Contents
Prologue - The Prisoner
Numenor
Chapter 1 - The First Use of Magic
:
The Haven of Umbar (establishing a colony)
Chapter 12 - A Spy Revealed
Chapter 13 - A Sail on the Horizon
Chapter 14 - Frantic Preparations
Chapter 15 - A Tour of the City
Chapter 16 - The Banquet
Chapter 17 - The Boar Hunt
Chapter 18 - The Land Sale
Chapter 19 - The Gathering Storm
Chapter 20 - The Second Offer
Chapter 21 - The Warrant
Chapter 22 - Through the Desert
Three Sorcerers (a series of job interviews)
Chapter 17 - The Lecturer
(Gulon)
Chapter 18 – Private Lessons
Chapter 19 - The Poisoner
(Atelic)
Chapter 20 - A Defeated Warlord (Tar-Mairon)
Epilogue – Mairon’s Apprentice
i
Prologue
The Prisoner
H
alwn blew on the dice for luck, then shook the
cup. He felt relaxed for the first time in days. The run-up to
battle was always tense, but it ended this afternoon in an
overwhelming victory. Now they were marching back to the
coast, where they would meet the ships that would take them
home. The whole regiment was in a festival mood.
The dice tumbled across the barrelhead and came to rest, a two
and a three. Not good.
"Ossë's stiff cock!" Halwn stomped his foot.
"Oh, bad luck!" Laughing, Forsa scooped up Halwn's coins and
pocketed them. Halwn felt sick. A soldier's wages weren't
much, and he'd already gambled away more than he’d earned
on this campaign.
Forsa was already dropping the dice back into the cup. "I'll give
you a chance to win back everything you've lost. We'll play
again, double or nothing."
Halwn considered the odds. He'd rolled so many low numbers
in a row, the next one just about had to be a six. Think how bad
he’d feel if he quit now and someone else got the winning
numbers that should have been his.
"Don't do it," Cuinn said from the sidelines.
1
The Prisoner
Cuinn liked to watch the gaming, although he didn't wager
himself. He had a new baby at home, and was putting aside as
much as he could.
Halwn, on the other hand, had already lost all the wages he'd
earned on this expedition, and then some. Unfortunately, there
wasn't much for a soldier to do off duty other than gamble.
They’d sailed from Númenor months ago. Since then, they’d
landed at the Haven of Umbar and marched across the deserts
of the Haradwaith. Halwn was proud to be part of the largest
army ever assembled. General Ciryatur didn't do anything by
halves.
As they approached the mountains encircling their enemy’s
realm, the soldiers in the armies of Númenor prepared
themselves for the hardest fighting of their lives. The defeated
warlord, who called himself Tar-Mairon, was a powerful
sorcerer in his own right. It was said he could summon storms
from a cloudless sky, make the earth tremble beneath their feet,
or lay a curse on soldiers to cause their to courage fail.
But there never was a battle. According to the stories around
camp, when the Enemy’s forces took one look at Tar-Ciryatur’s
army, they dropped their weapons, and ran. Halwn wished
he’d seen it. Tar-Mairon had been about to charge the
Númenorian line, but when he looked over his shoulder,
expecting to see rank upon rank of Orcs right behind him, there
was only an empty field sprinkled with abandoned helmets
and shields.
Númenorian soldiers quickly surrounded him and would have
killed him on the spot, had not General Ciryatur decided their
captive was worth more as a hostage than a corpse. If TarMairon did have magic, it hadn’t helped him. General Ciryatur
was taking him back to Númenor in chains.
2
Wraith
Halwn snapped to attention when Kyran, the Captain of the
Guard, pushed his way through the crush of men around the
barrelhead.
"Who wants to earn double their usual wages? It's guard duty,
so it's light work. All you have to do is stand in the tent and
watch the prisoner."
Halwn frowned. There was already a ring of guards
surrounding the prisoner's tent. Why did they need any more?
"If it's just guard duty, why does it pay so well?" asked Cuinn.
"They're having trouble finding anyone who will stay in the
tent with him. There’s a rumor going around that he can look
into your eyes and steal your soul, or some such nonsense,”
said Captain Kyran.
“But isn’t he a sorcerer? A real one? Couldn’t he put a curse on
you or summon up demons and such?” Cuinn shifted from foot
to foot.
“If he was dangerous, we couldn’t have captured him so easily.
He makes people uneasy, that’s all.”
Forsa laughed. "He can't scare me. I used to go out with his
sister."

It was grey twilight when Halwn and Cuinn reported to the
tent where the prisoner was being held. It was surrounded by
ten or more soldiers in mail shirts and helmets, each of them
heavily armed.
"Halwn and Cuinn reporting for duty," Halwn said to Kyran,
the Guard Captain.
The Prisoner
Forsa shoved open the tent flap and came outside, making the
sign of the evil eye. "That's it. I don't care what you pay me, I'm
not doing another shift." The guard who’d shared the duty with
him, a spotty-faced youth, looked just as rattled. Halwn
watched them hurry away.
Kyran gave them their orders. “Both of you must watch the
prisoner at all times, but don’t get too close. He’s restrained,
but even so, keep a distance of at least a fathom.”
“Because of the evil eye?” asked Halwn.
“No, so you won’t get kicked or spit on.”
They followed Captain Kyran into the tent, Halwn first with
Cuinn right behind him.
The prisoner was sitting on the ground against the center pole
with his arms behind his back. His chin rested on his chest, his
features were hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. One knee
was bent, the other leg stretched out before him. A rust-colored
smudge on the ball of his foot surrounded what looked like a
deep cut. He must have stepped on a rock after they’d stripped
him of shoes and weapons. He stirred, which raised a clinking
sound from the chain connecting the irons around his ankles.
"There he is. ‘Hail Tar-Mairon, Lord of the Ring, Lord of the
Earth.’ Not so proud now, are you?" said Kyran.
The prisoner lifted his head and muttered a curse. The hood fell
back, revealing symmetrical features framed by reddish-brown
hair. He looked at Halwn the way a predator studies prey,
impersonal, calculating. Halwn didn't believe all that nonsense
about soul stealing, but even so, he kept his eyes off the
prisoner's face.
“All right then, he’s all yours ‘till sunrise. If he gives you
trouble, just shout, there’s a dozen soldiers right outside.” With
4
Wraith
that, the captain of the Guard lifted the tent flap and
disappeared into the night.
Halwn and Cuinn took up positions on either side of the tent
flap. Halwn leaned on their spears and settled in for a long
night. It was as cold inside the tent as it was outside. He could
see his breath.
The prisoner lifted his head and tried to catch Halwn’s eye. "I'm
hungry. Those last two didn’t bring me anything to eat." His
voice was low and harsh. Halwn didn't answer. A minute later,
“Some water, then?" Halwn ignored him.
An hour crept by. The prisoner moved from time to time, as if
trying to get comfortable. He raised one shoulder, then the
other. He curled his neck forward, then arched his back. His
cloak slipped and fell between his body and the tent pole, and
he swore softly.
"Can someone get that for me?" He hunched over, shivering,
and his breath came like wisps of smoke. Halwn pretended not
to hear.
The night wore on. Cuinn shifted from foot to foot, breathing
like someone who was badly frightened.
"I can't shake the feeling that something's happened to the baby
and I'll never see him again. And that it was something
horrible, like he was crushed under a cart wheel or snatched
from his cradle in the night by an animal. Why would I be
worried about that all of a sudden?"
"There aren't a lot of wild animals in Armenelos. I wouldn't
worry about it," said Halwn.
Midnight came and went. It was pitch dark outside. The
prisoner hadn’t moved in some time. Even his constant
The Prisoner
complaining had stopped. He sat with his forehead resting on
his knees, his breathing slow and even.
Halwn began to think about fountains in courtyards, rain water
in the gutters, the whisper of waves beneath the prow of an
oceangoing vessel. Two guards were supposed to watch the
prisoner at all times, but surely one of them could step outside
for a moment if need be.
Halwn turned to Cuinn. "Can you hold down the fort? I need to
go drown some ants." He lifted the tent flap and went out. One
of the perimeter guards stepped inside and took his place.
Halwn returned a few minutes later and entered the tent. The
stench was indescribable, something between a bowel accident
and the metallic odor of blood. He wasn’t sure what he was
looking at, at first. Men were sprawled on the ground and there
was a lot of red. One man’s throat had been torn out, another
had been ripped almost in half, the pink viscera hanging to his
thighs.
Cuinn was lying on his back in the middle of the tent, his
unseeing eyes staring upward. His mail shirt had been torn
open, exposing the pale skin beneath. The prisoner crouched
over Cuinn on hands and knees, his face buried in Cuinn's
upper arm, worrying it like a predator with its kill. With each
shake, there was a tearing sound.
A strangled cry rose from Halwn’s throat. The creature lifted its
head, its mouth and chin smeared with gore, strips of flesh
hung from its teeth. A section of Cuinn's arm was gone, and a
length of bone showed white where the bicep had been.
Whatever that thing on top of Cuinn was, it wasn't human.
Halwn’s stomach heaved. He clamped his hand to his mouth to
hold in the sick, and it came out his nose.
What about the chains that should have held the creature?
Links lay on the ground, broken and twisted. The iron fetters
6
Wraith
were not so much opened as exploded. The thing growled, a
low vibration forming deep within its throat. Its eyes locked
onto Halwn's, and words in an ancient tongue formed in his
head, You're next.
The spear slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.
He tried to back away, but his feet felt like they belonged to
someone else. He missed his footing and went down hard. The
creature was on him in an instant.
He screamed. Its breath hot on its face, moist and hot, fetid
with decay.
It seemed to get a great deal heavier. Under its weight, he could
hardly breath. Its skin was like smooth leather, like the skin of a
snake, and it smelled musky.
Something tore into his neck. At the same time, something like
a claw curved and razor sharp, like the tusk of a boar pierced
him and held him fast. A second one sank in near the pubic
bone and dragged up war through his flesh towards his heart.
The coils of his bowels spilled over his legs, and the smell of
excrement hit him just as he began to pass out.
The Captain shouted, “All hands! Get in here at once!” There
was a sound of men yelling, the pounding of feet, and a clatter
of spears.
“Gods protect us!” “Look what it did to him!
They tried to pull it off of him, and the flesh of his neck ripped.
The creature hissed. Something wet soaked his tunic, and his
hair. He was falling, and nightmare images filled his mind. He
stared to feel warm, and pleasantly sleepy. From a great
distance, as if from underwater, he heard the men trying to pull
the creature off of him.
“Spears up, tighten ranks,” said the Captain.
The Prisoner
“What is that thing? It’s covered with scales, and aaagh, the
smell!”
“Stay back, that whipping tail has a stinger,” said the Captain.
The sound of spears being dropped, one shaft clattering against
another, and running feet.
“Everyone out!” cried the Captain.
“But what about Halwn?”
“He’s beyond our help,” said the Captain.
8
Chapter 1
The First Use of Magic
A
great bank of clouds towered in the West, their
edges yellow-gold in the late afternoon sun.
From the height of the aft deck, Er-Mûrazôr scanned the
endless line where the sea met the sky. A swell rolled beneath
the ship and lifted it high in the air. There it was, a roughness
on the horizon, barely noticeable but definitely there. He
stepped up on the stern rail for a better look, holding the
backstay for balance. Tolan, the old helmsman shot him a
warning look. Have a care, young princeling.
Above the irregular spot, the undersides of the clouds were
tinged with green. Every sailor knows that clouds over land are
green, they reflect the color of the fields and forests beneath
them.
The swell rolled on, and the ship dropped into the trough
between waves. The prow dipped below the water, dunking
the lavender and rosemary tied to the bowsprit, an offering to
Ossë.
When the ship rose on the next swell, he saw it again. It could
be a triangle of sail, but more likely it was Tol Eressëa, the
westernmost outpost of the undying lands. He would hold this
course just long enough to get a better look.
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of home. A small
bump, the peak of the highest mountain on Númenor,
9
The First Use of Magic
interrupted the otherwise unbroken horizon. The cities
hugging the coast had long since disappeared beneath the sea,
visually speaking, but as long as he could see any part of
Númenor, at least intermittently, he considered himself not in
violation of the Ban.
They continued sailing west. When they slipped into the
troughs, he lost sight of the tip of the mountain. He sent Wynn,
the lookout, into the rigging to keep an eye on it.
“I can’t … oh wait, I can still see it,” the slender boy called from
his perch just below the tip of the mainmast. Their pennant, a
tree with seven stars, snapped in the breeze above his head.
His interpretation of the Ban was more flexible than most, and
every time he sailed west, he pushed the limits a little harder.
Someday, he would see the undying lands with his own eyes. If
the sages were right, it would add years to his natural life. Not
by as many as if he lived there, but every added year was
precious.
A wall of squalls was moving in from the north. The ugly
clouds danced with lightning, and a low rumble reached him
from across the waves. If the squalls continued on their current
course and speed, his view of the peak would be cut off behind
diagonal curtains of rain.
Er-Mûrazôr took a last look to the West, at the billowing white
clouds reflecting green underneath, which might be the only
look he would ever have of the undying lands. Reluctantly, he
gave the order to turn around.
“Jibe ho.” The stern swung around, and the sails filled with
wind.
The course back to Númenor led them directly into the path of
the squall. If they were lucky, they’d outrun it, but if it caught
10
Wraith
them, they’d be in no real danger. They’d shorten sail, drop the
sea anchor, and wait out the storm below decks. There was
nothing to run into out here. They were sailing through blue
water, unimaginably deep, with no rocks or shoals.
The great mass of cloud lit up from within, revealing the
enormous height of the waves. The water was pockmarked
from rain, and wisps of spume raced across its surface.
The wind freshened. The deck tipped until it dipped into the
water, and the sea hissed along the gunwales. The sky turned
black. When the rain hit, it was stinging hard and cold as ice,
startling compared to the warm water sloshing over his feet.
A gust blew out one of the sails, leaving ribbons of canvas
flapping in the gale. The bow drifted off the line of swells, and
a wave broke over the bow.
“Helmsman, I relieve you.” The exhausted man shot him a
look of gratitude, and Er-Mûrazôr took over the tiller.
“Shorten sail.” His words were torn away by the shriek of the
wind, even he couldn’t hear them. He put his fingers in his
mouth and blew ear-splitting blasts, two short and one long. A
sailor at the bow nodded, and took down the larger of the two
remaining jibs. There was almost no canvas left to take in. They
were flying a jib the size of a snot rag, and nothing else.
Hours past dark, and the squall showed no signs of letting up.
The stars were hidden behind the clouds. Without them, ErMûrazôr lost his bearings. It didn’t matter, in a storm like this,
he had to abandon his course and steer directly into the waves.
The bow of the ship lifted on the next crest, and the hull slid
down the side of a mountain of a wave. They landed wrong,
and the keel shivered as if it would snap. Er-Mûrazôr gripped
the rail and struggled to keep his footing on the slippery deck.
The First Use of Magic
He stood upright, his face still. It wouldn’t do for the men see
him afraid.
A bolt of lightning struck, too close, and the crack of thunder
came at almost the same moment. The lookout on the prow
turned around, gesturing wildly and pointing to something off
the port quarter. Er-Mûrazôr saw his lips move but couldn’t
hear anything above the shriek of the storm and the ringing in
his ears.
He looked where the man was pointing. The light from the next
strike revealed a line of breakers, the boiling foam pale against
the black water. Rocks, where there should be only blue water,
of unplumbed depths.
He threw his whole weight against the tiller. “Ready about!”
The jib swung from one side to the other, and the ship began to
turn. The waves hit them abeam, driving the ship closer to the
rocks. He cringed at the drawn-out scraping of wood against
stone.
“Ossë, spare us and I will raise a temple to you.”
Assuming Ossë wanted another temple. Númenor was a
seafaring nation. It was lousy with roadside shrines and
temples to Ossë, probably one for every person on the island.
He ordered the mainsail raised, and the canvas filled with a
snap. The deadly breakers passed alongside them, and soon,
they left the fangs of rocks in their wake. Er-Mûrazôr put a
hand to his chest and held it there until his pulse dropped to
normal.
Sometime past midnight, when the storm had died down to a
heavy rain, he told Sevrann, his first officer, “Set a double
watch. We’ll update the charts as soon as it’s light.”
12
Wraith
He went below into the low-ceilinged cabin, barely large
enough for the six bunks shared by a twelve-man crew, and
flung himself onto the nearest one fully clothed, too tired to
care that he was dripping onto the sheets. When he closed his
eyes, he felt like he was falling. He clutched the edges of the
pallet for support.
There was shouting on deck, and the sound of running feet.
Someone screamed. He struggled from deepest sleep, as if
swimming toward the surface from a great depth.
“Hard a lee,” ordered the first officer. The ship wallowed
through its turn, and canvas flapped.
A blow struck the vessel. It flung him from his bunk and
resonated through the hull like a drumbeat. He was on his feet
in an instant, but the next blow knocked him to the floor. Pain
shot from his wrist to his elbow.
The ship was lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, and each
time, the vessel rolled further onto its side. There was the
scrape of wood against rock, and the sound of timbers
splintering. The blows sounded flat and dull, as if they came
from a drum with a split skin. At that moment, he knew the
hull had been breached.
He crawled through seawater a foot deep and reached the
hatch. The deck was canted at an unnatural angle, but he could
keep his footing by hanging onto the roof of the cabin.
“Captain, there was another rock.” His first officer looked
terrified, either of being shipwrecked or of his own Captain. ErMûrazôr couldn’t tell.
The ship rolled in the surf and seemed to twist, and the timbers
groaned like whales. The ship started to break apart.
The First Use of Magic
“Abandon ship,” he said. The order no captain ever wants to
give.
The hull had been driven so high up on the rocks, they could
step from the deck and wade through the foaming surf.
Judging from the height above which no mussels or barnacles
clung, the rock would keep them above water at high tide.
However, no plants grew here, and as far as he could tell, there
was no water.
He stood among the rocks, breathing hard and staring out to
sea.
No one knows where we are.
It was his own fault. Er-Mûrazôr hadn’t told anyone he was
planning to sail so close to the undying lands.
If his brother Atanamir failed to return on time, they’d search
for him right away. Unlike Er-Mûrazôr, Atanamir did what he
was told. But if Er-Mûrazôr were late, his father would assume
he’d gone off exploring, and wouldn’t worry.
Some captains always kept a silver mirror used for signaling on
their person at all times against this very possibility. He felt for
the cord around his neck, at the same moment he remembered
when he’d taken it off and where he’d put it. Ossë’s stiff cock!
They might be here for a long time.
But there was no time to brood. The more food and water they
could recover from the disintegrating ship, the longer they
could hold out. The men made trip after trip over the razorsharp rocks, moving the wounded, carrying water kegs, and
bringing out whatever tools and equipment they could carry,
taking care not to fall in the darkness and the swirling water.
14
Wraith
Some of the men refused to go below decks, now in pitch
darkness and tilted at an unfamiliar angle. Er-Mûrazôr could
have ordered them below, they needed to retrieve the kegs of
water in the hold, but there was only so much he could ask of
the terrified men, so he did it himself.
After that, Er-Mûrazôr carried armloads of wet canvas from the
wreck until his limbs trembled from exertion. His left arm was
almost unusable. He could grip with his hand, but it hurt to lift
any weight.
The hull rocked in the waves. It could crush a hand or foot is a
sailor was unlucky. Timbers cracked. Something snapped, and
the mainmast came down. Hempen ropes trailed in its wake.
However badly they needed supplies, it was no longer safe to
collect them.
“All ashore. We’ve done enough for tonight.”
He went to the makeshift tent where they were treating the
wounded, jury-rigged from a sail draped over a spar across two
boulders. He lifted the edge of the canvas and crawled beneath
it. There was enough sand between the rocks to lay a man on,
but it was soaking wet.
Tolan, the old helmsman knelt over a still form. “It’s Sevrann,
Captain. He’s bad hurt.”
The fabric of his legging had been cut away to above the knee,
and pieces of wood were bound the length of his shin with
strips of cloth. Er-Mûrazôr hoped the bone splinters hadn’t
pierced the skin. If they had, it would be a death sentence.
Er-Mûrazôr knelt beside the wounded man and asked, “How’s
the leg?” His first officer bit his lip and grimaced. He turned to
the helmsman. “Was there any wine among the water barrels
we managed to save? Give it to him.” He couldn’t do anything
more for the man.
The First Use of Magic
Outside, he stood in the rain, the cold water running in rivulets
down the side of his face, down his neck. This was his fault. He
looked around to be sure he was unobserved, then fell to his
knees and punched the sand over and over. Remorse hit him
like a punch in the gut, and he couldn’t seem to catch his
breath.
Recovering his composure, he joined the others and counted
those who remained. Two were in the tent and the rest were
salvaging things from the ship. That made ten. No, eleven, he’d
forgotten to count himself. They had been a crew of twelve.
Wynn, the lookout, was missing. Er-Mûrazôr punched the sand
again.
The rain was still coming down, icy cold. It didn’t rain often in
this part of the world. He tasked two sailors with catching
rainwater in a square of canvas, and told another to find a cask
or pot, anything that would hold water.
Sometime in the small hours, the moon began to show through
broken clouds. The rain had stopped, but mist continued to
soak his hair and clothing. Er-Mûrazôr sat in the sand with his
knees pulled up to his chin, his thoughts swirling.
The helmsman came over and sat beside him. “Sevrann’s
sleeping now.” Er-Mûrazôr nodded. “And now for you. That’s
blood on your leg. Do you want me to patch you up?”
Er-Mûrazôr looked down. A dark stain spread across the
outside of his thigh. He touched it, and his hand came away
sticky. Something protruded from the fabric. He tugged, and
eased out a splinter the size of a writing pen. It must have been
four or five inches deep, just under the skin. Ugly, but not
serious.
The helmsman tore a strip of linen from the tail of his shirt and
passed it over. Er-Mûrazôr knotted the ends, then dropped it
16
Wraith
over his head. With the weight of his arm supported by the
loop of fabric, the sudden stabbing gave way to a dull ache.
Much better.
“Thanks,” he said, and he meant it.
Nearby, two men bent over the collection of driftwood and
broken timber, striking a stone against the blade of a knife over
and over. Every once in a while, a spark landed in the shavings
cupped in the second man’s hands. Once, it glowed for a
moment under his breath, but it didn’t catch.
It would be better to have a signal fire at night, it could be seen
for much further away. He wouldn’t want to lure a ship up
onto the rocks, but experienced mariners would know not to
approach until daylight.
Er-Mûrazôr looked from one face to another. “Did anyone
rescue the tinderbox?” The men looked at each other. In the
dark, with the waves threatening to drag them over rocks as
sharp as knives, while thinking of more important things, like
rescuing the drinking water. “It must have been lost with the
ship.”
Once, Er-Mûrazôr had seen one of the court astrologers light a
candle with his will alone. It took a long time, and seemed to take a
lot of effort, but finally there was a curl of smoke, and a yellow
flame leapt up from the wick.
Er-Mûrazôr had assumed it was a street conjurer’s trick,
something with flammable oils and a rough surface to his
fingertips, but the man didn’t seem the type. He was a serious
scholar, and not one to draw attention to himself.
“How did you do that”? the young prince had asked him.
“Keep your mind still, and focus the whole of your attention upon
the wick. Be patient, and expect to have to work at it.”
The First Use of Magic
Er-Mûrazôr had tried a couple of times. He’d stared for what
seemed like long minutes, and had punched the wall when nothing
happened. But once, just once, he managed to produce the smallest
wisp of smoke. When he touched the wick, it was warm.
Er-Mûrazôr knelt beside the makeshift fire circle. “Let me try.”
The sailors had arranged a bundle of driftwood twigs into a
miniature tent, and put shaved curls of wood under it.
Er-Mûrazôr knelt in the wet sand by the edge of the fire ring
and sat back on his heels. He rested his hands on his thighs, to
the extent the sling would allow it. His left wrist was twice the
size it should be, the wrist bone and tendons had disappeared
under puffy flesh.
“Give me some room.” The sailors withdrew by two or three
paces, but he still felt crowded. Maybe the secret to magic is
getting past the fear of looking stupid.
Er-Mûrazôr focused on the shavings. He drew a breath, held it,
let it go. The stones on the shingle beach clattered as the waves
lifted them and then drained back. His wrist hurt. He ignored
it. The ankle he was sitting on started to go numb, and he
shifted his weight. Focus. He closed his eyes. Breath in, breath
out.
The swell of the ocean all around him was like a living thing.
The power of it seemed to fill him. Breath in, breathe out. Send
with it all the power from the surf, from the ocean, the storm.
It took what seemed like hours, but finally, a curl of smoke rose
from the shaving. A spark glowed orange, and the tangle of
shavings burst into flame, which ignited the tip of a driftwood
twig. Soon the whole structure was burning, the wet wood
popping in the heat. Er-Mûrazôr hung his head, exhausted.
“How did you do that?” The sailor’s voice was awe-stricken.
18
Wraith
“He’s a sorcerer, that’s how. Don’t ask stupid questions,” said
his shipmate.
Er-Mûrazôr was as amazed as the sailors. Was he a sorcerer?
Or, as the court astrologer had said, did you just need to be
patient and work extremely hard?
The men fed timbers from the ship into the blaze. Someone
slapped him on the back. The flame shot up four or five feet
high, burning hotter than a natural fire, the soaked wood
popping and hissing with steam.
Er-Mûrazôr unfolded himself from the sand and brushed off
his knees. “Get some rope and an oar.”
They wrapped the rope around the blade of the oar and
wedged it between two rocks, a fiery beacon high in the air. It
was impossible to tell if anyone was out there, all they could do
was wait.
All night they fed the fire, keeping it alive in the drizzle and
damp. Even standing on his feet, Er-Mûrazôr’s head kept
falling forward and snapping him awake.
The day dawned under a cloudless sky with glassy calm seas.
What was left of the ship were strewn up and down the shore.
Debris floated on the water.
“Captain! There’s a ship on the horizon. We need to fashion a
smoke signal, right quick.”
There were no plants on the rock, and everything from the ship:
timber, fabric, or rope, was soaking wet.
“Bring some more tarred rope,” Er-Mûrazôr told the nearest
sailor.
The First Use of Magic
A sailor came back with a coil of rope over one shoulder and
dumped it into the fire. Resinous smoke billowed from the
twisted hemp, forcing Er-Mûrazôr back, his eyes burning.
An oily black column rose hundreds of feet in the air, as thick
as the trunk of a tree. On the horizon, the ship tacked, and
tacked again, the white triangle of sail growing larger as it
drew near.
A pennant floated from the top of the mainmast, unreadable
against the sun. The rock on which they were marooned was to
the west of Númenor, far from the normal trading routes.
Reputable vessels didn’t come this way.
“Captain, what if they’re pirates?” The young sailor’s face
turned pale.
Er-Mûrazôr kept his face still. Worse than that, what if they’re
slavers?
He lifted the sling over his head and let it drop to the ground.
The newcomers needn’t know he was injured. He stepped to the
edge of the surf, motioning his men to stay back. His good hand
tightened around the hilt of his dagger.
The vessel completed another tack, bringing it closer. Its lines
were slender and graceful, like an elvish ship. Men had no
trading routes west of Númenor, but the Teleri, famous mariners
who sailed between the mainland and Tol Eressëa, passed this
way all the time. Er-Mûrazôr chewed his lip, waiting.
The breeze freshened and lifted the pennant, revealing a blue
background arrayed with a host of stars. Er-Mûrazôr’s knees
almost buckled with relief.
“Captain, it’s an Elvish ship,” said Tolan.
20
Wraith
Author’s note:
The purpose of this chapter is to show that Er-Murazor has an
inborn talent for magic, and can do it without memorized
spells, a talent few people have. Later, he works necromancy,
the most difficult of all magic, also without the benefit of
instruction or spells.
The story is autobiographical, and the shipwreck is a real
incident. It occurred in the Bahamas when I’d just completed
freshman year in college. I was thrown from my bunk a little
past 1:15 in the morning when we struck the reef. I still
remember how angry I was at being awakened, I’d come off
watch at midnight and was entitled to sleep until 4:00 am.
The story is almost literal, except that no one was injured, the
wooden hull was fiberglass, and the Teleri were actually
Bahamian fishermen.
The First Use of Magic
Bond’s Cay, in the Berry Islands north of Nassau
The storm blew the boat against a lee shore (to the lee of the
vessel, e.g. downwind), greatly feared by mariners. Note the
extensive bands of reef the vessel was driven over before it hit.
The rise and fall of waves created the lift-drop, lift-drop effect.
(photo credits – Shakira’s Facebook page. Apparently she owns the island.)
Note the razor-sharp rocks along the coast.
22
Chapter 2-11
Synopsis (not written yet)
After the shipwreck, Er-Mûrazôr’s returns home covered with
glory. He’s already his father’s favorite, but being the first to
glimpse the shores of Valinor raises his status within his family.
Also, his close proximity to the Blessed Lands is believed to
have lengthened his lifespan, something all Númenorians
crave.
Er-Mûrazôr’s goes to see the court astrologer to learn about fire
starting spells. After the shipwreck, he was able to start fire
spontaneously, with great effort. The astrologer teaches him a
simple fire starting spell, which works easily and reliably. ErMûrazôr’s doesn’t realize that starting fire without a spell and
without any formal instruction is a sign of great magical talent.
Er-Mûrazôr’s great-uncle, the great general Tar-Ciryatur, tells
of sweeping events which occurred before Er-Mûrazôr’s was
born. The warlord Tar-Mairon made war on the Elves and
would have defeated them, but they were saved when the
Númenorians came to their rescue.
Tar-Ciryatur destroyed Tar-Mairon’s army and took TarMairon captive, but the warlord escaped before he could be
executed. His guards were found not just torn to shreds, but
partially eaten. Tar-Ciryatur made the decision to let him go, as
he was too dangerous to recapture.
Er-Mûrazôr’s father, Tar-Ciryatan the Shipbuilder, fought in
the war as a young man, but since then, Númenor has been at
peace for over a hundred years. Like all young men of their
generation, Er-Mûrazôr and his older brother Atanamir have
no military experience.
23
Chapter 2-10 Synopsis
Er-Mûrazôr observed Atanamir working the crowd at a Yule
party. Atanamir is gifted at court intrigue, Er-Mûrazôr, plainspoken and direct, had no patience with it. Their father loses
some of his earlier high esteem for Er-Mûrazôr because he
won’t make the effort to be a courtier.
Er-Mûrazôr’s is asked to enter into an arranged marriage, to
cement an important alliance with one of the coastal nations.
He’s well aware of the strategic significance of this nation for
Númenor’s planned expansion into the mainland, and enters
willingly agrees. However, after the marriage ceremony takes
place, he is unable to consummate the relationship, and returns
home in disgrace. He father calls him uncooperative and
selfish, and accuses him of being in love with someone below
his own rank.
Númenor has become overcrowded. There is a drought and the
harvest is disappointing, then the fishing yield falls
disastrously short. An unsuccessful slave revolt is followed a
few months later by bread riots among the middle class. The
planned expansion into the mainland is moved forward by a
generation.
Er-Mûrazôr is asked to establish a beachhead on the mainland
at the Haven of Umbar, the most strategically important deep
water harbor on the mainland. He considers himself a mariner
and explorer, not a general and fortress-builder, and doesn’t
want to do it.
His great-uncle Tar-Ciryatur, who is extremely frail, has a day
in which he is well enough to come downstairs and go for a
walk with Er-Mûrazôr among the tombs of their ancestors. TarCiryatur advises him to take the assignment, and suggests it
would be a good way to regain his lost status in the family. ErMûrazôr is not convinced.
Tar-Ciryatur dies in his sleep. Desperate to obtain his advice
once more, Er-Mûrazôr enters a trance and walks through the
24
Wraith
halls of the underworld. His uncle is waiting for him, and tells
him he must go to Umbar and do his father’s bidding. ErMûrazôr confides to his father that he spoke to his dead greatuncle. His father flies into a rage, saying communicating with
the dead is necromancy, which is dark magic and illegal.
Neither of them realizes that performing necromancy with no
formal instruction is an astonishing feat, evidence of almost
unprecedented magical talent.
Er-Mûrazôr sails for Umbar, where he makes landfall and
captures the Haven through a combination of excessive force
and duplicity. In spite of his success, his father is enraged by
his tactics, which his father considers to be dishonorable.
Er-Mûrazôr has been told to strengthen the existing
fortifications, on the beach. Once on site, he realizes that the top
of the promontory is a much better strategic location, and
against orders, he builds a new fortification from scratch, high
above the harbor.
Er-Mûrazôr is summoned home at Yule to be called on the
carpet. His father suggests that, as soon as the walls are
finished, he should think about what he wants to do next. ErMûrazôr has no intention of leaving now, and is annoyed at the
suggestion.
Er-Mûrazôr is aware he’s no longer his father’s favorite.
Atanamir, who was already married before his own failed
attempt at marriage, has just had a son. Er-Mûrazôr’s rooms
have been given to his brother’s wife. He keenly feels the loss of
status.
Before returning to the Haven at the end of the visit, ErMûrazôr recruits craftsmen willing to emigrate to the
mainland, chiefly a blacksmith and his assistant. Being able to
make their own nails and fishing hooks will make the colony
much more self-sufficient. He feels sure this will earn his
father’s approval, which he deeply craves.
Chapter 2-10 Synopsis
Er-Mûrazôr returns to the Haven and continues to build the
walled city. When the falls are finished, Tar-Ciryatan sends an
emissary with a letter, in which he asks Er-Mûrazôr to gift the
Haven to his brother. Er-Mûrazôr says no and flies into a rage,
deeply insulted. He waits, deeply anxious, for a military
response, but nothing happens.
Tar-Ciryatan lends his own clerk to Er-Mûrazôr. The clerk is a
spy who reports Er-Mûrazôr’s every move back to his father,
looking for small flaws, in order to build a case against him.
26
Chapter 12
A Spy Revealed
E
r-Mûrazôr stood in front of the makeshift table
that served as a desk. Every part of its surface was buried
under ledger books, reports from the frontier, and scraps of
paper on which he’d added long columns of numbers.
Ships sailed on the tide, and the Royal barge was due to leave
this afternoon. Finished or not, his report to the palace would
be on it. Er-Mûrazôr skimmed the dozen pages. It wasn’t
perfect, but it would have to do.
“How long until the tide turns?” his private secretary was
beginning to look anxious.
“Within the hour. But I only have to sign it and attach the seal.”
He bent and signed his name and titles, then folded the sheets
into quarters and tied the bundle with red tape. Halwn melted
the wax. Halwn tipped the ladle over the knot, and Er-Mûrazôr
imprinted the crest of the Royal House of Númenor into the
cooling wax.
He had fifteen minutes to spare and one more thing to do
“I’ll take it down the Royal barge myself. We’re done for the
day, you can go home.”
The little secretary beamed, then gathered up his pens and
scurried across the square. When he’d gone, Er-Mûrazôr sat
27
A Spy Revealed
down at the table and dipped a quill into ink and began a
second letter to the King.
Dearest Father,
I wish you were here to see how the walls of the city have risen
from the bare rock, as white as sand and at least two stories tall.
From Umbar, the whole of the mainland is open before us,
unimaginably vast. It’s so different here than it is at home. During
the day, the breeze is fresh and cold, but at night it comes from the
desert and carries the scent of roses and mint.
He wrote more, nothing important, just small news about the
farmers’ market that morning, and that the blacksmith had
started making things for the fishermen. Nothing exciting, just
details of day to day life. When he finished, he folded it into a
square and sealed it with his signet ring.
He stacked the letter on top of the official dispatch and headed
down to the harbor. It was a fairly substantial hike, but faster
going down than coming up. Even so, when the path ended at
the quay, his calves were burning.
The harbor smelled of salt and sea air. He could tell high tide
just by the aroma, the mud flats were underwater right now,
and so were the dead fish.
A slim, fast boat of the sort used for smuggling, or possibly to
outrun pirates, was moored almost directly in front of him. The
deck was higher above the quay than a man is tall. Only the
heads and shoulders of the men showed above the rail, but they
appeared to be stowing gear as if when the ship were preparing
to sail.
The Royal barge was tied up a little further along the quay.
Crewmen waited by the pilings where mooring ropes as thick
as a man’s wrist held the great vessel in place. A wide
28
Wraith
gangplank led up to the barge, dragging back and forth as the
barge lifted and dropped.
Waves slapped against the side of the quay. Er-Mûrazôr
mounted the steeply-inclined ramp, then stepped onto the deck
and summoned the ship’s captain.
“I have an official dispatch for the King.” He gave the dispatch
to the Captain.
“Is that everything?” the captain asked.
Er-Mûrazôr almost gave him the letter, but hesitated. The
Royal barge would reach Armenelos in three days. If he sent it
by the smuggling ship instead, it could be at the Palace by late
tomorrow afternoon.
“No, that’s it.” He put the letter away.
He left the Royal barge and went to the smugglers’ ship. Men
moved around the deck, preparing to sail.
He cupped his hands to his mouth. “You there. I would speak
to you captain.” One of them looked at him with mild interest,
then returned to what he was doing. “I am Er-Mûrazôr,
Captain of the Haven. I would speak to your captain.”
Every one of them froze. “My noble lord, our captain will
attend you right away.” Er-Mûrazôr had spent more time at sea
than on land. He didn’t need help climbing the rope netting
that hung over the side, but he accepted the hand that was
offered.
A crewman pointed down the companionway. “Our captain is
below.” Between decks, the space was cramped and lowceilinged, dark and suffocatingly hot. His eyes adjusted. At a
crude table sat a wiry man of middle years with a thatch of iron
grey hair.
A Spy Revealed
“I’d like you to deliver a letter to the Palace at Armenelos.” The
captain waited. “There’s a silver penny in it for you, and
another on delivery.”
Footsteps clattered down the rungs of the companionway. The
captain looked up. Er-Mûrazôr turned around, and there was
Halwn. balanced on the lowest step with something in his
hand.
“Oh hullo, Halwn. The usual arrangement?” asked the captain.
Halwn’s face froze. He turned away, so that Er-Mûrazôr
couldn’t see what he was holding.
Er-Mûrazôr grinned. “What’s that, a letter for your
sweetheart?” He really shouldn’t tease the little clerk, Halwn
was a family man with a new baby at home, and that his only
sweetheart was his wife.
“Well, let’s have it, then.” The captain held out his hand.
Halwn went white. His eyes darted back and forth from the
captain to Er-Mûrazôr. Very slowly, he handed over a packet of
papers sealed with red wax, indistinguishable from official
dispatches sent to the palace.
“What is that? Give it to me.” Er-Mûrazôr ordered the captain.
Halwn’s eyes were fixed on the captain. He moved his head
almost imperceptibly, the tiniest shake “no”. Er-Mûrazôr
stepped forwards and snatched the package from the captain’s
hand.
The red wax held the royal seal, but there is no address
anywhere on the outer wrappings. Er-Mûrazôr broke the seal.
Inside was page after page of Halwn’s careful script.
30
Wraith
The Palace authorized two silver pennies to he spent on soldiers’
pay, but he spent three pennies two farthings.
He flipped to another page.
The agreement requires any modification to the charter to be
considered by the full Council of Captains, but he altered a
regulation regarding duty shifts for sentries without first
consulting the Council.
“What is this?” The cramped space between decks seem to spin.
He sank onto a bench, his head between his hands.
There was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs and across
the deck. Er-Mûrazôr dove for the stairs, crossed the deck in a
few long strides, then leaped over the side onto the quay.
Halwn was nowhere in sight. Where would he have gone? The
Royal barge. If he was in the pay of Er-Mûrazôr’s brother, that
was his best chance of safety.
A quick search proved the spy wasn’t on the Royal barge, and
now he had a significance head start.
Er-Mûrazôr looked up the hairpin road towards the walled city,
and there he was, rounding the fourth of eighteen hairpin
turns. Er-Mûrazôr took after him, his long legs burning up the
distance.
He caught up with the little sneak at the twelfth turn. The man
was standing with his hands on his knees, panting, unable to
run any further.
Er-Mûrazôr couldn’t believe the man would betray him. Halwn
was his father’s private secretary, he and Er-Mûrazôr had
always been on good terms.
“Start talking, you worm.” Er-Mûrazôr took a step toward him.
A Spy Revealed
He took a shaky step backwards. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Er-Mûrazôr seized him by the arms. “Who sent you?”
The clerk shook with fear. Er-Mûrazôr struck him.
“Why are you spying on me?”
He dangled the little man backwards over the drop. The man’s
toes still gripped the white granite, but he was overbalanced.
Er-Mûrazôr released the grip on his arms, or if he managed to
struggle free, he’d fall to his death.
The man started to cry. “Please, I have a wife and baby.”
“It’s my brother, isn’t it? Why is he spying on me?”
“It’s not your brother who sent me, it was your father.”
Er-Mûrazôr yanked him back onto the path and shoved him.
The man fell to his knees, retching.
“Go down to the harbor. Get on the first boat that will have
you. Don’t go home to pack, don’t tell anyone where you’re
going. Just leave, or I will kill you.”
Halwn scrambled to his feet. The knees of his leggings were
shredded, and one knee was streaked with blood. He tore
down the path, running and falling and getting up again. ErMûrazôr watched until he vanished from sight.
He wouldn’t really have killed him, the little secretary hadn’t
done anything wrong, he’d only acted on orders. But ErMûrazôr was so angry, he feared that unless the man was well
away from here, Er-Mûrazôr might hurt him.
32
Wraith
The corner of the folded document poked his skin. He pulled
the packet from his tunic and looked at it again and saw what
he’d missed the first time. The greeting addressed the king, not
his brother the prince.
Hundreds of feet below, the surface of the harbor had the
glassy look it did just as the tide turned. Soon, it would start to
boil with the current as it flowed out to sea.
Men alongside the smugglers’ vessel flung the last of the
mooring lines onboard as they prepared to sail.
Just then, Halwn appeared on the quay, sprinting as if sea
demons were after him.
Er-Mûrazôr expected to see him make for the Royal Barge, but
instead, he flung himself at the side of the smugglers’ vessel,
which had just finished casting off, creating a widening gap of
open water between it and the quay. There was an enormous
splash, then a hand on the rope netting, and then the little clerk
climbed up the side of the ship and disappeared from sight.
Halwn was traveling aboard the same vessel as Er-Mûrazôr’s
letter. Both would arrive at the Palace at the same time, ErMûrazôr’s cheerful note about the future of the kingdom, and
Halwn’s damning report about Er-Mûrazôr’s failings.
Chapter 13
S
A Sail on the Horizon
ail ho!" A voice rang from the tallest watchtower
facing the sea.
Er-Mûrazôr, striding across the courtyard on what must be the
tenth administrative chore of the morning, paused to look up.
More small vessels plied the coastline every day, and they often
stopped at the Haven to take on supplies. The new city was
well on its way to becoming a busy seaport. He allowed himself
a moment of satisfaction.
"There, from the West." The watchman pointed in the direction
of Númenor, three days beyond the horizon on a fast ship.
The ship that carried dispatches from Númenor to the Haven
was as predictable as the tides, but it wasn't due for another
week. This ship must be carrying an urgent message. His throat
tightened. He hoped his family was well.
Gravel crunched under his feet as he sprinted for the stones
stairs built into the city wall. He reached the top of the wall and
strode across the flagstones.
On one side, mudbrick structures leaned against the wall, the
peak of their thatched roofs resting against the stone blocks just
below his feet. He could've jumped into the vegetable gardens
between them without fear of injury. Opposite, the smooth,
steeply inclined rock face plunged to a mound of boulders with
34
Wraith
scrub bushes and the occasional sapling growing between
them. He gave it a wide berth.
He shaded his eyes. Far out to sea, purple-blue water sparkled
under the dome of a cloudless sky. A mottled area offshore
marked an underwater forest of kelp, and the breeze from the
ocean carried the scent of salt. The line between sea and sky
was indistinct, blurred by the mists that formed in late summer.
There might be a white dot on the horizon, but he wasn't sure.
This must be about the spy. Er-Mûrazôr clenched his fists.
The dispatch ship left here a week ago, just enough time to
reach Númenor, dump the little weasel on the dock, and return
with a letter from his father. Er-Mûrazôr hoped for an apology,
but more likely, it would be highly emotional letter note
condemning him for attempting to choke his father's most
trusted private secretary to death.
"Three sails. A large triangle flanked by two smaller ones,"
called the watchman.
A blur of white formed on the horizon, breaking apart and reforming, growing wider as he watched. No amount of
squinting resolved it into individual vessels.
"Eight sails, no ten." The silhouette of the watchman stood
black against the sky. His arm pointed westward.
The Royal barge. It always traveled with an escort of smaller
vessels. His father was coming in person. Er-Mûrazôr's mouth
went dry. Their reunion was not going to be pleasant.
The tower rose above the top of the wall like a finger of stone,
twice the height of a man. A makeshift ladder balanced against
it, the highest rung reaching just below the watchman's
platform.
Er-Mûrazôr shrugged off his cloak and sword belt and handed
them to the nearest man-at-arms. He gripped the rails, a pair of
A Sail on the Horizon
spars to which the rungs had been lashed with tarred rope. He
put a boot on the lowest rung, and it shifted slightly under his
weight.
He climbed quickly, careful not to look down, keeping his eyes
on his hands as they gripped the rails, and on the stones of the
side of the tower. Even so, he was acutely aware of the yawning
drop to the boulders below the wall.
He let go of the rails to grasp the lip of the platform, and pulled
himself up over the edge. The space was barely large enough
for the watchman and himself. He stood carefully, putting a
hand on his knee and then straightening. The wind blew
stronger up here, flapping his clothes and whipping hair in his
face. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold.
From here, the individual sails stood out clearly. The mainsail
of the largest ship was tawny brown, almost golden. An
elaborate device had been painted in its center, but at this
distance, he couldn't make out the design. He didn't need to.
The royal badge had a distinctive shape.
His mind raced. The inlet was long and narrow, hemmed in by
cliffs. He commanded a fortified base high above it. If he chose
to, he could deny entry to the ships. He shook his head to clear
it. Don't be ridiculous. He wasn't going to take up arms against
his father.
An enormous number of sails emerged from the mist, gaining
shape and definition as they drew closer.
The watchman squinted toward the horizon. "Twenty-five
vessels."
He felt the color drain from his face. Lightheaded, he sank to
his knees. The Númenorian fleet was closing in on the Haven,
more than enough to remove him by force.
It didn't make sense. They had no reason to arrest him. He was
insubordinate, but he wasn't a traitor. The worst thing he'd
36
Wraith
done was stand up for himself. It was possible his father was
coming to see the near-finished city, and using the visit as an
occasion to patch up their quarrel.
So why didn't he say he was coming?
Chapter 14
Frantic Preparations
T
wenty-five ships. That was an overwhelming
force, an invasion. It was too large to fight off, and even if he
could he had no desire to raise a hand against his father. His
best option was to act as if the visitors were welcome, and
embrace them with open arms.
The ships would be here by late afternoon. He had maybe six
hours to make the city presentable and prepare a banquet for
their royal visitors. He reached a leg below the lip of the
platform and found the top rung of the ladder with a toe. He
descended so quickly, the ladder wobbled against the stones.
Striding across the courtyard, Er-Mûrazôr tried to see it
through the eyes of a stranger. The buildings were of mudbrick
thatched with seagrass. Some of the larger ones had stone
chimneys, but most had a smoke hole in the roof. The
settlement was orderly and reasonably clean, in the manner of a
military camp, but it had no luxuries, no decorations. All the
effort had gone into the walls. The dwellings looked like an
afterthought, something a child might have build from scrap
lumber. Still, he was proud of it, and he wanted it to look good
for the visitors.
“Steward! Find half a dozen men to collect the trash and burn
it. And sweep the streets to remove all evidence of horses. Fly
silk banners from the flagpoles. Take the sail from my own
vessel, the one with the Royal device painted on it. Drape it
from the walls where it will be seen at sea.”
38
Wraith
A youth entered the courtyard and hurried toward him. “Sir,
my da says to remind you he’s coming over this afternoon to
buy a piece of land.”
Er-Mûrazôr slapped his head. He’d promised to sell the farmer
a tract of land, but kept being too busy to complete the sale.
“I’m sorry, it won’t happen today. Tell you what, I’ll come and
look for him when I’m free.”
The boy hung his head and turned to go. Er-Mûrazôr caught
his arm.
“But since you’re here, take a message to the harbor master.
Tell him to anchor my vessel in the middle of the harbor to
make room at the pier for our royal visitors. No, I don’t care
where in the harbor, just move it off the pier.” Er-Mûrazôr
pressed a coin into his hand. The boy ran across the courtyard
to the Seaward Gate and disappeared down the path to the
waterfront.
The Steward reappeared. He started to say something, but ErMûrazôr cut him short.
“Arrange the tables in the Guildhall for a banquet. The High
Table needs to be long enough for twelve, and raised on a
dais.”
“There’s no time to build a dais, and the longest table we have
holds six on a side,” said the Steward.
“Do what you can. Push some small tables together and cover
them with sailcloth. No, belay that, sailcloth’s too coarsely
woven. Use bedsheets. Put candlesticks at either end, and hang
a garland where the fabric hangs in front of the table.”
Frantic Preparations
He left the Steward shouting orders at the men rearranging
tables, and strode towards the market square on the desert side
of the settlement, where the cook house was tucked out of
sight.
On the short walk, one of the farmers who’d been with the
colony longest caught up with him and matched his stride, but
before the man could speak, Er-Mûrazôr asked, “Aren’t there
some children among the farm families? Have them pick
wildflowers and braid them into garlands. Hang them over the
seaside gate where the visitors will see them. Don’t bother
about the Desert Gate. And I want the Guildhall decorated too,
every lintel, every torch bracket. And if there aren’t enough
flowers, use greenery. The sea grasses and some sprigs from
those little shrubs will do.”
The man nodded and hurried off, his question unasked, and
left Er-Mûrazôr alone with his thoughts.
The number of ships bearing down on the Haven was
enormous, way more than required for a royal visit. His
stomach lurched. Well, the squall would hit when it hit. In the
meantime, all he could do was shorten sail and secure
everything that could be tied down. And as any sailor knows, it
was better to have your hands and thoughts occupied than to
stand there slack-jawed, watching those black clouds roll in.
He reached the cook house, intent on the next task. The narrow
alley smelled like vegetable soup. A well enclosure stood just
outside the door. Chickens scratched around its base, making
contented chicken noises.
“Where’s the cook?” he shouted into the doorway. A giant of a
man in a greasy apron came running over with a copper ladle
clenched in his hand. “Kill some chickens and slaughter a goat.
Belay that, you can’t serve goat to people from the Capitol.
Besides, we need the goats for milk. Butcher a lamb instead.
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“Plan to serve at least five courses, and garnish them to make
them look festive. Serve whatever wine we have, don’t save it
for later. And use all the spices you need to, we can replace
them later. You’re not making peas porridge for the garrison
tonight, you’re making dishes to place before the King.” The
man blanched and nodded.
Beyond the center square, and the market square beyond that,
the main road stretched through the settlement to the Desert
Gate, and beside it, the lean-to structure they used as a stables.
The smell of manure and sweet hay reached him even before he
heard their loud breathing and the stomp of their feet.
“Ostler, can you shovel some dirt over the dung heap?”
The dung heap wasn’t the worst problem. Behind the barracks,
a row of latrines had been built against the wall. He got close,
and even though he was used to it, the fumes made him gag.
“Shovel some dirt into the latrines while you’re at it.”
Although the real problem was the long wall between the front
of the barracks on the way to the latrines. Apparently the
soldiers couldn’t be bothered to take more than a few steps
from the door when they got up at night. The whole length of
the wall smelled of urine. A few buckets full of water should
cure that. He tasked a few soldiers to fetch them.
Passing the chicken coops on the way back, he shouted to the
cook, “Can you put the chickens in their coops while our
visitors are here? I don’t want anyone tripping over them. Bring
the dogs indoors too, while you’re at it.”
He returned to the central square. A string of signal flags, silk
streamers in red and green and blue, lay abandoned at the base
of the watchtower. There were hours of chores to complete
before the guests arrived, and maybe one hour in which to
Frantic Preparations
complete them. He felt a sort of lightness as the tasks that
weren’t going to get done slid off his list.
“Watchman, report,” said Er-Mûrazôr.
“Twenty-two vessels are riding the tide up the inlet, three more
are about to enter.”
“The fleet has left the open ocean and entered the inlet. The tide
is carrying them in,” called the watchman from the stone tower.
Er-Mûrazôr mounted the steps to the top of the wall. Seven
large vessels and eighteen smaller ones were strung the length
of the inlet. Most had dropped sail, riding the current as the
tide flowed in. Large squares of canvas fell and were gathered
up as he watched. Some were using oars, some had deployed
longboats, preparing to make landfall.
It was time to go down to the pier. He went back to his own
house to put on something appropriate for a formal occasion at
court.
The single room of his house had a dirt floor and mudbrick
walls, but it was furnished magnificently. The architectural bed
with its silk hangings came from Númenor. He summoned
Oswin, his clerk who doubled as a servant.
“My father will be sleeping here tonight. Clean up the room as
much as you can.” Actually, it wasn’t bad. He’d been a general
in the field. He didn’t own much, and he liked order.
Oswin looked at the clutter threating to spill off the table he
used as a desk. “What about your papers? Shall I straighten
them up, or lock them in a box and hide it somewhere?”
“I don’t care. Just make it presentable.”
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Oswin brought over an iron-bound coffer used to store
important papers, and Er-Mûrazôr unlocked it for him. The
clerk dumped in official correspondence, ledger books, and and
Er-Mûrazôr’s personal letters, and returned the box to its
accustomed place.
After Oswin left, Er-Mûrazôr lifted the lid of a chest decorated
with a painting of a ship. He pushed aside the neatly folded
stacks of formerly white linen shirts and plain wool leggings
wearing thin at the knees. Near the bottom were what had once
been the clothes he wore every day, heavy silks in vivid colors.
The trim and embroidery looked as if it had taken a year to
finish.
He pulled an oxblood colored robe trimmed in copper from the
very bottom of the chest and pulled it over his head, then
placed rings on the fingers of each hand and set a circlet on his
head. His hands trembled, he clenched his fists to still them.
He gathered his small entourage, which consisted of his
steward, the captain of the guard, and half a dozen minor
officials, and began the trek down to the pier.
They rounded the first hairpin turn. The inlet was crowded
with ships. A few had already entered the harbor.
They reached the waterfront and stood on the pier, waiting.
The stiff silk of his formal robes brushed the top of his boots,
the two-handled sword at his hip. The afternoon sun was
warm, and sweat trickled between the shoulder blades.
A group of children jostled on the dock. Most of them were
unusually clean for this time of day, and apparently they’d
made wreaths for themselves when they’d picked flowers for
the Guildhall.
They perched on their heads in a variety of angles, threatening
to slide off.
Frantic Preparations
The farm wife who seemed to be in charge clapped her hands.
“All together now. ‘On this longest day of the year’.”
“We can’t sing that, it’s a solstice carol,” said one of the
children.
“Perhaps there’s another song you all know? I thought not,”
said the farm wife.
The children launched into the first stanza of their song, their
voices the usual mixture of pure and off-key. Silk pennants
snapped overhead, and because the tide was coming in, even
the mudflat smells of rotting seaweed and dead fish weren’t
very noticeable.
He worried about meeting his father. The memory of the man
he loved so much was overlaid in his mind by the image of the
king who could met out harsh discipline, who could use people
and toss them aside.
He stood on the deck, his mind racing. He’d been sent here to
build a fortified city. He’d been successful, mostly, but it hadn’t
been easy. Early on during construction, the Seaward Tower
collapsed, taking part of a wall with it. The incident could have
cost him his position. Hopefully, his success was enough to
offset the early disasters and glitches along the way.
He stood on the pier with his steward and purser, along with
Ciaran, captain of the garrison. He counted Ciaran as a close
personal friend. In a voice almost too low to be heard, he said
to him, “If this ends badly, take care of yourself.”
The Royal barge entered the harbor, bearing down on the pier.
White spray foamed around the prow. The great mainsail
bearing the emblem of the royal house of Númenor billowed to
the deck. It drifted closer. Elaborate carvings decorated all the
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woodwork, and a bunch of rosemary and thyme, an offering to
Ossë, was tied to the bowsprit.
The great vessel settled against the pilings, its deck towering
above the pier. Sailors threw mooring lines from the deck to the
pier, where men caught them and cleated them fast.
Er-Mûrazôr waited, his face expressionless, his hand resting on
the hilt of the great two-handed sword. He tried to swallow,
but couldn’t.
The anchor chain clinked, and he thought of manacles, the
rough edges snagging the silk of his robes, the rust staining the
fabric. His rooms at the Palace once held a royal hostage, the
long-unused bolts still slid home. Would there be an arrest
warrant, and charges to be read in front of everyone he knew,
or would he just disappear? He squeezed his eyes shut. Stop it.
Sailors moved around on deck, throwing coils of rope and
shouting to each other. With a squeal of hinges, a pair of doors
in the mid-deck bulwark swung open.
Chapter 15
A Tour of the City
S
ailors lowered a gangplank to the pier and
secured it to the bulwark door. Er-Mûrazôr kept his face still.
He looked up, expecting to see his father, but it was his brother
who appeared at the top of the ramp. Tar-Atanamir.
Er-Mûrazôr greeted him with an almost imperceptible bow. In
return, Atanamir grinned and waved. The lower end slid
against the pier as the great ship rocked on the swell. Atanamir
navigated the ramp with the agility of a sailor, jumping over
the last three steps.
Atanamir clapped both hands on his shoulders, then wrapped
him in an embrace. “Tindomul, it’s good to see you. How long
is it been?”
Twilight, his milk name. No one called him that anymore
except his mother. Their mother.
“Since my last visit home, at the winter solstice,” when you took
over my rooms, Er-Mûrazôr said between clenched teeth.
But Atanamir was pleasant and friendly, and he seemed glad to
see him. It wasn’t what he expected, and it threw him offbalance.
The group, Atanamir and his retinue, followed by Er-Mûrazôr’s
people, left the pier and climbed the steep path up the side of
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the promontory, Er-Mûrazôr and Atanamir at the head, their
people following.
The trail leveled out at top of the promontory. Just ahead of
them, the walls of the city rose from the rock, twice the height
of a man. A round tower extended above the walls, a black
pillar against the sun. Above it, a silk pennant snapped in the
wind.
Behind Atanamir and his retinue, the deep water channel of the
Haven reached for the sea. At its tip, more warships than had
ever crowded into the harbor before bobbed at anchor. He felt
sick.
Er-Mûrazôr turned to address his visitors and his mouth went
dry. His future hinged on their opinion of his efforts. If they
thought he’d spent too much and accomplished too little, he
was finished. He took a deep breath and began to speak.
“When we arrived here three years ago, nothing overlooked the
harbor but a bare knob of rock. Now Númenor commands a
mighty fortress, a beachhead for our expansion into the
mainland.” Of all the things he’d done in life, building this
fortress was his proudest achievement.
Atanamir’s face bore an expression he couldn’t read. It looked
almost like fear.
One of the visitors pointed to the side of the Tower, frowning.
“What’s that? It looks like a giant crack,”
Er-Mûrazôr followed his eyes. The sun shone golden against
the side of the Tower, made the stair-step gap between the
blocks stand out in sharp relief. It also showed where the wall
had been crushed when the Tower collapsed on it. The repaired
area was paler than the original.
He cringed. The less said about the accident, the better.
A Tour of the City
A hawk-faced official explained. “I understand this happened
because the mortar failed, because Er-Mûrazôr decided to make
lime from crushed shells when he could have imported highquality materials from Númenor.”
“Yes, I was trying to be careful with costs,” said Er-Mûrazôr.
“And the collapse of the tower cost you how much more? Not
counting the lives of the two workmen who were killed.”
Thank you for helping my case, you toad-eating weasel.
“Let’s enter the city itself. I’m sure you’ll be impressed.” ErMûrazôr beckoned the group forward.
The path led through a tunnel through the base of the tower.
The gates stood open, each a double thickness of timber bound
in iron. Its only feature, beyond the nail heads protecting it
from axe blows, was an opening close to the ground.
Atanamir nudged him. “That’s the smallest postern I ever saw.
What’s it for, the cat?”
Er-Mûrazôr smiled, grateful to his brother for changing the
subject. “Sometimes fishermen put to sea while the gate is still
barred for the night, so this gates are never completely sealed.
Now, the desert gate on the far side of the city doesn’t have a
postern. After it closes for the night, no one enters or leaves.”
They had to squeeze together to walk two abreast through the
tunnel. They hiked against the slope, their voices echoing with
a hollow sound. Atanamir touched the rough stones overhead.
Er-Mûrazôr cringed. At home, the ceiling would have been out
of reach, and the stones would have been smooth to the touch
and fitted seamlessly.
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They emerged into bright sunlight. The walls enclosing the city
pressed in from all sides. The air was still, and it was warmer
than it had been outside.
He led the visitors along a narrow street between tightlypacked houses. They emerged on the Center Square, one of the
few open spaces within the walls. It was hemmed in on all
sides by small mudbrick buildings. Most had only a single lowceilinged room, but there were so many of them, grasping at
every available bit of space, they looked ready to overwhelm
the small courtyard and bury it.
“The city is too small for this many people. You didn’t enclose
enough area,” said someone in Atanamir’s revenue.
“That was a deliberate decision. We had to build the walls as
quickly as possible, before the local people could regroup and
counterattack.” Er-Mûrazôr bristled. It had been the right
decision, but he wasn’t sure he could prove it.
Beyond the square, the insides of the walls showed above the
seagrass thatch of the buildings leaning against them. They
looked like they’d been built from stones dug from a farmer’s
fields and stacked in no particular order.
Atanamir seemed to be studying them. His face was neutral, as
if he’d been asked to admire a piece of art he didn’t care for.
Númenor had an ancient and proud tradition of stonework, the
blocks which fit together without a seam, the mirror-like
surfaces, the ornamental carving. This wasn’t it.
“They don’t appear to be finished,” said the weasel faced
emissary.
Er-Mûrazôr’s face burned. “They’re finished. Outside, the walls
have to be smooth, to deny a toehold to climbers. But inside,
fine stonework isn’t appropriate for a colonial outpost.”
A Tour of the City
He tried to read their faces. “You exceeded your allotted funds, and
this is all you have to show for it?”
Er-Mûrazôr bit his lip. Every good thing he’d done seemed
overwhelmed by their negative impression of it. He gave it one
more try.
“If I leave you with one impression, it should be this. Three
years ago, this was a knob bare rock controlled by a nation that
was hostile to us. There were many difficulties along the way,
but we just completed the last section of wall, completely
enclosing the city. Because of our perseverance in the face of
difficulty, Númenor now has a beachhead into the mainland
and controls of the coastline for a hundred miles in either
direction.”
That was it, his best shot. He’d built the walled city. There had
been problems along the way. Perhaps the decision had already
been made, but maybe he could still change it.
At least he’d gotten over the hard part. No one would find fault
with the garrison the tradesmen’s shops, and he’d end the tour
on a high note.
“That large structure at the far end of the square is the
Guildhall, the largest structure in the city. We use it for
Council meetings, for cutting sailcloth, and in spring, as a
threshing floor. Tonight, it will be the site of the banquet.”
Its peaked roof reached almost two stories above the crushed
shells that paved the courtyard, dwarfing the smaller buildings
nearby. A garland of flowers hung above the doors, and
bunches of wildflowers filled the torch brackets on either side.
One of the doors stood open. Inside, two burly men wrestled a
heavy table over the tiled floor. High Table had already been
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set up. A white cloth reached almost to the floor, anchored by
tall candlesticks.
“The food won’t be what you’re used to at home, but it’s
opulent by colonial standards. I hope it will make you feel
welcome.”
He took them to a long building with multiple doors was built
against the wall.
“We’ll visit the barracks where the garrison is housed. Both the
men-at-arms and the stone workers sleep here.”
Near the barracks was a squat building, solidly built with a
locked door. Er-Mûrazôr called over one of the men-at-arms,
who produced a key and showed them in. The wall inside the
door bristled with a rack of spears.
“We don’t have many swordsmen in the Haven, but anyone
can learn to handle a spear. Every able-bodied man in the
Haven is taught to use one as soon as he arrives. The decision
to train the farmers, laborers, and craftsman to bear arms
doubled the size of our garrison overnight.”
Atanamir looked at him sharply, and rolled his eyes.
“What? That’s good, isn’t it?” Er-Mûrazôr didn’t understand
why Atanamir wasn’t more impressed.
They returned to the Main Road, and followed it to the Market
Square where the tradesmen had their shops. The ring of the
anvil and the smell of wood smoke reached them before they
emerged from between the closely packed houses..
The Market Square opened up before them, smaller and less
formal than the Central Square. Booths housing the workshops
of tradesmen lined several sides.
A Tour of the City
The inside of the smithy glowed red, and smoke curled from
the chimney. Inside the forge, a gaunt-looking man in a leather
apron hammered on the glowing arc of a scythe. Behind him,
his apprentice worked the bellows, and the flames sprang to
life.
“Don’t burn up all the wood at once, boy. Have a care,” the
blacksmith said over his shoulder.
A workbench held an assortment of fishhooks, several boxes of
nails, and a pair of door hinges. A row of spearheads stood on a
shelf, and some farming implements, including a hoe and a
spade of some sort, leaned against the far wall.
Er-Mûrazôr turned to speak to his visitors. He’d taken the
initiative to bring the craftsmen from Númenor, and he was
proud of them.
One of Atanamir’s men nudged another. “What’s with the arts
and crafts? Don’t they have real work to do?”
“Next month they’re learning bobbin lace.”
“Why, they’re tired of counted cross-stitch?”
Er-Mûrazôr looked daggers at them, but continued speaking as
if nothing had happened.
“The blacksmith was the first craftsman to join us, and the most
important. Before he came here, we had to import everything
from Númenor, every saw blade, every door hinge, every
spearhead. We couldn’t make so much as a fish hook or a bag
of nails. We couldn’t put a hoop on a barrel or shoe a horse. But
now, we’ve been able to make everything from farming tools to
fittings for ships.”
He glanced at his brother. Atanamir was looking away, and his
posture was rigid.
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They walked along the row of booths. In every one of them,
some tradesman was working: the cooper shaving barrel
staves, the leather worker making shoes, the potter as his
wheel.
It wasn’t this busy on a normal day. The craftsmen often went
to the alehouse or left to check on their farms, but for the tour,
every booth was full. Their carpenter had gotten some bad
shellfish the day before. The man sanding a wooden chest was
actually Hagrith, one of the gate wardens.
““Each new tradesman we bring in makes us more
independent. I’m hoping to find someone who can weave flax
into linen, both for clothing and for sailcloth,” said Er-Mûrazôr.
Atanamir and his chief emissary exchanged a look. A crease
appeared between Atanamir’s eyes. “Father said you were
becoming self-sufficient. I didn’t realize how much.”
“When we can make things ourselves, we don’t have to import
as much. We don’t do our own mining, yet, but we’re able to
trade for iron and copper.”
“You have trading relationships with other nations?” asked
Atanamir.
“Not diplomatic relationships exactly, but individual traders
stop by on a regular basis, mostly people from the desert.”
Atanamir seemed distant, and his whole body was tense.
They returned the way they’d come. Er-Mûrazôr glanced at his
brother. How did I do? Did I turn things around? But the whole
time, Atanamir was silent, apparently wrapped in his own
thoughts.
A Tour of the City
The tour was a disaster. He’d meant to showcase an important
fortification for Númenor, but seen up close, it came across as a
display of low-quality workmanship costing far beyond what
his father had intended to spend.
He understood where he went wrong with the tour of the
walls. He let them see the fieldstone construction, the scar in
the stonework where the tower collapsed, and the crowding
within the walls. What he didn’t understand was the
disapproval or even hostility directed at the tradesmen. It left
him feeling off-balance.
They reached the Center Square. Er-Mûrazôr pointed out his
own cottage at one corner.
“I offer you my own house for the duration of your visit, and
the houses of my steward and purser for your lieutenants and
officials.”
“I hate to put you and your people out of your beds. We’ll
sleep on the Royal barge,” said Atanamir.
Just reject my hospitality like I haven’t been preparing all day. But
Atanamir may have been acting out of consideration. Or fear of
being caught ashore and separated from his fleet.
They reached the square. He stopped in front of a building,
smaller than the Guildhall, but larger than any of the one room
cottages that lined the square.
“Here’s the most important building in the settlement, The
Once Proud Goose.”
“You have a wine shop?” asked Atanamir, interested.
“An alehouse. The climate’s too harsh for grapes, but barley
does just fine,” said Er-Mûrazôr.
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“May a few of my people come up here to drink?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Er-Mûrazôr. Sailors and taverns had
a way of finding each other.
Inside, homemade tables and stools were arranged in little
groups around a stone fireplace.
“The furniture was made right here in the Haven, and so were
the ceramic mugs. Everything is rough frontier style, but we’re
proud of it.”
“Such an excellent tour deserves a round of ale for all of my
people, and all of yours, too.” Atanamir produced his purse
and counted out a generous handful of coins, enough for more
than one round.
This afternoon on the pier, when the gangplank was lowered,
he realized it was possible he would be arrested. But if it were
going to happen, it would’ve happened already. He was
grateful for that. But after the disastrous tour, it was still almost
certain they would remove him from his post. He didn’t think
it would happen now, not in a comfortable, crowded pub while
they were waiting to be called for dinner, but it might well
happen as they were leaving the Hall after the banquet.
Er-Mûrazôr pulled out a chair for himself and another for
Atanamir. He was about to sit down, but Atanamir touched his
arm. Atanamir said something, but his words were lost in the
scrape of chairs against the flagstones.
“I’m sorry, again?” Er-Mûrazôr asked.
“Let’s step outside. We need to talk.”
Chapter 16
The Banquet
S
ail ho!"
Er-Mûrazôr followed his brother outside, his stomach knotting
with anxiety. They stood together outside the alehouse door.
Atanamir licked his lips, struggling to begin.
Here it comes. Atanamir was about to tell him to step down.
Er-Mûrazôr jumped in first. “Look, before you say anything, I
know the tour was a disaster. It was supposed to showcase the
completed fortifications, but somehow it turned into rustic
stonework, collapsed towers, and too little space inside." He
knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t seem to stop. "The
construction isn't what you're used to back in Númenor, but we
did it that way for a reason. The walls had to go up quickly,
before the local tribes attacked again. We had to finish as fast as
we could.”
Atanamir raised a hand and cut him off. "This has been coming
for a long time, as I'm sure you know …”
The doors of the Guildhall were thrown open, and the Steward
came striding towards them.
"Captain Mûrazôr, we're ready for you inside."
Atanamir touched his arm. "We'll talk later."
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They entered the Guildhall in order of rank, according to
custom. Atanamir, the oldest son of the king and his heir, led
the procession. Er-Mûrazôr walked behind him. Their
retainers, their stewards, lieutenants, and captains, followed
behind, interleaved according to rank and years of service.
The Guildhall had been transformed. The large space normally
used for Council meetings had been done over for a formal
banquet.
The trestle tables were arranged to hug the walls, leaving a
large open space in the center. Stone masons, shipbuilders,
craftsmen, and men-at-arms had packed themselves into every
available place on the benches. The buzz of conversation hit
him like the roar of the ocean, but it dropped to a murmur
when the nobility entered the room.
Er-Mûrazôr felt their eyes on him. He didn't like the attention,
but as the son of a king, he was used to it. He stood straight and
held his eyes straight ahead.
The High Table dominated the far end of the room. The
Steward hadn't had time to build a raised dais on such short
notice, but even without the added height, he and his men had
achieved an impressive effect. The table was long enough to
seat twelve on one side. No table of that size existed in the
colony. Er-Mûrazôr wondered how they'd created the illusion.
The long table was covered in white cloths reaching almost to
the floor. Earlier in the day, they might have been called
bedsheets, but this evening, they were linen tablecloths.
Garlands of wildflowers hung from the front edge of the table,
and each end was anchored by a heavy pewter candlestick.
Usually a dull gray in color, they'd been polished as bright as
silver for the occasion. The effect was simple and colonial, but it
had an air of grandeur.
The Banquet
A throne-like chair sat in the center of the High Table, made
from exotic hardwood and skillfully carved. An import from
Númenor, it was normally Er-Mûrazôr's when he presided
over Council meetings as Captain of the Haven. Atanamir sat
down in the tall chair, the place of honor. Er-Mûrazôr sat at his
right hand, in a chair only slightly smaller and less ornate.
Notes from a harp wafted through the hall, quiet and
contemplative, like water dripping from leaves. Conversation
around him was light and inconsequential. He heard some
news from home, of Atanamir's family and the new baby who
just started to walk, of a cousin who was getting married.
Er-Mûrazôr sat stiffly, his mind racing. Insubordination was a
crime, even for a royal prince. The unexpected arrival of
twenty-five warships told him the Palace took it very seriously.
He'd half-expected to be arrested when Atanamir's ship landed
this afternoon. He tried not to worry.
The tour had been a disaster, an exhibit of rustic stonework,
collapsed towers, and overcrowding, of sloppy work
performed at great expense. Surprisingly, his tradesmen hadn't
impressed them, either. He couldn't fathom why not. He felt
sure Atanamir meant to remove him as they stood outside the
alehouse. If the Stewart hadn't interrupted them when he did, it
would've happened then.
He was out of immediate danger. Nothing would happen
during the feast. Atanamir wouldn’t cause a scene in public,
but the unspoken threat hung over him, as disturbing and
unavoidable as the knowledge of his own mortality.
The danger would come when the feast ended. After the last
course had been cleared from the tables and the harp fell silent,
the guests would file out of the Hall, giving them one of their
few opportunities to speak privately. Left alone at the table, or
perhaps standing in the darkness in front of the Guildhall,
Atanamir would say, "Let's talk." But until the decision was
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spoken aloud, it wasn't real. He had until the feast ended,
however long it took to serve five courses, to change his
brother's mind. He thought about what to do next.
The first course was brought in. High Table was served,
starting in the center and working outward. One of the
watchmen acting as server set a bowl before Atanamir, and
then set one before Er-Mûrazôr, a fragrant chicken broth
thickened with carrots and turnips. It was a dish for poor
people, but this version was served in beautiful bowls and
decorated with sprigs of thyme. It was served with fresh bread,
of finely milled flour, newly baked and still warm.
The lower tables were served next, beginning with those closest
to High Table and working down wards. Soon, even those in
the lowest ranking places, closest to the doors, had steaming
bowls set on the rough wood in front of them.
One of the sailors did cartwheels and back bends for their
entertainment. As his final act, he put his palms on the
flagstones, kicked his feet in the air, and took two or three
shaky steps on his hands until his elbows gave way and he
wobbled and fell. The room applauded him. Er-Mûrazôr felt
just as off-balance.
Atanamir leaned closer. Shouting over the noise of
conversation and music, he said, "Father needs your help on
something in Númenor."
Er-Mûrazôr smiled to himself. He liked to feel needed. He
especially liked it if Father asked for his advice.
"There's a fishing village on the western side in Númenor.
They're trying to build a jetty to protect the harbor from ocean
swells. Between the difficulties of underwater construction and
the heavy waves, they can't do it. Father thinks, with your
experience in stonework, you'd be able to help them."
The Banquet
Feeling pleased gave way to feeling insulted. The village was
far from the capital, a backwater, and the project was simple
compared to building the Haven.
"Yule is your favorite holiday, isn't that right?" asked Atanamir.
He leaned in so close, it was easy to feel the heat from his body.
"Yes," said Er-Mûrazôr. Something was up.
"And you've always enjoyed the preparations?" He looked as if
he really cared about the answer.
"Yes, I have." Er-Mûrazôr pulled away and regarded his
brother with suspicion.
"You'll be home for the Yule preparations for the first time in
three years. You'll like that, won't you?"
Er-Mûrazôr bristled. He hadn't agreed to build the jetty, and
Atanamir was talking as if he had.
Atanamir sighed. “You should know, I don’t want to take the
Haven from you. I have a wife and baby at home, and I don’t
want to leave them.”
Er-Mûrazôr felt a flicker of hope.
“Unfortunately, we’re both bound by Father’s orders,” said
Atanamir.
So we’re both unhappy. Wonderful.
“So it’s settled, then. We’ll put the needs of the kingdom first.”
Er-Mûrazôr fell silent and wouldn't discuss it anymore.
The second course was an artistic arrangement of red cabbage
and onions boiled in vinegar. Biting steam rose from the dish. It
60
Wraith
began to get dark outside, and the torches were lit. He pushed
his food around his plate without touching it. A trio of stone
workers played a dance tune on penny whistles and drums.
Below the salt, soldier and laborers bobbed their heads to the
music and tapped their feet beneath the trestle tables.
The clamor made conversation impossible, for which he was
grateful. It gave him a chance to think. As he saw it, whether he
stayed in his post or was removed depended on how good a
job his visitors thought he had done, building the city.
He'd done a good job building the city. The fortification
dominated the harbor and allowed them to control the coast for
a hundred miles in either direction. Unfortunately, his visitors
didn't seem to share his opinion.
With sudden, painful clarity, he realized his mistake. Their first
impression of the Haven had been up close, where they'd seen
slapdash construction, crowding, and dirt. It would've been
better if they'd seen the city from a distance.
In the high desert above the promontory, there was a place he
liked to ride out and go hawking. He wouldn't have to say
anything. They see how the fortress crowned the promontory
and dominated the harbor below. The cosmetic flaws that had
been such a problem close up would be invisible at a distance,
and all along the coast, they would see farmland under
cultivation, enough to feed the city, and even a surplus to
export to Númenor, where it was badly needed. He couldn't
undo the bad impression from this afternoon, but he might be
able to turn it around.
The main doors opened, and with a fanfare of drums, the third
course arrived. Four servants carried a whole lamb on a board
balanced on their shoulders, which they said in the middle of
High Table. It was surrounded by roast apples and wore a
crown of herbs.
The Banquet
“What, no roast suckling pig?” asked Atanamir, his eyes
teasing.
"No, we don't have any pigs in the colony. It's mostly barley
and turnips for us on a regular day," said Er-Mûrazôr.
Er-Mûrazôr tried to gage his brother's mood, but Atanamir was
a courtier and politician, he was hard to read. Always pleasant,
always affable, he could appear relaxed even when he wasn't.
Atanamir had contributed some very good wine from
Armenelos, which solved the problem of serving barley ale to
royalty. That would have been an open admission of, if not
poverty exactly, then at least of the rough frontier aspect of the
colony.
Er-Mûrazôr hadn’t tasted red wine since the last time he was
home. He drank deeply. Soon he felt himself start to relax, and
the terrible anxiety began to release its grip.
Atanamir leaned back in his tall chair and rested an ankle on
his knee, turning the stem of his wine goblet between thumb
and finger.
One of the stone masons sang a ballad with another
accompanying him on a lute.
He had to show Atanamir the city from the high desert. The
trick was, how to get his brother to agree to it?
When the song ended and the last note had been plucked, ErMûrazôr leaned over to his brother and touched his arm.
"You've been cooped up on a boat for days. I expect you're
ready for some exercise. Would you like to ride into the high
desert tomorrow and go hawking?"
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Wraith
"I don't really care for hawking. I've never been good at it. I
much prefer indoor pursuits, like music or chess," said
Atanamir. He turned back to his emissary, who was seated on
his other side.
"Or conversing with the ladies," said the emissary.
“Or dabbling in intrigue,” said Atanamir. They both laughed.
Er-Mûrazôr wanted to say, "It's not about hawking. I need you
to see the city as it really is," but even though he needed this
very badly, the words seemed to stick in his throat.
The plate in front of him was replaced with another, guinea
fowl caught in the desert by shepherds with stones with slings.
One of the shipwrights strolled to the center of the room. "It's
well known that sailors are given to yarnin', but the man who
told me the tale swears it's true."
He launched into an outrageous tale about why an octopus
makes a better sweetheart than a mermaid. Er-Mûrazôr felt his
face burning, while Atanamir on one side and his Steward on
the other were bent over laughing and wiping tears from their
eyes.
He turned to speak to his Steward, but the man was listing to
someone on his other side.
"Did you hear the news from the shipyard? Some of the ship
builders went into the old forest north of here, the only place
where pines grow tall enough for masts. Well, they’d barely
entered the outskirts of the woods when a huge boar charged
them. They only just escaped with their lives, and neither
bribes nor threats can make them go back. Now there’s an
oceangoing vessel sitting unfinished in the shipyard for lack of
a mast."
The Banquet
Er-Mûrazôr went rigid. No! Don't talk about anything else that
went wrong. There's already enough to sink me!
Atanamir leaned closer. "Did you say a wild boar has been
terrorizing your ship builders? I've always wanted to hunt a
wild boar, but I’ve never had a chance. There are no old-growth
forests on Númenor. Beyond the Palace walls, there’s nothing
but fields under cultivation. ” He looked wistful.
"Why this sudden interest in boar hunting?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.
Atanamir lowered his head and pushed a piece of bread
around his plate. "I've never been blooded."
"What, seriously?" Er-Mûrazôr was taken aback.
Blooding was an ancient ritual performed the first time a man
rode into battle, or in times of peace, the first time he hunted a
truly dangerous animal.
Er-Mûrazôr had been blooded three years ago. To gain
possession of the harbor, he'd led a skirmish against the local
people and killed a man in battle. Afterwards, he’d knelt beside
one of the corpses, and a priest had dabbed blood from the
dead man’s wounds on his forehead. The ritual was silly, but
even so, he felt changed for having been through it.
Atanamir said, “Númenor has been at peace since before you or
I were born. I’ve had military training all my life, but I’ve never
had a chance to use it. I know it’s just an old superstition, but
it’s an important ritual of manhood. The men under my
command would think less of me if I hadn’t been through it.”
As a ritual of manhood, it’s not as important as laying with a girl, ErMûrazôr didn’t say, given his own failings in that area.
Clearly Atanamir wanted this very badly. Er-Mûrazôr had a
hard time taking it seriously. Getting blooded on a hunt was
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Wraith
pretend play compared to getting blooded in battle. But it
didn’t matter. It got them all on horseback and outside the
walls, where they could see the strategic location of the Haven.
He smiled to himself. This might turn out all right after all.
"You have a good supply of spears of the Armory. Do you
think they could be adapted for boar hunting? A boar spear
needs a crossbar," said Atanamir.
"You wouldn't just set the dogs on the boar and spear him from
the side?" asked the Steward.
"The books say to plant the butt of the spear in the ground,
hold it with both hands, and when the boar charges, he runs
himself through. The crosspiece prevents him from running up
the shaft and reaching you with his knife-like tusks."
Hunting boar could be as dangerous as riding into battle, but
Atanamir was right. If the boar was a threat to the loggers or
farmers, it was the duty of the nobility to take care of it.
Atanamir wouldn't remove him until after they completed the
hunt, he felt sure of it. And the longer the delay, the less likely
that anything bad would happen. He made an effort to relax his
jaw. His teeth ached.
The last course was brought in, an array of sweets. The servers
carried trays of honey pastries, dates, and hard cheese arranged
on platters with sprigs of sugared rosemary. For the first time
all evening, he finally had an appetite. It was too bad that all
the meat and bread had been cleared away. He would make
due with fruit and cheese. But it didn't matter. He got what he
wanted, the chance to show them the Haven from a distance.
Everything was starting to go right.
"Let's ride out at first light. Who will go on the hunt, other than
you and me? My emissaries and officials, your steward and
your captains. Is that all of the nobility?" asked Atanamir.
The Banquet
"I'd also like to bring one of the loggers, they'll know where to
find the boar. And one of my stone workers used to be a
swineherd. He knows pigs," said Er-Mûrazôr.
"Can your blacksmith add a crossbar to a spear between now
and morning?" asked Atanamir.
"I don't see why not," said Er-Mûrazôr.
A farm wife finished her song, and the last notes died away
from the harp. People stood up from their benches and began
to file out. The Steward went off to find the blacksmith before
he left the hall.
Atanamir broke off a conversation with one of his emissaries.
"Meet you outside the stables at first light? "
"At first light," said Er-Mûrazôr.
Atanamir looked like he wanted to say something else, but ErMûrazôr saw a gap in the crowd between some soldiers and the
tradesmen and plunged into it.
66
Chapter 17
The Boar Hunt
E
r-Mûrazôr lay awake in his room. The moon
was approaching fall, and its silver light washed the room of all
color. The dark red curtains around his bed looked pewter-gray
in the moonlight. He had to get his best tomorrow, sharpwitted and able to make a persuasive argument. And for that,
he needed sleep. Lying quietly can be as restfully sleeping. He tried
hard to make himself believe it.
There was cause for optimism. Nothing had happened yet. The
longer it continued not happening, the more likely he was to
get through this.
What if he ended up before a court of law? He didn't think he'd
be executed. He had a fiery temper, but he didn’t think he’d
ever said anything treasonous. He wasn't dangerous to his
father or brother. Surely they knew that. Didn't they?
A silver rectangle crept across the dirt floor, the motion of the
moon marking the advance of hours. He turned over and
crossed his arms behind his head. Beyond the foot of his bed,
was the open mouth of the fireplace, tall enough to walk into, if
he bent down beneath the mantle. In the darkness, a mouse
scurried across the floor.
Tomorrow was his best and only chance to show how much
they needed to keep him here, in his current position. Whatever
happened to him next hinged upon it.
67
The Boar Hunt

He woke to Oswin shaking his arm. "You want to go on the
hunt, don't you? You told me to wake you in time to leave at
dawn," said his agitated clerk.
For someone who'd been up most of the night, dawn arrived
more quickly than expected. He struggled to come fully awake.
He waited until Oswin left the room, then pulled on his
hunting clothes and boots. Not stylish, but easy to move in, and
old enough he wasn't worried if they got ruined.
He hurried to the Desert Gate where they'd agreed to meet. On
the way through the Market Square, he saw that the forge had
been fired up. Orange light spilled into the courtyard, and the
hammer rank against the anvil.
The silhouettes of several people stood black against the hearth.
Er-Mûrazôr went over to join them. Atanamir and some of his
people were watching the blacksmith work.
Half a dozen spears from the Armory were leaning against the
wall of the forge. The smith had taken the head off of one of
them and was remaking it.
"I wish we'd had time to make more boar spears. The crossbar
is the secret to a good boar spear, or so I've heard," said
Atanamir.
It occurred to Er-Mûrazôr that none of them knew what they
were doing. Atanamir knew more about boar hunting than the
rest, which was almost nothing at all.
The blacksmith fitted the glowing spearhead to an ashwood
shaft and set it aside to cool. Once the glowing metal turned
gray, the spearhead hugged the shaft and couldn't be pulled
loose. The blacksmith quenched it in a barrel of water, then
handed it to Atanamir.
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Wraith
"Are we ready to go?" Atanamir was already moving towards
the stables.
At the stables by the Desert Gate, five horses waited, already
saddled and tacked up. Two donkeys had been saddled as well,
for the ship builder who knew where the boar was and the
stone smith who'd worked as a swineherd.
Er-Mûrazôr recognized the two large mastiffs used by the
watchmen to guard the gate, but there were also some some
medium-sized dogs and a small terrier. He hoped the mastiffs
didn't eat the terrier, it barely looked big enough for a snack.
"Groom, we need water skins for everyone, and bread and
cheese for the midday meal," said Er-Mûrazôr.
"Done and done, sir. You each have enough for a two or three
day trek through the desert, " said the groom.
Atanamir interrupted them. "I only count five horses.
Tindomul, would you mind leaving your steward behind so
my emissary can come along?"
The steward, who was middle-aged and did not love physical
danger, appeared to sag with relief.
"I think that would be all right," Atanamir now had four
members of his party, and Er-Mûrazôr had only three. He
cynically wondered if Atanamir had maneuvered it so his
people outnumbered Er-Mûrazôr's. It crossed his mind that it
was possible Atanamir didn't trust him. That stung.
"My lords, shall we mount up?" Atanamir swung into the
saddle, and everyone else followed his lead.
The Boar Hunt
The route to the old forest led them through the high desert, the
place where Er-Mûrazôr liked to go hawking. The sun was just
risen over the desert.
It was still too dark to see the walls of the city except as a
general outline, but even so, they looked astonishing. The city
sat on the promontory like a crown, the walls even and
perfectly symmetrical , the towers all the same shape and
evenly spaced. It was obvious the city commanded great
military power, and all around it, green farmland stretched up
and down the coast.
Atanamir stared. "What you've done is magnificent."
Er-Mûrazôr couldn't stop smiling.
Atanamir shot him a look. "Just so you know. Nothing you did
wrong will hurt you, but, nothing you did right can help you."
Er-Mûrazôr pressed him to explain what he meant, but
Atanamir wouldn't say more.
The road for about two hours, and reached the edge of the
forest. At its edge, it was saplings and brambles. They followed
a game trail through the undergrowth. An unseen bird took
flight and startled the horses. Atanamir's emissary was almost
thrown.
The dogs barked continually. The Terriers yapping was
particularly high-pitched, and never seem to stop. After a little
while, one of the men cried out, "Look, it's the hoof print of the
boar."
The swineherd knelt in the mud to study it. "It's a deer print.
We've been seeing them ever since we got here."
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Wraith
They rode deeper into the forest. Trees got taller and blocked
the light. It was cooler in here than it had been in the desert, yet
Er-Mûrazôr found that he was sweating.
Long slashes cut the bark of a medium-sized tree. Soon they
saw another. "That's from the tusks", said the swineherd. The
lashes were alarmingly high off the ground, almost as high as a
man's chest.
"Look at that!" cried one of Atanamir's people. He didn't need
to say anything, they all saw the great auburn-colored beast
that plunged across the trail with enormous speed.
"That was a sow. She has no tusks, but you'd best keep your
distance, she probably has a litter of piglets nearby."
"Are you saying that was a little one?" asked Atanamir, looking
doubtful for the first time since they set out.
"Oh aye. The boar we saw was the size of the house, silver grey
with bristles all along its back, and it's tusks were like
scimitars," said the shipbuilder.
"Those razorbacks are mean, especially when you enter their
territory," said the swineherd.
Saplings gave way to ancient trees, pines and oaks. Acorns
crunched underfoot, and occasionally one fell from a tree,
surprisingly loud.
"What I said about territory, often what they're guarding is
acorns. See this hoof-print? The two halves are wide apart, and
more rounded than a deer's," said the swineherd.
The print was enormous, the size of a man's hand.
"This is about where we saw him," said the shipbuilder.
The Boar Hunt
The forest seemed to fall silent, and then there was a low
sound, sort of a moaning, and a scuffling in the underbrush.
"Look sharp," said the swineherd.
In that moment they saw it, huge and black, the bristles along
its back standing up like spines. It rubbed its nose on the
ground and through the dirt in the air, pine the ground and
squealing and squealing.
Atanamir dropped from the saddle, clutching the boar spirit
both hands. The pig charged. Atanamir held his ground, but
the pig ran him over and knocked him down. Er-Mûrazôr was
on the ground and running in an instant. He grabbed the boar
by the back leg and pulled. He managed to pull the brute off
his brother, at least until the creature kicked free and bolted
into the forest.
Atanamir sat up, unharmed. "That was different than expected.
I thought I'd get gored, but all I have is hoof-shaped bruises."
He showed a tear in his leggings that revealed a long scratch on
the inside of his thigh.
They rode on. After a while, Atanamir said, "Maybe this attack
from the front approach doesn't work. When he was charging
me, all I saw was his head. The books say to stand it in the
chest, but all I saw was it's well-protected skull. The tip of my
spear glanced right off it."
The dogs tracked the boar by scent, barking the whole time.
"I have a new plan. We're going to let the dogs encircle the
boar, and while they're hanging off it, I'm going to spear the
boar from the side. If the dogs hold it still, I can get a shot
straight through the heart," said Atanamir.
There was a sound like a bird call. Everyone froze.
72
Wraith
"That's him," whispered the swineherd.
He was right, it wasn't a bird call, it was a high-pitched squeal.
With a sound like a storm at sea, the boar plunged from the
underbrush onto the trail. The dogs encircled it, barking, but it
turned on them and they turned tail and ran off, yelping with
fear. The men raised their spears, but didn't dismount.
The boar approached the horsemen, and the young emissary
threw his spear. It struck, but the boar trotted off, the tip
embedded in its hide, dragging on the ground into it fell off,
quite a distance from them.
"Clever you, figuring out a new way to disarm yourself," said
another of Atanamir's people.
There was a long period of silence, and then a sudden noise
and commotion, barking and squealing and grunting all at
once. Er-Mûrazôr raised his spear to throw it, his foot slid from
the stirrup, and he found himself on the ground with the wind
knocked out.
Magic was dancing around, the flashing hooves inches from his
hand. He hoped it was true that a horse wouldn’t step on a
fallen body, that they didn’t like to trod on anything soft.
He lost his grip on the spear when he fell. Feeling around on
the ground, his fingers closed around the shaft, but when he
tried to lift it, he realized he was lying on top of it. There was a
low grunting, and something heavy stepped on his stomach,
and tusks lashed back and forth in front of his face.
The dogs leapt all around them, barking and snarling, leaping
up and hanging onto whatever they'd caught in their jaws. The
dogs stepped on his arms and stomach, their claws leaving long
scratches in his skin. Someone grabbed the monster's snout and
pulled it up, and then with a squeal, it fell over sideways, and
lay quite still.
The Boar Hunt
Atanamir yanked the boar spear from the pig's side, then
planted the butt on the ground and leaned on it, striking a
casual pose. Blood covered the spear tip and the upper half of
the shaft. Atanamir's hand and sleeve for covered in blood. He
extended his other hand, and Er-Mûrazôr took it.
"Well, you look to be in one piece, although you could use a
wash," said Atanamir.
Er-Mûrazôr looked down. He was covered in mud, but except
for the dog scratches, he was uninjured. Atanamir, on the other
hand, had a deep slash across his palm. Most of the blood on
his clothes was his own.
"You know, grabbing the boar by the snout was really stupid.
He has these things called tusks," said Er-Mûrazôr.
“And when does someone who could ride before he could walk
overbalance and fall off his horse?” asked Atanamir.
They sat for a moment in companionable silence.
"Tindomul, perhaps we shouldn't mention this to Father, just
like we didn’t mention the cliff diving," said Atanamir.
"No. It would worry him needlessly," said Er-Mûrazôr,
Atanamir was holding his hand under his arm. Blood soaked
into the the white linen of his shirt. "I used that hand to hold
the spear when I drove it into the boar's heart. I didn't feel it
until things settled down.”
“Give me your hand, I’ll patch you up.” Er-Mûrazôr tore a strip
of linen from his own shirt and bandage Atanamir's hand. He
tore another strip for a sling.
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Wraith
"Now kneel." Atanamir knelt at his feet, beside the carcass of
the boar. Er-Mûrazôr dipped a thumb into the wound over the
boar's heart and damned blood on to Atanamir's forehead.
Atanamir grinned.
May this be a fortunate day for all of us, may we all get the thing we
want most.
“This had been a wonderful day,” said Er-Mûrazôr.
“It will make good memories of this place, to take home to
Númenor.” Atanamir smiled back at him.
Er-Mûrazôr stiffened, and his nails dug into his palms. “You
misunderstood me. I’m not leaving.”
Chapter 18
The Land Sale
T
hey returned from the hunt, sweaty and dusty
and covered in triumph. The servants carried the carcass of the
boar off to the kitchens. The beast was huge, everyone in the
city would dine on roast pork tonight.
His brother said, “I’m going to wash and then lie down for an
hour. I’ll see you later this afternoon.”
It would probably be longer than that. Most people from
Númenor slept though the heat of the day, and it was hotter
here during the midday hours than it was on the island. He
didn’t expect to see them until the cook finished roasting the
boar and the bells range for supper.
As Captain of the Haven and governor of a new colony, ErMûrazôr didn’t have the luxury of sleeping while there was still
daylight.
The most pressing chore on his list was to complete the land
sale to the farmer, not because it was important, but because
he’d put the man off twice before today and he felt guilty.
He intended to tell his clerk, “I’m going down to the farms, I’ll
be back in an hour or two,” but his clerk wasn’t around. He
looked for writing materials, to leave a note, but the table had
been swept clean when they tidied up for visitors.
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Wraith
He looked for the Haven’s Purser.The Haven controlled vast
tracks of farmland, and much of it hadn’t yet been allocated to
any particular farmer. As Captain of the Haven, he was
authorized to sell plots of farmland to settlers.
A wealthy merchant turned farmer wanted to buy one of the
largest tracts, and the sooner Er-Mûrazôr signed over the deed,
the sooner he could begin planting. When he had time to think
about it, he felt guilty about the delay.
The transaction was a large one. The Purser handled money for
the colony, but when Er-Mûrazôr went to look for him, he
wasn’t in the dark little cubby that served as his office, nor was
his assistant. Er-Mûrazôr shrugged, then picked up the official
seal the necessary forms from his desk, and headed for the
stables without him.
At the stables, Magic looked exhausted. He’d been rubbed
down and watered, but Mûrazôr had ridden him hard during
the boar hunt, and it showed. None of the other horses looked
any better. Er-Mûrazôr was saddle-sore himself. The farmland
was only a few miles away, there was nothing wrong with
walking.
The farmer’s compound was surrounded by a circular brush
wall, almost a stockade, to keep out wild animals and possibly
desert raiders. Er-Mûrazôr suppressed the fiercest of them
when he claimed the Haven, but they were still out there.
He looked around, admiring how much had been built in just a
few months.
“The last time I was here, this was just a single mudbrick house,
defended only by dogs. Now it’s four or five mudbrick houses
surrounded by a stockade.”
The farmer smiled, clearly proud of his work.
The Land Sale
“What did you do, bring your whole clan over from
Númenor?” asked Er-Mûrazôr.
“I came over here with a couple of my sons. After we got
settled, they sent for their wives and children. Then two more
of my sons joined us, and we’re expecting a nephew to come
over pretty soon.”
“You were a wealthy merchant back in Armenelos. Why did
you move to a colonial outpost?”
“Oh you know how it is. Every year things got more expensive,
and the Capital was more crowded.” His face darkened.
“Actually, between the slave uprising and the food riots a few
months later, it was a risky venture to run a shop selling luxury
goods. The second time we were smashed and limited, I started
to dream of the simpler life.”
Er-Mûrazôr nodded. Many people in the capital had
romanticized ideas of farming. The merchant turned farmer led
the way into the largest of the huts. The inside was decorated in
dark red rugs and copper vessels in a low table inlaid with
exotic woods.
“It looks like you’ve been trading with the desert people. “
“Well, I may be a farmer of barley and rye nowadays, but I’m
still a merchant. I noticed that the sea shells which produce
purple dye that we harvest in Númenor can be traded for
spices grown only in the desert. And this being such an
important trading port, the haven is, well let’s just say there’s a
lot of potential there.”
There were great heaps of copper in the back of the house, far
more than an ordinary family would need. And all around the
compound, the land the farmer already owned was heavily
planted in barley and rye.
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Wraith
Er-Mûrazôr inclined his head. “Now, if I had a suspicious
nature, I’d say you’re going to ferment and is still your grain,
rather than export it to Númenor where it’s so desperately
needed.”
The old merchant blanched. “Some have observed that it’s
easier to transport grain when it’s been turned into alcohol.”
Er-Mûrazôr didn’t care, he was just teasing the man. “Now,
about the land sale.”
A week earlier, Er-Mûrazôr told the merchant he could have
the land for six gold coins. He unrolled a map showing the tract
of land, and the merchant put twelve gold coins on the map.
“No, that’s too much.” Er-Mûrazôr pushed the extras back.
The merchant held up his hands in protest. “I walked around
the land, and it’s very rich and fertile. In good conscience, I
could not purchase it from the Haven for any less.”
Er-Mûrazôr was dense about court intrigue, but even he could
recognize a bribe, even one offered as skillfully as this. The
Haven would have more gold in its coffers than planned. Since
he didn’t care one way or the other, the Purser would have to
deal with it.
“Very good.” He signed the deed and gave it to the farmer.
Chapter 19
The Gathering Storm
E
r-Mûrazôr left the compound of the wealthy
merchant turned farmer, the purse of coins heavy at his belt. He
headed up the path back to the walled city.
He walked along the dirt road between cultivated fields, the
plants heavy with barley and wheat. Within a week, it will be
time to bring in the harvest. Already, carts stood ready for the
corners of the fields next to farm lanes.
The sun was just past its zenith, and it beat down on his black
hair. Next time, he would remember to wear a straw hat, like
the farmers bent over their crops with a hoe, chopping weeds.
He hiked up the path toward the walled city. Perched on top of
the hill, the fortifications loomed heavy and intimidating. He
felt a surge of pride. The walls might be crude, they might not
be very tall, and they might not enclose enough space, but
damn they looked impressive from here.
The Desert Gate stood open. Just inside it, half a dozen men
milled around, blocking the entrance. Their tabards were
identical to those of his own men. They bore the badge of
Númenor, but the colors were brighter, and the fabric showed
no signs of wear. They must be Atanamir’s people. He
wouldn’t have forbidden them to wander the city drink at the
alehouse, but Atanamir should asked him first.
One of the soldiers saw him and looked startled.
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“That’s him. Tall, with blue-black hair,” he said, pointing.
The man stepped directly in front of Er-Mûrazôr and blocked
his path. He grabbed Er-Mûrazôr by the arm, and fingers like
iron dug into his flesh.
Another soldier laid a hand on the first man’s arm.
“No need for that. It’s not like he’s leaving.”
The grip relaxed, and Er-Mûrazôr shook himself free. He fixed
the soldiers in an icy stare, and they stepped aside to let him
pass.
He entered the Market Square. On the far side, the fire had died
down in the forge and the potter’s wheel was still. Only the
leather worker was sitting at his bench, bent over his work, his
hand lifting with each stitch.
The Steward’s clerk entered the courtyard. Er-Mûrazôr nodded
to the boy, who looked away and hurried past him. That was
strange, and not like him.
The sound of footsteps made him look back. Several soldiers
had entered the square, and seemed to be trailing him at a
distance. It wasn’t clear if they were following him or just
moving in the same direction, but within a few minutes, they
peeled off and joined two other soldiers hanging around in
front of the Armory.
He ducked into the alley that passed between houses pressed
close together, then opened onto the Center Square.
The exit was blocked by a line of soldiers extended from the
door of the alehouse. The smell of roasting meat reached him,
and a curl of smoke rose from the alehouse kitchen, a lean-to at
the back of the building.
The Land Sale
Visitors often took their meals at the alehouse. It had a kitchen
and could feed a large number of people. An alehouse dinner
cost a few coppers, dining in the mess hall was free. It would be
a good deed to tell Atanamir the soldiers were welcome to eat
in the mess hall. He could move some funds off the purchase of
some timber to cover the expense. He bit his lip. He had bigger
problems than that.
He pushed through Atanamir’s men to reach the Center
Square. His sudden appearance seemed to fluster them. He
ignored the eyes fastened on him.
There were four more soldiers standing around in front of the
Guildhall, not quite flanking it like sentries, but not quite
loitering, either. The tall arched doors were closed.
He passed them and went straight to the purser’s house next
his own, which was also the purser’s office. He would ask the
purser to count have the money for the land sale and entered
into the ledger book.
When he arrived at his purser’s house, the door was shut, and
no one answered to his knock. It an hour past midday, when it
would be reasonable to expect people to be sleeping. He looked
for his steward next, but again, the small cottage was closed
and dark.
Er-Mûrazôr returned to his own house, which was empty. Even
Oswin, his clerk, was gone. It was an hour past midday, and
Oswin was usually back by now. He scowled with irritation.
Since everyone else was missing, he would have to enter the
details of the land sale himself.
He looked for his own copy of the ledger book, normally buried
somewhere in the sea of papers on the table he used for writing.
He gasped. The rough-hewn boards had been swept clean.
Nothing remained but the bare wood.
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Then he remembered Oswin had packed his papers away
when they straightened up the room for visitors that morning.
He put a hand to his chest, and waited for his pulse to drop to
something like its normal rate.
The strongbox normally sat on a larger chest against the back
wall. He looked, expecting to see the sturdy coffer bound in
heavy bands of iron. It wasn’t there. Oswin had said something
about tucking it out of sight.
He looked at a square hole in the ceiling. A ladder reached
through it into the darkness of the storage loft. The box could
also be under the bed. The silk hangings fell almost to the floor,
blocking whatever was behind them from sight. He hadn’t been
paying close attention that morning, he couldn’t remember
where they decided to put the box.
Then his eye rested on the fireplace grate, and his blood ran
cold. The crumpled ball of paper wasn’t there.
A day or two ago, still fuming after he learned that his father
had placed him under daily supervision, he sat down and
wrote something for no one’s eyes but his own, about how
badly he’d been treated and how angry he was. But as soon as
he read his own words, he realized he’d gone too far. He didn’t
really wish his father were dead, but in the right hands, it could
have gotten him executed for treason.
He crumpled up the paper, the wet ink smearing on his hands,
and lobbed it into the fireplace. The fire wasn’t lit at this time of
year. He began to say the spell to make it burn. but his Steward
entered the room at that moment and interrupted him.
Somehow he hadn’t thought about it since then. Maybe he had
burned it. Maybe Oswin and cleaned it up when he tidied the
room. He wished he knew.
The Land Sale
He couldn’t remember exactly what was in the paper. He
wasn’t sure whether they were papers in the wooden chest that
were critical of his father or brother. He didn’t think so, but he
wasn’t sure.
Oswin entered the room, and seemed startled to see ErMûrazôr there.
“Where’s the strongbox?” Er-Mûrazôr asked him.
“I was looking for you earlier. Where were you?” Without
waiting for an answer, he stepped outside.
The fireplace grate had been swept clean. No crumpled ball of
paper. It was missing too. What had he said on it? But he
wasn’t plotting anything, not had he skimmed money from
official funds, if for no reason other than his ascetic nature - he
spent very little on himself. No, he hadn’t done anything wrong
the whole world didn’t already know about.
Tense, Er-Mûrazôr stood and waited. A few minutes later, two
strong men entered without knocking. One was a Númenorian
official who looked slightly familiar. The other, a stranger, was
taller and broader in the shoulders then the Er-Mûrazôr. He
said nothing, but stood back and watched him closely.
“You missed the Council meeting,” said the official.
“What Council meeting?” asked Er-Mûrazôr.
“Tar-Atanamir summoned everyone in the Haven who holds
rank to meet with him in the Guild Hall.”
“What did they talk about?”
The two men exchanged a look. “You’ll have to ask him
yourself. We’re here to bring you to him. He’s in the Guildhall.”
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The blood roared in his ears.
He pulled on a long formal tunic, gray-green silk with gold
embroidery, and strapped on his two-handed sword, a badge of
rank. On his way out, he snagged a cloak from the peg by the
door and draped it over his shoulders.
“You do realize you never took off your hunting clothes?” said
the official.
“I’m in a hurry.”
The house had one room and no privacy. Er-Mûrazôr didn’t
want the clerk to know this hardened soldier was as modest as
any girl.
When he was dressed, he stepped out into the sunlight with
one of the two men on either side. They walked across the
courtyard. He wasn’t exactly a prisoner, and he wasn’t exactly
free either.
He stepped into the sunlight and walked across the courtyard,
one of them walking on either side of him, uncomfortably close.
He wasn’t exactly prisoner, but he wasn’t exactly liberty, either.
Chapter 20
The Second Offer
E
r-Mûrazôr strode across the square between the
two men. It was only a hundred paces from his store to the
Guildhall of the Council of Captains, but each one seemed like
an effort. The whole while, none of them spoke.
They reached the Guildhall. The wildflower garland above the
door was still there, but the greenery looked tired, and the
flowers seem to have curled in on themselves.
He grasped one of the wrought iron handles and pulled open
the door. Inside, late afternoon sun cast long rectangles of
yellow light onto the flagstones, and the smell of new lumber
overpowered the scent of beeswax candles.
At the far end of the Hall, several smaller tables had to push
together to form a single long table, the High Table from the
feast the night before. The other tables from the feast had been
pushed against the walls, leaving a large open space in the
middle of the room. A low three-legged stool had been placed
in front of the long table.
A dozen or more chairs, most of them empty and pushed back
at an angle, crowded around the High Table. His brother
Atanamir sat at its center in Er-Mûrazôr's own chair, as he had
at the banquet the night before.
Two other men flanked his brother. One was Corwin, the goodnatured emissary who'd been aboard every dispatch ship since
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the colony was established it. He was the one who'd brought
the fatal message, "Gift the Haven to your brother."
The other was the hawk-faced man with a narrow beard and
iron-colored hair that seem to have a mind of its own, the one
who'd asked unpleasant questions on the tour. Er-Mûrazôr
knew little about him, except that he was a Palace-intrigue
friend of Atanamir's, and one of their father's advisers. Father
used him to do things he'd rather not do himself, like deliver a
reprimand or tell someone he'd been demoted.
Atanamir looked up from a sheath of papers. "Tindomul, please
have a seat," he said, indicating the stool in the open space in
front of the table.
Er-Mûrazôr sat down. The stool was too low for a man of his
size, and the tip of the scabbard scraped against the paving
stones. Standing, he was taller than the other men, but seated,
he had to look up to meet their eyes. He was acutely aware of
the implied loss of status.
"I expect you're wondering what this is about," said his brother.
Er-Mûrazôr's hands were shaking. He held them in his lap and
willed himself to calm down.
"Will you to gift the Haven to me?" asked his brother.
"We've been over this before. "The answer is no, the Haven
belongs to me." He tried to keep his annoyance in check. He
couldn't believe they were having this conversation.
Atanamir exchanged a look with the young emissary, and held
out his hand. The emissary opened a wooden coffer and
produced an official-looking document, sealed with red wax,
which he placed in Atanamir's hand. Atanamir slid it across the
table.
"It's from Father. He's recalled you to Númenor and ordered
me to take your place," said Atanamir.
The Second Offer
A bead of sweat ran between Er-Mûrazôr's shoulder blades,
and the fabric beneath his arms had soaked through. He
regretted his decision to pull on a clean shirt over the one he
was wearing, the room was too warm for two shirts.
He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The first page
was covered in his father's rounded handwriting, familiar and
reassuring.
You will have no further role in governing the Haven of Umbar.
His breath hissed between his teeth. It was over. The decision
had been made before they'd even sailed from Armenelos.
"I don't understand why Father wants me removed. I captured
the Haven. I built the walled city. I did everything he asked."
He leafed through the pages, but in his rattled state, he wasn't
able to pull meaning from the dense legal jargon. He went back
to the first page and started over, reading more slowly. Even
so, he only caught bits and pieces of it. How he'd hanged a man
outside the powers given to him by law. How he'd tried to
strangle his father's personal secretary and throw him over a
cliff.
Nonsense. If I really had been trying, he'd be dead by now.
The text was full of strike-outs and repeated phrases, and ink
blots where the pen had leaked. They hadn't bothered to write
out a fair copy. It was disrespectful. He minded the insult as
much as the description of his faults.
He finished reading the document. He set it down, and realized
he hadn't seen the provision about staying on as his brother's
assistant.
He finished reading the document. After he set it down, he
realized he hadn't seen the provision about staying on to teach
Atanamir how to run the Haven.
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"Isn't there supposed to be a clause in here about showing you
the ropes? Last time this came up, Father asked me to work
with you for a couple of months."
"That's no longer on the table. You're to leave at once," said
Atanamir.
"I don't understand. Why Father would want to remove me? I
captured the Haven. I built the walled city. I did everything he
asked. I'll keep doing whatever he asks."
A scribe scribbled furiously, but only when Er-Mûrazôr was
speaking.
The young emissary said, "It's all in the letter. You captured the
Haven using deceit, and you spent more than the funds you
were allocated to build the city."
"I don't understand. Why are those important now?"
Atanamir shifted in his chair. "Father thinks you've gotten to
powerful too quickly. You don't obey him as you used to, and
he's no longer sure of your loyalty."
The room lurched. He clutched the sides of his head.
"Please, come with me to the barge. Right now. Once we're
there, we'll send for your things."
Er-Mûrazôr lifted his chin and defiance. Once he set foot on the
barge, he wouldn't be allowed to leave.
"Tindomul, this is serious. Will you step down of your own free
will?" Atanamir's eyes were pleading.
"I will not." Er-Mûrazôr crushed the pages in his fist, and bits of
wax clattered to the paving stones.
The hawk-faced man leaned forward. "In that case, the gloves
come off." His voice was like gravel. Until then, he'd been so
quiet, Er-Mûrazôr had forgotten he was there.
The Second Offer
Hawk-face pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his tunic.
"I'd rather not use this, but I will if you make me." He leaned
back, his eyes hooded as if he were enjoying this.
"Is that an arrest warrant?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.
"Not quite. It's a writ of transportation. You won't be clapped in
irons. You'll be given time to pack, and you'll have an
opportunity to say farewell to your people and leave
instructions for your steward, but you are getting on that ship."
"I won't."
"You can't escape. Twenty-five warships rest at anchor in the
harbor, each under your brother's command. I believe we have
three men for every one in your garrison."
Er-Mûrazôr rose to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"I'll see you in hell." His footsteps rang against the flagstones
and echoed from the vaulted ceiling. The double doors were
twenty paces away.
"Tindomul!" His brother's chair scraped against the flagstones.
The doors lay just ahead.
"Tindomul, wait!"
"Let him go," the emissary urged. "Give him time to calm
down."
The rough wood left splinters in his palms as he shoved them
apart, and he walked into the blinding sunlight, blinking hard.
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Chapter 21
The Warrant
E
r-Mûrazôr’s temper was a force of nature, a
terrible thing. He shouldn’t be around people right now.
He felt the need to stride along one street and then
another until he had lost himself, but a city of less than
a hundred houses doesn’t offer much more than a main
square and a couple of unpaved streets. Even if he
circumnavigated the whole city outside the wall, he
would only have burned off ten minutes, not enough
time to calm down.
Instead, he found one of the sets of stairs leading to the
top of the city wall. No wildflowers or lichen grew on
them, and they still smelled of stone dust. At home, the
stones would it been as smooth and as perfectly fitted
together as a carpenter’s dovetailed joints, but here,
every stone block showed the mark of the chisel,
colonial and provincial-looking.
He walked on the wide top of the wall, above roofs and
gardens and pens for the animals, until the vast
expanse of the sea opened up before him. The wind
stirred, carrying the smell of salt, ancient and calming.
It chilled him where his clothes stuck to his skin, and
cooled his temper as well.
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The island of Númenor lay three days’ sail to the west,
faster if the wind was over the stern as it was on the
outbound trip. Miles of sand and shrub separated
Umbar from the coast, but a finger of water extended
inland, the Haven of Umbar. At its tip lay the only
deep-water harbor anywhere along the coast. The
harbor was a forest of masts. The tide was out, exposing
vast expanses of mud. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their
cries sounded lonelier than usual and more bitter.
The Fleet, the might of Númenor, filled the inlet from
one cliff to the opposite. The walled city held the high
ground, but Hawk Face was right, they outnumbered
him three to one.
The flagship of Umbar’s fleet, the ship he usually
captained, rocked the surge in the center of the harbor.
He’d ordered it moved to let the Royal Barge have a
place of honor the pier.
He could reach the flagship with any small boat. He
would gather a small party of sailors, board it, and on
the turn of tide, they’d raise anchor and let the tide
carry them out to sea. The currents were strong, they’d
depart the inlet by midnight. But the warships of the
fleet stood between him and the open ocean.
Intentionally or not, they were arranged in such a way
that it would be impossible to slip past them.
At the pier, the royal barge sat beside tall pilings
encrusted with barnacles, its gangway angled sharply
down. He might walk that ramp, but not just yet. No
ships were going anywhere into the tide turned, six or
seven hours from now. Time, time was everything.
He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t escape, but he might be
able to negotiate.
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The sun hung above the horizon. It would be dark soon.
No lights burned in the Royal Barge, its occupants must
still be in the Guild Hall where he’d seen the last.
He would negotiate a delay. Anything could happen in
a day, a week. He was an able general, he might get a
command. He might get a post building another city
over another harbor. Anything could happen.
He retraced his steps along the top of the wall to the
street. He would find his brother and his brother’s
retainers, as soon as he washed his face and changed
clothes.
He reached the center of the city. His house stood
directly across the square. Two soldiers flanked his
door, several more seemed to be taking instructions
from Hawk Face, who had something white in his hand
and was waving it for emphasis. More soldiers
appeared from around the back.
Er-Mûrazôr drew back into the alley and flattened
himself against the wall. None of them had been
looking in his direction. No one shouted, and no one
ran after him.
His fingers brushed against the purse of gold coins
hanging from his belt. He hadn’t thought of it since
he’d sold the land at midday.
Leave. Just walk away.
He had money. He was armed, the great two-handed
sword hung at his hip. He had a horse, and in the
saddlebag, food and a map.
None of the men seem to be looking in his direction. ErMûrazôr took a step further back into the alley, and
another step, taking care that his feet didn’t crunch in
The Warrant
the gravel. He would walk along the main street, and
through the eastern gate, and out. He would stop just
long enough to collect Magic, and saddle him.
He would have to hurry. When the upper rim of the
sun disappeared into the sea, the gates would be sealed.
Already the city lay in the shadows of its own walls. He
moved as quickly as he could without breaking into a
run.
The Gate stood wide open. Beyond, the desert
stretched, endless and unexplored.
Soldiers flanked the stone archway. Er-Mûrazôr’s hand
dropped to the hilt of his sword. Their tabards were
faded. He recognized them as two of his own men,
Hagrith and Luthain, who were often stationed at the
Desert Gate. With any luck, they didn’t know their
commander had just been removed as Captain of the
Haven.
The stables stood beside the Gate. They were little more
than a thatched roof on poles leaning against the city
wall, with a stone trough in front. Straw lay on the
ground in front of the door, and the smell of horses was
overpowering.
“We’re getting ready to close the gates, Captain” said
Luthain.
“Can you give me a few minutes? I’m running late.”
“You know the law as well as I do, sir.”
Er-Mûrazôr checked the street for pursuers, then
slipped inside. The stable was deserted, the grooms
must be away at their dinner. Four or five horses
looked up at him. Magic was in the second stall from
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the door, and his saddle, blanket, and tack were draped
over the rail of the stall.
Magic accepted the bridle easily for once, but in his
haste, Er-Mûrazôr’s fingers fumbled with the buckles.
He lifted the saddle onto the horse’s back and tossed
the girth across it, then retrieved the saddlebag and
carried it over his arm.
He led Magic outside by the reins. The water trough
was right by the door. Bits of straw floated on the
surface. Magic dunked his nose in the cloudy water and
drank. The water skin was half-full. No, there wasn’t
time. And he was outdoors, the longer he stood out
here, the more he risked being seen.
In the distance, the watchtower bell pealed the change
of watch, and the last of the sun. Each of the soldiers
grabbed one of the massive doors and pulled on it until
it began to move.
Er-Mûrazôr yanked on Magic’s reins, but the stallion
hadn’t finished drinking. He tossed his head and
yanked right back. He had to half-drag the stubborn
animal under the stone archway and through the
narrowing gap.
Chapter 22
Through The Desert
S
and and thorn bushes and loose rocks stretched
away in all directions until they disappeared in the fading light.
The Haven of Umbar was a new city, no roads yet led away
from her gates.
Behind him, the city gates slammed shut. Prince Er-Mûrazôr
spun around.
This can't be happening.
A thud shook the massive timbers, and a scraping sound
revealed the heavy bar had just been dropped into its bracket.
By custom, the gates would remain sealed till morning, and no
man's order, not even his own, could open them.
The sun had disappeared beneath the sea, but towering clouds
to the west glowed golden in the last light of day. Below them,
the city walls stood black against the sky.
It didn't have to end like this.
Tomorrow at first light, the gates would open, and he could go
back and apologize. He would ask them to change their minds
and this whole misunderstanding would blow over.
Not likely. "You are removed as Captain of the Haven" left little
room for interpretation.
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Magic tossed his head and yanked on the bridle. The saddle
perched on his back threatened to slide off. Er-Mûrazôr
steadied it with his hand.
This was no longer his home. He should leave.
No outlines of helms or spears interrupted the smooth line on
top of the wall. As far as he could tell, he was unobserved. With
clumsy hands, he stripped off the silver-green robe, then
shoved it in the saddlebag on top of the food he'd packed for
the hunting trip that morning, dried fruit and waybread. It
should last for two or three days, more if he was careful.
The shirt he'd worn hunting flapped against his legs. He belted
it around the waist, the purse of gold coins heavy at his side,
his dagger where he could reach it easily. Then he strapped his
sword belt around his hips and tightened Magic's girth.
A courtier had gifted him the dark-colored stallion the first
time he'd used magic to kindle a fire. The name "Magic"
embarrassed him, but he wouldn't have changed a horse's
name any more than he'd have changed the name of a ship.
It pained him to be reminded of his first, clumsy attempt at fire
starting, but there was no polite way to refuse the gift, and
Magic was one of those rare horses large enough for a man of
his height.
It was time to go. He gathered the reins and swung into the
saddle. To the east, streaks of cloud glowed orange and red
against the deepening twilight, darker but richer then the
golden sunset behind him. He kicked Magic to a trot.
Anger drove him to push the stallion harder than was wise,
and more than once, the horse stumbled over rocks or gullies
invisible in the fading light. Er-Mûrazôr's pulse hammered.
Nobody speaks to me like that.
Through The Desert
His own father had called his actions dishonorable and sent an
underling to spy on him. The minion reported that Er-Mûrazôr
didn't follow directions, and that he was willful and
insubordinate. This came as a surprise to anyone?
And then they'd taken the Haven away from him. The harbor,
and the walled city protecting it, which he'd built from nothing,
They robbed me. Oddly, the insults stung more keenly than the
loss of his land and titles.
He spurred the horse on, each stride putting distance between
himself and the walled city that had once been his. He had no
idea where he was going. Away. Away from scrutiny and false
accusations and the soldiers who'd encircled his house.
The desert floor rose and fell like waves of the ocean, getting
larger the further he traveled form the coast. He hardly noticed
his surrounding, his thoughts were fixed on the official letter
that, like the swing of an axe, had brought his tenure to an end.
He climbed a small hill, and then another. At the crest of the
ridge, he twitched the reins, and Magic halted. It wasn't quite
dark. He would take one last look, and then move on. But
behind him, there was only desert. The walled city, and the
ocean beyond, it were hidden behind the hill.
He would go back, just far enough to get that last look. He
heeled Magic's flanks and the big stallion took a step back the
way they'd come. In a moment, the ocean would come into
view, and beyond the next ridge, the city.
What have I done?
Everything he owned, and every person he cared about, was
back there. He heeled Magic's flanks, and the big stallion took a
step. He felt as if he were watching himself from a great
distance.
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It wouldn't be the first time he'd lost his temper and stormed
out. Every other time, he'd always come back after he'd had a
chance to calm down. The gates would open at first light, and
his brother would be glad to see him. If he could have an hour
alone with Atanamir, just the two of them with no clerks are
scribes or emissaries, they could sort this out together. He
could negotiate for more time. He could offer to stay on as his
brother's assistant. He could return to Númenor and plead his
case in person.
He jerked on the reins, forcing the animal to a halt.
It didn't matter. All paths led to the same end. Whatever he did,
he would lose the Haven. Everything had been decided long
ago, before he knew what was going on. The accusations
against him, that his construction plans were too ambitious,
that he'd spent too much on materials, that he'd taken too long
to finish the walls, were trivia. They weren't why he'd been
removed from his post, they were how.
He wheeled Magic around and kicked him forward, towards
the blue-purple sky in the east.
When it got too dark to ride any further, he tied Magic's halter
to a stunted shrub and lay down wrapped in his cloak and a
soft hollow of sand above a dry wash. Normally he wouldn't
camp in a wash because of the danger from flash flooding, but
there wouldn't be a hard rain for at least half a year.
The coastal fogs of the Haven were far behind, as were the
tightly-clustered houses that glowed with yellow lamplight.
From the Haven, the familiar constellations stood out in sharp
relief against a black sky. But in the desert, like at sea, even the
Sickle was hard to make out at first, the seven bright stars that
defined it lost among countless points of light.
A rock poked him in the shoulder, and he moved to avoid it.
The sand was full of stinging insects which found their way
into the neck of his clothing. He lay away and studied the sky.
The Sickle swung around the lodestar, and the other stars
Through The Desert
wheeled with it. He tried to think of anything he'd done as
Captain of the Haven that might have led to his removal: every
act of independence, every sarcastic remark, every time he'd
stood up for himself.
A falling star streaked across the sky and then winked out. An
omen, but he couldn't guess what it meant.
Before first light, he gave up trying to sleep. It was impossible
to travel when the sun was at its highest. He would cover as
much distance as he could before the brutal heat of the day
made the sand so hot it felt cold.
By midmorning, his water skin was flat. It felt moist inside, but
when he turned it upside down, it only gave up a few drops.
The wind picked up, and it carried the scent of water. Gusts of
fine sand swirled around Magic's legs. On the horizon, a dune
so tall it blocked the sky bore down on the road like a rogue
wave. Here and there, short sections had already disappeared
under fingers of sand.
He rounded the base of the dune, and the smell of water grew
stronger. Between ridges of sand a hundred feet high lay a
deep lake, a fissure in the earth, its depths unplumbed. Even its
edges were dark blue-green.
It was approaching noon. His shadow was foreshortened,
almost nonexistent. A dozen or so houses were clustered
around the lake. Most people would be inside taking shelter
from the midday heat, but the animals should still be outdoors.
Yet no mules brayed, no chickens cackled or scratched in the
dirt.
Palms encircling the lake, and the air in the shade beneath them
was cool and damp. Er-Mûrazôr let Magic step into the
shallows, then dropped to his knees and drank the cold, pure
spring water from cupped hands.
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The wind stirred, carrying wisps of sand from the crest of the
dune. Tiny grains shimmered down its side as the wall of sand
moved imperceptibly closer. Already, the dune had begun to
swallow some of the trees. Here and there, the upper half of a
palm poked above the sand, and in places, only the fronds
showed, unexpectedly healthy and green.
Further back in the dune, the corners of roofs poked above the
sand, their red clay tiles mostly intact. This had been a village
once. A dozen families had lived here, and now they were
gone.
He left Magic tethered in the shade and went to investigate.
The base of the dune had wrapped itself around the nearest
mudbrick house. In back, the rear wall had been completely
buried, and the dune had started to cover the roof. He grabbed
a fistful and let it run between his fingers, softer than beach
sand, and finer grained.
The door of the house stood open, trapped in a drift that
reached halfway to the windows. The face of an animal had
been carved below the roof peak, and the faded remains of
paint showed where a design of leaves and flowers had been.
Inside, the sand was almost as deep. He crouched to avoid the
low beams and moved carefully through the shallow space. A
child's tin cup sat forgotten on a shelf, and the far corner of the
room smelled of piss.
He leaned against the wall, utterly weary, sliding down until he
was sitting in the sand. He'd left so suddenly, there hadn't been
time to write any letters, he hadn't had a chance to say
goodbye.
Long purple shadows stretched from the oasis to the halfburied house. He came to himself with a start. He stood up,
brushed off the sand, and went to check on Magic. He watches
as the horse drank his fill, then drank as much as he could and
filled the water skin.
Through The Desert
The sun was low, it was time to move on. He tightened the
girth and climbed into the saddle, and returned to the road. The
wind picked up, blowing stinging sand in his face. He blinked
hard.


The desert pavement, the rocks and pebbles left where the sand
blown away, stretched out before him, leaving a surface that
was easy for horses to walk on. To the east, the moon hung in
the daytime sky, not yet full. The shadows on its face were the
color of the sky behind it, a pale silver blue. It looked thinsliced to the point of being transparent.
The road shimmered as if submerged in puddles of water. The
image broke into parts and reformed, and when he got closer,
he could make out a number of men on horseback. He stepped
off the road and watched. There were six of them, including a
slender youth. They were leading at least a dozen mules,
baggage piled high on their backs. They looked more like
merchants than bandits or tribal warriors.
Normally Er-Mûrazôr preferred his own company to that of
others, but suddenly, the desire to be around others was as
intense as thirst.
"Hullo!" Er-Mûrazôr called out.
They spun around and drew daggers. The boy cried out in fear.
Er-Mûrazôr made an effort not to touch the hilt of his own
sword, although he turned to make sure they could see it.
"You're traveling richly burdened but lightly protected. If you
desire it, I will ride with you," Er-Mûrazôr said.
"We haven't had any trouble on the road so far," said the oldest
among them, apparently their leader.
Er-Mûrazôr hadn't, either. "Just because you haven't seen any
troublemakers doesn't mean they aren't there."
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Wraith
"How do we know we can trust him?" whispered his
companion.
"We don't, but he has an educated voice," said the older man.
After some haggling, they agreed to share their food and water.
In exchange, Er-Mûrazôr would escort them to the capital of
Haradwaith, two days distant.
All afternoon, Er-Mûrazôr rode in front of the caravan, his
hand on the hilt of his sword, scanning the road for trouble. As
far as he could tell, the only real danger was of overheating and
tipping out of the saddle, unconscious.
"Well, no wonder you're suffering, with that blue-black hair of
yours, and mounted on a dark bay, no less. Here, put this on."
Rafiq, their leader, tossed him a pale cloth, fringed and knotted
at the corners. Er-Mûrazôr draped the coarse cotton fabric over
his head and let it hang around him. The fringes got in his eyes,
but the shade made up for it.
The sun went down, but the memory of the heat of the day
stayed on in boulders and darker stretches of ground. Before
full darkness fell, silhouettes of palm fronds appeared in the
east against the indigo sky. The air stirred, and carried the scent
of water.
"That's the oasis on this trip, lads. Tomorrow, we'll have
lodgings in the Capital," said Rafiq.
A dense growth of palm trees clustered around a low circular
wall. A long wooden boom pivoted on a triangular frame, a
bucket on one end, a counterweighting stone on the other.
Er-Mûrazôr was beyond thirsty. His lips were swollen and
cracked from breathing through his mouth. He dropped to the
ground, his legs trembling.
Leading Magic by the reins, he walked to the edge of the well
and leaned over the stone rim. His reflection seemed very far
Through The Desert
away. Oily scum covered much of the water's surface, and thick
mats of algae clung to the stone walls. Now and again, a bubble
broke the oily surface.
The burly man called Dhaki dipped the boom in the bucket
splashed into the well. The smell rose like a cloud, a
combination of rotten eggs and mildew. Bilge water. ErMûrazôr never thought he'd actually want to drink it.
Dhaki drew up pail after pail of fetid water and spilled it into
the stone trough for the animals. Er-Mûrazôr accepted the loan
of a drinking horn and scooped stagnant water from the
trough. He raised it to his mouth and held his breath against
the smell. The water was as warm as his own body, and stale,
but he drank and couldn't stop.
Once the animals were watered and unharnessed, Er-Mûrazôr
helped the merchants gather firewood, the resinous branches
from the thorny shrubs that seemed to grow everywhere. He
arranged bits of kindling in a small tent and stuffed dry palm
fronds beneath them. Looking up to see that he was
unobserved, he chanted the words of the fire starting spell.
Wisps of smoke rose from the dried leaves, and one of the little
sticks caught. One of the merchants came back with more twigs
to add to the fire. Soon, the blaze was large enough to cook on,
and to sit around after dark.
They finished eating, and Er-Mûrazôr drew a little bit away,
looking back at the campfire. Until recently, he'd always
belonged somewhere, he'd always known what he was
supposed to be doing. But with his anchor rope cut, he couldn't
seem to get his bearings.
Occasionally the fire was eclipsed by the form of someone
walking in front of it. Just beyond the circle of light from the
campfire, a score of horses and mules were hobbled or tethered
to the palm trees with baggage lay piled up beside them.
Something popped in the fire, and an ember floated high in the
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air. The sound of voices reached him, and occasionally,
laughter.
They left the oasis before first light, riding toward the capital of
Haradwaith. Mostly they spoke of the price they would get for
their honey and the luxuries and entertainments city had to
offer.
Not all the men belonged to the merchant's party. The youth,
whose name was Travaran, was a scholar looking forward to
meeting, or at least seeing, the famed court astrologer who
served the Sultan.
"He's giving a lecture, and I'm going to the capital to hear it."
The young scholar could barely contain his excitement.
Er-Mûrazôr rode ahead of them, scanning the road for trouble,
but absorbing every word.
"He reads the stars for signs of war or crop failure. He can even
learn a man's character from the movement of planets through
the constellations," said the young scholar.
Er-Mûrazôr used the stars to find his way at sea. He was never
lost as long as he could see the night sky, but sometime it was
hidden behind clouds or rain. He'd pay gold for an
enchantment that let him sense direction when he was fogged
in.
Travaran was still talking. "Astrologers do more than read the
stars. They're learned in the ways of magic, even if they don't
often speak of it. Any astrologer can predict the weather,
interpret dreams, or find things that are lost."
As a general, what would he do with magic on the battlefield.
Foretell the outcome of a battle before it began? Heal wounds?
Draw lightning from the clouds and strike the enemy? ErMûrazôr felt a flash of resentment. He should be the one
studying sorcery.
Through The Desert
"Can your magician summon storms?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.
"I imagine so, that's pretty basic," said Travaran.
And could a magician use a spell to extend his own life? If ErMûrazôr could bring that knowledge back to Númenor, every
one of his people would profit from it. Sadness gripped him.
Númenor was no longer his home.
"How does one get to meet him?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.
"Anyone with the price of admission can hear him speak," said
Travaran.
Over the crest of the dune, the spires the desert capital rose as if
from out of the sand. Miniature gold domes perched on top of
long fingers of stone.
"Let's keep going lads, we can reach the city by nightfall. Let's
not get caught out here after dark," Rafiq urged.
The path was becoming an actual road, a fixed width and a
little lower than the rocky ground on either side, and mercifully
free of thorn bushes. In the distance, the air shivered like water,
black and wavering, but the air smelled dry and dusty.
The horses' hooves clicked against stones on the road. ErMûrazôr pushed back the nodded headscarf he'd taken to
wearing in imitation of the merchants and took a pull from his
water skin, which was close to empty. Magic's flanks were
crusted white with salt from dried sweat, but there was no
watering hole between the oasis they'd left before first light,
hours ago, and the desert capital before them.
Dusk came early. The sun blocked by the tall dunes behind
them, and finally they could see the walls of the city. Mud
brick, crenelated, each tooth a zigzag pattern, so unlike the
smooth surface of the walled city at home. The temperature
dropped, mercifully, and the breeze picked up a little. His
clothes were soaked with sweat, and the breeze felt
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Wraith
surprisingly cold. It wasn't yet dark, the gates of the city still
stood open.
"Hello Nabeeh, well met!" said the merchant to one of the
sentries. He produced a coin and pressed it into the sentry's
hand, which the man pocketed discretely.
"Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. But I guess that's what
you'd expect of a merchant who travels the far corners."
Er-Mûrazôr stayed with the caravan as they made their way to
the Inn where they always stayed, although he opted to sleep in
the stable to preserve his money. He did accept a meal with
them in the common room, and an invitation to breakfast as
well.
After breakfast, the merchants talked about who they hoped to
see at the Guildhall, and the thousand and one preparations for
Market Day. Er-Mûrazôr feigned listening, although his
thoughts were filled with the squares of sunlight on the floor,
the voice of the emissary, the fatal document shoved in front of
him which he'd crumpled and torn to shreds.
Travaran got up to go. "I hate to leave you early, but I need to
get in line to go hear Gulon, the Court Astrologer. He gives his
lectures in a huge audience hall, but last time I almost didn't get
in."
The young scholar got up from the table. Er-Mûrazôr got up,
too.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to come with you."
Chapter 23
The Lecturer
E
r-Mûrazôr followed Travaran through the
marketplace to an arched gateway in a tall white wall. Inside
the walls, the air smelled of roses and mint.
They passed through a central courtyard. Water cascaded over
the sides of a fountain, filling the plaza with the sound of water
on stone. The wind shifted, and cold spray brushed his face.
The young scholar stopped and made a sweeping gesture.
"These are the grounds of the Sultan's palace. It's not just one
building, it's a whole compound."
They stopped in front of one of the larger buildings. The roof
peak towered three or four stories above the cobblestones, and
the doors were as tall as two men.
Beside the entrance, a line had formed ten deep in front of a
trestle table. A clerk bent over a huge ledger book, scribbling
furiously. He spoke to the man at the head of the line, then
dropped it into an iron-bound box.
Travaran joined the line, and Er-Mûrazôr stood with him.
When they reached the front of the line, Travaran spoke to the
clerk. "Can I still get in? You haven't sold out, have you?" He
leaned forward anxiously.
"Today's lecture is sold out, but you can still get in if you buy a
handful of tokens for the next ten lectures. You can get them for
one gold coin."
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Travaran hesitated. "That's pretty steep. The fees have gone up
since last year."
"Master Gulon is a famous speaker. You're lucky you got in at
all," said the clerk.
Travaran handed over a gold coin, and the clerk added his
name to the list.
Er-Mûrazôr considered how badly he wanted this. He had a
handful of gold coins, but no way to obtain more once they ran
out. On the other hand, there were so many things he wanted
to learn: how to stay oriented in the fog, read minds, and add
years to his life. The court astrologer at Armenelos didn't know
how to do those things. If Master Gulon could, it would be
worth the expense. He hesitated, then handed over a gold coin
to secure his own admission.
A crush of people had filed into a hall at least a hundred paces
long. High overhead, the vaulted stonework reflected the
muffled roar.
Er-Mûrazôr found a place against the back wall. He made
himself comfortable and looked around. A wooden stage had
been raised at the front of the room, loose planks laid over a
makeshift structure. Behind it hung a painted canvas, dark
blue, showing a map of the stars. The constellations had been
sketched around them in white chalk, stylized drawings of
heroes, beasts, and monsters.
As a mariner, Er-Mûrazôr navigated by the stars. He knew the
constellations as well as he knew the corridors of the palace
where he grew up, but he couldn't use them tell the future.
The stones were cold against his back. From his vantage point
at the back of the room, he could observe the people who'd
paid to be here. Mostly they were young, students and
apprentices just starting their careers, but here and there were
men of middle years, and even a few with white hair.
The Street Conjurer
There was a hush, and a man of middle years or more took the
stage. Although it had probably been a long time since he'd
been able to see his own feet, he still stood upright and had a
full head of silver hair.
"I am Gulon, master practitioner of the craft of magic and Court
Astrologer for Haradwaith." The hall rang with applause. "I
read the future in the stars and warn the Sultan of all things
that could affect his kingdom, like crop failure or the advent of
war."
Er- Mûrazôr would give almost anything to be able to foretell
the outcome of a battle before it happened. He leaned forward,
straining to hear every word. Master Gulon spoke of the
celestial sphere and the great dome of the heavens. He named
the wanderers that moved across it, and described what it
meant when they rested in certain houses of the constellations.
"Astrology is High Magic, which takes years of study. The stars
yield up their secrets only to the most learned. And
unfortunately, the ancient texts are in languages no longer.
"But you don't need to learn High Magic to become a
practitioner. There's something called practical magic, or as it's
more commonly called, kitchen magic. It includes the spells
used to kindle a fire, open a lock, or conceal something you
want to hide. You can learn these spells in an afternoon and use
them later the very same day."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Er- Mûrazôr found himself
getting caught up in the excitement. He already knew a little
magic, he'd learned the fire-starting spell from the court
astrologer in Númenor. He was ready for more.
Master Gulon raised his arms. "These are spells anyone in this
room can do, if you're willing to memorize the words, and if
you say them exactly right." The old magician scanned the
crowd. "Now, who wants to be a magician?"
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Men cried out, "Huzzah, huzzah," their raised arms as
numerous and densely-packed as the spears of soldiers. ErMûrazôr's arm shot up with the others.
"And who already practices magic?" Er-Mûrazôr's hand shot up
again. He'd kindled fire, and he'd spoken with the dead. That
surely counted.
People in the crowd turned to stare at him. "It appears we
already have a practitioner among us," said Master Gulon. ErMûrazôr yanked his arm down. His face burned.
Gulon raised a hand for silence. "The material we'll cover is
easy to master, and I'm sure you'll agree, things you can use
every day. A year from now, you'll be able to predict the
weather, interpret dreams, and start a fire without flint and
steel. Now, this is absolutely key. Anyone in this room can do
magic, but you must use an authentic spell, and you must say
the words exactly right."
Like the fire-starting spell he'd learned in Númenor. It had to
be spoken just so, or it wouldn't work. Someone in the middle
of the crowd shouted, "Why do we have to memorize and
recite? Can't we learn the basic principles, then try things out
and see how they work?"
Master Gulon froze in mid-gesture. "Everything there is to
know about magic is already known, assuming you have the
wit to understand it."
The questioner hung his head, then elbowed his way through
the crowd. Sunlight blazed from the back of the room, then
dimmed when the door slammed.
Master Gulon watched him go. "Please, all of you who wish to
practice magic, follow the instructions exactly. Don't be like
Atelic, the court physician, who thought he could figure it out
by himself. He went exploring and ventured into darker places
than anyone ought to go."
The Street Conjurer
The court astrologer reverted to his former cheery self.
"Practical magic is for the ordinary, everyday things you might
want to do, but magic makes them easier.
For example, suppose you're lighting the kitchen fire in the
hearth one morning. You have to strike a spark with flint and
steel into a handful of tinder. There you are, kneeling on a cold
hearth and blowing on a wisp of smoke until you're fainting.
"Think of how much easier it would be to speak a few words
and watch the flames leap up from the twigs and catch the log.
You don't even have to kneel. When you're my age, that starts
to matter."
What if he could ride through a conquered village, setting
thatched roofs ablaze with a word and a gesture. Er-Mûrazôr
grinned. He'd love to be able to do that. He'd just need to do his
fire-starting spell with a faster set-up and aim it more precisely.
Master Gulon surveyed the crowd. "Who among you farms the
land? Suppose it hasn't rained in a week. You walk into your
wheat field, and the leaves hanging limp and yellow around
the edges. There are a few clouds in the sky, but the sun
remains unrelentingly bright and cheerful. What if you could
sing a chant to turn puffy white clouds dark, and make them
release a torrent of rain on your fields?"
Would the same spell also let him release a bolt of lightning
into the midst of the opposing ranks? It would terrify the
enemy, and his own captains would be awestruck. Whatever it
cost, he wanted this.
When Er- Mûrazôr returned from the midday break, servants
were assembling tables on the stage and setting up apparatus,
apparently in apparently in preparation for a demonstration of
the magical arts.
Students filled back into the hall. When it was full, Master
Gulon returned to the stage. "Who wants to see some magic?"
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Wraith
He looked over the upturned faces and smiled. The audience
applauded.
"Almost everyone starts with fire," Gulon said.
He stood before an unlit candle. He spoke an incantation and
the wick burst into flame. Er-Mûrazôr felt proud that he could
already do that.
"Let's try levitation." Master Gulon held up a small stone and
opened his hand. The stone hung in the air. All around him,
people gasped. "Now, who'd like to do some magic
themselves?" Cheers arose from the crowd. "We're going to cast
a spell for good luck, sometimes called a protection charm. It
prevents accidents or misfortune."
How do you know if it worked? Because the accident doesn't happen?
Er- Mûrazôr leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his
face carefully neutral.
Master Gulon spoke the words of the spell, and the students
recited them until they knew them by heart.
"Try it when you go home tonight. Then next lecture, when I
ask who among you has practiced magic, you can all raise your
hands."
Er-Mûrazôr sighed. It appeared that he'd enrolled himself in a
very expensive class for beginners.
Master Gulon bowed, and the hall rang with a final round of
applause.
The great doors in the back of the hall were thrown open and
sunlight streamed into the darkened space. Er-Mûrazôr joined
the stream of people inching towards the doors.
"Attention. Your attention, please." The clerk who'd collected
their admissions fees had taken the stage and was banging on
the podium with a pointer.
The Street Conjurer
"Master Gulon is offering private lessons for advanced students
on a first-come, first-served basis. Register at the table outside
where you signed in this morning." His message delivered, the
little clerk disappeared from the stage.
Er-Mûrazôr was determined to sign up. He elbowed his way
through the crowd but got stuck behind three or four people
deep in conversation.
"Wasn't he wonderful? That floating pebble made me shiver."
"I'll be a real practitioner by tonight, if I can work that
protection charm."
Er-Mûrazôr rolled his eyes.
The crowd flowed around him. He tried to move sideways, but
he was unwilling to shove his way free. He remained trapped
behind the discussion group, shifting from foot to foot with
impatience.
Finally the crowd thinned and he reached the registration table.
People crowded around it two-deep.
The clerk was saying, "It's a two-hour lesson covering more
advanced topics than Master Gulon teaches in the larger
lectures. And the lesson will be hands-on. By the time you
leave, you've be able to light a fire with words alone."
Er-Mûrazôr wormed through the crowd, trying to reach the
table before the private lessons sold out. Travaran reached the
front of the line before Er-Mûrazôr. "What does it cost?" asked
the young scholar.
"One gold coin for a two-hour session."
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Er-Mûrazôr gasped. It was an enormous fee for a few hours of
instruction. He stepped away from the table and put away his
purse.
Travaran tapped his foot, frowning. In the end, he surrendered
a gold coin, and his name was entered on the list. Er-Mûrazôr
narrowed his eyes and turned away. He set the idea of private
lessons aside and decided to focus on the large lectures.
Over the course of the next several weeks, Er-Mûrazôr attended
every lecture that wasn't sold out, to the point that some of the
material was starting to repeat. From his place at the back of the
crowded hall, he'd learned a great deal about star charts, rain
making, and invisibility, and he'd seen a good deal of magic
demonstrated.
However, after eight lectures, Er-Mûrazôr could no more find
north in the fog than he could read the mind of another. The
lectures didn't teach magic, they taught about magic. ErMûrazôr slapped his forehead. No one would become a great
sorcerer by taking these classes. Master Gulon wasn't training
practitioners, he was training dilettantes.
Master Gulon gave lectures every second or third day. Between
lectures, Er-Mûrazôr explored the city or went riding outside
the city walls. Magic needed the exercise, and Er-Mûrazôr
found that when he was doing normal things, he felt like
himself.
Late in the afternoon after a day of exploring the desert outside
the city, Er-Mûrazôr returned to the Boar's Head Inn. He found
Travaran and Ferian, one of the other advanced students in the
common room, sitting around a table and talking loudly. ErMûrazôr pulled up a chair and joined them.
Travaran, who was talking with his hands, knocked over a clay
jug holding a candle, fortunately unlit at this time of day.
"Private lessons are worth every farthing! Wasn't that great
how Master Gulon kindled fire with a chant this morning. And
then he taught us to do it, too. Watch this." He held up the
The Street Conjurer
candle stub and sang the words of a spell. After several tries, a
flame flickered above the wick.
"Let me try." Er-Mûrazôr took the candle from him and blew
out the flame. He spoke the words of the spell he learned from
the astrologer in Númenor. The wick burst into flame.
"Can you do this?" Travaran snuffed the candle and laid it on
the table. He took a moment to collect himself, then spoke
rhythmic syllables in a deep voice. The candle stub lay
motionless. He tried twice more, and finally got it to lift a few
inches above the table. It hung in the air for a moment before it
fell. "That wasn't perfect, but you get the idea."
Er-Mûrazôr leaned forward, transfixed. His lips moving
silently as he repeated the words of the spell, trying to commit
them to memory.
"Great levitation spell, oh gifted one. Now bow to the master."
Ferian went through the same preparations and sang the same
chant. The candle rose to eye level and hung there, rocking like
a ship at anchor. A barmaid walked by. Ferian's eyes locked on
her, and the candle dropped and hit the table with a thud.
"What, you don't find her attractive?" asked Travaran.
Er-Mûrazôr scowled at them and hoped they couldn't see him
blushing. He held out his hand. "Give me the candle. I want to
try."
He sang the words. He thought he had them exactly right, but
the candle stub remained on the table, unmoving. On what
must have been his tenth try, he went through the mental
preparations as before and willed candle stub to float. It
seemed to vibrate, and then it twitched slightly, like a dying
mouse.
"Nice, except you forgot to say the spell," said Travaran
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For the next half hour, Travaran and Ferian drilled him in the
gestures and intonations, but nothing helped. The candle stub
lay on the table, motionless.
"The possibility exists that Master Gulon knows how to teach,
and we don't," said Travaran.
Chapter 24
Private Lessons
E
r-Mûrazôr dunked his shirt in the washbasin and
lifted the dripping garment, then dunked it again. Even by the
light of a single candle, it was obvious the water was too grey to
do any good. He twisted the fabric until the trickle turned to
drips, then shook it out and draped it over a rafter that cut
through the slant-ceilinged room.
He owned exactly one shirt, which he wore every day. The
cuffs were beginning to fray, and threads hung from the edges
of the sleeves. And when his shirt was drying on the rafter, he
had to sleep in his skin. It was immodest, and his shoulders got
cold.
He tipped the basin of grey water out the tiny window, He
refilled it from the pitcher beneath the washstand and bent over
to wash his hair. He didn't have money, cleanliness was his
only luxury.
The next morning, he browsed through the stalls and tents in
the marketplace near the city gates. A number of the booths
displayed the light cotton clothing the local people wore, most
of it in vivid colors and heavily embroidered.
He sifted through the folded stacks and found something plain
white and similar in cut to what he'd wore at home. Silk would
have been better, it was what he was used to, but it wouldn't
last as well. As he was paying the merchant, he dug through
his purse for his last large copper coin, then realized he'd
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already spent it. He paid for the purchase with a handful of
coppers instead.
With nothing to do for the rest of the day, he ducked into a
coffee shop. The aroma was stronger than at home, and it came
in more varieties. His eyes adjusted, and he found a private
corner at the back. The serving maid brought him a miniature
cup, steaming hot, with as much rich tasting sludge as liquid.
He paid her with a copper farthing.
After she left, he spilled his remaining coins into his hand. His
room was paid through the end of the week, but he barely had
enough for food.
Several doors from the coffee shop was a merchant who bought
and sold second-had goods. A man behind the counter looked
up. His eyes were hard, like one accustomed to dealing with
people forced to sell the thing they thought they'd never part
with.
Er-Mûrazôr laid his dagger on the counter. It had been
expensive and was finely made, although he used it as an allpurpose utility knife.
"What would you give me for this?" He relaxed his body and
spoke slowly, trying to look like someone who wasn't
desperate.
The man turned it over in his hands. "Five coppers."
"Another day." Er-Mûrazôr replaced the dagger in his belt and
turned toward the door.
The man called after him, "Come back tomorrow. I'll give
you four coppers for it."

At the end of the week, Er-Mûrazôr returned home from a
particularly long lecture on the movement of the wanders
through the celestial sphere. When he reached the Boar's Head
Private Lessons
Inn, thinking only of supper and bed, he encountered a wall of
noise that seemed to explode from the common room.
He paused near the doorway, breathing in the smell of freshlybaked bread.
Through a veil of smoke, it appeared that every table in the
room was filled. Today was the day laborers and tradesmen
were paid It appeared that every one of them in the city was
here, celebrating with an evening out. In addition, a large
caravan must have arrived earlier in the day, because a group
of turbaned merchants with their servants and bodyguards had
claimed the largest table.
Something hit the floor a crash, followed by boos and catcalls.
A boy bent to collect the overturned plates and scrape the food
from the bright-colored tiles. Er-Mûrazôr was tired. He wasn't
in the mood for crowding and commotion. He considered
going straight to his room, but he was starving.
He dodged behind people who were standing and holding
their plates in their hands and found a vacant space at a fourman table, wide enough to accommodate his large frame. He
squeezed between two tradesmen just before someone else
claimed the spot.
Conversation with strangers was exhausting for him. He would
have preferred a quiet corner by himself, but failing that, he
looked off in the distance and retreated into his own thoughts.
The barmaid offered him wine but he waved her off. He was
saving his last coin for a piece of bread.
The others at the table mentioned they were already on their
second round but still waiting for the barmaid to bring their
suppers. She brought a bowl of rice and skewers of lamb to
next table.
The landlord loomed over him and placed a hand on his
shoulder. "Master Tindomul, seeing as it's the end of the week,
could I trouble you for the rent?"
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Wraith
Er-Mûrazôr stiffened. "Can you wait a day or two? And I'll
need to take meals on credit until then."
The man frowned. "One day for the rent. No credit."
The other men at the table stared openly. Embarrassed, he
shoved back his chair and pushed his way out of the room.
Going to bed supperless was hard on someone who slept as
lightly as he did. He wasn't looking forward to it. He climbed
the narrow stairs, considering his options. He had a few things
he could sell, like his dagger or Magic's saddle.
He could hire out his sword and defend the caravans traveling
from the capital to outlying towns, although it would take him
away from the capital for weeks at a time and he wouldn't be
able to attend class.
He could go to the Númenorian embassy for money. They'd
almost surely give it to him. But after what happened at the
Haven, he'd gone into hiding. If he took their money, they'd
know where he was.
Magic's saddle should fetch a good price. He'd replace it with
something utilitarian and worn, but not too uncomfortable. A
hired sword spends long hours in the saddle.
He reached his room and pushed open the door. He spoke the
fire-starting charm. Candlelight filled the room. A folded
square of paper sat on his bed, sealed with red wax. The
address read Tindomul, the Boar's Head Inn, Haradwaith. The
handwriting was his mother's.
He sucked in his breath. They'd found him. Here in
Haradwaith, on the far side of the desert, when he didn't want
to be found. However, a major function of any embassy, after
diplomacy, is espionage. They wouldn't have to work very
hard to connect Tindomul, who arrived three weeks ago, with
Prince Tindomul who'd gone missing last month.
Private Lessons
He broke it and unfolded the letter, and immediately
recognized his mother's handwriting.
You can't imagine what a scare you gave us, disappearing like that.
But we know you're safe now, so none of that matters. Don't write to
your father just yet. Give him a chance to calm down, and let me
handle him.
I'm not able to send you any money as your father forbids it.
However, it seems that the allowance you've always received is still
on the books. I've arranged for it to be diverted to the Embassy at
Haradwaith. I've asked Tar-Meneldur, Ambassador to Haradwaith
and also my second cousin, to handle the details.
I feel like you're here in the room with me, and I can almost hear your
voice, saying you're too proud to accept the money. But will you do it
for me? If you came by the Embassy every week, I'd know you were
safe and wouldn't worry so much.
Er-Mûrazôr pressed the letter to his heart, then folded it and
put it away in his saddlebags.
As a member of the royal family, he was entitled to a small
allowance for pocket money. He never gave it much thought.
Back in Númenor, it covered incidentals like wagering on dice
or tipping a servant, but here, it would be enough to live on. He
could even afford private lessons if he was careful.
Tomorrow morning, he would present himself at the
Númenorian Embassy. It would be awkward. They'd badger
him with questions, or press him to give an official statement
explaining himself. It would be unpleasant but it wouldn't kill
him, and he'd leave with enough money for private lessons.
He was still awake when dawn arrived and the sky began to
get light.
He waited until the Embassy was sure to be open, then dressed
in the silver-green robes which marked him as high among
those who belonged to the Númenorian nobility.
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Er-Mûrazôr dragged himself to the building in the Sultan's
compound where the embassies of the foreign nations were
housed.
The space occupied by the Númenorian embassy was large and
ornate, reflecting the status and importance of the island
nation. Er-Mûrazôr entered the lobby. Intricately patterned
carpets muffled his footsteps. The walls and ceiling were
paneled in white marble, and each of the windows was
screened by alabaster filigree, translucent white. The darkened
space offered no respite from the heat, even this early in the
day.
A junior official, apparently tasked with greeting visitors, got to
his feet.
"I am Prince Tindomul," and waited for it to sink in. Here
before you stands a member of the Royal House of Númenor.
"Please tell Ambassador Meneldur I wish to see him."
"I'm afraid the Ambassador is unavailable, but I could take a
message. You're welcome to wait." The clerk went back to
sorting papers.
Er-Mûrazôr tried again. In the voice he used to command the
troops, he said, "Ask again. I believe the Ambassador would
want to know I'm here, even if it takes him away from other
duties."
The youth scurried off, and Er-Mûrazôr sat down to wait. A
small bird landed on the windowsill beyond the alabaster
screen and flew away again. He watched a patch of sunlight
move from a stylized animal to a pattern of flowers and vines.
Finally, an interior door swung open. Er-Mûrazôr stood up,
expecting to see cousin Meneldur. In his place was an official
Er-Mûrazôr didn't know.
"I am Tar-Ciaran, Ambassador Meneldur's second-incommand," said a middle aged man in high caste robes.
Private Lessons
Er-Mûrazôr drew himself to his full height, his face a mask. "I
am Tindomul, son of Ciryatan the Shipbuilder."
The official's expression remained blandly pleasant. "Yes, I
know who you are. You arrived three weeks ago, and you've
been taking classes."
Er-Mûrazôr blinked with surprise. They must have been
following him since he arrived.
"I wish to see the Ambassador on a personal matter." ErMûrazôr expected to be shown to a private chamber and
offered tea and sweets before he revealed the reason for his
visit, but the emissary seemed to be waiting for him to speak,
right there in the open lobby. So be it.
"I'll be her in the capitol of Haradwaith for the next several
months, and I need to arrange a living allowance. The sum I
received at the Palace for incidentals will be sufficient."
"You're staying at the Boar's Head Inn? Have them to send us
the bill."
"Gold would be better. Two gold coins should cover my
immediate needs, if you'd be good enough to issue them before
I leave." It was a reasonable request, equivalent to a week's
allowance.
The Ambassador's assistant raised an eyebrow. "Gold? We
prefer your creditors send the bills to us. That way, the
Embassy knows it's paying for room and board. Not dicing or
women. Not buying the house a round."
Er-Mûrazôr's jaw dropped. He struggled to control his temper.
"I'm a famous mariner and explorer, not some reprobate who
embarrassed the family," like cousin Anducal in Pelegir, who
was being paid to stay there.
Tar-Ciaran kept his face carefully neutral. "No, of course
not,"he said, after far too long a delay.
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Er-Mûrazôr curled his hand into a fist, but thought better of it.
Punching an emissary was, maybe not wrong, but probably a
bad idea. He uncurled his fingers, breathing hard.
"I'd planned to take a private lesson tomorrow. There isn't time
for a request to be approved."
The man smiled and patted Er-Mûrazôr's arm. "I don't care
what people say about Master Gulon, that old blowhard. I
think it's great you've found something to keep yourself busy.
Just think, you'll be able to do tricks at the Yule banquet. What
fun!"
Er-Mûrazôr thought his head would explode. He plunged
out the outer door, shoving it so hard that it struck the wall
with a splintering crack. Fragments of alabaster rained to the
pavement.


That afternoon, when Er-Mûrazôr inquired at the registrations
table about the possibility being extended credit for the next
day's private lesson, he learned his name had already been
entered on the list and marked "paid in full". He was pleased
and furious at the same time.
He arrived early the next day and was admitted to a barrel
vaulted chamber. Eight stools surrounded the table, and a
throne-like chair sat at the end. Several places were already
occupied. Travaran, the young scholar from the caravan was
there, and he recognized two other advanced students.
Er-Mûrazôr took an empty place two seats away from Gulon's
chair. The door opened and more scholars joined them. ErMûrazôr scowled. This had been advertised as a private lesson.
He knew there'd be a few other students, but for this price, he
hadn't expected a crowd.
Master Gulon swept into the room. "Good afternoon,
gentlemen. It's just us, so let's tackle some advanced topics." He
draped a white linen cloth over the end of the table. "I'm going
Private Lessons
to show you a concealment charm. I don't exactly make the
object invisible, but I make it much less noticeable. Use this
when you want to bury a cache and make the disturbed earth
less noticeable."
He brought over a small box the size of a jewelry box. He
placed it on the cloth, where it stood out sharply against the
pale fabric. Er-Mûrazôr kept his eyes fastened on the little
casket. It was plain wood with iron hinges, and dark in color.
Gulon spoke the words of a charm in the low measured voice,
then stepped away from the table with his hands behind his
back. The box was still there.
"Now, I'd like everyone to look at the floor, then look back at
the table."
Er-Mûrazôr looked away and looked back. There was nothing
on the white cloth. He studied the spot where the box had been.
He scanned the whole top of the table, he looked on the floor. It
was not there.
Er-Mûrazôr said, "Let's see your hands."
The old magician held his hands away from his body. No box.
"It still on the table. It's not invisible, but it's much less
noticeable. I'd like to have someone come up, close enough to
touch it."
Travaran touched the spot where it had been. "It's not there it's,
oh wait! That must be the lid. It's right where it was. Now I see
it."
Now that he knew where to look, Er-Mûrazôr could see it, too.
He wondered how he'd missed it. It could be a street conjurer's
trick, but it might also be real.
Master Gulon stepped back from the table. "Let's see if one of
you can do it. Who wants to try?"
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Er-Mûrazôr jumped to his feet and elbowed past someone else.
The court astrologer told him the words to speak, what
intonation to use, and how to hold his hands. Er-Mûrazôr
performed the motions to cast the spell, and the box vanished.
It was real magic, but he wasn't sure it was of his own doing.
Gulon might have enchanted the box before the lesson.
"Can I try it with a different object?" Er-Mûrazôr unsheathed
his dagger and placed it on the cloth. He spoke the words of the
spell and looked away, then back. The dagger was gone.
"Can you make a person invisible?" As a general, he might need
to send an unseen spy into an enemy commander's tent, or an
assassin into a rival's bedchamber.
"On living creatures, it's a hard spell to cast. But yes, it's
possible." Gulon scanned the faces around the table. "We have a
little more time. What else shall we do today?"
After that, Gulon showed them a spell to see through walls. ErMûrazôr paid close attention. If the same spell could help him
find the Lodestar through the thick fogs that formed at sea, he'd
never be lost again.
Er-Mûrazôr was thrilled. In a single private lesson, he'd learned
to do more magic than he had in all the large lectures
combined. With the Embassy picking up his tuition, he'd be
able to take private lessons all the time. His face creased in an
unaccustomed smile.
"Can you show us how to mix a love potion?" asked a middleaged man with pockmarked features.
Gulon's face, already red, turned crimson. "You may not know
this, but love potions are a form of mind control, which is dark
magic. Dark magic is illegal and wrong, and I do not teach it."
Private Lessons
A chill crept up Er-Mûrazôr's limbs. A good deal of what he
wanted to learn was dark magic, magic Gulon didn't or
wouldn't teach.
"If I thought that any one of you was interested in dark magic, I
would personally seize him by the arms and frog-march him
out the door."
Master Gulon must not read his thoughts, or Er-Mûrazôr was
finished. He picked a crack in the floor and fixed his thoughts
upon it. He envisioned a still, bottomless lake, the impenetrable
walls of a fortress, a heavy box lined with lead. If he read the
situation correctly, Master Gulon wouldn't teach him how to
ignite a cottage or wreck a ship, either.
Gulon started to wind down, and his face softened. "I don't
normally tell this story, but when I was a young man, I loved a
girl who didn't know I existed. I thought if she were my wife,
I'd be the happiest young man alive.
"I mixed a love potion and found a way to add it to her glass. It
worked. She returned my affections, and for a while, we spent
all our time together. But we were ill-suited for each other, and
the flirtation ran its course. I tried to break it off, but the girl
followed me everywhere. I began to be afraid of her. In the end,
I had to go to the city and pay a famous practitioner to broke
the spell for me, but it was humiliating to have to confide in
him and reveal my mistake. "
Er-Mûrazôr raised his hand. He dreaded the answer, but he
had to know.
"What about a spell to extend one's life?" In all of magic, it was
the thing he cared about the most, not just for himself but for
his people. Even if Gulon wouldn't teach him to use practical
magic for war, life extension justified the entire price of
admission.
Gulon looked grave. "Necromancy, magic related to death, is
the blackest of all. Most people think it means communicating
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with the dead, but it also includes trying to predict the date of
one's own death, or hastening the death of another. Even life
extension spells, which are meant to cheat death, originate from
death magic. So while they sound innocent, only someone wellversed in death magic can cast them."
Life extension. It's real, but it's based on death magic. Er-Mûrazôr
felt like he'd been sucker-punched.
A student across the room raised his hand. "What about Atelic,
the court physician? They say he added years to his life
through supernatural means. Certainly, he's very old."
"How did he do it, is it a potion?"
"Is there a spell?"
"Have you learned it from him?" Everyone in the hall seemed to
be talking at once.
Gulon paced back and forth. "He may be the royal physician
here at court, but he studied under Tar-Mairon who teaches
nothing but dark magic. I expect Atelic learned death magic
from him in his student days. More likely, his old teacher cast
the spell for him. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay
away from him."
Tar-Mairon, the sorcerer-warlord his uncle defeated at
Tharbad, who'd escaped after the battle. Er-Mûrazôr's uncle
had let him go, saying he was too dangerous to try to capture,
that soldiers who'd gotten too close to him had gone mad.
The lesson came to an end, and the students filed out into the
lecture hall, echoing an empty. The doors at the back of the hall
were flung wide, letting the bright afternoon sun into the stone
chamber.
The student ahead of him nudged his neighbor. "I heard
Atelic's back in town. He occasionally gives private lessons,
too."
Private Lessons
"That old poisoner? Good luck to him. He'll have to find
someone brave enough to be alone in the same room with him."
"Could Atelic really be a poisoner?" asked a third student.
"I doubt it. He's physician to the Sultan's family. Gulon hates
him because he dabbles in dark magic."
"Gulon hates him because he's a better magician." They all
laughed.
"And he's a good physician, too. They say he won't treat
anyone but the royals unless they come in with a really
interesting ailment. Complaints that any other healer would
call easy money, like loose bowels or the pox, don't interest
him."
It was the best possible news. Atelic, a sorcerer who'd studied
dark magic including a spell to extend life, gave private
lessons, too. Whatever it took, Er-Mûrazôr would find a way to
meet him.
130
Chapter 25
The Poisoner
E
r-Mûrazôr stared into the darkness. Sleep had
always been unreliable for him, but tonight looked to be
particularly restless.
The small window was a square of gray against deeper
shadow. The edge was cut off by an amorphous form, which
proved to be his shirt, hung to dry on the rafter beams
overhead.
Tomorrow, he would find a way to see Atelic, the court
physician. All he had to do was feign an ailment interesting
enough that the old sorcerer would agree to see him. If
everything went right, he would persuade Atelic to teach him
the lift-extension spell.
He walked into a high-ceilinged council chamber. Atelic sat behind a
long table in his sorcerer's robes. He was flanked by Corwin, the wellmannered emissary, and Hawk Face, the professional bearer of bad
news, on the other. At the far end of himthe table, his brother
Atanamir bent over a ledger book, entering notes. Almost all of them
were in the red column. Er-Mûrazôr turned to leave, but before he
reached the doors, they crashed shut in his face.
He started awake, his heart pounding.
The spell was the most valuable thing he could imagine
bringing back to Númenor. He envisioned the look of pride on
his father's face. Then it hit him like a kick in the gut. Unless he
brought something as important as this spell, he probably
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The Poisoner
wouldn't see his father again. Even if he did make it home, his
father might not agree to see him.
He gave up trying to sleep before it was fully light. He got up,
washed his face, and finger-combed his hair.
He crossed the marketplace, where the merchants were still
setting up their stalls. The gates of the Palace compound were
just ahead. He'd never been here this early, and the gates were
shut. Beyond the ironwork trellis, a servant swept the paving
stones with a broom of twigs. A clerk crossed the square and
opened the door to one of the public buildings. The doors of
several more buildings opened shortly after, and soon, an old
grounds keeper came to unlock the ironwork gates and swing
them open.
"Where can I find Atelic, the Sultan's physician?" Er-Mûrazôr
fingered a copper coin, careful to hold it where the grounds
keeper could see it.
"He has rooms in the north tower of the Sultan's Palace. Not
one of the public buildings, the Residence itself. Tell the guard I
sent you, and he'll let you up."
The Sultan's Palace was an enormous structure with wings
embracing a central garden, a rarity in this desert country. The
exterior walls were faced in marble, as glossy as the surface of a
pearl, and the tips of the spires glinted gold in the morning
light.
Er-Mûrazôr reached the base of the north tower. The guard told
him to climb as high as the stairs went, and once he was there,
to knock on the only door. He climbed the tower stairs with a
growing sense of unease. If he were granted the audience he
sought, he would spend time alone behind closed doors with a
notorious poisoner. Er-Mûrazôr resolved that, even if manners
demanded it, he would not accept anything to eat or drink.
At the top of the stairs, a boy of about fourteen stood in front of
a low wooden door. His hair was uncombed, and there was a
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spot on the front of his tunic, as if his mother hadn't checked
him before he left the house.
"I'm looking for the court physician. Is he within?"
"Is he expecting you?" The youth made no move to step aside.
"I've come to see him on a medical matter. I have gold, I can
pay."
"Master Atelic doesn't take money. If you tell me your
symptoms, I'll take him the message."
"It's of a personal nature."
"All medical matters are personal. Why don't you write it
down, and I'll give him the note."
The boy dug through the drawer of a small desk and produced
a wrinkled sheet of paper, a nib pen, a pot of ink that had
completely dried up, and the remains of a stick of lead.
"There, that ought to do," he said triumphantly, holding up the
sorry stub of lead like a trophy. He placed it and the paper on
the desk, dumped everything else back in the drawer before
retreating back, and retreated behind the door.
Er-Mûrazôr picked up the stick of lead and held it over the
paper. He did have an interesting case to tell the court
physician. He didn't know of anyone else who'd risen from his
wedding bed as virgin as he'd lain down. The physician back in
Armenelos believed he'd had too much to drink at the banquet
beforehand. But he'd stayed away from wine the next night,
and the night after that, and it hadn't made any difference.
His hand hovered above the paper. He didn't want to discuss
his problem with a stranger. He didn't want to relate the
humiliating details, he didn't want to be examined, and he
didn't want to be medically interesting. He put the lead stick
down and stared at the blank paper.
The Poisoner
Ten minutes went by. Footsteps approached and from the
inside of the door came the sound of a latch being drawn back.
Er-Mûrazôr glanced at the blank paper and scribbled the first
thing he could think of that might interest the famous
physician.
I can see ghosts.
The door swung open, and the boy appeared in the doorway.
Er-Mûrazôr folded the paper into quarters and handed it to
him. He disappeared inside, and the sound of his footsteps
retreated into the distance.
Stupid, stupid. Er-Mûrazôr slapped his forehead. He'd either just
admitted he was crazy or had confessed in writing that he
practiced necromancy, which was as illegal here as it was in
Númenor.
The boy reappeared in the doorway. "Master Atelic will see you
now." He showed Er-Mûrazôr into a barrel vaulted chamber,
then closed the door and leaned against it.
Er-Mûrazôr looked around. A long table filled up the room,
which was otherwise bare.
An old, old man sat in a high backed chair at the end of the
room. The light from the window behind him he made a halo
of his wispy hair, what little there was of it, and age spots
speckled his scalp.
"Jhann, lock the door, please." The boy opened the door, looked
left and right, then pulled it shut. He slid the bolt into place,
and remained standing against it.
The old poisoner lifted a hand and waved Er-Mûrazôr to the
stool beside him. A scrap of paper lay unfolded on the table. ErMûrazôr recognized his own handwriting, and the line about
ghosts.
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Wraith
The old man was wrapped in a heavy blanket or cloak. Beside
him, the fireplace was cold, the ashes left over from long ago. In
the grate, a spider was constructing an elaborate web. There
were no workbenches against the walls. There was no
glassware, no herbs, no mortar and pestle anywhere in the
room. His shoulders relaxed. If he had to be alone with the
poisoner, he preferred not to share space with the poisons
themselves.
Master Atelic regarded him from beneath eyebrows like
caterpillars. He looked to the door where the servant stood.
"Jhann, go make us some tea, that's a good lad. And bring some
cakes, the special ones." He turned back to Er-Mûrazôr.
"Now, what's all this about?" old sorcerer asked.
"I can see ghosts."
"So you said."
Something fingered his thoughts, its butterfly-light touch
delicate and sure. He tried to fight it off. He imagined a leadlined box inside his head, sealed shut by an iron hasp and a
heavy padlock, but the probing passed right through it. The
torchlight and bright clothing of his wedding banquet flared up
in his memory, as vivid as if he were there. Then he heard the
city gate closing behind him for the last time, as he stood under
that orange red sunset trying not to mind the aching sadness.
"You know, it's a common thing for people to consult me about
one thing when they really want to talk about something else.
Now, unless I'm very much mistaken, you're the young prince
from Númenor who couldn't consummate his marriage."
Er-Mûrazôr's hands balled into fists. He would never live that
story down. Never.
Something stirred in his mind, the gentle touch penetrating
deeper than before.
The Poisoner
He felt a touch behind his ear, and below it, if felt like tree roots
reaching into the earth, branching and forking as they probed
deeper. It stirred memories, the cold-hearted exhilaration that
had come over him in battle, the grief he felt over the loss of the
Haven, a fragment of an erotic dream he couldn't quite
remember.
His pulse raced, and he clasped his hands to hide the
trembling. Shame swept over him, worse than anything he'd
felt after his failed wedding night, when his father and the
court physicians had interrogated him for hours.
"Well, it was a wasted trip. I know what ails you, and so do
you, if you'd admit it."
What utter nonsense. A roaring in his head crested until the
edges of his vision went black. Er-Mûrazôr sprang to his feet,
knocking back the stool. "This conversation is over."
"Sit down." The withered old man's voice carried surprising
authority. Er-Mûrazôr sat.
Er-Mûrazôr glared at the ancient sorcerer. "You know, probing
the mind of another is dark magic, and illegal," and a horrible
violation of his most private self, which Er-Mûrazôr absolutely
hated.
Atelic laughed. A real laugh, his eyes merry. "Dark magic? I
studied under Tar-Mairon. He doesn't teach any other kind.
Now, about those ghosts you came here to talk about. When do
you see them, waking or sleeping?"
"Waking."
"And when do they appear to you?"
"When I summon them."
"You don't run into them by accident?"
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"I go into a trance and enter the Underworld. After my uncle
died, I went looking for him, but I spoke with several other
spirits of the dead while I was searching."
"Did you just tell me you performed necromancy? That's dark
magic, and forbidden by law." The old man looked at him
sternly.
"So I hear. I only did it once." Er-Mûrazôr started to sweat. He
was taking a great risk, confessing to a crime.
"And you were successful on your first try, with no training."
The ancient figure leaned forward and peered at him from
under eyebrows like snowy caterpillars. "You have a talent
beyond the ordinary."
"I'm a general. I want to use dark magic for war. Does that
shock you?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.
"Nothing shocks me. And war has always been with us,
magical or not."
"Will you teach me the life-extension spell? I can pay in gold."
Er-Mûrazôr held his breath, waiting for the answer.
"I don't work for gold, and I only take one student at a time. I
believe you've met him. Jhann, the boy who let you in. But
don't despair, you can always learn magic from Gulon. He
teaches classes to all comers."
"What Gulon teaches isn't real magic, it's just a collection of
recipes. He doesn't understand how they work." Er-Mûrazôr
spat out the words.
The old man laughed. "That's Gulon, ancient knowledge and
venerating the sages." He leaned forward and lowered his
voice. "Gulon's magic is real, but it's not complete."
"Excuse me?"
The Poisoner
"Master Gulon is a good person. He won't touch dark magic,
because it's dangerous and it's used for harm. But avoiding it
left a huge gap in his knowledge. He has to use recipes and
memorized spells because he doesn't understand how magic
works. And he missed the main point. It's not the spell that's
light or dark, it's how it's used."
Even kitchen magic could be dark, if you used a fire starting
spell to ignite cottages or a rainmaking spell to make a ship
founder.
Atelic tented his fingers and leaned back. "Do you think a
blessing is white and a curse is dark? Yet they're both done
with the same spell, a spell to make a wish. As a physician, I
can tell you there's no healer who isn't also a poisoner. It's only
a matter of dose. You can't separate white magic from dark,
they're the same coin."
Jhann returned with dozen yellow cakes arranged on a pewter
plate, each garnished with a twist of lemon. He placed them on
the table at Er-Mûrazôr's elbow. Beside the plate, he put a
ceramic bowl of tea. Steam rose from its surface, it smelled of
berries.
"Excuse me if I don't join you, but please feel free to help
yourself."
Jhann stood closer to the table than necessary. His hand inched
towards the platter like a cat creeping up on an unsuspecting
bird.
"Hands off. They aren't for you," Atelic snapped, and his
apprentice jumped back.
Er-Mûrazôr lifted the cup, but before it was halfway to his lips,
he set it down to finish speaking. He broke one of the cakes in
half, pushing the pieces around the plate and pronouncing it
delicious.
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Jhann's eyes never left the little cakes. There was a crash
outside, and a workman's curses rose from the courtyard
below. The old sorcerer twisted around towards the window.
"Do you want any more?" Jhann asked Er-Mûrazôr. Without
waiting for an answer, he stuffed two of the pastries in his
mouth. The old sorcerer turned around, and Jhann stopped
chewing, his face a mask of innocence.
"You do realize you have crumbs down the front of your tunic,"
said the old man. "Are you going to drink our guest's tea as
well?"
"Seriously? Can I have it?" Jhann perked up like a puppy.
"He's like all boys his age, he eats like a bird. Twice his own
weight in a day." The sorcerer laughed at his own joke.
"When I was your age, I wanted to learn the whole of magic,
not just charms and fire starting and reading the stars, but also
the forbidden arts like mind control and throwing curses. I
thought if I knew all of it, the light and the dark, I could be a
better practitioner of the craft. You have to learn the whole of
magic to understand how it works."
"Well, I did learn all of those things. Most of it's forbidden by
law here, but I studied in the Black Land, and it wasn't illegal
there. I learned that magic is neither light nor dark, it depends
on how it's used.
"The Black Land? You really did study under Tar-Mairon?"
asked Er-Mûrazôr.
"That I did. They say I went there to learn how to cast a death
curse. I've a healer, I wouldn't do that. But the dark arts?
Control the mind of another, speaking with the dead?
Fascinating!
"And life extension?"
The Poisoner
"I was already old when I went to him. Tar-Mairon worked a
spell to extend my life."
"I wish Gulon taught dark magic."
"He doesn't. But if that's what you want to do, why don't you
study under Tar-Mairon?" asked Atelic.
Er-Mûrazôr snorted. "I'm a member of the Númenorian royal
family. Think what he'd do to me if I appeared on his doorstep,
alone and unarmed."
Master Atelic stroked his chin. "Because Númenor decimated
his army? He is one to nurse a grudge, isn't he? But I don't
think you'd be in any danger. If you entered his realm with an
armed escort, he'd obliterate you. But if you came alone, as a
potential apprentice and seeker of knowledge, the worst he'd
do is turn you away."
Er-Mûrazôr looked at him skeptically.
"Sometimes when one nation defeats another, the vanquished
start to identify with their conquerors, and to imitate them.
They copy the clothing and manners of those who defeated
them, and words from the conquers' language slip into their
speech. When I was with him, Tar-Mairon was infatuated with
all things Númenorian. I don't think you being a Númenorian
will put you in danger."
"Why would he take students?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.
"He likes to teach. When I was there, he had half a dozen
apprentices. All advanced sorcerers, all very talented."
Er-Mûrazôr's uncle had glimpsed Tar-Mairon during the battle
of Tharbad, face concealed behind his helmet, columns of
smoke behind him rising to the leaden sky. The thought of the
dreaded warlord writing on a chalk board and assigning
practice exercises made Er-Mûrazôr laugh, which he tried to
disguise as a cough.
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"Tar-Mairon isn't Gulon, he doesn't train just anyone who
comes along. He has to believe you're going to be a great
sorcerer, or it's not worth his time. But there's no harm in
asking. The worst that would happen is he'd say 'no' and you'd
be escorted to the border."
"Is his fee very high?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.
"He doesn't charge a fee. Why does he do it? All those gifted
students, hanging onto his every word? I think he has an
excessive need to be admired."
Atelic paused for a long moment. "If you decide to apprentice
under him, there's something you should know," said the old
man. "You thought Gulon came across as a charlatan, which
annoyed you. You'll find Tar-Mairon the same."
"But you said his magic is real."
"His magic is quite real. That's why I don't understand it." The
old man looked out the window. "Have you ever met someone
who seems a little off? Like they're not who they're pretending
to be? Tar-Mairon is like that. He's vague about his past, and
what he does say doesn't add up."
The old man looked directly at Er-Mûrazôr. "You should study
under Tar-Mairon. His knowledge is astonishing, and he's
willing to share it. Just be aware that he's an enormous pain in
the ass."
Chapter 26
A Defeated Warlord
T
he journey from the capital of Haradwaith to
Mordor took the better part of a week. Er-Mûrazôr kept the
mountains, the Encircling Fence, to his right and kept riding
until he came upon the natural opening in the ragged peaks
known as Cirith Gorgor, the Pass of Horror.
This is an incredibly bad idea, a Númenorian going into Mordor,
alone and friendless.
It took several more days to travel through Mordor itself to the
gates of Barad-dûr. In all that time, he didn’t see another living
creature. The wars appeared to have left the Black Land entirely
depleted of Orcs. He began to worry less about his own safety
and more about reaching the Tower and finding it abandoned.
In spite of the dryness, there was water here, but it was so black
and vile, he feared it was poisonous.
Magic yanked the lead line and plunged his muzzle into a
toxic-looking stream and drink deeply. The horse suffered no ill
effects, so when his water skin ran dry, Er-Mûrazôr cupped his
hands under a rivulet dripping from the face of the rock, and
held his breath against the taste of iron. He stripped off his shirt
and splashed under his arms, which replaced the smell of
unwashed body with the smell of rotten eggs.
In the distance, The Dark Tower dominated a high promontory,
veiled behind mist and invisible. Occasionally the clouds that
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hung about it would part, but he never saw more than a tower
here, a battlement there. He could tell nothing of its structure,
other than it appeared to be of very great size.
Er-Mûrazôr reached the base of the promontory and began to
climb up a series of switchback turns. After the first few turns,
he dropped from the saddle and led Magic by the reins. He
locked his knee on each step, to slow himself down and
preserve his strength.
He reached the top of the promontory, and there it was, Baraddûr. The foundation walls covered more ground than most
walled cities, the upper portions were cloaked behind an
unnatural-looking haze.
He pulled the silver grey robe from the saddle bag and shook it
out the deep wrinkles that made a washboard of the heavy silk,
At least it was clean. Hoping he was unobserved, he put Magic
between himself and the fortress, stripped off the shirt he
bought in Haradwaith, and dropped the robe over his head.
He was a Númenorian prince in enemy territory, it was fitting
he look the part.
He finger-combed his hair, and checked to see that nothing
unpleasant was clinging to his boots.
He approached the Gate, more than three stories tall, shiny
black and so smooth it looked wet. It felt like glass beneath his
fingers. His heart hammered in his ears. He he’d only heard it
once before, on that day long ago, when the older boys relented
and took him cliff-jumping.
The rock was warm in the afternoon sun. His toes hugged it as if
clinging for dear life. Forty feet below, a wave broke and surged
into the natural cauldron, filling it with swirling seawater, the
boiling foam spilling over its rim. Then the tide pulled away,
leaving the basin knee-deep and lined with boulders.
A Defeated Warlord
“Come on, Er-Mûrazôr. We’ve all done it, now it’s your turn.”
Artanamir’s hair was plastered to his forehead. His brother’s
friends were also soaking wet, and unharmed.
“Shall I push him?” asked one of his brother’s friends.
“It wouldn’t be an act of courage then, would it? You have to do
it yourself.” said Artanamir.
Er-Mûrazôr was ten years old. He didn’t want to die. The next
wave came rushing into the cauldron, surf shooting high up on
the far side. In a moment, the water would be at its highest. Aim
for the spot in the center. Do it.
He knocked.
For a long time, nothing happened. He was about to turn away
when the cover over the spyhole slid back.
“What do you want?” said whoever was behind the black eyes
peering through the slit.
“I’ve come to see Tar-Mairon. I want to study sorcery under
him,” Er-Mûrazôr said.
The cover slid back into place, and after some rattling, the sally
door swung outward. The lower edge was at least a foot above
the ground. Er-Mûrazôr looped Magic’s reins around a stone,
then bent over double to squeeze through the small opening.
He unfolded himself on the other side. He found himself in an
enclosed space between the gatehouse towers, where stone
walls threatened to squeeze him beneath an arched ceiling,
pierced with murder holes from which to drop things on
invaders. Huge iron gates, identical in size to the outer gates,
barred exit from the end of the space.
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The watchman bolted the sally door behind him. Magic
whinnied and stomped a hoof.
The old man appeared to have escaped the wars through age or
infirmity, or both. His few wisps of hair were snow white, and
he was missing important parts, like an arm.
“Are you armed?” asked the watchman.
“I wear a sword. It’s a badge of rank.” He also had a dagger,
and a penknife.
Er-Mûrazôr expected the watchman to take his weapons, but
instead, the old man just nodded, and led him through a
passage in the base of one of the watchtowers.
Beyond it was a wide expanse of courtyard between the curtain
wall and the base of a massive tower. A space like this would
normally be filled with rickety wooden structures like stables,
barracks, or smithies. This fortress looked as if it had just been
finished and no one had moved in yet.
He followed the watchman into a tunnel through the base of
the tower. Inside, floor tiles had been partially laid, murals
were half painted, and wooden paneling leaned against the
wall, waiting to be installed, their upper edges furry with dust.
In all the corridors they walked down, Er-Mûrazôr didn’t see
another soul. They stopped in front of a door. The watchman
knocked, pushed it open, and motioned him inside.
The door opened onto a barrel-vaulted chamber with
whitewashed walls, longer than it was wide. A slice of a
window at the far end of the room admitted the afternoon sun.
The center of the room held a long line of work benches
covered with apparatus he didn’t recognize. The air smelled
metallic, and slightly of chalk.
A Defeated Warlord
Three young men looked up at him. The eldest, or at least the
largest and most confident-looking, regarded him through
lidded eyes. He was dressed in the bright cottons of
Haradwaith and had copper-colored skin.
“Tar-Mairon?” Er-Mûrazôr asked.
“No, I am Ferran, Tar-Mairon’s senior apprentice. This is
Raedwald,” he waved a hand in the direction of the slender
youth against the wall, who wore the leathers and furs of the
far North, “and this is Eamur,” he said, jerking his head in the
direction of a solid looking farm boy with wheat blond hair,
who nodded and smiled a greeting.
“Tar-Mairon has three apprentices?” asked Er-Mûrazôr.
“Tar-Mairon has ten apprentices. Fifteen, if you count those
who came here to learn smithing. They’re mostly Dwarves,
although one is a Noldor Elf. To answer your question, TarMairon doesn’t limit the number of students, but he only takes
those who are already expert,” said Ferran.
Exactly what Atelic had told him. Er-Mûrazôr wanted to be an
expert, but he wasn’t one yet.
“We’ll put you through a few tests, nothing unpleasant, just
enough to evaluate your skills and knowledge. If we feel you’re
qualified, we’ll report to Tar-Mairon, and he’ll decide if he
wants to grant you an audience.”
Er-Mûrazôr’s heart sank. He had a little training at the beginner
level. And it wasn’t years of study, he’d only been attending
Gulon’s lectures for three weeks.
“This is the first test, a concealment charm,” said the chief
apprentice. He placed a small stone on the workbench.
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Er-Mûrazôr spoke the words of the charm, and watched the
stone take on the texture of the wood behind it. While not
invisible, it had become almost unnoticeable. He allowed
himself a moment of satisfaction.
Next, Ferran placed a wooden box in front of him. “Tell me
what’s inside. You don’t have to name the object, just describe
its general size and weight.”
Er-Mûrazôr tried to form an image whatever was on the far
side of the wood. It was similar to looking through walls, but it
required a tighter range and focus. He thought he could just
make out something slender with sharp edges.
“A dagger?” he asked.
Ferran opened the box. It held a writing pen.
“For the next test, form a thought and transmit it to me. Make it
something simple, like a number or the name of an animal.” ErMûrazôr thought of a horse, and looked directly at Ferran
while holding the image in his thoughts.
“I’m not getting anything. Unless, was it the number twelve?”
Ferran’s brow wrinkled in concentration. They tried several
more times, but Er-Mûrazôr was never able to transmit a word
or an image to the senior apprentice.
The tests increased in difficulty. Er-Mûrazôr was unable to
move a small object, read the thoughts of another, or summon
the wind.
Ferran leaned back against the workbench. “All right, I think
we’re done. You do know a little magic, but unfortunately, TarMairon only takes apprentices who are already expert
sorcerers, and you can barely even be called a beginner.
Watchman, please show our guest to the gates.”
A Defeated Warlord
The watchman escorted him out and closed the sally port
behind him. The spyhole remained shut.
Er-Mûrazôr stood before the gates of Barad-dûr, frustrated and
angry. He’d traveled a long way to be here. Ever since he’d left
Umbar, his heart had been set on becoming a sorcerer.
Er-Mûrazôr pounded on the sally port. “I’ve come this far. I just
want to meet Tar-Mairon. I ask for ten minutes of his time, and
then I’ll go.”
“Why should he see you?” asked the watchman.
Flattery usually works on anyone, and Tar-Mairon was said to
be particularly vain. “They say Tar-Mairon is the greatest
sorcerer living. I want to meet him.”
“You and a lot of others.”
Er-Mûrazôr took out a coin, the last one he had, and walked it
across the back of his hand. Index to second, second to third,
and back again, an impressive feat of dexterity.
“Tell you what. Write a note explaining why you want to see
him, and I’ll carry it up.”
Er-Mûrazôr gave him the coin, and the man came back with
paper and a writing box. Er-Mûrazôr balanced the box on a flat
stone and dipped the copper nib into the inkwell. He stared
into space, thinking about what he wanted to say.
My life is shattered. I’m starting over and I want to be a sorcerer.
No, that sounded stupid. He tore the paper in half and
crumpled what he’d just written, and tried again, but what
came out was another version of the same. None of those were
going to work.
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He dipped the pen and began again.
Since your defeat at Tharbad, you’ve been holed up behind your
own walls, with nothing to do. Give me an audience, if for no
other reason than that meeting me would break up an otherwise
dull afternoon.
He folded the paper and handed it to the watchman, who
disappeared inside with it. The sally port door closed. He
thought about how his message would be received.
“Wait! Don’t deliver that!” There was no answer.
He should just leave. Take Magic’s reins and disappear over the
lip of the plateau. One bend of the hairpin path, and he would
be out of sight, and away. But before he could act, the sally port
opened.
“Tar-Mairon will meet with you now,” said the watchman.
Er-Mûrazôr tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He
followed the watchmen back into the chamber where he’d met
Tar-Mairon’s apprentices an hour earlier.
The apprentices were still there. Ferran was sitting on the
corner of a workbench, one foot on the floor and the other
swinging back and forth. Raedwald was slouching against a
wall, looking amused. Eamur smiled a greeting.
The door opened, and all three apprentices leapt to their feet.
A man at least as tall as Er-Mûrazôr swept into the room. His
robes brushed the floor, and he carried a goblet in one hand.
His features were severe and unsmiling.
In appearance, the man fell somewhere between Númenorian
and Elvish. He could have passed for either. He had the height
of a Númenorian, and was broad-shouldered and muscular in
A Defeated Warlord
build. Reddish-brown hair fell to his shoulders in the
Númenorian style, but his features were perfectly symmetrical,
and he had no beard.
The apprentices bowed their heads. Tar-Mairon acknowledged
them with a nod, and turned to Er-Mûrazôr. “You must be the
persistent one.” He sounded bored.
Er-Mûrazôr sensed that he was expected to bow, but a Prince of
Númenor outranks a defeated warlord. He drew himself up to
his full height and held the sorcerer’s eye.
Tar-Mairon drew uncomfortably close and sniffed the air. “You
smell like compost.”
Er-Mûrazôr ground his teeth. So much for making a good first
impression.
The cut of Tar-Mairon garments was almost identical to ErMûrazôr’s silver-green robes, but instead of silk, they’d been
made from homespun linen, and the colors were the muted
pastels of homemade vegetable dyes. He looked like someone
in a village play about Númenor, who’d made his costume
himself.
“Why are you here?” the defeated warlord asked him, although
he must already know.
“I want to study sorcery. I think I have a knack for it.”
Something brushed against the surface of his mind, probing,
seeking a way in. Annoyed, Er-Mûrazôr summoned an image
from a sweltering day on the docks when he almost tumbled
into a pile of fish guts. Beneath a cloud of buzzing flies, white
maggots squirmed in the putrefying flesh, hundreds of them,
wriggling blindly and making a humming sound. The smell
was indescribable.
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The probing touch yanked away. Er-Mûrazôr looked at the
wall. Serves you right.
Ferran swept an arm over the apparatus. “We put him through
the tests. He has no real training.”
“Show me what you can do,” said Tar-Mairon.
Er-Mûrazôr walked over to the hearth, cold in the middle of
summer. The remains of a fire lay in the grate, charcoal and the
ends of burned logs. He rehearsed the spell in his mind first,
and spoke the words. Yellow flames sprang from the charred
end of the log.
The apprentices looked unimpressed. “It’s real magic, but
anyone could do it with a little instruction,” said Eamur, the
plump farm boy.
Tar-Mairon turned to leave.
“Wait, I can do one other thing.” Er-Mûrazôr’s voice sounded
high, and he realized he was pleading.
It was a huge risk. It was the most difficult magic he knew how
to do, and because it was illegal, he’d only tried it once before.
He closed his eyes and leaned against the workbench, bracing
his palms against the edge. He closed his eyes and breathed in
slowly, letting himself sink into a trance.
The the barrel-vaulted classroom around him seemed fade, and
for the second time in his life, he found himself in the halls of
Mandos. The grey-green shades of souls pressed all around
him, calling to him with thin voices, grasping at his sleeve with
their pale fingers.
He was looking for his uncle. Last time, it had been easy. His
uncle had been waiting for him, had been willing to speak to
A Defeated Warlord
him. One corridor of the underworld looked like any other. He
was lost, and he didn’t see anyone he knew.
He started to panic. He grabbed the next person he saw, a
drowned woman with wet hair clutching a baby in her arms.
“Where is Tar-Ciryatur? I’m looking for the Admiral, the hero
of Tharbad.”
Her eyes widened and fear. She answered him in a language
he’d never heard before, it syllables ancient-sounding and
guttural, and struggled free from his grasp, squeezing her baby
tighter.
The shades around them pulled back, like fish when a pond is
disturbed. He reached for another specter, but it dissolved at
his touch. He wasn’t able to speak with any of them, wasn’t
able to learn where to find his uncle. Reluctantly, he allowed
himself to come out of the trance. The probing touch he’d felt
earlier brushed against his mind as it withdrew.
Er-Mûrazôr blinked and looked around the classroom. The
floor seemed to heave like the deck of a ship, and the lights
were far too bright. The apprentices regarded him sarcastically.
“Now, that was a street conjurer’s trick if I ever saw one. The
pretend trance, the fake ancient language? I mean, really,” said
Ferran. The other apprentices nodded.
Er-Mûrazôr cringed. Disappointment washed over him.
Tar-Mairon stood, slack-jawed. The goblet slipped from his
fingers and struck the floor, then rolled away.
“No, that was real.”
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Epilogue
Mairon’s Apprentice
E
r-Mûrazôr stood in the barrel-vaulted room
where he'd taken the entrance exams two weeks before. About
a dozen apprentices crammed into the back of the room, sitting
on the edge of workbenches or leaning against the wall.
The three senior apprentices, Ferran, Raedwald, and Eamur,
were familiar from the entrance exams the day before. His
roommate, Sevv. Six more he didn't know. All were from the
race of Men, but they seem to come from every nation in Arda,
based on the wide variety in the style of their clothing. This
would be his first real lesson in sorcery, hands-on and
advanced.
The door opened, and Tar-Mairon swept in. He was wearing
the same clothing as the day before, and he carried a sheath of
notes.
"Today we're going to learn how to communicate using just our
minds."
"Sevv here communicates without his mind being actively
involved," said Eamur.
"That I can't fix. I only teach telepathy," said Tar-Mairon.
The master sorcerer walked to the chalk board and wrote
something in the symbols used by all magicians. Er-Mûrazôr
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Mairon’s Apprentice
didn't have them memorized yet. His eye moved back and
forth between the chalkboard and a cram sheet in his hand.
His uncle used to tell stories about getting a glimpse of TarMairon across the battlefield, huge and terrible, a mace in his
hand, his face concealed under his helmet. The Elves called him
a demon. Not "demon" as in a ferocious warlord, but a literal
demon like a Balrog.
Watching the dreaded warlord writing on the chalkboard and
assigning practice exercises made Er-Mûrazôr snort with
laughter, which he hid under a cough.
"Tomorrow I'll teach you how to throw curses," said TarMairon.
"I would, but I don't want my mouth washed out with soap,"
said Sevv. Someone else sniggered.
Tar-Mairon ignored them. "We'll begin with theory. It isn't
something you should attempt when you don't know what
you're doing."
"Instead of curses, could we do shape-shifting?" asked
Raedwald.
"Shape-shifting can't be taught. It's an inborn talent," said TarMairon.
"But you can do it, right? They say you can turn into a wolf.
Can you show us?"
"Not right now, it takes preparation."
Er-Mûrazôr felt disillusioned. Atelic had warned him TarMairon had a casual relationship with the truth, and was given
to overestimating his own abilities.
Tar-Mairon tapped a pen against a book and looked at the
ceiling. "Tell you what. Tomorrow morning, instead of meeting
here, let's assemble in the great hall by the platform where
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Wraith
High Table used to be. I can't teach shape shifting, but I can
demonstrate it."
That night in the dining hall, crowded around the table with
the other students, Er-Mûrazôr lifted his goblet and regarded
its contents. The water was an unnatural color, and it smelled
poisonous.
At the Haven, there were no grapes for wine. He'd grown
accustomed to drinking ale, which was normally only for
peasants. In his three years as Captain of the Haven, he'd
actually learn to like the bitter draft. Here, the grain, harvest
had been disappointing both this fall and last. They couldn't
spare the barley for ale, so everyone in the fortress drink water,
regardless of rank.
The water here had an unnatural color and was slimy to the
touch. He didn't even like to wash in it. He longed for a taste of
clean water, and even more in this land of volcanic fumes, for a
breath of the clean-smelling air of the sea.
He brought the goblet to his lips, then held his breath and
swallowed.
A servant set hunks of bread and a moldy piece of cheese in the
middle of the table. Another set a bowl of broth before him. The
steam smelled like parsnips.
He left the cheese to the others, who didn't seem to mind the
mold, and reached for a end of a loaf. It was as hard as stone.
He sawed at it with a dagger, but only left scratches in the
crust.
Sevv laid a hand on his arm. "There's a trick to it. When the loaf
is hard like that, don't even try to cut it. The blade will slip and
you'll cut yourself, or you'll manage to hack off a slice but break
your teeth on it. Soak it in broth first. It'll be soft enough to eat
in no time."
Mairon’s Apprentice
Er-Mûrazôr did as he said. Soft bits of bread detached
themselves and floated around the broth.
It occurred to him that he'd tasted something like this before.
Once, when he and Atanamir were children, they were trapped
at the end of High Table, at a feast that showed no signs of
ending. Atanamir looked sideways at Er-Mûrazôr and stirred
gravy into his wine cup.
"I dare you to drink that," said Er-Mûrazôr.
Atanamir brought the cup to his lips and drank. Which was
bad, because now Er-Mûrazôr had to taste it, too. Atanamir slid
the goblet over to him. The mixture was dark gray, gelatinous,
and kind of chunky. It felt slimy in his mouth, and tasted like
salt.
"It's not quite as bad as you'd think," said Er-Mûrazôr,
scrubbing his mouth with a napkin.
The next morning, Er-Mûrazôr arrived in the great hall early.
The long, vaulted-ceilinged room was rarely used, as so few
people lived in the fortress. Ever since he arrived, he'd been
taking his meals with the other apprentices in the kitchens.
The great hall was laid out like the great hall in any fortress,
except it was considerably larger. A vast expanse of flagstones,
which would normally hold row after row of trestle tables,
reached out to an empty platform at the far end of the room.
Presumably, it had once held the high table. Now, it made an
excellent stage. Most of his classmates were already there.
"It looks like word got out. The blacksmithing apprentices are
here too," said Sevv. Several dwarves, an elf, and a young man
he didn't recognize gathered around the edges of the group.
A door in the wall opened, and Tar-Mairon stepped onto the
stage. He was wrapped in a blanket which he held closed with
one hand. His legs were bare beneath the brown wool.
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Wraith
He crossed the stage on bare feet. The blanket flapped around
him as he walked, and for a moment, the gap revealed bare
skin from knee to rib. Er-Mûrazôr looked away, embarrassed.
However long I live, I will never be able to un-see that.
Tar-Mairon shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and held it
in front of himself casually, as if he didn't realize he was naked.
He was as scarred as any warrior. A long, white line crossed his
shoulder, and there was another on his upper arm and a stab
wound on his belly, but the worst was a raised scar that
showed where his throat had been slit.
Er-Mûrazôr looked at the floor, his face burning. He didn't
know where to look. In the end, he fixed his eyes on his
teacher's face.
Tar-Mairon addressed his apprentices. "The first thing to know
about shape shifting is that you have to do it naked. If you shift
to something large, your clothes will shred. I personally don't
have the money to replace my wardrobe every time I do this.
But you already knew that, since I pay you in seashells and
small rocks."
"You get paid? Bastard!" A student punched his neighbor in the
arm.
The master sorcerer lowered his head like an actor getting into
character, and rolled forward until his knuckles almost touched
the stage. His shoulders broadened, his arms thickened, and his
body was covered in dark brown fur, grizzled silver. He
growled, a low rumbling threat Er-Mûrazôr felt in his gut.
The wolf became a serpent, impossibly long, its middle as thick
as a man's waist. The serpent took the form of a fanged creature
with leathery wings. The monster became a wolf again, which
became a man on all fours, wearing only his skin. Tar-Mairon
sat back on his heels and pushed his hair out of his face, leaving
his other arm draped across his lap.
Mairon’s Apprentice
"Toss me that, will you?" he said, pointing to the blanket. He
caught it with one hand and held it in front of himself when he
stood up.
"That's the problem with shape shifting. Everyone thinks
clothes turn into fur. They don't."


Er-Mûrazôr stood in class with the others. To fit in, he'd begun
to wear the same homespun clothing they did, grays and
browns with a little bit of color in the trim. His tunic was loose
and coarse-textured, and completely drab. He felt ridiculous.
Númenorian peasants dressed better than this. He was happy
about being here. He didn't regret his decision. But even
though, as a general who'd been in the field and was used to
sleeping rough, he'd never felt this poor before. Yet he didn't
mind. It wasn't the poverty of a peasant, it was the poverty of a
student, a priest, a wanderer who'd taken holy vows. He was
here because he wanted to be.
That evening, Er-Mûrazôr sat around the table with a group of
Tar-Mairon's apprentices after they'd finished work for the day.
The remains of the evening meal had been pushed aside to
make room for a game of dice.
Ferran, Raedwald, Eamur were all there. So were at least four
of the junior apprentices, one or two of the smiths, and a few
foot soldiers.
Ferran scooped up the dice and set them aside. "Let's make this
more interesting. We'll play a drinking game. Never have I ever
…"
"Paid back the money you owe me," said Raedwald. Everyone
laughed.
"Never have I ever… seen an Orc," said Raedwald. Everyone
except Tar-Mairon lifted his glass.
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Wraith
"That will change," said Tar-Mairon.
"Never have I ever … lain with a girl," said a young apprentice,
barely old enough to shave. Color spread upward from his jaw.
Er-Mûrazôr felt his own face burning. He knocked a coin to the
floor on purpose and made a fuss about picking it up, leaving
his goblet untouched.
"Never have I ever … told my mother I loved her," said one of
the foot soldiers. Two others lifted their goblets and drank.
"Never have I ever… had a stupid argument with my father
and had to leave home because I wouldn't apologize." Eamur
looked right at Er-Mûrazôr, his eyes teasing. Per the rules of the
game, Er-Mûrazôr picked up his glass and drank. He wasn't the
only one.
Many rounds later, when Er-Mûrazôr reached for his goblet, or
to be exact, for the space between two goblets, his knuckles
grazed something metallic and he heard a clunk.
When it was his turn, Er-Mûrazôr said, "Never have I ever …
seen the coast of Valinor."
Tar-Mairon lifted his glass.
Liar. It was almost certain Tar-Mairon had never been to
Valinor. He claimed to have studied under Aulë the Smith, but
when it was discovered that no one there knew him, the Jewel
Smiths kicked him out of the guild.
Er-Mûrazôr met his teacher's eye and held it. "You know what?
You're full of shit."
"What did you say?" The goblet froze halfway to his lips.
I don't care who you studied under or where you used to live. I
just don't like being lied to."
Tar-Mairon slammed his goblet down on the table. Wine
slopped over the rim and puddled on the table.
Mairon’s Apprentice
"Calm down, I'm on your side." Er-Mûrazôr laid a hand on bis
teacher's arm. The muscles beneath the linen sleeve were rigid.
Er-Mûrazôr leaned closer and lowered his voice. "For someone
who walks around in his skin with no more concern than a
beast in the field, you're the most inhibited person I know. It's
like you're an actor playing a role. Everything that comes out of
your mouth sounds rehearsed. I'd rather deal with you, the real
you, than with some script." Er-Mûrazôr realized he was
slurring his words.
Mairon looked at him. For the first time since they'd met, the
expression on his face reached his eyes. It was like watching
actors rehearse a play, when they take a break, and you catch a
glimpse of the person behind the role.
Mairon studied his hands. "I tried that once. It ended badly.
When I lived among the Jewel Smiths, I confided something I
swore I'd never reveal to anyone.1
"What something?" Er-Mûrazôr asked.
"Let's just say I had to choose between going to prison, or
changing my name and devoting my life to anonymous good
works."
A guardsman burst into the room. "I heard shouting. Is
anything wrong?"
Mairon waved him off. "Eönwë and I were just talking. I mean
Er-Mûrazôr. Melkor's chains, I'm drunk.
1
That he used to be known as Sauron Gorthaur, Melkor's secondin-command.
160
writing “Wraith”
I work out the plot with pen and paper (and concept maps, and
index cards.) I do most of the text with Dragon dictation, which
explains some of my peculiar word usage, like spelling
“Lugbúrz” as “love birds”.
The map and booklet were made by Iron Crown Enterprises
(ICE), which produces “fanon”, like canon only generated by
fans. The souvenir tee shirt was purchased at the Iron Crown
Inn, located just inside the main gates of Barad-dur.2
2
which upon closer scrutiny is actually from CustomInk.
161