looked back to his guest.

Culurossë had tilted his head to the side while he gave a falsely sympathetic leer. "Yes, it must be, for you. A trial. But I can advise you how to rid yourself of it. If you simply give the body back to her family-"

"The burial is already done, Culurossë."

The simpering expression on Culurossë's face fell as fast as a stone. "What? How is that possible?"

"I used a shovel, dug a grave, and put the body into it. It was hardly an extraordinary task, and highly possible, once I set my mind to it. And would you believe: you are not even the first person today to come to me with a warning about something that has already happened."

"But how could you do that, when the whole city rages with controversy?!"

"I had to," Sidaizon replied. His voice remained flat. "The body was four days dead. I had to do something, and burial was the best solution. Now listen," he added, and held up his hand to stop the response forming in Culurossë's open mouth. "Think about this. Yes, that poor woman was a convert. But she chose her path. She chose Valadáva. Therefore, she chose burial. I think her wishes should be placed above those of her parents, yes?"

"She was born-" Culurossë began, but again Sidaizon interrupted.

"Your mother was born Valadávan. Should she ever die, Manwë forbid, am I to assume it is my right to demand a burial for her body? Or would you not rightly build a pyre?"

"I... no, of course... that's..." Stammering, Culurossë opened and closed his mouth stupidly.

"It's ridiculous; I know. Nearly as ridiculous as a whole city becoming upset over the body of one woman, and you coming to tell me what to do about it."

"Now that is not ridiculous," said Culurossë. He regained his composure to sit straighter and harden his eyes. "I don't know if you realise it. Safe behind the walls of your temple. Even across the river, there are threats and brawls, and it grows worse daily. It's more than simply one woman, Sidaizon. No-one cares any longer about the origin. They only want to fight. They use any excuse. Any perceived slight. Anything to bring out the old rivalries"

"They will settle down and the trouble will pass. It always does." Sidaizon poured himself another cup of tea and offered the pot to Culurossë, who pretended not to notice the gesture. He sighed. "Besides, I believe the parents of the dead woman will be able to convince their supporters that all is resolved. We came to a compromise, and ended on peaceful terms."

Culurossë snorted. "A compromise over the death of their daughter?"

"Yes. Even though I am sure you never would consider it, a solution can usually be found that is agreeable to both sides. The body was buried, true, but afterward I invited them into the Lavazat courtyard, and we burned her death gown on the grave. The mother then took those ashes. They thanked me, and left with no further incident. So you see why I believe things have taken a turn for the better. The woman's family is appeased, and with them no longer behind it, the issue will fade."

He paused, smiling at Culurossë to extend a thread of peace. At best, he expected a quick nod in return, or any sign that his cousin grudgingly understood. More likely, he expected a blank stare or argumentative rolling of the eyes. Instead, a hateful scowl filled Culurossë's face.

"You did what?" he hissed.

"I..." Sidaizon began, but the words stuck on his tongue and turned to air. Culurossë stared back at him with an ugly frown. "I let them in," he began again, "and they made a pyre, with the dress to represent the body-"

"And you thought they would be happy about that?"

"Why should they not be? They said nothing that made me think otherwise..."

Culurossë rose quickly to his feet, though he remained bent over to point a sharp finger in Sidaizon's face. "This is why we hate you," he said. "You talk so innocently of peace and understanding while at the same time pushing our traditions aside as if we were stupid children. What would you say, if we handed you back charred bones to bury? Would you accept that compromise or see it as the insult it is? How can half measures ever be good enough when they take the place of ancient rituals? I would rather see nothing at all than a false fire in mockery of what should have been. And you of course see nothing wrong."

In the face of his cousin's fury, Sidaizon could only stare. A rolling sickness began to build in his stomach. "Culurossë... I am sorry. You know I meant no disrespect."

"No. You never mean any disrespect. None of you ever do, from your high towers on Taniquetil as you control the land on your whims. But you cannot respect something you do not understand. And you do not understand this."

"If they would have told me," Sidaizon started, but his voice faded into a sigh. Culurossë turned and left, as quickly as he could walk, and was gone before any plea to stay could be spoken. He left the door hanging open behind him, too hurried to even slam it shut in his haste to be gone.

On the floor, Sidaizon squeezed his hands into fists and dropped his head against them. The skin on his knuckles was cold; it soothed his burning brow like rainwater. He opened his palms out flat and pressed them against his face. Feeble dismissals flashed through his mind. Culurossë is an ignorant mule. He has always been. There is no need to seriously consider anything he says; it is all either lies or exaggeration. He fabricates stories to fool himself into thinking he is wise and he argues for argument's sake. When we were children, he would fight over who had better friends, and nothing has changed in almost four long counts. Culurossë is only trying to make trouble.

For a long time, he only sat, until a voice interrupted from behind.

"Attu?"

Noiselessly, Márathul had returned through the kitchen door. Sidaizon stretched and stood to face him. "Supper is ready?"

"Nearly," said Márathul. "Not much bread left, but we made a big soup with the rest of the soaked beans and those carrots. Is..." He paused, eyes darting across the room. "Is that man gone?"

Sidaizon nodded. "Yes. And he was my cousin, as he claimed. Culurossë. I should have introduced you. But... I'm sure there will be another opportunity." Then he clapped his hands together, trying to force some measure of lightness into the room, and spoke too cheerily: "Now! You set out a cloth and have Alya bring the bowls, and I will tell Amma and Haruni that supper is ready. Has Tarmanaz come home yet?"

"No. Not yet."

"We will have to eat without him, then."

Márathul gave a half nod as he glanced about the room again, as if he expected to find some Yaranénon thug still lurking in the corner, and Sidaizon went to close the door that still hung crookedly open in the wake of Culurossë's departure. For the first time since he could remember, he pulled the latch shut and put in the bolt. It was a useless gesture, he knew. There was little sense in locking a door when so many windows stood uncovered, and even if the windows were barred, a single wooden dowel would do little against anyone set on entering the house. He pulled it halfway out before reconsidering and leaving it in place. Useless or not, Eäzinya would appreciate its presence.

He needed to find his wife. Nautalya had said that she and his mother had closed themselves in his mother's bedroom, and this looked to be the truth; the bedroom door was shut when he approached.

"Sinya?" As he called, he gave the door a soft tap.

She opened it almost immediately. The room beyond was dim save for the light of two candles, but even by that faint glow Sidaizon could see that her skin had taken a greyish tone and her eyes were wide with uncertainty. "Oh!" she whispered.

His arms instinctually found their way around her back, pulling her close, and he could feel the tension of the evening slowly begin to ebb from her body as she dropped her head onto his shoulder. Her hair smelled faintly of cinnamon. Of all that had happened that day, of every reckless thing he had done and every poor choice he had made, he most regretted not having come home sooner. He should have been home.

"He's gone?" Eäzinya asked. "That Yaranénon man?"

"Yes. And there was no cause to worry."

"I did worry. When Máro answered the door and told me who was there, I came straight in here and prayed for you to come home soon and make him go. But then I prayed that you would not come home, in case he meant to harm you, and that he would lose patience and leave..."

"He did not harm me, nor did he mean to," Sidaizon assured her. "He is all air and no substance." Kissing Eäzinya's hair, he looked over the top of her head to address his mother, seated in the corner. "You could have come out to see him. He was who he claimed to be. Your nephew: Aldamizdë's son, Culurossë.""

Though Amárië sat with a cloak draped across her lap and a bowl of pearls in her hands, Sidaizon knew she had not been working. Her posture was too stiff; she always relaxed and slouched over her beadwork. "If he was polite he'd bring a token from his mother," she said. "She should know to send him with one. Besides I am not dressed to have visitors. I don't want to see that boy looking like this."

Sidaizon looked from his mother to his wife and back again: at their matching expressions of concern and fear. "Oh you two..." he said softly. "You let Nautalya out alone in the dark while you sit in here, afraid of your own shadows. Afraid of one stranger, when more and worse have come to you, Amma, to have their clothes beaded." Smirking a little, he gestured to the pearl bowl in Amárië's hands. She looked back at him blankly, appearing not to notice.

Eäzinya tilted her face to her feet. "Shadows are the least of my worries tonight. You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

"Another man was killed," said Amárië, and the floor seemed to shift beneath Sidaizon's feet as he gasped.

"Close to here. By the early market. Some Yaranénon band was parading through the street, shouting curses and making noise, throwing rocks through open windows, and a man from one of the houses stood out in the road to stop them. He held a long shovel and would not let them pass. He told them to leave, quit frightening his children... and they started throwing rocks at him. One the size of a fist hit him in the head."

"Who told you this?" Sidaizon asked. "Are you certain it is no false rumour?"

Amárië gave her head sad shake. "No. I think it's true. Two children, older boys, came running down the street shouting what had happened. We doubted them at first, but then a woman I know came to our courtyard to tell us all the same thing. She said her son lives in the same block as the man who was killed."

"So then everyone was afraid," Eäzinya added, "and we all came inside. All evening before you came home there was nobody on the streets."

"Nautalya," Sidaizon said quickly. "She was outside when I arrived home. Why did you not call her in?" His voice rang unintentionally harsh and snappish, and he winced as Eäzinya took a startled step back.

"I didn't want to frighten her," she answered. Already, she had taken on a defensive tone. "She didn't hear the cries of murder, and I had no wish to tell her of it. So I let her play in the garden with the order to come inside right away if she saw any strangers. She was the one who told us that man, your cousin, was coming. Then she went back outside to wait for you while Márathul attended him. I'd rather have her outside and wary but happy than inside and frightened."

"You're right. You're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have spoken like that. You did the right thing. I'm glad she didn't hear that news."

He pushed his hair back from his face, limp as it was and damp with sweat, and leaned into the doorframe. If he closed his eyes, he could try to make sense of the thoughts that jangled through his mind and quarrelled for attention. There were suddenly so many: the dead woman's family, the Oraistar's visit, Culurossë's warnings, another death, Nautalya in danger. They spun like a wheel. Over and over, each one rose to the surface with guilt and fear before disappearing again, silenced by the others. His head had started to throb with their rhythm: too many worries. Minding them all was exhausting.

"Sido?"

He forced his eyes open to see Eäzinya staring back at him.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," he murmured. "Only tired. It's been a long day... But Márathul made soup for supper. It should be ready now. You should go eat."

Amárië set aside her pearls and folded away the unfinished garment in her lap. She paused only briefly on her way out of the room, no more than a hitch in her step, to rest a hand on Sidaizon's arm and flash him a look of unspoken hopefulness. Things will be better tomorrow, Hilu, he could almost hear her say. He had time to just brush her fingers in thanks before she was gone.

Eäzinya followed after, but turned as she passed through the doorway. "Are you coming?"

"No... I think I will go to bed."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded weakly; his head felt so heavy. All those thoughts had such weight. If he could only sleep, he could try to tame them. "I'm not hungry. But I am exhausted. I want to sleep like a stone and forget all that's happened today."

Gently, she reached back to squeeze his hand. "Do you want me to bring you a cup of milk? It might help you sleep."

A fleeting wish surged above the chaos of worry: for her to stay standing there beside him, hand in hand, until the troubles of the world dissolved into dust. He returned the squeeze with too much strength. "Thank you. Yes. But eat your supper first. I shall be up a while yet with washing and evening prayers."

She mimed a kiss, and let her hand drop. Sidaizon watched her disappear behind the curtain that separated the bedroom corridor from the rest of the house, and then extinguished the bedroom candles before moving to the bathing room. It was at the corridor's far end, in the corner of the house: a small room, completely tiled, with a water pump along one wall and a floor that sloped into a drain to the outside. Narrow windows along the top of the corner walls allowed just enough light from the moon and courtyard fires to see.

Sidaizon stripped off his clothes and hung them on a peg on the door. He knelt at the pump with his head beneath its spout, working the lever up and down until the pipe's deep gurgle and sputter became a flow of cold water. It ran over his head and neck, soaking his hair and washing away the oily smoke that Nautalya had smelled, before splashing into a bucket at the pump's base. Once the bucket was full, he used the collected water to wash his hands and arms, his feet and legs, and finally his chest and back. He was shivering by the time he was done, with his entire body wet and chilled to the blood. Standing, he shook off all the water he could and wrung out his hair. Then he dressed again quickly in only the outer mantle of his Almatar's robe.

The bedroom was dark with its shuttered windows, but he knew without sight where to step: where to find the magnolia sticks to clean his teeth, where to find the jug of drinking water, and where to stand so that he was facing toward Taniquetil. He raised his arms above his head and, exhaling, slowly let them fall again. "Oh Manwë, Lord of Arda," he whispered. "What should I do?"

There were too many things to pray for that night. Each murmured wish rose grudgingly from his chest, and fell back down again like a stone to the earth. He asked for forgiveness after lying to the Oraistar, for understanding in the eyes of the Yaranénon family, for protection from harm for his own family, and for some assurance that he had acted justly and followed the right path. Every word of it seemed selfish as soon as it was spoken; everything he had prayed for was to ease his own burden and clear his conscience. As an afterthought, selfish in its own right, he added a plea for peace in the city. That he had thought to ask for this last, and hurriedly, made it sound all the worse.

No sign came from Manwë: no wind in the trees, rustling leaves or scratching of branches across the roof; no birdcalls. He had not expected it.

Wearily, he folded away his clothes before lowering himself into bed. His body ached from the afternoon's work of digging the grave. His mind was exhausted from the assault of so many worries, and racing with the impossible search for solutions. He had never felt so tired and so awake at the same time. He turned onto his right side and his left, trying to find a comfortable position, and lay on his front and back. Nothing was right. The night was full of tiny flaws: an unusual hardness to the bed mat, and noises that carried too loudly to hover, gnat-like, above his ear. Out in the courtyard, insects sang, goats bleated, and mothers called for their children. The darkness magnified every sound.

---

Chapter End Notes

Attu and Amma: father and mother

Haruni: grandmother

Hilu: son

The King's Laws Dismissed

Read The King's Laws Dismissed

He felt no closer to sleep by the time Eäzinya arrived, carrying a candle and a small tray. "Here," she said, kneeling down on the floor and handing him a cup. "Hot milk with nutmeg. Should help you rest."

With a grateful smile, he took a sip. "Thank you."

She smoothed a hand over his damp hair. "Was it hard today? The burial?"

"It's hard work, digging a grave," he answered. "And if you mean, was it unpleasant and hard on the spirit as well, then yes. It was that, too." He bowed his head, letting Eäzinya's hand slip down to his shoulder. "I have buried eighty-three now."

"You keep a count?"

"How can I not? I see the graves every day."

"Do you remember their names?"

"No," said Sidaizon. "I never even ask. Sometimes the families tell me, but I would rather not know. Hard as it is burying a corpse, it's harder still when you think that it used to be a living person."

He sighed and quickly finished his milk. Eäzinya's sad eyes scanned his face, as if searching for the right thing to say and finding no words. So, silently, she leaned in to wrap both arms around his neck. He caught her gladly. It was a comforting thing: her warm, breathing body against his chest. The two of them were alive and safe.

"Maybe we should go somewhere," Eäzinya murmured.

"Where? For what?"

"I mean move somewhere. We could leave here, leave the city, and go live on the mountain. Away from the Yaranénon folk."

"And then what would I do?" asked Sidaizon. "It would be difficult to lead the Lavazat if I were living too far."

"You could lead a different one, on Taniquetil."

"I am afraid only an Oraistar can do that. We unimportant Almatardi are stuck in the city."

Eäzinya pulled back just far enough to look at him. The shadows that fell across her mouth may have hidden a faint smirk; it was impossible to tell in the dimness. "Then you will have to become an Oraistar."

Laughing, Sidaizon pushed her away. "Now you are teasing me. Such a troublesome wife, to act so sweet only to say impertinent things a moment later."

"I am not teasing," she said. "I think you'd make a good Oraistar."

"And that is exactly why they won't have me. I'm not rich and arrogant enough."

"Well, it's still nice to imagine..." She gathered the candle, tray, and milk cup, and stood. "Do you think you can sleep now?"

"I can try."

"Close your eyes. And imagine you are somewhere else, far away. That helps me sometimes."

As Eäzinya shut the door behind her, Sidaizon leaned back and closed his eyes. All those worries still clattered and crashed, but if he focused his will, he could almost hold them steady. He could follow Eäzinya's instructions. On the surface of his mind, above everything else, he concentrated on some distant land. He let his thoughts fly over the house, over the city, over Aman, and across the great ocean to a land he had never seen. He imagined an island ringed with soft sand, surrounded by waves that flashed blue and green in the sunlight. And there he stood, on the beach. The sound of surging water and its strange, briny smell caught him in a familiar hold. As if he had been there before.

He, as the man in the vision, held out his arm to the sun. He, as Sidaizon in the dark bedroom in Valmar, lifted his arm. The sun's warmth shone down on his skin. He turned his hand over, palm facing upward, and felt the heat of the day. In the bedroom in Valmar, a world away from this imagined beach, he could feel the sun on his hand. He could smell the salt spray and beached seaweed baking in the afternoon heat. The common sounds of the courtyard, animals and voices, had disappeared, replaced by rhythmic waves.

Immediately, his eyes snapped open, and the scene vanished. He pulled his arm back down to his chest. It had been a fantasy, nothing more: a brief and vivid moment of imagination. The lingering sea-smell and echoing sea-sounds were only the tricks of a dream. He had never been to the ocean and likely never would go. How foolish, to even consider such a thing.

Through the bedroom wall, while he lay still and tried to think of nothing at all, he heard the groaning of the pump and the splashing of water against tiles as the others had their nightly wash. Eäzinya returned shortly after the pump finished for the fourth time. She was only a darker shadow in the already dark room, but Sidaizon could still make out her shape well enough to watch as she cleaned her teeth and stood in the corner for a quick prayer.

"Are you awake?" she asked when she turned back to the bed.

"Yes."

Eäzinya quickly undressed and lay down. "I was worried I would disturb you."

"You didn't," said Sidaizon. "But I had a strange vision. I did as you said, and imagined I was someplace far away. And there I found myself. On an island across the sea. At first I saw myself as if from above, like through the eyes of a bird, but then it changed and I saw what I would see if I were standing there on the beach. In the vision I could feel the sun on my skin, but my real skin felt that warmth as well. And I could hear the waves as clearly as if they were right here in this room. It felt as if... as if I were somewhere I knew. But it frightened me, so I opened my eyes, and it all disappeared. Has that ever happened to you?"

"No," Eäzinya answered. "But I always imagine I go silly places. Like forests made of huge flowers instead of trees, and I am the size of a beetle."

"Then I think I must be worrying too much, and my mind is playing tricks on me." Sighing, he turned over to lie on his front and press his face into the pillows. Eäzinya's hand, cool and soothing, came to rest on his back, rubbing a circular pattern down his spine.

"I'm worried too," she said. "About Tarmanaz. He's not come home yet."

Sidaizon moved his head only enough to speak clearly. "He's ninety-eight years old. Worrying about him is like worrying over the whereabouts of the moon during the day. And Manwë knows I need no more worries."

"I know, but he's still my boy, and with everything happening today..."

"He's not stupid enough to become involved in any rough situations," Sidaizon assured her. If he spoke it aloud, he could believe it himself. "How many nights have we seen him recently? And yet he's always there in his bed by morning. He's likely out spending all his money on gambling and too much food and cheap gifts for girls he fancies. It's what young men his age do."

Eäzinya laughed a little, though an edge of strain still sounded in her voice. "They do? Is that what you did?"

"No. I was far too respectable." He nodded to her with a solemn expression. "I spent all of those hedonistic years trapped in a school up on the mountain, where there was no money, no gambling, not much food, and certainly no girls."

She laughed again, more at ease, and moved close enough to rest her forehead against his shoulder. "We should send him there. He could study to be more like you. And I'd sleep better knowing he was somewhere safe."

"Ah, but you can't force a person into that life. It's harder than you could ever imagine, and most of those who start never finish their training. Sixty years of only studying and prayer, being told what you can think and how you must act, never allowed so much as one step outside of the school walls..."

For a long and heavy pause, Eäzinya did not speak, but continued to lightly circle her fingers over his skin. "But you did it," she finally said.

"I did."

He shifted onto his side, slipping one arm beneath Eäzinya's pillow and the other around her waist. From so close, he could smell the sweetness of her breath and see the brightness of his own eyes reflected in hers. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips and smiled against the feeling of it. "I had no other choice, did I?" he whispered.

~

He left the bedroom as soon as Eäzinya's breathing fell into the slow rhythm of deep sleep. Not even her calming presence had strength enough to quiet the storm in his head. He needed to think, not sleep, and he always thought better out in fresh air. And so Sidaizon found himself standing in the doorway to the courtyard, watching a neighbour's cat prowl for mice in the moonlight. Seven other houses shared that courtyard, and all of the families within looked to be safely asleep. Neither candle nor lantern shone through any window.

After the tension of the day, night had arrived in the form of soft silence. He could hear no shouting in the streets, no threats, no angry sounds: no noise at all. Even the goats had quieted their bleating. A wind came up from the east bearing only the innocent smells of animals and cooking fires, not destruction. It was hard, in the face of such a contradiction, to keep hold of too much fear. He leaned against the door frame, and gradually let his chaotic thoughts spin themselves out. They sputtered and died one by one, cooled by the breeze that rustled the grass and whirled a little circle of dust around his feet.

He stood and breathed in the quiet night air until his shoulder ached from leaning so long and he could no longer hold back the yawn welling up in his throat. Carefully, he shut the door, and crossed the room as noiselessly as possible to avoid waking Márathul, who slept in the corner by the kitchen. Flawless in his role as the good brother, Márathul had already laid out Tarmanaz's bed.

Sidaizon had reached the corridor curtain and pulled it back when a sound from behind made him pause where he stood. Holding his breath, he listened. Again, behind him, the front door rattled, but only softly. Someone outside tested it. Whoever stood on the other side pressed the latch and pulled the handle with a great deal of care, trying to enter stealthily.

In four steps, Sidaizon was there, feeling suddenly as awake as he had ever been. The lock rattled, and each shake sped his heartbeat; the wooden peg held, but only against such light force. He leaned against the wall and prayed his voice remain calm as he spoke to the crack between door and frame: "Alla, who is there?"

The rattling stopped. One moment stretched into several, where Sidaizon could hear nothing but the sound of his own hard breathing against the doorframe. And then, a muffled voice answered.

"Why is the door locked?"

The relief that followed those words fell over Sidaizon's shoulders like a heavy cloak. He let himself sag against the wall under its welcome weight, and fumbled to open the latch. "Tarmanaz," he whispered to the figure in the dark. "Oh, thank Manwë, it's you."

"Of course it is," Tarmanaz replied. "Who else? Why was the door locked?"

"We had some trouble earlier. I thought you would know to go around back. Come in, come in..." He ushered his son through the door and shut it again firmly behind him, sliding the lock-peg back into place. Tarmanaz stumbled past, holding one hand against the side of his head.

Sidaizon's breath hitched. "Your head! What happened?"

Turning around, Tarmanaz dropped his hand. He swayed unsteadily as he stood, but no blood marred his golden hair, nor did he show any sign of injury. "Nothing happened. I'm tired."

"Where were you?"

"Stayed at Haru Vida's for supper. Went out with the others. Played some tiles and had a tea." With a sudden and bright grin, he stepped backward, and nearly lost his balance as his shoulder hit the corner of the wall.

"You had a tea?" Sidaizon asked sharply. "Or beer?"

Tarmanaz offered no answer, but steadied himself with a hand on a nearby windowsill. "I'm tired," he said again, speaking through a smile that had only halfway faded. "Need to sleep."

"You are drunk!"

Closer, the sourness of alcohol lingered beneath the smell of the day's stale sweat and spicy food. It stuck in Sidaizon's nose as he grabbed Tarmanaz about the collar, pinning him where he stood. "Where were you?"

The defiant half-smile stayed firmly in place, and Tarmanaz said nothing. Sidaizon clenched his fists, pulling all of his willpower into the effort of not simply ending the standoff by striking his son. Instead, he held his eyes steadily on Tarmanz's face. "Tell me where you were," he said.

Again, Tarmanaz remained silent. He returned the gaze calmly and evenly, as if he were looking at nothing more than a rock or a tree or a wall of a house.

Of all the children, the family had always declared, Tarmanaz was the only one who took more after Sidaizon than Eäzinya. But while the others held only a passing resemblance to their mother, Tarmanaz's similarity to Sidaizon was more than remarkable. They stood at the same height, spoke in nearly identical voices, and shared the same straight, slightly Noldorinised facial features. Tarmanaz's eyes were a little wider, and his face a little more rounded, but the differences seemed few alongside the innumerable and striking ways in which they were alike.

The night's shadows blurred those few differences further. It was like watching himself in a vague mirror as Sidaizon stood head to head with Tarmanaz. Only the inexact reflection showed none of the fear, none of the anger, and none of the tension he felt, but stared back dully. How unnerving a thing, to see his own eyes return a flat, almost haughty expression; it made the back of his neck prickle. He could only stand it a moment.

"Go to bed, boy," Sidaizon murmured, dropping his head and releasing his grip on Tarmanaz's shirt. "I am too weary for this tonight. We can argue about your actions in the morning, and you can tell me where you went and relate the miracle of how you were not attacked by thugs, dressed the way you-"

He stopped abruptly. It was a minor difference, and something he had failed to notice in the dark, but now that he saw it, the sight made his stomach twist. "Oh I see," he whispered. "The clothes. Tarmanaz... where did you get them?"

Tarmanaz looked away, shifting his attention to the blank wall to his left, and shrugged. "Bought it all."

He was not wearing the same clothes he had worn when he left the house that morning. The usual loose trousers and tunic had been replaced by knee-length breeches and a tie-up vest over a shirt with fitted sleeves to the elbow. While Tarmanaz's clothes were normally made of bleached linen, these were coloured: likely red and blue, though it was impossible to tell without more light.

"And this is what you do at night?" Sidaizon asked him in a low voice. "Put on a gaudy costume so you can pass as Yaranénon and drink at their beer houses?"

For the first time, Tarmanaz showed a flash of life, pulling him out of his apathy. "Have I a choice? All the places I would honestly go refuse to sell anything but food and tea after sundown!"

"They are only following the King's law," said Sidaizon. "And that law, to which we are bound, forbids-"

"It forbids me from having a drink in a public house after a day of work," Tarmanaz interrupted. "But any Yaranénon man can go out and do just that all night if he wants. Those laws don't apply to them. So why should they apply to me?"

"They apply to you because they are the laws of what is good and right! If you had any sense of decency, you would follow them, regardless of what those heretics do!"

A look of wry smugness passed over Tarmanaz's face. "And if I choose not to?"

"You will be arrested," Sidaizon answered simply. "And I think you will find that a prison cell is far more unpleasant than temperance."

Tarmanaz laughed. "No," he said, "I won't. Do you know why? Because those laws that close the beer houses at sunset are the same laws that call me Noldorin by blood. Were I ever taken to court, any judge would have no choice but to see that, Valadávan or not, the King's laws cannot be forced upon a Noldo."

"You must be very drunk to be speaking such nonsense," said Sidaizon. The growing fury and wish to strike Tarmanaz were nearly too much to bear, but he kept his arms clenched at his sides and his voice calm. "We are not a Noldorin family."

"Pretending not to be, maybe. Acting like good Minyar. But you must know the law books better than I, Attu; you've studied them all these years. And it says plainly in the book of family that all birthright is descended through the father's side. You had a Noldorin father. Therefore, so do I. And any sons of mine or Márathul's will, and their sons, and theirs, and everyone down countless generations. All Noldorin by blood, no matter how many good Valadávan marriages we make. Hwailenda and Nautalya were lucky to be born girls; they can leave the cycle and have Minyarin children by their Minyarin husbands. But for the rest of us, I think we should take advantage of the situation. Enjoy it. What good is there in being legally Noldorin if we can't use our traitor's blood to live outside the law?"

Where before there had been too many thoughts beating through Sidaizon's head, now too many emotions coursed. Anger chased away the fear of the day, which in turn lost its hold to anxiety, defeat, and feeble weariness. Then each returned as quickly as it had passed. He could not think straight, between the wreckage of confusion and Tarmanaz's faulty truth. Slowly, he shook his head. "I cannot even try to make sense of you tonight. You are mad, boy."

Tarmanaz grinned. "No. Not mad. Just drunk." He held still a moment, frozen as the ridiculous grin spread across his face, and then began to laugh: at first quietly in his throat, but soon with enough strength that it forced him to the floor, bent over and gasping for breath on his knees.

"Be quiet!" Sidaizon hissed. "Do you want to wake the house with your idiocy?!"

Holding a hand to his mouth to stifle the noise, Tarmanaz coughed, but his consideration showed itself too late. Márathul's blankets rustled and a sleepy call of, "What's going on?" came from the corner of the room.

"Nothing," Sidaizon quickly replied. "Your brother is home. Go back to sleep, Máro."

Shakily, Tarmanaz pulled himself to his feet, and staggered to his waiting bed with his hands still over his mouth as he choked on his stunted laughter. Márathul had propped himself up on his elbows for a better look at the spectacle, but said nothing through his yawns as Tarmanaz shuffled past.

"You don't see need to wash before bed?" asked Sidaizon.

Tarmanaz snorted and coughed again. "Noldor don't have to." Roughly, he stripped off his clothes, but took great care in folding and hiding them beneath his mattress.

Sidaizon shook his head, bit his lip, and made no comment. Whatever other clothing and secrets hid beneath Tarmanaz's bed could wait until morning. "Good night, boys," he said.

"Good night," answered Márathul, while Tarmanaz only made a huffing sound as he flopped onto his front.

With Tarmanaz safely in bed, Sidaizon returned to his own room, feeling every bit as agitated as he had when he left. Eäzinya still slept peacefully in the weak, blue moonlight. He settled into bed as carefully as he could, trying not to wake her, but she stirred and lifted her head as he slid beneath the covers.

"Where did you go?" she asked.

"Just to the front door." He paused before adding, "Tarmanaz is home."

Eäzinya sat fully upright. "Oh? Where was he? Nothing happened to him?"

"No. Nothing happened. He is fine." Meeting her gaze, Sidaizon forced himself to smile. Fear shone plainly in her bright eyes, and truth would calm none of that fear in the middle of the night. "He stayed at my grandfather's house and lost track of time, debating with his cousins. But now he is home and safe, and all is well."

"Alla, thank Manwë," Eäzinya sighed. "I was so worried about him... That is good news."

She lay back down, and Sidaizon lay with her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders to keep her close. "Yes. It is good news." He touched his forehead to hers and exhaled against her cheek. "All is well."

---

Chapter End Notes

Haru: grandfather

Minyar: Vanyar (they do not call themselves 'Vanyar')

Academy on the Mountain

Read Academy on the Mountain

He slept fitfully, lapsing in and out of dreams of the island. At first he only stood on the shore, listening to the secret voices of the sea, but it soon changed and he found himself on a high, green hill. A strong wind blew, and clouds gathered overhead. Then he paced in a bedroom as hail smashed against the shutters of a window, and finally, he stood in a great hall with white walls and a floor of dark wood. Tarmanaz was with him there. Only Tarmanaz in the dream had pale skin and black, Noldorin hair, and his face held only half a resemblance to his normal self.

But still Sidaizon recognised his son. And he recognised the dynamic of an argument between them, though he could not fully understand or hear the words they spoke. Tarmanaz, playing the perfect Noldorin role, raised his haughty nose and answered back insolently. He was too good to be a Minyarin son any longer.

After that, Sidaizon dreamed no more scenes of the island. He woke and slept, and woke again and slept again, but dreamed only faint snatches of the previous day's worries, or else nothing at all. When he finally woke to the sight of morning's grey cast before dawn, it was with a sense of dread and an even deeper exhaustion than he had felt the previous night. He rolled over, groaning, and wrapped his arms around his head to block out the light.

"You didn't sleep well?"

Eäzinya lay calmly beside him; she had not shifted position all night, and he had thought she was still sleeping.

"No," he answered. "You?"

"No."

He heard the rustle of blankets as she got out of bed, and the familiar sounds of clothing being pulled on and hair being pinned up. A moment later, her voice murmured a morning prayer from the corner of the room. Then her soft footsteps crossed the tiles to the doorway. "You're not coming?" she asked.

"Yes... Give me a moment." As he sat up, he held his head in his hands, shielding his eyes against the dim light and pressing his knuckles against his forehead. The lingering exhaustion made him feel dizzy, and the dizziness made him feel ill. He blinked against his palms and forced a deep breath, trying to swallow the turning sickness. It only made his head heavier.

"Wait. No," he said feebly; "I've thought better. I should stay home and rest today."

"Can you do that?"

Sidaizon yawned and nodded. "Yes. I've been at the Lavazat every morning for over forty days. I can have this one free. I need only send Márathul with a message to Auzëar to take my place today."

"I'll wake him."

"No. No, not yet. It's early still. Wait until sunrise at least." He dropped his hands into his lap and looked at her. "Why are you dressed already? If you didn't sleep well, you should stay a while in bed, too."

She regarded him with a soft smirk. "It's nice you have an assistant Almatar to go to the Lavazat for you, but you have no assistant wife to take my place while I sleep like a lazy mouse. And bread needs to be made."

"So early?"

"If I want to use the courtyard ovens before there's a crowd, yes," she answered. And then added, "Don't look so shocked. I'm not very tired and did rest some. But you go back to sleep, and I'll watch Márathul as I make the dough and send him with your message as soon as he wakes."

She smiled at him, no longer a smirk but a true smile, and he returned the look as best he could. At least her strength of will, however she chose to show it, called up some of the twinned strength in him. "I will be up soon," he told her. "I only need to rest a little while longer."

Eäzinya nodded, and slipped out the door.

"Wait, Eäzinya-"

With a sigh, he fell back onto the bed. She had already gone. Again, he pressed his hands against his eyes to block out the light. He could see the echoes of the dream more clearly in the dark, and he replayed it as best as he could recall. One detail stood out now that he reviewed it with a more critical eye, something he had not noticed originally: he had been wearing a grand robe of gold in the fourth scene. Black-haired Tarmanaz had worn simple clothes, Noldorin clothes, but he had been dressed as a king. Such a vision made no sense to him. He needed to ask Eäzinya, who concerned herself far more with superstitions and the omens of dreams.

He stayed in bed, running the visions through his head and memorising every detail, until the early morning grey turned to the pink and yellow of sunrise and daytime's noises grew louder in the courtyard and its surrounding homes. By the time he had washed and dressed and found his way to the main room of the house, everyone else was out of bed and awake. Eäzinya had a board of flat loaves already cooling as she prepared more to be baked. Amárië sat by the window with her daily work, while Nautalya sat by her feet, threading needles and sorting beads. Even Tarmanaz had folded his mattress out of the way in the corner of the room, though he sat on it like a stone and leaned against the wall. Dark circles shadowed his bleary eyes. He had dressed in his usual Valadávan clothes, and Sidaizon could see no sign of the bright Yaranénon outfit amid the pile of bedding.

"Has Márathul gone to Auzëar?"

"Yes, and he should be back any moment," said Eäzinya.

"Good. What a good boy he is..." Carefully, Sidaizon let his gaze sweep across the whole perimeter of the room before coming back to rest on Tarmanaz. "And you, young sir? You gave your mother a terrible fright last night."

Tarmanaz grunted. "Sorry, Amma."

"Staying out until the middle of the night at Haru Vidirwë's house with your loud cousins, discussing politics... That was what you were doing, was it not?"

With all his concentration, Sidaizon focused his line of sight, unblinking, on his son. Don't say anything stupid, he spoke within his mind, and prayed that his meaning came across clearly to Tarmanaz. Your mother does not know. She does not need to know. Keep your mouth shut.

"I... uh..." Tarmanaz began, but the confused crease on his forehead quickly settled into understanding. "That's right. We were talking about the new apprenticeship laws. You know they like to argue about everything."

He shone a brilliant smile at Eäzinya, who made a little sound of exasperation behind her teeth. "I don't care if you were giving your money to beggars and washing the feet of the poor," she said. "You were still out too late, and I don't like that."

"Sorry, Amma."

"He is, Eäzinya," said Sidaizon. "He is sorry. In fact, the other matter he and I discussed last night, which I wanted to wait until morning to tell you, is that our Tarmanaz has an interest in attending the Academy of the Holy Path. He will study to be an Almatar, just as you suggested."

Eäzinya nearly dropped the ball of dough she rolled between her hands. "What?"

Amárië looked up in surprise, and Nautalya said, "Tarmanaz?"

Tarmanaz, most bewildered of all, rocked forward in his seat and nearly toppled off the folded mattress. "Wh-" he stuttered, but caught himself before Eäzinya could notice his shock.

"I myself am very surprised," Sidaizon continued in a soft voice. "Never would I have suspected that this is the path our son would choose. But it seems at last that the distress he causes us all has burned a resolution into his conscience, and he has come to realise that his inner peace can be found only in study and devotion"

"Tarmanaz?" whispered Eäzinya. Her face paled and her eyes went wide as she stepped closer to her son. "Is this true? You've chosen to go away to that school?"

Immediately, Tarmanaz's hand shot out to clasp her shoulder. "Oh, Amma! Of course I would never do anything to upset you, so if you don't want me to go, I understand, and I would just as soon stay home to be with you."

"No, no!" Eäzinya said, throwing her arms about his neck. "You must go! My dear, brave, selfless boy! How wonderful! I had hoped for so long that this would be the life you choose, and now..." She kissed his forehead, cheek, and hair, pulling him even closer. "Oh, Tarmanaz! Nothing could make me happier right now! I am so proud of you!"

Mouth hanging open stupidly, Tarmanaz only stood and accepted his mother's adoration while looking to Sidaizon with panic rising in his eyes.

Sidaizon smiled back at him blandly. "I will help you compose your application. Hilu. I'm sure I know a few things that could help you on your way. In fact..." He tapped his fingers against his chin, mocking thoughtfulness. "I have an idea that should set you right. Eäzinya, will you fetch me a knife from the kitchen?"

"A... a knife?" she asked.

"Yes, please. And Tarmanaz, if you turn to face your grandmother..."

Tarmanaz turned his body toward Amárië, but kept his head tilted and his uncertain gaze on Sidaizon. "What are you doing?"

"There are many rules and practices that one must follow at the Academy, my boy. But I will do my best to help you on your way." He took the knife, small and sharp, from Eazinya's outstretched hand.

"How, by standing with a knife over my head? Are you trying to teach me to never trust my elders?"

"No, I am trying to teach you that all of one's actions can have unforeseen consequences." Then quickly, before anyone could guess what he planned to do, he grasped Tarmanaz's long plait and sliced it off cleanly, at the base of the neck.

"Attu!" shouted Tarmanaz. He leapt to his feet, clutching the back of his neck and feeling blinding in the empty air where his hair had been. "What in the name of Manwë did you do?!"

"Alla, Hilu. I told you I would help you on your way."

"You cut my... I can't believe... You cut my hair off!"

"I did," Sidaizon said, and he opened his hand to let the severed plait fall. It landed on the floor with a soft swish of a sound. He half expected it to move, to behave as if it were still part of Tarmanaz, but it only lay where it fell like a strange bit of discarded clothing.

"Why did you do that?!"

"They will shave your head anyhow when you reach the Academy. Through all your studies, you will never be allowed to let your hair grow past your chin. Once you are an Almatar, it can never be past your shoulders. You should try to accept it now, and take comfort in the fact that no-one will ever mistake you for Yaranénon so long as you wear an Almatar's hairstyle. Your faith is now perfectly visible on your head."

Tarmanaz glared at him, eyes dark and shining with rage. "You can never just let me live my own life, can you?" he spat. "I can't believe you did that. You cut my hair!"

"For your own good," Sidaizon began, but Tarmanaz was already on his way out the back door, angrily kicking aside his shoes as he went.

A dreadful moment of silence followed. Eäzinya had lifted her hands up to her mouth, knuckles pressed to her lips. "Oh, Sidaizon," she said. "I don't think that was wise..."

"Wise or not, it needed to be done."

"But Tarmanaz..." She looked to the back door, glancing about for any sign of her son. "He will hate you, you know. You should have told him. You should have asked him."

"You should have let him make his own decisions," said Amárië. "Now you know he won't stay at that school for even a year, thanks to you. If he wanted to go at all in the first place..."

"Of course he did, Amma. Why wouldn't he?"

A smile flitted across Amárië's lips. "Because he's exactly like you. And you always went out of your way to avoid any guidance or advice from your family. Your grandfather wanted you to stay as his apprentice, and you ran away from him to go up the mountain. Now you want your son to do as you did, and he wants to go make paper with your grandfather. You both take such pride in being contrary."

"At least my contrariness led me somewhere better," Sidaizon said. "His, on the other hand..." He sighed, and let the ribbon of thought fall. It bothered him too much to think that Tarmanaz aspired to a life as nothing more than a common labourer who squandered money on gambling in beer houses.

"But Attu, why does Tarmanaz have to get his hair cut off?"

He looked down at Nautalya, who in turn had her gaze fixed suspiciously on Tarmanaz's fallen plait. "Because," he told her. "That's what the Oraistari do, when new students go up the mountain to the school. They take all the young men and shave off all their hair. Then everyone is completely bald, and they look funny for a long time, until it grows back."

"Why, though?"

Sidaizon held up his hands and shrugged. "I'm not fully sure. They told us at the time, when it was my turn, that it was done to rid us of our vanity and make us all equal and naked in the eyes of Manwë. But if that were true, all Almatardi would be required to have shaven heads at all times. Which we are not. We must only keep our hair touching our shoulders. So I think the real reason is that the Oraistari need the students' hair to make their fancy wigs."

Nautalya giggled at that. "They wear wigs?"

"Yes," Sidaizon told her. "You see, Oraistari are allowed to grow their hair past shoulder-length and fix it however they like, in very ornate styles with jewels and gold combs to show how important they are. But some of them have such elaborate hair styles that to use their own hair would take hours out of each day, to prepare it in the morning and take it down at night to wash. So they keep their real hair cropped short, and wear styled wigs that they can put on in the morning and take off at night with no fuss at all. One of my teachers had at least thirty different wigs that I counted. All made of the hair of his students. I hate to think of my poor old hair adorning his pompous head."

Nautalya giggled again, protectively clutching her own hair and winding it around her hands. Amárië, though, put on a hard face. "You shouldn't say such things. Not about the Oraistari. You know you can be arrested for speaking ill of them."

"I'm not speaking ill of them, Amma, I am speaking the truth. They do wear wigs made of the hair of their students. Is it so dangerous to state facts?"

"It's dangerous to be disrespectful to those who have the power to make your life miserable," Amárië answered.

"Well, I'm certain they have better things to do with their time than hunt down innocent folk who think that their fashions are silly..." He grinned at Eäzinya, reaching out for reassurance and agreement, but saw only a copy of Amárië's doubt.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "People have been charged with less, and I think it is better to be careful, isn't it?"

Sidaizon only laughed as he glanced between the two. "And you forget that I know the law better than my own history. I promise you, most of the things you hear about prisons and arrests are only stories made up to frighten us all into obedience. I have never known anyone to be punished for joking about an Oraistar or even the King. Please, don't worry."

Amárie frowned at him, thinning her lips and holding her breath as if trying to determine the right thing to say, but never had a chance to say it. The front door swung open, the hard wooden soles of sandals clicked on the tiles, and Marathúl's voice rang shrilly from the front corridor: "Attu? Can you come out here, please? There's somebody... Someone is here!"

"Oh, surely that can't be them to arrest you already?" Eäzinya whispered.

"Don't be absurd," said Sidaizon. He forced a quick and teasing smile despite the sudden lash of fear that cut through him, no matter how ludicrous the idea, nor how improbable Eäzinya's worry was. "It's probably my thick-headed cousin returned to trouble me further. Nothing worse, I am certain."

"But-"

"No. Just wait here, and I will see who it is."

Choosing Fates

Read Choosing Fates

As calmly as he could, Sidaizon turned his back on Eäzinya and Amárië's anxious faces and walked to the front of the house. There stood Márathul, with his back pressed flat up against the wood of the door and looking like he wished he could become part of it. Just outside stood a man: a plain sort of man, who could have been any of the neighbours, with a plain face and plain clothes. He held in his arms a large bundle of blankets. Sidaizon sighed, welcoming the flush of relief and silently berating himself for being so stupid as to believe one of the King's soldiers might actually have come to his home. "Alla, sir," he said.

The man bowed his head. "Alla, Indor Almatar."

Sidaizon looked to Márathul, who stared back with bulging eyes and offered nothing in the way of an introduction. "What is the trouble?"

"Almatar, this is for you," said the man. He held out the blankets, motioning for Sidaizon to take them.

"What is it?"

"It is for you," he repeated. Again, he held out the blankets, stepping forward until the bundle was pressed against Sidaizon's chest, and Sidaizon had no choice but to take it from him. He backed away as soon as the burden was out of his hands. "Alla, Almatar. Alla. Alla..."

And then, he turned and ran.

Sidaizon shifted the weight from one arm to the other. It was heavier than it appeared, and he could feel that the blankets were merely wrapping to conceal something else inside. "Do you know what this is?" he asked Márathul. "Did he tell you?"

Mutely, Márathul nodded.

"What did he say?"

Márathul opened his mouth, but closed it again without a sound.

"Now you're worrying me that I shouldn't look," Sidaizon said. "It might be some animal head or innards in here sent as a threat."

"No," Márathul quickly replied. "Not that. Nothing like that. It's..." He paused, and cringed. "He said it's a baby."

It took a moment for Sidaizon to fully grasp what Márathul had said. "A... a baby?" Quickly, he pulled back the blanket's folds until he could see the side of a small head and the edge of a tiny ear. His stomach leapt at the sight, twisting in both panic and amazement. "Oh, Manwë. It is a baby."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," said Sidaizon. "Take it inside for now, I suppose. That's all we can do at the moment."

He went back into the house, beckoning with his shoulder for Márathul to follow. Eäzinya and Amárië would know what to do with the child; they had to. On top of all else that had happened, he had no wits left to manage a baby. They could help him find a home for it. He carried it into the main room, holding the blanket bundle a little away from his body as if the simple action could somehow distance him from the situation, and presented it to his mother.

"Amma. You always said you wanted another of these."

"Another of... what is this?" Frowning, Amárië took the bundle onto her lap.

"What did you get?" asked Eäzinya. "Who was at the door?"

Sidaizon shook his head. "I don't know who he was. I didn't recognise him, and he left before I could ask any questions."

"And what's that in the-" she began, but her words were cut short by a cry of surprise from both Amárië and Nautalya.

"A baby!" Nautalya shrieked. "Amma, Amma, it's a baby! Look!"

"A... a baby?" With a gasp, Eäzinya looked from the bundle of blankets to Sidaizon and back again, disbelief flashing across her features.

"A girl!" proclaimed Amárië. She pulled back the blankets from around the child's head, presenting her to the room. "Look how tiny she is... how sweet! I always wanted a little girl."

Again, Eäzinya looked at Sidaizon. "But I don't understand... Whose is she? And why is she here?"

"I don't know. The man at the door handed me the blankets, wrapped in a bundle, and ran before I had a chance even to see what it was he had given me. But he had spoken to Márathul." He met Márathul's gaze from across the room, which appeared to be no less terrified now that they were indoors. "Did he tell you the parents of this child?"

Márathul pressed his lips tightly together, but nodded.

A strange sound, almost like choking, coiled up from Eäzinya's throat. Her cheeks had flushed, either with anger or dread or some measure of both, and she hoarsely spat her words. "Márathul. Is this your baby?"

If possible, Márathul looked even more horrified than before. "What? No! Of course not! No, and no!" His face took on a sickly grey cast. "Why would you even think that?"

"Your brother's?" Eäzinya snapped.

"No!"

"Then why are you so frightened?" asked Sidaizon. "This is an unexpected situation, but a baby is a baby, and nothing new."

Márathul slouched down and took a step back, away from the baby resting on his grandmother's lap. He wiped the heel of his hand across his forehead. "She's cursed," he muttered.

"What?" said Eäzinya.

"I said, she's cursed. She has a death curse on her. That's the baby that caused the death of the woman you buried yesterday, Attu. Her family doesn't want her because she's cursed."

"Cursed?" Lifting the baby from the nest of blankets, Amárië held her up to examine. The baby gave a squawk, threatening to cry. "I can't believe that. How could such a little darling be cursed?"

"I don't know," said Márathul. "That's just what the man told me."

"What else did he say?" Sidaizon asked. "What happened?"

Márathul sighed, rubbed his forehead again, and began the story, though he spoke to the floor. "I was almost home from giving Auzëar your message when a group of men, maybe five or six, started calling out to me. They said, 'There he is, ask him, that's the Almatar's son.' And so I stopped to see what they wanted. They said that the one man, the one with the baby, was looking for your house. Since I was your son, I could show him the way. He had something to give to you. I asked what. At first he was reluctant to say, but as we walked, he told me he was the brother by marriage to the husband of that woman who died. The woman's husband couldn't care for the baby himself, so he gave it to his sister, this man's wife, because she had her own baby and could feed both of them. But as soon as the sister took the baby, she began getting headaches and feeling tired and unwell all the time. After four days she knew the baby must be cursed, and the death curse that had killed the mother was starting to take hold on her. So the husband took the baby back to its father. But the father couldn't take it back, he knew nothing about caring for babies... so he told the man to bring the baby to you. You would be able to find it a new home."

"What nonsense," snorted Amárië. "As if headaches and tiredness couldn't be caused by the burden of caring for two babies!"

Eäzinya, though, had paled. She had always been superstitious, and the mere mention of a curse was enough to bring death and misery to the front of her mind. Sidaizon knew what she thought as she stared at him with round eyes.

"You know there is no proof that this child is cursed," he quickly told her before she could speak. "You remember how tired you were caring for Hwailenda, how she cried all the time, and that was with Amma to help you."

"But the death..." Eäzinya countered. "The mother's death..."

"That was a sad and unfortunate event," said Sidaizon. "It happens sometimes. Mothers risk their lives bringing children into the world, Eldar and animals alike; it is the price of life. The Valar only know why some are called to death and others live on, and to label Their work a curse at the hands of a baby is foolish indeed. If it pleases Eru for a woman to die, then die she will. But Instead of trembling about curses we should be thankful He saw fit to let the child live."

Eäzinya lowered her head in deference. "I understand," she murmured. Though Sidaizon could see her gesture was in word only; her fearful expression did not change.

"And did this child's uncle say anything else?" he asked Márathul. "Am I meant to keep her, or find her any good home, or did the father give specific instructions?"

"Keep her," said Amárië, and Nautalya echoed, "Yes, keep her! Please, Attu, can we?"

Squirming uncomfortably, Márathul looked at the baby. He held the same opinion on curses as his mother. "Well... he didn't say not to keep her," he slowly began. "He told me her father wanted her sent to any good home, but that you should first ask her mother's family."

Sidaizon inhaled sharply. "Her mother's family?"

"That's what he said."

"Her mother's Yaranénon family?"

"I... I suppose so..." said Márathul.

"Then the man is mad. Impossible." There was no other word for the situation but impossible. A Valadávan child could not be raised in a heretic household. No person of faith, least of all an Almatar, could facilitate such an outrage.

On the other hand, it was the father's request, and his word ruled the fate of his child.

Amárië was first to break the painful silence. "Then it is settled," she said. "We shall keep her."

"Keep her?" Sidaizon choked.

"Of course, keep her. You just said it was impossible for her to go to her mother's kin. In that case, your duty is to find her a good family. And I can think of no family better than this one."

"But... Amma..."

"There is nothing to 'but' about, Hilu. This little girl needs a home, and we have here more than enough to share with her. The goats give lots of milk. We have Nautalya's old clothes in a chest. And she can sleep in my bed, with Nautalya and me."

"I don't mind, Attu," breathed Nautalya. "I'll share everything with the baby, I won't even be sad!"

"There, you see?"

Sidaizon's shoulders fell. "But Amma..."

"But what?"

If there were proper words to say, or a correct argument to make, they had been lost somewhere between Sidaizon's head and his tongue. Amárië had fixed her determined look upon him. It had been perfected over the years, and rarely failed to win her arguments. He sighed, and prepared to mumble something hollow for show before conceding defeat.

The timely return of Tarmanaz, though, prevented him from having to either agree with or refuse Amárië just then. With his arms crossed sullenly over his chest and his head so low that his neck all but disappeared, Tarmanaz slid back through the door like a shadow. The rough remains of his hair veiled his face, but his mood was easy enough to decipher nonetheless. A prickling energy radiated from him, strong enough to catch the attention of all with its volatile grasp as he stood with his feet defiantly apart and leaned back against the wall.

"What?" he demanded after a heavy moment. "What are you all staring at?"

"Your hair," said Márathul. "What did you do to your hair?"

He jerked his elbow in Sidaizon's direction. "Ask him. He did it."

"Your brother is ready to move on to a new stage in his life, Márathul," Sidaizon said. "I will be submitting his name to the Academy of the Holy Path tomorrow."

Márathul blinked. "He? Tarmanaz?"

"Yes. Tarmanaz, your brother. He can be surprisingly devout when faced with the proper motivation."

At this, Tarmanaz made a huffing sound, but said nothing. Sidaizon continued. "Of course this means changes for you, too. I think it's past time you took an apprenticeship. Now with Tarmanaz elsewhere, you can take his place learning how to make paper with-"

"What about the baby?" Amárië interrupted. "Don't you change the subject when we haven't settled the matter of the baby yet."

"Baby?" said Tarmanaz. He peered out from behind his shorn hair, eyes finding their way to Amárië's lap.

"An abandoned child," Eäzinya told him. "She has a curse that caused the death of her mother."

Sidaizon clenched his teeth, but let the remark pass. "The baby was delivered to my care and I have been charged with either finding her a new home or sending her to her Yaranénon grandparents. One of the great joys of being an Almatar is having to untangle other people's messes and make decisions for the good of all. So, Almatar-in-training Tarmanaz, let us assume that this burden has fallen upon you. What is your wise decision? Do you send the child to the heretic household of her convert mother's family? Do you keep her yourself? Do you find another family, far removed from everything? What do you do with an unwanted baby?"

"Well..." said Tarmanaz. He looked at the baby in Amárië's lap, and frowned. "Unwanted babies... Aren't you supposed to drown them?"

Amárië gasped, gathering the baby close to her bosom, while Eäzinya's hand flew through the air with such speed that the fabric of her sleeve cracked like a whip. She struck Tarmanaz soundly on the ear.

"You idiot!" shouted Márathul. "Only the most horrible kinds of people drown deformed lambs and kids, never babies! How stupid are you?!"

"It was a stupid question!" Tarmanaz shouted back. He had his arm up to block any further attacks from his mother. "How should I know what to do with babies?"

"If you cannot think of a reasonable answer with sense and compassion..." Sidaizon began, but his voice was lost amid the hail of insults hurled between Tarmanaz and Márathul, Eäzinya's shrill admonishments, and the screams of a startled baby floating above it all as a fitting accompaniment to the din. "I should have gone to the Lavazat," he muttered as he sat down on the floor and dropped his head, already starting to ache anew, into his hands. It was quiet there, at the least, if he hid behind the heavy doors and shut himself away to think and pray. However wretched the previous day had been at the time, digging graves and accepting threats of death from a Yaranénon mob seemed now almost peaceful and preferable. At least he could leave them behind when he went home for the evening. Here he was home, and had no place to go.

"Now look!" he heard Márathul shout over the noise of his brother. "You've made Attu despair!"

"Why should I care? It's his fault in the first place!"

"His fault that you're too thick to even answer a question without saying the wrong thing? Attu, you can't send Tarmanaz to the Academy! He's far too stupid!" Márathul had crossed the room and now sat himself down directly in front of Sidaizon, keeping his back straight and trying to look older and wiser than he was. His gaze demanded agreement.

"That is the purpose of going to school, Márathul," Sidaizon said wearily while Tarmanaz and Eäzinya continued their hollering under the baby's unshakeable descant. "To rid oneself of ignorance."

"But he can't even read properly!"

"Neither could I, when I went. Not a word. Tarmanaz is at least better than that."

"But he doesn't even want to go!" Márathul insisted. "If he wanted to, he'd be bragging about it! He's too stupid, he won't learn anything, and he shouldn't go!"

"Márathul..."

"It's not fair! He gets to do everything!"

The words rang from floor to ceiling, filling the ugly pause Eäzinya and Tarmanaz had taken to glare at each other. For that moment, the only sounds were the baby's cries and Amárië's shushing whispers. Márathul had his hands clenched in his lap and he breathed heavily, through his mouth. He looked away when Sidaizon met his eyes for too long.

In all his years, Márathul had rarely expressed any sort of opinion. He was too much like Eäzinya. He did as he was instructed and repeated back whatever Sidaizon had told him when asked for his thoughts. Growing up under his brother's shadow, his favoured method of earning praise and attention had been willing obedience in direct opposition to Tarmanaz's rebellion. The more Tarmanaz lashed out, the more Márathul complied. But it seemed now to Sidaizon as if all of that had been a façade employed for his advancement. Márathul's mask had slipped in that meeting of the eyes, and beneath his perfect veneer lay fire and ambition.

"Márathul," Sidaizon repeated in whisper. "What does he get to do that you do not? What have I ever denied you?"

"You told me when I was forty that my life could begin when Tarmanaz finished his apprenticeship," said Márathul. His voice, weighted with bitterness, sounded dark and harsh. "That was twenty-three years ago, Attu, and he still hasn't proven himself competent enough to earn a tradesman's crest. Now he's abandoning that to go to the Academy? What am I supposed to do for the next sixty years while he's up there? Stay here like I have been, acting half my age while running errands for you and cooking your supper?"

Weakly, Sidaizon shook his head. "Of... course not. I won't hold you back here if you want to leave. I'm sorry... I didn't know. I never thought-"

"Well you should have."

Sidaizon could not reply. He had never seen this side of Márathul, so chained down with stifled hope, and it shocked him.

"What did you think I would do after Tarmanaz left?"

"I... suppose I would send you to Haru Vidirwë," he answered. "To take Tarmanaz's place."

"No," Márathul said flatly. "I won't go there. I hate that place, and the smell of wet paper makes me sick. I can't do that work."

"Then what would you do, Márathul? What do you want for yourself?" He tried to catch his son's eye again, for any clue or suggestion it might give, but Márathul kept his gaze on his hands and said nothing. "Tell me," Sidaizon urged.

Márathul tensed. He took a breath, and held it before speaking almost too quietly to be heard, slurring his words together in speed. "If idiot Tarmanaz is good enough to go to the Academy then I should be, too."

"Go to the-" Sidaizon began, but now that Márathul had started speaking of the desire he had kept hidden all those years, he seemed unable to stop.

"When has Tarmanaz ever shown any aptitude for scholarship or discipline? Has he ever wanted anything more than the plain life of a tradesman? Why would you even bother to trust him with such an opportunity when I am the one who goes with you to the Lavazat and the bath house, and I am the one who has read all your books, and I am the one who follows the King's laws that he sees fit to step around! Why should he be the one to go up the mountain while I stay here? It's not fair!"

"Then you can go instead of me," said Tarmanaz, "if you're so magnificent."

"No," Sidaizon said, frowning at Tarmanaz. "You are going. Your brother isn't the one out catting around at night, getting himself into troublesome situations."

Márathul made a noise of disgust, halfway between a grunt and a cough. "So he is irresponsible, and we're both punished."

"You are not being punished, Márathul. To be honest, I am very much proud of you and honoured that you wish to do this. But you're too young."

"Too young? How am I too young? You need only be thirty-six!"

"That is true," Sidaizon admitted. "But the usual age of admission is eighty. And once you are eighty, or nearly, I will more than happily help you with... with your..." He let his voice trail off into a sigh. Márathul had leaned back onto his hands and was staring at the ceiling, clearly not listening. "Márathul?"

Márathul gave a little huff of breath before speaking. "How old were you when you went?"

"I"m sorry?"

"How old were you?"

Sidaizon clenched his teeth. "I don't see how that-"

"I asked how old you were," Márathul said coldly. "Forty-three, was it?"

"Mine was a very different situation."

"But you were still forty-three. I am sixty-three, a full twenty years older, so why won't you let me try?"

"Try?" asked Sidaizon. "What about succeed? You're only given one chance at this, Márathul. If the difficulty forces you to leave, they will never let you back."

"Then let me prove I can do it," said Márathul. "Give me a test. Let me show you."

"A... a test?"

Nodding, Márathul sat up straighter. "What will it take to change your mind? Tell me, and I will do it."

Nothing less than witnessing Márathul's success would convince Sidaizon that his younger son could weather the hardships of life on the mountain. Márathul had the ambition, but no true sense of the sacrifices he would be forced to make. His eyes held all the passion and desire of the world, but those hot emotions could be easily cooled by the drudging routine of life on the mountain. What he needed was stony stubbornness, a trait he had never possessed.

Sidaizon's shoulders fell. "As you wish. Almatar-in-training Márathul. Tell me, what would you do with this abandoned child? How should we decide her fate?"

Smugly, Márathul raised his chin. He could look so much like Tarmanaz at times: the resemblance was troubling. "An easy question to answer," he said. "I would send her to the Yaranénon grandparents."

"No!" Amárië snapped at once, while Eäzinya gasped, ready to speak.

Sidaizon raised his hand to hold back the both of them. "I would say that is a curious choice," he told Márathul. "Explain your reason."

"Many reasons," said Márathul. "First, because how do you suppose the grandparents would react if they heard the baby had been given to a family of strangers? And they would hear. Everything linked to that woman's death spreads as heated news all over the city. If that happened, there would be more riots and more violence. The Yaranénor would take it as a slap in the face if you chose any unrelated Lávar to raise the baby when she has living family who would want her. But, second, if you did send her to the grandparents, they would see the gesture as the greatest of peace offerings and a show of faith. I am sure that the entire feud would be solved. Third, while it is true she would be raised in a Yaranénon house, she would still know that she has a Lávan father, and she was born Lávan. There is a high chance she will come back to us once she is old enough to make her own choices about her life. Finally, it is the easiest choice to make, and the least amount of work, and no-one can really fault you for sending a child to live with her own blood kin, even if they are Yaranénon."

With a snort and a shake of his head, Tarmanaz leaned back against the wall. "And you thought my answer was stupid. You can't give the baby to heretics. Everyone knows that. The Oraistari won't allow it, Almatar-in-failing Márathul."

"That may be true," Márathul answered back, "but if you paid attention to anything at all, you'd know that it goes against both Valadávan and Yaranénon law to have a girl adopted by anyone more remote than the siblings of her parents. The grandparents could use that as a challenge before a judge."

"Now you're making things up."

"No," Sidaizon said quietly, "he's right. It's an old law, and one that rarely comes into consideration, but it's true nonetheless. She cannot be given to the care of anyone but an uncle, aunt or grandparent unless she is first promise-married. So if we organise an adoption, we must also organise a wedding. And that could be an impossible task."

"I should hope so," said Amárië. "That sounds like Yaranénon nonsense. Only they would want to arrange a marriage with an infant. Ridiculous. No-one would do it."

"Then you agree she should be taken to her grandparents?" Sidaizon asked.

Amárië scowled and held the baby closer. "Absolutely not. I still think she should stay here."

"And whom would she marry?" Smiling, Sidaizon raised his eyebrows at Tarmanaz. "You?"

"What?" Tarmanaz coughed, choking on his breath. "No! I'm not marrying anyone right now, least of all a baby!"

"Are you sure? I think it would be an ideal match. You go to study for sixty years, and when you return, you have a lovely new wife all grown up and waiting for you. Think of all the money you'd save, not having to scratch up enough to pay a brideprice." He turned to Márathul. "What about you?"

But Márathul only paled again, shrinking back and closing his arms across his chest.

"What if you told everyone you are her uncle?" Amárië asked. "Then we could keep her without any marriage."

"I'm not her uncle," said Sidaizon.

"But if you said-"

"Even if I announced myself as her uncle, her Yaranénon family would see it as the convenient lie it is, and the trouble would only escalate. No," he sighed, "Marathúl is right. She needs to go to her grandparents. It's the only option, much as it pains me to say so."

He looked to Amárië with a smile, offering an apology for what he was about to do. She stared angrily back. "No!" she said. "You can't do that."

"Amma, I have to. We have no choice."

"No!" Amárië repeated. She cupped a protective hand around the back of the baby's head. "You can't give me this baby and then take her away!"

"I didn't give her to you. I only-"

"You did!" Amárië's voice had grown suddenly shrill. It wavered as she spoke, hovering on the threat of tears. "You said, 'Here, you always wanted another one,' and gave her to me! You gave her to me, and now you want to take her away! Why should I let you?"

A heavy feeling began to roil in Sidaizon's stomach as he watched his mother cling to that baby. She had never spoken of a desire for more children in anything but light-hearted, joking tones, and had never complained of her fate in anything but the same. To come literally face to face with her hidden wish now...

"I'm sorry, Amma," he said softly. "I thought you knew I was only teasing, and understood we would have to find her a different home. I didn't mean to cause you grief."

"But you did," said Amárië. The promised tears had started to gather in the corners of her eyes, and a small sound, not quite a sob but more than a sigh, escaped from her throat as she cradled the baby against her shoulder. "I don't see why I can't be her mother. I would be a good mother."

"I know. I know you would be. But you heard the reasons why not."

"Political reasons!" she shot back. "Reasons of law! Heartless, cold reasons! This is a baby, Hilu, not a crate of tea or a bag of spice! How can you decide the course of her life the way you would solve an argument over common goods? Her life! She should be given to the care of somebody who loves her, somebody who wants her! Not somebody who owns her by rules written in an old, dry book! I won't let you do that!"

With a shaky sob, she pressed her face into the baby's swaddling blanket. How sad she looked, small and alone, sitting there in all her desperation and sorrow. It struck Sidaizon like a knife. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, feeling skin damp and cold beneath his touch. "Amma..."

Eäzinya touched his arm. "Shh. Let me?"

Nodding, he took a step back to let her be the one to approach his mother. Eäzinya crossed the floor smoothly, gliding like a bird, and settled down beside Amárië with a comforting arm around her shoulders. The words murmured were too quiet to hear. At first Amárië turned away, refusing to listen, but after a moment Eäzinya had coaxed her to her feet. The two left the room for a discussion alone.

---

Chapter End Notes

Indor: 'master of the house', here used as an honorific

Passing as Arafinwë

Read Passing as Arafinwë

In the silence of Eäzinya and Amárië's absence, the air between Sidaizon, Tarmanaz and Márathul hummed with the tension of stoppered arguments. Tarmanaz looked straight ahead at nothing, a foul expression twisting his lips, while Márathul feigned great interest in his feet. Only Nautalya dared to make eye contact.

"Well?" Sidaizon asked her. "Have you a complaint to voice at me as well?"

Her little face stared back at him with the look of a cornered mouse. "No," she whispered. Slowly, she stood up and crossed the floor, until she stood directly in front of him. She flung her arms about his waist. "I'm being good."

Half the worries of the day seemed to disappear right then, flowing out through the warm energy of Nautalya's embrace. Sidaizon sank down to his knees on the tiles and pulled her into his lap, so she could curl up in the circle of his arms and rest her head on his shoulder. "You are being good," he told her as he kissed her hair.

"Will you tell me a story?" she asked.

"A story? Now?"

"Yes, please."

"I suppose I can," Sidaizon said. "What kind of story?"

Nautalya snuggled closer against him, making herself comfortable. "A story about a princess. Tell me about Eärwen and Arafinwë."

"Eärwen?" laughed Sidaizon. "I've told you that story so many times, I think you should be able to tell me now."

"I know," said Nautalya. "But I still like it."

"Alright, alright. If you wish."

Nautalya grinned up at him, and Márathul shifted forward to better listen, not bothering to disguise his interest in something so childish as a story about a princess. Only Tarmanaz snorted and rolled his eyes, though he did not move away. Sidaizon cleared his throat to begin.

"This is a story my Amma, your Haruni Amárië, would tell me when I was little. Years ago, back in the days of the full glory of the Valar, the Noldorin King had three sons. They were Curufinwë Fëanáro, Nolofinwë Ingoldo, and Arafinwë Ingalaurë. Arafinwë was the youngest."

"And he had golden hair," Nautalya added, "like his mother, Indis. That's why he was named Ingalaurë."

"Yes, he had golden hair like his mother," said Sidaizon. "And everyone said he was very much like his mother. He spent half of each year of his childhood with her family on Taniquetil, and he was the only one of his brothers and sisters who loved his Minyarin heritage as much as the Noldorin."

"That's because he was the only one with golden hair. The others all had black hair."

Sidaizon looked down at Nautalya with raised eyebrows. "I thought you wanted me to tell the story?"

"Sorry." Nautalya ducked her head, and Sidaizon gave her a quick pinch in the ribs, earning a happy squeak in reply.

"So. Arafinwë grew to be a very handsome youth, and everyone agreed he was the fairest of Finwë's children. And this was saying something, because all of Finwë's children carried the gift of beauty. But Arafinwë was indeed the most beautiful, with his golden hair," he paused to smirk teasingly at Nautalya; "honey skin, and eyes that shone like blue-green gems. Everyone predicted that he would marry the most beautiful maiden in all of Valinor. But... nobody could agree who that was. There were simply too many beautiful girls to decide. Was it the girl who could weave her splendid hair into a plait the length and thickness of her arm? Or the girl with astounding eyes the colour of deep jade? What about the tall girl with a body like a young tree, who could run fast as a deer, or the girl with tiny feet and hands, whose little features were so perfectly proportioned she looked like a doll? And then there was the daughter of Ingwë's son, who lived high up on the mountain in a secluded palace. No-one but her closest family members had ever seen her face, but it was rumoured that the mingling of the Tree-light would stop in her presence, and she could charm birds down from the sky with only a flick of her eyelashes. Many people thought Arafinwë should marry her.

"As time rolled on toward Arafinwë's fiftieth year, more and more maidens gathered to see him in the hope of being chosen as his wife and crowned the most beautiful of all. But although he agreed they were all very fair, he had no desire to wed any of them. His family asked why, and tried to seek out more and more girls to come to the royal palace of Tirion for an audience, but all he ever said was that he had not yet found the right one to marry. Out of hundreds of girls, not a one was the wife Arafinwë sought. Not even Ingwë's son's daughter. People started to lose hope, and they called him impossible to please."

"But that's not true!" Nautalya exclaimed.

"No, it wasn't true," said Sidaizon. "Arafinwë wasn't being picky, or conceited. But he did have a secret. Since he was about forty years old, he had been having a recurring dream. Often he would find himself dreaming of a lovely song floating on the wind. The song had no words, but it was such a happy, carefree melody that it filled his heart with joy to hear it. In his dream he followed the song, always through a different place. Sometimes he walked through a great palace, sometimes through a forest, or a field or hilly path. He would follow the song until he saw a lovely maiden dancing and singing in the distance. Then he would run to her, trying to see who she was, but the moment he caught a glimpse of her face he would awaken. And even though he only ever saw her in dreams, he somehow knew she was real. She was the only girl he would marry. So that was the reason he could not choose another; he had already fallen in love. Everywhere he went he looked for the face in his dream, though he never found her. He listened for the song, but he never heard it.

"Now, the singer in his dream wore a lilac dress, and her hair was pale and shone with the light of the Trees. Arafinwë guessed that she might be a high-born Minya. Every year he continued to spend much of his time with his mother's family, and he was always looking and listening for his dream maiden. He went to the grand houses of Taniquetil and wandered the streets of Valmar. There were times when he thought he came close, but still he did not find her. He became so obsessed with searching that at first he refused to go when his father summoned him home so that the family might make a trip to Alqualondë to celebrate the fiftieth birthday of Olwë's second son. But Finwë Noldóran insisted, and Arafinwë, who was forty-nine years old and still had to obey his father, reluctantly left Valmar to go home.

"He did not want to attend any celebrations in Alqualondë because he knew that the Telezin lords would take advantage of the opportunity to push more daughters and nieces his way. As soon as they arrived at Olwë's palace, he lost no time in slipping away from his family before they could find anyone for him to meet. He decided the best place to hide would be along the sea-cliffs past the garden, far away from where any girls were likely to be. He was nearly to the end of the garden when he heard the faint notes of a song on the breeze. Curious, he stopped where he stood and listened carefully. The music was coming from the direction of the beach, where he was headed. He continued forward, and soon enough he recognised fragments of the song in his dream. With a racing heart, he ran with all his speed and burst out of the garden gate and onto a plateau overlooking the thin strip of sandy beach below. Down at the water's edge, a maiden was dancing and singing as she collected shells."

"Eärwen!" whispered Nautalya.

Sidaizon nodded. "Yes, it was Eärwen. But Arafinwë did not know her name yet. All he knew was that she was the one he had chased in his dreams, and he needed to see her. But he was on top of the cliff, and she was down on the beach. He might kill himself climbing down. He told himself he had to try, though, because what if she disappeared before he had a chance to talk to her? He swallowed all fear and swung his legs over the edge. Slowly, trying his best to keep his hands and feet firmly on the rocky cliff face, he began his climb down. The sounds of her song floating up told him she was still on the beach, though moving further away. He tried to hurry, half climbing and half sliding down, until he was nearly at the bottom. Then the rocks broke away from under his feet and he fell down with a loud shout of fright.

"Luckily, he landed on the soft sand, though he was flat on his back and had the wind knocked out of him. He lay there on the beach, groaning and trying to catch his breath, and he realised he could no longer hear the girl's song. For a moment he thought he had lost her yet again, just as it happened in his dreams, and he nearly wept with frustration. But then he turned his head as he tried to sit, and saw her running to his side. She had heard him shout, and had come to see if he was hurt.

"Now that she was beside him, close enough to touch, Arafinwë found he had lost his voice. Here was the face he had seen in his dreams, framed by windblown silver hair. She did not have the thick plait of the girl in Tirion, nor the jade eyes. Her body was neither tree-like nor doll-like, and the mingling of the Treelight did not stop for her. But she was beautiful in her own way, a sweet and kind way, and Arafinwë loved her even more in person than he had in his dreams. They walked back through the gardens hand in hand and announced to their families their intention to marry. Arafinwë's family was so happy that he had finally found his match, and the daughter of Finwë's good friend, no less. Their joy was exceeded only by that of Eärwen's family.

"You see Eärwen was much older than Arafinwë, and the eldest of Olwë's children; she was close in age to Fëanáro, who was already married with three sons of his own. Eärwen's first younger brother had married some years earlier, and the second, whose birthday it was, had been betrothed for nearly a year. Her mother had started to worry she might never find a husband. Whenever she was asked why she had no interest in any of the young men she met, she would simply reply that she had not yet found the right one. Just like Arafinwë had said. So you see, they were waiting to find each other. They were married a year later and still live together happily to this day in Tirion."

Finishing the story, Sidaizon smiled down at Nautalya. She did not return the smile, but looked back at him crossly. "You missed a whole part," she said.

"What part is that?"

"The part about the test."

"Ah," said Sidaizon. "Well, that is pure fancy, added on to entertain little girls. The story about the dream and their first meeting is thought to be true, but the test-"

"I'll tell it then," Nautalya interrupted. She slid out of Sidaizon's lap to sit on the floor in front of him, feet tucked neatly beneath her in a formal storytelling pose. "It's the best part, and how Haruni Mari tells the story. Before they went back to their families, Eärwen told Arafinwë that because she was a princess, she couldn't agree to marry just anyone, even if he was a prince. She said he had to prove he was good enough for her. So she gave him a test and said, stand here with your eyes closed and I'll go hide. If you can see me in my hiding place from where you stand then that means you are a real prince and we are meant to be married. So Arafinwë closed his eyes and waited for Eärwen to hide. When he opened his eyes again he looked all around the beach, turning in a circle where he stood, but he couldn't see her anywhere. Then he was heartbroken because he had met the girl in his dreams but he couldn't pass her test. He closed his eyes again and prayed with all his hope to Izmo to make his dream come true. And then, just as he finished the prayer, he had a vision that he was walking forward. He kept his eyes closed and followed the vision until he walked straight into a waterfall that came down over the cliff from a stream. Eärwen was waiting behind the waterfall. She asked him, how did you find me so fast? And he said he was able to see her hiding place from where he stood on the beach."

"So you think Izmo helped them find each other?"

Nautalya nodded. "Yes. And then they decided to be married behind the waterfall that day, and the wedding a year later was just a ceremony for show."

"Nautalya!" said Sidaizon. He bit back a smile, trying to decide whether he should be amused or shocked. "Your grandmother tells you these scandalous stories?"

"Well no," Nautalya admitted. "Tarmanaz told me that last part."

Sidaizon lifted his curious gaze to Tarmanaz. "Is that so?" he asked.

Tarmanaz shuffled his weight from foot to foot while he crossed his arms and sucked on his teeth. "She always wants to hear the same stories over," he offered as his defence. "Sometimes I just make them more interesting."

"He does!" Nautalya added. "Once he said Eärwen took all her clothes off because they were wet from the waterfall." She lifted her hands to cover her mouth and giggled.

"You're an idiot," Márathul said to Tarmanaz.

"No, you're just a terrible role model for your sister," said Sidaizon. "I don't think it's appropriate to be telling her stories with such unsavoury endings, and I don't want to hear about you doing so any more."

"What am I supposed to tell her?" asked Tarmanaz. "They lived happily ever after and perfectly within the bounds of morality and law, never straying from the righteous path of good people?"

Sidaizon forced a nod. Everything had to be a challenge with Tarmanaz. "That would be acceptable," he said, and nothing more.

Shuffling again, Tarmanaz seemed to balance, undecided, on the line between speaking further and lapsing into another prickling silence.

"May I have your word that you will use better judgement in what sort of stories you tell Nautalya in the future?"

Tarmanaz grunted. "I guess. Though I didn't tell her anything she didn't already-" He stopped abruptly, eyes flicking to somewhere over Sidaizon's shoulder. "Ai! What do you think you're doing?"

Something soft and feathery tickled the back of Sidaizon's neck, and he heard Nautalya's voice speaking from behind him: "Now Attu looks like Arafinwë."

"What are you doing, Alya?" he asked.

"She has my hair!" said Tarmanaz. "She picked up my hair and put it on you!"

"I only wanted to see what it looks like," Nautalya replied. "It's nice. You should grow your hair this long. You look like Arafinwë."

"I do?" Reaching back, he could touch the length of hair where Nautalya held it to his neck. It lay heavily against his clothes: a rich sensation he had not felt in five hundred years. "How do you know what Arafinwë looks like?" he asked.

"I'm just imagining."

"Does your Amma look like Eärwen, then?"

"No," said Nautalya. "She'd have to have silver hair. If she had silver hair, she would. But you can be Arafinwë without her."

"Or you could be Yaranénon," Tarmanaz said with a sneer. "Are you sure you want that hair near you? Somebody might mistake you for the wrong kind of person, without your holy Almatar's style."

"Tarmanaz," Sidaizon began, but stopped himself even as the word formed in his mouth. An idea had flashed in his mind, sudden and perfect. And absurd. "You are right," he said quietly. "Absolutely right. I might be taken for Yaranénon with this long plait. Nautalya?"

Still holding the hair in place, Nautalya leaned over his shoulder far enough that he was able to see her face. "What?"

"Go to your mother's dressing table and get as many of her hair ties and pins as you can find. Bring them back to me. I need you to do something very important."

She frowned in confusion but did not ask why as she let Tarmanaz's severed plait fall. Sidaizon's eyes followed her as she hurried from the room. A minute later, she returned with her cupped hands full.

"Good girl. Now..." Taking one of the ties she had fetched, Sidaizon pulled his hair back into a short pigtail at the nape of his neck, then wrapped the top of Tarmanaz's plait in the same manner before giving it back to Nautalya. "What I need you to do," he told her, "is fasten this to my hair where I've tied it. Pin it in place as securely as you can. Will you do that for me?"

"Really?" she asked. Her eyes had widened with the happiness of a girl who could not believe her luck, and Sidaizon had to grin.

"Yes," he said. "Turn me into Arafinwë."

With a squeal of delight, Nautalya immediately set to work pinning the end of Tarmanaz's plait to Sidaizon's little pigtail, wrapping the whole thing in a thick ribbon to disguise the seam. She did it once, but grunted, dissatisfied with the result, and tried again. The second time was better.

"How is it?" Sidaizon asked.

"Much better than short hair." said Nautalya. "You look like Arafinwë now."

Sidaizon smiled at her. "Good. Very good. Thank you, Alya. Now, Tarmanaz," he continued, "fetch me those clothes you had last night."

"What?" Tarmanaz asked, and then, with immediate understanding, "No! Those are my clothes that I bought for me! There's no law against what clothes I can buy, so you can't have them!"

"I don't want to have them, Tarmanaz. I want to borrow them."

Tarmanaz's eyes became mean, suspicious slits. "Why?"

Carefully, Sidaizon stood. He kept one hand at his neck, where the severed plait met his own hair, wary that it might fall. But the pins seemed secure, and the ribbon held everything tightly. "I need to take the baby to her family," he answered. "To do so, I need to walk into a true nest of serpents. It should be easier if I look like one of them."

For a moment, Tarmanaz stood glaring. Then he shook his head, pushed his hair back, and knelt down by his folded mattress to retrieve the clothes. "I know it's going to be a horrible day," he muttered, "I might as well get a good laugh out of you looking Yaranénon." From beneath the mattress, he produced a pair of rumpled maroon breeches, a brown vest embroidered with red and green, and a golden-yellow shirt that appeared to be badly in need of washing. He threw all of it in a pile at Sidaizon's feet.

In five hundred years, as long as he had lived with short hair, Sidaizon had also lived with white clothing. The last time he had worn a coloured shirt, he had been forty-three years old. How strange it felt to look down at anything but white in his hands now. He took off his white shirt and pulled on the yellow one in its place, breathing in the unpleasant smell of sour ale as he did. He donned the baggy maroon breeches over top of his own white, and the vest over the shirt. It all felt wrong in numerous, small ways.

"This looks... a little dirty," he said.

"You look like you slept in it," said Márathul.

Tarmanaz gave a little hitch of laughter. "Well, the baby's family is all Yaranénon peasants. You'll look just like one of them. Only your hair is too clean."

"Do I still look like Arafinwë?" Sidaizon asked Nautalya.

"No," she answered. As if the question insulted her, she made a face. "Those clothes are ugly and Arafinwë would never wear something like that."

Her insult only made Tarmanaz laugh louder. "What would Arafinwë wear, then, Princess?"

"Lots of gold and silver," Nautalya said, crossing her arms over her chest. "And purple silk with jewels on it, and pearls, and a crown of course."

"Alas, I have none of that," said Sidaizon. "I shall have to make my journey as a peasant."

He placed a hand on top of Nautalya's head, ruffling her hair and causing her to shriek and bat his arm away. As he did, he could hear the curtain that covered the corridor to the bedrooms being pulled aside behind him. Eäzinya's footsteps entered the room and came to a sudden stop.

"Oh by the grace of Manwë!"

Grinning, Sidaizon turned to see Eäzinya, who stood wide-eyed with shock and clutching the baby to her chest. "Well, Sinya-Melitsa," he said. "How do you like it?" He held his arms out at his side and did a little turn on the spot to display the clothing.

"I do not," Eäzinya answered, shaking her head. "You gave me a fright! I thought you were your Yaranénon cousin, returned. What are you wearing? And your hair..."

"Tarmanaz's hair."

"Tarmanaz's hair! Why in Manwë's good name are you wearing Yaranénon clothes and Tarmanaz's hair?"

"If I must deliver the baby to a Yaranénon family living in a Yaranénon neighbourhood, would it not do me better to look like one of them?" Sidaizon asked. "I can hardly walk over there looking like myself. I dare say few of them would be pleased at the sight of a Valadávan Almatar among them. Even those heretics would know me at once by my hair and robe."

"But where did you get the clothes?" asked Eäzinya.

Sidaizon, keeping Tarmanaz's secret, did not answer. "Is the baby ready to go?" he asked, changing the subject. "If the Yaranénon family lives where I think they might, it will take the better part of the morning to walk to that part of the city, and then Manwë only knows how long to find them. I want to leave as soon as possible. The sooner I go, the better the chance I have of returning before dark."

"She's ready," Eäzinya said, nodding. "But you should take a jar of goat's milk and a rag to feed her if you think the walk will be so long. She'll be hungry soon."

"I will."

"And you should take Nautalya," said Márathul.

Eäzinya gasped at the suggestion, and stepped forward to clasp a protective hand over Nautalya's shoulder. "Nautalya! Why would he take Nautalya? No, it is far too dangerous!"

But Nautalya quickly squirmed out of her mother's grasp and tugged at Sidaizon's sleeve. Her eyes widened with excitement. "Yes! Take me, too! I want to go with you!"

"Nautalya, no," said Sidaizon. "Márathul was only being silly."

"I was not," Márathul insisted. "It will be safer. One man travelling alone, carrying a baby, will be a target for suspicion. But a man with a baby and a little girl looks like an everyday family. Suspicious eyes will slide right over you."

"And what if they do not?" asked Eäzinya. "Then my little Nautalya is in danger."

"Do you think they would harm her?" Márathul replied.

Eäzinya nodded sharply. "They are Yaranénon heretics. They don't behave reasonably, like we do."

"I do not think they would harm her, no," said Sidaizon. "But it is still a risk."

Bouncing on the spot, Nautalya tugged at his sleeve again. "Oh, Attu, please! Let me go! I want to go with you and the baby, please! I'll be good! I'll be so good! Please, please!"

"Alya..." he said.

"Attu, Attu, please!"

He shook his head. "No. It's not good for little girls to go wandering about the city. It's not only dangerous, but improper. I cannot take you with me."

---

Chapter End Notes

Telezi: Teleri

Izmo: Irmo

Melitsa: Beloved

Through the Streets of Valmar

Read Through the Streets of Valmar

In the end, Nautalya came along on the journey across the city to deliver the baby. Between Márathul's reasoning and her pleading, Eäzinya had eventually agreed that even the Yaranénor were not monstrous enough to harm a little girl, nor would they harm a baby, and they would certainly not harm a little girl carrying a baby. So the baby had been bound to Nautalya's back, and she now walked ahead of Sidaizon down the rutted and dusty road that ran past the Lavazat and toward the Yaranénon side of the city.

She wore a bright orange shawl that Amárië had grudgingly produced, wrapped around her like a primitive dress and tied over one shoulder. On top of that, she had a white cape that would cover the orange until they were far enough from home to reveal their disguises. Sidaizon, likewise, wore his white robe over Tarmanaz's clothes and kept his head bowed. Preoccupied as he had been with creating a sufficient Yaranénon disguise, he had given little thought to how they would escape their own neighbourhood without being noticed or recognised. Everyone here knew who he was. Anyone who stopped to speak to him in the street would notice that his Almatar's costume was incomplete, and see the strange state of his hair. Tarmanaz's plait lay tucked beneath his collar, but the shape of it could not be completely hidden. Most of all, he did not want to have to explain where he and Nautalya were going with the baby, and whose baby it was.

Everyone they passed looked like a threat to him. The streets were far emptier than usual, surely owing to worry over the previous day's violence: emptier, but not deserted. Anyone, at any moment, could guess what he was doing and ruin everything. The Valadávan people would not agree with this course of action. The longer he could delay telling them, the better. If he could avoid telling anything at all, that would be best. Ideally, the baby would disappear into obscurity and no-one would ever ask after her. The matter would simply fade away.

He sighed. How terrible was it, that he wished a little baby to be swallowed by the vastness of the city, out of his life and beyond his responsibility? How heartless was he, to have those thoughts? "It is for the good of all," he muttered to himself, though the tone of his voice was unconvincing. "To bridge the rift." To bridge the rift, he was about to sacrifice an innocent child to heresy. It was both unavoidable and unconscionable.

Nautalya turned to glance up at him. "Did you say something, Attu?"

"No," he said. "Nothing important. I was only thinking to myself."

She accepted that with a nod, and continued on her way. "It's nice today. No clouds at all."

"It is nice." He put a hand on her shoulder to steer her to the left. "Why don't we go this way? We can walk by the Garden of the Moon and down to the river."

They turned down a narrow side street, which was scarcely more than a walkway between housing blocks. Here there were more people, but all of them too busy at their household tasks to bother paying any attention to an average man and his average daughter. To the left, women hung washing out from their windows; to the right, a boy shouted and tugged at the harness of a stubborn goat. The buildings rose up tall, three or four levels, on either side. A smell of garbage, smoke, and animal dung filtered through the air.

Nautalya regarded it all curiously. "Attu..." she asked. "Are these people very rich? The houses are big."

"No," Sidaizon answered softly. "The buildings are big, but they are not houses for one family. They are divided into rooms. Each family has a few rooms, but they share the building with everyone else. You see the woman at the window there? That is her family's room. But the next window, with the washing already hung out, will belong to another family, and the window above is another family still. The buildings are arranged in a big square, with streets on all sides and a shared courtyard in the middle. Just like our house. Imagine our house with three other houses with other families in them stacked on top."

"So... they are very poor."

"Not very," said Sidaizon, "but I suppose they are poor, yes."

She stopped to look up at him with concern in her eyes. "Are we rich or poor?"

Laughing, Sidaizon squeezed her arm. "We are neither rich nor poor, Aritsincya. We are wealthier than many, but nowhere near the level of many more. We have enough to afford a house with our own front garden, to buy good food, and to keep you in new clothes and shoes, for which you should be grateful."

"I am," she said quickly, though Sidaizon wondered how sincerely she meant it. She had never known anything less than a new dress for every festival and endless hours to devote to play instead of work.

"When I was young," he continued, "Haruni Mari and I were very poor. We lived in a house that was only one room, on the outskirts of the city and far from everything, and we never had money to buy things that weren't absolutely needed. I only ever had two sets of clothes and one pair of sandals, and all of that would have to last three or four years. And sometimes there was not enough money even for the things we did need, and we'd have to rely on charity. When I was your age, I had to work for Haru Vida making paper, as Tarmanaz does now. But he paid me nothing, because I was only a child and not a true apprentice. He only let me eat a little food from his table and sleep on his floor, so Haruni wouldn't have to worry about me having enough to eat."

"So that's why you wanted to be an Almatar?" Nautalya asked. "So you wouldn't be poor any more?"

He pursed his lips together. "No... I never minded being poor. I knew nothing else. I became an Almatar because... I was not happy as a paper maker with Haru Vida."

She seemed to accept that answer, to Sidaizon's relief, and asked no further questions on the topic. As they continued on from street to street, the tall buildings gave way to more single-level dwellings much like their own. These slowly turned into private, detached houses for wealthier folk, which in turn became great mansions the closer they came to the river. Nautalya slowed to a dawdle as she passed, gazing enviously at the gleaming silver roofs and fruit-filled treetops that poked up above high, white perimeter walls. The delicate sound of splashing fountains from private gardens and courtyards drifted though the air, and, from somewhere within, the soft tones of a harp. "These are the houses of very rich people, then," she said.

"Yes," Sidaizon agreed. "These are the houses of rich people."

She paused before one of the gates to peer through the iron scrollwork. A peacock stared back at her and fanned out its tail, making her grin. "When I am grown up, I want to be very rich."

"And how will you manage that, Nautalya Turillitsë?" Sidaizon asked, taking her hand to pull her along again. "Will you marry a very rich man?"

"No. I don't want to get married. I just want to be rich by myself. With a big house and peacocks and a pond with fish in it."

He laughed. "But how will you afford your house and peacocks and fish with no rich husband to pay for them?"

"I don't know yet," she said. "I might go exploring and find a new kind of jewels that nobody ever found before."

"Exploring and jewels! Such fancy! The King would have you arrested for your ambition." He pinched her arm teasingly, expecting her usual defiance, but instead Nautalya pulled away.

A worried expression had spread across her face. "Why would he arrest me?" she asked.

Sidaizon came to a halt, a sinking feeling starting to bloom in his stomach. She had been serious. "Oh... Nautalya, I was only... I was only teasing you."

"But why would I be arrested? Why would the King care if I want to go exploring?"

Faced with her fearful eyes, he found it impossible to answer truthfully. She was still so young, and certain that anything was possible for her future. The hard realities of life meant nothing to children like her; it would be cruel to force them upon her now. They would come on their own soon enough. At the moment, she only needed to believe that a Minyarin girl could look forward to anything more from her life than marriage and children, and that no laws barred her dreams.

"Of course the King does not care if you want to go exploring," he said softly, trying to force any shred of sincerity into his voice. "I was only teasing. And I would never let anyone arrest you, for any reason. You are my little girl, and I will keep you safe and happy until the very ending of the world."

She did not reply. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she continued down the road, slowing only occasionally to cast wistful gazes through garden gates.

Beyond the silver-roofed mansions, the Garden of the Moon lay in a wide swath along the river's edge. Sidaizon had come here with Nautalya before, on festival days when the trees were decked with ribbons and lanterns, and brightly lit pavilions selling food and sweets lined the walkways. Now it was completely empty: no children played around the fountain, no families sat amid the flowers, no well dressed men strolled along the riverbank discussing business ventures. Sidaizon and Nautalya sat alone in the shade of a great tree to eat their dinner of bread and cheese. The baby, who had started to wail when Sidaizon untied her from the security of Nautalya's back, calmed again once she had been fed from the earthenware jar of goat's milk Eäzinya had prepared.

They passed through the garden and over the Aldayanta, a wide, tree-lined bridge made of stones and earth that spanned the river. On the other side was the Garden of the Sun, the beginning of a strange border land that marked a transition into one of the city's largest Yaranénon neighbourhoods. As soon as they had crossed, Sidaizon pulled Nautalya behind the shelter of a bank of trees, where they could safely shed their Valadávan clothing to reveal the colourful disguises beneath. He felt strangely light-headed stepping out into the world in such a costume. The earlier doubts returned, accompanied by a vast wave of new ones. How absolutely silly to think he could fool anyone by putting on a false plait and Yaranénon clothes. Nautalya, perhaps, could pass convincingly: children all tended to have the same look about them. He was too tall, his skin was the wrong shade, his eyes too grey, and his face too sharp. The only people who might mistake him for Yaranénon would be Noldorin merchants who had only the slightest understanding of Minyarin cultures.

As before, he kept his head low and led Nautalya along narrower side streets to avoid the public thoroughfares. They passed more silver-domed mansions, shining with blinding brightness in the sunlight, and smaller but equally impressive houses covered in tangles of flowering vines. Some were made of the same white stone as the Valadávan houses on the opposite side of the river, but others were built of tan, yellow, orange, or even fiery red brick, lining the streets in a patchwork of colour.

"The Yaranénon man who came to visit yesterday- he lives near here," Sidaizon told Nautalya.

She looked eagerly down the streets branching off to the sides. "Which house?"

"I don't know. But his father lives down this road to the left, toward the end. He's married to Haruni Mari's sister. I went to that house a few times when I was young."

"Can we go there? I want to see inside a house like these ones!"

"Not today," said Sidaizon. "But perhaps someday later. When things are calmer, and we no longer need to wear disguises. You would like their house. It's full of colourful carpets, and they have a wonderful rose garden."

"I would like it," she agreed.

Beyond a thick, vine-covered wall with a gate as wide as the road, the houses changed abruptly from large, single dwellings to cramped housing blocks. The sounds of the city, which had been muted and distant on the wealthy side of the wall, came rushing in suddenly from all sides. Goats bleated, mules brayed, and chickens squawked from household enclosures. And though there were few people on the street, shouted conversations echoed from open windows. The sounds of work sounded as a continuous beat below it all: ringing, pounding, chopping, and moving.

The farther they went, the worse the conditions turned. Solid buildings became grimy and run-down, and no less crowded. Makeshift shacks began to line the streets. The smell of garbage and waste strengthened, compounded by the stench of foul water that ran in narrow ditches between the shacks. Flies swarmed to piles of refuse and crawled over children who sat listless and dull-eyed in the midday heat, waiting while their mothers stood in line for a turn at the crumbling well. Men with dirty hair and skin shouted abuse at others who dozed in whatever shade they could find.

Nautalya watched it all from around the protective shield of Sidaizon's arm. She kept herself pressed close against his leg as they walked, and he held her firmly by the shoulders with both hands. Neither said a word. Nautalya, speechless, and Sidaizon, uncertain of what he could say to her, remained silent as they passed by rows upon rows of dilapidated shacks and their piteous inhabitants.

He relaxed his grip on Nautalya's shoulders only when they came to a wide ditch, parched and full of shrivelling weeds, and yet another dividing wall. The road ended at that wall, forcing them to walk along the ditch until they came to a gate. "How much farther?" Nautalya whispered as they slipped through.

"Not far," said Sidaizon. "They should live close to here. Are you tired?"

"No... but my back hurts. The baby is heavy."

"Do you want me to carry her?"

Nautalya shook her head. "I can do it." She paused before admitting, "For a bit longer, anyway."

"We're close. Come on. Why don't we ask that boy over there if he can help us find the baby's grandparents?"

The gate had opened onto the comfortingly familiar sight of a market street, and Sidaizon used his elbow to gesture to a lazy-looking boy sitting atop a crate in front of a butcher's shop. He looked safe enough, and dull enough, to risk asking without raising suspicion. The boy kept his eyes on his knees as they approached, appearing to be too engaged in spitting on his thumb and rubbing at a bit of dirt-marked skin to notice them. Only when Sidaizon cleared his throat loudly did the boy look up. Then, his mouth hung open witlessly and an expression of surprise crossed his round face, as if he had never imagined the possibility of being spoken to by a stranger.

"I am sorry to disturb you," said Sidaizon, "but I wonder if you can help me? I seek a man named Authimer, who, I've been told, lives in this neighbourhood. Do you know his house?"

The boy made no reply, but continued to stare mutely.

"Authimer," Sidaizon repeated slowly. "Do you know him?"

Squirming, the boy mumbled something that sounded like, "Wait," before sliding off his crate and through the butcher shop's open doorway.

Sidaizon cursed under his breath. Speaking to a boy was one thing; having to face the boy's father, uncle, or elder brother was too much of a risk. "Let's go," he murmured to Nautalya.

"Why?" she asked. "You aren't asking for directions?"

"No. We'll ask someone else."

He led her away, ready to turn the nearest corner and disappear from sight, when someone shouted from behind.

"Aio! You!"

The footsteps of an angry man followed the voice, pounding up behind them on the dirt road. Clenching his teeth, Sidaizon stopped and turned, keeping Nautalya close at his side.

"You there!"

The man from the shop looked exactly like some childish caricature of a butcher. Tall and broad, he wore a blood-spattered apron and held in his right hand a knife the length of his forearm. He approached at a determined step, a glare and a frown twisting his lips, and stopped only when he and Sidaizon stood uncomfortably face to face. The butcher's eyes flickered over Sidaizon's features, as if appraising him.

Sidaizon heard a little gasp from Nautalya as she shifted to hide behind his back. The butcher stood close enough that he could smell cooked meat on the man's breath. He shuddered inwardly, but refused to pull away. He could do nothing that might be taken as a sign of guilt. Instead, he forced a polite smile. "May I help you, sir?"

"All the time," the butcher answered slowly, "my son comes flying into the house, swearing to the east and west that some Valadávan thug has come to murder him." He took two rocking steps back, holding his knife between him and Sidaizon and thumbing the blade. "Looks like today he might be right."

In reply to that, all Sidaizon could do was laugh. The accusation was so absurd that there could be no other answer. "A Valadávan thug!" he said. "No, sir, I think you are mistaken. I am a family man, on a stroll with my two daughters here." He patted Nautalya on the arm, keeping a wide smile as he did. "Nothing to fear from us, you see."

"You harassed my son."

"I asked him for directions," Sidaizon corrected. "I asked your boy if he knew where I could find a man called Authimer. But it seems he cannot help me. So I will be on my way."

The butcher's eyes grew wide and his face hard. "Authimer!" he hissed, stepping forward again to be close enough to whisper. His eyes darted from side to side, as if scanning for any intruders to the conversation. "How does someone like you know Authimer?"

Sidaizon's stomach tightened, though he pushed the growing seed of fear to the back of his mind. "Someone like me? I'm not sure I understand your meaning. Authimer is an old friend of mine."

"Cat's balls," said the butcher. "I know Authimer. He's a good man. Has nothing to do with crooked Valadávan sneaks."

"I'm not-" Sidaizon began, but let the words fall off with a sigh. Arguments were a luxury for another time. He needed to find Authimer more than he needed to keep up his pretence of appearing Yaranénon. "You know him?"

The butcher nodded sharply. "I do. But don't you go asking me where to find him, because I know a fact or two about him. And I know that ever since his daughter ran away, he's the last person who'd want to be friendly with someone like you. Why you want to see him anyhow?"

And so came the choice. Sidaizon's hands ran down the plain fabric of the Yaranénon clothing from waist to thigh, feeling the clumsy lie beneath his touch. Behind him, fearful heat radiated from Nautalya's body as she tried to keep hidden in his shadow. The butcher had only to give her one hard look to notice the baby. But even then, there was nothing to show that the child was Authimer's granddaughter unless he said as much. It would be easy to create a new lie. If he were to claim status as a convert...

He sighed. It would be easier to simply tell the truth. The day's lies had thus far done him no favours. Lowering his head, he beckoned Nautalya forward.

"This is Authimer's grandchild," he said, his voice soft enough for only the butcher to hear as he placed a hand on the baby's swaddling. "She has been surrendered by her father now that her mother is dead. I am taking her to Authimer so that she may be given into the keeping of her grandparents."

Shocked into momentary silence, the butcher leaned over to examine the bundle strapped to Nautalya's back. He lifted the cloth that covered the baby's head, as if checking to be certain that there truly was a baby under all of the wrappings, and made a stifled, groaning sort of noise. "Sámandë!" he swore. "Who are you, to have this child?!"

"I am an acquaintance of the family," Sidaizon answered. This was true enough, and enough truth for the butcher. "And I have been introduced to Authimer. Because of this, I am charged with delivering the baby safely to his care." He held up his hands. "I promise you, sir, I have neither mean-spirited nor criminal intentions. I wish only to carry out this duty and then return home peacefully with my daughter."

"I will believe that when I see it!" said the butcher.

Sidaizon smiled in a way that he hoped looked friendly rather than forced. "Then lead me to Authimer. If you take me to him, you will indeed see for yourself that I mean no harm. I need only deliver the baby. Then I will leave. You may even wait to escort me back to the river, if you so wish. Does that not sound fair?"

The butcher turned away to look up at the sky while he chewed his bottom lip. "Wait here," he said after a moment. He stepped back into his shop to close the shutters and pull in his sign, and when he reappeared, he no longer wore his bloody apron or carried the knife. "Sure I'll regret this," he mumbled to Sidaizon through a sneer.

---

Chapter End Notes

Aritsincya: dear little daughter

Turillitsë: little princess

Devotees of the Valar

Read Devotees of the Valar

The butcher led the way through the neighbourhood's maze of side-streets and alleys, all the while muttering to himself that he would have done better to simply hand Sidaizon over to a band of local thugs and thus be easily rid of him. Sidaizon, preferring to draw as little attention to himself as possible, followed silently. He held Nautalya's hand, and she clung to him as if the city might swallow her if her grip became too relaxed.

The farther they went, the more Sidaizon grew convinced that the butcher was leading them on the most roundabout journey possible. They turned at nearly every intersection, twisting left and right, until he was certain they had walked in a large, haphazard spiral. If the butcher meant to confuse him and make it difficult for him to ever again find his way to Authimer's home, the plan was working well. Sidaizon was completely disoriented. With the sun almost directly overhead, lending little in the way of shadows, he had no way even to tell east from west.

When they finally emerged from the maze of alleys, Sidaizon saw that they had arrived at a wide square surrounded by tall houses on all sides. A great fig tree grew in the centre of the square, its branches just touching the walls of the houses. Benches and a table sat in its shade. For the first time since meeting the butcher, Nautalya grew brave enough to speak.

"Attu!" she whispered, tugging on Sidaizon's wrist. "Look how big the tree is!"

"It is big," he murmured in reply. "Far bigger than our own at home. Do you think ours will ever grow so tall and wide?"

"I hope so." She tilted her face to gaze up at the tree's impressive height. "You could probably see the whole city if you climbed to the top of that!"

"I'm sure you could see very far."

Timidly, she released her grip on his wrist just long enough to take a few steps toward the tree, but raced back to his side when the butcher spoke.

"Here," said the butcher. "This one." He held the door to one of the houses open and ushered Sidaizon inside with all the warmth of a prison guard.

Beyond the door, as Sidaizon expected, was a corridor that led to yet more doors and a stairway. With a grunt the butcher nodded at the stairs, and then, once they had climbed to the second floor, at the first door on the left side. Sidaizon knocked only after it was clear that the butcher was not about to do so himself. A tense moment dragged on, and then the door opened to reveal the dark-eyed and tired-looking man who had come to the Lavazat the previous day.

"Indor Authimer," Sidaizon said, respectfully lowering his head.

Authimer regarded him with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion in return. "I am he. And who are you, Faino?"

"You do not know him?!" the butcher interrupted.

"We met yesterday," Sidaizon said quickly, and he hoped it would be enough. The less the butcher knew of him and the Lavazat, the better. "You may recall."

Frowning, Authimer leaned out of the doorway to study him more closely. He clicked his teeth, and then the light of recognition flared in his blue-black eyes. "Oh!" he gasped. "You are the Valadávan Almatar!"

"Almatar!" roared the butcher. Sidaizon had no time to even cringe at the revelation before the butcher lunged toward him, madly swinging his arm. He was only able to dodge halfway. He ducked, but the butcher's fist glanced hard off the top of his head above his ear. Staggering, he fell against the wall, and Nautalya screamed. Her scream managed to momentarily distract the butcher. He paused with his hand held at the ready, but did not strike again. In that sliver of silence, disturbed by the noise, the baby strapped to Nautalya's back woke and began to cry.

"Stop!" said Authimer. Stepping out from the doorway, he held up his arm between Sidaizon and the butcher. "No violence in front of the children!"

"He lied!" the butcher spat. "He is a liar! First he tries to pretend he is one of us, then he says he is your friend! But he is really a wretched Almatar? I should kill him now! I'm sure he lied about the baby, as well!"

Sidaizon pulled himself to his feet, still leaning against the wall. He gave his head a shake to clear the dizziness caused by the butcher's strike. "No. That, I swear by Manwë's own grace, is no lie. Everything I told you about the baby is true."

"What is this about the baby?" asked Authimer. Curiosity showed plainly in his face as he looked to Nautalya and the source of the baby's cries.

Other doors in the corridor had started to open, alerted by the noise, and the spying eyes and noses of the building's other inhabitants peeked out from their homes to watch the scene unfold. Sidaizon leaned closer to Authimer and spoke in low tones. "This is something I would discuss with you privately," he said. "Perhaps we may go inside, where I may speak more freely?"

After an uncertain pause, Authimer nodded. "Very well. Come in."

"You think this safe?" asked the butcher. "He is-"

"I know who he is," answered Authimer. "And he has so far given me no reason to doubt his intentions. It is also far more dangerous for him to come here than for me to admit him into my home, which makes me believe his mission must be important."

"Thank you," said Sidaizon, bowing his head as Authimer held the door open. He pulled Nautalya inside before looking back warily to the butcher, who remained in the corridor. Authimer shut the door. "He's not..." Sidaizon began.

Authimer shook his head. "He's a devotee of Námo. He won't come in here."

"Námo! I thought they cut their hair and wore grey."

"No," said Authimer. "Only acolytes of Námo shear their hair and wear grey robes. And they are a strange lot. I would never allow one of them in my corridor, let alone my home." He motioned for Sidaizon to sit on a bench near the door and remove his sandals. "The devotees, though, are not as fanatic. You can tell them only by the tokens they wear. That man wore an obsidian pendant."

Sidaizon tucked his sandals beneath the bench and bent lower to help Nautalya with hers. "Obsidian denotes reverence for Námo?"

"Or Aulë," Authimer answered with a shrug. "But it was set in iron. A setting of silver or gold would make me think of Aulë first, but obsidian set in iron is Námo for certain. It is your bad luck, Almatar, that a devotee of Námo led you here. That is about the worst choice of guide you could have made. How did you find him?"

"He found me," said Sidaizon. "I tried to ask a safe-looking boy for directions to find you, and had the misfortune of asking that man's son."

"Ah. Well, if the need ever arises in the future, look for a guide wearing the mark of an eye or a bird, or a white scarf. They are devotees of Manwë and may be more sympathetic to you."

"An eye or a bird," Sidaizon repeated. "I shall remember that. Thank you." Again, he glanced to the door, as if it could somehow tell him whether or not the butcher still waited on the other side. It gave no sign. Nor did it give him any clue as to why a devotee of Námo would refuse to enter Authimer's home. Or why one might be refused entry. He took a breath, but held it, keeping back the question he wanted to ask. No good would come from potential rudeness and offending his host.

"You may ask me," Authimer said quietly, and Sidaizon tensed at the words. Had he been so obvious? Authimer continued, "I can see that you're wondering. You want to know which Vala I follow. You were about to ask, weren't you?"

Sidaizon sighed, letting his shoulders relax. "Oh. No. I mean, yes, but, the question I had before was... unimportant. I will ask later. Now that you mention it, I would like to know. That."

"Guess," said Authimer.

"Guess?"

"Which Vala I follow." He held out his arms to put himself fully on display, meeting Sidaizon's eyes with a gaze that was almost challenging.

He wore nothing on his head, neither scarf nor band, and had no decorations in his hair. If some mysterious code had been followed in the styling of his plaits, which looked wholly average and unremarkable, Sidaizon could not see it. His ears held only small gold studs. No pendants or tokens fell down from his neck. He wore a knee-length red tunic, bound at the waist with a pale yellow sash, and matching pale yellow trousers. The sash had been embroidered with a narrow band of white triangles. He looked for all the world like any Yaranénon man.

Sidaizon shook his head. "I see nothing."

"I expected as much," Authimer answered with a half-grin. "The tension these days is not only between Yaranénor and Valadávar, Almatar. Now Yaranénor looking for a fight will start petty quarrels over who visits which temple most often. It's no longer enough that we share the same core beliefs and celebrate the same festivals and all pray to all Valar at one time or another. And it's no longer wise to be too obvious in one's preferences. At one time, I felt free to walk about the city with my arms bared, but now..."

Taking each of his cuffs in the opposite hand, he pushed back the wide sleeves of his tunic until they sat bunched at his shoulders. Then he spread his arms again, turning his palms to the wall behind him. At first, the indigo lines on his skin appeared to be an abstract design. But as Sidaizon stepped closer and focused on what he saw, the distinct shapes of feathers began to materialise. Hundreds of feathers, each overlapping and flowing into the next, ran like wings down the backs of Authimer's arms.

The realisation of what this meant came to Sidaizon with a sudden rush of wonder. "Manwe," he murmured. "You follow Manwe."

"I do." Authimer shook his arms so that his sleeves fell down to hide his tattoos. "And I suppose you can guess why, at this time, it may be wise to hide that fact. Manwë has fallen out of favour of late, if I may say so."

"But surely no-one would challenge you?" asked Sidaizon. "The Yaranénon people fight on your behalf. It was your daughter who-"

"It was my daughter who was a convert," Authimer interrupted. "And some would use the situation surrounding her death as an opportunity to preach hate against converts, and against devotees of Manwë in general. Some think we are too close to the Valadávar and are all in danger of converting at any moment. Of course, some will take any excuse for a fight..." He puffed out a loud breath of air, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't come all this way to hear me complain. My manners must have abandoned me. Please, come this way."

He pushed aside a curtain that separated the small shoe room from the rest of the house. What lay on the other side was exactly the opposite of what Sidaizon had been expecting. While the shoe room had been bare save for a few pairs of sandals and a bench for sitting, the living quarters of the house had been excessively decorated with carpets, cushions, ornaments, and hangings of every possible colour. Three mismatched carpets, two large and one small, filled all of the available floor space. On the carpets sat piles of cushions, some decorated with fringes, tassels, embroidery, or beading. Every wall had been painted a different colour and then covered in woven pieces, framed drawings, patterned tiles, wrought metal talismans, and garlands of fabric flowers. In one corner stood a life-sized, painted wooden statue of a woman in a seductive dance pose, holding what appeared to be a horned infant with an elongated, deer-like snout. The statue had been draped in more fabric flower garlands. An empty copper bowl sat at its feet.

For the first time since entering the building, Nautalya found her voice. "Oohhhh..." she sighed.

"I hope you will forgive the clutter," said Authimer. "I have fallen behind in my organisation."

Shelves and tables filled all sides of the room, each one overflowing with things: dishes, scarves, jewellery, bottles, mirrors, slippers, incense, and more. Nautalya drifted toward a stack of bright folds of fabric to feel the edges with careful fingers.

"It's very... colourful," said Sidaizon.

Authimer laughed. "And you are very tactful. But I know what it looks like, and it looks like a mess. Things everywhere. I hope you believe me that my home is not normally in such disarray. I have a backlog of merchandise and nowhere else to store it."

So Authimer was a merchant. The odd collection of decorative items and furnishings suddenly made much more sense. "Where is your shop?"

"Not far. Next street over. It's my father's shop, to tell the truth; I work for him. But if you think my room here is bad, you would hate to see his. He and my mother live behind the shop and they can hardly move for all the carpets and tables. Unfortunately, the marketplace is empty these days. Hardly anyone wants to leave the house and even fewer think about buying carpets when death is on their minds. But you must have seen how empty the streets are."

"I did," Sidaizon answered, nodding.

"Normally we have a very busy neighbourhood, but now-" Authimer's words stopped short and he frowned to himself. "By the Sun's Light, I have no manners, talking like this. Please, sit down, sit down. Any cushion. Would you like a cup of tea, or...?"

"Tea would be very nice, thank you."

"And your little girl?"

Nautalya's arm stopped mid-gesture, hovering above the bowl of buttons she was about to touch. She turned to look at Authimer with an expression of horror at having been noticed in her round eyes. Authimer smiled at her, and she responded by scurrying back to Sidaizon to hide behind his legs.

"I think perhaps just a cup of water for her," Sidaizon said.

The baby had started to fuss again with little squawks. As Authimer disappeared around a corner to fetch tea and water, Sidaizon untied the length of fabric that wrapped around Nautalya's back. He and Nautalya both seated themselves among the numerous cushions decorating Authimer's floor. Nautalya held the baby in her lap, trying to soothe her by letting her suck on the tip of a finger.

"Attu, I think she's hungry again."

"She probably is. It's been a while since we fed her. When Indor Authimer returns-"

Authimer returned before Sidaizon could even finish his sentence. "My wife will bring the tea. She is rolling out twelve-layer bread for supper, and it will be done shortly. You must stay and try some, Almatar."

"I shall; thank you," said Sidaizon. Whatever this twelve-layer bread was, he had never heard of it, but staying in Authimer's good graces was more important than worrying over mysterious foods. He could hardly afford to turn down hospitality.

"Wonderful!" Authimer smiled, looking at least halfway sincere as he sat on the floor across from Nautalya. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees to have a better look at the baby. "And who is this little one? Your youngest?"

"She is why we have come here today," Sidaizon replied. "This is your daughter's child."

"My..." Authimer whispered, inhaling the word.

"Your granddaughter."

The baby squawked and grunted, and Nautalya cooed to her. Sidaizon fell silent. Authimer did not even breathe; he had pursed his lips tightly and his shoulders rose with tension. He glanced from the baby to Sidaizon with the look of a man trying not to hope for something beyond his grasp. "But... why..."

"I have been charged with finding a home for her," said Sidaizon. "Her father cannot care for her alone. He suggested that I ask you first."

"He suggested?"

Sidaizon nodded. "Yes. Your daughter's Valadávan husband suggested that his child be raised by Yaranénon grandparents. He is just as eager as any other to end this feuding and have peace."

Long seconds crawled by as Authimer said nothing. The air felt thick with uncertainty and, Sidaizon sensed, a return of the deep sorrow Authimer had carried with him in the Lavazat courtyard. His face had crumpled and he looked suddenly as weary as the earth itself. Here was the man who lost his daughter. The showy cheer of hospitality had vanished.

"Nellúlë said he was a good man."

"Nellúlë?" Sidaizon asked. "That was your daughter's name?"

"Was," said Authimer. "Before. She changed it, of course... Aistilië. When she married him." He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, wiping away any hints of tears. "Well. That's in the past. Pointless to worry about what can't be changed. Look to the future, I say... So." His gaze flickered down to the baby on the floor and he made a jerky, hesitant move with his hands. "May I... ah..."

"Of course. She is yours now, if you wish to keep her."

Carefully, like lifting the most delicate thing in the world, Authimer pulled the baby close to his chest. Both arms held her securely. He dipped his face to kiss the top of her head, closing his eyes as he did. And then, he wept. Silently, the tears began to flow down his cheeks, and his shoulders shook without making a sound. Sidaizon had to look away. It felt too much like an intrusion to witness Authimer's private grief and joy.

"I must..." Authimer gasped between sobs, "tell my wife...

"Stay seated," said Sidaizon. "Nautalya will. Nautalya, go ask the lady in the kitchen to come out here, please."

A look of pure terror crossed Nautalya's face at the prospect of having to speak to a stranger, but still she reluctantly rose to her feet and walked on tip-toe around the corner wall to the kitchen. The stranger, at least, was nothing more frightening than a lady making tea. Sidaizon could hear the woman's voice floating back across the room; "Oh! Who might you be, little dear?" Whatever Nautalya answered was too quiet to carry. "Of course," the woman replied. "Just let me take the tea off the fire first."

A moment later, Nautalya appeared from around the corner with a hand on her shoulder and Authimer's wife at her side. Sidaizon would not have recognised the woman if not for the fact that they were in Authimer's home; she looked nothing like the grieving mother from the Lavazat courtyard. The dirty pink shawl and dust-smudged face had disappeared, and instead he found himself looking at a well groomed lady dressed in clothes of good quality. Her bright blue gown showed not so much as a speck of kitchen dirt, and the green shawl that draped from her head had been neatly pressed. Strangely, a tiny silver ornament set with a blue stone appeared to be glued to the middle of her forehead.

She saw Sidaizon and stiffened, taking a moment to recompose herself before continuing forward. "Authimer?" she asked. "What is-" It was not until she stood almost directly over him that she was able to see the child in his arms. Then, just as he had done, she sucked in a quick, shocked breath and froze in place.

"Nellúlë's daughter," was all that Authimer could manage.

The woman sat down too quickly, almost falling to her knees. "And she..."

"She is yours now," Sidaizon confirmed.

---

Chapter End Notes

Faino: 'free man', used here as an honorific, similar to 'sir'.

Saminda, Yaranénon

Read Saminda, Yaranénon

The woman, whom Authimer eventually remembered to introduce as Idizimë, insisted on serving tea while carrying the baby in one arm. While Sidaizon and Authimer drank their tea and Nautalya her water, Idizimë ordered a neighbour child to bring up a jar of fresh milk from the goat in the courtyard. She fed the baby with Authimer hovering at her side, unable to relax.

"Is she named yet?" she asked. "Did her mother give her a name?"

Nautalya, having grown somewhat braver after being given a cinnamon biscuit, shuffled forward on her knees to sit closer to Idizimë. "Her name is Sámandë," she proudly announced.

Sidaizon's stomach reflexively knotted at Nautalya's suggestion. Authimer looked up with a sharp glance, and Idizimë made a little hiss between her teeth. "Oh no," she said. "No, that's not a good name for a baby. Where did you hear that word, dear girl?"

"I..." Nautalya began. Her voice wavered; her temporary bravery had fled. "That's what the butcher called her," she continued at a whisper. "I... I thought it sounded pretty."

"It does sound pretty," Idizimë agreed, and she rested a kind hand on Nautalya's arm. "But it's not a very nice word. What if we call her something that sounds just as pretty but means something better?"

Looking mortified, Nautalya gave a tiny nod.

Idizimë smiled. "Here, put your hand on her head. Feel how soft her hair is. Doesn't it feel just like silk?"

"Yes," Nautalya whispered. She touched the baby's head with nothing more than the tip of one nervous finger.

"So do you think we should call her Saminda? In honour of her silky hair? Is that a pretty name?"

"I... guess so... yes..."

"Then Saminda she will be," Idizimë announced.

"Saminda," repeated Authimer. "I will do a horoscope for her."

As soon as Authimer stood to find whatever it was he needed to make a horoscope, Nautalya flew back to Sidaizon and settled into his lap with her face pressed against his arm. He held her close, and kissed the top of her head.

"What does sámandë mean?" she asked, quietly enough that Idizimë could not hear.

Again, Sidaizon's stomach lurched at the sound of the word on Nautalya's lips. "I will tell you later," he murmured in reply. With any luck, she would forget about it, and spare him the misery of having to explain so foul a term.

She grunted at having been dismissed, but did not complain further. Instead, she quietly watched from the safety of Sidaizon's embrace as Authimer gathered up a handful of papers and some sort of wooden disc. He sat down once again on the floor beside his wife with everything spread out in front of him. The papers looked like no more than long columns of numbers, but the wooden disc was clearly something more specialised. It comprised seven concentric circles, each rotating on its own, and each marked with letters and strange symbols. Authimer mumbled to himself and made clicking noises with his tongue as he aligned each circle according to some arcane knowledge. "Ssssssaminda..." he breathed. Sidaizon caught only a few other words, 'Aistilië' being one and 'five' another.

He consulted his number charts, adjusted a circle, frowned, checked another chart, and adjusted another circle. When he was finally satisfied, he smiled and clapped his hands together. "Very good!" he said. "Saminda is a good name for her. It should bring good fortune. You see?" He tilted the disc for Sidaizon to see, though the markings looked like nothing more than bird tracks through mud and appeared to make as much sense.

"Here," said Authimer, pointing to one section, "it's clear that sorrow surrounds her birth, and strife. But if you follow the line, things improve very quickly right here."

Sidaizon followed the movement of Authimer's finger, but still saw nothing. He nodded politely. "Yes, that's interesting."

"The sorrow is very brief, replaced by happiness. I see no more violence in her future. Not much money either, but nor do I see terrible poverty. Her alignment is with Varda. Very auspicious. She will be as wise as she is beautiful, and greatly respected."

Fortune-telling, like a cinnamon biscuit, was something irresistible enough to pull Nautalya out of her shyness. "You can tell all that?" she asked. "You can tell the future?"

"To some extent, yes," Authimer answered. "Shall I do a horoscope for you?"

"Yes!" Without leaving Sidaizon's lap, she turned around to face him. And then remembered to correct herself; "I mean, yes please."

"It should not take long. Your name is Nautalya... and your father is Sidaizon... and your mother's name?"

"Eäzinya," said Sidaizon.

"Eäzinya. Thank you. And when were you born, Nautalya? Day? How old are you?"

"Fourth of Susúlimë," Nautalya answered. "I'm nineteen."

"Place of birth?"

"Valmar," said Sidaizon, "We live near the Lavazat you visited, if that makes a difference."

"It does," Authimer said, nodding. "Good to be as accurate as possible." Just as he had done with Saminda's horoscope, he flicked through the papers and adjusted the moving circles accordingly. His eyebrows rose as he read the result. "Well, little Nautalya. You are a singularly lucky girl. Aligned exactly between Aulë and Varda."

Nautalya looked pleased with herself even without any further explanation. "What does that mean?"

"Usually, that you will marry a great man, a rich man, and rise to a position of prominence."

"Like a prince?!" asked Nautalya.

"Not a prince, Alya," Sidaizon interrupted. "I'm sure he meant someone more like a landowner or wealthy merchant."

Authimer shrugged, running his fingers over the disc. "Difficult to say. But greater than a mere merchant, I would think. A man of high standing: a noble, perhaps. If not, then a very influential citizen."

"I hope he is a prince!" Nautalya said. Hugging herself, she dropped her head back as far as it would hang to look at Sidaizon upside-down. "Can I marry a prince, Attu?"

"I thought you didn't want to marry."

"I would if I could marry a prince. Can I?"

"If one asks you."

Mercifully, Authimer said nothing more on the subject. He had given Nautalya enough unreasonable ideas already. Instead, he asked, "And you, Almatar? Would you like to see your destiny?"

Sidaizon laughed. "I'm afraid I lack half the information you need, knowing neither my birthdate nor my father's name." This admission earned shocked expressions from both Authimer and Idizimë. He quickly appended the statement. "By which I mean that my mother surely knows the name of her husband, but will not tell me."

"I am sorry to hear that," said Idizimë. "He died before you were born?"

"He left before I was born. He was a Noldo who followed his people into the east. My mother refuses to speak of him. As for my day of birth," he continued to change the subject, "that occurred during the dark years before the light of the Sun, when time was lost through having no accurate way to measure the passing of days. The best my mother can guess is two or three weeks after Marillendë."

And now he had said too much. Authimer, despite his difference, was far too easy to talk to. In the space of a moment, Sidaizon had managed not only to divulge his own dubious history, but also cast aspersions on Valadávan virtue as a whole if the accidental son of an unaware and unfaithful Noldo could be appointed a guardian of his faith's morality. Trying not to scowl at himself, he shifted his focus to the baby. She was an easy target of feigned interest.

"You are a fascinating man, Almatar Sidaizon," Authimer said, slowly shaking his head.

They did not speak any further about either horoscopes or life stories. The conversation fell into the safer topics of weather and the prices at food markets while Nautalya helped Idizimë fix supper of the twelve-layer bread Authimer had mentioned, which turned out to be a pastry stuffed with strongly spiced vegetables and fresh cheese. Then, after supper, Authimer insisted on giving them gifts, in the name of tradition. The arrival of a new baby always warranted a celebration where guests who came to see the child were given food and gifts. The food had been served, and so now it was time for him to search through the shelves of accumulated items for a few appropriate things that Sidaizon and Nautalya could take home.

For Nautalya, he settled on a string of wooden beads painted to look like pearls. She murmured her thank-you while holding the beads in tightly clutched hands; she had always adored the pearls that Amárië used to adorn the clothing of rich folk. Her own string of pearls, even if fake, would be much loved. It was more difficult, though, to find anything for Sidaizon among the various Yaranénon decorations. He had no interest in clay talismans impressed with the image of Oromë, nor in brightly coloured hair ornaments.

"The beads for Nautalya are more than enough," he insisted, but Authimer waved off his concern with one hand while opening a large box with the other.

"No," said Authimer. "I will have something for you. Do you Valadávar burn incense?"

"Occasionally, but it's not-"

"Wait. No. I have a better idea." He knelt on the floor and pulled a wooden crate from under a pile of knotwork cushion covers. "This will be good; very practical. Something you can use."

"You are going to a lot of trouble..." said Sidaizon.

"Because I want to. Now here. You will like this." Standing, Authimer held out a small box made of delicate orange paper.

The box in Sidaizon's hand was heavier than he expected. "What is it?"

"Olive oil soap. A hard bar, perfumed with sandalwood."

The soap in the box felt suddenly twice as heavy as Sidaizon tried to push it gently back into the pile of similar boxes in the crook of Authimer's arm. He had held such a thing exactly once before in his life. It had been a wedding gift, and Eäzinya's father had told him what it was worth. "Authimer, you are dangerously generous. I can't accept this."

"Of course you can." Authimer stepped back, refusing to allow the gift to be returned.

"No, I can't. I know how much this costs."

"Yes, and so do I," Authimer said with a wry grin. "I bought a whole case of the stuff years ago and have sold hardly any since. It turns out most of the visitors to my shop are not so senselessly wealthy as to want to buy a piece of soap that's the same price as a small carpet. It nearly ruined me. It's been sitting in its crate in here ever since, and I want to be rid of it. Please, you are doing me a favour by taking it. In fact," he added before Sidaizon could protest, "take another, for your wife. Here; this one is jasmine-scented." He thrust another box, this one white, into Sidaizon's hands.

"I absolutely-"

Authimer interrupted before Sidaizon had even finished the second word. "Almatar Sidaizon, when a Yaranénon child is born, I told you that the parents give gifts to visiting well-wishers. The gifts are an expression of joy shared with other families so that all may celebrate the new arrival. I promise you that Saminda is worth much more to me than two slices of hard soap and a necklace of wooden beads. Please. Take what I give you."

Suitably humbled, Sidaizon slipped the two soap boxes into the cloth pack that held his white clothing. "I am taking them," he said. "And I thank you with all my heart for your extravagance. I should probably leave right now before you change your mind and demand them back."

Authimer laughed. "I will see you to the door."

~

The devotee of Námo had gone. He did not lurk in the corridor as Sidaizon had worried, nor was he waiting outside the building or down either of the alleys leading away from the fig tree at the centre of the square. Sidaizon said a silent prayer inside his head to thank Authimer for keeping him so long. Hours had passed since his and Nautalya's arrival. The sun hung low in front of him, burning a brilliant orange crown around the rooftops.

Now, at least, he could easily tell east from west, even if he had lost track of exactly where in the city they were; the most he could say for certain was 'on the wrong side of the river'. The river divided the city almost equally into north and south halves, and they were on the north side. If they kept walking south, they would eventually come to the river and he could find the way home from there. All he needed do was keep the sun on his right side until then.

Nautalya played with her wooden pearls as they walked. She hung them from her neck, then looped them around her wrist, ran her fingers over the smooth paint, and held them close to her eye to inspect them for any minute imperfections. The more she concentrated on the beads, the slower her pace fell. Sidaizon found himself tugging on her arm every few moments to keep her from shuffling along at the speed of a beetle.

"Alya, come on, hurry up. We need to walk faster, or it will be dark long before we're home. If we're not across the river by sunset, I won't be able to find our way."

"Mm-hmm," she answered. She spoke to the pearls, and he doubted that she had even listened to what he said.

"Put the pearls away, Nautalya, or I will have to keep them for you until we come home."

That, she heard. She quickly slipped the necklace over her head and tucked it beneath her dress. "I'll be good!"

Sidaizon held out his hand, which she took. "Can you keep up, or should I leave you behind?"

"I can keep up!"

"Good. We have to walk faster than we did on the way there. Tell me if your legs grow tired. I will be able to carry you a little ways."

Her free hand continued to wander up to touch the beads at her neck as they walked, but the hand in Sidaizon's stayed where it was and she did not slow. For a while she skipped and hopped, but quickly lost the interest and the energy necessary for keeping up with Sidaizon's speed. She fell back into a walk.

"Attu... what does sámandë mean?"

Sidaizon clenched his teeth to hold in a curse. So she had remembered. "It's..." he began, and sighed. "Sámandë is the Fire of Fate."

"Oh," said Nautalya. She sounded disappointed. "But Idizimë said it was a bad word. That's not too bad."

"The meaning in itself isn't too bad, no," Sidaizon agreed. "The bad part is that the fire was, at one time, used to kill people. Criminals," he added as Nautalya's eyes grew wide. "Criminals who were convicted of the worst crimes were sometimes burned to death. The Sámandë was used because it was a holy fire kept burning eternally by the acolytes of Námo. They said it had magical properties. If one who died in its flames could accept that death calmly, without fighting against the fire or crying out in pain, his spirit was deemed to be repentant and would not suffer in Mandos."

Nautalya had come to a complete stop in the middle of the road, still holding his hand. Her lips had lost their colour. "They... burn... people?" she asked, almost too softly to hear.

"No," said Sidaizon. "Not any more. The King stopped that horrific practice years ago. When I was Márathul's age. No-one is burned alive now. Criminals are not killed very often any more, because the King prefers to keep them alive and make them do hard work instead. But if they are killed, it is done in a way that is quick and painless."

"How?"

"I don't know," he lied. "I've never seen it done." Learning about death by fire was more than enough for one day. There was no need to frighten Nautalya further with thoughts of suffocation, beheading, or, possibly worst of all, the calm touch of Námo's finger to a forehead that was enough to steal a man's life in the blink of an eye. Sidaizon had witnessed such an execution only once, and had vowed never to be part of one again. Námo's dispassionate and perfunctory death-dealing to his terrified victim had been the theme of nightmares for years afterward. Even now, the mere thought of it was enough to send a cold shudder down his back.

He tugged at Nautalya's hand. "Let's go. No time to waste."

Slowly, she shuffled her feet forward and began moving again, saying nothing. No colour had returned to her lips. As she walked, she kept her eyes on the ground and her free hand worrying her pearls.

"Alya?"

"Hm?"

"Are you still thinking about the fire?"

She gave a tiny nod.

"Do you want me to tell you a story so we can think about something else?"

She nodded again, a little more firmly.

"Then I will tell you about the Tetillë. She is a Maia of Izmo, and she lives in his great garden in a clearing full of poppy flowers. Very few people know her true name; they simply call her the Tetillë. But if you ever learn her name, you can call on her whenever you want, and she will grant a wish for you."

Nautalya looked marginally perkier. "Any wish?"

"Any wish. She has the power to do anything. Even things the Valar themselves cannot do. She can go backward or forward in time, or return someone who has been killed to life. The only problem is, she can only use her power when someone else asks for it. She can never simply do what she wants. Not a single thing for herself."

"Can she make people rich?"

"Easily," said Sidaizon. "She could make you a queen by clapping her hands. But here is the tricky part. The Tetillë is fickle and spiteful. She resents having to use her powers only to serve others. So she will grant anything you desire, but she will do so in a way you do not expect, and in a way that often has disastrous consequences. She will twist your wish and try to harm you."

"But how?" asked Nautalya.

"Well, give me a wish, and I will tell you what she might do."

"I'd wish to be a queen."

"Then she might make you a queen of ants or termites," Sidaizon said. "You didn't specify you wanted to be a queen of the Eldar, so she can make you any kind of queen she wants."

Nautalya made a face. "Ech. No. I just want lots of money, then."

"She might let you find a whole basket full of gold, only for you to be arrested the next day because the gold had been stolen."

"What if I ask to marry a prince? An Eldarin prince," she specified.

"He might be mean and stupid and ugly."

"An Eldarin prince who is not mean and not stupid and not ugly, and has lots of money, and we live happily ever after in a big palace!"

"And suddenly, you find yourself on the other side of the world, married to one of those lost Telezi who did not come across the ocean, and you never see your Minyarin family again."

"This is silly," Nautalya grunted. "Why bother wishing for things if they all turn out bad?"

"That's exactly it," Sidaizon told her, nodding. "The Tetillë shows us exactly how silly it is to wish for things we don't have and to try to change our lives when we don't deserve it. Anyone who makes a wish to her always ends up wishing even more for things to be back the way they were. The only safe thing to wish for when the Tetillë asks you is that she go away and never trouble you again."

Nautalya looked unconvinced; her face was tense with concentration as she undoubtedly tried to compose a wish that left no room for trickery on the part of the Tetillë. She wrinkled her nose, frowned, and said, "I don't think I'd want to risk asking for anything."

"Then you're a very smart girl."

"Can you carry me now? My feet are sore from walking so hard."

"As soon as we're across the river, I will carry you," said Sidaizon. He pointed ahead. "Look, there it is. Do you see the bridge?"

He did his best to keep his voice light and happy as he and Nautalya crossed the narrow wooden bridge ahead of them, and as he helped her pull her white clothes back on over her Yaranénon disguise, but there was little he could do to cheer himself, nor could he disregard the sinking dismay in his gut. They were much farther west than he had imagined, and already the sun had shrunk to nothing more than a sliver of fire on the horizon. The Aldayanta was nowhere in sight down the glittering red line of the river. Gazing down the banks to the east, the only bridge he recognised was one he knew to be in the vicinity of Eäzinya's father's house, more than a two-hour walk from home.

With a groan, he lifted Nautalya up to sit on his shoulders. "Now we need to hurry. Your mother will be worried about us."

---

Chapter End Notes

Susúlimë: March

Marillendë: Summer harvest festival to celebrate the gathering of fruit

Izmo: Irmo

Telezi: Teleri

The All-Seeing Eye

Read The All-Seeing Eye

The front door was bolted when he arrived home, and so, with a curse at having to walk even that little way farther, Sidaizon made his way around through the narrow alley into the shared courtyard and then to the back door.  The first thing he saw as he leaned against the open doorway was Eäzinya on her hands and knees on the floor, stubbornly scrubbing the tiles in the light of a lantern.  Both Tarmanaz and Márathul were still awake and sitting on their beds, holding a subdued argument.  None of them noticed him until he spoke.  "A little late for washing the floor?"

"Oh!" Eäzinya gasped.  She dropped the rag and leapt to her feet, rushing forward to greet him.  "Alla, Sido, I've been worried about you for-"  Her welcome ended abruptly as she glanced behind him.  "Where's Nautalya?"

"I left her in the capable hands of your mother.  She was too tired to walk all the way, but we luckily were passing near your parents' house.  Márathul or Tarmanaz can go collect her tomorrow.  Why are you washing the floor in the middle of the night?"

Eäzinya looked almost embarrassed to answer.  "Because... oh, it's stupid, but you were so late and I was so worried that I convinced myself you'd never come home as long as I waited.  People never arrive when they're meant to.  They always arrive when you're in the middle of something that can't be interrupted.  So I thought that the minute I started washing the floor, you'd come home and track dirt all over it.  And..."  She gestured to the shining, wet tiles.  "Here you are, just in time."

"I won't track dirt on the tiles," said Sidaizon.  Even in the half-dark of the doorframe, he could see that his sandals and feet were caked with dust.  The legs of his trousers up to the knee were hardly any cleaner.  "I'll wash off out here.  Bring a bucket."

Eäzinya fetched a bucket of water and a stool, both of which she placed in the ray of weak light spilling out through the door.  "Sit," she said, and pointed to the stool.  Sidaizon sat.  "Foot."

He lifted one foot for her, and hissed at the sting of air as she unfastened the buckle of his sandal and pulled it off.  The straps had cut into the skin at his heel and near his toes, leaving raw, red marks and a crust of dried blood. 

"Ai, husband, just look what you've done to yourself!"  Groaning her disapproval, she dunked his foot in the bucket of fresh well-water, which was both freezing cold and wonderfully soothing. He let his chin drop down to touch his chest with a tired sigh.

Márathul, meanwhile, had come to stand in the doorway and watch as Eäzinya washed, and looked nearly as anxious as she did.  "What took you so long?" he asked.

"We stayed later than intended with Saminda's Yaranénon grandparents.  That's her name, by the way; they called her Saminda.  Then, it took longer than expected to walk all the way home.  But even so, I should have been here an hour ago.  I was delayed by some unexpected bureaucracy.  The King's Hands were busy enforcing a new curfew, and decided to go about it by rounding up everyone on the street and asking each person, one by one, what his business was to be out so late at night.  Unsurprisingly, nearly everyone was simply trying to go home."

Eäzinya stopped what she was doing to stare at him with fear-filled eyes.  "Were you hurt at all?"

"No," Sidaizon answered, and he shook his head.  "But there had to be at least forty of them, grabbing anyone they found out in the open and dragging us all into a wide square.  They were rough with those they took alone, but I was lucky enough to be herded along with a few others.  One man near me resisted, though, and they struck him in the head with a baton.  Split his scalp open.  They left him moaning on the ground while they dealt with everyone else."

"Horrible thugs..." muttered Eäzinya.

"Yes, and no.  They do their job effectively.  However, I would question whether or not their job was necessary in this case.  They almost caused a riot by holding everyone for so long when they could have simply marched through the streets yelling that a curfew was in effect and no-one could be out.  We were all made to stand there until they were satisfied that all the wanderers had been rounded up, and only then did they start asking their questions about who we were and where we were going.  Most people they hassled, and some they treated roughly.  But when it came to my turn, they let me go with hardly a word."

"Why?" Márathul asked.

"Because he's a special Almatar and everyone always adores him," Tarmanaz replied from over Márathul's shoulder.  "Isn't that right?"

Sidaizon could not see his son's face in the silhouette from the doorframe, but he could tell by the voice that Tarmanaz was scowling.  The outline of his hair looked better, though.  Eäzinya must have evened out the choppiness.  "No, Tarmanaz," he answered, "in fact you are wrong.  I still have your plait attached to my head, and they had no way of knowing me.  Instead, much to my surprise, they offered me a position."

"A position as in... join them?!" asked Márathul.

"Yes, as in join them," said Sidaizon.  He opened his hand to reveal a small white token etched with the symbol of two golden hands.  "While everyone else in the square was being interrogated and beaten with truncheons, one of the men in charge looked at me and asked if I was in need of employment.  When I answered 'no', he told me to reconsider, implying that whatever meaningless task it is I do now could in no way compare to the honour of serving in the King's personal law enforcement, and he gave me this token.  I thanked him and went on my way.  Would have said he was five hundred years too late, but I was still in truncheon range."  He smiled at Eäzinya.  "Unless you think I would make a better Hand than Almatar, that is.  I can always take this token to their office tomorrow."

"No," Eäzinya said quickly.  "You would make an awful Hand, and I don't even want to think about you out there terrorising people with them.  Why would they even ask you that?"

"Because, apparently, I have all the qualities they look for in new recruits."

Tarmanaz gave a contemptuous snort.  "Which are?"

"Being tall and vaguely Noldorin-looking, as far as I've ever been able to tell.  They accept applicants on looks alone.  The reasoning is that they can train a man to effectively use weapons and follow orders, but they can't teach one how to be tall and imposing in that uniform."

"You shouldn't joke about that," said Eäzinya.  She gave his leg one last swipe with the rag before dumping the bucket to empty it of its dirty water.  "There.  You're all clean.  Come inside now, but careful you don't slip on the tiles."

"Thank you."  Standing, he kissed her cheek.  He kicked his filthy sandals against the outside wall to wait until morning, and carefully made his way indoors.  The smooth tile floor felt refreshingly cool against the bottoms of his feet.  "Now that I'm clean enough to walk to the bath, I need to wash the rest of me.   And I think I'll go to the public bath house tomorrow afternoon for a good soak in the hot water.  Márathul, you want to come along?"

Márathul nodded.  "Yes, please."

"Tarmanaz?"

If Tarmanaz muttered any words in his growling reply, they were too quiet to distinguish.

"I'll take that as a 'no'.  As you wish, then.  Márathul and I can go on our own.  Good night, boys."

"Good night, Attu," said Márathul.  Again, Tarmanaz voiced nothing more than a wordless grunt.

Sidaizon pushed aside the corridor curtain and headed for the bath, with Eäzinya trailing close behind.  She followed him right into the room and latched the door after them.  "What are you-" he began, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.

"You look like you could fall over from exhaustion at any minute.  Sit over by the pump; I'll wash your hair for you."

There was no way he could refuse such an offer.  Stripping off his dusty clothes, he handed them back to Eäzinya to hang on the pegs along the wall.  "Look in the pack," he said.  "There should be two little paper boxes.  Open the orange one."  He took his seat by the pump as he spoke, settling down onto the cold floor still wet from the rest of the family's nightly use.  The tiles were less soothing to his knees than they had been to his feet.

"There's not enough light in here to tell the colour," Eäzinya said, "but this one looks..."  She folded back the lid of the box, and gasped.  "Hard soap?!  Sido, how much did you spend on-"

"Nothing," he assured her.  "It was a gift from the Yaranénon family.  They have a tradition of giving gifts when a child is born."

"It's a very rich gift!"

"I know.  He gave me two.  The one in the white box is for you: jasmine-scented."

"But... "  She sat next to him on the floor, holding the soap box up to her nose to inhale its rich perfume.  "It smells like something a prince would use!  I'm almost afraid to try it."

"We can save it for later if you wish.  For special occasions."

She shook her head as she took the soap from its box.  "No.  I want to use it right now.  We can use it once and save the rest for later, but let's try it tonight.  Lean over."

Following the gentle urging of her touch on his shoulder, Sidaizon shifted forward onto his hands and knees so that his hair hung down beneath the waterspout.  The pump gurgled and sputtered as Eäzinya worked the handle, and water as cold as the stone of the mountain bubbled up to splash over his neck.  Eäzinya kept it flowing until he was thoroughly soaked.

"You know what I wish..." he gasped as she lathered his hair with a handful of the common liquid soap from a jar, "is that we could have warm water for bathing."

"Did your journey today give you high ambitions?" she laughed in reply.  "You come home with luxury soap and now you want hot water to go with it?"

"Not joking.  I've thought about it.  I think we could afford it."

Eäzinya loosed another dousing of water over his head and neck to chase away the lather from his hair.  Her hands wrung out the dripping ends with practised ease.  "Sit up."

"Listen to this," he said as he sat.  He spoke over his shoulder to Eäzinya, who had moved behind him to wash his back with the hard soap.  "There's a new style of water heating that's become more common lately.  What you have is a large metal vat on the roof, and the metal is painted black to attract the most heat.  There is a pump on the roof that fills the vat, and then the water inside is heated all day by the sun."

"But why would you want water on the roof?" asked Eäzinya.  "Lie down."

Sidaizon lay flat on his front, folding his arms beneath his head to allow the soap in Eäzinya's hand to work its slippery way down each of his legs.  A delicate breath of sandalwood perfume lingered in its wake.    "The water on the roof sits in the sun all day, absorbing heat.  When it comes time to wash in the evening, you turn a lever on the wall and warm water comes down from the vat on the roof, through a pipe, and out of a hole in the ceiling.  It splashes down on you from above, so you can wash standing up."

"Sounds like it would cost a lot of money."

"Initially, yes, there is a cost.  But once you have everything in place you pay nothing to keep it going.  The sun does all the work for you.  No need to haul buckets of water after paying for firewood to heat it."

"Turn over."

"You're trying to distract me from my plan with all these orders," he said, though he turned as instructed to lie on his back.

A faint hint of a smile crossed Eäzinya's lips.  "No..." she slowly replied.  "If I wanted to distract you, there would be better ways to go about it."

Her words made the frigid puddles of water on the floor seem suddenly much more bearable.  A little spark of heat ignited somewhere inside, and spread a surge of warmth throughout his body.  "Better... how?"

"Just like that.  You're already distracted."  She had worked up a generous lather of soap on her hands, and when she leaned in to massage it over his chest, she was close enough to radiate her own heat back to him.  Her hands moved light as water over his skin, shoulders to arms to chest to waist, and continued down like the caress of silk to his thighs.  "You see how easy it is?"

"I see," he said.  "Ah."  And then, "Lock the door."

"I already have."

~

He returned home from the Lavazat at noon the next day, by which time Márathul had already fetched Nautalya from the house of Eäzinya's parents.  Nautalya was wearing the orange Yaranénon shawl from the previous day, clutching it around her shoulders in a way that advertised her stubborn refusal to take it off, and looked as if she had affixed one of Amárië's larger beads to her forehead with a blob of sticky bread dough.

"No!" she shouted at Eäzinya, who, predictably, seemed to be on the verge of losing her temper.  "It's not evil!  It's the All-Seeing Eye and a sign of Manwë!  I won't take it off!"

"It's what?" Sidaizon asked.

Eäzinya whipped around to face him with nothing short of pure wrath flaring in her eyes.  "You!  This is all your fault!  One innocent outing, you say, and now your daughter wants to be a convert!  What do you say to that?!"

"Convert?" he asked.  The idea was too absurd to take seriously; he pressed his lips together to hold back a smile as Eäzinya glared.  "Nautalya?"

"It's the All-Seeing Eye," she repeated.   Her own glare made her look very much like her mother.

"What is the All-Seeing Eye, Alya?"

With delicate care, she raised both hands to touch the bead on her forehead.  "This.  It helps your mind see things your real eyes can't.  Like Manwë can.  He can see farthest of all the Valar but His third eye can see things like feelings and the future."

"Manwë does not have three eyes!" Eäzinya snapped.  "That's heresy!"

"The third eye is invisible inside His head," Nautalya explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  "But he has a jewel on his crown to show where the All-Seeing Eye is on his forehead."

Again, Eäzinya turned her fury on Sidaizon.  "Is that nonsense true?"

"I would not presume to know what hidden eyes Manwë might have," he replied.  "But I've never heard of such a thing."

"And the crown with the jewel?!"

He shook his head.  "I don't know.  I have only seen Him in close quarters once, and that was over three long-years ago.  And I was so awed that all I can remember is nearly wetting myself and trying not to faint."

"Idizimë told me it's true," said Nautalya.

"Idizimë is a-" Eäzinya began, but the remainder of her speech could not compete with Nautalya for volume.

"I hate being Valadávan!  Our clothes are ugly and boring and we never do anything and there are too many rules to follow!  I want to be Yaranénon now!  You can't stop me!"

"I can lock you in your bedroom, you wicked girl!"  Furious, Eäzinya grabbed Nautalya by both arms and stood her squarely in front of Sidaizon.  Nautalya, despite her shrieks and squirms and proclamations of hatred, could not escape.  "You dare talk to your parents in such a way?  Your father should give you a good whipping!"

"No whippings," said Sidaizon.  "Nautalya, if you truly want to convert, you're right that we can't stop you."

Eäzinya likely would have shouted something to the contrary, had she been calm enough to speak.

Sidaizon crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked Nautalya in the eye.  "Now.  Do you really want to be Yaranénon, or are you just trying to give your mother fits?"

Looking off to the left, she was unable to meet his gaze.  Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the orange shawl.  "Yes," she answered, but without conviction.  "I really want to be... um..."

"Well, that's unfortunate.  You see, Máro is coming with me to the public baths, and I would have invited you to come along, too. But they don't allow Yaranénon girls in.  We'll have to go without you."

He stood and ruffled Nautalya's hair, and managed to walk three steps toward the back door before she cried, "Wait!"

"What is it, Alya?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

"Why... why can't Yaranénon girls go to the bath?"

"Because it's a Valadávan bath house.  Only Lávar are allowed."

"Are there Yaranénon baths?"

"Well, yes," said Sidaizon, "but only men can go, and the bath is nothing more than one big outdoor pool.  There's no bath for women or children, which I think is a little silly.  But those are the rules.  Now that you're Yaranénon, I suppose you'll have to start washing outside with a bucket by the well where the neighbours can see you.  Yaranénor aren't allowed to bathe indoors.  They have to wash themselves outside under the open sky."

Either because of the disappointment of being banned from the baths or due to horror at the idea of bathing alone while the neighbours watched, Nautalya's mouth fell open to match her widening eyes.  "But... but..."  Frantically, her hands twisted around the shawl.  She had been to the public bath only once, nearly a year before, and had been begging Sidaizon ever since to take her again.  He could almost see her thoughts quarrelling behind her eyes: was this Yaranénon argument worth keeping up if it came at the expense of soaking in hot water and having her hair washed and back massaged by fussing, motherly women who treated her like a little queen?

"Do you want to postpone your conversion until after we go to the baths?" he asked.

"Yes," came Nautalya's quick answer.

"Good.  Now take that bead off your forehead and give it back to your grandmother.  She may need it.  Also, ask her to help you bundle up some clean clothes to wear after the bath."

"Yes, Attu."  Free of Eäzinya's grip, Nautalya pulled off the bead and wiped away the residue of dough from her brow.  She escaped down the corridor and disappeared into the bedroom she shared with Amárië before her mother could scold her further.

Eäzinya looked less than impressed by this resolution to the conflict.  "I suppose you think you did very well there."

"She's decided against converting today, hasn't she?"

"And tomorrow?"

"What about tomorrow?" Sidaizon asked.  "Tomorrow, she'll probably have forgotten about it.  If not," he added when Eäzinya made a frustrated sound, "there more things than warm baths to make her see reason."

Eäzinya had pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest as she looked at Sidaizon.  She took a little breath and held it, as if uncertain of what to say, which always meant she was about to disagree.  The little inhalation was always followed by her glaring at the floor.  A very controlled upbringing by strict parents had guaranteed that she would never be bold enough to argue with her husband while looking him in the eye.  She was, however, quite willing to argue with her husband while looking at his feet.

She inhaled again, gathering her words for the imminent assault, and dropped her eyes to the floor exactly as expected.  "I don't think," she began, but then stopped.  Her expression took an abrupt shift from determined to confused.  This was not part of the pattern.

"Sidaizon... what happened to your sandals?"

Following her sightline, he looked down at his feet and the white slippers he wore.  He had forgotten about that.  "Ah.  Right.  The sandals.  I threw them over the wall."

"You what?"

"Threw them over the wall.  With all those blisters from yesterday, they hurt my feet so badly that by the time I'd walked to the Lavazat this morning I never wanted to see them again.  So I threw them over the Lavazat's back wall.  The slippers are much more comfortable."

"Those are indoor shoes!" said Eäzinya.  "You're not allowed to wear them outside!"

He shrugged.  "Well, strictly according to the rules, I'm not allowed to wear them inside after wearing them outside.  I suppose I can wear these ones out if I buy another pair for in."

With her arms clenched tightly and her shoulders as tense as a cat on the hunt, Eäzinya looked ready to erupt from frustration.  An argument would happen one way or another, whether about Nautalya or absent sandals.  "Do you ever think about what you're doing?" she asked.  "Do you ever give your actions any thought, or do you always go wherever impulse takes you?"

"I thought about the sandals very carefully," he answered.   "In fact, I was so annoyed I was about to burn them, and had even made a fire before I stopped to reconsider.  Then I thought, these are still good sandals, no broken straps or holes in the bottom, and it would be a waste to burn them.  So that's why I threw them over the wall for somebody else to find.  Had I acted purely on impulse, they would be a charred mess by now."

"And had you stopped to consider more," countered Eäzinya, "maybe you would realise that shoes are expensive and we can't afford to buy you new things just because you're annoyed!  You do this all the time, Sidaizon!  Every decision you make is done on a moment's notice!"

"That's because I'm always right the first time."  He grinned at her, but she refused to look up from the floor.

"It's not funny.  Sometimes you worry me sick with the things you do.  It's bad enough during peaceful times, but now there's trouble and you're wandering off across the city to give a baby to heretics just because Márathul thought it was a good idea, dressed in some outrageous costume that could get you publically whipped or worse if the Oraistari found out about it, then only managing to escape the King's Hands by chance..."

Her voice broke into a little sob, and she lifted her hands to her face as if they had the power to hold back any show of emotion.  She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips: a pre-emptive strike against tears.  "It worries me," she whispered.  "There have been too many days lately when I wonder if you're coming home at all, or if I'll sit up all night only to have someone at the door in the morning telling me you've been arrested."

"I won't be arrested," he promised.

"But what if-"

"I won't."  He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close against him.  She resisted only for the space of a heartbeat before letting her head drop down onto his shoulder.  "In all the time we've been married, have I ever made a wrong decision that caused us to seriously regret what happened?"

"No..." she admitted.

"Then there's no need to worry.  This is what I do, Eäzinya.  An Almatar makes decisions, and he has to make them immediately.  If a man comes to me to ask for advice on what the law allows, should I send him home because I have to think it over for a few days?  No, because he'll never come back to hear what I've decided.  He'll take things into his own hands and might end up making the wrong choice.  I need to be able to advise him immediately on what he may do and what he must not do.  I advise myself the same way.  And everything's turned out well enough so far, hasn't it?"

A long pause dragged on before she answered, "Yes."

"Decisions made quickly aren't always bad.  I've never seriously regretted anything, and never gone back on what I decided to do.  Do you know how long it took me to agree to your father's proposal that I marry you?"

The beginnings of a tiny smile played at the corners of her lips.  She knew the answer to this question.

"Less time than it took to decide to throw the sandals over the wall," he said.  "Aren't you glad I said 'yes' straight away rather than going home to worry my way out of it?  If I'd done that, you could be married to Auzëar right now.  Nice man, but very dull."

"I could live with dull," said Eäzinya, pulling away.  She shook off his embrace, but was smiling.  "And predictable, and responsible."

"I've seen him naked.  He has a small-"

"Sidaizon!"

"What?  It's true."

Wide-eyed, Eäzinya jerked her chin up.  It took Sidaizon a moment to realise she was trying to gesture to something, and that her gaze was fixed on a point over his shoulder.  He turned around to see Márathul and Nautalya standing hand in hand with bundles of clean clothing under their arms, patiently waiting to go.  Márathul cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot as he pretended to be very interested in the front of his shirt.  He had clearly been standing there for some time, and it was more than likely that Nautalya had been with him for at least part of it.

"Oh," said Sidaizon.  "Hm."  If Márathul wanted to pretend he had not just witnessed that scene, he was equally willing to play along.  "Do we have everything?  Are we ready?"

"Yes, Attu," the two of them answered.

"Then get your shoes on and let's go."

"Be careful," Eäzinya murmured to him as soon as Márathul and Nautalya had passed by to fetch their sandals from the doorway.

"I will be.  But we're doing nothing out of the ordinary today.  Going to the perfectly acceptable Valadávan bath house is a perfectly acceptable Valadávan activity.  No-one will have any cause to complain.  And we'll be home before sundown.  I promise."

Sinners and Liars

Read Sinners and Liars

There were eight public baths in the city that had segregated areas to allow women, and the house Sidaizon and Márathul usually attended was not one of them. The nearest women's bath was a twenty minute walk directly to the east, but in the interest of a more memorable family outing Sidaizon had announced they would try something new and visit the main bath house in the centre of the city. Though farther, it was also far larger and infinitely grander, with an exterior of gleaming marble and a vast silver dome as its roof. The afternoon sun lit the dome with a fire almost blinding in its whiteness.

Márathul and Nautalya shielded their eyes with their hands and looked up at the building in appreciative wonder as Sidaizon paid their fees to the attendants at the gate. "Well?" he asked. "Does this look like a nice place?"

"Yes!" said Nautalya. "Is this the bath house that princes use?"

"Sometimes, perhaps, if they're in the city. But princes have their own hot water baths in their own homes, as do the lords. Most of the visitors to this place are citizens."

Even the absence of princes was not enough to dampen Nautalya's spirits. She swung her bundle of clothing and hummed her way up the paved walkway, jumping from stone to stone at Sidaizon's side until they arrived at the women's door in the side of the building. There, attendants hung wet towels over wooden frames to dry in the sun.

A woman folding dry towels nodded to Nautalya. "How long?"

"Two hours," said Sidaizon. "Maybe a little longer? No less than two, though."

"I'll have her done by then. Once she's finished she can sit on the cushions and wait until you're ready." Smiling, she put the towels aside and held out her hand to Nautalya. "Well, little princess? Would you like me to wash your hair for you?"

Nautalya took the offered hand greedily. "And use coconut oil after?"

"Of course. And lily perfume powder all over your skin."

The two of them disappeared inside without a single backward glance from Nautalya, leaving Sidaizon and Márathul to retrace their steps back to the front of the building. The walkway led to a set of wide, shallow stairs, which in turn led up to a hammered bronze door twice as tall as any man and nearly two armspans wide. Beside it stood a smaller, wooden door. The bronze door was guarded by two large and cross-looking men, standing with their hands clenched at their waists and frowns on their faces.

"Which one do we use?" whispered Márathul. "Wooden, I guess?"

Sidaizon grinned at him. "Oh, no. One of the benefits to being an Almatar is the great joy of being allowed to use the nobles' door in any of the King's buildings. The nobles usually react with looks suggesting that they want to strangle me for being so impertinent as to think myself their equal, so I make a point of doing so whenever possible."

Márathul laughed in reply, but kept his head down as they passed through the great bronze door. True to expectations, the guards glared contemptuously at Sidaizon's clothing as if hateful thoughts could make up for the embarrassment of having to stand aside for such an obvious commoner. They shut the door after him as soon as he and Márathul were inside, hiding them both.

The bronze door led to a short corridor of gleaming white stone, with a high roof of silver lattice to let the sunlight through. At the corridor's end was another bronze door, identical but unguarded, which led to the dressing room. Like the corridor, the dressing room was built of pristine white stone that shone in the light streaming through the roof. Stone benches lined the walls, with shelves and pegs above for clothing. Only two other men, both half dressed, were in the room when Sidaizon opened the door. He smiled brightly at them. They frowned, turned their backs, and continued their conversation in hushed murmurs.

"We could have used the other door..." Márathul began. He hated confrontation, Sidaizon knew, and hated drawing attention to himself.

"Nonsense. The other dressing room is in the basement. It has tiny windows up near the ceiling, and no drains, so it's dark and damp. Isn't this one much nicer?"

Márathul's only reply was to pull off his clothing as quickly as possible before moving to stand by the inner door, in a corner where the two nobles could not see him. Sighing, Sidaizon did the same. The noblemen sniffed over their shoulders as he grabbed clean towels down from the shelf, taking care to mutter loudly enough that he could hear:

"What is the purpose in having a private dressing room if the doormen let these commoners in?"

"Appalling. Now I recall why I've not been here in so long. Fortunate we're leaving; they'd likely steal our clothes."

"Steal their...!" Márathul hissed. He shoved open the inner door that led to the baths with more force than needed. "Attu, they'll probably steal our clothes!"

"No, they won't. They'll complain to everyone they know about how the bath house has become overrun with peasants, and loudly swear never to return, even though they will, of course. But they won't steal or even touch our filthy, threadbare rags. That might contaminate their precious hands."

Márathul looked unconvinced. "If my clothes are gone..."

"We'll steal someone else's and buy you something new on the way home," Sidaizon said.

The inner door from the dressing room opened into an arched alcove. Separating the alcove from the vast, domed bathing area beyond was a counter staffed by a handful of attendants, where bathers could buy luxurious soaps and perfumed oils of higher quality than the basic products included in the price of admission. Two loud boys leapt up as soon as they spotted Sidaizon and Márathul, waving jars in the air and shouting about the wonders they sold.

"Almatar! Almatar! Come see this! New lavender perfume from Tirion!"

"This one is better! From Alqualondë! Scented with myrrh!"

"I also have soap made from sea plants!"

"I have apricot soap!"

"Cinnamon!"

"This one has chrysanthemum petals in it!"

"Nothing today," said Sidaizon.

"But you haven't tried-"

"No."

"I just want to show you-"

The unfortunate side to using the nobles' door and dressing room had always been the deliberate parade past the soap hawkers, who had a talent for being difficult to ignore. But after them came worse. Past the end of the soap counter, Sidaizon quickly steered Márathul around and down the steps to the bath, careful not to make contact with any of the peering eyes that haunted the shadows along the edges of the walls.

"Who are-" Márathul started to ask.

"Don't speak," Sidaizon warned. "Don't say a word, and don't look at them. They are forbidden by law from approaching without invitation, but they seem to interpret any acknowledgement of their existence as permission to hound you for money."

"But who... what are they?"

"Nothing. They are nothing, and they should be ignored."

"But-"

Sidaizon put his hand on the back of Márathul's head to push him straight forward. "Don't look!"

At the bottom of the stairs, the tiled floor of the bath house was wet with condensation and warm to the touch. Down on this level, steam rising from the bathing pools was thick as clouds, turning the bodies of other bathers into dim and ghostly grey shapes in the distance. Light from the oculus in the high silver dome could hardly penetrate the fog. Márathul made the mistake of trying to take a deep breath; he gasped, choked on the heavy air, and doubled over coughing.

"Here, sit down," Sidaizon said. He led Márathul to the edge of one of the steaming pools, where three other men already sat and soaked. Two held a quiet conversation; the third appeared to be asleep with his head and arms resting on the pool's tiled edge. Reluctantly, Márathul removed the towel he had wrapped around himself and slid into the water. He submerged himself until only his head remained above the surface, still coughing.

Márathul would never admit it, but he was shy when it came to his body and hated being naked. Unlike Tarmanaz, who viewed visits to the bath house as an opportunity to strut around like a peacock and proudly display his splendid self, Márathul hid. He was shorter than Tarmanaz and skinny as a stick, with sunken chest and bony shoulders. Sitting as he was, with his knees tucked under his chin and his arms hugging his shins, he looked twenty years younger than his true age.

Still just a boy, thought Sidaizon. Too young to go up the mountain.

He lowered himself into the hot water at Márathul's side and leaned back, closing his eyes. He could worry about his sons' chances at the Academy later; now it was time to relax and think of nothing. Think of the water. Think of its smell: like hot stones. Tiny currents caused by the movements of the others in the pool swirled around his bare skin. He heard shallow splashes, and the water level dipped. Someone must have climbed out. It did not matter who. He was too lazy even to open his eyes and see. The heat always made him drowsy.

Something touched his shoulder, though it could have been part of some hazy half-dream. Fingers squeezed, and a voice spoke in his ear. "Almatar Sidaizon."

He dropped his head to the side to glance at his shoulder. A hand with skin darker than his own rested there: a hand with long fingernails and a faded tattoo of interlocking, abstract curls winding down from the forearm. A familiar tattoo. It belonged to a devotee of Nessa. That much he could recall.

"A devotee of Nessa," he murmured. As soon as he spoke the words, their meaning grew clear. They snapped him awake with a lurch in his gut. He jerked his head upright and wheeled around to see the man crouching behind him.

"Ah," said the tattooed man. "You remember that; I'm impressed. You remember my name, then?"

"Anin."

A wide grin spread across Anin's face. "You do remember! Almatar Sidaizon, that is very good. And you've not been to visit me in over one hundred years!"

"There's a reason," Sidaizon growled. "Go bother someone else, Anin. I have no interest and no money."

Anin, if he heard, did not accept the dismissal. He shuffled closer until his toes perched at the edge of the pool, as close as he was allowed, and put his hand back on Sidaizon's shoulder. Sidaizon shrugged off his touch. Pouting, Anin crossed his tattooed arms across his chest, framing another set of similarly knotted lines that decorated his collarbone. The ends of the collarbone tattoo curved up to his shoulders and disappeared behind his coppery hair, which hung in two limp plaits long enough to drag on the ground in his crouching position. A fourth design scrolled down from his navel to disappear into his loincloth. "Almatar Sidaizon," he said, "I was worried about you all these years. I thought you moved away, or even died. One hundred years is a long time. But then finally you returned today! I recognised you. Tall and handsome as always, huu?"

"Anin..."

"Of course I had to come and see if it was really you. And I was right." He paused to look over at Márathul, and his voice took on a sharper tone. "Who is that you're with?"

"My son," said Sidaizon. "We're trying to enjoy our bath without horrors like you disrupting things. Go away!"

Wide-eyed as he watched the conversation unfold, Márathul had sunk farther into the bath to better hide himself. Only his head from the nose up showed above the surface. As soon as Anin made eye contact, he dropped his gaze and stared into the water.

"Shy?" asked Anin. He glanced from Márathul to Sidaizon, fishing for a response from either of them; none came. "Oh well. I can give you a good deal, Almatar Sidaizon, since you've been away so long. For everything – private massage and hair wash too – only eight tambimindi."

"No! Anin, I told you to go."

"Seven, then," Anin offered. "Only seven tambimindi. I usually charge fourteen. I know you have seven."

"I have nothing!" Sidaizon shouted. With a splash, he stood up in the pool and held his arms out wide, letting the water run down his naked skin. "Do you see? I have no purse on me, and no coins anywhere. Even if I did, I would give nothing to you! Now by Manwë's grace, leave me alone!"

Márathul sunk completely under the water as bathers turned to see what had caused the shouting. Discreetly, the two men sharing the pool slipped away and found another. All eyes were on Anin, but he seemed as calm and oblivious to disapproval as he had always been. He stared back at Sidaizon without so much as blinking. An awkward pause dragged on, accented by the occasional coughs of those who watched. Sidaizon held his breath and waited; Anin could be the one to break the silence.

"You can pay me next time," he finally said. As soon as he did, two large men grabbed him under either arm and hauled him to his feet. They needed little effort; he was small and light, no bigger than Márathul. They stood him upright, and Anin's face, which had for a moment been frozen in confused shock, suddenly filled with rage as he realised what had happened. Howling, he tried in vain to flail and squirm his way free. The two men held him fast.

"Is this piece of filth bothering you, Almatar?" the one on the left asked.

The two of them were naked and dripping wet, having just climbed out of their own bath to investigate the commotion, but even out of uniform there was no mistaking that they were King's Hands. They looked, like all Hands, as if they could be brothers: tall and athletic, with angular, aristocratic features and cold eyes. The one who had spoken kept his gaze fixed on Sidaizon, waiting for the word of command. His companion stayed trained on the howling Anin. Even off-duty Hands never missed an opportunity to flaunt their power.

These off-duty Hands would also gladly cut short their bathing for the joy of hauling Anin back to their affectionately named Brass Pit for a beating and, very likely, worse. "If you did not invite him to speak to you," the man on the left continued, "he is violating the law. We can take care of him."

They could take care of him thoroughly, Sidaizon knew: take care of him in such a way that he would never bother another bath house patron again. As appealing as the outcome was, the means made his conscience scream. He shook his head. "No, thank you. That won't be necessary."

Anin's howling faded into a pitiful moan and then silence. He ceased his struggles, but the Hands did not release their hold.

"You... requested his presence?" the other one asked.

"No," said Sidaizon, "but I will admit to having done so in the past. He, not unreasonably, assumed that the invitation still held. It's nothing more than a misunderstanding."

"Shall we remove him?"

"No. He may stay. I will remove myself."

The Hands exchanged looks of annoyance, but released Anin without complaint. He sunk to the floor, moaning again, and covered his face.

Careful not to stand too near, Sidaizon stepped out of the bath. He took up his towels from the floor while nodding graciously to the Hands. "I thank you for your assistance, though," he told them. "That was very kind of you to think of helping me."

They replied with thin smiles. Of course their actions had been motivated by anything but kindness.

"Márathul," he continued; "I will be at the barbers and then a quick massage. You can find me there later, or I will look for you. You can manage here without me?"

Márathul, who only peeked above the surface of the water as much as was necessary to breathe, gave a tiny nod to indicate that he had heard. Without waiting for more, Sidaizon fled.

It was easy to disappear in the fog of the bath house. He could turn left around one pool then right around the next, crossing the floor in a winding pattern amid dozens of other bodies. He could duck to hide behind a pillar or slip down the stairs like a whipped dog to the sunken corner where the barbers flashed their razors. It was easy to run from conflict and disaster when he gave himself no time to recognise the cowardice of his actions.

He stopped, sat down gracelessly on the edge of the stair, and pushed the sweat- and steam-slicked hair back from his eyes. "Oh, by Manwë's breath!" he swore.

If he lied to his own conscience, he could insist that he had chosen to come to this bath house because he had forgotten that the wretch Anin even existed. But he had not forgotten. He had only assumed, foolishly, that Anin would have somehow vanished over the long years he had stayed away. One single lapse in judgement, and Márathul had been at his side to witness it all. He could slap himself for being so careless.

He dropped his head down onto his knees, wrapping his arms around his head like a protective shell. The position helped him think no better, but it at least it felt like a penitent pose. He could more easily feel sorry for his sad predicament while hunched over like a beggar. His neck ached and his shoulders cramped, and the blood flowing to his head throbbed stronger with every breath he took. Discomfort was a welcome distraction.

A light hand touched his arm, and he nearly leapt out of his skin for fear that Anin had followed him. But in place of the tattooed skin and limp plaits, concerned eyes stared back at him, framed by shoulder-grazing short hair.

"Are you troubled, my son?"

Oh, this is just what I do not need... He clenched his teeth to keep from swearing again and let his arms fall to his side. At the sight of his hair, the other Almatar stepped back.

"Ah... Forgive me, Brother. I did not see."

"There is nothing to forgive," said Sidaizon. "You are a wise man. I am troubled."

"How so?"

The words of dismissal sat ready in his throat, but Sidaizon paused. The easy road out would have him shrug off the inquiry and keep his worries to himself, but it was that habit of easy irresponsibility that had snared him in the first place. How terrible could it be to simply tell the truth?  This other Almatar would have sworn to uphold the same laws of Taniquetil to which he himself was bound; any confessions spoken would be held in confidence.  Sidaizon took a breath, letting the steam clear away his doubts, and before he could stop them the words began to flow like a river from his tongue.

"I am a liar," he said. "Everything in my life is built, brick by brick, from lies. Five hundred years ago I lied to the Academy, vowing to be an obedient servant of Manwë when in truth I have not. While there, I lied my way through sixty years of prayer and worship. I followed rules I do not accept and spoke words I do not believe. I promised to uphold the sanctity of the King's Laws, which I have not fully done. And I lied when I put forth my name for promotion to head Almatar of my Lavazat. I was given my position based on a lie. And only the other day, I lied to an Oraistar face to face, in the very courtyard of that Lavazat that I gained on lies. I am a hypocrite and a liar. But it does not end there!

"I have lied to my mother more times than I can count. I have lied to my grandfather. I would probably lie to my father, too, if given the chance, but alas he exists as nothing more than a faceless ghost from my mother's stories. I have lied to my wife. I have led her to believe that I am a good and respectable man, but truly I am not. I am a lying sinner. All of my many sins have led me to tell more lies, even to my children. Just moments ago I lied to my son, or as good as lied, because I did not tell him the truth. So you see!" He slapped his hands down onto his knees to emphasise the word. "I am very troubled."

The other Almatar stared back at him, lips pursed in silent uncertainty. "I..." he finally managed.

"I don't expect you to have any salvation for me. But do you know what the worst of it is?"

Gingerly, the Almatar shook his head.

"The worst is that, if I ask myself truthfully, I do not care. Because in my heart I am convinced that this is all for the best. I have lied for my own gain, and those lies have served me well. If not for lies, I would be much less fortunate today, and much less happy. So how can I hate myself for lying? No, what troubles me is that I know I have done the wrong thing, innumerable wrong things, but fate has been rewarding me for my actions. Until today. Now one of my lies has caught me, and I don't know what to do. Like all good liars, I'm not sorry for lying. I'm sorry for being caught."

Whether or not he felt unburdened for having made those confessions was impossible to tell. He did feel exhilarated. Something in the act of speaking aloud what he had kept hidden for so many years made his heart race. The danger of letting those secrets be known sent a tingling thrill throughout his entire body.

The reaction of the other Almatar hovered somewhere between offended and horrified: offended, surely, that a fellow Brother in Manwë's order could behave so terribly, and horrified to hear the admission of guilt spoken aloud. He teetered on his heels and sucked his teeth as if grasping for anything he could say in reply. "Manwë save you, Brother," he stammered. Then with a dip of the head, holding out his hands in a wary blessing, he backed away to disappear into the swirling steam.

"Indeed," Sidaizon murmured to the hazy, retreating shape. Manwë save me indeed.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Tambimin - copper piece (pl tambimindi)

Tyelpilin - silver piece (pl tyelpilindi)

Mark of the King's Hands

Read Mark of the King's Hands

It was Márathul who wished to leave first. Sidaizon could have stayed another hour at least, lounging in the hottest pools near the barbers' benches and thinking of nothing. It had always been easier to think of nothing in the loud, crowded fog of the bath house than in the clear silence of home or the Lavazat. Any worries about the lies or Anin or Márathul had no time to form in his head before some yelling, splashing oaf offered a convenient distraction. Like the air, his head was too hazy to think straight. Emptiness of mind came easily.

He was once again drifting into sleep when Márathul found him, contemplating nothing more important than the sound of his own breathing. "Attu," said Márathul's voice, and the word clattered around in his ear for a moment before he recognised its significance and it prodded him back into the world of the fully awake.

"Were you asleep?" Márathul asked.

Sidaizon yawned and stretched. "Only halfway. And you? You want to go?"

"Yes, please. If you're done. I've been here long enough."

Something in the way he spoke sounded wrong. It was nothing that Sidaizon could easily grasp, but there was a new tone to Márathul's voice that sounded unlike him. The words were clipped with a subtle hardness. Or else he was simply not hearing things well in the din. He shook his head to clear it of some of the haze; the difference of voice could have been imagined.

"Of course, Máro. We can leave. Nautalya should be ready to go by now."

Márathul said nothing in reply as Sidaizon climbed out of the pool and dried himself. The two of them walked back to the dressing room without speaking, pulled on their clean clothes in silence, and went around to the women's door at the side of the building without exchanging a word. Márathul kept his eyes on the ground. Every few moments, he tightened his mouth and took a breath, exactly like Eäzinya, as if there were words that cowered behind the threshold of his lips. But the words never appeared. Sidaizon did not push him, out of fear that any attempt to coax a conversation before its time would result in Márathul closing himself and keeping everything hidden inside, as he always did. And also out of fear that he knew exactly what Márathul wanted to discuss. The feeling of exhilaration that had come with his admissions to the other Almatar had long since passed.

In contrast to her brother, Nautalya chattered like a bird from the moment they collected her. Her hair gleamed in bright, golden waves down her back, her skin glowed with the smoothness of honey, and a very immodest and unladylike grin stretched across her face. As promised, she smelled of lily perfume.

"Let me see your arms!" she demanded as soon as Sidaizon had welcomed her back with a kiss to the top of her head.

It was their little post-bath ritual. When Nautalya had been small, hardly more than a baby, nothing had calmed her better after a fuss or a fright than lying curled in Sidaizon's lap with her head in the crook of his elbow, cheek pressed against the bare skin of his forearm and little fingers clutching his wrist. She still, in moments of uncertainty, shyness, or melancholy, would take hold of his wrist, rest her forehead against his arm, and hide from the world within the safety of old comforts. He had asked her once why she preferred his arm to his shoulder or Eäzinya's hair, as the other children. She had answered that she liked the feel of his skin, smooth from the barber's razor and massage oils, and the clean smell of soap that always lingered from having to wash his hands so many times each day at the Lavazat. Thereafter, she was always quick to note when he neglected his grooming obligations and let the stubble grow too long. Nautalya became his personal hair inspector.

He pushed back his sleeves and held out his arms for her to see. With narrowed eyes, she leaned in so close her nose nearly touched his skin. Her fingertips followed everywhere her eyes went.

"Missed some!" she announced.

"Where?"

Nautalya pointed in triumph to a place near his elbow, where four small hairs glinted in the sun.

"Ai, that is terrible! What a lazy barber I had. Remember those, Alya; I'll give you my razor and you can fix them once we're home. Any others?"

"Noooooo," she said slowly as she finished her inspection. "The rest is good."

"I'm glad," said Sidaizon. "How embarrassing it would be to have to walk all the way back with too many missed hairs." He shook his sleeves back into place and linked an arm through Nautalya's. "Shall we hurry home now? Amma will be waiting for us."

He looked back to be sure Márathul was following as they made their way down the path and out the gate of the bath house. Márathul had fallen behind, but he still shuffled along with his eyes on the ground.

"I wish I could have all my arm hair shaved off," Nautalya said.

"People might mistake you for a boy if you did."

"But why can't girls shave? It feels nicer."

"Because it would look funny," Sidaizon answered. "Can you imagine seeing Amma or Haruni Mari with all the hair on their arms and legs shaved off? They would look like men. Very funny indeed."

"I guess," Nautalya allowed.

"I think so. And speaking of funny-looking, did you know that Noldorin men don't shave their body hair?"

She stared up at him in surprise, wearing an expression that seemed to question whether or not he was wholly serious.

"It's true," he said. "And also true of most Yaranénor. Many of them don't shave, either. But because their hair is golden and matches their skin, it's not so easy to see. With those pale white Noldor and their black hair, you can see everything. And they let their body hair grow and grow until they look like monkeys."

"That's not true!"

"It isn't?" Sidaizon laughed.

Nautalya looked horrified. "Is it?"

"Well, maybe not like monkeys. But they do have dark hair on their arms and legs, and they don't shave it."

"What about the women?" she asked.

"I don't know. I've never seen a Noldorin woman's bare arms. But I imagine they have dark hair, too, though not as thick as the men's."

"Eugh." She made a face, sticking out her tongue. "That's disgusting."

Grinning, Sidaizon pulled her into an unbalanced, one-armed embrace. "Now aren't you glad you were born into a lovely Valadávan family and won't have to marry any unshaven, heretic monkey?"

"Yes," she was quick to reply.

"Good. And I'll do my best to find you a nice husband who doesn't let his arm hair grow like an animal's."

"A prince," she reminded him. "Or at least a nobleman. Remember my horoscope!"

"Right, right, how could I forget? I should start looking tomorrow. Not too many years now until you're old enough to marry, and I'll need every one of them if you expect me to find a prince for you."

"You'd better. I won't settle for any old rug-maker like Hwailenda."

"Of course not." Pausing, Sidaizon glanced back over his shoulder. Márathul had fallen farther behind, shuffling step by slow step. "Alya, why don't you go on alone? I need to talk to your brother. Run ahead to the market up the street and see if you can find a stall selling shoes. You know the kind I need: white slippers for the Lavazat."

The apprehensive look in her eyes was fleeting, replaced almost immediately by determined pride. She had never before been allowed to wander the market stalls on her own. "I know which shoes," she said. "I'll find them."

"Good girl. Máro and I will be along in a minute."

She took off down the street at a run, hair flying wildly behind her. Sidaizon watched until she bobbed out of sight behind a wagon full of vegetables, then turned to wait as Márathul approached. "Well there. Leisurely walk today?"

Márathul shrugged and said nothing.

"You haven't spoken since we left the pools."

He answered with a gruff snorting sound, followed by a grudging sentence. "What should I say?"

Sidaizon ignored the flutter of warning that grew in his stomach. Uncomfortable as it might be, he could not simply avoid this conversation and pretend everything was fine. "I think you are upset about something, Máro. You might want to talk about it."

For one taut moment, Márathul held his breath. But his words, when he spoke, were not what Sidaizon dreaded. "Attu, they were going to kill him!"

"Kill... What?"

"Anin! The Hands! They were going to kill him! After you left..." The entire story came tumbling out at once, in a swirl of distraught fragments. "He was sitting on the floor. Once you left, they asked me... One of them said they would take him away. They warned him before. They'd take him away and teach him what the law meant. So they asked... I knew they would kill him. They wouldn't say, but... He said they would. Then I... I had to. I couldn't let them. I told them he could stay with me."

He rubbed at his eyes and face with more force than needed, as if trying to wipe away any evidence of being so upset over a bath attendant. Sidaizon cautiously stepped closer.

"And you're worried that you've done something wrong?"

Márathul gave a vehement shake of the head. "No. I just..." He sighed and looked from the ground to the sky, carefully avoiding Sidaizon's gaze. "You should have told me."

The flutter of warning returned. "Told you what, Máro?"

"What he is. What they are. Why they're there. He's not even Valadávan, and..." A frustrated sigh cut across the last words.

"One needn't be Valadávan to work in the bath house. Strange, yes, but Yaranénon workers are allowed. They are forbidden only from touching the water, and they must remain partially clothed at all times. I've been told they accept the restrictions because they make better money from us than they do at their own open-air baths."

Finally meeting his eyes, the look that Márathul cast him was as sharp as a blade. "Told by whom?"

"That's not important-" Sidaizon began, only to be interrupted by Márathul's hardened voice.

"By Anin?"

He sighed. "Yes, Máro. By Anin. I asked him once why he works in a Valadávan bath house instead of the pools on the other side of the river, and he said he makes more money from the Lávar, who, ironically, are less prejudiced than his fellow Yaranénor. Is that better?"

"No," said Márathul. "What would be better is if you took the time to reassure me that nothing – nothing – ever happened between you and that... that..." he bit his lip and spoke the final word in hardly more than a whisper: "whore."

Hearing the accusation aloud, it carried less of a sting than Sidaizon had expected. The lightening-bolt of shock passed in an instant, leaving only a hint of dizziness behind. Whatever guilt he had braced himself to feel never came. Márathul stared back at him with cold eyes, but it was relief more than shame that gripped him. The worst had passed.

"I hardly think this is the time or place to have such a conversation," he said after a pause. The street was nearly empty, with only a few carts and market-goers passing by, but that made the possibility of being overheard no less likely. There was little ambient noise to hide their words.

"So you admit it," Márathul huffed.

Shaking his head, Sidaizon started toward the market again. "No, I am saying that we will discuss this later."

"No, we won't. We'll walk home and, somewhere along the way, decide this never happened, like we always do. You'll never mention it again, I'll pretend nothing's wrong..."

"Márathul, I swear by Manwë's own name, we will talk about this later tonight. Please. I will tell you whatever you want to know tonight, at home, when we are alone." He tried to catch Márathul's eye to solidify the promise, but Márathul stared resolutely at the ground and refused to be dissuaded.

"Does Amma know?"

"No. No, of course she does not, and nor does she ever need to know."

"Which means," said Márathul, "you're so ashamed of what you did that you won't tell your wife or discuss it with your son. Why did you do it, then?"

Sidaizon continued walking as he spoke, keeping his voice at a low level. "You're sixty-three years old, Máro. I won't insult you by naïvely assuming you know nothing about a man's physical needs."

At that, Márathul flushed red, but he did not stop. "You could have... well... you could have... not."

"Yes," said Sidaizon. "For three hundred and fifty years, I could have simply not."

"You could have married sooner!"

"I had no money. Marriage is very expensive."

"So are bath house-"

"Not nearly as much as a wife and a wedding," Sidaizon interrupted. He stopped, turning to face Márathul; they had come to the gate of the market square. "Now. Can we please continue this later? It's hardly marketplace conversation, and absolutely nothing that your sister should hear.

Grudgingly, Márathul nodded. "I suppose."

"Also nothing that Tarmanaz should hear."

"Tarmanaz? Why not?"

"Because he finds himself enough trouble as it is," said Sidaizon. "I don't want him to be able to use knowledge of my terrible behaviour as justification for doing whatever he wants. Do you understand?"

Márathul nodded again. "Yes."

"Good. Then we will continue to discuss this tonight." Scanning the market square, Sidaizon spotted Nautalya standing before a table of shoes and sandals. She waved to him, and he waved in return. "For now, we should return home."

~

They arrived at the front gate in silence: Nautalya exhausted by the walk and all out of chatter, Márathul sullenly sulking, and Sidaizon too afraid of Márathul's reaction to speak. Nautalya led the way into the house, kicking off her sandals as she stepped through the door.

"Amma? Haruni? We're home!"

No answer came. Frowning, Nautalya headed around the corner to the sitting room, and Sidaizon followed her.

They were met with the strange tableau of Tarmanaz, dressed in white, standing at the centre of the room, while Eäzinya knelt weeping on the floor at his side. A collection of sewing pins sat clenched between her lips, and her shaking fingers fumbled with a needle at the hem of the knee-length tunic Tarmanaz wore. Tarmanaz, at the sound of Nautalya and Sidaizon's approach, turned his head to face them. His hands rested on the gold sash at his waist.

"Welcome home, Atar," he said, smiling.

Márathul, coming up to stand at Sidaizon's shoulder, gasped at the sight. "Tarmanaz... what did you do?"

Tarmanaz made a show of looking down at the clothing he wore. "You need to ask? I thought this would be obvious."

The uniform he wore was easily recognisable to every person in Valmar. The white tunic had been pinned to a perfect fit by Eäzinya, falling exactly to his knees over matching white trousers. Buttons of knotted gold cord fastened the tunic shut down the left side of his chest, and the wide gold sash pulled everything snug to his waist. A gold-lined white cape lay on the floor near his feet, which were covered by white boots with gold lacing.

Sidaizon said nothing, but held out his hand to Eäzinya. She took it, turning away from Tarmanaz as if he were some despicable horror, but kept her careful distance from Sidaizon as well. "Now you see what your recklessness has done," she whispered.

"My recklessness?" he asked.

"You cut his hair," said Eäzinya. "You think he would listen to what you think is best for him after that?" She pulled away, dropping his hand and looking up at him with red and tear-rimmed eyes. "I hope you're happy and don't regret that choice, Sidaizon, because now your son has gone and joined the King's Hands."

 

 

A Question of Honour

Read A Question of Honour

Eäzinya shut the bedroom door behind her and went straight to the table in the corner of the room, turning her back on Sidaizon as she unpinned and combed her hair and cleaned her teeth.  The whole process took much longer than usual.  Sidaizon, standing at the side of the bed, watched but did not speak.  She could be the one to break the prickling silence, in her own time.

"I'm going to wash," she finally said.

"Shall I come with you?"

"No," was the curt reply.

Without looking at him, she skirted along the wall to the door, which she once again shut at her back.  Sidaizon sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.  Now he could add Eäzinya's anger to the growing list of things that had gone wrong over the past few days, and the run of bad luck showed no signs of relenting.  Amárië had not spoken to him since he took Saminda, Márathul had no doubt lost a great deal of respect for him as a father, and Eäzinya blamed him for the situation with Tarmanaz, who was still as contrary as ever.  Only Nautalya remained faithfully in his favour.  "Although," he muttered to himself, "that can always change..."

Through the wall, he could hear the sputtering and splashing of the pump as Eäzinya washed.  As with her hair-combing and teeth-cleaning, the running of the water dragged on.  She took even longer to return to the bedroom, refusing to look at Sidaizon when she did.  She turned her back on him as she had done before, slid out of her clothes as quickly as possible, and climbed into bed without a word.

"Sinya..."

"Good night," she answered, her tone wooden and flat.

Sidaizon lay down alongside her, wrapping his arm around her waist.  "Sinya, if you're upset..."

She ignored his question.  "Aren't you going to wash before bed?"

"I just came from the bath house."

"Yes, and then you walked home, down the dirt roads.  Your feet will be dirty."

"Fine," he allowed.  "I'll wash after."

"After what?" she asked pointedly.

"That's not what I..."  With a sigh that bordered on a groan, rolled away from Eäzinya to lie on his back.  "I meant after we talk about this.  Why you're so upset."

"I'm upset because your son is now one of the King's Hands.  Should I not be upset?  Should I be happy for him?  I'm sorry, Sidaizon, but no.  I'd rather see him as a convert in some heretic temple than as one of those monsters."

"They're not monsters, Eäzinya, they're-"

"They are monsters," she spat.

"They enforce the law."

"They twist the law and hurt innocent people!  I hate them, and I will not live with one of them in my house!  I hate them!"

The way she spoke, the razor-sharp edge on her voice, made Sidaizon shiver; her cold fury clenched his veins like fingers of ice.  She had never before sounded like this.  She had never spoken of anyone or anything with such concentrated bitterness.

"Why do you hate them?" he asked.

For a long and tense moment, Eäzinya did not answer.  She took a breath, slowly, and rubbed at her eyes.  "They killed my sister," she murmured.

Sidaizon hissed as her words struck him.  "They..."

"Killed her.  She died.  It was their fault."

"I... I never knew you had a sister."

"I did.  I haven't thought about her in years.  I try not to.  But then last night when you told me about... them... and now Tarmanaz..."  She rubbed her eyes again, sniffling, and exhaled a shaky breath.

Uncertainly, Sidaizon wrapped both arms around her to pull her close and kiss her hair.  Eäzinya had a sister.  In over one hundred years of marriage, she had never mentioned any such thing, nor had her parents hinted at this apparent family secret.  "Tell me what happened."

"It was a long time ago," she said.

"Tell me?"

Eäzinya sighed, a pained and hesitant sound, but she began to tell the tale.  "I was only five then.  My sister - Valima - was out on her own.  I forget why.  Maybe to buy something for my mother from the market for supper.  She was just older than Nautalya: twenty-one years old.  But my father let her go out to the market alone because he thought the city was safe and nobody would bother a little girl.  So on that day she went out and when she was on her way home she walked past a group of the King's Hands.  They asked her where she was going and what she was doing and why she, a girl, was out by herself.  They asked why she wasn't at home with her mother like a good girl should be.  And they asked why she hadn't covered her hair.  Why she ran around like a wild animal with her hair loose down her back."

"But if she was only twenty-one..." Sidaizon began.

"She was only twenty-one.  Still a girl.  Why would she pin up her hair and wear a woman's veil if she was only a little girl?  And she tried to tell them that.  But they said she looked older, she must have been almost thirty because she was so tall.  I remember she was almost as tall as my mother even at her age.  But if she was almost thirty and walking around the city by herself with her hair loose then she must be a dirty slut.  So they called her a slut and a whore and said she was under arrest.  They would take her back to their prison and cut off all her hair so the whole city would know what kind of woman she was."

"And they..."

Eäzinya shook her head.  "No.  She tried to run away, but one of them had his hand on her shoulder.  He tore her dress trying to keep hold of her and ripped it all down the front.  Then of course they knew she was a whore, wearing a ripped dress and showing her bare skin like that.  But she managed to run away.  She ran as fast as she could down a busy street, and because she was smaller than they were, she could duck around all the people and run faster than they could.  She ran until she found a courtyard with a goat house, and hid under the straw.  She stayed there until it was dark.  They never found her, thank Manwë."

"How did they find her later to arrest her?" Sidaizon asked.

"They never did.  She never saw them again"

"But you said-"

"I said they killed her.  And they did.  They caused her death.  Because of them, she died.  She came home late that night covered in dirt with straw in her hair and a dress ripped down the front, crying that the King's Hands had been after her.  What do you think everyone, all the neighbours, thought of her after that?  As far as they cared, the King's Hands were right.  She was a whore.  So her life was ruined and my family was shamed.  My father decided the only way to save our reputation would be to get her married as soon as possible.  As soon as the law said she was old enough, the day after her twenty-second birthday, she was married.  I never saw her again.  Nobody talked about her.  I only learned she died when I asked my mother if she could come to my wedding.  Then my mother told me Valima was dead."

Releasing a long, slow breath, Sidaizon closed his eyes.  His head reeled from Eäzinya's story.  A lost sister: a little girl as good as murdered in the name of the law, thrown into a hasty marriage for the sake of family honour, hidden away as a dark secret through no fault of her own.  The thought of it made him sick to his stomach.  A bitter taste of bile rose up into his throat.  "Why did you never tell me this before?" he whispered to Eäzinya's hair.

He tightened his embrace, pulling her more snugly against his body, but he could feel resistance as he did.  Subtly but firmly, Eäzinya was shrugging away from his touch.  "What should I have said?" she asked.  "There's nothing.  It's over.  Valima is dead."

"How did she die?

"I don't know.  My mother only said that she had died, not how or even when.  Maybe she died having a baby.  Maybe she just willed herself to die from shame.  I told you, I don't like to think about it.  She's dead and there's nothing I can do.  Better to just forget. "

"Now that's not right.  You shouldn't forget your own sister simply because the memory is painful."  Again, he tried to pull her close, but this time she resisted with all her strength.

"No!" she snapped, breaking away to sit upright on the bed.  "I don't want to talk about this, Sidaizon!  I don't want to think about it!  I just want to forget everything and go to sleep."

"And Tarmanaz?" Sidaizon asked.

"Him, too."

"You'll try to forget about him and not think of what he's done because you don't agree with it?"

"I can think what I want!  He was only thinking of himself when he chose to join those stupid, cruel animals, so why shouldn't I do the same?"  She lay back down, as far from Sidaizon on the mattress as she could manage, with her face hidden in her pillow.  The curve of her back rose and fell with each furious breath.

"Eäzinya..."

Her shoulders tensed, but she said nothing, and did not move.

"I'm sorry to hear about your sister.  Valima.  It's a terrible thing that happened to her, and the men responsible should have been punished long ago."  He paused, watching for any response from Eäzinya, but she did not even falter in her breathing.  Biting back a sigh, he continued.  "I know you're angry, and hurt.  But you can't hate Tarmanaz for the actions of another, especially for something that happened when you were a child.

"I can hate Tarmanaz for his own actions."

"That's... true," Sidaizon allowed, "but I think you're being too quick to condemn him."

"He was quick enough to join the King's Hands.  However quick he is in his actions, I can be just as quick to judge him for them."

"Then perhaps if he's equally quick to show remorse for what he's done, you will be able to find time to forgive him."

"No," she said coldly.  "I don't think I will."

"Eäzinya, you're being unreasonable.  When Tarmanaz joined the Hands, he had no idea his decision would hurt you so deeply.  You should at least give him a chance to make amends."

"He knew I hated them."

"Everyone hates them.  How could he have known that your hatred was anything more than the standard loathing everyone feels for corrupt, power-mad law enforcement?  I had no idea.  You never so much as hinted at it to me, so how should Tarmanaz, who is as empathetically perceptive as a sack of rocks, be able to guess?  He did this to upset me, not you."

"And in the end he upset me, not you."  Eäzinya turned over to finally look at Sidaizon.  She was no longer weeping; instead, her face had gone hard and her eyes viciously bright.  "He's a selfish boy caught up in revenge, and he didn't even stop to think how what he did might affect his family.  He didn't consider me, so I won't consider him.  I want him out of this house.  He can stay until he's given a place in the fortress with those other thugs, but after that, I don't want to see him.  He made his choice.  He can live with it.  I won't."

~

"It was your idea," Tarmanaz started.  He sat in bed with his arms folded across his chest, staring smugly up at Sidaizon as he spoke.  "I never would have done it if not for you, so you have only yourself to blame, Atar."  Snorting, he flopped down and rolled over with the blankets pulled up to cover his ears.

Sidaizon gave him a light kick on the bottom.  "Up.  Out of bed."

"Why?  So you can lecture me face to face?  No.  It's easier to not listen to you lying down."

"No, Tarmanaz," Sidaizon answered.  "It's your fault I've been thrown out of my own bed, so therefore it's only fitting that you should be the one to sleep on the floor.  Up.  Out.  Now."

Tarmanaz's confusion only made it easier to prod him off the mattress.  "What do you mean, you..."  He slid onto the floor with a thud, and Sidaizon quickly lay down to take his place.

"Good night, boys."

"You're sleeping out here?" Márathul asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"We'll talk about it in the morning."

Márathul made a sound as if he were being strangled.   "Oh, right.  Of course.  Morning."

Scowling, Sidaizon rolled over to look at his sons.  "Would you rather I keep you up all night discussing this, and none of us sleeps?"

Tarmanaz and Márathul exchanged a glance.  "Yes," they both answered.

"Oh for..."  With a quick curse under his breath, Sidaizon sat back up to stare at the two of them.  "Fine.  Fine, we will have a nice talk, right now."

"Good," said Tarmanaz.  He shuffled up onto Márathul's bed, pushing him aside.  "Move over."

"No!" Márathul replied.  "You heard Attu; you're on the floor!"

"I'm not sleeping on the stupid floor.  Move over!"

Márathul, no match for Tarmanaz in terms of strength, grudgingly slid over to the edge of the mattress.  "I get the pillow," he muttered.

"Did Amma toss you out?" Tarmanaz asked Sidaizon.  "Why?"

Sidaizon shook his head.  "That's the later part of the story: my part.  If we're staying up all night to discuss this, I insist we start from the beginning.  That's your part of the story, Tarmanaz.  Please enlighten us as to why you decided to join the King's Hands."

The same smug grin as he had been wearing before crossed Tarmanaz's face.  "It was your idea."

"I don't recall ever expressing such an idea to you, but do continue."

"Last night," Tarmanaz explained.  "You came home with that token telling us how the King's Hands tried to recruit you, and said it was based only on how you looked.  Then this morning I thought, well, people are always saying how much I look like you.  So I thought that if they want you they should want me too, right?  And they did.  Accepted me the moment I walked through their door.  So here I am."

"That doesn't sound like what you told-" Márathul began, but a warning jab to the chest from Tarmanaz's elbow quieted him.

"Did you say something?" asked Tarmanaz.

"No."  Huffing, Márathul hoarded the pillow more toward his side of the mattress, shielding it from Tarmanaz with both arms.  "Just that you're stupider than a dog's dick."

"Boys-" Sidaizon began, but abandoned the reprimand immediately.  They were well past old enough to fight if they wanted, and his selfish side knew that any time they spent on baiting each other was less time spent on questioning him.  He settled back, folding his hands behind his head, and waited for the inevitable shoving match to end.  The rising noise of their quarrel rang through the room, culminating in the dull smack of Márathul's fist against Tarmanaz's cheek.

"You attacked me!" hollered Tarmanaz.  "You attacked one of the King's Hands!  I can throw you in prison for that!"

"You attacked me first!"

Sidaizon groaned.  "Boys, if you can't maim each other quietly, you're both sleeping outside!  Márathul, you're certainly behaving like a future Almatar by punching Tarmanaz in the face.  And Tarmanaz, by all means, call the Hands down here to arrest Márathul for fighting with you over a mattress.  I'm sure they'll appreciate your maturity.  Now for the love of Manwë, quiet down and go to sleep!"

Tarmanaz cast Márathul one final look of disgust before sliding down to the far end of the bed, out of hitting distance.  "Perhaps you should tell your side of the story, Attu.  Why Amma's making you sleep out here."

"Are you finished with your tale?" Sidaizon asked.

"Yes."

"That's all?  You went to their offices, based purely on some whim concocted after I offhandedly mentioned my experience last night, and now you've joined the Hands?"

"Yes."

Sidaizon looked to Márathul, hoping for any hint as to what he had been about to divulge that had started the fight, but Márathul held his jaw clenched shut as he glared in the direction of Tarmanaz.  "Máro?  Did you have something to add?"

"No," Márathul answered, hardly moving his mouth.  "I'm sure that's exactly what happened.  Manwë knows Tarmanaz never lies."

The full truth would have to wait for some other day.  "I see."

Tarmanaz, quick to let that topic fall, interrupted.  "That's my side finished.  Now yours.  Why is Amma upset with you?"

"Well," said Sidaizon, "the short answer is: because I defended your choice, however poorly thought out it may have been, and dared suggest that perhaps this was a good path for you to take."

That was clearly not the answer Tarmanaz had expected.  He leaned back, stunned into silence, and stared at Sidaizon as if waiting for some further condemning lecture.  "You... think..."

"Don't misunderstand: I'm not the least bit proud of you for how you did this and the shock you caused your mother.  I do think the end result is good, but the means left much to be desired.  You could have handled things better, Tarmanaz."

His expression did not change.  "So... are you angry or not?"

"No," Sidaizon answered, "I'm not angry.  Annoyed, a little, for your lack of common decency, but that's all."

For another long moment, Tarmanaz seemed unable to speak.  He shifted nervously and coughed, while his eyes darted back and forth between Sidaizon and the white uniform that now sat folded at the foot of his bed.  "I don't understand," he said.  "So you're... not angry that I joined the King's Hands."

Sidaizon nodded.  "That's correct.  To be honest, Tarmanaz, this is a path I would have even suggested for you years ago, had you ever shown the slightest interest in such a thing.  But I was always under the impression that you preferred breaking the law over enforcing it."

Tarmanaz's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, but he said nothing.

"Anyhow," Sidaizon continued.  "What bothers me about your actions today is that you chose to sneak away and enlist in secret rather than be honest with your family.  And the suddenness makes me wonder if this is something you truly want, or if you have just signed your life away to the service of the King in some misguided attempt at revenge on me for cutting your hair.  The Hands won't easily release you, Tarmanaz, so Manwë save you if you're not prepared to live with what you've done."

"I am," Tarmanaz quickly answered.  "This is what I want."

"Then I hope that's true.  And that you did give this more than a few hours' thought.  I only wish you would have told me, so we could have given your mother time to adjust to the idea; it'll be a long while before she'll forgive you for this shock."

"Well, I'm sorry for that..." muttered Tarmanaz.

"We'll work on this.  I'll help you try to persuade her to see your new position as a fine step forward.  Sound good?"

Tarmanaz lowered his head in a humbled nod.  "Good," he agreed.  He cleared his throat and shifted again before adding, in an almost inaudible voice, "Thank you, Attu."

"Alla, Hilu.  Now go to sleep.  I have to leave for the Lavazat at sunrise, and the stars only know how late it is."

Both Tarmanaz and Márathul lay down on the mattress without any further complaints, each occupying the barest minimum of an edge to keep as much space as possible between them.  They shifted and coughed, but neither spoke to the other, and neither rekindled the fight.  Eventually, the restlessness ceased and their breathing slowed, and they fell into sleep.

Sidaizon lay awake, staring up at the shadowy ceiling.  The story of Eäzinya's sister would not leave him.  It played out in his mind's eye as if he had watched the scene himself: the King's Hands, all tall and rough-looking men, surrounding a frightened young girl on the street.  Only in this vision, the girl was Nautalya.  Sidaizon's stomach twisted with a sickening sort of fear.  What would I do, he asked himself, if it truly were Nautalya there?  He would kill them.  That answer came quickly enough.  But no matter how hard he tried to imagine himself in the middle of the scene, cutting the throats of those men with a dagger, the vision would not change.  The Hands ripped off Nautalya's dress, and Sidaizon had no power to stop them.

What would I do, he then asked, if Nautalya came home as Eäzinya's sister did, weeping and dirty in a torn dress?  Of course her honour would be destroyed, and the family's with it, but terrible as that was he could not bring himself to agree with Eäzinya's father's decision to arrange an immediate marriage.  The thought of Nautalya married at twenty-two was more repulsive to him than any loss of honour.

I would move the family to Tirion, he decided.  We would start a new life.  It is cowardly to run away, but surely better to be a coward than abandon a child.

Satisfied, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the scene with the Hands played again.  Over and over, a group of them, as many as a dozen, surrounded a girl on the street: sometimes Nautalya, and sometimes the faceless, unknown Valima.  One took her by the shoulder and ripped her dress; she turned and ran.  She fled down unfamiliar streets, or past the Lavazat, or past the bath house, each time trying to hide in a different place, until finally she found herself in Tirion.  The Hands still followed like wolves.  But in Tirion, the scene changed, and Tarmanaz appeared with a gleaming sword in his hand and a shield that shone with the brilliance of diamonds on his arm.  It was the dark-haired, Noldorin Tarmanaz that Sidaizon had seen in his vision on the night of the burial, but Tarmanaz all the same.  He raised his sword to strike down the Hands.  Their weapons clashed, and Sidaizon jumped in anticipation of the noise, startling himself awake.

He inhaled a quick breath and held it.  His heart raced and pounded in his throat.

What a strange dream...

Closing his eyes again, he forced himself to take long, slow breaths to calm his heart, mimicking the gentle rhythm of Tarmanaz and Márathul sleeping peacefully in the next bed.  It helped a little.  To his relief, though, the King's Hands no longer dominated his thoughts.  Instead, they had been replaced by the vision of Noldorin Tarmanaz with his bright sword.

Better.  He shifted into a more comfortable position on his side, and tried to find more restful sleep.  He would tell Eäzinya about the dream in the morning.  She always liked superstitious visions and omens.  This one showed Tarmanaz rising above the corruption of the Hands to restore lawfulness, so perhaps she would accept it as a sign that she ought to forgive him.

Desecration in the Face of the Lord

Read Desecration in the Face of the Lord

Tarmanaz had been sensible enough to quietly dress and leave the house even before Sidaizon awoke, so there was no sign of him and his white uniform when Eäzinya appeared to light the kitchen fire.  In the light of morning, her fury had cooled.  She served Sidaizon's breakfast with an unusual level of attentiveness and respect, as if trying to wordlessly apologise for throwing him out of bed the night before by slicing extra fruit into his porridge and refilling his tea cup whenever he set it down.  He, in turn, accepted the peace offering through constant smiles and meaningless compliments on the prettiness of her hair.  On the surface, they were reconciled.  But their parting embrace when he left for the Lavazat was stilted and awkward.
 
Márathul went with him that day, having reasoned that the Lavazat would be a perfect location for their postponed discussion.  With its quiet rooms behind thick, stone walls, father and son could speak of anything without the risk of being overheard by either strangers on the street or Nautalya and Tarmanaz at home.  Sidaizon did insist that they spend the morning doing the work they were meant to do, but once the afternoon came around, when they were finished writing out marriage and birth records and had spoken with all of the prayer-seekers who had come for the Almatar's advice and blessing, they retreated to the privacy of Sidaizon's office.  Márathul, suddenly twitching with nerves, took a seat on a bench in the far corner.  Sidaizon sat facing him from across the room.
 
"So, Máro.  You wanted to have a talk?  Here is the time and place.  What shall we talk about?"
 
Márathul reddened and stared at his ankles, looking as if he wanted to squirm straight out of his own skin, and for one, bright moment Sidaizon allowed himself to hope that Márathul would call everything off, too uncomfortable to speak.  But, with a cough, he found his voice.
 
"I think you should... you should just tell me everything."
 
"Everything about what?"
 
"You know what," Márathul growled.  "Anin.  Everything.  Where you met him, when, why..."
 
Leaning back, Sidaizon clenched his jaw and ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth.  He could proceed as usual, offering only slivers of information as Márathul pried them out with specific questions, one by one, or he could be done with it quickly.  After the previous day's interrogation and a hard night spent with little sleep, the second option seemed somehow more appealing.  And he had promised Márathul an explanation.  He would deliver it.
 
"Márathul..." he began slowly.  "I will tell you the entire story, hoping that you won't think less of me for hearing it, but I will remind you first that all of this took place a long time ago when I was much younger, and before your mother was even born.  Anything that happened four hundred or more years ago has no bearing on my love for her, nor our marriage.  Can you accept that?"
 
"I think that depends on what you'll be asking me to accept."
 
Sidaizon sighed.  "If that's your reaction, then I won't go on.  If you can't separate who I am and what I do now from who I was and what I did then, there's no purpose to me telling you anything, because it will just upset you."
 
"Fine," said Márathul.  "Fine: I accept it."
 
"You accept what?"
 
Again, Márathul seemed hardly able to contain his nerves and discomfort.  "I accept that... you're married to Amma now and... you love her, and... all this is in the past from before you met her."  He kept his eyes in a solid, downward glare as he spoke.
 
"Good," Sidaizon said, nodding.  "Keep that in mind."  He paused to allow Márathul time for a reply, but none came.  He continued.   "Very well.  How this all started...  I came down from the mountain at the age of one hundred and three years, newly appointed to my position as a transcription assistant in the Lavazat near that small bath house we usually visit.  Do you know what was the first significant thing I did?"
 
Márathul shook his head in silence, still looking at the floor.
 
"I arranged myself a temporary marriage."
 
That admission caught Márathul's full attention.  He snapped his head up and choked on the words that came bursting out.  "You did what?  You were married?!  Does Amma know?!"
 
"Yes," said Sidaizon.  "She needs not know about Anin, but this, I did tell her."
 
"And she sees nothing wrong with you having been married before?!"
 
"Máro, a temporary marriage is nothing like a true marriage.  It's nothing more than a contract, signed by any agent of the King, giving a man and woman permission to behave as if they are married.  It's no different from what many young couples do in secret, except that it's legal."
 
"So you married some slut-" Márathul huffed.
 
"I signed a contract with a wealthy widow whose husband had been killed in a hunting accident some years earlier.  Most temporary marriages, you should know, are between young men without the money to find true wives, and older widows looking for bodies to warm their beds until their husbands return from Mandos."
 
Márathul grumbled a handful of unintelligible words to himself as he slumped back down against the wall.
 
"Let me tell you some history here," said Sidaizon, ignoring Márathul's grousing, "so you can better understand the situation."  He leaned forward, trying to catch and hold Márathul's gaze, and only continued when Márathul reluctantly met his eyes.  "The laws behind temporary marriage evolved from much older customs, dating all the way back to the days at Cuiviénen.  Back then, no-one knew what happened to the spirits of the dead, and no-one could guess that those who had been killed might one day be reborn.  So it was not uncommon for a person to remarry after the death of a husband or wife.  It was only after the Eldar came to Valinor that we learned the truth, when the practice of remarriage was quickly outlawed by the Valar."
 
"So... the temporary contracts are a way around that ban?" Márathul guessed.
 
Sidaizon smiled at him.  "Exactly.  Permanent remarriage is forbidden, but the desires and customs of common folk still hold some sway over the King.  Ingwë preferred the idea of temporary contracts for those seeking to remarry over having his people simply lie together in sin, and so the new law was written.  But that law is very specific.  A person can have no more than one temporary marriage in a span of twelve years, to prevent indecency, no children may result from the union, and, unlike a true marriage, a temporary contract can be challenged in a court of law by anyone who disapproves of it.  The contract can be dissolved at any time by any agent of the King, for any reason.  It holds none of the legal security that a true marriage offers."
 
Márathul snorted.  "Then it sounds like nothing more than an excuse for immorality, and a waste of time.  It should be outlawed."
 
"Yes, I agree," said Sidaizon.
 
Márathul almost nodded until he realised what Sidaizon had just said.  "Wait, you...  But you told me..."
 
"That is, I agree that it should be outlawed.  As to the immorality, well, people will do that anyhow regardless of the laws.  But temporary marriage is a ridiculous, archaic notion that should be banned."
 
The look of bewilderment on Márathul's face said more than his words ever could.  "I... don't understand.  You just told me you had a temporary marriage, but you're against it?"
 
"That's right," Sidaizon said, nodding.  "I had a temporary marriage.  It lasted all of four days before I realised I had made a mistake and had the contract voided.  You see, what I wanted in my life at that time was a real marriage to a real wife, and I foolishly assumed that this contract would be the ideal thing to hold me over until I could afford a proper wedding.  But it turned out to be too close to my desires.  After two days, I knew I was in danger of falling in love with this woman.  If stayed with her too long, I knew I would end up truly married to her as far as my heart was concerned.  Then what would I do when our contract expired or her husband returned?  It would all but kill me to have to leave her.  So I had to save myself and end our relationship.  That's why I'm against temporary marriage, Márathul.  Not because of any morality, since people do far worse things together in the dark of night when they think no-one is watching, but because it gives us false hope and lets us believe we can have the impossible.  It complicates lives and gives a few years of happiness in return for a lifetime of grief and anguish and jealousy.  The Eldar are meant to marry once and only once.  We should respect that."
 
Leaning back, Márathul appeared to be halfway satisfied with that answer.  "So what of Anin, then?"
 
"I found him later.  When I was sick of being alone all the time.  What I wanted was a proper marriage to a Valadávan girl, but since I had no money for that, I limited myself to physical satisfaction only with the exact opposite: a Yaranénon boy.  I'm not proud of having done so, and to be honest, in hindsight I wish I hadn't been so weak.  But there you have it.  We all make mistakes."
 
"Which means," said Márathul, "you should have stayed with the high morals of Taniquetil in the first place, because they turned out to be right.  Bodily union is a sacred act reserved for marriage alone."
 
He seemed so sure of himself: sitting on his bench and speaking with the conviction of an Oraistar.  "Do you truly believe that?" Sidaizon asked quietly.
 
Márathul answered with a glare.  "Of course I do!  Don't you?"
 
"I do now, certainly," said Sidaizon.  "Now that I am older and wiser.  As I did when I was very young and too naive to think for myself.  Strange how half a lifetime of making mistakes can help one come back full circle to realise that Manwë has given us guidance for a reason."
 
"An Almatar should know that Manwë is right.  Without making mistakes."
 
"Yes, he should.  However, Almatardi and even Oraistari are men like any others, and prone to stumbling into the same idiotic lapses in judgement.  We just tend to lapse more effectively, because we know the intricacies of the law and can therefore usually avoid doing anything so illegal as to be arrested."  Sidaizon smiled, but Márathul refused to see anything amusing in their conversation.
 
"I can't believe Taniquetil would let you think like that," he muttered.  "If the Oraistari knew..."
 
And in an instant, two otherwise unconnected notions clicked together perfectly in Sidaizon's mind.  Taniquetil.  Márathul's need for unspotted morality applied not only to Sidaizon, but to the Almatardi as a whole.  As much as anything else, it was his own faith and future that he questioned.
 
"Anyhow, enough of that," Sidaizon said, trying to force a measure of lightness into his tone.  "Time to change the subject.  If we talk about this all day, you'll only grow more upset.  And you seem upset enough already."  He paused, searching for any hint as to what it was that Márathul so feared.  "Is there something else you want to discuss?"
 
"No," answered Márathul.  "I'm fine with continuing on this topic."
 
"Are you sure?  Nothing bothering you?  No concerns?"
 
Looking away, Márathul repeated his refusal: "No."
 
"You see," said Sidaizon, "If I were you, about to commit to sixty years of study, I'd want to ask as many questions as I could about the Academy and its operations."
 
"I'm not worried.  The Academy is governed by the King himself.  It's the very seat of morality and law.  In fact, I can't wait to go there."
 
Sidaizon bit back a reply, holding it a moment on the end of his tongue, but it slipped out before he could swallow it completely.  "I don't think you're ready, Máro."
 
Márathul answered with a contemptuous snort.  "Why not?  You still think I'm too young?  Not dedicated enough?  How would you know?  You've never asked me what I want.  You still think I'm your confused little son."
 
The gate of caution had been broken; there was no more sense in holding back.  Sidaizon swore at himself.  "No.  That's not why.  It's because you are sheltered and idealistic.  Listen to me.  The men who survive this education aren't the pure-hearted young fellows like you who fervently believe in Manwë's goodness.  Though those men might be the most deserving and best suited to life as an Almatar, they're quickly disillusioned by reality and tend to leave within a year.  The ones who stay are the ones who have nowhere else to go.  Self-important younger sons of nobles, who have been refused a share in the family fortune.  Desperate street-rats looking for a better life.  Boys skirting the edge of the law.  The only requirements for admission are that the student be at least thirty-six years old and Valadávan, though as far as that's concerned, I know in the past they've accepted Yaranénon criminals who escaped the executioner by converting at the door.  True believers are crowded out by the rabble."
 
"But surely the Oraistari-" Márathul began.
 
"The Oraistari don't care.  For the first twenty years, you live as little more than a slave, scrubbing floors, cooking food, washing bedding, and doing whatever else the Oraistari order you to do.  To them, it makes no difference if the slave is a blessed believer or just some wretch who crawled in off the street because he was tired of going hungry.  After twenty years of drudgery, they're all the same anyhow: dull-minded and broken."
 
"It would take more than drudgery to drive me away," said Márathul.  "I'm not afraid of work."
 
"The work is not the problem," Sidaizon answered with a shake of his head.  "The problem is the despicable behaviour of the other students."
 
"With the Oraistari watching?  What happens?"
 
Sidaizon groaned, rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair.  "Fighting, bullying, gambling, and worse.  Márathul, there are one hundred or so hot-headed young men stuck in a mountain fortress together for sixty years without even the opportunity to so much as look at a woman.  What do you think happens?"
 
The flush of anger drained from Márathul's face and a greyish cast came over his skin.  He sat, frozen with shock, for only a moment before he abruptly stood and fled the room.
 
"Márathul!"
 
Márathul neither slowed nor looked back.  Cursing under his breath, Sidaizon jumped up to hurry after him.  "Márathul!  Wait!"
 
Márathul quickened his pace, breaking into a run, but was forced to stop at the front door: Sidaizon had locked it to prevent anyone from entering while they sat in the office.  He shook the handle violently before stepping back with the realisation that he was trapped.  "Unlock the door," he growled.
 
"No," said Sidaizon.  "You wanted to talk about this, and we are talking.  You need to calm down."
 
"I don't need to do anything!" Márathul shouted, his voice shrill.  "You lied to me!"
 
"Lied?  Máro, I just told you the complete truth-"
 
"You lied!" he repeated.  "You all lied!  You and the Almatardi and the Oraistari, all filthy liars!  Pretending to be good and moral people, pretending to uphold the laws of the Valar, you're all hypocrites, and you're all liars!"
 
"Withholding harmful aspects of the truth is not the same as lying."
 
"It's as good as!"
 
"That's a very Noldorin philosophy," said Sidaizon.  "Only Noldor believe that everyone should know everything at all times, in the interest of fairness."
 
"Oh, shut up!" shouted Márathul.  "Piss on the Noldor!  You're trying to distract me!  I'm not listening; I'm not stupid.  Let me out.  I don't want to talk to you any more."
 
"That's unfortunate, because I want to talk to you.  And since I had to endure your questions when I had no desire to do so, you're now obliged to listen to mine.  First, what are you so afraid of, Máro?"
 
"I'm not afraid!  I'm..." he growled, then hit his fist against the locked door in frustration.  "I'm disgusted.  And..."
 
"And that's why I don't think you're ready to go to the Academy," Sidaizon finished.  "If the Oraistari truly wanted it to be a 'seat of morality', as you call it, they would admit only married men and allow entire families to move up there.  As it is, the good, moral men are not the ones they hope to attract.  They want the non-believers and hedonists and criminals.  They want to take society's misfits and transform them.  Why bother spending that effort on a man who already follows their rules of his own free will?  The Oraistari want the worst they can find because they know there's nobody as ferociously pious as a reformed sinner trying to erase his own past."
 
Slowly, Márathul's shoulders began to relax, and he dropped his arms to his sides.  "Reformed sinners," he repeated.  The words seemed to have an oddly soothing effect on him.
 
"Yes," said Sidaizon.  "The Academy takes on the worst of us and turns us into better people.  If not for that place, I don't know where I would be today, but it would be nowhere good.  Possibly serving ale at a public house in Tirion or even working alongside Anin at the bath house."
 
If Márathul found anything shocking in that statement, he did not show it.  "What made you decide to go?"
 
Sidaizon sighed.  "A very fortunate chance.  I had run away from home and was in fact standing at that bath house gate, ready to throw my life in the gutter, when a kind man, an Almatar, suggested to me that there might be a better choice.  All I needed was food and a place to live, and the Academy offered both."
 
Márathul gave a little nod; he had gone quiet, as if he had run out of arguments.  Or perhaps he was simply overwhelmed by everything he had been told in such a short span of time.  The entire world he revered, the great holiness of Taniquetil, had all but fallen down in around his feet.
 
"Shall we go outside for a while?  The fresh air and sunshine might be nice.  I think there's some weeding to be done around the gate."  Sidaizon put a careful hand on his shoulder, urging him away from the lock.
 
Again, Márathul nodded, though he remained silently dazed as he moved aside.  Sidaizon released the lock and pushed open the Lavazat's heavy door.  A fresh breeze flowed in, cool and calming after the tense conversation.  He squinted against the sudden brightness of the sunlight.  Three figures in the courtyard caught his eye, and his stomach lurched.
 
There were Noldorin women standing on the grass, idly chattering and admiring the roses that grew up the whitewashed garden walls.  All three had dark, unbound hair that fell down their backs in waves, covered only by the flimsiest of transparent veils.  They wore gowns of thin material that clung to their bodies like water, hiding nothing of their shapes, and the necklines were cut so large as to brazenly display their shoulders and dip dangerously low on the curves of their breasts.  One wore a tight silver girdle to accentuate the smallness of her waist above the curve of her hips.
 
"Attu!" Márathul whispered, horrified.
 
Sidaizon strode forward out onto the Lavazat's front stairs, and called to the women in a sharp voice, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
 
Two looked up, startled at his speech.  The third, in her silver girdle, held her head high and fixed him with an imperious glare.  "It's about time," she said.  She spoke with the hard, precise accent of Tirion.  "I've been knocking at the door for nearly an hour.  Tell my uncle that we've arrived, and you might also inform him of the poor manners and hospitality of his household.  I don't appreciate being made to wait out in the hot sun."
 
That a woman should have the audacity to speak to him in such a way, and a disgracefully dressed Noldorin woman at that, made Sidaizon's blood surge with fury, though he was too astounded to do anything more than stare at them.  "...Your uncle?"
 
"Yes," said the woman.  "I am Lord Feryarátor's niece.  Tell him I'm here and have been waiting for an hour."
 
Márathul pushed his way through the door with an angry shout before Sidaizon could think of a proper reply.  "This isn't your uncle's house!  This is a temple of worship dedicated to Lord Manwë and you're not allowed to be here!"
 
One of the two companions grabbed the woman's hand nervously.  "I told you this isn't right.  We should have turned the other way.  Let's go back, and-"
 
"No.  I think I know my own uncle's house.  I recognise the roses."  The woman tossed her hair and looked down her nose at Márathul, an expression of disdain on her face.  "These two are just being ignorant and probably want a bribe."
 
That was enough for Sidaizon.  He held up his hand, signalling for Márathul to stay on the stairs, and walked out to confront Lord Feryarátor's niece face to face.  She was tall, as were most Noldorin women, but he was taller and was able to stand over her by a few inches at least.  He stared hard at her, trying to assert some measure of authority.  Refusing to be intimidated, she stared back and lifted one expectant eyebrow.
 
"You heard my son," he said quietly.  "This is not your uncle's house.  You are mistaken.  It is a holy place, and you are not allowed here.  Leave now before you make trouble for yourself."
 
"Rilmi!" the friend whispered, tugging again at the woman's hand.  "Please, let's just go..."
 
"No," said the woman called Rilmi.  "I can handle these kuli peasants."  She drew herself up taller, pushing her shoulders back, and glared at Sidaizon.  "Don't you know who I am?"
 
"No," he answered, "and nor do I care.  But I will tell you who I am.  I am Almatar Sidaizon Motázyo, and this is my Lavazat: Oichimyaiva.  You have no business being here, and in fact it is forbidden.  Go seek your uncle elsewhere.  I can guarantee you won't find his house anywhere near here; this is a poor neighbourhood of working labourers and craftsmen.  Go look for him near the river."
 
"And I am Lady Rilmalië of Eremas," she said, speaking loudly over his last few words.  "My uncle Feryarátor is lord of all lands south of Tirion for three hundred miles, and he is the area's ambassador to King Ingwë himself.  Now take me to him!"
 
Sidaizon clenched his fist.  He could have slapped this stupid woman across the face, but for the fact that touching any female heretic would mean having to visit an Oraistar to cleanse him of her impurity.  And the Oraistar would more than likely recommend a day-long bath in one of Taniquetil's frigid holy springs.  The satisfaction to be gained from striking her was not worth the price.  Grunting, he forced himself to look away in an effort to calm his rage.
 
A movement at the gate caught his eye.  Squinting against the sunlight, he found himself suddenly looking at Tarmanaz, who stood there in his white and gold uniform with his hand raised in greeting.  Lady Rilmalië's two companions noticed Tarmanaz as well; one gasped, the other stifled a scream, and both reflexively lifted the drooping necklines of their gowns up to their chins.  So the Noldorin women were clearly familiar with the King's Hands.
 
"Alla," said Tarmanaz, waving to Sidaizon and Márathul.  He seemed oblivious to the strange scene in the courtyard.
 
"Rilmi, let's go!" one of the women cried, and the other followed with, "Now!  We have to go now!"
 
Rilmalië whipped around to face Tarmanaz.  "I'm not afraid of you!" she shouted at him, but her voice cracked with fear.  "I'm the niece of the ambassador, Lord Feryarátor, and-"  Stiffening, she snapped her mouth shut and scurried back to huddle with her ladies as Tarmanaz took a step toward her.
 
"Who are they?" Tarmanaz asked Márathul.
 
"Intruders!" said Márathul.  "Tell them to go away!"
 
With a shrug, Tarmanaz turned to the women.  "Go away."
 
All three flinched and the two companions whispered furiously to the Lady Rilmalië, but they did not move.
 
Tarmanaz adopted a more fearsome expression and pointed to the gate.  "Get out of here!" he shouted.
 
All three women ran, shrieking.
 
Shrugging again and casually picking dirt from under his thumbnail, Tarmanaz crossed the courtyard.  "What was that, anyhow?"
 
"I have no idea," said Sidaizon.  "We were inside the Lavazat and found them here when we came back out."
 
"One of them thought it was her uncle's house," Márathul added.  "Stupid sluts!"
 
"Máro!" Sidaizon snapped.  "No need for such language."  He looked to Tarmanaz.  "What brings you here?"
 
"I went to be fitted for boots.  Been wandering around since then.  My training doesn't start for another four days, but I thought it wasn't a good idea to be at home without you while Amma's... you know.  So I came here."
 
"Good," said Márathul.  "You can help."
 
"Help?" Tarmanaz asked.  He raised his eyebrows at Sidaizon, but Sidaizon had no better idea of what Márathul intended.
 
"Those Noldorin women desecrated holy ground with their heathen feet."
 
"Ah," said Sidaizon.  "So they did."  

"We have to clean it."

The notion had passed briefly through Sidaizon's mind, though he had been content to let the rain do the work when it next came.  The holy ground had already been sullied by the Yaranénor and their fire.  But he knew the importance Márathul placed on rules and rituals, especially after their talk.  Working together under the law of Taniquetil would do them good.  "Máro, you get the scythe from garden shed and start cutting the grass.  Tarmanaz and I will haul water to wash the ground and roses."

 
Tarmanaz, looking appalled, laid protective hands over his spotless white tunic.  "I can't do that, I'll get dirty!"
 
"So will I," said Sidaizon, "but clothes can be washed.  Just take off your shirt."  Leading the way, he pulled off the layers of his Almatar's robes and even his shoes, until he stood on the defiled grass wearing only his white corima trousers.  Reluctantly, Tarmanaz did the same.
 
For the rest of the afternoon, they hauled water and washed the courtyard free of the memory of the Noldor.  Sidaizon sang prayers to Manwë, with Márathul joining in whenever he could recognise the melody and words.  At sunset, Sidaizon deemed the courtyard satisfactorily clean and purified.  He had left the convert woman's grave untouched: somehow it seemed wrong to wash away the remnants of the fire Authimer and Idizimë had made.  It could stay until the next rain.  But when all else was clean, he and Márathul and Tarmanaz put away the buckets and gardening tools, and they gathered their clothes to go home.
 
"Well, Máro?" Sidaizon asked as he locked the gate after them.  "After all that discussion and hard work, do you still want to go to the Academy?"
 
"Yes," Márathul answered without even a moment of consideration.
 
Sidaizon nodded.  Márathul had made up his mind.  "Then I will hire a carriage to take you up the mountain."

Summons by Night

Read Summons by Night

 

"There were Noldorin women in the courtyard of the Lavazat!" Márathul announced when they returned home.

Eäzinya, setting bowls and cups on the floor in preparation for supper, looked shocked but said nothing. Nautalya immediately showed interest. "What did they look like? Were they real Noldor?"

"I don't know," said Márathul. "Probably. How should I know how Noldor are supposed to look? They had black hair. But they were in the courtyard where they're not supposed to be. There's even a sign beside the gate saying only Valadávar are allowed!"

"They likely couldn't read," said Sidaizon. "Most women can't."

"Most Noldorin women can," Amárië countered. She did not look up from her beadwork when she spoke, and her voice held a confrontational challenge.

Sidaizon let it pass. If she were still cross with him over the baby, fighting about whether or not Noldorin women could read would not help. "Perhaps they can read only Tengwar. The sign is written in Sarati. Anyhow, they were there, Tarmanaz valiantly made them leave, and then we cleansed and purified the ground to be rid of their unholy presence, so all is well."

"Noldor are not unholy," snapped Amárië. "Your father was Noldorin, which means that you are Noldorin, so it's ridiculous to talk that way."

"These ones were unholy," said Sidaizon. "If you saw their manner of dress you would agree."

"How were they dressed?" Nautalya asked. "Were they wearing beautiful gowns?"

Eäzinya gave her a sharp look. "You do not need to know how they were dressed."

"No, you certainly do not," Sidaizon agreed. "The less said about such indecent clothing, the better. In fact, the less said about the Noldorin women, the better. Why don't we forget about them and sit down to eat our supper."

"That's a very good idea," said Eäzinya. "Nautalya, come help me with the food."

The two of them disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later, Eäzinya carrying a large bowl of soup and Nautalya bearing a platter piled high with slices of roasted eggplant. A basket of bread already waited on the floor where Eäzinya had laid out the place settings. As everyone sat down, Eäzinya fetched a pot of tea. She poured tea for everyone except Tarmanaz, who strangely enough found himself sitting on the supper blanket with no cup, no bowl, and no spoon.

He looked to Sidaizon for help. "Attu?"

"Nautalya, go fetch your brother a place setting."

"But Amma said..." Nautalya began, though she quickly thought better of the objection. She and Tarmanaz had always been close: he was the one who told her stories and played the beloved game of chasing her around the house pretending to be a monster. She ran to the kitchen and fetched Tarmanaz his dishes.

Sidaizon could see Eäzinya's jaw clench in annoyance as Tarmanaz helped himself to tea, but she kept her complaints to herself. He reached out to squeeze her hand. She allowed it. "What a lovely supper," he said. "Everyone should thank Manwë for providing us with such good food, and thank Amma for taking the time to prepare it so well."

Bowing their heads, the family murmured thanks.

"And I helped," Nautalya added.

"Very good, Alya. Now let's eat."

Throughout supper, Amárië sat in prickly silence, Márathul stared at his soup looking lost in thought, and Nautalya and Tarmanaz exchanged whispers into each others' ears on the topic of, Sidaizon was sure, the Noldorin women's clothing and appearance. Nautalya's eyes had grown wide, and she sat up very straight, looking impressed. After supper, Eäzinya punished her for her camaraderie with Tarmanaz by making her clear everything away and wash the dishes by herself.

"Come with me," Eäzinya said to Sidaizon as Nautalya, huffing and grumping, cleared away the bowls. "I want to talk to you."

A flicker of apprehension shot through him. Certainly this would be about Tarmanaz. Nonetheless, he nodded, and followed her to the bedroom. She did not bother to light a candle before locking the door behind them. In the darkness of the room, she slid her arms around his waist and leaned forward to rest her head against his chest. Reflexively, he wrapped her in a strong embrace and kissed her hair.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have thrown you out of bed last night. That was a terrible thing to do."

"It's no worry. I survived."

"Still, I feel awful about it. I should never have done that. I was so angry at Tarmanaz that I wasn't thinking right. You forgive me?"

"Of course," he said. He kissed her hair again, inhaling its clean scent.

"I thought about a lot of things all night, and all of today while you were gone. I realised that..." she paused, as if trying to find the courage to admit her error; "...that you're right, and this might not be such a bad thing, and that I shouldn't be so upset."

"You have a right to be upset," he offered, but she shook her head.

"No. That's what I was thinking about. And I know this will sound terrible, but what I realised is that if not for what happened to Valima, we wouldn't be here right now. If she hadn't been dishonoured, my father wouldn't have had to work so hard to restore our family reputation. He wouldn't have decided that I had to show the world I was perfect and virtuous, that I had to marry an Almatar, and he wouldn't have chosen you as my ideal husband. If Valima had not been shamed, she would have gone on to marry some neighbourhood craftsman or merchant, and so would I. But because her life was destroyed, mine turned out to be so much better."

"And you feel guilty?"

She looked up at him. "How can I not? She's dead, and I've been made so happy because of it." Flinching at her words, she corrected, "Not that I'm happy she's dead... that came out wrong. What I mean to say is, I've been asking myself all day if I'd be willing to give up everything to have her alive again, and... I don't know if I would. I don't think I could give up you and the children for her sake. So if I ask myself honestly, would I change what happened if I could? The answer is no. Isn't that selfish? Then I start to think it all happened for the best, which is even worse. How horrible is it that I think my sister dying was for the best?"

"It's not horrible, and it's not selfish," Sidaizon reassured her. "You're trying to rationalise something that was completely beyond your control."

"Beyond my control or not, everything still happened in my favour."

"Yes, but it's done, it's in the past, and nothing you can do will change it." He kissed her forehead, then lowered his face to press his lips against hers. "It was nothing you did that caused the chain of events to unfold this way. Only fate. We can't change fate. So there's no sense in asking yourself those questions, Eäzinya: whether or not you'd sacrifice your happiness for her life. Even if you were willing, it's still impossible. You shouldn't torture yourself worrying over what you would do if given a choice that will never be asked of you."

"I know, but... it still makes me feel terrible, being happy when she's dead."

"What would make you feel better?"

She was silent for a long while before answering, softly, "I don't know."

"Come on," he said. He took her hand, leading her to the bed, and pulled her down to lie curled up against him. "We'll sleep on it, and if you can think of anything to do for Valima, I will help you do it."

"We can't sleep yet. We haven't even washed."

"We can wash after."

She laughed. "After what?"

"Oh, I don't know..." He pinched her bottom, and she jerked away with a squeal. She sat up on the bed to look down at him, an admonishing smirk on her lips.

"Not now! The children will be suspicious if we stay in here all night."

"Let them be."

"Sido, it's hardly dark out! Later. I really should help Nautalya with the dishes. She's too small to manage everything alone. And I need to finish hemming Tarmanaz's trousers. They're too long."

Sidaizon took that as an encouraging sign. "So you forgive him?"

"No," she sighed, but followed with, "well, maybe a little. I'm not happy about it, but you were right: what happened to Valima has nothing to do with him. It's not the best thing, but I can remind myself that he's a good boy at heart, and I can live with it. Maybe he'll even be an honest Hand and not terrorise innocent people for fun. Maybe you can give him guidance."

A recollection of the previous night's dream suddenly flashed in Sidaizon's mind. "That reminds me. I had a dream last night in which Tarmanaz fought off a group of Hands trying to arrest a young girl. He carried a sword and a brilliantly shining shield. Do you suppose it means anything?"

As he suspected, Eäzinya approved of the vision. "I hope so," she said. "That does sound as if he will rise above the corruption of the others and be an honourable man."

~

With the exception of Amárië, who remained cool, everything seemed to have returned to normal by the next day. Tarmanaz once again left the house before Eäzinya awoke, but she served him supper that night and made an effort to speak to him as if all were forgiven, and so they were tentatively reconciled. Márathul went to the great silver-domed Lavazat Sovallistëa at the centre of the city and brought home an application to join the Academy on the Mountainof the Holy Path. Applications were not necessary, but, as Sidaizon pointed out, holding the completed form in his hand when he arrived at the Academy's doorstep would not hurt. If he could prove he already knew how to read and write, he might be given relatively easy work writing out and copying records rather than scrubbing floors or stirring great vats of boiling laundry.

Sidaizon also suggested that Márathul cut off all his hair before setting out, purely to spite the Oraistari, who would then not be able to use it for wigs. Márathul agreed. He admitted to finding the idea of his hair adorning some strange man's head more than a little unnerving. He had decided that the day Tarmanaz left for training at the barracks of the King's Hands would also be the day he left to go to up the mountain, so the night before their departures the family held a farewell-and-haircut celebration. Sidaizon brought home a joint of lamb and they had meat for supper, a treat that was normally reserved for holidays. Eäzinya made a special fig cake for dessert.

Once they had finished eating, Márathul appointed Nautalya to cut his hair. She begged him to let her do it, and he agreed that there would be no harm done even if her work turned out to be imperfect and uneven. The Oraistari would shave off whatever remained. Carefully, using Sidaizon's razor under Eäzinya's close supervision, she cut away Márathul's hair bit by bit and  laid the severed locks in a meticulous pile on the floor beside her.

"You can keep the hair," Márathul said. "In case you want to dress Attu up like Arafinwë again."

Nautalya grinned; no doubt she had already been planning to do exactly that.

"We should sell it," Amárië suggested. "Noldorin ladies pay good money for golden hair to weave into their own.

"No," said Márathul, making a face. "I don't want any Noldorin women to have my hair. I'd rather Nautalya keep it to play with."

"Not even for six tyelpilindi?"

Márathul's frown only deepened. "Not even for six kulustar."

"Well, that's a silly attitude to have..." Amárië muttered.

Nautalya finished with Márathul's hair, producing much neater results than anyone expected. What little remained was approximately half an inch long, sticking up oddly all over his head. He looked strange: entirely unlike himself. Tarmanaz started laughing, but Márathul did not seem to mind. A sheepish smile had spread across his face. "Let me see," he said, and Eäzinya passed him her polished silver mirror.

"Manwë's blood!" he swore when he saw his reflection. Then he, too, burst into laughter.

"What do you think of your new haircut, Almatar Márathul?" Sidaizon asked.

"I'll never again think yours is too short, that's for sure..." He ran his hand over his shorn scalp and held up the mirror to examine it from different angles. "It looks funny and feels even funnier. It feels so..." he gave his head a shake; "light. My head is naked!"

"You'll grow accustomed to it over the next sixty years."

"I hope so."

Eäzinya put her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "Oh, Máro, I'm going to miss you. Sixty years!"

"It's not forever, Amma," he said as he kissed her in return.

"I know, but... You'll be so different when you come back. A lot can happen in sixty years. Nautalya will be all grown up and married with her own children, and Tarmanaz might be married, too..."

"I'll be married to a prince," said Nautalya, though no-one paid her any mind.

A hint of darkness seemed to settle over Márathul's face, as if he were only then realising that his family would not remain unchanged while he was away. "Well... I'm sure everything will go on without me... I can see everyone when I'm back."

It would be hard for Márathul, Sidaizon thought. When he himself had gone up the mountain, it had been to escape his grandfather's oppressive rule. The only person he missed had been his mother, and she had waited patiently for him and hardly changed at all in his sixty years away. Márathul, though, was leaving behind an entire family that loved him. When Márathul returned he would probably be taller and stronger, looking more like the man he would become than the boy he now resembled. He would miss watching Nautalya grow up, and Eäzinya was right in thinking that she would likely be married with a child or two in sixty years' time. So much would change.

A knock at the door interrupted that sad thought. Eäzinya frowned at him. "Who would that be at this time of night?" she asked.

"Probably Auzëar," Sidaizon said. "I told him to come by tonight for cake and to share with Máro any wise words he might have about going up the mountain." Shaking his head to clear the melancholy, he went to the door and undid the latch. "Welcome," he was about to say, but the word died in his throat.

It was not Auzëar. Two of the King's Hands stood on the doorstep.

"Oh..." he said. "I'm sorry. I was expecting someone else. You must be here to see Tarmanaz?"

The one on the right, raising his eyebrows, said, "No."

The other gave Sidaizon a quick, appraising up-and-down glance. "Almatar Sidaizon Mótazyo?" he asked.

Sidaizon's blood turned suddenly cold and his heart dropped into his gut. "What?" he whispered.

"We'll need you to come with us."

"Oh. Um." Through the wave of sudden light-headed dizziness, he heard himself asking, "Where are we going?"

"We are not able to say," said the one on the right. "But you should pack a bag with some clothes and necessities. You may be gone a while."

"How long?"

"We are not able to say."

"Oh," he said.

Everything felt like a dream. His legs did not feel solid enough to walk, but they carried him, wobbling, toward the bedroom. He kept a hand on the wall for balance. A slick of cold sweat covered his skin, prickling over his neck and shoulders. He had to remind himself to breathe.

"Sido?" Eäzinya called out. "Who is it?" She rounded the wall that partitioned the front entryway before he could think to stop her. She froze, drawing a gasping breath at the sight of the Hands, and lurched back. "Are they... they are here to see Tarmanaz?" she whispered.

Sick to his very core, Sidaizon could only shake his head and continue on to the bedroom. Eäzinya followed in confusion, and it was not until she saw him bundle up a change of clothes that she realised what was happening.

"Oh no," she moaned. "No. No, no, no... "

"Shh." He pulled her into a tight embrace, rocking back and forth. "Shh, everything will be fine. I'm sure this is nothing. It will be fine."

Eäzinya could only weep in reply, sobbing, "No, no, no, no..." against his chest.

His mind raced, trying to think of why the Hands had come. Too many answers arose. The Noldorin woman could have decided to take revenge on him by inventing some sort of injury or assault. The two Hands who saw him in the bath house with Anin could have reported him for indecency, or someone could have overheard his confession to the other Almatar and reported that. Someone could have recognised him in the Yaranénon disguise, visiting Authimer, and told the Oraistari. Or it could be a mistake. He prayed to Manwë that it was a mistake.

He rested his cheek on Eäzinya's hair and gave himself one more moment of peace with her before stepping back. "Let's go," he murmured. He could not trust himself to speak any louder; his voice would shake under the weight of fear. "I can't keep them waiting."

"Don't go," said Eäzinya. "You can't go. You can't go with them. They'll..."

"I have to. If I don't go peacefully, they'll drag me out of here by force. Which would you rather have Nautalya see?"

"No," she repeated. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..."

"Come on."

Weakly, he led her back to the entryway. Her moaning turned to hysterical cries of "No! No! NO!" as soon as she saw the Hands, and she sunk to the floor, clinging to Sidaizon's legs.  The Hands stood silently in the doorway, not even looking at her.  Distraught wives and desperate pleading would be nothing new to them.

The rest of the family, drawn by Eäzinya's cries, appeared one by one. Amárië and Márathul ran to Eäzinya, while Tarmanaz stood by Sidaizon to keep Nautalya safely behind his back. "What's going on?" Tarmanaz asked.

"I have to go. Stay here with your mother. She'll need you."

"But..."

Tarmanaz stared at the Hands. While they may have ignored Eäzinya, they certainly noticed him. He had put on his white uniform while Nautalya cut Márathul's hair, hoping that Eäzinya could finish the final adjustments to the fit. Now the Hands regarded him with confusion and exchanged a curious look.

"What are you doing here?" one of them asked.

"I... live here," Tarmanaz answered.

Their expressions changed from confusion to annoyance. "Why are you wearing your uniform at home?"

"My mother was..." he looked down at Eäzinya on the floor; "fixing..." His voice trailed off into nothing, and he seemed to shrink under the disapproval of the two at the door.

The other Hand grunted and gestured to Sidaizon. "Let's go."

He forced himself to pull his leg free of Eäzinya's grasp and walk toward them, step by wooden step. With a pained smile, he looked back to Amárië and Márathul. "Everything will be fine," he reassured them. "I'm sure this is nothing. Just be patient, and I will be back as soon as I can."

Amárië gave a scant nod, but Márathul looked too terrified to even move his head. Both of them held on to Eäzinya, who still lay crumpled on the floor, wailing a heartbroken "No, no, no!"

"Out to the carriage," said one of the Hands, and as Sidaizon passed by to go outside, he heard the other add, "And you can come with us."

Again he looked back, this time to see Tarmanaz standing frozen by the door. "But..." Tarmanaz began.

"What, are you afraid to do your job? Get in the carriage."

"But I'm not..." he stammered. "I haven't started... My first day of training is tomorrow."

"You need experience, then. All the better. Get in."

Tarmanaz moved with the same lurching uncertainty that Sidaizon felt. He shuffled up the walkway to the carriage, his face set in an expression of shame as if silently apologising for the presence and behaviour of his two fellow Hands. Then Márathul appeared at the door, looking no less terrified but trying to act brave all the same.

"Attu..." he said, pushing past the Hands. "What... what should I do?"

Sidaizon squeezed Márathul's shoulder. "Máro. I need you to wait a few days to go to the Academy. Stay here, and look after your mother and sister and grandmother. You will be in charge while Tarmanaz and I are away. You're a grown man and I trust you to make choices for the best. Do you understand?"

White-faced, Márathul's answer was a weak nod.

"Good boy. I will try to send word as soon as I know when I will be home.

"But what if-" Márathul whispered.

Sidaizon silenced him with a shake of the head. "No 'what if'. I will come home soon. Until then, I trust you to hold things together here."

He gave Márathul's shoulder one more squeeze before climbing into the carriage. Tarmanaz climbed in to sit beside him, then the Hands on the bench opposite. The driver bolted the door from the outside. Sidaizon shuddered as the carriage pulled away into the darkening streets. Even above the clatter and creak of the wheels, he could still hear Eäzinya's anguished cries fading behind them.

 

 

The Prince's Hands of Light by Justice

Read The Prince's Hands of Light by Justice

He would have felt better having left both sons at home to look after the household in his absence, though at the same time, Sidaizon was thankful for the solid presence of Tarmanaz on the carriage seat beside him. The King's Hands held no less power over the two of them together than they would have over Sidaizon alone, and whatever was about to happen to him would happen just the same, but having Tarmanaz there made it easier to keep his fear under control. He had an obligation to appear brave in front of his son. And in such circumstances, false bravery was better than nothing. The mere act of pretending to be unafraid helped calm him.

Tarmanaz seemed to rely on the same tactic of make-believe. He sat up perfectly straight, staring blankly at the two Hands who occupied the carriage bench opposite. All that betrayed his terror was the occasional shudder that wracked his body.

Carefully, mustering as much reassuring courage as he could, Sidaizon gripped Tarmanaz's hand. "Everything will be fine," he murmured. "No need to worry. I'm sure it will all turn out for the best."

Tarmanaz gave a wordless nod in reply, and Sidaizon could see that his jaw was clenched tight.

The carriage bumped over a deep rut, and one of the Hands swore. "I hate this road," he said to his companion, who snorted in contemptuous agreement. Neither of them showed the slightest interest in Sidaizon and Tarmanaz, which suited Sidaizon well enough. Their lack of action gave him hope. Had they come to arrest him on suspicion of some petty crime, he was certain they would take the opportunity to interrogate him in the carriage. That they had come in a carriage at all, as opposed to one of their less refined contraptions, was also a good sign. They could have chained him in the back of a wagon, or thrown him into a prison cart that was little more that a cage on wheels.

Or the carriage and lack of verbal torment could be nothing more than grudging respect for his position as an Almatar. The brief spark of hope faded. Whatever they had planned, he was at their mercy. He would have to wait and see.

He closed his eyes, and tried to pretend he was calm enough to sleep. The carriage lurched and bounced through the winding streets, turning here and there and seeming to strive to hit every pothole along the way. It was a small relief when the horse's hooves clattered onto the stone surface of a bridge. The carriage wheels rattled worse on stone than they did on dirt roads, but at least the bridge was smoother and free of ruts.

His eye snapped suddenly open. There was no bridge between his house and the Brass Pit; both lay on the same side of the river. He jerked forward to look out of the carriage's small window, and was shocked to see that the ambient firelight of the city no longer surrounded them. On either side of the road, only a colonnade of tall, moonlit pillars remained. The bridge they had passed over must have been the Ratha Podilwëo, which meant that they were now on the highway heading northeast out of the city.

Stunned, Sidaizon looked to Tarmanaz, but he wore an expression of equal confusion.

"Where are we going?" Tarmanaz whispered.

Sidaizon could have asked the same thing. He glanced back toward the colonnade, which he knew ended in a great, gilded archway not far ahead. Past that, he knew where the road eventually led. And if Tarmanaz could think of no other destination, he had a growing suspicion of where the Hands were taking them.

"Taniquetil," he answered. "I think we're going to Taniquetil."

~

By the time the sun rose, Sidaizon was confident that his guess was correct. The golden-pink light of dawn broke over the peaks of the Pelóri, which now loomed only a few hours' journey ahead. The flat farmlands that surrounded Valmar had given way to rolling green hills full of grazing sheep and goats. Sidaizon had travelled this way many times before, and he knew that nothing but more sheep pastures and the occasional little cluster of shepherd houses lay between their current position and the road that led up to the palaces of Taniquetil.

The Hands ordered the carriage to stop at a caravan station along the highway, where Sidaizon and Tarmanaz were permitted to relieve themselves and quickly wash before eating a simple breakfast of bread and dried fruit. Then, with new horses supplied by a stable kept in the King's name, they continued on their way. They stopped again for a hot dinner at a second caravan station at the base of the mountain, then a third time for supper and another change of horses partway up the long, switchback road that climbed the steep face of Taniquetil. On foot, the mountain road alone was a journey that lasted from sunrise until past midnight. The horses would make better time, but it would still be well into the dark hours of the night before they arrived at the vast Lavazat Mechtirmino where the Oraistari held their council. If that were even the destination. If they continued on to Ingwë's palace, where the King's court gathered, it would be an hour more.

Under the afternoon sun the carriage had grown stuffy and hot, and the small shutters on the doors offered little by way of a breeze. After supper, the Hands opted to jog along with the horses, likely as much for the exercise and to escape from the boredom and discomfort of sitting for hours on a hard bench as for the fresh air. They invited Tarmanaz to run with them, though Sidaizon was confined to the carriage. He did not mind. The carriage was no less hot, but it was less stuffy and crowded once he was alone, and he could lie on his back on the bench if he bent his knees. That position offered some relief to his aching bottom.

No matter his position, though, he could not sleep. He was exhausted enough from having not slept the previous night that the rock and bump of the carriage no longer bothered him, but his mind refused to lower its vigilance enough to let him rest. Every time he began to drift off, some new fear would rush forward to wake him with a start. He rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty and dry. His brain felt as if it had been wrapped in a layer of cloud that prevented him from thinking clearly. Worse than feeling tired was feeling stupid. If the Oraistari questioned him immediately upon arrival, he doubted his ability to formulate clear answers to properly defend himself. Perhaps this was even part of the plan.

Sidaizon groaned. That idea only made him feel worse, and added yet another worry to the hundreds already buzzing to keep him awake. He shifted position, trying to find a way to lie as comfortably as possible on the hard bench, and closed his eyes with the intent to keep them closed until either he fell asleep or the carriage arrived at its destination. Through every bump and rattle and turn, he forced his eyes to stay closed and his breathing to remain deep and even. It nearly worked. He could feel himself sliding into sleep, and was nearly there when the carriage lurched to a sudden stop, the door banged open, and Tarmanaz and the Hands climbed back in. With another groan, Sidaizon sat upright. There would be no more sense in trying to rest.

The two Hands were laughing and joking with each other about one of their captains, whom they considered too fat to be able to run all that way up the mountain as they just did.

"I could've easily kept going to the palace," said the one on the left.

Sidaizon kept his face carefully neutral, as if he had not heard. So they were going to the King's palace, not to the Oraistari. He could not begin to guess what that meant and what might happen once they arrived, but it was a relief nonetheless to finally know their destination.

The other Hand snorted. "I doubt it. You could hardly keep up with the horses. I had to keep slowing my pace just to stay alongside you."

"Melkor's balls you did! You're the one gasping for breath all the last mile!"

"New breathing technique. If you paid attention in training you'd know that breathing out hard from your mouth increases stamina."

"That's dog shite and you know it. Just wait: next field trials, you'll see which one of us can run farther."

The one on the right snorted again, this time going so far as to laugh. "I'll whip your sorry arse again."

"You are such a cocksucker. I was second in the long-distance last year, and you were what? Fourteenth?"

"That's a filthy lie." Turning his attention to Tarmanaz, he repeated, "He's a filthy liar. And an ugly sisterfucker, too. Don't listen to him."

"Oh," said Tarmanaz. "Uh..."

Through narrowed eyes, the one on the left glared at Tarmanaz. "What, you think I'm an ugly sisterfucker?"

"No!" Tarmanaz quickly replied, looking aghast. "I don't-"

"It's fine," he said, grinning and leaning forward to clap Tarmanaz on the shoulder. "I'm only jerking your ears. He's the ugly sisterfucker." He pointed his thumb in the direction of the other Hand, who merely raised an eyebrow.

"I don't have a sister. But if you're implying that I fucked your sister, well, I freely admit..."

It was amazing, Sidaizon thought, how very normal the Hands seemed once they lowered their masks of arrogant power. They could be any young men fighting and hollering over insults to the size of one's manhood and the honour of an attractive and allegedly immodest sister. And they could easily be Tarmanaz and Márathul fighting over a mattress. How long, he wondered, before Tarmanaz learned to wear their stony mask, and he was the one coming in a carriage by night to drag someone away?

"Wait, wait!" said the Hand on the right, fending off his companion's fists to interrupt the fight. "Let's ask the Almatar. He will know."

The other Hand scowled, but stopped his assault and leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Almatar, this is a question of morality. Let us imagine for a moment that a pretty girl - perhaps she is somebody's sister, you see - has very large breasts and a very round bottom, and wears clothing that even the most liberal mind might describe as 'well fitted'. You understand what I am saying? So, in this case, can one logically fault a man for certain behaviours where she is concerned? Would she not be entirely to blame leading good men astray?"

"A good man would not be led astray by such vulgar displays," Sidaizon answered, and he surprised even himself with the snappish and irritable tone to his voice. "If a man is so weak of head and heart that he cannot resist the sight of a loose woman, then the fault is all his own. Eru gave every man a mind to think for himself, and a conscience to help him tell right from wrong, and if he is too foolish to use them properly then he is no better than the wild beasts who have neither."

Intrigued, the other Hand leaned forward. "So what you say is that if you saw a woman in the street wearing hardly any clothes, you would do nothing?"

"I would do nothing to dishonour her, if that is what you imply," Sidaizon said coldly. The image of Eäzinya's sister rose once again behind his eyes; he forced it down before he struck one of these Hands out of pure vengeance. "But I would not do nothing. If I saw such a woman, I would assume that her mother and father were remiss in their duties of raising her to be pure-minded, and I would find it my responsibility to instruct her otherwise."

The Hands exchanged a glance. His answer was not to their liking. With matching frowns, they straightened their backs and replaced their hard masks, becoming fearsome agents of the King once again. Neither spoke for the remainder of the journey.

~

The carriage door opened to mist of rain and a gust of frigid wind. Sidaizon had been to the King's palace only once before, for a celebratory banquet on the day he left the Academy, and he had forgotten how cold it was this far up the mountain. The Academy had always been cool, but the palace sat much higher, above the tree-line. Lingering drifts of snow, left over from the previous winter and crusted with dirt, leaned against the north-facing walls. Sidaizon held his robe closed at the neck to ward off the wind, and was glad that the Hands had instructed him to bring a change of clothes. He would need both to stay warm.

The Hands seemed unaffected by the cold, neither shivering nor shielding their faces from the freezing rain. But then, Sidaizon noted, they showed no signs of weariness, and nothing about them looked less than perfectly alert despite hours of running uphill after a night spent with no sleep. They were trained soldiers. They would have been taught to endure worse and still never show weakness.

They led the way from the carriage road to a raised, wooden walkway that, Sidaizon did remember, was hazardously slippery when wet. He took a tentative step up and could feel immediately through the leather sole of his shoe that his foothold was imperfect at best. The rain had glazed the boards with thin layer of ice. He was forced to shuffle slowly to avoid losing his balance and falling onto his backside, or worse. The walkway was on either side lined with sharp protrusions of rock. When Ingwë had designed this palace, he had decreed that not a single stone would be altered in any way. He built over and around all of them. The wooden walkway hovered above uneven ground because the King would not let the rock be levelled for a proper path; he insisted that Taniquetil must remain pristine and unharmed, unchanged in purity since the making of the world. And so it had, mostly.

The road that wound up the mountain was a later addition, built when common sense prevailed and the nobles insisted that living high on a mountain in homes accessible only by makeshift paths through the trees was perhaps not practical.

Sidaizon looked up. Behind the palace, vast cliffs rose straight and forbidding to disappear into the clouds. Ingwë's halls were as far as any Elf could go unhindered. Any who wished to climb onward would have need of rope and picks. Few had tried, and none had lived to say what they had seen, returning only as frozen corpses in the arms of stern-faced Maiar. The air beyond the cliffs, the Maiar warned, was too thin to sustain Elvish hearts, and beyond that, at the very peak of the mountain, no earthly life could survive. That was where Manwë made his home. No Elvish eyes had ever witnessed the beauty of Manwë's palace, save as a brilliant orb of light shining far in the distance on clear days. To see that light was a rare and lucky omen. Now, though, a low ceiling of rain clouds veiled the peak, and no brilliance shone down from above.

Somehow, Sidaizon, Tarmanaz, and the Hands managed to shuffle and slip their way to the palace's great front door without falling from the walkway and splitting their heads on the rocks. The sentries, armed with golden spears that looked more decorative than dangerous, granted them admission without a word. They passed through one gilded archway, then another, then into the vast hall that was the heart of Ingwë's kingdom. Directly behind him, Sidaizon heard Tarmanaz gasp and stumble at the sight. And he, even to see such a thing for the second time, was no less awed.

Twin rows of silver pillars ran the length of the hall, taller than twenty men, to support the massive barrel-vaulted roof. It was too high to be lit by the lanterns that floated, soft and golden, on delicate chains strung between the pillars, but thousands of jewels glittered down from its arches in a more orderly imitation of the night sky. Below, the white and green tiles of the floor were interrupted occasionally by outcroppings of unfinished, mossy rock, as if to serve as a reminder that while the palace may have been the height of all Elven power in Arda, the mountain still ruled the palace. Great Ingwë still conformed to every whim of Taniquetil. Windows rose in three tiers, all filled with thick, coloured glass to keep out the cold, and endless mosaics of gold and silver patterns decorated every surrounding wall.

The Hands gave them little time to stop and stare. With an impatient grunt, one took the lead and set a quick pace between the rows of pillars, heading for an asymmetrical, winding staircase at the far end. The palace's second floor began as a balcony overlooking the hall, but then curved backward and further up the mountain toward the cliffs. Sidaizon had not been this way before; the corridors the Hands chose seemed to lead to smaller rooms that were no doubt for personal use and possibly even private quarters for the King's family. They passed beneath an overhanging rocky precipice that jutted out from the right-hand wall and continued on to disappear into the left, and passed over a bridged that spanned a narrow but deep chasm, which sounded as if water ran somewhere through its black depths. Warm air rose around the bridge, and the smell of sulphur with it.

At this hour of night, the palace was deserted. The King's family would be asleep, and Sidaizon had seen no servants since they passed the sentries at the outer door. He was thankful for it; the walk through the twisting maze of corridors, being led by one Hand and prodded on from behind by another like an animal, was difficult enough with no curious eyes watching. His fear and shame could remain his alone. His to share with whomever they were going to meet. He still had no idea who that might be. It was possible, at this hour, that the Hands would simply lock him in a room until morning when the palace awoke. But as soon as the thought entered his mind, the Hands stopped. One rapped sharply on a white door inlaid with scrollwork of gold, and a voice from the other side commanded them to enter.

Sidaizon could tell at once by the decoration that this room was a private audience chamber for a member of the royal family, or at the very least a favoured Tarathandyo noble. Plush silk rugs decorated the floor, and colourful tapestries of geometric patterns adorned the walls. A fire crackled and burned brightly to warm the air. It was a comfortable, cozy room, and at the far end, resting on couches amid an array of all sizes of pillows, were two men. One was a lord dressed in deep green. The other was the King.

Both of the Hands and Tarmanaz immediately sank to their knees and bowed their heads, murmuring words that would have been too quiet for the men at the far end of the room to hear. Sidaizon, cursing the slowness of his sleep-deprived mind for not having thought to do so on his own, knelt to join them.

"Ah, wonderful," said the King. Or rather, the man Sidaizon had assumed to be the King. He stood from his couch, and once Sidaizon heard his voice and noted his height and manner of dress, it became clear that he was not Ingwë. He was similar of face, but too tall, and his straight posture was that of a soldier. His clothing was all white and gold. It looked very much like the uniform of the King's Hands, though he wore a floor-length cape lined with gold and his liberally embroidered tunic fell well past his knees.

"Tarmanaz," Sidaizon whispered. "Is that Prince Ingwion?"

One of the Hands, doubtlessly appalled by this display of ignorance, hissed, "Yes."

The King's Hands might as well have been called the Prince's Hands. Sidaizon knew that much. They had been created by Ingwion, organised by Ingwion, and were still ruled by Ingwion. Ingwë the King never had and likely never would have any control over them, save in name only.

"This is Almatar Sidaizon?" Ingwion asked. But instead of looking at the Hands, he glanced back to the nobleman in green, who gave a slow, shallow nod.

The nobleman looked familiar; Sidaizon had seen him before, though the haze of exhaustion made it impossible to think of when or where. Possibly this was someone he had met at a festival or holy day gathering, but not recently. The man had very fine features, perfectly balanced and uncommonly beautiful by anyone's standards. His skin was as fair as that of any Noldo, and though he remained seated, Sidaizon could see that he would be at least as tall as Ingwion if the two stood shoulder to shoulder. He was not the sort of man who should easily be forgotten. Sidaizon swore silently at himself for being so useless, and blinked hard in an effort to banish the desperate need for sleep. It did not work.

Before he had time to think any further, Ingwion had crossed the room to address him. "Almatar Sidaizon. It needs be you forgive us the unsettling manner your travel, but requests issued me my beloved brother necessitate betimes haste above courtesy."

Ingwion spoke in the strange manner of court, with the whisper-soft accent affected by all lords of Taniquetil, which Sidaizon found difficult to follow at the best of times. Still, the core meaning of what he had said was clear enough, and brought the welcome relief of at last knowing who he was to see. If Ingwion's brother had summoned him, that meant Sidaizon would appear before the Oraistari. As Ingwion ruled the Hands, so did Ingwírion rule the keepers of the faith.

He realised, a moment too late, that Ingwion expected a reply. "There is nothing to forgive, my Lord Prince," he said with his head bowed. "I live to serve Taniquetil."

"Good. Then I shall have you granted a bed the night's remainder, and tomorrow might my brother commence speak you full this matter come troubles so the Oraistari, wills he. But may my servants inform him his waking your presence."

This time, Sidaizon answered immediately, even though he had no idea what it was Ingwion had said. It had been something about showing him to a bed. That was enough. "Alla, thank you greatly for your kindness, my Prince."

Ingwion nodded, and waved to his Hands. "Dismissed."

The Hands stood, pulling Sidaizon up by either arm between them, and Tarmanaz followed their lead. In their efficient haste to leave the room, they had herded Sidaizon back out into the corridor when Ingwion's voice called out after them, casual but no less commanding, "Who is your third?"

The Hands exchanged a quick glance of widened, uncertain eyes before turning to once again kneel before their lord.

"Two I bade the collection Almatar Sidaizon," Ingwion continued. "Who is your third thinks show his shorn hair and novice insignia?"

"He is my son," Sidaizon answered before the Hands could offer any excuse. "He was at home when they came for me, and he was ordered to come as well. They did not say why, but he is a faithful servant who would not dare defy the orders of a superior, so he came."

Tarmanaz bowed his head low, and Sidaizon could see that his shoulders trembled with fear to be called before the lord of the Hands in such a way. Ingwion, though, looked not at Tarmanaz, but at Sidaizon. His face wore an expression of wonder. "The Almatar's son, a King's Hand?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Be this true he is the first I know. Support you him?"

Again, Sidaizon looked to Tarmanaz, and spoke with all the conviction he could muster. "Yes. I do. He has made a good choice for himself." The words of reassurance seemed to calm Tarmanaz, who stopped trembling long enough to lift his head and give a firm nod of agreement.

"I admit I am intrigued," Ingwion said with a soft smile. "You, Almatar, may follow my Hands. You, Almatar's son," he turned his keen gaze on Tarmanaz; "I bid well attend me a while."

"As my Lord commands," murmured Tarmanaz. His voice was soft, but to his credit did not waver with fear. Standing, he shot a pleading look to Sidaizon: a silent cry for guidance.

Sidaizon grasped his wrist, whispering, "Attend the Prince as long as he requires. Once he dismisses you, hire a horse or a carriage or even run if you must, but go home as quickly as you can." He fumbled in the purse tied around his waist for a silver coin, which he slipped into Tarmanaz's fingers. "Tell your mother I am here with the Oraistari. I am safe, not in prison, and everything will be fine. I will return home as soon as I may, but it may be some days."

Silently, Tarmanaz nodded, and tucked the coin beneath the folds of his sash.

"Good boy. And thank you. You know I will do whatever I can to be home soon."

Witch-Finder

Read Witch-Finder

With Tarmanaz left behind to attend Ingwion, the Hands, led by a servant who had appeared sometime during the meeting, took Sidaizon to his appointed chamber.  It was considerably better than what he had been expecting: no mean holding cell for the King's prisoners, but a true bedroom fit for any visiting lord.  Spacious and airy, a row of small, glazed windows overlooked the dark mountainside at the far end.  Against one wall was a canopied bed, easily large enough for four people and containing more pillows than an entire family could use.  Thick carpets covered the tile floor, and, most welcome of all, a large ewer of water stood beside a basin on the hearth to warm before a merrily dancing fire.

Sidaizon did not even care that the Hands locked the door when they left, sealing him safely inside.  The servant had done a cursory job of explaining where he could find everything he might need: a pot to relieve himself, a basin for washing, a silver mirror on the wall above a table with a comb for his hair, a platter of olives and bread should he be hungry, and even a closet full of more firewood to ward off the mountain's chill.  He welcomed it all gladly.

After relieving himself and placing the pot in a small cupboard for the night soil collectors as the servant had instructed, Sidaizon set to washing.  The fire-warmed water flowed over his aching neck and shoulders like liquid hands, massaging away a bit of the road-weary stiffness.  He washed his hair with delicate ginger-scented soap, and, once he was clean, there was oil perfumed with lemon to soften his skin.  The luxury of warm water coupled with these small extravagances made the burden of fatigue weigh twice as heavily on his mind.  With a cursory rub of the bath sheet over his wet hair, he crossed to the bed and fell gladly onto its surfeit of pillows.  He crawled between the sheets, which had already been warmed against the cold mountain night with hot irons, and closed his eyes.

It was a very large bed.  Stretching his arms out as wide as he could from where he lay in the middle, the edges of the mattress were inches beyond his fingertips.  It was large, and it felt empty: empty and unnaturally peaceful in the silence of Taniquetil.  Even the air of the bedroom itself, its sounds and smells, were different.  No firelight from a neighbour's house flickered in through the window.  No goats bleated in the courtyard, no cats screeched and fought, no young men shouted coarse words in the streets for the sake of irritating those trying to sleep.  No children chattered and baited each other to quarrels in the next room; no mother clattered in the kitchen to heat a cup of milk with nutmeg because she could not sleep.  No Eäzinya lay as a comforting presence next to him with her warm body and soft breath.  That, he missed most of all.

He rolled over and closed his eyes, but, as in the carriage, sleep felt like a far-off hope despite his oppressive exhaustion.  He should not have thought of Eäzinya; now she dominated his thoughts to create a whole new string of worries.  Amárië could keep the household running, of that he had no doubt, but Eäzinya would panic.  She did not know where he was or when he would return, and he had no way to reassure her that he was safe and all would be well.  All he could do was pray that Ingwion released Tarmanaz soon, and that Tarmanaz returned home with all haste.

And that thought only conjured further worries about Tarmanaz.

"There is no sense worrying over things you cannot change," he said aloud to the empty room, as if spoken words might do better to set his mind at ease.  It was what Amárië had always told him when he was young and ignorant and constantly raging at the unfairness of the world.  And although his heart knew she was right, that worries and anger did nothing at all to change the course of fate, his spinning head seemed bent on thinking otherwise.

"I am locked in a room in a palace on a mountain," he muttered, trying to be rational.  "All I can do is wait and see what happens.  And, in the meantime, go to sleep.  Everything will solve itself tomorrow.  I only need to stop worrying and go to sleep." 

An echo of Eäzinya's voice rolled through his memory in reply: Close your eyes. And imagine you are somewhere else, far away.
 
"Imagine I am somewhere else..."  He could imagine he was home again, in his own bed, safe and happy with his wife beside him.  Behind closed eyes, he pictured his bedroom: clean white walls, the dressing table covered with Eäzinya's hair pins, the shelves for clothing, the bed on the floor that, while not large, was good enough for him and Eäzinya.  The more he concentrated, the clearer it grew in his mind.  He was in his own room in his own bed.  The clean white walls, the dressing table... but now there was a mirror above the table and a fireplace in the corner, and the light coming through the window was not the dull orange glow of night-time lamps, but the fading pinkish-gold of the evening sun.

I have imagined I am somewhere else, far away, he thought.  But where?

In the distance, far-off and muted, the wild sea crashed against a rocky shore.  Gulls circled overhead, their cries rising and falling like waves.  He had returned to that island, the same he had visited the first time he tried to imagine himself away.  He could smell the same salt-tinged air and feel its sunny, southern warmth, far from the cold and snow of Taniquetil.  And beside him in bed, he could hear Eäzinya's gentle breathing and feel the radiant heat of her skin close to his.  He turned to face her, grateful for her presence in this strange dream-world.  His arm reached out to wrap around her shoulders, only to see, with a sudden jolt of horror, that the woman at his side had black hair, not gold.  It fell down her naked back in damp, unbound tangles, letting the lines of a swirling tattoo on her shoulder peek out from between haphazard locks.

His eyes flew open, and he sat up in bed, heart pounding; for a second, he saw double as the image of the island room faded slowly from his eyes.  The black haired-woman lay there still on the bed.  With a shout, he scrambled away, pulling the blankets up to cover his naked body.  Her ghostly form remained intact a moment longer.  When he blinked, she was gone.

The bedroom in the King's palace was the same as it had ever been.  No hint of the island room remained.  A candle burned on the table next to the large, pillowed bed; the dying fire hissed while the basin and ewer cast long shadows on the floor; pale moonlight streamed in from the bank of windows on the far wall.  In the mountain silence, Sidaizon's heart rang like a drum in his ears, and he gasped for breath.  He was where he should be.  He was in the palace, alone, and nothing had changed.

"It was not real," he whispered.  "It was a dream.  It must have been a dream.  It was not real."  Only it had felt nothing like a dream.  Every sight and sound and feeling still burned in his memory, as plainly as if it had truly happened.

Something rattled at the door.  Sidaizon froze.  A metallic sound clicked, the doorknob turned, and there stood one of the King's Hands, poking his head into the room to see what had happened.

"I heard a shout," said the Hand.  "Is aught amiss?"

"No," Sidaizon answered, shaking his head.  The mere sight of the Hand helped ground him, driving away much of the shock of the dream, though one stubborn thread of uncertainty remained.  "I saw... ah...  I saw... something.  I don't know what I saw."

"A rat?"

"No.  No, nothing like that.  I saw... a woman.  With black hair.  Here."  He gestured to the bed, and immediately regretted having said anything.  The words sounded foolish spoken aloud.

The Hand's eyebrows rose as his face took on a stony pallor.  "A ghost?"

Had she been a ghost?  No; certainly the black-haired woman had been something else.  "I don't think so," he said slowly.  "But...  No, I don't know."

"A spirit?"

Sidaizon only shook his head.  It was impossible to say what she had been: ghost or spirit or dream or omen, or nothing more than his overactive, overtired imagination.

Whatever the case, the Hand looked terrified.  "I'll call the Oraistari," he said, and then disappeared back out the door.

"That's not-" Sidaizon began, but the man had already gone.  Sighing, he pressed his fingertips hard against his forehead.  The image of the woman still burned as clear as anything in his memory, her uncombed hair and the curve of her back sharply limned in his mind's eye.  It had not been a dream; he had seen her, impossible as that was.

In the corridor, doors opened and sleepy voices muttered curt words.  Within minutes three Oraistari appeared, ushered into Sidaizon's room by the Hand who had been standing guard.  All three looked bleary and rumpled, having hurriedly pulled on their bright gold robes, and one seemed unable to stop yawning.  None of them had bothered with a wig.  They stood by the doorway, scratching their shaven heads in confusion, and looked to each other for answers.

"What mean you, a ghost?" asked one.  "I see no ghost."

"One does not generally see ghosts," said another.  "They show themselves only betimes a moment and remain otherwise invisible."

"If the Almatar saw a ghost..."

"Woke you the King's witch-finder?"

The last question was directed to the Hand, who nodded, still looking fearful at the prospect of a ghost in the room.  "Yes, sir," he answered.  "He shall be here directly."

"Ghosts!" snorted the yawning Oraistar.  "Foolishness!  Like as not it was a dream."  He spared Sidaizon one distasteful frown, and yawned again.

"Yet one needs tend toward belief, elsewise what transpires in face of a true haunting?"

"I believe it was a ghost," said the Hand.

"Ghost or no, the witch-finder will advise."

"The witch-finder advises you all return to bed," said a voice from the corridor.  "There is no damnable ghost."

A fourth Oraistar appeared at the Hand's side, looking no less sluggish for having been called out of bed, though this one wore his own hair in a long plait.  Sidaizon blinked, and stared.  It was the nobleman from Ingwion's presence room, though now that his green robe had been replaced with a hastily pulled on gold Oraistar's robe, Sidaizon knew immediately where he had seen him before.

"Vedezir," he said.

Oraistar Vedezir nodded briefly in his direction before addressing the others.  "Neither ghost nor spirit nor Maia hides in this room.  Return to your beds."

"How know you?" asked one Oraistar.  "You have not yet looked."

"And how might I look?" Vedezir replied.  "One cannot, on average, see ghosts."

"Exactly what I just said!" exclaimed another.

"If it please Manwë, trust me," said Vedezir.  "There are here no ghosts.  Only that usual demon in the far corner."

All at once, the three Oraistari and the Hand turned to gasp at the far corner of the room.

Vedezir groaned, rubbing his eyes.  "That was a jest.  There is no demon.  Go to bed!"

"But how know-"

"I know.  It is my duty as witch-finder, is it not, to know such things?  Go.  And to satisfy your mistrust, I will stay here with Almatar Sidaizon and be sure that no ghosts appear in purpose to harm him until morning."

The Oraistari grumbled and scowled, but sleepiness compelled them to obey Vedezir's dismissal, filing back out into the corridor.  The Hand locked the door after them with an audible slide of the metal latch.  It was only after they were alone in absolute silence that Vedezir spoke.  And when he did, it was with an amused smirk.

"So," he said.  "Did you truly see a ghost, or was this all a clever ploy to speak to me?"

"No ploy," answered Sidaizon.  "I had no idea you were the King's witch-finder, as they call you."

"Then you did see a ghost?"

Sidaizon shook his head.  "No.  I don't know.  I saw... something.  Nothing.  Nothing important.  It was probably a dream."

"Well, it was no ghost," Vedezir said as he crossed the room.  "I can promise you that.  There are no traces of spirits in here."

His words gave some reassurance, but his presence, coming to sit on the edge of the bed opposite Sidaizon, offered more.  With another person in the room, a familiar face, the vision of the strange, black-haired woman seemed further away and less substantial.  He nodded at Vedezir's proclamation and tried to think of anything to say in return.  How exactly did one greet a long-lost friend who suddenly appeared in the middle of the night, wearing an Oraistar's robe and hunting for ghosts?
 
Vedezir found the words.  "Manwë's grace, Sidaizon, but it's good to see you!  How long has it been?  Three long-counts?  Approximately?"

"Four hundred thirty nine years since I left the Academy." 

"Then it would be four hundred forty seven for me.  By the heavens, it hardly seems that long.  You look the same.  No.   Better.  Having hair suits you."

Sidaizon grinned.  "I would say the same for you.  No Oraistar's wig?"

"No," laughed Vedezir.  "No; those old goats are all safely married, but I have no such luck.  I can ill afford to be ugly."

Shaking his head, Sidaizon laughed with him.  Ugliness on Vedezir was as likely as feathers on a cat.  Even at the Academy, even with his hair shorn off in a choppy mess like all the others, he had shone.  He had been almost effeminately pretty back then, delicate as a lady in the softness of his youth, but age had strengthened his features into a harder, more masculine beauty.  He looked as fine as ever.

"Once I'm married, however..." Vedezir continued, running a hand over his hair.  "I have it on good authority that a shaven head makes bathing far easier."

"You have wedding plans?" asked Sidaizon.  The idea surprised him; he had never taken Vedezir to be the marrying sort.

Vedezir's jaw tightened the slightest bit.  "Not immediately.  I've submitted three petitions to Ingwírion.  Each has been rejected on the grounds of my proposed bride being an unsuitable match for an Oraistar.  Apparently the criteria for marrying an Oraistar are so exacting that they exclude every single woman in the entire city.  I wish someone would have told me that before I accepted the position.  The process of an Almatar's marriage is nothing compared to this idiocy.  How long did it take you to find your wife?"

"How do you know I'm-" Sidaizon began, but Vedezir cut him off with a bemused grin.

"You had your son with you in Ingwion's presence room.  And a son, unless you would have me believe he spontaneously generated, requires a mother."

"Oh right," said Sidaizon.  He truly was too tired to think.

"Tell me about your family.  Your wife.  Any more children?  It's been four hundred forty seven years since I last saw you.  Tell me everything."

Stifling a yawn, Sidaizon rubbed his eyes and pushed his hair back from his face.  "Well..."

"On second thought, you look about to faint from exhaustion.  Tell me in the morning."

"That would be..."  Sidaizon did allow a yawn to escape; "...preferable."

"Were you able to sleep at all on the journey up here?"

"No."

"It shows.  Go to sleep.   I'll keep watch for ghosts."

"You don't-" Sidaizon began, but thought better of his protest.  "Thank you," he said.  "Though before I do, can you at least tell me why I'm here?"

"Sorry," said Vedezir, "but no.  I would if I knew, but everything I've heard about your summons has been through Ingwion, and he knows no more than what he told you directly.  So whatever you've done, it's naught in disagreement with the law, else Ingwion would know of it.  This is purely a matter for the Oraistari, and the Six are keeping it very quiet."

~

Sidaizon had no recollection of the rest of the conversation.  One moment he was listening to Vedezir's assessment of the situation, and the next, bright yellow light streamed through the windows and hand on his shoulder gently shook him awake.  He blinked and rolled over to see Vedezir already dressed.

"I must go," Vedezir told him.  "The council is convening, and I've been summoned.  But I'll be back as soon as I'm able.  With any luck, I'll have news for you." 

"How long?" asked Sidaizon.

"No idea.  I'm hoping no more than two hours, but one never knows."

"What should I do?"

"Nothing.  Stay in bed.  Rest.  I dare say you'll need it, because I've just been told there's to be a council with Ingwë at midnight, and whatever they've brought you for is likely tied up therein."

Sidaizon yawned.  "Midnight?"

"They revel in drama."

And with that, Vedezir was gone.

'Stay in bed,' Vedezir had instructed.  Sidaizon could do that.  He buried his head beneath the numerous pillows, too tired to much care about the midnight council looming ominously ahead, and went back to sleep.  There was nothing to do but wait, and sleeping made the waiting pass more quickly.

Some time after Vedezir's departure a group of servants came to drain the wash basin and refill the ewer with fresh water.  No sooner had Sidaizon crawled out of bed to wash his face than another servant arrived, this one bearing a tray of food.  The tray held fruits both dried and fresh, bread sprinkled with cinnamon, pastries filled with almonds and honey, a pitcher of sweet milk, and a small pot of very strong coffee.  Sidaizon finished it all, then fell back into bed and slept soundly until the servants reappeared to change the water again and bring him a tray of hot dishes for dinner.  He washed again, ate again, and slept again, and suddenly there was Vedezir standing over him, shaking him awake once more.  Long shadows filled the room.  The sun had started to set.

"What kept you?" he asked as he sat up in bed.  His head felt groggy after sleeping so long, which, he was irritated to learn, washardly different at all from being groggy after sleeping too little.

"You are about to learn a terrible truth concerning the Oraistari," Vedezir said grimly.

"Which is?"

"We are like a pack of wild dogs fighting over a bone.  Incredibly stupid, spiteful wild dogs who fight for the sake of fighting and are incapable of listening to reason.   Did you know, I just spent nine hours listening to Ingwírion and Voroman scream at each other, until I thought their tiny heads would burst from sheer redness?"

"Who's Voroman?"

"You're all the luckier for not knowing," said Vedezir.  "Incidentally, in case you missed the point of my very clever, if obvious, metaphor, the bone in question is you."

Sidaizon's stomach sank.  "So you know the reason I'm here."

"Yes.  Two reasons, actually.  The first group of wild dogs wants to tear you apart for permitting Yaranénor to enter your Lavazat courtyard and giving them leave to light their heathen fire on holy ground."

In enumerating the reasons for his arrest, that thought had not even crossed Sidaizon's mind.  Less than two weeks had passed, but already the burial seemed like it had happened years ago.  A cold shiver crawled up his back.  "How did they learn that?"  Of all the people who should have known what transpired on that day, the number was limited to Sidaizon and the dead woman's family.  And they would not have spoken to an Oraistar.

"Some righteously offended Yaranénon musician lodged a complaint regarding your decision to his patron lord, who reported the incident to the King."

It took a moment for Sidaizon to realise what Vedezir had said; when he did, he groaned.  "That idiot..."

"Which idiot?" asked Vedezir.

"The Yaranénon musician.  He's my cousin.  Culurossë.  I forgot about him...  He came to my house the night of the burial to rage at me, and I told him what had happened, thinking it would ease his anger.  But..."  He dropped his head into his hands, knowing that whatever Vedezir said next would only make the situation worse.  "And what do the other wild dogs want with me?"

"The second group is more concerned with the fact that you lied to Oraistar Tayóron about said fire."

"Oh."  He felt suddenly light-headed, and more than a little angry, both at himself and Culurossë: himself for being so brazen as to think he could get away with breaking the law and lying to an Oraistar, and Culurossë for piggishly outing the truth.  The greater part of the anger was directed toward Culurossë, justly or not.  "So which group do you claim?" he asked Vedezir.

"I'm part of the group that says, 'Please, for the love of Manwë, shut up already and let us return to what we normally do, which is discuss in tedium what fashions are immoral and which hairstyles are too provocative, and investigate such pressing matters as whether or not there is a ghost in one of the guest bedrooms.'  Alas, there are only three of us in that group, and we are too apathetic to be loud, so nobody else is aware of our position."

"The Oraistar debate fashion?"

"Oh Sidaizon, you would not believe me if I told you of all the stupidity that prevails," Vedezir said with a frown.  "Last time I attended one of these council meetings, Ingwírion went so far as to produce a tailor's ribbon-measure and demonstrate that a woman's tunic should fall no less than eight inches below her knee, otherwise the sight of her trouser-clad legs would be indecent."

Under less dire circumstances, Sidaizon would have laughed.  Vedezir, too, would have joked and grinned; instead, he just looked harried.

"So what will they do with me?" Sidaizon asked.

"That's to be decided at tonight's council," Vedezir said as he sat down on the edge of the bed.  "Tayóron, gravely insulted by your lie and perceived lack of respect, is in favour of public whipping, but luckily for you everyone else told him he was being ludicrous.  Ingwírion also spoke harshly, as he agrees with Tayóron on the matter of disrespect.  He thinks you should spend time in prison for shaming the name of Taniquetil with your actions."

"But?" Sidaizon asked hopefully. 

"But," continued Vedezir, "there's no precedent for imprisonment, and that's how the argument with Voroman started.  Voroman is the sort of pedantic bore who believes there to be nothing more important than following the law to the letter, which means he is adamant about meting out proper punishment.  And since the usual punishment for insubordination is dismissal, he believes you should be stripped of your office and cast out in shame.  Nothing more, nothing less."

"So the possibilities are whipping, prison, or dismissal."  A cloud of dread began to form in his chest.

"Essentially.  Other ideas arose as well, and a few of the more reasonable minds even dared suggest that perhaps you had done the right thing in order to avert an all-out riot, but more are in favour of making an example of you.  It seems to me as if they want to blame someone for the tension in the city, and you have the ill fortune of being Almatar of Oichimyaiva and the one who buried the convert woman.  I'm afraid they'll vote in favour of punishing you somehow, whether you deserve it or not, and will have no trouble convincing Ingwë to ratify their decision."

Whipping, prison, or dismissal.  The words circled in Sidaizon's head, sounding worse with every pass.  "Am I to assume that both whipping and prison would also be followed by dismissal?" he asked.

Vedezir nodded.  "I would say so."

He swore under his breath, and sighed.  Not for the first time in recent days, he felt utterly lost.  "What should I do?"

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, Vedezir threaded his fingers together as he considered.  "Court Ingwion's favour," he said at last.  "There are politics at play here that would take me far too long to explain, so suffice it to say that the Hands and the Oraistari are at constant odds.  Ingwion will be inclined to take your side if only to spite his brother.  If he can be convinced to attend the council."

"What are the chances of that happening?"

"Slim," said Vedezir, "but I have an idea."  Abruptly, he stood, and gestured for Sidaizon to do the same.  "It was a wise thing you did, bringing your son with you."

Sidaizon stood as instructed.  "I wish I could take credit, but alas the Hands made the decision for me.  They ordered him come along."

"Then perhaps fate smiles upon you after all.  That was a lucky chance.  You fair astounded Ingwion last night, standing there in your Almatar's robes and openly supporting your son's choice to join the King's Hands.  If aught might convince him to attend the council and gainsay the Oraistari, it will be his interest in you and your boy.  Come with me."

"Where?" Sidaizon asked as they crossed the room.

"To see our good Prince, of course."

By Word of the King

Read By Word of the King

They were unsuccessful in their search. Sidaizon followed Vedezir all through the palace, from the great entrance hall to a number of narrow, winding corridors that looked as if they led to private residences. They walked down the road to the barracks of the King's Hands, where the palace guard practised their drills, and up to the cave of the the hot springs, where Vedezir informed Sidaizon he was not allowed to enter by virtue of the fact that he had not been born into the nobility. No matter where they looked, Ingwion could not be found.

Disheartened, Sidaizon returned to his bedroom to wait for the midnight council. A little stone of anxiety and dread started to form in his gut. Only a few hours remained: the sun had already begun its descent below the peaks of the western mountains. Vedezir left him alone to wash and dress and make himself as presentable as he could manage, but returned two hours later bearing a large, blue bottle.

"Here," said Vedezir, handing the bottle to Sidaizon. "This will help with the nerves."

"What is it?" Sidaizon asked.

"Wine."

Carefully, Sidaizon removed the stopper in the top of the bottle and sniffed the contents. A sour-sweet, tangy smell hit his nose, like a mixture of overripe fruit and medical ointment.

"I'm told it's very bearable once one develops a taste for it," said Vedezir. "However, I've never been able to manage enough to do so."

Sidaizon sniffed the bottle again, and tentatively raised it to his lips. At a first taste, it was difficult to tell whether this new drink was good or bad. Mostly, it was just strong.

"Bearable?" asked Vedezir.

"I don't know yet," said Sidaizon. He ran his tongue over his teeth. The aftertaste was worse than the wine itself.

"Good enough. Here's what you do. Pour yourself one glass. Sip it slowly. Keep sipping until you begin to feel pleasantly warm and uplifted. Once you reach that point, drink only sparingly every few minutes: just enough to keep the feeling of warmth. If you accidentally take too much and start to become dizzy, wait and drink nothing until the dizziness has subsided. The right dosage will calm your nerves, enhance your confidence, and let you speak more easily in front of the Oraistari. Too much will make you silly, reckless, sleepy, or even ill. Be careful."

"Right," Sidaizon said with a nod. He took up a glass from a tray the servants had left for dinner and poured himself a small measure. The wine was clear and palest yellow, hardly more substantial than water. "How much is too much?"

"Well, that varies from person to person," Vedezir answered. "I've seen some of the Hands down an entire bottle to no effect, and yet I have no head for the stuff and am rolling on the floor laughing like an idiot, and shortly thereafter vomiting all over myself, with only one glass."

"Oh," said Sidaizon. He looked warily at the wine. It seemed harmless enough, though, he reminded himself, so did many poisonous plants.

"Start with one glass," Vedezir said, clapping him on the shoulder. "If you need more, drink more, but I'd advise against more than three. And, erm, leave the bottle somewhere out of sight when you're finished. Strictly speaking, neither of us is allowed to have it." With a grin, he turned to go. "I'll see you at midnight."

"You won't stay to help me drink this?"

"No, I need all my wits about me tonight, so I think rolling on the floor laughing and vomiting would be a really terrible thing for me to do right now. You'll have to have all the fun on your own."

He disappeared out into the corridor, shutting the door as he left. The room seemed suddenly very quiet. Sighing, Sidaizon held the bottle up to the firelight; through the dark blue glass, he could see that it was nearly full, holding at least six moderate servings of wine. Gently, he shook the bottle, and the wine splashed up the sides. No sense in delaying, he thought to himself. He sat down in a chair near the sluggishly dying fire, set the bottle on a small table at his side, and lifted his glass. He hesitated only a moment to inhale the sharp smell of it before taking a sip.

The wine tingled in his mouth and down his throat, leaving warmth in its wake. He took another sip, holding this one in his mouth, trying to decide whether or not he liked the taste. It was both sour and sweet, cold and hot, reminding him of vaguely of something rotten, though the sensation was not as off-putting as it should have been. It was strange, but not wholly unpleasant. Slowly, he finished one glass, and poured himself a second. He did not yet feel warmed through or uplifted.

The night dragged on. Outside, owls called to one another in the distance, but no sound came from the corridor. Sidaizon poured himself another glass of wine. The taste was slowly improving with each sip he took. It was sweeter now, and the rotten undertones had all but disappeared. Still, he could feel none of the effects Vedezir had described. His nerves still sang with tension, the knot of dread in his stomach was as large as ever, and his mind remained fixed obsessively on the impending council. He knew what they would ask. They would demand to know why he had allowed the Yaranénon family within the Lavazat's courtyard walls, and why he had lied about doing so. The trouble was, he had no idea what he could say. He had broken the law. He had done what he thought right, but his version of right and wrong did not necessarily align with that of the Oraistari.

He poured another glass. How long would they make him wait? It had to be nearly midnight. He finished the wine in one large mouthful. It was doing nothing at all, save for some mild tingling in his neck. Perhaps he needed to drink faster. He muttered a curse at Vedezir as he poured again, and was shocked to see that the bottle was suddenly empty, dribbling out its last dregs.

The knock that came at the door as he put aside the empty bottle nearly caused him to jump out of his chair. The door opened, and a King's Hand poked his head into the room.

"It's nearly time. Please make yourself ready to meet the King. I will be waiting out here to escort you."

"Of course," said Sidaizon as the Hand shut the door. He set his glass down on the table and smoothed his hands over his robes, checking to make sure he had not spilled on himself. The white linen showed a few wrinkles, but was otherwise in order. He was as presentable as he would ever be. He held his breath as he gripped the arms of the chairs, and forced himself to stand.

The effects of the wine hit him full force like a hammer blow to the forehead the moment he rose to his feet. The floor seemed to lurch and sway; he grabbed the back of the chair to steady himself. The room spun. He closed his eyes against the dizzying movement, but that only made things worse; without sight, he could not balance, and he stumbled sideways before falling to one knee. His entire body wobbled as he tipped slowly forward, coming to rest like an animal crawling on all fours.

Something about that thought struck him as very funny: an Almatar in white robes crawling like an animal, or even an animal in Almatar's robes in the King's palace. Perhaps a sheep. He pictured a sheep in his clothing going to council with the Oraistari, and started laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes and he choked on his own breath. He could put his robes on a sheep and send it to council, where the Oraistari would be hard pressed to notice the difference, given that they paid so little attention to anything other than their own hairstyles. Eäzinya, though, might be upset if a sheep came home in his place.

He forced himself to stifle his laughter as he pulled his way up to lean on the back of the chair, though he could not fully tame the grin that kept stretching his mouth. The empty wine bottle sat on the little side table, looking almost black in the dim firelight. He needed to hide it. Vedezir had told him so. He grabbed it clumsily in one hand, nearly knocking both it and the glass over as he did, and stowed it beneath the chair. It still gleamed blue-black, looking nothing like a hidden bottle and everything like a bottle that somebody had accidentally put beneath a chair. Sidaizon snorted at his own foolishness and bent down onto his hands and knees once more, pulling up the edge of the bedroom rug and shoving the bottle back as far as he could reach underneath it. The shape of the bottle made a large lump, but the rug was quite patterned, so it was possible that nobody would notice.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he shuffled his way to the door with all his concentration on the art of not falling over. The Hand waited on the other side, looking bored.

"You are ready?" the Hand asked.

Sidaizon smiled brightly. "Yes."

"You're in good spirits."

"Yes, I am! Thank you very much." He smiled again. The Hand only shrugged and turned to lead the way down the corridor.

The King's dining hall where the Oraistari held their council was not far. It seemed to Sidaizon that he had scarcely left his bedroom when suddenly he stood before gilded double doors flanked on either side by palace guards holding those strange, decorative golden pikes. One of the double doors had been pulled open. The Hand stepped inside, stopping just over the threshold to block the way so that Sidaizon could not follow, and bowed low.

"Almatar Sidaizon Mótazyo of Oichimyaiva," he announced.

"Bid him enter," someone replied.

Sidaizon followed the order as the Hand moved aside, stepping into the grand dining hall of the King. Light assailed him from all sides; he lifted his hand to shield his eyes from its blinding brilliance. Hundreds upon hundreds of candles hung suspended from the ceiling in vast golden frames like some latticework sun. Their flickering light reflected off the walls of white tile, amplifying every little flame. The very room glowed. In its centre was a long, white table, and down either side of the table stood the Oraistari in their robes of gold. Sidaizon glanced quickly over their faces, searching for any he recognised, though his vision was somehow fuzzy. There was Vedezir halfway down the left side, easy to pick out due to the fact that his hair was less than a third of the size of everyone else's. Sidaizon smiled at him. Vedezir's eyebrows rose in a strange expression, and he did not smile in return. Sidaizon expected nothing less; of course Vedezir would not be able to openly support him at this council.

Next but one to Vedezir stood the gaunt-faced Provost of the Academy, with the Rector, looking tired and grey, on his right. Directly across from the Rector stood the one who had come to the Lavazat, whom Vedezir had named Oraistar Tayóron. The man at Tayóron's right looked similar to one of the three who had come to investigate the ghost, though with his massively curled wig in place it was impossible to say for certain. There were some men Sidaizon recognised as those who taught at the Academy, and some he knew by sight but whose names he could not recall. Near the head of the table were those highest and greatest in power: the Six that Vedezir had mentioned. Among the Six sat the Oraistar of Valmar, who ruled the great Lavazat at the city's centre and whom Sidaizon saw frequently. Next to him was Ingwírion, looking smug. And at the table's head was the only seated man. Ingwë, High King of all the Elves, looked small and frail in his throne of gold. Sidaizon lowered his head respectfully, though in his private thoughts he wondered at how strange it was that they should all obey such an insubstantial person. Ingwë looked as if a strong gust of wind might blow him away. And yet he served the Lord of the Winds. Sidaizon bit his lips together to keep from laughing at the absurdity of it.

"Be seated," said Ingwë. His voice was as slight and airy as his body, echoing down the table in little more than a whisper. But the Oraistari heeded his order at once, sitting and scraping chair legs across the tiles in an ear-grating cacophony. Sidaizon looked for a chair; there was none to be had.

"Kneel, Almatar," a stronger and colder voice commanded.

Sidaizon kept his head bowed but glanced up through is eyelashes. It was Ingwírion who addressed him.

"There where stand you table's end. Kneel."

Shakily and with a care not to fall, Sidaizon sank to his knees. He bit his lips as hard as he could bear, desperate not to laugh or even smile at how silly it must have looked to hold a council at which there were too few chairs. Despite his best efforts to contain his laughter, his shoulders shook.

"Fear not, Almatar," someone near his end of the table said kindly. "Only tell us the truth, and be all well resolved."

"I am not afraid," he answered.

Several voices at the table hissed. "Thinks he speak us not having been requested?" asked one.

"Be silent," said Ingwírion. He did not specify who should be silent, but the Oraistari ceased their hissing. "Almatar Sidaizon Mótazyo," he continued. "You are summoned purposing answer several accusations, believe committed you treasons most grave. These are, first: deliberately you granted leave several heretics enter the courtyard the Lavazat keep you, and permitted them light a heretic fire!"

Ingwírion slapped his fist down on the table for emphasis, the council of Oraistari hissed and muttered vicious words to each other, and Sidaizon stared at them all, utterly lost. He had found it difficult enough to decipher Ingwion's bizarre court-speech the night before, and Ingwírion was no better. Had he been asked a question? The Oraistari all stared in his direction, most of them looking cruelly expectant. "Ah," he said.

They did not hiss and reprimand him for speaking out of turn again. They wanted an answer. So Ingwírion had asked him something, though what it was could be anyone's guess. Ingwírion had mentioned heretics and the courtyard, but those two things alone did not form a question.

Vedezir leaned forward and spoke slowly to clarify. "Allowed you Yaranénor access the Lavazat Oichimyaiva courtyard?"

"Oh," said Sidaizon. "Yes. I did."

"Why?" asked the Provost.

This was the question he had been contemplating all evening, ever since Vedezir told him why he had been summoned. He remembered having thought it through in great detail, agonising over what his answer would be and how he would defend himself. Now the question no longer seemed the least bit troubling. The answer was obvious. "Well, it was a compromise," he answered easily.

"A compromise?" said someone from the right side of the table.

"Yes. You see, because the woman died Valadávan, there was no question but that her body should be buried." Many of the Oraistari nodded in agreement at this. "However, in fairness to her parents, who were denied the comfort of seeing their daughter's ashes thrown to the stars, I suggested a compromise. The dress she died in was full of her blood. I would have had to burn it anyhow, unclean as it was. So I let her parents build a small fire on her grave, where they burned the dress and then collected those ashes to throw to the stars.

Five Oraistari jumped up at this, shouting furious objections, while others still seated looked equally enraged and offended. But some, at least eight, Sidaizon was pleased to see, regarded him with curious, calculating expressions.

"And they were peaceful?" asked one of the calm Oraistari.

"Yes. The woman's family had come to the Lavazat with the intention to burn it and cause a riot. After their little fire on the grave, they all left in peace. No-one was harmed and nothing was damaged."

"And why lied you Oraistar Tayóron your actions?" someone else demanded.

"Because it had already been done, and there was no changing it," said Sidaizon. "I did not wish to trouble Oraistar Tayóron with what was in the past."

"Lies!" cried Tayóron, leaping up from his chair. "You spoke lies your superior!"

Most of the others shouted in agreement at this. They banged their hands on the table and voiced their support for Tayóron, and Sidaizon had to shout to make himself heard over their noise.

"Yes, I lied, because I thought it was best!"

Shocked, the Oraistari fell immediately silent, staring at him.

"Yes, I lied!" Sidaizon repeated. He, too, had jumped to his feet, and stood dizzily clinging to the edge of the table while a stream of wine-slick words flowed from his tongue. Calm and clear, they sounded like someone else's speech. They passed from his heart to his mouth without thought. "I lied to an Oraistar, because it was the right thing to do! Oraistar Tayóron came to my Lavazat with a warning against something that had already happened. He had no idea how things were in the city: the tension and the danger. He came down from Taniquetil knowing nothing about the violence, with a head full of high ideals that just do not work when lives are threatened and people are afraid for their safety and their families. I'm sure you mean well, Oraistari, but you have no idea how the common people live, and how your well intended laws affect us. I try to uphold them. By Manwë, I try! But sometimes it is impossible. Sometimes we have to think for ourselves. So I lied. I'm not proud of it, but I am satisfied that I did the right thing."

"And are you satisfied you know best?" asked a voice at Sidaizon's back.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw what had caused the Oraistari to fall silent and stare. His outburst and admission to lying had been nothing more than coincidental. There framed by the double doors was Ingwion, standing tall in his immaculate white and gold uniform. All eyes followed him as he stepped casually into the hall, walking in a wide curve around the table to his seat at the King's right hand.

Ingwë was the only one who smiled. "Prince Ingwion," he said in his soft voice. "Son."

"Father." Taking Ingwë's hand, Ingwion kissed the three gold rings.

"What mean you this?" Ingwírion asked sharply. "Here meets council the Oraistari!"

"Here meets council decides the fate our law," Ingwion corrected. "Be you the law, then conduct you this alone. I represent, however, the Hands, being they enforcers the city entire. I believe this concerns me." Settling back into his chair, he turned his clear gaze to Sidaizon. "I pray you continue, Almatar. Tell me: are you satisfied you know best? More your betters the Oraistari?"

All of the Oraistari looked to Sidaizon, with the exception of Ingwírion, who continued to glare furiously at his brother. Sidaizon kept his eyes on Ingwion. The Prince wore the slightest hint of a smile, conspiratorial and reassuring.

Sidaizon opened his mouth, and took a wild chance on fate. "Yes," he said.

A rumble of outrage rose from the table, and more Oraistari leapt up from their chairs to shake their fists at this treasonous answer. Ingwion grinned. "And how know you better, Almatar?"

"I don't presume to know everything better," Sidaizon explained. "I would not dare challenge the Oraistari on laws or prayers or the word of Manwë, as they are far wiser than I. But when it comes to the way common people live, and the hardships common people face, I would say that, yes, I know better than they, because that is the life I live. The struggles of the commoners are my own, and so I understand well what guidance they need when they come to me for advice. The poor of the city care little for the laws of Taniquetil," he continued, at which the Oraistar of Valmar on Ingwírion's left stood up to contradict him loudly.

"More lies! You mock this council your sedition!"

"No, it is true," Sidaizon insisted. "You, Oraistar, have the poor coming to pray in your silver Lavazat, but you see them rarely, and never speak with them one to one. The Laws of Taniquetil, of faith and morality, were written for the higher classes: the nobles and the wealthy landowners, the people who are able to live their lives by ideals and have no worry of how they will pay rent on a small house they can barely afford, or whether or not they will be able to buy shoes this winter. If you tell a poor farmer he must pray four times a day, do you think he will do it, when he needs to wash the dirt from his body before praying because Manwë will not listen unless he is perfect and clean? No, of course not. He'll stay out in his field trying to harvest his crops before they rot in the rain, and then come to me to ask if I think he will be damned for working to feed his family. And then I will tell him no. As long as he is an honest and hard-working man who holds Manwë in his heart and prays when he can, be that once a day or once a week, then that is good enough."

"Blasphemy!" spat another of the Oraistari.

"No, it is common sense," said Sidaizon. "And compromise. If you tell that farmer how Manwë will cast him aside if he fails at his four daily prayers, it will be he who casts Manwë aside first in frustration. And he will become bitter and lawless. Isn't it better to compromise and have him do the best he can rather than insist on the impossible?"

"No," said the Oraistar.

"Yes," said Ingwë.

At once, the entire table was silenced. The Oraistar who had spoken bowed his head, shrinking back into his chair, but Ingwë seemed not to notice him.

"Almatar Sidaizon, please continue," Ingwë said. "You speak well minded fairly."

Sidaizon nodded, though he found that his hands were now shaking. He was as dizzy as ever, and he had lost the flow of words that a moment ago had come so easily. "Thank you... thank you, your Highness. I... yes. Compromise. With the common people. We must... we must allow the laws to be flexible to accommodate those who would otherwise be excluded. As I compromised with the Yaranénor. Had I not let them into the courtyard to have their fire, they would have tried to burn the Lavazat and kill me. Then they may have gone on down the road to start a riot and burn homes and attack innocent people. Instead, they left peacefully. Isn't peace better than destruction and violence, even if laws must be set aside?"

Ingwë nodded. "Yes. This I believe. I desire peace the city wide. Peace and goodness obeying the law, but first peace."

Leaning forward, Vedezir spoke to address Ingwion. "My Prince, how many riots rage this week?"

"No riots," Ingwion answered.

"So there is peace?"

"Yes. The city is peaceful, only usual thieves and drunkards marring its perfection."

Ingwë nodded again. "It joys me hear so."

"Indeed," Ingwion agreed. "There has been no violence several days lasting. The actions our Almatar well diverted crisis, perhaps."

"Unlawfully," Ingwírion interjected. "Peace or not, the means employed lie excluded the law's barriers! Might were my Oraistari consulted..."

If Ingwírion spoke quickly when addressing the council, his words were twice as rapid when arguing with his brother. Ingwion's reply, too, flowed at great speed; these two had years of practice in baiting one another. Their voices rose higher and louder, cutting across and interrupting as if each knew exactly what the other was about to say. Sidaizon was able to follow none of it. The hail of angry words stormed down the table, making no more sense than meaningless sounds shouted at random.

The Oraistari stat patiently at the table, looking at their hands and waiting for the argument to end. Sidaizon tried to catch Vedezir's eye in hope of being able to discern whether or not this was the way councils normally proceeded, but had no luck. Vedezir, like the others, stared at his hands and pretended nothing was awry. Only Ingwë seemed to be listening to the fight. He looked from one son to the other, following the path of the shouting with an appraising frown on his face.

"Interference!" Ingwírion shouted. He must have concluded his argument; he turned his shoulder to Ingwion and glared at the assembly, searching his Oraistari for signs of support. A few looked up from their hands to nod and murmur to themselves.

"And what say you this, Almatar Sidaizon?" Ingwion asked. "Agree you your Oraistar?"

"I..." Sidaizon blinked and swallowed, as if it might help clear the fuzziness in his head and provide some miraculous answer to the question he did not understand, and looked out of the corner of his eye toward Vedezir. Vedezir still stared at his hands and offered no hint or help. "I don't know," he finished.

"Have you nothing say me?"

"No, sir."

"No admonishments in support my brother?"

"No, sir."

"Then I may beg you tell, Almatar Sidaizon, how came you deciding join the Academy? For it seems me you have too much sense being this group a part."

It had been nothing more than a joke, a barb thrown out to sting Ingwírion, who bared his teeth in an ugly sneer. But Ingwë leaned forward in his chair with a sudden light in his eyes. "Yes! This you must tell, Almatar; it enjoys me hearing stories the folk deciding attend our mountain Academy. Why chose you so?"

Sidaizon paused only a moment before answering. Speaking the truth had done him well enough so far; he had no cause to hold back now. "Spite," he said. "And revenge."

Ingwion threw his head back and laughed out loud. "Spite and revenge!" he said. "Please tell me!"

"It is a tale you may find strange, my Lords," Sidaizon continued. "When I was forty-two years old, a law was passed barring any woman from being the master of her own household. For her own good, it was said. So that foul characters would not take advantage of a woman on her own."

"I remember," Ingwion said. "I wrote the law. It is law still."

"And an inconvenient law, because at that time I lived with my mother. My father, a Noldorin soldier, had long ago left to follow Fëanáro into the east. My mother and I lived alone and she was master of her own house. But under this new law, she required some male protector: a husband or father or son. And even though she had a son, I was only forty-two, and not old enough to be considered her legal caretaker. So she was forced to sell her house, and we had to go live with my grandfather."

"Ensuring her own protection," said Ingwion.

Sidaizon dared not argue. "Yes, I agree with that now. I raged against it at the time, but in the end it was this law that set me on my path. I hated my grandfather, you see, and he hated me. In his eyes I had ruined my mother's life by simply existing. Had I not been born, he could have pretended her marriage to the Noldorin soldier never existed, and she would have stayed in his house in the guise of a respectable old maid. Instead, all the neighbourhood knew what she had done, and the family was shamed. So he hated me. He treated me like an unwanted beggar. After less than a year, I could take no more, and I ran away from home."

"To the Academy?" asked the Provost.

"No," Sidaizon answered, shaking his head and staring firmly at Ingwion. "To the King's Hands. That was my first choice."

"What!" Ingwion shouted.

"What better way to be revenged on my grandfather than become a soldier with the power to make his life very miserable? But no, they wouldn't take me."

"Absurd!" said Ingwion. "What terrible reason gave they you? Were I there..."

"I was only forty-three. Their rules are absolute: one must be fifty years old to enlist. The man who turned me away looked sorry to do so. He encouraged me to return the day I turned fifty, and assured me I would be accepted then."

"That is true," Ingwion allowed. "But could you not wait seven years only?"

"No," Sidaizon said. "I could not spend another seven days in my grandfather's house, let alone seven years.

"And so you went to the Academy," offered the Provost.

Again, Sidaizon shook his head. "Not yet. After being refused by the King's Hands, I didn't know what else to do. And so I went to the bath house at the centre of the city and stood at the gate for a long time, trying to find the courage to go inside and take up the life my grandfather always told me I deserved. I stood there until nightfall, when a kind man asked me what I was doing. An Almatar. I told him my plan, shameful as it was. He asked me to reconsider before I threw myself away, and took me home where his wife gave me good food and a place to sleep for the night. The next day, he suggested that there might be a better path I could take." He paused to smile at the Provost. "And then I went to the Academy. I stayed there for sixty years. It was harder than I ever would have imagined, but every time I thought of leaving I remembered how much I hated my grandfather, and how terrible it would be to go back to the city and face him as a failure. I stayed to spite him: to show him that I could make something worthwhile of myself. When I finished my studies I was awarded a position as an assistant scribe, and made hardly any money, but it was enough to rent a small room. I took my mother with me. We've been free of him ever since. I suppose I should thank him, really; if it weren't for his contempt, I would have never fought so hard to better myself and prove him wrong."

For a long, drawn-out moment, no-one at the table spoke. Sidaizon looked plainly back at the faces that regarded him. The Provost and Rector seemed to be whispering to each other. Ingwírion still scowled, while Ingwion's expression was unreadable. Ingwë alone showed sadness and even disappointment in his eyes.

"You went only escaping your family?" he asked. "Not believing truth and goodness?"

"Not when I first went," Sidaizon admitted. "No. But I learned. I came to believe that fate sent me there. I have no doubt that I was meant to go to the Academy, and meant to be a better person, and meant to become an Almatar so that I can repay the kindness I was shown that day outside the bath house. I believe that if my life could be turned right, so can anyone's, and I will help to do so in any way I can."

The answer was good enough for Ingwë, who slowly nodded and leaned back in his throne. Ingwírion took this as his cue to stand. "Very sweet," he said, in a voice that was sour as vinegar. "We all believe you now a righteous man, Almatar Sidaizon. But how address we the lies? Treasonous lies, agrees the council. Your touching story changes nothing the present. So how best we punish you this digression? This treason?"

"Be it best you punished him not at all," said Ingwion. "His actions brought the city peace."

"Actions flouting the law!"

"As I enforce the law, those I may forgive him."

"These are laws the Oraistari only!" Ingwírion all but shouted. "Disobedience thus you may not forgive, King's Hand! It is my rule! Stay you silent!"

"Stay you both silent."

All muttering and grumbling at the table ceased at those words. It was Ingwë who spoke, his voice full of quiet power, and Ingwë who slowly pushed himself up out of his vast throne to stand at the head of the table. The hall rang with the scraping of chair legs on the tile floor as all the Oraistari rushed to leap up as well.

"This is a matter the Oraistari and the King's Hands both," Ingwë said. "And I fear it is impossible have my sons come resolving this matter. Therefore, I shall make the decision my own."

There were little gasps from a handful of the Oraistari at that: some wore uncontained expressions of shock, while others showed nothing more than faint lines of tension in their faces. Even Vedezir frowned with uncertainty, keeping his eyes on the King. Either he was an accomplished actor, or he was just as surprised as the others at the quietly masterful way in which their council had been overruled.

"You have decided us, Father?" The question came from Ingwírion, though it sounded more like a thinly disguised statement of frustration at his sudden loss of power.

"I have," said Ingwë. He stood looking out at them all, small against the overbearing backdrop of his golden throne but no less commanding for his delicate stature. When he raised his hand he drew the attention of everyone in the hall like a magnet. "Almatar Sidaizon."

Sidaizon, for the first time, felt his stomach knot and his heart squeeze itself despite the giddy, dizzy glow of the wine. "Your Highness," he murmured. Bowing his head, he sank to his knees before the King.

"Now is my word, and you are bound its law; never may I be gainsaid. Here I announce your fate. Listen well."

PART TWO: White and Gold

This chapter marks the beginning of part two of the story.

Read PART TWO: White and Gold

The temperate humidity of morning had begun to grow into a dry heat under the baking sun by the time one of Ingwion's carriages deposited Sidaizon back at his garden gate.  Despite his home's smallness, and despite its thin walls, few rooms, and lack of glass in the windows, it seemed to him more welcoming than any mountain palace.  He pushed open the door, dropped his bundle of clothing on the floor while stepping out of his shoes, and breathed in the welcoming air of familiarity.

"Alla, Eäzinya?" he called.

Behind the wall that separated the front entry from the main room, something wooden-sounding clattered to the floor.  There was an eruption of voices, and a moment later Eäzinya flew around the corner, followed closely by Márathul, Nautalya, and Amárië.

"Sidaizon!"  She flung her arms about his neck, dissolving into tears as soon as he returned her frantic embrace.  Nautalya clung to his waist, shouting excitedly, while Márathul stood just behind Eäzinya's shoulder and tried to explain everything that had happened in his absence all at once.  All traces of Amárië's sour mood toward him had disappeared; she had her hands over her mouth and her eyes closed, as if whispering a prayer of thanks.

"Oh, I thought the worst, I truly thought the worst..." Eäzinya sobbed.

"...and then Tarmanaz said Ingwion let him go, but he didn't see you again..." Márathul was in the middle of saying.

"They really took you to Ingwë's palace?" asked Nautalya.

"One at a time," said Sidaizon.  "You sound like a flock of geese and I can't make sense of any of it."  With one arm around Eäzinya and the other on Nautalya's back, he led everyone to the main room.

"Not in here!" said Nautalya.  "Amma's doing washing."

As soon as Sidaizon turned the corner, he could see what she meant: more than half the room was full of wooden frames, all draped with wet clothing and bed linens.  The one nearest him was only partly assembled and sat on the floor in a disarray of legs and beams.

"We decided to bleach everything," Eäzinya explained.  Her voice was tremulous and faint, and she pressed her face against his shoulder so that she spoke more to his tunic than to him.  "We've been doing the biggest chores we could think of all week, hoping you'd come home and interrupt them."

Nautalya listed all the chores on her fingers: "We weeded the front garden, and washed all the walls, and then Máro climbed up on the roof to get the moss out of the corners, and we made new cheese, and we took everything out of the kitchen and scrubbed it all with sand.  And then we thought you have to come home today, so Amma wanted to do the bleaching because the drying frames take up so much space and you'd probably come home in the middle of it when there's no room to be inside."

Eäzinya managed a small, shaky smile.  "Well, it worked.  As soon as there's no place to sit, here you are."

"I've been sitting in a carriage all of today and yesterday," Sidaizon said, kissing her hair.  "I don't need to sit now.  Let's walk.  We'll go around the courtyard.  You can tell me what you did while I was away, and I can tell you everything that happened to me."

Márathul began the account of what had happened since the night the Hands came, punctuated by small corrections and additional overlooked details from Nautalya.  There was much to tell: they had waited in fear for any sort of word on what was happening, dreading the worst.  Auzëar had come by every evening after he locked the Lavazat's gates to see that all was well, but there was nothing he could do except join in the prayers for the safe return of Sidaizon and Tarmanaz.  Then Tarmanaz had come home two days past.  He had been in good spirits: he carried a letter for his commander from no other than Prince Ingwion, explaining Tarmanaz's lateness and failure to report for training as scheduled.  Ingwion, he said, had spoken to him at length, and it was a great honour to be allowed a personal conversation with the man who commanded all of the Hands in Valinor.  Such a meeting could only help his career.

He had left almost as soon as he had come, though not before assuring the family that Sidaizon was well.  They had gone to Ingwë's palace, not the Brass Pit, and it seemed to Tarmanaz that nothing too terrible could happen there.  But he could not say for certain.  All could change in the span of a day.  And so the family still waited, fearful and unsure.

It took four slow circles around the perimeter of the courtyard for Márathul to tell everything.  In that time, neighbours from the adjoining houses congregated at their back doors to see that, yes, Almatar Sidaizon had indeed come home.  Several of them stared at him with puzzled expressions, as if trying to guess whether or not it was merely a malicious rumour that he had been taken away by the Hands.  Usually those who were taken did not return in such good condition.

"Now your turn," prompted Nautalya.  "Tell us about the palace!"

"Ah yes," said Sidaizon.  "Well, Tarmanaz has already told you about our long carriage ride up Taniquetil, so I will begin at the point where he and I parted.  He remained with Ingwion, and the Hands took me to my quarters.  I had been expecting a prison cell, so it was a lovely surprise indeed to be shown to a bedroom fit for a king."

"What did it look like?" Nautalya asked, though Eäzinya quickly shushed her.

"Hush, Alya.  You can ask those questions later.  Let your father tell us what happened first."

"What happened is that I spent most of the next day in that bedroom, being very lazy and sleeping as long as I liked and eating wonderful food that servants brought in on silver trays.  And I found an old friend there: Vedezir Tarathandyo, who was at the Academy with me.  He's an Oraistar now."

"You have a Tarathandyo friend?" asked Nautalya.

"Nautalya..." Eäzinya warned.

"Just the one," said Sidaizon.  But even one was clearly good enough for Nautalya, who looked nothing less than awed at the thought of her very plain father having a Tarathandyo nobleman for a friend.  "Now, Vedezir told me that the Oraistari had called me before their council because they were upset with what I had done regarding the convert woman who had died.  So I had to stand before them and account for my actions, which they said were in conflict with the law.  I told them what I had done, and explained why I thought it had been the right thing to do.  Some agreed with me.  But many others believed I should have followed the law, regardless of my own thoughts.  In the end, the King took up the matter himself and made a decision."

"What did he decide?" asked Márathul.

Sidaizon glanced about the courtyard, scanning over the faces of the neighbours who watched.  "I will tell you inside.  I have something to show you.  But you can guess first.  What do you think he decided?"

"He must have taken your side," said Amárië.  "Otherwise you wouldn't have returned."

Eäzinya nodded, muttering agreement with Amárië's guess, while Nautalya pulled on his arm.  "What do you have to show us?  Did the King give you treasure?  Jewels?"

"No, not treasure or jewels."

"Something good, though?"

"Well, that is open to interpretation.  Come inside.  We'll go into the bedroom.  Máro, will you bring my travelling pack?  It's by the front door."

Nautalya led the way into the back bedroom, claiming a spot on the bed, though she was quick to climb into Sidaizon's lap as soon as he sat down.  Eäzinya sat at Sidaizon's side on the bed, while Amárië and Márathul took places on the floor.  Of all of them, only Márathul still wore the look of pale-faced worry that had greeted Sidaizon at the door.  His gaze flickered between the pack in his lap and Sidaizon, and he had pursed his lips together as if trying to hold back some uncertain words.

"Máro?" Sidaizon asked.  "You look troubled."

Shrugging, Márathul stared down at the floor.

"Have you a guess, then, for what the King decided?"

He shook his head.  "I don't need to guess.  I can see."

"And?"

"You're not wearing your Almatar's robes."

No sooner had the words been spoken than Eäzinya pulled away with a gasp, staring at Sidaizon's clothing.  Amárië, too, stared; neither had thought to look too closely when he arrived.  The tunic and trousers he wore were white as usual, though of a different cut, and he had neither mantle nor sash.

"That's correct," he said.  "I am no longer wearing Almatar's robes."

"Oh, Sido..." Eäzinya whispered.  "What..."  She raised her hand to her lips, and could not finish the thought.

"I had to give all my Almatar's clothes to the council.  These clothes are loaned from my friend Vedezir, as I unfortunately had no others."

Amárië's face was grey but firm, her jaw tense as she nodded once in acceptance of the news.  "Well," she said.  "That's not the worst that could happen.  You're not in prison.  And I'm sure you can easily find work elsewhere.  You can read and write, at least, and-"

He shook his head, interrupting her.  "No need.  I have been given a different position: one that our good prince Ingwion was instrumental in securing."

"Ingwion," repeated Eäzinya.

"What's in the pack?" Márathul asked, his voice sudden and sharp.

"Only some cloth.  I need a new uniform, which I hope I can persuade your mother to make for me."

Looking somewhere between fainting and exploding with anger, Eäzinya squeezed her eyes shut.  "Is it white and gold?"

"More or less," said Sidaizon.  "Máro, you can open the pack if you like."

The white came first.  Eäzinya turned her back and refused to look at it.  Márathul pulled the white fabric from the pack and carefully unfolded it, frowning at the small piece he held in his hands.  There was less than an armspan of heavy white silk.  "How will you make..." he began, but discarded the question in favour seeing what else the pack held.  He pulled out the second piece of fabric: the gold.

Nautalya hissed in a quick breath and let it out again with a soft "Oh!"  The second piece was not linen dyed the colour of gold, as Tarmanaz's uniform sash had been, but stiff cloth that looked as if it had been woven from gold itself, as bright as sunlight and glittering even in the shaded bedroom.

"What is it?" she asked.  "May I touch it?"

"They call it enwizda kuluva," said Sidaizon, "and it is woven from thread that has been wrapped in real gold.  And yes, you may touch it."

"Only at the edge, though," said Amárië, who had picked up a corner of the enwizda cloth by her very fingertips, as if it might fall apart in her hands.  "It's far too rich for little girls who might make it dirty."

This was enough to pique Eäzinya's curiosity; she looked back to see what caused all the fuss.  Blinking and uncertain, she stared at the enwizda cloth spread out between Amárië, Nautalya, and Márathul before slowly raising her eyes to Sidaizon.  "But that's... it's not..." 

"Eäzinya.  Did you truly think I would join the King's Hands, when I knew all too well that you'd kill me for it if the shock didn't kill you first?"

"I don't... know," she said.  And then, with a frustrated cry, she fell on Sidaizon's shoulder, beating her fists against his chest and arms and back and every other part of him she could reach.  "You horrible - horrible - awful - augh!  I believed you!  You did that on purpose, and I believed you!  You wanted me to think you'd joined the King's Hands just so you could...  and I believed you!"

Laughing, Sidaizon fell onto his back on the bed, dragging her down as well.  She struggled in his arms to pull herself upright, cursing and hitting him.

"But what is it for, then?" asked Márathul.  "If not the King's Hands?"

"Well," said Sidaizon.  He sat up again and let Eäzinya go free, huffing and glaring as she was.  "It's a strange coincidence, and one I find rather amusing, but it so happens that white and gold are the colours not only of the King's Hands but also of the Oraistari."

Of everyone in the room, only Nautalya seemed uninterested in what he said; she continued to poke and examine the shining gold cloth, whispering quiet sounds to herself.  But Amárië and Márathul exchanged looks in stunned silence, and Eäzinya's hands fell into her lap, suddenly limp.

"They made you an Oraistar?" Amárië asked, sounding as if she had little faith in her own guess.

"Oh, no," Sidaizon replied.  "They did nothing of the sort.  In fact, they were absolutely against it, for the most part.  It was all the King's doing."

Amárië still stared.  She looked no more convinced.  "So... you truly are..."

"Yes.  I truly am.  As of two days past, by the gracious appointment of His Royal Highness, King Ingwë of all the Eldar, I am nothing less than Oraistar of Oichimyaiva."

~

"You are the luckiest damned cur I've ever met in my life," said Auzëar.  He sat on the floor opposite Sidaizon, sipping tea from one of the good nickel bronze cups that Eäzinya liked to bring out for guests.   Beside him, Eäzinya and Amárië had spread out the enwizda cloth in one long piece as they prepared to start on the Oraistar's robes.  He stared at its golden sheen and shook his head.  "By Manwë's eye, Sidaizon, nobody else in the world gets away with the things you do!  You're arrested by the Hands, taken to the palace, tried by a disciplinary council for breaking the laws of the order, and what's the result?  You're made an Oraistar.  Anyone else would be in prison by now, but you...  I mean no offence to your fair mother's honour when I say this, but your father must have been a Vala.  Fate favours you too much."

Amárië laughed.  "No, his father was only a Noldo.  But we were a very unlucky pair, my Noldo and I.  Perhaps our son stole all the luck from both of us, and so has twice as much as any one person needs."

"Or perhaps I am very talented to have done so well for myself?" Sidaizon offered.

"Whatever the case," said Auzëar, "I still don't believe it.  Oraistar of Oichimyaiva.  I never thought such a thing would be possible."

Oraistar of Oichimyaiva.  Sidaizon repeated the words in his head.  Even after two days of hovering at the front of his mind they seemed strange and foreign: no part of his own life.  "I suppose we shall have to grow accustomed to the idea."

Humming a wordless sound of agreement, Auzëar finished his cup of tea and poured himself another.  "Will you still be at the Lavazat?  Or have you been given other duties?"

"Other duties.  I'm to travel between the Lavazati in the poorer neighbourhoods, going among the people and hearing their voices.  I'll be the King's liaison to the common folk.  I don't think it ever occurred to him before that commoners lead different lives than his beloved lords, but now that it has he seems eager to understand those differences.  Whether or not anything will change..."  He let his words trail off with a shrug, and sipped his tea.
Auzëar said nothing, though by the way his brow creased and his mouth turned down it was clear his mind was on some grave thought.  Sidaizon could guess what it was.

"We will need a new Almatar of Oichimyaiva now."

His frown deepening, Auzëar looked up.  "I don't have your luck, Sidaizon.  Even if I put my name forward, Oraistar Ingwírion would throw away my application the moment he read 'Auzëar Mótazyo'.  You're the only one of us lowly peasants I know to become anything more than an assistant."

"So make your own luck," said Sidaizon.

"How?"

He glanced over his shoulder; Eäzinya and Amárië stood on the far side of the room, wrapped in their discussion of the enwizda cloth and how best to cut it.  Still, he leaned forward and spoke to Auzëar in a low voice.  "When I applied for leadership Oichimyaiva, I somehow neglected to write my full name.  Very unfortunate mistake.  I suggest you do the same.  If you write only 'Auzëar', Ingwírion has no way of knowing that you're not Auzëar Kemendur or Auzëar Mankar."

"He could always ask."

"Yes, well..."  Sidaizon shifted to sit with one elbow resting on his knee.  "Isn't it better to take that chance than to have Ingwírion dismiss you at once simply because you were born into the wrong class?"

Auzëar nodded, but remained quiet for a long moment before speaking again.  "I'll consider it."

"Please do.  You've been at that Lavazat well near three long-counts, and you'd be a far better man for the job than some high-born idiot."  He smiled; Auzëar did not return the gesture.  They lapsed into silence and poured more tea.

Auzëar would be the ideal candidate to take over the position of Almatar of Oichimyaiva; Sidaizon knew that much without having to consider.  Longer than Sidaizon had been Almatar, Auzëar had been second in command, keeping the Lavazat in order with his steady presence and solid dedication to the service of Manwë.  He had the knowledge and the wisdom, the faith and the temperament.  He lacked only the ambition and the confidence.

Unfortunately, self-doubt in the face of opportunity seemed to put him in a low mood.  "I should be off," he said, standing.  "Thank you for the tea, Eäzinya.  That was very kind."

"You're welcome any time," she replied.

"You won't stay for supper?" asked Sidaizon.  "I sent Márathul and Nautalya to the market with far too much money and instructions to buy whatever outlandish food they desired so we can have a celebration.  They should be back any time now, and I think it will be an interesting feast."

"No, thank you.  Tea is enough.  I only stopped by to be certain your family was well in your absence, and I found you returned and better off than ever.  That's my work done.  I should be on my way."

Sidaizon showed him to the door and out the front gate, taking the opportunity to look down the road for Márathul and Nautalya.  The street was empty and they were nowhere to be seen, though he lingered a moment by the garden wall in wait.  Then he returned inside to Eäzinya and Amárië.  They still had made no progress on the robes.   Eäzinya held her scissors in her hand, but looked afraid to bring them anywhere near the gold cloth.

"Do you want me to read you the instructions again?" Sidaizon asked.

She frowned.  "No.  We've measured and marked everything and measured and checked again, but...   I want to make absolute certain before I cut this that it's right."

"How difficult can it be?  You've made me dozens of Almatar's robes, and this is the same shape."

She and Amárië exchanged a look deploring his lack of knowledge in the great women's art of sewing.  "Yes, but Almatar's robes are made of white linen, which is easily found at the market.  If I cut linen wrong, it's possible to buy more."

"You've never cut linen wrong."

"I know, but if I did..."

"Here," said Amárië, holding out her hand.  "I'll do it."  She took the scissors from Eäzinya, who looked relieved to be rid of the burden of them, and knelt on the floor.  Aligning the blades carefully with the pattern of chalk lines they had drawn, she hesitated long enough to draw one reassuring breath before beginning to cut.  The scissors sliced cleanly through the rippling gold, and Eäzinya winced at the sight.

It seemed to Sidaizon that Amárië took a very long time in cutting along all the chalk, as if she were bent on making robes fine enough for Manwë himself, though he said nothing that might break the concentration that showed so plainly on her face.  As she finished each piece, Eäzinya folded it carefully and set it aside to keep the edges from fraying too badly.  They had just finished cutting and folding the last of the pieces when Márathul and Nautalya returned.  Márathul carried a large basket and Nautalya a bundle the size of a baby, and both grinned broadly.  Nautalya's excitement spilled out of her like an uncontained fountain.

"Attu!  Attu, look what we bought!  Look!"

The fare was no less extravagant than Sidaizon expected: soft white bread, fruit candied in powdery sugar, hard cheese from Tirion, a cake made with nuts, pouches of colourful spices, flavoured oil, and all kinds of fresh vegetables.  And in Nautalya's bundle lay one of the rarest foods in Valmar: a fat, glassy-eyed fish.

"It's a fish from a cold lake in the mountains," she explained, "not from the river.  So the vendor said the taste is much better."

"Have you ever eaten fish before to have such a preference in taste?" Sidaizon teased.

"Well no..."

Eäzinya regarded the array of different foods with an uncertain expression, caught between curiosity and apprehension.  Her mouth tightened as she looked at the speckled, grey body of the fish.  "This is a lot of food, children.  How much money did you-"

"I hope they spent all I gave them," interrupted Sidaizon.  "We are celebrating, after all."

"Yes, but..."

"There's no need to worry," he said.  "We can afford a little celebration every once in a while.  Don't think about the money.  Let's think about eating, instead."

With a defeated sigh, Eäzinya dropped her hands to her sides.  She nodded, more to herself than anyone else, and moved toward Márathul to have a better look at the basket he carried.  "Before we think about eating, we need to think about cooking.  How in the world do we cook a fish, anyhow?"

"I'll do it," said Márathul.  "The man who sold it told me how.  I'll need the big brass pan."

Somewhat reluctantly, Nautalya gave him the fish, which she had been cradling in her arms like a prized pet.  As he seasoned it in the pan with lemon and hazelnut oil, Amárië set to work preparing a plate of vegetables for the side.  Eäzinya watched them work through eyes still shaded by worry.

"You needn't be so concerned," Sidaizon murmured to her.  He slipped his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her close.  The soft, familiar scent of her hair and skin surrounded him and he breathed it in with simple gratitude.  "We can afford a fish for supper on special occasions."

"Your mother and I looked at money while you were gone," she replied in a low voice.  "One of the chores we did to pass the time.  We have nothing saved, Sidaizon.  Nothing put aside for Tarmanaz and Márathul to help them find brides, and nothing for wedding clothes for Nautalya, which she'll be old enough to need before we can afford them.  Nothing to fix the roof if it leaks, or the floor if it cracks, and nothing at all to pay for that heated water you want.  Everything you earn, we spend, with nothing left over.  So we'll have to go without something else to pay for that fish.  Unless the King has generously agreed to pay you more now that you're an Oraistar."

"Mm.  That does sound dire.  In that case, it's a lucky thing the King has promised to pay me more."

Her body stiffened in his arms and she turned her head, trying to look at him over her shoulder.  "What?  How much more?"

"Thirty."

She spun around with a gasp of disbelief and he caught her again, clasping his hands behind her back as she gaped up at him.  "He will truly pay you thirty kulustar per year?"

"No..." he said.  A foolish grin began to twitch at the corners of his mouth, though this one he could not blame on any wine.  "He will truly pay me thirty kulustar more per year."

Eäzinya's lips moved, but she made no sound.  Silently, she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.  "Thirty more," she managed.

"Thirty more.  That's forty-eight per year total, and enough that we'll never have to worry about how much our supper costs, whether it be fish or beans.  We'll have money for everything we need and more besides.  I will buy you silks and perfumes, and Tarmanaz and Márathul will marry into good families, and Nautalya will be draped in gold and pearls at her wedding.  How does that sound?"

"Thirty more," was all that Eäzinya said.

"Thirty more," Sidaizon agreed.  He kissed her hair and her cheek, and tilted her chin up to kiss her lips.  "Now what do you say we get out the good dishes to eat our fish?"

---

Chapter End Notes

Enwizda kuluva: gold samite or cloth of gold

Class names, denoting status in Minyarin society:

Tarathandyo: the high ruling class, comprising the greatest and most powerful of all noble families of Taniquetil
Mótar (Mótazyo) - labourer
Kemendur: farmer
Mankar: merchant or trader

The Oraistar of Oichimyaiva

Read The Oraistar of Oichimyaiva

Four days later, Eäzinya and Amárië had finished the Oraistar's robes.  The outfit comprised a sleeveless, floor-length tunic of gold, belted at the waist with a white sash, and a gold mantle of a similar shape to that which he had worn as an Almatar.  Sidaizon donned it all over plain white trousers and a white shirt, keeping the hard roughness of the metallic enwizda cloth from touching his skin.  The tunic and mantle were heavier than he had anticipated.  They weighed down on his shoulders as if he were wearing an entire tent of thick canvas.

"How does it look?" he asked Eäzinya.

"Very strange," she said.  "It seems all wrong to have you dressed like that and standing in our house.  You should be in a great hall of silver and gold, not in a little tiled room with a low ceiling."

"I'll probably look just as strange in the poor Lavazati, then.  They all have small rooms with low ceilings and are made of plain stone."

"I think you look like Arafinwë," said Nautalya.

Smiling, Sidaizon gave her hair a teasing tug.  "Arafinwë wears Oraistar's robes?"

"He wears gold.  If you had long hair you'd look exactly like him."

"How lucky for me," said Sidaizon.  "Now that I'm an Oraistar, I can grow my hair however long I like.  So perhaps in two years I shall look exactly like Arafinwë, and everyone will mistake me for the King of the Noldor."

Both Nautalya and Eäzinya laughed at that.  Amárië, though, wore a strange expression, pale and tight.  She afforded Sidaizon only a brief glance out of the corner of her eye before turning away, as if she suddenly could not bear the sight of him.

"It was only a joke, Amma," he said softly.

"Sounds like nothing more than nonsense to me," she replied in a voice that struggled to remain even.

"Amma..."

She ignored him, instead stooping to gather up all the sewing supplies and fabric ends that littered the floor.  "We've made a terrible mess in here.  Nautalya, will you help me tidy?  Put the large white scraps aside for quilts, and you can use the little pieces for play.  But keep all the gold by itself.  We can unravel the weave and use even the tiniest bits for embroidery."

Shaking his head, Sidaizon let her go about her tidying.  After so many years he had grown accustomed to her abrupt changes in mood.  Sometimes she could laugh and smile in spite of her sorry fate, and sometimes the mere mention of the Noldor would set her on edge, tense as a cat.  This would be a cat-tense day.

"I should be on my way," he said to Eäzinya.  "I want to visit at least two of the Lavazati today, and do whatever it is I'm expected to do as their new Oraistar."

"What time will you be home for supper?" she asked.

"Before sundown, with any luck.  I don't want to be out late, and my introductions shouldn't take long."  Then he kissed her cheek and was out the door.

~

Of the six Lavazati Sidaizon now oversaw as Oraistar, Oichimyaiva was both the largest and the closest, though his plan for that day was to first visit Lavazat Salizérë an hour's walk away.  The road to Salizérë was an easy one: Sidaizon followed a main thoroughfare that led almost straight south-west with few curves.  It made for quick walking to avoid the narrow and frequently muddy alleys, though the disadvantage to such a clear path became obvious within minutes.  An Oraistar's robes stood out like a torch on the drab street.  People stopped in their tracks to stare as he passed, pointing and wondering aloud to one another at the spectacle.  Women stood in doorways or leaned out of upper-storey windows in the shared housing while children, shrieking and hollering, ran after him to touch his mantle.  A trio of running children soon became a pack, and then a parade as the parents abandoned what they had been doing in order to follow along.

"Where are you going, Heru Oraistar?" they asked.

Sidaizon, still marvelling at the strangeness of the title, answered, "I am going to Lavazat Salizérë."

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.  Of course the Oraistar would go to the Lavazat, no doubt to do something fantastic, and they would all go along to see.  As they progressed down the road, the followers called out to all that they saw and bade them join the procession.  The Oraistar was going to Lavazat Salizérë, and something grand was about to happen.  By the time he had gone a third of the way, Sidaizon had dozens upon dozens of people at his back.

One man jogged up to fall into step beside him.  "Are you not Almatar Sidaizon of Oichimyaiva?"

"I was," Sidaizon replied.  "But now..."  Holding out his arms, he looked down at the golden robes.

"We thought you looked familiar.  And you've been made an Oraistar!"

"Yes.  And this will be my first visit to Lavazat Salizérë as its Oraistar."

The man nodded, his excitement growing.  "I will tell the others!"  And with that he fell back, disappearing into the crowd.

Another man came forward to take his place within seconds, and two more appeared at the same time on Sidaizon's other side.  "Heru Oraistar," said the first.  "I need your guidance.  I am trying to organise a marriage for my daughter, but she refuses to accept any of the matches I-"

"My son is a worse state!" interrupted one of the men on the other side.  "Heru Oraistar, he claims he is in love with a Yaranénon girl and threatens to marry her!"

"I want my son to go to the Academy on the Mountain!" someone shouted from behind.  "But he says he wants to go east to the sea, Heru Oraistar!"

"My daughter-" called another, and yet another, "My wife is unhappy,' and then the entire street rang with dozens of voice clamouring louder and louder as each fought to be heard above the others.  Caught in the storm of noise, Sidaizon could make out nothing more than a constant theme of Heru Oraistar!  Heru Oraistar!  Heru Oraistar! over and over, until the words ceased to have any meaning at all.

He stopped, turned, and held up his hands.  In an instant, all of the people fell miraculously silent.  "This is not the place for me to hear your troubles," he said to them.  "Wait until we reach the Lavazat.  There, I will sit and listen to all of you in an orderly fashion, and give such advice as I can."

Some grumbled at being so dismissed, but most nodded in quiet agreement.  The procession started again down the road, and though the excitable chatter quickly rose once more, no-one approached Sidaizon with any more questions.  The crowd fell back to keep a more respectful distance.  Only children continued to run along close enough to dart in and out of his shadow, squealing and yelling to each other as they invented a new game.  The first rule of this game seemed to be that nobody was allowed to step on the Oraistar's shadow-head.  The second rule must have been that the purpose of the game was to make another child break the first rule.

Sidaizon had been to Salizérë no more than a handful of times, with his most recent visit being before Nautalya was born.  It had not changed since then in any way that he could see.  The building was small, just over half the size of Oichimyaiva, but everything about it was impeccably tended, from the stone facade to the flowering courtyard out front.  A flash of memory triggered in the back of his mind.  There was something odd about Salizérë, though he could not remember exactly what.  It was not until he had passed through the courtyard gate that it returned to him.  The Almatar of Salizérë, drawn by the noise of the approaching crowd, had opened the front door to peer out.

He was the tallest man Sidaizon had ever met, and thin as a pole, with a long neck and a long nose and short, black hair cropped off at his shoulders in a haphazard way.  As far as Sidaizon knew, he was the only Noldorin Almatar in the entire city, and a large part of the reason why Lavazat Salizérë had grown so popular.  People flocked to the gates to see the spectacle of this strange-looking foreigner in white robes.

"Almatar Anarthámo," Sidaizon called up to him.

Anarthámo raised his hand in greeting.  "Alla Oraistar..."  He paused, creasing his brow.  "Sidaizon?"

"Indeed," said Sidaizon, climbing the steps.  "The King has newly appointed me Oraistar of Oichimyaiva."

Anarthámo seemed to accept this news more easily than Auzëar had.  Perhaps, having been born and raised in Tirion, he saw nothing out of the ordinary in a Mótarin Oraistar.  He nodded as if it were perfectly reasonable that there should even be such thing as an Oraistar of Oichimyaiva, and stepped back with a bow to invite Sidaizon into the Lavazat.

"Wait where you are," Sidaizon said to the people in the courtyard.  "I must speak first with Almatar Anarthámo, but this will be brief, and then I will return to listen to your concerns."

The inside of Lavazat Salizérë was no different from Oichimyaiva, save in size.  A row of small windows set near the ceiling lined all walls, some with tree branches or creeping vines growing through them.  Birds flitted from one window to another over the head of a shirtless boy, who held a rag in one hand and a bucket in the other while his eyes tracked the birds.  Even in the dim light, it was clear that the boy's hair was a strange red colour, like a fox.  He would be Anarthámo's son by a Minyarin wife.

"Come with me this way," Anarthámo beckoned; "we can sit in the back room.  Lanquillo – the assistant here – just made some tea if you'd like a cup."

"That's very kind, but I only need a quick word," Sidaizon answered.  The name Lanquillo sounded vaguely familiar, and as soon as he followed Anarthámo into the back room he remembered why.

Assistant Almatar Lanquillo was the second half of the strangeness of Salizérë, and almost as much of a curiosity as Anarthámo.  He was as oddly short as Anarthámo was tall, and just as thin, though his hair was a dark, coppery shade and his skin even redder.  He looked up at Anarthámo with blue-black eyes and spoke in a voice that did not fully manage to hide what had once been the lilting accent of the Yaranénor who lived on the other side of the river: "What's all the noise outside?  Is there more fighting?"

"No, no," Anarthámo answered.  "They came with the Oraistar."

This time, Lanquillo's blue-black eyes turned to Sidaizon, and he slowly nodded in recognition.  "Heru Oraistar, were you at Oichimyaiva?  Almatar Sidaizon?"

"Yes," said Sidaizon.  He paused, filled with the certainty that he ought to say more, though his mind was as blank as the sandstone wall behind Lanquillo.

"When were you named Oraistar?"

"Only a few days ago."  Again, he stopped, filled suddenly with a crushing sense of self-doubt.  What in the world was he meant to say?  That he had come from Taniquetil, appointed by the King as yet another ruling voice to tell the Almatar what to do in his own Lavazat?

Both Anarthámo and Lanquillo stared at him with an expectant openness, waiting for the explanation of why he had come.

"The King..." he began, faltering.  "The King appointed me Oraistar of Oichimyaiva.  I report to both him and the Oraistar of Valmar.  Specifically, they... the King... requests that I keep him informed on the lives of common people.  Their lives and needs and thoughts.  I will be overseeing six Lavazati: Oichimyaiva, Salizérë, and Aikilumar on this side of the river, Thoronyámë and Vallúlo in the west, and Santaya in the north.  These are the six most commonly visited by the merchants, farmers, and labourers, and the ones where the Oraistari have previously spent little time and offered little help.  I am here to change that.  My duty is to listen to the people and also the Almatardi, and to report back to the King.  If you have any concerns that require the King's attention, you may relate them to me and I will speak to him on your behalf."

Both of the men nodded at this and, to Sidaizon's great relief, looked nothing less than agreeable to everything he had told them.

"How often will you be here?" asked Anarthámo.

"I would think no more than one day per month," said Sidaizon.  "Though if you have pressing matters that cannot wait for my visit, you may always send me a letter.  I shall be keeping an office at Oichimyaiva."

Anarthámo nodded.  "Good.  That sounds very good.  I know there are things I would like to report to the King.  I've tried speaking to the Oraistar of Valmar, but he's such a..."  He stopped suddenly, and a wave of uncertainty passed over his face.  "He's so busy all the time," Anarthámo corrected himself.

"Yes," Sidaizon agreed, trying not to smile.  'Busy' was not the word he would have used to describe the Oraistar of Valmar, especially when it came to the complaints of some insignificant, peasant Almatar.  "Our Salistina Heru Oraistar is very busy.  And that is why I have been appointed.  To... er... relieve him of some of that burden of responsibility."

"I understand," said Anarthámo.  He and Lanquillo exchanged a look, sharing some faint hint of amusement.

"Now I apologise for my brief introduction," Sidaizon continued, changing the subject, "but I have limited time here today and there is a crowd outside demanding my attention."

"Of course."  With a bow, Anarthámo gestured to the door.  "I will draft up a list of any concerns that Lanquillo and I have, or that people might bring forth, and discuss them with you on your next visit.  Are there... er..."  He paused, hissing in a long breath.  "Are there any items we should not discuss with you?  Anything that must be managed by Lanquillo and me only?"

There was no need to guess what he meant.  "You speak of money," said Sidaizon.

Anarthámo remained motionless in uncertainty, neither confirming nor denying Sidaizon's statement.

"Anarthámo, I was Almatar of Oichimyaiva for nearly one hundred and twenty years.  I know how it is to struggle to find money for candles and paper when your main source of income is donations from the city's poorest folk, especially after Taniquetil takes most of that to 'redistribute'.  If you find yourself constantly short, report the shortfall to me.  I will petition the King to increase your expense allowance."

Touching his hand to his forehead, Anarthámo bowed as low as his great height would allow.  "Thank you, Heru Oraistar."

"The King appointed me to help him understand the common people of Valmar," said Sidaizon.  "I will ensure he understands fully, whether it pleases him or not."

He passed back through the entrance hall with its windows and birds, where the fox-haired boy now knelt on the floor scrubbing at a white smudge.  In the few moments he had taken to speak to Anarthámo, the noise of the crowd had grown.  Voices echoed through the walls and windows in a crash of excited sound.  When he opened the door, he saw why.

Vedezir stood on the front stairs, patiently waiting.  Just outside the gate, Sidaizon could see a carriage identical to the one Oraistar Tayóron had used on the day of the burial.

"Ah," said Vedezir.  "You actually walked all the way over here.  I had thought you might have the sense to come to Oichimyaiva first, where I was waiting with my carriage."

"How did you know-" Sidaizon began.

"You should know that an Oraistar walking through the streets of Valmar attracts almost as much attention as a Vala doing the same.  With all the shouting, I think everyone on this side of the river now knows you're here.  That's why we use carriages: faster, more efficient, less sensational.  Now come with me.  I can drive you wherever you need to go."

Sidaizon glanced down at the mass of people gathered in the courtyard.  If one Oraistar attracted a crowd, the presence of two was enough to summon what looked like everyone within walking distance.  Hundreds of bodies covered every available inch of grass, with more surrounding Vedezir's carriage and trying to elbow their way in through the gate.  "But what about all these people?  They've come for advice."

"It will take us over an hour to walk back to the carriage," Vedezir answered.  "Dispense advice on the way."

Sidaizon did not bother to say anything to that.  One thing about Vedezir, he now remembered from his days at the Academy, was an inclination toward ridiculous and nonsensical statements coupled with a complete disinterest in ever telling the whole truth.  "Fine," he sighed.  He followed Vedezir down the stairs.

Once on the grass, though, he understood what Vedezir had meant.  The throng of followers had pressed themselves so tightly into the small courtyard that there was no space to move.  Vedezir took one step forward, but five men blocked his way, shouting Heru Oraistar! Heru Oraistar! and reaching out to touch his mantle.  Two collapsed to their knees to grasp his feet.  At this rate, it would indeed take at least an hour to reach the carriage.

"Heru Oraistar!" another voice cried, and Sidaizon felt hands on his arm.  "My son, Heru Oraistar, is disrespectful and refuses to pray with me!" 

"Oh..." said Sidaizon.  "Well..."

"How old is he?" asked Vedezir.

"Thirty-one, but-"

"Then he is not old enough to have to learn his prayers.  He's still a boy.  Let him play outside."

The hands fell away, replaced by a more insistent tug.

"My daughter refuses to marry!  She is fifty-two years old and does not want a husband!"

"I suppose... I suppose that's her choice," Sidaizon began, "and-"

"And you cannot force her to marry," interrupted Vedezir.  "A marriage without her consent is against the will of Manwë.  If you want her out of your house, send her to the Quindesta."

"That's somewhat abrupt," said Sidaizon.

"Abruptness is necessary if you want to be out of here anytime soon."

A distraught boy pushed his way forward to clasp Vedezir's sleeve.  "Heru Oraistar, a bird flew into my house and my cat killed it!"

"Give the bird a proper and respectful burial in a garden," came Vedezir's quick reply.  He stepped forward into the sea of people, parting them with his outstretched arm.  Sidaizon followed quickly at his back before the space between them could fill in with grasping hands.

"Heru Oraistar!"

It was no longer possible to distinguish one voice from the next.  Dozens blended together from all directions, flowing into a constant stream of words: a problem with a neighbour, a fight with a father, an accusation of witchcraft, a desire for revenge.  Sidaizon answered each as best he could, as quickly as he could, fighting all the while to keep the crush of people from separating him from Vedezir.  He had been in crowds like this before, crowds so dense the people could hardly move, but never as the focus of the attention.  Hands that seemed to come out of nowhere, detached from any discernable bodies, touched his hair and clothes as if he were some lucky amulet.  Their fingertips hovered like flies.

If one could drown in water, then one could just as easily drown in people.  The heat of the sun bore down from above and the smell of trampled grass and dirt rose up from below, and all around the people pushed in.  There was no fresh air.  Closer they pressed, bodies upon bodies, squeezing and crushing.  The heat of the sun filled every tiny gap between them, adding its weight, and the roaring noise of voices bound them all tighter together.  Trapped at the core, Sidaizon stumbled.  He could not breathe.  There was no air.

A pace ahead, Vedezir turned sharply.  His eyes met Sidaizon's, and he held out his arm.

"Stand back and be quiet!"

The words echoed like thunder through the courtyard.  As Vedezir swept his arm in a circle, the people shoved their way back away from him as eagerly as they had pushed forward a moment earlier.  Vedezir was left standing in the middle of a perfectly clear circle an armspan wide.  He frowned at Sidaizon.  "Not you."

Sidaizon looked at the tightly packed bodies on either side of him.  Somehow, he had managed to push his way back along with the others until he stood at the edge of the circle.  It had seemed like the right thing to do; he had not even questioned himself in obeying Vedezir's command.  Trying not to feel too foolish, he stepped forward to take his place in the cleared circle.  All of the people had fallen strangely silent.

"Is there anyone here with a question so complex it cannot be answered by Almatar Anarthámo?" Vedezir asked the crowd.

No-one spoke.  No-one moved.

"All concerns should be addressed to the Almatar," Vedezir continued.  "In the event he finds himself facing a problem he cannot solve, he will bring it forward to Oraistar Sidaizon.  We must follow the correct procedure."

Heads nodded and glanced to one another, but still no-one spoke.

"Now let's be on our way," he said to Sidaizon.  

~

The carriage lurched forward and Vedezir dropped his head back against the cushioned bench, closing his eyes.  "And that," he said, "is why we do not walk."

Sidaizon nodded.  In the safety of the carriage, away from the heat and noise and relentless bodies, he was able to breathe.  His speeding heart rate, which he had not even noticed, began to slow, and the sweat he had not felt form on his face and neck began to cool.  He wiped his hands over his brow.  "Are the crowds always like that?  When you visit a Lavazat?  Do they always have so many questions?"

"I've never seen a crowd that size, because I've never walked through the streets gathering followers as I went, but yes.  They always behave in the same way.  You'll find that your wisdom has magically tripled now that you're an Oraistar, and nobody can make even the simplest of decisions without your guidance.  As Almatar, I think I'm correct in assuming that people would have asked your advice on important matters that required interpretation of the law, but otherwise they used their own good judgement.  You were a well respected man, but still within reach: still one of them.  Now you are one of us.  Something separate and even a little dazzling.  People will find any excuse to hear what you have to say just for the sake of hearing it.  If you're there to ask, it will become impossible for anyone to even make a pillow without first consulting you for a holy declaration on what makes the best stuffing."

"But why?" asked Sidaizon.

Staring out the window, Vedezir shrugged.  "Because people are happiest when they don't have to think for themselves.   Responsibility and decision-making are such burdens.  Why do you think we invented kings?  Why do you think the ancient Eldar looked up at the stars and prayed to Varda before they even knew her name?  Everyone wants guidance.  Everyone wants to know that, in their hour of need, they will have somebody to turn to who will protect them and tell them what to do.  The people have the Almatardi, the Almatardi have the Oraistari, the Oraistari have the King, the King has Manwë, and even Manwë has Eru, who knows all and can pass His wisdom down through the chain."

"I suppose," Sidaizon agreed.  It made sense, considering what he had seen, and on some basic level he knew it to be true, though the notion still chafed at his sense of pride.   "But I think some people would rather make their own choices and decisions."

Vedezir grinned.  "And that's why you're now an Oraistar.  You think like a leader, Sidaizon.  Most people don't."

"And you?"

"No," Vedezir laughed, "I'm in this mess because of what I can do, not because of how I think.  Or because I was drunk enough to speak candidly to a King who's so distanced from reality he literally cannot fathom the concept of being poor."

Quickly, Sidaizon shut his mouth and looked down at his knees.  He and Vedezir had not spoken of what had happened at the council and how the wine may have played a role.  He had no intention of changing that. 

Vedezir, to his relief, made no further mention of it.  "Listen," he said instead.  "I need to talk to you about something.  Absurd as it may sound, I'm not acting as your personal carriage service out of the goodness of my heart.  I may have ulterior motives."

"Such as?" Sidaizon asked.

"I'm pleased to announce that you have taken over my previously-held title of 'Oraistar Ingwírion Hates Most'.  I would like to keep it that way.  The more he rages and stews over you, the less time he has to dedicate to being in my way and crossing everything I do.  Therefore, it is in my best interest to ensure that Ingwírion has no reason to judge you unfit to hold your title and have you demoted back to Almatar."

"Judge me..." Sidaizon began, but stopped with a frown.  "What do you mean?"

"I note he did not explain to you the meaning of the white sash before sending you home.   I doubt it was an honest oversight." 

Sidaizon had considered the white sash only briefly.  The others wore colours, he knew, and he had known at one time during his studies what those colours meant.  The hierarchy of the sashes had long ago been discarded as a piece of trivia not worth remembering.  Now, in the confines of the carriage, it was impossible not to notice that Vedezir's sash was indigo with gold trim, and looked rather more important than his own.  "No," he said.  "Ingwírion told me nothing at all." 

"A white sash means that your position and your competence therein are subject to review in one year's time.  That's what worries me.  When Ingwë named you Oraistar of Oichimyaiva he did not take the time to give you the gold-trimmed green sash to which you were entitled.  Ingwírion saw this opportunity and stepped in to give you white, which is usually reserved for newcomers elected by the council, not those appointed by the King.  Anyone can see that this is nothing more than an excuse to call you up before the council next year in order to convince them you're not fit to be an Oraistar."

An unpleasant feeling of light-headedness, as if he had stood up to quickly, began to bloom at the base of Sidaizon's skull.  "Oh," was all he found he could say.  He should have suspected that all of this was too good to be true, foolish as he was in believing he had any business wearing gold like a nobleman and dispensing advice as if he had the authority to do so.  For a handful of days, he had let himself believe that such a miraculous change in fortune could happen.  And now Vedezir's revelation brought him back down to where he belonged.

"Don't look like that," Vedezir said softly.  "I'm only telling you what Ingwírion will try.  I'm not saying he'll succeed.  And for my part, I plan to do everything I can think of to see that he doesn't."

The words helped somewhat.  "How?"

"Well, I know that Voroman's uncompromising adherence to procedure will be in your favour.  Ingwírion can summon you before the council, but if he questions your capability, Voroman will force him to follow the same method used to try any novice Oraistar.  He will be limited to questioning your knowledge of history and the law, and testing your judgement in given situations.  I can help you prepare for that.  He will be hoping to catch you unaware, but if we spend this next year learning answers to all the obscure questions he might throw at you, there should be no reason you can't pass the trial."

"Right," said Sidaizon.  He stared down at his hands, fingers clenched and creasing the fabric of his white sash.  He took a long, slow breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled.  Once again, there were too many anxious thoughts clattering through his head, vying for dominance.

"Sidaizon, everything will turn out well in the end.  I promise.  Both precedence and procedure are on your side.  Ingwírion will fail.  Do you understand?"

"Yes," he answered, and the small act of speaking the word aloud made him feel a little more confident.  He faced a daunting challenge and trial ahead, but neither of those things was new to him.  His knowledge had been tested by the Oraistari before at the Academy.  This would be nothing more than the next step along the same road, and Vedezir, ulterior motives or not, was there as a guide to show him the way.  Ingwírion would fail.  "I understand.  And I can do this."

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Quindesta - Convent