Thanks to Thranduil Oropherion Redux and Morthoron for getting this story off the ground. 

Maps for orientation can be viewed here: 

The region: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1oCOMX90pVuGWaDsggtmcUGDvJEZmViTt/view?usp=sharing

Levare city map: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1u1KDzOL-Sj7Oqxn2KsC3dZ40UJsC6GQX/view?usp=sharing

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“I am the Ambassador of Sauron the Great, and I will not be treated like this!”

“And yet it must be so. No disrespect is intended, and there are others you see in this room who will have to leave now, for none who are not part of the Council may be present when it weighs up a matter of state.”

“I care not what rules apply to others. Do you realise how exceptional this offer is? Sauron the Great is extending a hand of friendship to your little country.”

Hamûjil raised his own hand in a delicate gesture of appeasement. His eyes sought the face of a young woman who stood nearby, and she smiled.

“Our customs, Ambassador,” said Hamûjil, “are our own and we do not change them to suit strangers, no matter their rank. The Council will speak behind closed doors. My wife, if it pleases her, will take you around the sights of our city, and afterwards you are invited to join us for our feasting. If this is not to your liking, you can withdraw to the chambers prepared for you, where ease and comfort await you. Thus say I, Archseraph of Kûz.”

Sauron’s ambassador looked for a moment as if he would strike the Archseraph, but he mastered his anger and spoke in guarded tones: “So be it. I shall go around your city with your wife.”

“…if it pleases her,” Hamûjil added.

“It pleases me,” said the young woman. She regarded the ambassador with her calm, dark eyes. “You have declined to tell us your name, but I see no reason not to tell you mine. I am the Seraphine Majani. If you follow me, we will set off straight away. Your guards meanwhile may go and refresh themselves in the halls of the servants after their long labour.”

“Long labour?” The ambassador sneered. “They have but stood behind my chair. Are the people of Kûz so feeble that they consider it toil to stand guard by their masters?”

“Standing while others sit on cushions of silk may seem more arduous to those who stand than to those who sit,” said the Seraphine with a smile. “Come now. The city is peaceful and safe. I will take a couple of guards of my own, which should suffice for us both. Surely you do not fear me?”

It would have been hard indeed to think of something to fear from Majani, who was small of stature and soft of face, and whose limbs, clad in sunset colours, moved with the languor of a fine lady accustomed to leisure and luxury. Whether he was truly convinced by the Seraphine’s assurance or whether he simply could not think of a reply, in any case the ambassador gave his guards a sign of dismissal and walked with Majani out of the Council Chamber, down the grand stairs and out onto the plaza in front of the palace.

Here a number of chariots were always held in readiness for the royal household. They appeared to be wrought of gold and it seemed impossible that even without any passengers such a heavy weight could be pulled by the bini, the dainty horses of Kûz, that stood in harness, but in truth they were merely painted golden and were woven of a kind of reed. This reed was tough but lightweight and it grew in abundance along the shores of the Sea of Calma, not twelve miles to the west, and the Kûzeen found many uses for it in their homes and places of business. In the streets of Levare, many such chariots moved about, though only those of the royal household were painted gold and upholstered in red and green silks, since red, green and gold were the colours of the Seraphs.

“Ahead of us you see the Avenue of Peach Trees,” said Majani as she took the reins. “It leads all the way through the city to the far end where the Houses of the Powers are. You are in luck and will see Levare at its best, for the peach trees are in bloom, and the sun has come out today after many days of rain. How fortunate that you arrived just as the Council was assembling for their spring meeting!”

A shrill shriek tore through the air.

“No need to flinch” said Majani. “That was one of the peacocks that roam the palace gardens. They are as noisy as they are beautiful.”

“I did not flinch,” said the ambassador.

-oOoOo-

The Council Chamber had been crowded with all the guards, the messengers, the entourages of the Archseraph and the Seraphine; indeed because there had not been seats enough for all, many had been lining the walls, obscuring the precious silk hangings. But all had left now apart from those for whom this chamber was designed, and the heavy cedar doors were closed.

In the sudden silence, Hamûjil willed his hands to lie lightly and still on the armrests of the Peacock Throne. His Council was arrayed around him in a wide half circle. Most of them were Kûzeen: the Wardens, Mayors and Guild Leaders, as well as the two insitters, chosen by lot for this one session only. They all wore, men and women alike, the brightly coloured tunics and loose-fitting pants that were the customary garb of the Kûzeen, some of silk and some of wool, depending on their means. But there was also the gaunt figure of the Guardian in his deep blue robe, and behind him stood, as was her preference, the leader of the Tree Women. The chair next to the Guardian was empty.

“My friends,” Hamûjil said, “I will hear you all in turn. Speak your minds clearly and without fear of embarrassment. Who will be first?”

Baja rose up, the Mayor of the port of Mil Nahara. “I counsel caution,” she said. “We know so little of this Sauron, and of this country of Mordor of which the ambassador speaks. The alliance he proposes may be a boon, or it may be a trap. We should decide nothing until we find out more. The Wanderer is not here today. It is he who knows most of the lands that lie to the west. We should consult him when he returns from his travels. Let us delay. The ambassador, if he pleases, may stay with us as an honoured guest.”

 “This ambassador will not put up with delay tactics,” said young Leyo, the newly elected Leader of the Guild of Artisans. “Nor will he be satisfied with an evasive answer. And why should he be? His master seems powerful and yet eager to learn from us. We have many skills to teach. He says he has gifts to offer. Let us welcome him and sign a treaty that will increase our might and our wealth.”

“Hear, hear!”

“I agree with Master Leyo,” said the Mayor of Najûn. “We have always thrived because we have lived in friendship with all our neighbours, and now the chance offers to build a friendship with a power far away. I do not see how this could be anything but good for us. What kind of trap could it possibly be? This country is two thousand miles away. At best there will be an exchange of messengers and a little trade. We have nothing to fear and everything to gain.”

Several of the Kûzeen hummed and nodded in agreement, but now the Warden of Hill stood up. His name was Olan, and his charge was the easternmost region of Kûz: Hill on the slopes of the Orocarni, the Red Mountains. He was a stout man of middling age, big for a Kûzeen, with a booming voice. He had held the office of Warden for nearly fifteen years and, like the people of Hill who gave him their vote, he remained sceptical of the New Way.

“My friends,” he began, though some on the Council did not view him with a friendly eye. “I am surprised at how many of you seem to know nothing of Sauron. I cannot claim to know much, but I know that his name is evil and that the arrival of this ambassador spells trouble for Kûz. You have seen how this man conducted himself here in this very room, how he raised his voice at the Archseraph. Has the New Way made us so feeble that we accept such an insult, even reward it? Are you willing to put your trust in people who show us no respect? What good could possibly come from this? No, no, we must take a firm stand, though we should be in no doubt that perils lie ahead.”

Some who had nodded first at Leyo’s speech now seemed to be swayed and murmured in Olan’s support, and others looked thoughtful but not convinced. To some of them, it seemed a matter of little importance, while there were still other questions to discuss of improving the North Road and of devising a message to the dwarves regarding the price of iron, and already the afternoon was wearing on. None stood up after Olan sat down, and they looked towards the Archseraph to see if he would propose coming to a vote. But Hamûjil looked at the Guardian.

“Alatar, what say you?”

The Guardian arose. He was as unlike the Kûzeen seated around him as a cat is unlike a rabbit. They were short, and many of them a little plump, but he was tall, and lean from many years of living a simple life in the Sacred Cave. His skin was darker than theirs and there was not a hair on his head or his face. “I have much to say on this matter. More than you would care to hear, no doubt, on this sunny day. I am afraid you are all mistaken. Olan is right, it is not true that we know little about Sauron. There are those of us who know him all too well. If you have never asked the Tree Women why they came to this part of Middle-earth, perhaps you should ask now. That is, if Fimbrethil is willing to tell the story.”

“I am willing.” The councillors turned in their seats to look at the Tree Woman. She swayed a little, as her kind always did when at rest, and her cap of budding leaves nearly touched the high ceiling of the chamber. “I will tell you about the gardens we had in the West…”

-oOoOo-

“And here we honour the great Powers to whom we owe everything, the Powers of Light, of Air, of Earth, of Water and of Life. The holy ones live here in the grounds and they have dedicated their lives to wisdom and to contemplating the Powers, but all the people of Kûz may visit the Houses, and we get many pilgrims. But I see I have tired you with too much lore. Forgive me. Let us return to the palace.”

Majani spoke a short word and the bini turned the chariot around. The sun was now shining in their faces, but it was softened by a haze that rose from the inland sea, and it was far advanced in its descent to the horizon, pink and orange rather than white and burning. It glinted on the silver spires of the palace, almost a mile away.

The ambassador had said little while Majani had driven him through the streets of Levare, capital of the “little country” Sauron wished to befriend. In times of old, she had told him, the seat of the Archseraph was in the city of Najûn, some four hundred miles to the North of Levare. Najûn sat on a narrow point of the Navan peninsula on a plateau between two steep hills, and in ancient times when Kûz was still troubled by quarrels with the dwarves and by fierce beasts from the mountains, Najûn was thus sheltered and easy to defend. But those threats were far in the past now, and the people of Najûn had flourished and grown, crowding a city with no space to expand. So the Archseraph Damûjil, great-great-grandfather to the current Archseraph, had conceived a new capital in the fertile plains of the South, and had willed it to be a place of great beauty, and of easy life for all who dwelled there.

The City of Bridges, as Levare was also known, was built by a canal set in an oval shape all around the inner town, with five shorter canals cutting across it and dividing the inner town into six so-called rungs. In the Sixth Rung, closest to the palace, stood the mansions of the foremost families, while the Fifth Rung held mostly public buildings like the library, the infirmary and the baths. The Second Rung was the site of the main market and of many shops and workshops. In the other rungs were found the homes of the Kûzeen and in the First Rung also many guesthouses for pilgrims and visitors. Further homes lined the far side of the oval canal; this was the outer town, connected to the inner one by many bridges. Altogether some fifteen-thousand people lived in Levare.

Majani had spoken, and pointed, and made sure that the ambassador saw the great seashell shape of the Tower of Knowledge where the three Seekers and their adherents strove for deeper understanding, and the throngs in the market place, and the big store houses, and the splendour of the carvings on the five marble bridges over which the Avenue of Peach Trees crossed the canals. The main thoroughfares of Levare, she had told the ambassador, were adorned with patterns of a pale red paint that not only added beauty, but gave a faint light in the night and enough warmth to keep the streets free from snow and ice in the winter. Majani had extolled the virtues of the rooftop gardens that crowned many of the houses, and had shown him workshops where the “feeble” Kûzeen were busy with many crafts. He had been obliged to observe the potters and the glass blowers, the silk weavers and stone masons, and those who bent, carved and braided the stronggrass, as the Kûzeen called the stems of a fast-growing plant from their southern woodlands. See these fine benches that offer succour to our people as they walk through our town! Look upon the great pyramids of oranges and the myriad bundles of fresh greens at the market stalls! Smell the rich scent of cloves, of cinnamon, of pepper and of mace! Listen to the music flowing from the doors of the coffee houses! Behold! Regard! Admire!

But finally she had mercy on him, and as they drove back on the Avenue of Peach Trees towards the palace, she kept silent and let the city speak for itself. The peach blossoms shimmered in the late light, and gently snowed their petals onto the grass below. The canals were busy with rowing boats, the streets with people walking, and here and there with bini-drawn chariots. Some folk waved a greeting at the Seraphine, but most were engrossed in their own affairs.

“Your husband the Archseraph,” said the ambassador after a while, “bears a heavy burden for one so young. We know that his mother died not a year ago. He has little experience of statecraft. I hope you will advise him well and urge him to look with favour on our offer. Such an offer is not likely to be made again.”

Majani turned towards the ambassador, whose face she had barely regarded during their outing. He was not ill-favoured, but his skin was pale, paler even than that of the Krâ who lived on the other side of the inland sea. As if to reassure herself, Majani glanced at the warm brown skin of her own hands. She smiled, but she did not look back at the ambassador.

“The old Archseraphine taught my husband in statecraft from an early age. But that is beside the point. In this matter, it is the Council who will decide, not the Archseraph.”

The ambassador scoffed. “Your ruler’s will does not hold sway over his advisors?”

“So say our laws, and they have served us well.”

Nothing more was spoken between them until they reached the palace.

-oOoOo-

When Fimbrethil had finished her tale, the faces of the Kûzeen were grave with dismay, and some felt foolish and wished they could take back the words they had spoken earlier.

“Some of this was known to me,” said Hamûjil, “and the names of Sauron and Mordor are to the Seraphs as a menace on the edge of hearing or a shadow in the corner of our eye. But I never thought that across all the miles that lie between us, Sauron would think of us and try to lay his finger on us. Alatar, you have counselled me in the past that it was enough for me to be warned against Sauron. Will you not now tell us all you know?”

“All I know? Do these good people not wish to return home to their tables and their beds? Even of Sauron I know more than could be told before the week is out. But this only you need to hear: He was once the servant of Morgoth, the great Enemy who waged war on the Valar, the very Powers I have taught you to revere. Morgoth was overcome by the Powers, and Sauron is the greatest force for evil that now remains in Middle-earth. His hatred is bent towards the West, and from the East he seeks to draw the strength of armies he needs to battle those who oppose him. Do not become a tool in his hand.”

There were mutterings of “No!” and “Of course not” but Warden Olan raised a hand to speak.

“It is as I feared.  Sauron is evil and powerful and there can be no doubt about this since we have heard now how he destroyed the land of the Tree Women. I am no longer so convinced though that we should take a firm stand. Who knows what he might do if we risk his wrath in rejecting his offer. Should we not seek to appease him?”

“You cannot appease Sauron,” replied Alatar, “and his wrath falls on everyone in the end, unless they become his willing slaves. But his mind looks ever towards Gondor, and he finds servants in many places. You are not a war-like people, and this alliance he offers I believe to be only his little gamble. He has no real need of us. Let us hope that this and the two thousand miles of steppe between us will be or protection.”

Hamûjil looked around the chamber, and as none of the councillors showed a desire to speak, he arose from the Peacock Throne.

“We have heard what we had to hear,” he said. “Now let us vote, and as we vote, remember the Way of Light to which we are committed.”

-oOoOo-

There was feasting that evening in the palace, and though the Council had made a decision, none spoke about it as it was the Archseraph alone who could make such a proclamation. The ambassador tried this guild leader and that mayor, but all they said was to wait for the Archseraph to speak. He urged Majani to tell him, but she only laughed and said she didn’t know herself. And so he had to feign good graces and sit at the table eating and drinking wine and listening to the chatter all around him. Would the cranes return before the geese or after? Was the Seraphine’s newest poem her best yet? Whose summer house by the inland sea was in need of repair? The ambassador clenched his jaw and swallowed more bitter words than sips of wine.

At last the following morning Hamûjil sent word to assemble again in the Council Chamber and there he sat with Majani to his left and the ambassador to his right. Once again the room was crowded. Most who sat or stood there did not yet know what would be announced, and they shared their speculations with each other. But the councillors took care that their faces gave no clue.

Then Hamûjil arose and spoke.

 “Honoured ambassador. Citizens of Kûz. I thank you for following my call to this meeting. Hear then what I, Archseraph of Kûz, have to say. This is the decision of the Council of Kûz: We thank Sauron the Great for the offer of an alliance he has sent us through his ambassador. We have used all our wisdom to weigh up this offer and we have decided to decline. We have no need of his support, nor do we wish to diminish our independence. But we hope he will, as a gesture of our goodwill, accept our gifts.”

Hamûjil made a sign and a number of attendants stepped forward and set down in front of the ambassador open boxes that contained bales of bright silk, ornaments of silver filigree, delicate vessels of coloured glass, and other works of Kûzar skill. But the ambassador now dropped all pretence of courtesy, and he jumped up from his seat and kicked at the boxes.

“Sauron does not want your trinkets!” he snarled. And that same hour, he departed.

Note: I have put links to two maps (the region and the city) at the start of chapter 1.

Lanterns

“Then what do you want?”

“Go all the way down the avenue, like everyone else.”

“Take care, Alamûjil! What have I taught you about using words like always or never or everyone?”

“But everyone does go!”

“Everyone does not go.” Majani knelt down on the floor beside her son. “There are people too old or too frail for this long walk, there are people ill in bed and those who tend them, and women waiting to give birth, and people who cannot leave their duties – ”

“I know, Mother, I know! But we are not ill or old, and we are the Seraphs. Why cannot we go?” He clenched his fists and pressed his lips together, but a treacherous tear spilled from his eye nonetheless. “I am nearly eight. I don’t just want to walk around the palace gardens; I want to go to the real thing!”

Majani sighed. “I understand, sweetheart. But your brother and sister are too little. We’ve gone round the gardens every year before and you’ve always enjoyed it.”

“You shouldn’t say always,” grumbled Alamûjil. His mother laughed and wrapped her arms around him.

“Beaten by my own words! But listen, Alamûjil. The Festival of Lanterns is an important day for our people, and families should spend it together if they can. Lalina and Řahamûjil are so small; they cannot walk that far and they would be frightened in the crowds. Besides, the main procession does not start until late, and they would be tired and cross. Let us walk round the gardens with them, and later you may go to one of the balconies and watch the procession set off.”

“No, Mother, I have a better idea. Let us go round the gardens together and then you can take the little ones to bed and Father can take me to the procession. Or you may come, too, if it pleases one of your ladies to watch over the little ones. Miriel, you are so fond of the babies, you wouldn’t mind staying with them, would you?” One of the Seraphine’s ladies in waiting laughed but nodded good-naturedly. “See, Mother, Miriel will do it.”

“I see you are a statesman already, Alamûjil. Very well, I will speak with your father, and if it pleases him, we shall follow your plan.”

“And I get to carry the blue lantern?”

“Why do you even ask? You always carry the – hush, don’t you dare say a word! Now, if it pleases you, go to your tutor and show him your sums.”

“I will, Mother. And thank you!”

Majani and her ladies watched the child skip away.

“What a boy! And nearly eight when he only just turned seven in the summer.” With a laugh, the Seraphine sank down on a sofa. “You are very kind, Miriel, to indulge him so. You may have wished to go yourself.”

“I have seen the procession many times,” said Miriel. “Besides, while I cherish it as a custom of your land, it does not mean as much to me as to those who grew up here.”

Another lady in waiting, Ninod, who had been busy arranging the Seraphine’s porcelain birds that sat on gilded shelves all around the room, now turned around.

“Tell us, Miriel, of the customs of Gondor,” she said. “Do you have something like our lantern festival?”

“There is a harvest festival, though it does not fall on the equinox. And we light many candles at Mettarë, which is when the year starts in Gondor. But my memories are faint, Ninod. Remember that I was barely seventeen when I was taken.”

The story of Miriel, of her escape from the slave traders of Khand and her rescue in the wilderness by the Wanderer Pallando was almost a decade old now, but it still intrigued the women of the palace and they rarely missed a chance to ask for more tales from the West. Miriel was happy to talk some days, and reluctant at other times, and today seemed to be one of those occasions when she would tell nothing much. Perhaps it saddened her too much to think of joyous times in her distant homeland. The Seraphine briefly pressed her hand, then she got up.

“I suppose I must go now and speak with my husband. I have a notion that he will not be too keen on this outing. It looks like it may rain, and he meant only to speak to the people as they set out. I shall tell him that the Archseraph must lead his people in every way, rain or no rain. Oh, and Ninod – my birds are just fine. Let them be, will you?”

-oOoOo-

For all that he treated it as if he were merely doing a favour to his little sister and brother, Alamûjil couldn’t hide his enjoyment of the walk in the palace gardens. It took place at twilight, in view of the babies’ bedtime, and so the lanterns did not shine in their full glory, but on the other hand this meant that the flowers and shrubs and birds and butterflies still showed some of their colours.

While the outer parts of the gardens were open for the pleasure of the people, the central portion, adjacent to the palace, was reserved for the royal household and surrounded with a laurel hedge. Within this enclosure strutted the royal peacocks among the flower beds and the marble-rimmed pools, trailing their blue-green tail feathers, though one of them, known as Vani, was milk-white with ruby eyes. The paths were gravelled, and edged with pungent herbs, and today they were lined with little glass globes that each housed a flickering candle.

The Archseraph held the hand of his tiny daughter, and behind him came the Seraphine hand in hand with Řahamûjil, who had not long ago learned to walk. This made their progress slow, and time and again Alamûjil in his impatience speeded ahead and then turned to run back to his family, so that he resembled a puppy more than the dignified lantern bearer he considered himself to be.

Still, he had the blue lantern, and he carried it high though his arm was getting sore with the strain. His parents let their lanterns hang from their dangling arms, as did their attendants who followed behind, and all their lanterns had glass panes of red, green or golden yellow, each of one solid colour. The blue lantern only was different. It was slightly larger than the others, but what set it apart was that its panes were made of many hues of blue melded together in patterns of swirling ribbons. “Like the waves of the sea,” Pallando had said when he had gifted the lantern to the newborn seraph prince. “It was made by an Elven artisan whose skill surpasses even that of the Kûzeen.” Ever since he was big enough to wrap his fingers round the handle, Alamûjil had carried it during the Festival of Lanterns, if only for a few steps. Today, he was determined, he would carry it all the way up the Avenue of Peach Trees.

But first there was the round of the gardens to complete, and a few bites of supper to be taken, and the babies had to be kissed good-night and handed over to Miriel, and then his mother insisted on warmer clothes, and then finally, finally, they came out onto the plaza, where many hundreds of Kûzeen were already assembled. It was dark by now. Low, heavy clouds covered the moon and stars, and they smelled of the rain that was yet to come. The hubbub of the people faded as the Archseraph stepped forward.

“Citizens of Levare!” he began in his most majestic tones. Alamûjil felt his body tingle with the thrill of being outdoors at night, and with knowing that he was the son of such a father. “I am glad that it has pleased you to join my family and me for the Festival of Lanterns. Tonight we give thanks for a plentiful harvest, and we farewell the brightness and the colours of summer. We have lived life to the full in the sunshine and under the green boughs. Now the land that has filled us with its wealth approaches its well-earned time of rest. We bear cheerfully the waning of the year and the winter since we know that spring will come again. Let us now proceed to the Dome of Flowers and pay our respect to the Power that brings forth the fruit of the Earth.”

Alamûjil was ready to set off, but his father’s hand on his shoulder held him back.

“Wait,” the Archseraph said. “Let the attendants go ahead.” And at his signal four lantern-bearers from the royal household strode off towards the avenue, followed by the Seraphs with their entourage and all the assembled citizens. Below the black sky, Levare stretched out studded with many-coloured lights. Lanterns stood in the windows of the houses and were set on the balustrades of the bridges. Lanterns shone from boats on the canals. From the branches of the peach trees, lanterns hung and they twinkled as the wind ruffled the leaves. All along both sides of the avenue, people stood with lanterns in their hands. The glittering night was alive with chatter, and with scraps of music coming from open doors and windows. Farewell, Summer Sun sang the people, and Shine, Lantern, Shine, and Praise to the One Who Makes Things Grow. Under Alamûjil’s feet, the stone-paved street was criss-crossed by bands of a dim red glow. He strode on behind the attendants, no longer the fastest of the party, but having to make an effort now to keep up with the adults. His lantern, too, became heavier by the minute, until he could no longer hold it high in front of him. But he did not mind. He was out in the real procession, and he drew in deep breaths of the night air and marched on.

Some way ahead, the Dome of Flowers could now be seen. Many lights were lit inside and shone out through the glass panes, clear most of them, but some in colours of the rising sun, pinks and reds and peachy yellows. The dome was indeed an immense greenhouse, filled not only with flowers but with delicate trees, and here the people of Kûz paid respect to the Power that brought forth life from the Earth and who by the teachings of the Guardian and the Wanderer they called Kementári. It was the custom on this night for the people to form a ring around the dome while the holy ones performed the ceremony of blessing and thanksgiving.

In the jostle of folk trying to form the ring while those at the back of the procession still pushed forward, Alamûjil became separated from his parents. He didn’t notice it at first, because his mind was filled with awe at the dome, which he had never before seen at night. But when he turned to tell his mother that the babies were really missing out, he could see neither her nor his father nor any of the royal entourage, and when he called for them, his voice was drowned out by the singing of the people.

He was a brave boy, or so he told himself, so he didn’t cry, but all around him were people taller than himself who paid no attention to him, and he wasn’t used to that at all. He tugged at the sleeve of a woman standing next to him.

“If it pleases you, will you look for the Archseraph? He is my father.”

The woman glanced at him and patted his shoulder, then turned her face back to the dome and craned her neck. “Yes, love,” she said, “I’m sure he is.”

“But I’ve lost him!” Tears rose in Alamûjil’s eyes.

“Little children like you shouldn’t come here on a night like this. What were your parents thinking? You belong in bed. Anyway, if you’ve lost them, wait till the end when everyone leaves. If your parents have any sense, they won’t go without you.”

This was too much for Alamûjil. He began to cry loudly and pushed through the crowd, his lantern held close to his chest.

“Mother! Father! Where are you? Someone help me! I am the Archseraph’s son! Help me!”

Then a bulky figure turned round and seized him by the arm, and when he looked up he realised to his relief that it was a man he had sometimes seen in the palace. The man pulled him to the back of the crowd and then out into an open space between some trees. It started to drizzle.

“Young Seraph, do you know me?”

“If it pleases you, I know you, but I do not know your name.”

“I am Olan, the Warden of Hill. Stay with me until we can find your parents. There is nothing to fear. May I see your lantern? It is very beautiful.”

“The Wanderer Pallando gave it to me when I was born.”

“So I have heard.” Warden Olan held out his hand, palm up, and frowned. “The rain is getting heavier. Does your cloak have a hood? Here, put it up, and then come under one of these trees for shelter. There, that big cedar will do fine. Hurry up! What’s the matter?”

“Aren’t you going to say If it pleases you?”

“It’s raining, child. Come now, or we’ll both get soaked.”

The rain made some others seek a roof under the trees, but many had brought umbrellas, and others took shelter in the dome. Alamûjil turned his head here and there but he still could not see anyone of his household.

“Should we not look for my parents?”

Warden Olan pulled his cloak around himself. “We will stay here,” he said. “They will come looking for you, and if we move about, the chance is much greater that we will miss them. Patience, young Seraph!”

This was rough treatment by Alamûjil’s standards. He cast his eyes down miserably, and then he saw that his candle had gone out and that wax had spilled from his lantern onto his tunic.

“I am hungry,” he said in a small voice. He wasn’t really, but it was better than saying I’m scared.

Warden Olan rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a peach. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

Olan sighed and shook his head a little. “Once upon a time there would have been roaring fires at the festival, with roasted goats turning on the spit,” he said. “But your ancestor put an end to all that.”

“I am glad we have the New Way now,” replied Alamûjil, oblivious to the note of disapproval in the Warden’s voice. “I would not like to kill the goats and eat them. They are so kind to let us have their milk. Do you like goat cheese?”

“Does he like goat cheese?” came a mocking voice from the other side of the tree trunk. “Is this the kind of question that keeps you up at night, child of Hamûjil?”

“Come away,” Olan said and reached for Alamûjil’s hand, but the boy had already stepped round the tree to see the speaker. She was a woman, dressed in a faded red robe, and she seemed fantastically old to Alamûjil, with white hair knotted on top of her head, and a network of lines on her face. She sat on a blanket on the ground and regarded him with eyes that were nearly colourless.

“Are you the one they call the Seer?” asked Alamûjil.

“That I am, child of Hamûjil. And they do not call me that for nothing. Tell your father to beware. Darkness is coming!”

“But it’s already dark.”

“Darkness impenetrable. Darkness neverending. Beware, I say. Tell your father.”

“Don’t listen to her nonsense,” said Olan and pulled Alamûjil away by the arm. The boy, stunned by such violence, did not resist. Just then there was a commotion in the crowd, and he saw torches moving and his name called, and there was his father!

“Over here!” cried Olan, waving his other hand. An instant later, Alamûjil was in his father’s arms.

-oOoOo-

“What a boy!” said Majani for the second time that day. The boy in question was by now warm and dry and fast asleep. The Archseraph and the Seraphine stood by the window looking out over Levare. It was well past midnight. Here and there, lights still twinkled, because it was the custom to leave the candles burning until they went out by themselves. Their chamber, too, was still lit by a few red and golden lanterns.

“If only it hadn’t been Olan who found him,” continued Majani. “I do not like being indebted to him.”

“Olan is a righteous man,” replied Hamûjil. “He may not like the New Way, but he is loyal and he will not go against the Council.”

“Are you sure? I heard that people were hunting deer in Hill.”

“Yes, and Olan made them stop, because he knows what his duties are. I am not worried about him. The new Leader of the Traders’ Guild now, that Tilar, she is another matter. Ambitious and trivial – a dangerous combination. But no more of this. We have had enough worry for one night.”

“We sure had.” Majani shuddered. Hamûjil stroked her hair.

“Beloved,” he said. “I was going to do this tomorrow morning, but since you have had such an evening, I will do it now. If it pleases you, close your eyes.”

She obliged, and she heard him walk across the room and open the door of a cabinet. Then his steps returned. He seized her hand and put something in it, something smooth and hard and cold.

“You may open your eyes.”

“Oh! Oh, it is wonderful! Oh, it is Vani, look, the eyes are rubies. And the feet are silver, how clever! Is this Idian’s work?”

“No, Ghesen’s.”

“His skill is growing.”

“Yes, one day he will surpass his mother.”

“You are the kindest husband. I thank you. This will have pride of place in my collection.”

 “I am glad you like it. It is, of course, but a trinket.”

“A trinket…” She held the bird delicately between her hands and her face became grave. “Do you remember what he said, the ambassador? Sauron does not want your trinkets. What did he want, Hamûjil? What does he want from us? It worries me.”

“How can it still worry you, my love? It was, what, ten years ago? Eleven? We never heard from them again. Sauron has quite forgotten us by now.”

“You heard Pallando say that war is stirring in the West.”

“In the West, yes. And that is where it will stay. Alatar says the same; Sauron’s hatred is for Gondor. It grieves me for them, of course, but what can I do? Even if I had an army, what succour could I give them, two thousand miles from here? Nay, this war is but a rumbling of thunder in the distance, so do not fret.”

“I cannot help it. Sometimes I think Kûz is like one of my porcelain birds: beautiful, precious, wrought with great skill – but easily smashed by a single stroke of a hammer.”

“Oh, Majani, where do these gloomy thoughts come from? Kûz is surrounded by friends, our people prosper and our coffers overflow. Our children are thriving. You are beloved by all, and most of all by me. No hammer strike will fall, not on your birds and not on Kûz.”

He embraced her and kissed her brow.

“You are right,” she said and leaned against him. “It is silly of me, forgive me. And thank you again for the peacock. It is a thing of great loveliness.”

“As are you.”

They held each other, and one by one, the candles winked out.

 The Stone That Came From the Sea

The houses in the outer town were generally made of wood and stronggrass, unlike the grander stone buildings of the inner town, but they were solid and spacious, and trees and flowers grew between them just like everywhere else in Levare. There were no hovels, because the Kûzeen disapproved of poverty, so they saw to it that there wasn’t any. True, some Kûzeen had luxuries that were beyond the reach of others, but all had comfort and a bit of beauty, and so it was all over Kûz, not only in Levare. Here in the outer town the beauty usually consisted of bright geometric patterns painted round the doors and windows, and of coloured flags and ribbons strung in zig-zags across the streets, and inside the houses there were furnishings of stronggrass and of woven reed, woollen rugs, earthenware vessels, garlands of paper flowers, wall hangings of printed cloth and other goods of homely craft. In one such house, which stood on the southern edge of the city looking out towards the distant fields of the Tree Women, a man was busy mending the hem of a tunic when the door opened and his daughter came in.

“Good evening, Father!”

“Jarin, how lovely to see you! Sit down, sit down! Did all go well? Where is Wan?”

“Gone back.”

“Shame, I should have liked to see him. And the mission?”

Jarin laughed. “Hardly a mission, Father, just a message to carry. You always make it sound so grand. Really, I’m just a glorified postwoman.”

“Carrying messages for the Archseraph on the back of a – ”

“Father, please! I understand that you’re proud of me, but I’m just a normal human being. A tired one at that. Is there coffee?” Jarin stood up again and went over to the stove, where a long-handled copper pot shimmered in the afternoon light that came through the window. She took two mugs from a shelf, poured the coffee and added honey. Then she went back to sit beside her father.

“So what was the message about?” asked her father.

“You know I don’t know that!”

“But was it a friendly message? Are they still our allies over in Krandi?”

“They received me with the same courtesy as usually, that’s all I can say. Why are you so worried about this? And they are our neighbours; why do you call them allies? We’re not at war.”

“Not yet.” He stirred his coffee and began to sip.

“The Archseraph says the war will not come here.”

“But Jarin, don’t you see? If the Krâ, even just the steppe tribes, get involved in this war on the wrong side, it will make our life very difficult here, since we are Krâ.”

“I am not Krâ,” declared Jarin and put her mug down with vigour as if to make a point. “My grandparents were Krâ, but I am a Kûzin.”

“You look Krâ.”

This was true enough. Like their neighbours on the other side of the inland sea, Jarin and her father had pale skin, high cheekbones and grey eyes. Jarin’s hair was of a light, reddish brown and she wore it – her sole concession to her Krâ heritage – in a braid down her back, while the Kûzeen custom was to pin it into a bun. It was not unusual for Krâ families to settle in Kûz from time to time, and the Kûzeen were unfazed by them and left them to follow their own customs or not, whichever they chose, as long as they abided by Kûzar law.

Jarin was indeed a Kûzin in all but looks, though her father could not with any confidence have declared himself either way. Unlike his, her Kûzar was flawless, in fact she barely spoke Krâin though she understood it well enough. From an early age, she had followed all Kûzar customs with the same, or greater zeal than her neighbours. She was an ardent believer in the New Way.

“And,” her father continued, “you are Krâ enough that the Archseraph always chooses you for his messages to Krandi.”

“He chooses me because I am the only lungi who doesn’t mind going over the sea. It seems the others are afraid of drowning – as if it wouldn’t kill them to fall off over dry land.”

“Nonsense! You are contrary today, Jarin. See that it doesn’t weigh you down.”

“My conscience is as light as dragon breath.” She shrugged. “If it pleases you, I will stay here tonight.”

“Of course. You must be tired.”

“It’s not that; I could take a boat. But I would have your company.”

“Very well. Would you like me to beat you at chess again?”

“I will win this time.”

-oOoOo-

It was made of stone, or perhaps of glass, and it was smooth and flawless to a degree that Hamûjil would have thought impossible. At first he thought it was mirroring the room in strange distorted ways, but then he realised there were images moving inside it. Swiftly, he closed the lid on the lacquered box.

“You did well to bring this to me,” he said to the man in front of him. “I will buy it, and I will pay a good price. Will you accept glowstone?”

“I would prefer gold. I have no ship to transport glowstone.”

“You shall have gold then. But first, tell me how you came by this thing?”

“I’m a spice trader,” said the man. “I was travelling in the Riverlands, not far from the sea, visiting a village where they collect the finest vanilla pods. I can give you a good deal on vanilla, if it pleases you –”

The Archseraph waved a hand. “Perhaps, but we can speak of that later. By your leave, continue with your story.”

“It’s not a long story, Archseraph. I saw the stone in the hut of their chief. Someone had found it on the beach a few years ago and they had kept it, but it made them uneasy. They were worried that looking at it could make you insane. I bought it off them along with the vanilla. Frankly, they seemed glad to be rid of it.” He nodded as if to reassure himself that he had done the forest people a favour. Hamûjil suspected that the price the trader had paid had been nowhere near as high as the payment he expected to get, but in fairness, the man had travelled far across perilous lands with few roads and fewer comforts, and that alone required a reward.

“I was thinking of offering it to the dwarves,” the trader continued, “but I thought of you first, Archseraph, as a man of fine taste and good judgement.”

And a man conveniently located in the city where you sell your other wares, thought Hamûjil, but out loud he said, “I am glad you thought of me. We will talk about the price in a minute. But forgive me for a moment.”

He turned aside and spoke quietly to one of his attendants. “Be so good as to send a message to the lungi requesting their services. I would prefer Jarin, if it pleases her.”

As the attendant left the room, Hamûjil asked the trader to name his price. The man was not shy to name a princely sum, no doubt expecting to negotiate, but Hamûjil detested haggling. He agreed to the price and had the trader ushered out with instructions to speak to the chamberlain about the vanilla. Then he sat without moving, looking at the lacquered box. Nearly half an hour went past. Eventually, he picked it up and went in search of his wife.

He found Majani alone in the room reserved for her when she was writing poetry, and he would not usually have disturbed her there, but he felt troubled and longed for the comfort of speaking with her.

Majani wasn’t writing when he entered. She sat at her desk with a number of porcelain birds lined up in front of her and was absentmindedly peeling a mandarin. Hamûjil put the box down.

“With you leave, dearest, I will show you something.”

She inclined her head in agreement and he lifted the lid of the box. Faint shapes flitted within the sphere. Majani leaned closer and then, just as Hamûjil had done, she closed the lid. For a moment, there was a something like an echo.

“What is it?” she said after a while. “Is it magical?”

“I do not know what it is,” he replied. There was no second chair in the chamber, so he sat on the edge of the desk. “But yes, I believe it is magical. Powerful magic, too, and very dangerous perhaps. It was fortunate it came to me rather than…” He gestured vaguely. Then he told her of the trader and of how he had come by the stone.

Majani tapped her fingertips against her chin. “I am not surprised the forest people were spooked. It feels…ominous. What shall we do about it?”

“I want to consult the Guardian. I have sent for Jarin and I hope we shall be on our way before noon.”

“Do you need to go yourself? It looks windy outside. Jarin could fetch the Guardian here.”

“A bit of wind will not kill me, Majani. It would be disrespectful to drag Alatar away from the Scared Cave. And are you not worried about him being out in the wind?”

“If the Council meets to discuss this, he would have to come to Levare anyway.”

Hamûjil shook his head. “I do not mean to let the Council see this thing. In fact, I am thinking the Sacred Cave might be the safest place for it. I am afraid some mischief will come of it.”

In silence, they both stared at the box, but there was no answer to be found there. It was a black lacquered box with the trader’s mark in green painted on one side; such boxes were widely used by traders of valuable merchandise. Neither of them had the nerve to lift the lid again.

“I guess you must go,” said Majani at last. “How long do you think you will be away?”

“No more than two or three days.”

She went to the window. The room was on the second floor and overlooked the gardens. Gusts of wind did indeed tousle the trees and hedges, and clouds hurtled across the sky. Hamûjil put his arm around her shoulder.

“Have no fear, Majani. I shall be quite safe. I will go to prepare myself now, and then I will come and say farewell to you and the children.”

“So be it.”

He kissed her gently and left. In his own rooms, he asked an attendant to pack the necessities for the journey, while he himself searched his mind for any unatoned guilt. He beseeched the Powers to guide him.

Two hours later, he stepped out onto the roof, where Jarin already awaited him. She wore breeches, and a belted-down cloak over her tunic, and a scarf was wrapped tightly round her head and neck. The Archseraph was similarly clad.

“Jarin,” he said and made the gesture of greeting, a graceful outward swoop of the right arm. “I know you have only yesterday returned from Krandi, and yet I would request of you to set out again today, and take me with you. I wish to journey to the Sacred Cave. Are you willing to take me?”

“I am willing, Archseraph, if Wan is.”

From her belt, she took a small silver flute and began to play. The notes rose and fell, softly at first but ever stronger, and the world around seemed to respond to the tune. Light that had lain still on the parapet trembled and quivered, the drifting clouds slowed down, and the air shifted. There was an urgent sense of something trying to happen, something like a birth or a turning of worlds. Jarin played on, and gradually a second tune wove around hers as if in answer, and then the Archseraph felt as if he himself flickered like a candle, and then the tune stopped, and where a moment ago there had been nothing but the empty rooftop, a dragon now stood.

It was sleek, wingless, perhaps eight or nine ells from the head to the tip of its tail, though it was hard to tell because of the undulating shape of its body. Its scales shone in red and bronze, but its head was fringed with tufts of white hair like flames. This was Wan, ancient and wise, a chief among the dragons of the East. Unlike the dragons of Morgoth, the dragons of the East were creatures of joy and light, and in some way more akin to eagles, for they were servants of the Power of Wind and Air. They lived within their own realm, but they came forth into the world of others as a shadow or an echo, not quite real, and indeed though the sun glinted off his scales, the lines of the parapet could be faintly seen through Wan’s body. 

Jarin bowed. “Honoured Wan,” she said, “if it pleases you, will you carry me and the Archseraph to the Sacred Cave?”

The dragon turned his eyes on Hamûjil.

“Archseraph,” he said, and his voice was like a whisper from beyond the sky. “How clear is your conscience?”

“Clear enough, I hope, honoured Wan,” replied Hamûjil.

“Mount, and we shall see,” said the dragon.

So Jarin mounted the dragon, sitting astride where his mane fell off his neck, and Hamûjil joined behind her.

“You are light as a shred of cloud, Archseraph!” exclaimed the dragon. “Are you sure you are a ruler of Men?”

Hamûjil laughed. “I try to be good.” Then he held out his hands and his attendant passed him the lacquered box. The moment the Archseraph grasped it, Wan staggered.

“What’s in the box, Archseraph? It weighs more than you and Jarin together!”

“I had not thought of that.” Hamûjil looked dismayed. “I wish to show the thing in the box to the Guardian, but if it is too heavy…”

But the dragon rallied and looked back at the riders. “We will go, Archseraph. But we may have to rest on the way.”

“That we would have to do anyway, I believe,” said Jarin. “I doubt the Archseraph is as hardy a rider in the air as I am. If it pleases you, we will make for Mil Nahara and stay there overnight. You can rest in your own realm and I will call you again in the morning.”

“An excellent plan, Jarin,” said Wan, and he cast off from the roof like a bird, but his wingless body swam through the air in long, gliding waves. Hamûjil closed his eyes, as he always did at the start of his rare dragon rides, and when he opened them again, the houses of the outer town fell behind. Ahead lay the fertile plains between the Sea of Calma to the west and the wooded hills to the east. Hamûjil clutched the box to his chest and held on to Jarin’s belt with his other hand.

From a window in the palace, Majani watched long after the last speck of the dragon and his riders had melted into the clouds.

Trouble in Mil Nahara

Up here, the air was icy, and the winds tugged at every loose piece of fabric they could find. Hamûjil crouched behind Jarin and she in turn nestled into Wan’s mane. The dragon rolled like a ship on a surging sea. To ward against the rising nausea, Hamûjil kept his eyes on the ground. A hundred fathoms or more below his feet lay his country. They were roughly following the course of the Shore Road, which ran for ninety leagues in a north-easterly direction to the port city of Mil Nahara, where it bent and became the North Road, going on and on through the land of Kûz and onwards to the woodlands of the Elves and thence to the Dwarf Kingdoms in the northern mountains that were forever capped with snow. But here they were still in the South of Kûz, flying over fields, orchards and vineyards. Ahead of them, they could just about make out a darker horizon where the furthest reaches of the foothills of the Oracarni stretched in gentle slopes into the Sea of Calma, forming four large peninsulas. In a long narrow bay between the two innermost peninsulas lay Mil Nahara on the mouth of the Nahara River. But they were still many hours away from its tall houses and busy quays.

Hamûjil was not keen on dragon rides, useful though they had been to him at times. A dragon could easily travel at twice the speed of a galloping horse and could fly for many hours without rest. Furthermore, the dragons returned to their own realm at the end of the journey, requiring neither grooms nor stabling. In fact, they were never thought of as steeds, but as generous spirits who not so much served but aided the Kûzeen. They came to the call of the lungi, who trained many years in the House of the Power of Air, and they bore the lungi willingly as gentle weights not burdened by darkness of the soul. Other riders they suffered at times at their own discretion, and they cared not for wealth or rank but only for the heart’s purity. Not even the Archseraph could command them, and Hamûjil was grateful to have found favour with Wan. Still, unless time was pressing, he preferred to travel on land.

That time was pressing now seemed clear to him, though he would have struggled to say why. The stone in the box appeared unreasonably heavy even to him, and the dragon’s words had unsettled him further. Perhaps Alatar would laugh, but the Kûzeen were unused to magic and inclined to fear it. Hamûjil could well believe that the forest people had been happy to part with the stone, and yet it was not a thing one could simply throw away. He didn’t want it in Levare, but he wanted to know where it was, and with whom.

As the afternoon drew on, they reached the region where the open lands narrowed and the forests of Wood came closer to the inland sea. Slope upon slope they rose towards the distant peaks of Hill where Olan was Warden. Ahead of them now lay the ward of Shore with its many towns and villages along the big sweeping curve of the Bay of Ajani. Weaving and basketwork were the main crafts here. They had been in the air for nearly five hours and Hamûjil felt the weariness in his limbs. He gritted his teeth, for he didn’t want Jarin to think of him as pampered and weak. They were both of an age, at the tail end of youth, and if she could endure it then so could he.

There had been very little talk between them because the wind tore the words straight from their mouths, but now Wan called out loud.

“Are you tired, Archseraph? We’ll be a good two hours yet. Can you bear it?”

“I can bear it. But I shall cherish my rest tonight.”

“A shame,” cried Jarin. “I was hoping to take you round the harbour taverns. Drinking with the Archseraph would be something to tell my grandchildren.”

“I am sure you have no shortage of stories to tell as it is. But we can walk along the quays for a while, if you wish.”

“I’ll hold you to it!”

It was past sundown when they finally stood by the harbour walls of Mil Nahara and watched the last gleams of orange draining out of the western sky. The stars emerged and threw their light on the bobbing waves. Many ships were anchored here, lately unloaded, or lying low in the waters with their holds full of glowstone, ceramics and other Kûzar merchandise. These they took across the Sea of Calma and returned from their neighbours with goods the Kûzeen did not produce themselves: grain from Krandi, mostly, and iron from the dwarf port of Longhaven.

Mil Nahara sat on both sides of the bay, with only a single bridge crossing the Nahara River where it flowed out of its gorge. Elsewhere, boats were ferrying people across the bay. The city was hemmed in between the shore and the cliffs, and so the people had built up rather than out. The grey houses stood four, five, even six storeys high, and they were roofed with glazed tiles in many hues of green and blue. The streets were not painted like in Levare, but edged with solid glowstone, and a glimmer lay over the whole town from the dust and chips of all the glowstone that had passed through it over the centuries.

There was a particularly fine house on the north side of the bridge, set back a little from the road to allow for a space of grass and flowering bushes, a rarity in Mil Nahara. This house belonged to Namal and Tirian, wealthy silk merchants and parents of the Seraphine, and here Hamûjil and Jarin were to stay the night. They would take supper with his in-laws at the accustomed hour, but first Hamûjil fulfilled his promise to Jarin to walk with her on the quays.

As they approached one of the larger ships, they overheard two men talking by the gangway. Other men were busy carrying sacks from the hold to the wharf.

“How can this be all? We sent the same amount as always.”

“Would you believe it, they paid me in gold for the rest!”

“What use is that to us? We can’t eat it!” replied the first speaker. He was a chubby fellow with a magnificent bun of glossy black hair. “And anyway, how can the Krâ possibly pay in gold? Who gave them gold?”

“Dwarves, perhaps?”

“Dwarves pay in silver or iron, you know that.”

Seized by a sudden apprehension, Hamûjil stepped forward. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said. “If it pleases you, tell me what has befallen.”

“I forgive you,” replied the chubby man, “but I am not in the habit of telling my business to strangers.”

“He is the Archseraph!” said Jarin. Hamûjil held out his hand, displaying the signet ring with the royal seal. The men inclined their heads.

“I am the captain of this ship,” said the second man. “It belongs to my friend Hijal here, whose grain mill supplies the bakeries in Mil Nahara. I set out to Krandi with my usual cargo of cloth and earthenware, but the trader there had only half the grain shipment I was expecting. I tried other traders to make up for the shortfall, but there was no more grain to be bought in all of Krandi. It makes no sense, because I know they had a good harvest. Nobody was willing to tell me what had happened to all the grain. They just gave me gold and told me to be gone. I’m not even sure whether it’s worth going back later this month.”

“This is ruinous!” wailed Hijal. “What will we do without wheat and rye from Krâ? We cannot bake enough bread for all these people with just the little millet we grow.”

“And the Krâ gave no reason?” asked Hamûjil.

The captain shook his head. “No, and they seemed unfriendly and preoccupied. My trading partner usually invites me to stay at her home while the ship is made ready, but this time I had to put up in a guest house. And they didn’t treat me with much courtesy there either. My crew fared still worse at the inn; they weren’t even given any beer. Said the Krâ barely spoke to them.”

“And someone has given them gold enough to use as payment,” said Hamûjil softly. “I wonder who?”

“Dwarves...” the captain offered again.

“That seems unlikely.” Hamûjil pondered for a moment. “By your leave, I will look at the gold they gave you.”

“It’s in the strongbox. I will fetch it.” The captain returned to the ship and disappeared in the cabin. 

Hijal jigged from one foot to the other. “I assure you, Archseraph, nothing like this has ever happened before. Our trading partners in Krandi are very reliable; we have been dealing with them for decades. It’s my father that started the business. The Krâ had a good harvest. We offered the usual goods. I don’t know what got into them. But something’s up with them. You hear stories…”

“What kind of stories?”

“Oh, just…that all is not as it should be.”

Hamûjil turned to Jarin. “You were in Krandi not long ago. Do you think the same?”

“I wasn’t down at the docks,” she replied. “I just delivered the letter and rested in one of the guest rooms in the citadel. The next morning, the Ezen gave me the letter for you and I returned to Levare. I noticed nothing unusual. Though perhaps…”

“Yes?”

“Well, when we flew over the town, it seemed to me there weren’t many men.”

“The streets were empty? Was it very early?”

“No, there were people out. But most of them were women. I’m not sure it means anything.”

At that moment, the captain came back with a heavy pouch. He pulled out a handful of coins and held them out to the Archseraph. Hamûjil picked up one and examined it. It was crudely made and bore no lettering. The only mark on it was the outline of an eye stamped on both sides.

“Not much use for Heads or Tails,” he said. “And the others are just the same, I see. No, you are right, Hijal, this is no dwarf gold.” He dropped the coin back into the pouch. “I am sorry I cannot advise you. Perhaps it is just a misunderstanding. Let us hope so.”

Hijal was not consoled. “What will the people eat if they have no bread?”

Hamûjil spread his hands. “Rice, beans, peas…? If there is a real shortage of food in Mil Nahara, we can send up supplies from the South. I will –”

Suddenly, from the door of a nearby tavern, came the sound of raised voices, and then a crash as if of smashed glasses, and then more shouting. The next moment, two men tumbled out through the door, which was shut behind them with a bang.

“You’ll be sorry for this!” screamed one of them. “You shall see! We have friends now!”

As they strode off, they spoke angrily with each other in Krâin.

“What did they say, Jarin?” asked Hamûjil when they had passed.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Indeed I do.”

Jarin cringed. “The one said, These stuck-up nincompoops will have a rude awakening, and the other said, The sooner it starts, the better, and then the first one agreed.”

“Nincompoops? Really?”

“I paraphrased.”

-oOoOo-

“I am sorry you encountered such unpleasantness,” said Namal as he filled their wine glasses. The aroma of spicy dishes wafted through the room. “We have had a few situations of late with Krâ sailors showing rough behaviour. Most of them, of course, are perfectly good people. A few bad apples…”

“There used to be no bad apples, though,” mused Tirian.

“Well, you know. Times change, I suppose, and so do manners. But what you say of the grain shipment, Hamûjil, is more of a concern. I know Hijal, and he has an air of disaster that can make him look silly, but he is right that people will not like it if there is no bread, no matter what else they may have in their larders.”

“There is no need to think it will come to that,” said Tirian. “Very likely this is just a one-off occurrence, a misunderstanding like Hamûjil suggested. Jarin, dear, try some of this spinach tart. I think you will enjoy the cardamom flavour.”

“Really, madam, I have had plenty!”

“Not even a slice of star fruit?”

“Well, perhaps, thank you.”

Hamûjil sipped his wine thoughtfully. His in-laws’ dining room was usually a place of comfort to him, but tonight he felt ill at ease. The incidents at the docks had fitted all too well with what had already been on his mind. Once more, he pondered on the disturbing sentence in the Ezen’s letter: It may be necessary for our relationship to change in the near future. He had an inkling he knew what that meant, and why men were missing from the streets of Krandi, and why the Krâ weren’t selling their grain to Kûz. We have friends now. What friends? There were the same five peoples around the Sea of Calma as there had always been: The dwarves, the elves, the Krâ, the Kûzeen, and the Tree Women. If the Krâ had made new friends, they had to come from further afield. The sooner it starts, the better. But what was it?

But the other three were finished with the subject of strange encounters at the quay and moved on to lighter fare. The question of how the children were had to be answered at length and included an account of Alamûjil’s adventure at the lantern festival. Then the conversation turned to the next day and the purpose of their journey. Hamûjil was loth to talk much about it. “An ancient artefact to show to Alatar,” was all he was willing to say.

“Archseraph, if it pleases you,” said Jarin, “tell me more about the Guardian and the Sacred Cave. I know it was he who gave us the Way of Light and then the New Way, but who is he? I mean, he is an immortal, but he is no elf, so what is he?”

“That I hardly know myself. He and the Wanderer are of a kind, and they say there are others like them in the West. They are servants of the Powers. They came here long, long ago and taught our people to live well. Pallando, indeed, has other peoples to tend apart from us and therefore roams far and wide, but Alatar has stayed with us and guards the Unquenchable Light. Many Archseraphs have valued his counsel, but not until the days of Damûjil did Alatar find true support for his vision of the New Way. Damûjil enacted the Great Reform, and ever since then our people have prospered beyond all expectation. It leaves me hardly anything to do as Archseraph.” Until now.

“And the Unquenchable Light?”

“You shall see it for yourself tomorrow, if the Guardian permits it.”

“They say it is older than the sun and the moon,” said Tirian. “I do not know how that can be.”

“Yet it is true,” replied Hamûjil. “But forgive me, mother of my beloved. I am exceedingly tired and would very much like to retire. Jarin tells me we have to fly tomorrow at first light. With your leave, we will stay with you again on our return.”

“You are always welcome here, beloved of our daughter. Sleep well now. Sleep well, Jarin Dragonrider.”

And they slept soundly, but Hamûjil was troubled by his dreams.

The Sacred Cave

At sunrise, Jarin summoned Wan on top of the cliffs over Mil Nahara. The dragon seemed refreshed and full of mischief.

“So have you and the Archseraph been gallivanting in the taverns while I broke down with exhaustion?”

“Sure, we quaffed the night away.”

“And no doubt you want me to ferry you onwards while you sleep off your hangovers?”

“Shsh, Wan! You can speak like that to me, but not to the Archseraph!”

But Hamûjil wasn’t even listening. He looked out over the bay where the morning mist still drifted on the waters. The sails of an approaching ship could just about be seen. Hamûjil narrowed his eyes, but there was not telling how deep it lay in the water, or indeed where it came from. It might even be a pleasure boat – elves came down to Mil Nahara sometimes to share stories and songs; they had a reputation for being rather rambunctious on occasion, though never a real nuisance.

“Archseraph? We are ready to leave.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

The second part of their journey would be somewhat shorter than the first and would take them further north-east, over the woodlands and into the mountains. The groves of stronggrass and leafy trees, some already with touches of autumn colour, gave way to pine and larch as they moved higher up into the hills. The sun had devoured the morning mists, the air was crisp and still, save for the rush of the dragon sailing through it.

These hills were more sparsely populated than the wards of Plain and Shore or the southern parts of Wood. The folk who lived here were for the most part foresters, goatherds and charcoal burners on lonely homesteads in the clearings, although along the road to the mines of Hill some larger settlements could be found. As noon approached, they came to the edges of the woodlands where ridges of grey and red rock pierced the canopy. Far ahead, the snow-clad mountains rose up, up, their peaks lost in clouds. Beyond those mountains lay a vast flat land of forests and rivers, many times the size of Kûz, but the Kûzeen did not travel there, as the mountains were exceedingly high and the forests exceedingly wild and the forest people exceedingly rustic, or so the stories said.

The Sacred Cave lay on the near side of the mountains, not too high up, and close to a small mining town that also enjoyed a little business on the side providing rooms and supplies for pilgrims. Wan landed on the square, much to the excitement of the local people, but he was gone before anyone could come near. Jarin and Hamûjil secured rooms at the inn and then set off on the footpath to the Sacred Cave.

The path at first was hemmed in on both sides by high banks of mossy boulders, but soon it bent east and wound its way up alongside a lively rivulet that tumbled from the higher slopes. Bracken and hardy grasses grew among the rocks; they glittered with moisture and a musky scent rose from them. Then the path reached a ledge that led off to their left where the view was now open to the hills falling away below, while on their right the mountainside rose steeply. They had been climbing for about an hour, and they felt hot and out of breath in the clammy air.

“Wan couldn’t land up here,” said Jarin apologetically.

“I know,” replied Hamûjil. “Do not worry, I have been up this way before.”

They went on, and after a while Jarin said, “You didn’t tell the landlord that you are the Archseraph.”

“He didn’t need to know.”

“But…”Jarin hesitated. But what? It was unlikely that the landlord would have had it in his power to offer them better rooms, or better fare. Or even if he had, she wasn’t sure now that Hamûjil would have taken them. It seemed that the Archseraph could discard his splendour like a hat.

“There is the cave,” said Hamûjil and pointed. Jarin saw nothing but a dark opening, no sign that the Guardian abided here or that somewhere inside was hidden the Unquenchable Light. As they drew nearer, she noticed a figure sitting by the entrance. It was a young woman clad in deep blue garments.

“That is Uilara,” said Hamûjil. “She is the Guardian’s apprentice. You will meet her brother Aluir, too. The Guardian always trains up a pair of twins, brother and sister, to become leaders in the Houses of the Powers.”

“I know,” said Jarin. “I live in the Houses.”

“So you do.”

Uilara had seen them and risen. She made the gesture of greeting.

“Archseraph,” she said. “You are welcome to the Sacred Cave. Who is your companion?”

“She is Jarin, the lungi who brought me here. By your leave, it is her desire to see the Unquenchable Light.”

“We will be glad to show her. But I assume this is not the reason for your visit?”

“No. I wish to consult the Guardian about this.” He indicated the lacquered box. “Is he within?”

Uilara shook her head. “He is walking on the higher slopes. Come, refresh yourselves, and await his return.”

She led the way into the cave. They had to duck a little to enter but inside was a wide, lofty chamber, gently lit by a number of light shafts in the ceiling, and furnished with benches and rugs. Several passages led from here further into the mountain. Uilara bid them sit and went into one of the passages, whence she returned shortly afterwards with a repast of bread, cheese, dried apricots and small cakes.

“Wine or water?” she asked.

“Water, if it pleases you. We are weary from our journey and wine would only make us sleepy. Don’t you think so, Jarin?”

“I rarely drink wine anyway. It goes to my head too quickly.”

They heard steps approaching, but it was not Alatar who came into the cave, but a striking young man, no doubt Uilara’s brother. Jarin averted her eyes.

“I see I arrived at an opportune time,” he said, laughing, and reached for a cup. “We are honoured by your visit, Archseraph. But this not the Seraphine…?”

“This is Jarin Dragonrider,” explained his sister. “The Archseraph seeks advice from the Guardian.”

“He is not far behind,” said Aluir. “We came down the path together, but he stopped to take in the view. I, on the other hand, was eager to get home. Do not scold me for my impatience, Uilara. There he is now.”

Alatar showed no surprise at seeing the Archseraph. He sat down on a bench and stretched out his legs.

“The hills are delightful today,” he said, “but the paths are …so rocky! My feet are aching now. You wisely came by air, Archseraph. Did he drag you all the way up here, Jarin, or were you eager to see how an old man lives in a cave? Oh, no need to answer that; I did not mean to embarrass you. Is Wan around?”

“He left us in the town.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Well, what brings you here, Archseraph? What’s in that box you have there?”

Hamûjil lifted the box from the floor and placed it on his knees.

“It is something I bought from a trader who found it in the river lands. I desire very much to know what it is and what I should do with it. It is my hope that you would be able to tell me, if it pleases you. And may Jarin and your apprentices forgive me, but I wish to show it to you alone.”

So they left Jarin with the twins and went through one of the passages to an inner room that looked to be Alatar’s bedchamber.  Hamûjil closed the door and stood next to the iron brazier which Alatar lit from a torch. There was a bench here, too, and they sat down. The firelight was mirrored in the lacquered box and suddenly Hamûjil felt reluctant to open it. He took a sharp breath and lifted the lid.

“This, Alatar. What is this?”

The guardian bent over the box and stared at the sphere in silence for a while. Just like before, Hamûjil thought he saw images moving under the glossy surface of the stone. He felt uncomfortable and wanted to close the lid again, but Alatar now reached out and ran his fingertips over the sphere.

“I don’t know how this is possible,” he said. “You say it came from the river lands? Where exactly?”

“I do not know. The trader said forest people found it on a beach.”

“By the sea, hm. I wonder. Much may have happened, of course, during the long, long years. Was this one lost, perhaps? Or stolen? Captured in war, yes, that could be, but then how did it end up so far out east? May I take it out?”

Hamûjil inclined his head and the Guardian lifted the stone out of the box and held it up in front of his face. Then he set it down on his lap and pulled a fold of his robe over it.

“You are wise indeed, Archseraph. I am glad you brought this thing to me. It is ancient and has strange powers, and it may prove perilous in ways you do not foresee.”

“Then you do know what it is?”

“I am almost certain, yes. It appears to be one of the palantíri, the Seeing Stones of Númenor. There were seven of these in Middle-earth once, and I guess there still are, because they would be hard to destroy. They were made in Valinor by the Noldor during the First Age, I believe. They can show you images of far-away things, but they can also connect you to the other stones. And therein lies the peril, because we do not know where the other stones may be, and who may be using them.”

“They can speak to people far away?”

“No, they only show images.”

“Sound would be more useful.”

“Take your complaint up with Fëanor, Archseraph, and see what good it does you.”

“Are you testing me on ancient history? I know who Fëanor was. I do not claim to be wise, but I hope I am wiser than he. A perilous thing indeed if whatever we look at may look back at us. What is your counsel, Alatar? Will you keep it hidden here?”

The Guardian closed his eyes and let his hands rests on the stone in his lap. “I cannot yet say. I wish for counsel myself, but where is Pallando? Would that he had a stone that could call him to me when I need him. I’m afraid I must do as best I can on my own. Leave me for a while, if it pleases you. You may take Jarin to the Hall of Light. Get that chatterbox Aluir to tell her the story.”

So Hamûjil returned to the main chamber, where he found only Jarin and Aluir. The young man’s talk was vivid, his hands flew hither and thither, his head moved from side to side. He was relating some tale from the mining town, complete with gestures and imitated voices. Jarin was picking at her fingers, but she looked up when Hamûjil came in.

“…and then she says, Why didn’t you tell me this before? I sold all the spoons last week, and he says, Yeah, but you didn’t see the underside of his boots!”

“Hmph, yes, that is an amusing story,” said Jarin, but her voice said otherwise. “Archseraph, was the Guardian able to advise you?”

“He is pondering. Would you like to see the Hall of Light now?”

“Oh, yes!” She jumped up. “Can you take me?”

“I will take you,” said Aluir, “and the Archseraph, too, of course, if he wishes.”

Hamûjil felt much inclined to sit quietly by himself for a while, but he saw some kind of plea in Jarin’s eyes and he almost thought she was tugging his sleeve, but it was only caught on the armrest of a bench. Did she want him to come? Did she not want him to come?

“Would you like my company, Jarin?” he said, since a direct question seemed the best remedy here.

“Indeed I would.”

“Let’s go then,” said the young man. “A couple of things first, though: We do not speak in the presence of the Unquenchable Light, and we do not touch it. When you are there, you will feel the need to show reverence. Simply stand in silence until your thirst for the light is sated. I will tell you all I know on our return.”

“I understand.”

Then Aliur took them along one of the passages and then down a winding stair that was hewn right into the mountain. There were no torches here, because much of the rock was glowstone, and Jarin wondered for a moment whether the Unquenchable Light was nothing more than a rich glowstone lode. But even as they wound their way down and further down, she became aware of a brighter light that came up from below. Stronger and stronger it grew, until they took their last turn on the stair and emerged in a low chamber.

There was glowstone here, too, but its soft glimmer was drowned out by the dazzling radiance off the far wall. At first Jarin thought it was like looking at the sun, though after a minute she found she could bear it, and then she could make out the shape of the light source. It appeared to be the side of an enormous boulder, completely embedded in the rock around it, about eight feet tall from floor to ceiling and about as wide. Its surface was completely smooth and flawless. While she watched, she realised that the light was not steady, but pulsed faintly and slowly, as if somewhere inside the mountain a great heart was beating. Images came to her mind of places she had never seen: stark mountains, vast oceans, towering trees, and the skies filled with many colours. Yes, she thought, this is the core of our being and the reason for all goodness. This is why we follow the Way of Light. Nothing else matters.

As she stood there, not ten feet from the light, she fancied she could feel herself slowly transformed. For as long as she could remember, she had tried hard to keep herself free from evil – as all dragon riders must – but now for the first time it occurred to her that goodness was much more than just avoiding wickedness. She was seized by an urgent desire to fill herself with light and then go forth and shine on the world. She wondered whether all who came before the Unquenchable Light felt the same.

On the way back up the stair, she barely watched where she was going. The light still throbbed in her mind. They came back at last to the first chamber and there she sat down, ready to listen. As the Archseraph knew the story, Aluir addressed himself mostly to her.

“So, like I promised, I will tell you all I know now. Keep in mind that there is no proof for some parts of the story I am about to tell you. There are no eye witnesses, because it happened before even the awakening of the elves. But the Guardian and the Wanderer are both convinced of its truth, and there is no other explanation that makes any sense. What do you know of the furthest past when the Powers still dwelled in Middle-earth?”

“Very little,” said Jarin. “Well, nothing, really. Only that there was strife between them and the ancient Enemy, and that this was the reason they left.”

“You may say that, though it was more complicated. You see, when Middle-earth was first made, it lay in darkness, and so nothing could grow and live. And the Powers came from across the water and sought to bring life to Middle-earth, and for this they needed light. So they made two lamps, one in the North and one in the South.”

“Lamps? For the whole of Middle-earth?”

“Yes, you cannot begin to imagine their size. The lamp of the North shone with a silver-blue light, and the lamp of the South with a golden light. And they sat atop towers that were higher than even the Oracarni. It’s hard to picture, I know.”

“Wait, what about –”

But Aluir was in the swing of things now and talked right over Jarin. “So the lamps shone with all the splendour of the Powers, and in the light that they gave, things began to grow, and it was called the Spring of Arda. And the Powers rejoiced in the life that began to fill Middle-earth, and they rested on the island of Almaren, where the light of the two lamps mingled. But then the enemy came and knocked them over.”

Jarin scoffed. “What, like a naughty child?”

“A naughty child of great malice, and entirely unrepentant, but yes. The lamps and their towers smashed to the ground, and because of their great size and weight, they changed the very surface of Middle-earth, creating mountains and lakes. And it happened right here, where Kûz lies today, for both the Sea of Calma and the Oracarni Mountains sprang from the ruin of Iluin, the lamp of the North. So far the story is known to be true and is vouched for by those in the Undying Lands and indeed by Alatar and Pallando, because they were alive even then and were servants of the Powers and saw these things happen.”

Jarin’s eyes widened and she looked at the Archseraph, who nodded.

“But the rest,” Aluir continued, “is guesswork. After the Enemy broke the lamps and the Spring of Arda was marred, Alatar and Pallando went across the waters with the Powers and for long ages they stayed there. And Middle-earth was abandoned to the malice of the Enemy, while the Powers dwelt in Aman beyond the sea. But eventually the Powers made the sun and the moon to illuminate Middle-earth. I’m telling it wrong, that’s not guesswork, but I’m coming to that bit now. After a long, long time, Alatar and Pallando returned to Middle-earth together with others of their kind, to uphold the ways of the Powers and ward against the Enemy. That is, we’re now talking of Sauron, and he is only the servant of the Enemy of old, who is gone, but Sauron is bad enough. Anyway, after long wanderings, Alatar came to the Oracarni and made his home here, and one night he was out walking in the moonlight, but then heavy clouds came and all went dark, and then he saw a dim glow from a place on the mountainside. At first he thought it was just some kind of reflection, perhaps from a campfire nearby, but he could see no such fire, so he went closer to investigate. And when he had come closer he saw that the glow indeed came straight out of the rock, but only in one place where there was a deep crack. And that is how he discovered the glowstone, and he realised what it could do for people, and our ancestors began to mine them.”

“What about the Unquenchable Light, though? That is no glowstone.”

“Well, it is and it isn’t. It is of the same substance, but the glowstones are diluted, so to speak. I was getting to that. You see, this was already a natural cave, but since there is glowstone here as well, people delved, and one day they came across the Unquenchable Light, and they fled in terror. But Alatar saw it and he had his thoughts about it, and he brought Pallando to see it, too, and they agreed that this was a shard of Iluin. Big as it looks to us, it is only a tiny splinter from the great lamp, and it became embedded in the rock when the Oracarni were raised. They also think that much of the lamp was smashed into dust when it fell and that this is what gives the glowstones their light.”

“But you said the lamp of the North shone blue, but the glowstones are red.”

Aluir shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Things can change – you know that silvery iron turns to red rust, and red copper grows a skin of green.”

“And so the entire lamp was smashed to dust but that one shard escaped whole?”

“There are two smaller pieces embedded in a tunnel wall in one of the mines. They are only about the size of a loaf of bread. We also have an even smaller shard that was dug up about two hundred years ago and that we keep here in the Sacred Cave. Alatar thinks it is possible that further shards are buried deep down at the roots of the mountains.”

Jarin felt somehow cheated, and a little silly.

“That’s all it is?” she said. “A broken lamp? I felt it was something powerful and sacred.”

“It is!” said the Archseraph. “It is the handiwork of the Powers themselves, filled with their bounty and glory. Through all the ages the light has endured, and it will never go out. It may be hidden, but it has given light to our people, light in their hearts.”

“Well spoken, Archseraph,” came the voice of Alatar from the passage. “If a piece of the sun or the moon fell from the skies at your feet, wouldn’t you marvel, Jarin? This is no different.”

“Forgive me,” said Jarin, feeling even more foolish now. She wished she could leave, or at least that Uilara would return. Alatar lightly touched her shoulder.

“Nothing to forgive, child,” he said. “But now you have seen the Unquenchable Light, I must speak with the Archseraph again.”

“Speak with me here, Alatar,” said Hamûjil. “We have all of us beheld the Unquenchable Light, and there is no need for secrets between us anymore.”

“So be it,” replied Alatar. “But beware that it is of darkness that I will have to speak.”

Glimpses of Darkness

The Guardian had barely sat down when Uilara appeared at the entrance of the cave carrying a deep bowl of blackberries. With a gesture, he indicated for her to sit beside him and listen. He placed the lacquered box on his knees.

“Now, children. Inside this box is a thing I never expected to see again and might indeed have wished not to see again, if I had thought of thinking of it at all. How it came to turn up in this part of Middle-earth is hard to imagine, but the longer the years stretch the more strange chances will occur. It is a palantír of Númenor – you have heard of Númenor, Jarin? Right, so you know that they had great skill and wisdom, though even with all their craft they could not have made the palantíri. They were, in fact, wrought in the Undying Lands. You see, the elves on our northern border may seem a marvel to you, but they are dim shadows compared to their kin who once dwelled with the Powers in their lands beyond the westernmost sea. Of these, there was one – what puzzles you?”

“You say the Powers live beyond the westernmost sea,” said Jarin. “I’ve heard this before, and I don’t understand. Surely the westernmost sea laps on the easternmost shore? Do the Powers then dwell in the river lands? Do the forest people behold them face to face? That seems unlikely. But if it is so, could not we travel across the mountains and seek their counsel?”

“You think of the world as it is now,” replied Uilara. “But the Guardian is speaking of what was. In the days of Númenor, Arda was a flat disc and the –”

“Flat?” Jarin pulled a face. “That makes no sense! How could that even work, how could –”

“Peace, Jarin!” cried Alatar. “We are getting side-tracked. Arda was indeed flat in ages past, and the shape of the world was changed and the Undying Lands removed beyond Arda, but to explain all this would take the whole day. We can talk of it another time. As I was saying, there was one among the elves of Aman whose skill astonished even the Powers, and he made things of profound craft, of magic as you might call it. And some of them have caused endless trouble, but that’s beside the point. The palantíri were useful after a fashion, but great as his wisdom was in some ways, Fëanor was not one for thinking things through to the end. So here we have these things that can see into the distance, and connect with each other, and they are well-nigh indestructible, so that if one gets lost, it might turn up anywhere, fall into any hands, as we have seen today. Can you imagine the mischief this could cause?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Hamûjil.

“Explain more, if it pleases you, about how they see into the distance,” said Aluir. “Is it random images, like a dream, or can you somehow…steer them?”

“Both. They show random images readily, but those with the skill and strength of mind can steer them. And they do, as I said, connect to each other, though not all equally to each one.” Alatar sighed. “So here I have sitting on my lap a palantír, and there is no telling where the others are, or indeed where this one has been. Has anyone used it lately? If so, what for? And have they revealed themselves to anyone who might be looking into one of the other stones? And who might those others be, and what be their intentions? There are so many unknowns that it is not advisable to look into the stones at all.”

“But you did it anyway?” said Uilara.

“Oh, yes, I did it anyway.”

“And you saw darkness…” Hamûjil frowned.

“I saw darkness, and I saw things that bewilder me, and some things that you, Archseraph, should urgently know.”

“We should hear about those first, then, if it pleases you.”

“Soon, but not first. I want you to understand the limits of what I am going to tell you. Uilara thinks me reckless, but I used all my caution. So at first I tried to get a sense of where the other stones are. It seems that some of them are indeed lost, perhaps at the bottom of the sea, but two or maybe three are at the disposal of a powerful mind, and at least one of those minds is full of malice.”

“Sauron?”

“Perhaps. In any case, I took care to keep my own mind hidden. Nevertheless, I felt as if certain images where pushed at me, so to speak. These were meant, mayhap, for whoever used this stone before, or else for one of the others. So be aware that there may well be some deception involved here.”

“Can the stones deceive?” asked Uilara.

“I do not think so, but that doesn’t mean that one who looks into the stone cannot be deceived by what they see there.”

“A wrong impression, carefully prepared…” murmured Aluir.

“Exactly so. Therefore, what I will tell you now needs to be considered with much care. Hear this, then: The steppe tribes are on the move. They are marching west and I think it is clear where they are going – to Mordor, to swell the armies of Sauron.”

“How can you be sure?  We know so little about the West.”

 “There is indeed much you do not know about the West, and some that I do not know myself. But this you do know, Archseraph: Sauron has arisen again in Mordor. He will want to assault Gondor, destroy it if he can. Orcs have ever been his chosen soldiers, but if he can corrupt men into his services, then he will. He tried it with you and you rejected him. It seems he had more luck with the Krâ.”

“So the steppe tribes are going to war in Gondor,” said Hamûjil.  “Well, that just confirms the rumours, and it is not good, but it does not really touch us, does it?”

“Oh, but it does!” said Uilara. “Consider, Archseraph, that Sauron may not be content with conquering the West. If Gondor falls, whither will he turn his hatred next?”

“And I have already angered him…when I declined to take his ‘hand of friendship.’ Yes, I see the danger.”

“I fear there may be more immediate dangers to worry about,” said Alatar. “The steppe tribes have moved beyond our reach anyway, and even if we wanted to, we could do nothing about their march. Now, the other thing I saw concerns the settled Krâ.”

“But they are our friends!” cried Jarin.

Hamûjil leaned forward. “What did you see, Alatar?”

“Preparations. Weapon stores. Men practising at arms. The Ezen of Krandi and the Ezen of Talak bent over a map in hot debate. Women crying as their men were leaving. There is no telling from what I saw whether they, too, are getting ready to go to Mordor, or whether they have other plans…”

“…to attack Kûz,” whispered Jarin. She felt Uilara seize her hand and press it.

“How many?” asked Hamûjil, his voice toneless.

“I saw glimpses, Archseraph, not a scout’s report. But you know yourself how many folk live along the western shore. The Ezens could easily raise an army twenty, even thirty thousand strong. They could cross the inland sea by ship and send a host attacking from the South, and if they have a mind to grapple with the dwarves and elves as well, another host could come round the northern shore.”

“They are farmers and artisans, not warriors,” said Aluir.

“As are we, but they are used to harder work,” replied his sister.

Hamûjil shook his head. “And we cannot fight and kill, not without giving up the Way.”

“But if we are attacked…” Jarin felt sick. The light was still in her, and she thought she would never raise a hand to another human being, but she was terrified now, and wondered if she had the resolve to give up her life without a fight.

“Do we not have any defences?” asked Uilara.

“Our defence has always been our friendship with our neighbours. But I do not think we can trust in that any longer. Last week I sent Jarin with a message to the Ezen of Krandi, an invitation, in fact, to the Seraphine’s art exhibition. His reply has worried me. He declined, and he spoke about things changing between our lands. And then there was the ship at Mil Nahara.” He told briefly what had happened on the docks. “I have tried to ignore the rumours, but these are not rumours, these are clear signs that the Krâ have become hostile to us.”

“True,” said Alatar, “though that does not necessarily mean they are bent on attacking us, only that their minds have darkened. It is far more likely that they are getting ready to march to Mordor.”

“You think so?” said Jarin, trying not to show her relief.

“I do, and in that case it will go ill with Gondor. Our danger is at best delayed.”

There was silence for a while, and then Hamûjil asked, “What was the other thing you saw, the thing that bewildered you?”

“I am not sure.” Alatar’s brow creased and he rubbed his hand over his bald head. “I think it was Olórin. He is, you know, one of my kind, though it is long ages since I saw him. He remained in Eriador when Pallando and I travelled east. He and the other two. I think what I saw was Olórin on a hilltop, besieged by creatures of darkness. And he had a white horse with him, and he cast lightning into the skies. The other thing I saw I am even less sure about. It was like a – no, the image was too vague.”

“Do the stones show only what is now,” asked Aluir, “or the past and future, too?”

“I cannot say for certain. Mainly what is now, or very recent, though I believe it might be possible to steer them further into the past. The future…I doubt that.”

“This Olórin in Eriador doesn’t seem to have any bearing on our situation here, though,” said Hamûjil. “I must act, but what shall I do? I came only to find out the nature of this magic stone, and now I have to decide how to respond to the worst news of my lifetime. What is your counsel, Alatar?”

“That you return to Levare and call for a meeting of the Council.”

“Do we have time to wait for the Council to assemble?”

“I believe so. Remember it was only preparations I saw. But when you get home, send scouts out immediately to see if any Krâ are on the march.”

“Yes. And will you keep the palantír safe?”

“As safe as anything can be. Go now. I will see you again at the Council.”

-oOoOo-

“Archseraph?” said Jarin as they descended down the mountainside. “You have seen the Unquenchable Light before. Did it, did it do something to you? I feel like I am a changed person. I have always done my best to abide by the Way, but it’s different now. It’s hard to describe…”

“It filled you with a desire to be good from the inside, regardless of any outside rules.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s it.”

“It is the light of the Powers, Jarin. One cannot look upon it and be unaffected.”

“But then…Aluir said what makes the glowstone shine is dust from the lamp. So isn’t that the same thing? And we have glowstones in so many places, and glowstone paint, so shouldn’t we get the same feeling from them?”

“Ah, but we do, only in a much lessened form. Why do you think Kûz is so peaceful and prosperous? Alatar knew what he was doing when he showed our ancestors the Way of the Light. It is more than just a metaphor, Jarin. The light of the Powers shines all over Kûz and urges us towards goodness, though never as strongly as when we stand in front of the Unquenchable Light. It is possible, of course, to harden your heart against it. But usually it changes people from within.”

“Then what about our neighbours? We trade glowstone with them, don’t we? Does it make them better, too?”

“I think it does, though of course they do not use it as much as we do. But certainly the dwarves in Longhaven and the mountains beyond are far friendlier with us that those further away.”

“And the Krâ?”

“They do not buy as much glowstone as the dwarves, but yes, they have some. And that gives me hope, because I cannot believe that they would be wholly corrupted by Sauron. Perhaps there is a way to remind them of our long friendship.”

“If anyone can do that, it is you, Archseraph,” said Jarin with conviction.

Hamûjil laughed. “It is good to know that at least one of my citizens has faith in me. Because at this moment, I have very little faith in myself.”

-oOoOo-

Their journey back was uneventful. The weather was fine with splendid views of which they took little note. The Archseraph’s in-laws spoke of inconsequential matters while Jarin and Hamûjil sipped their wine in silence. The following day they reached Levare in the afternoon. They set down the Archseraph on the roof of the palace and then Wan took Jarin home. He landed on the lawn near the cedar tree where the Seer often sat, though she wasn’t there today.

Jarin dismounted. She leaned against the dragon’s mane and thanked him. Wan turned his head.

 “So, what was it like, seeing him again?”

“Oh, wonderful.” Jarin shrugged. “He didn’t even remember me. We were just a conveyance for him, you and I.”

“He is a fool then.”

“Hardly! He is the Guardian’s apprentice.”

“There is more than one way to be a fool,” said Wan. “Good-bye, Jarin. Until we meet again.”

And Wan faded from the lawn where he had stood. Jarin entered the House of the Power of Air and climbed up the stair to her room. Slowly, she took off her boots and then her cloak and then she sank down on her bed and cried. But at the other end of town in the Archseraph’s palace, a frantic Majani threw herself into Hamûjil’s arms and cried, “Thank the Powers you are here! He has come back and he is even grimmer than before, and I did not know what to do, and I am terrified!”

The Splendour of Kûz

“Was the sister nice?”

“Oh, yeah, nice enough, but what good is that to me?”

It was the morning after their return from the Sacred Cave and Jarin and Sâlian, her friend and fellow lungi, were walking in the grounds of the Houses of the Powers. The fair weather continued with mild air moving gently under a porcelain-blue sky. Fallen leaves dotted the lawns, but the evergreens stood in their deep, glossy foliage, festooned with silver cobwebs. Jarin strode on.

“Anyway, it’s not important,” she said.

“But you are upset.”

“I’m not upset, Sâlian, I’m scared! I’m not allowed to tell you the whole story, but Kûz is in danger. Can you imagine what we would do if an army from Krâ came marching up the South Road?”

“The Krâ are attacking us? Are you sure?”

“I said if. But hush now.” They were drawing near to the great cedar. Jarin and Sâlian made the gesture of greeting and intended to walk on, but the Seer called out to them.

“Child of Margig!”

Jarin sighed. She wondered whether the old woman only ever learned people’s names once they had children.

“My name is Jarin,” she said, “as well you know. And I am also the child of Nazal, though she is gone. What is it you want to tell me?”

“The child of Margig and Nazal is feisty,” said the Seer with a crooked smile. “Beware, Jarin Dragonrider! Beware of the north wind!”

“Right.” Sâlian was trying to make her move on, but Jarin sat down on the ground beside the old woman instead. “Tell me then. What am I supposed to do about the north wind? I can hardly stop it from blowing.”

If the Seer was surprised by this direct assault, she didn’t show it. With a nod, she bid Sâlian to sit down, too.

“And anyway,” continued Jarin, “Shouldn’t it be the west wind you warn us of? The Krâ, and Sauron, it’s all in the West.”

“I know, child. That’s no secret. I wouldn’t be much of a Seer, would I, if I told you what everyone knows. But I wasn’t talking about Kûz. I was talking about you, Jarin Dragonrider. I feel an unease, a foreboding about you. One of these days, one days soon, I think, the north wind will take you, for ill or for good.”

“If it may be for ill or for good, what’s the use of your warning?”

The old woman shook her head. “Jarin, try to understand. Forebodings come to me, but they are not as words written on paper. I cannot tell you, do this or do that. But this I say: do not go blindly ahead. Keep your eyes open, your mind alert. Something lies ahead, and the more aware you are, the better it will be for you, and perhaps for us all.”

“When you speak like this, it makes so much more sense,” said Sâlian. “Why do you always scream Beware, Child of So-and-So and all that?”

“If I spoke in cool and measured tones, who would listen to me?”

“Well, I would!” cried Jarin. “And I thank you for your counsel. I promise to be on my guard. But tell me, if it pleases you, what did you mean by perhaps for us all? Surely my fate is of no great importance.”

“You are a lungi. You go where others can’t. You see places from up high. You converse with dragons.”

“Well, so do Sâlian and all the other lungi.”

“But you are the one of whom I have forebodings.”

Sâlian shook her head. “Seer, I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that I don’t feature in your hunches.”

“There is no need for either. You are a good woman who walks on a straight path. Jarin, though…she will be taken off-course. Who knows what may come of that?”

Jarin took the old woman’s hands and kissed them swiftly. “I guess we will see. Farewell now. Sâlian and I were on our way to the market, and we want to get there before all the best soapberries* are gone.”

-oOoOo-

Over at the palace, Hamûjil did what he could, which was little enough.

“If Sauron wanted our friendship, he would not send you here with threats and harsh words.”

The ambassador laughed. “Friendship, ha! The time for friendship is over. As I told you ten years ago, that offer will not be repeated. What Sauron demands now is allegiance and the tributes –”

“You also told me ten years ago that Sauron doesn’t want our trinkets. Has he changed his mind? We are a free people who acknowledge no sovereignty above our own, and we certainly do not pay tributes. If Sauron wants to purchase any of our goods, I will let my chamberlain draw up a list of prices.”

“You think Sauron will pay for your silly little mirrors and vases?” the ambassador said with a sneer. “You think Sauron the Great is going to buy embroidered silk hangings to deck his chambers?”

“No, I think Sauron has no use at all for the beautiful things the Kûzeen make and that this demand for tribute is nothing but a ploy to intimidate us. But we are not so easily cowed. And now you must leave. I banish you from the palace. Elsewhere in the city and the land of Kûz you may still travel unless I hear ill of you. Now go!”

“Now go,” repeated the ambassador in a mocking voice. “Are you not going to say By your leave and Pretty please anymore? Do you not have to ask your little mayors and guild masters for approval before you speak to me? You petty chieftain who plays at being king! What will you do if I refuse to leave?” And he planted his feet firmly on the ground.

Without a further word, Hamûjil rose and went out. The two guards stood beside the Peacock Throne like statues and did not so much as move their eyes while the ambassador ranted and raged. After a while, he fell silent, and after another while, he flounced out, slamming the door behind him. One of the guards sniggered.

-oOoOo-

Hamûjil made straight for his wife’s chambers. Majani was sitting with the little ones beside her, while Miriel was engaged in a game of chess with Alamûjil. The other ladies were employed with various handicrafts. The Seraphine took one look at her husband’s face, and on a sign from her, her ladies ushered the children out. Hamûjil sat down beside Majani and she put her arms around him.

“What did you say to him? Was he very disagreeable?”

“Majani…I am not sure you understand. This goes way beyond disagreeable.” Hamûjil tugged at the ends of his moustache, a sure sign that he was unnerved. “He said Sauron demands that we swear allegiance to him and recognize his dominion over all the lands of the East, including Kûz. He offered to allow me to continue as Archseraph if I were to agree to his terms.”

“And did you?”

“Of course not!”

“You were brave to stand up to him. But it was dangerous.”

“You think he would have slain me on my own throne? I doubt it. He is still just one man, however grim. You were wise not to permit his escort to enter the city.”

“Where is he now?”

“I do not know. I banished him from the palace, but he refused to leave, so I left instead.” He laughed bitterly. “A fine Archseraph I am! For all I know, he is sitting on my throne now, passing judgement on my people.”

Majani took his face between her hands. “No, I think you did the right thing. He sought confrontation, and you denied it to him. Mark my words, he will not know how to respond to that. You know, he frightens me, but I can also see this about him: that he acts like an angry child; and over such a one a superior mind like yours will prevail.” She smiled. “And as yet, we do not hear any trumpets proclaiming the Lord Sauron.”

“Do not jest, Majani. This might still come to pass.”

“What will you do now?”

“Wait for an hour, then see if he is gone.”

“No, I mean about…the wider situation.”

“The Council is called for the end of next week. There is not much I can do before then. The lungi who returned this morning say they saw no signs of a Krâ army moving. So at least we are safe for now. I think we should go on as we always do, and be seen in the streets and of course at the exhibition. The last thing we need is for our people to panic.”

“Agreed. I confess the exhibition is uppermost in my mind, war in the West or not. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No, Beloved. You have worked so long and so hard towards this. It will be a marvel to behold, a beacon of the splendour and goodness of Kûz.”

He kissed Majani, then he stood up and ambled over to the chess board. “Checkmate in three moves,” he mumbled. “Who is playing black?”

“Miriel.”

“Shame. I thought our son was uncommonly clever.”

“He is, but he is also seven years old.”

Shortly afterwards, an attendant came in.

“Archseraph, the ambassador has left the palace. He has taken his horse from the stables and was seen riding for the South Road. The captain of the guard wants to know if he should send men to follow him.”

“No, let him go, and good riddance.”

Majani grabbed his arm. “He will ride for Mordor and tell Sauron.”

“Yes, of course,” said Hamûjil. “But unless he learns to fly, it will be many weeks before he gets there. Whatever else, he will not be able to spoil your exhibition.”

-oOoOo-

“It seems a shame dragons are not permitted. I know Wan loves pretty things.”

“It’s not sensible,” said Sâlian. “How would they fit into the buildings? The Tree Women can’t go in either.”

“Well, it should be held outside then.”

“At this time of year? Look, it’s going to rain again in a minute, and we didn’t bring umbrellas. I hope we’ll get in soon.”

There was a long queue outside the museum in the fifth rung, stretching down the street as far as the Mayor’s Hall. Paper banners announced the exhibition from walls and railings. The Kûzeen had many virtues, but patience was not principal among them, and so as the first drops began to fall, there was much grumbling and a fair amount of pushing. The guards had some work to keep clear the main thoroughfare of the street, where a number of chariots were now approaching. The first held the Archseraph and the Seraphine, the second their eldest son in the care of a fine lady, and then followed many others with wardens and mayors, and with delegations of dwarves and elves. Not a single Ezen had come from Krâ.

The Seraphs ascended the stair together and turned at the entrance. There the Seraphine gave a short speech, though Jarin and Sâlian where too far away to catch more than a few scraps. Way of Light. Beauty of our hands and hearts. People prosper. Then the doors were flung open, the guests of honour entered with the Seraphs, and then, very slowly, the queue began to move.

Jarin and Sâlian were fairly drenched by the time they reached the entrance. They passed their sodden boots to an attendant in exchange for felt slippers and followed the crowd into the main hall of the museum.

“Oh, look!” cried Sâlian. All across the far wall hung a silk banner on which was painted a majestic dragon in hues of blue, red and purple. The two lungi went closer and saw how deftly each shimmering scale had been drawn.

“I think this is outlined in glowstone paint,” said Jarin. “It will look magnificent in the dark.”

“Do you propose to stay here till nightfall?”

“Maybe we could break in after dark.”

They giggled.

The Seraphine called it an art exhibition, and there were indeed many paintings and broidered hangings and fine porcelain figurines to be admired, though shrewdly she had also included displays of more practical crafts, and it was to these more than the delicate images of mountains and flowers that she steered the groups of dwarves and elves.

“These reed mats are very hard-wearing,” Jarin heard an artisan declare. “We are using a new weaving technique to make them virtually waterproof and they are good for keeping the cold out.”

“What do you think?” whispered one dwarf to another. “It’s always damp in the third hall.” His companion nodded thoughtfully.

A gaggle of elves was clustered around a table with glass mirrors. “One of these days,” said one, “we will find out how they make them. It is not proper that the Secondborn should surpass us in such a craft.”

“Good luck!” replied another. “I can easily see them guarding their secret for another three hundred years.”

“Well, let them,” said the first. “We can wait.”

Jarin and Sâlian proceeded upstairs, where four whole rooms were dedicated to the ceramic arts. Here, too, everyday earthenware was shown alongside the most graceful porcelain. Sâlian fancied a small blue jug with curved handles and wondered what it might cost.

“It’s an exhibition, not a shop,” said Jarin.

“I think the Seraphine means it to be both.”

“Well met, lungi!” They turned around. There stood a man robed in palest blue, with lush white curls cascading down his shoulders and mingling with his beard. He winked. The three embraced.

“Pallando! When did you return?”

“Just this morning. It was a long journey, and poor Mûn was exhausted. I quite fancied my bed, too, but when I heard of the Seraphine’s exhibition, well, I couldn’t miss that now, could I?”

“I am glad you’re here,” said Jarin. “We have some very worrying news, and we sorely need your counsel. The Archseraph and I have been to see the Guardian, and we – well, I’m sure he will tell you all about that. But, Pallando, I have seen the Unquenchable Light!”

“That’s good, my dear, very good. Well, I’m afraid my news is not delightful either, and the Archseraph must hear of it, and soon. But it can wait till tomorrow. Let’s not spoil this joyful occasion. Have you seen much yet? What do you like best?”

“Oh, the dragon! Have you seen it? Is it Mûn?”

“Yes, it is Mûn. I painted him some years back as a gift for the Seraphine. I am pleased she is showing him off to all now.”

“I didn’t know you could paint,” said Sâlian.

“My dear, I have been around for a long time. I have had a chance to try my hand at most crafts.”

“Artist, wizard, dragon rider…”  Jarin smiled. “I can see there is more to the Wanderer than I thought when I was a child.”

“There is,” he agreed. “But what about friend? I hope you did not leave that out on purpose?”

“Of course not!” Jarin slung her arm through his. “Come, I’ll show you some amazing vases.”

---------------------------------

*lychees

On the Quack Run

Even if it had been permitted, it would have been rude to call dragons just for their own convenience, but they were footsore now, so they took a boat. This part of the canal, to the South of the fourth and fifth rung, was jokingly known as the Quack Run, because it was home to many ducks. The ducks of Kûz were of a peculiar kind, with plumage of green and rusty brown, and with a crest of wispy white feathers. The ones in Levare were sweet little creatures, lively and rather tame, and therefore the avenues on either side of the canal were a popular place for parents to take their young children.

The maple trees that lined the canal had turned into a range of fiery colours, and their feathery leaves were seen here and there drifting on the water. The rain had stopped, but had left the air cool and damp, like clammy fingers creeping into their collars and up their sleeves. Sâlian put up her hood and huddled against Jarin.

“I don’t see anyone feeding the ducks today,” said Jarin. In fact, the streets were largely deserted.

“Well, no,” replied the rower, a youngish man with an impressive moustache. “Not with all that talk of a bread shortage.”

“What’s this?” asked Pallando.

“Ah!” The rower shook his head sagely; he might have waggled his hands had they not been holding the oars. “Last couple of days there’s been talk all over Levare that we’re out of grain. Something about the Krâ having run out.”

“No, I think they’re just not selling it to us,” said Jarin. “There was a ship at Mil Nahara…” Then it occurred to her that she’d better not fuel the rumours.

“Feed them lettuce and peas. It’s better for them anyway,” said Pallando. It wasn’t quite clear whether he meant the ducks or the Kûzeen.

 “My mother feeds me pea soup all the time,” said the rower. “I’m not sure it’s done me much good.”

Ahead they could now see a green and white bridge coming up; it was the bridge that linked the third rung to the outer town. A man and a woman stood by the parapet in earnest conversation, but when they noticed the boat approaching, they scurried away in opposite directions.

“She looked familiar,” said Jarin. “I think I’ve seen her up at the palace.”

“And who was he?” said Sâlian. “He was no Kûzin.”

“He was no Krâ either,” replied Jarin.

“I have a feeling I know what he is.” Pallando kept his voice low, so it wouldn’t reach the rower. “I fear this was not just a meeting of secret lovers.”

Jarin looked puzzled. “A conspiracy?”

“Perhaps.”

“But what is there to conspire about?”

“Dear Sâlian,” said Pallando and patted her arm. “A straight mind like yours finds it hard to understand a crooked one. But even in Levare all things might not be as they should.”

Jarin tried to imagine the kind of crooked mind that would want to betray the Archseraph or the people of Kûz. Where had she seen that woman before? But she wasn’t even sure she had, and the woman had hurried off after such a fleeting glimpse that there really was no telling. She glanced at the sky, where fat blue clouds were floating towards the sunset. It looked like more rain, though perhaps this time it would fall on the fields of the Tree Women instead. Perhaps she and Wan would soon be sent out again. Not too soon, she hoped. And not to ferry Aluir, if she could at all avoid it.

They reached their jetty and paid the rower. By now, twilight was creeping among the trees. All three of them had their lodgings in the House of the Power of Air, and thither they hastened as it had started to drizzle again. This House lay across the greensward, next to the House of the Power of Light. It was built of pale grey sandstone and stood four storeys high with a colonnade across the front. Like all of the Houses, save for the Dome of Flowers, it served several purposes. Most of the tall ground floor was taken up by the Great Hall, where people could congregate to hear speeches or lectures, or come alone to contemplate. The upper floors were dedicated to those who studied the ways of the sky and the weather, and to the training and accommodation of the lungi. There was a landing space for dragons on the roof.

Dragons had been known in Kûz for many centuries; even before the people worked out how to call them from their realm, they had at times simply appeared to offer advice and aid unlooked-for. They were said to be servants of the Power of Air, on which topic they were reticent, but which Pallando quietly confirmed.

Pallando himself was in some way considered the leader of the lungi – whose number was usually about a dozen – though during his often prolonged absences it was one of the holy ones called Vilajin who dealt with their affairs and oversaw the training of the novices.

The Great Hall was lit by many tall windows and was painted – walls, floor and ceiling – with murals of birds and bats, dragons, butterflies, beetles, and myriad other flying creatures. In the centre, a spiral staircase of wrought iron led to the upper levels. This stair Pallando, Sâlian  and Jarin now ascended with weary steps and then went onwards to a large room, comfortably appointed with benches and cushions, where a couple of other lungi sat poring over a game of chess, so engrossed in their game that they didn’t even notice the Wanderer. A kettle hung over a jolly fire.

“So, tell us about your travels,” said Sâlian when they had settled themselves with mugs of cocoa, stretching out their drowsy limbs. “Is it all bad, or at least some good?”

“The best news is to find Levare thriving,” Pallando replied. “The exhibition was indeed splendid, and the Seraphine outdid herself with her poetry recital. Who knew there were so many different words for bird! As for my journey, I think the Archseraph should hear about it first. I will see him tomorrow morning – after a good sleep! But this much I can tell you: What I set out to do, I failed to achieve, though not for lack of trying.”

“You went to Khand, didn’t you? Is it very far?”

“Very far. Khand lies to the South of Mordor, and of Mordor, I believe, you have heard more these days than you cared to hear.”

“We have. But did you pass over the plains on your way back? Did you see the steppe tribes moving west?”

“Yes and yes. No more of this tonight, though! What of yourselves? How came you to see the Unquenchable Light, Jarin?”

So Jarin told of her journey to the Sacred Cave, of what had befallen in Mil Nahara, and of the palantír.

“I wish Alatar hadn’t looked in the stone,” said Pallando. “He says he hid his presence, but he cannot be sure he succeeded. He should have left well alone.”

“But then we wouldn’t know about the Krâ!”

“What did he see of the Krâ that an ordinary scout couldn’t see? The problem is that Kûz has been at peace with its neighbours for so long that you no longer know how to keep a wary eye on them.”

Jarin stared into the fire while she contemplated the truth of this. The Kûzeen were ill prepared for war, were indeed not prepared for it at all, because they had simply assumed it couldn’t happen to them. They had honed their skill of quelling evil in their hearts, and had forgotten that it could come from outside. Then she remembered something.

“There was another thing he saw in the stone. One of your kind, Alatar said. I’ve forgotten the name, but it started with an O.”

“Olórin? Fancy that. What did he see about him?”

“Oh, nothing very useful. He was fighting off evil creatures with lightning, or something like that.”

“Hm. Showy. But perhaps he didn’t have much choice.”

Sâlian stirred her cocoa, then drained the dregs. “You’re leaving me behind. Who is this Olomin?”

“Olórin.” Pallando picked at strands of his beard and sighed. “Yes. He is like Alatar and me. We came from the same place, long ago, and with the same mission, to thwart Sauron if we could. We are, you know, equal to him in a way. Olórin and the others thought the East was not worth their attention. All men would be evil there, under Sauron’s sway and beyond hope. They thought it better to strengthen the hands of the sea kings and the high elves. Alatar and I thought otherwise. Was it wise to dismiss as evil those you’d never met? To withhold help yet again from those who’d been left without help all along? To be frank, I wasn’t so enamoured with the high elves either. They think very highly of themselves and very little of all others. But Olórin said with them lay our best hope. We did not part in anger, but neither did we part in friendship. Let’s say we just parted. Alatar and I came out here and found that Sauron’s hand had barely touched the lands beyond the Sea of Calma. There were elves still living on the far shore who had been there since their awakening, and dwarves who knew little about the world beyond their mountain halls. We were astonished to meet the Tree Women, people of the Power of Life. And of course there were mortals, a primitive and ignorant folk, your ancestors. We thought it worth our while teaching them. They have well repaid our efforts.”

“What about the Krâ?” asked Jarin. “Didn’t you teach them, too?”

“We tried, but they were not as ready to listen as the Kûzeen. Keep in mind that back then they were pretty much all wandering the steppes, so if you met them one day, there was no telling whether you would see them again another. That some of them settled on the eastern shore happened not much more than two hundred years ago. I have gone among them from time to time, but I did not find many open ears – just like in Khand. It seems my destiny lies with Kûz, and Kûz alone.” He yawned and put his mug down. “But my immediate destiny lies in my bed. I bid you good night, my dears.” And he went out.

“That’s just like him,” said Jarin, “to leave us to do the dishes.”

-oOoOo-

Hamûjil had no thought yet of going to bed, nor had most of the court; it seemed still early to them. There had been a banquet to celebrate the opening of the exhibition, and then a music recital, and now elves and dwarves and courtiers milled about in one of the state rooms and enjoyed the merits of fine wine or strong coffee, depending on their tastes.

“Seraphine, I must congratulate you,” said one of the elven ladies. “We have not seen such magnificence in Levare since the days of Damûjil. And even he could not boast of a collection of bird figures such as yours. You were very kind to show them to us.”

If Majani suspected some mockery, she took it with good humour. “My birds are my pleasure,” she said. “Here, let me prevail upon you to try these grapefruit and rose oil truffles.”

“They look delectable! Say, who is the lady over there, the one talking to Warden Olan? She is not a Kûzin?”

“One of my ladies in waiting, Miriel. She hails from Gondor. Come, and I will introduce you.”

Elsewhere in the room, the two dwarves who had been interested in the new type of reed mats were in conversation with the leader of the Traders’ Guild, Mistress Tilar. Discussions about a first shipment were already under way. “Provided the artisans agree,” added Tilar. “They are of a different guild and I have no authority over them.”

“The ways of the Kûzeen seem strange to us,” said one dwarf. “Why would you –” But he went silent after receiving a kick on the ankle from his companion.

And from group to group, quiet and humble, went a man in simple Kûzar garb, listening to many, speaking to none. Some took him for a servant, others for a guest, but most didn’t notice him at all. Only the Archseraph watched him from the corner of his eyes, because one of the things his mother had taught him was to look someone in the eye and yet to note who moved around them.

Later that night when he and Majani were alone in their bedchamber, holding each other close between the silken sheets under the silk hangings with their heads on the silk pillows, silk upon silk upon silk, Hamûjil whispered, “He was there tonight.”

“Who was?”

“Sauron’s ambassador. I saw him. He was dressed as a Kûzin, but it was him.”

“Why did you not confront him?”

“And then what? The last time I did that, he refused to leave. You know how that went. I gambled, and I thought I had won, but I haven’t. So now we have a spy among us.”

“What will you do?”

“I do not know. What can I do? I have put the guards on alert. But I cannot seize him – he is an ambassador.”

“We must find a way to trap him,” said Majani. “I will think of something. And if I cannot think of something, I will ask Miriel. You know she beats you at chess; I am sure she can beat this wretched ambassador.”

Hamûjil caressed her cheek. “I would be very grateful, Beloved, if you and Miriel would deal with this. I have enough on my mind thinking about the Council meeting. And I have a headache from that awful wine.”

“It wasn’t awful, you just had too much of it.”

“Remind me to stick to coffee next time.”

Crossroads

After her early night, Jarin was up long before the hour of the communal breakfast in the House. For a while, she sat idly by her window and watched the birds on the lawn. Beyond the grounds of the Houses she could see that the town was already busy. It was always market day in Levare except for festival days, but the crowds seemed uncommonly large for a time when the stalls would only just open. And something else was strange, a certain edge to people’s movements as if they were in a rush but trying not to show it. Jarin realised she was putting her boots on.

Out in the grounds the air still smelled of rain, but the skies were clear. Across the lawn holy ones were filing into the House of the Power of Earth. It seemed early for a meeting. Two squirrels ran away from the House, making a dash for freedom before the agenda was being read.

“Jarin Dragonrider!” It was the voice of the Seer. Jarin walked over to the cedar tree.

“Good morning! As you can see, the North wind hasn’t taken me yet. I’m going down to the market, can I get you anything?”

“The market is a queer place today,” said the Seer. “You will not like what you find there. Or perhaps you will find what you like all too much.”

“Or perhaps I will neither like nor dislike it, hm? Just to cover all angles?”

“You jest, Jarin, but I have warned you.”

“In truth, though, is this another foreboding you have about me, or is it, shall we say, simply your usual patter? Do you suggest I should not go?”

“Go, by all means. But don’t blame me if your day is soured.”

“I promise not to blame you!” And with a laugh, Jarin walked off.

“Some walnuts wouldn’t come amiss!” the Seer called after her. Jarin waved over her shoulder in agreement. She crossed the Grand Bridge connecting the Houses to the inner town and walked past the homes and guest houses of the first rung. Closer up, the impression of the people was not improved. Pinched mouths, furrowed brows, and perhaps most disturbingly, very little of the happy chatter that was the usual street music of Levare – Jarin felt sure now that she wasn’t just imagining things. Soon she reached the second rung. The market square lay on the left, facing the avenue, bounded on two sides by the canals and on the third by the workshops of the potters, joiners and glass blowers. Since it was no special day, the stalls took up only about half of the square, closer to the avenue. They were set up in neat rows with ample aisles between, but given how many people she had seen making for the market, there seemed to be strangely few customers at the stalls. At most of the stalls, anyway – she could see one towards the far end of the aisle which had many folk clustered around it. There was some jostling there, and raised voices, and then someone shouted, “At Mikan’s!” at which point the whole crowd drained off to the left.

Jarin, who was still a good fifty yards away, slipped between two stalls into the next aisle where Mikan the baker usually plied his wares. Right enough, there under his bright orange canopy at least a dozen people were already calling for attention. The crowd from the other aisle was rapidly approaching.

“Only one loaf each, Archseraph’s orders,” Mikan repeated over and over. It looked to Jarin as if the stall was stocked just as always, but people were clamouring to buy three or even four loaves and Mikan’s two sons were having trouble stopping them from pushing over the stall.

People were now also rushing in from elsewhere in the market. Jarin stepped back to get out of the way, when suddenly she spotted a man who was neither Krâ nor Kûzin – the man she had seen the day before on the bridge. He was moving away from the baker’s stall and towards the Avenue of Peach Trees. She tried to catch up with him.

“Sir! Excuse me, sir!”

But he only walked faster and then ducked in between a flower stall and a silversmith’s. Jarin followed him, now at a run. As she came out on the far side, she collided with another man: young, tall, striking, in fact it was –  

 “Aluir! Why are you here?”

He looked puzzled for a moment, then his face cleared. “Oh, yes, you are the lungi, aren’t you?”

Jarin hoped she hadn’t flinched. To be so indifferently remembered…

“Yes, I’m Jarin. Where is Alatar?” she said. Of course, they were here for the Council. She looked like an idiot with her stupid questions. Oh, and the man from the bridge was gone now, no point in looking for him. Jarin kicked at the ground.

But Aluir bowed and held out his hand.

“Walk with me, Jarin Dragonrider. I came to buy fruit and coffee, but I don’t know which are the best stalls. You can advise me, if it pleases you. The place seems tense…”

“People are panic-buying bread,” said Jarin, matching her step to his.

“Ah, the bread shortage. I’ve heard of this on my way out here. In Mil Nahara there was unrest in the streets.”

“Seems to me there wouldn’t be a shortage here yet if only people were sensible.” She steered him towards one of her favourite stalls. “Look, these are good. Does Alatar like persimmons?”

“I do.” Aluir flashed a smile. “Alatar is not with me.” He turned to the vendor. “Half a dozen persimmons please for me and my friend here. And some blue grapes. Keep the change.”

“It’s the Council tomorrow! Is Alatar not coming?” She took a persimmon from the paper bag he proffered but merely held it in her hand.

“No, he sent me instead. After your visit he was, I don’t know, not quite well.”

“He is the Guardian! He is an immortal! How can he be ill?”

“Hush, Jarin, not so loud. He is not ill as such.” Aluir began munching some grapes with visible enjoyment. “Oh, these are excellent! Vaja River?”

“No, from the Tree Women’s land. What ails him then?”

“It’s hard to say. He was very cold, and struggled to breathe. And very sleepy. I think it was the stone that affected him. He looked into it again, you know, the next morning, hoping to see more of that other wizard in the West, I believe. But don’t worry. That was over a week ago and he is probably fine by now. My sister will be looking after him well.”

Jarin was only partly reassured by this. They purchased the coffee and left the market. In the first rung on the opposite side of the avenue was a small park. The sun was generous by now and they sat down on a bench by a circular pond edged with slabs of rose quartz and jade. Koi with red and golden markings moved under the surface of the water.

“Will the Council accept you as a replacement for Alatar?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions, don’t you? The Council seat is for the Guardian of the Unquenchable Light, and for the duration of this meeting, I am he.”

“How so?”

“That I am not allowed to tell you just now, though you may find out later.”

“I think I can guess.” Jarin stood up. “I must go home now. I have missed breakfast, but I can still get some coffee.”

“Where do you stay?”

“At the Houses. I’m a lungi.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Well, I am staying at the Seven Moons guesthouse, so I can walk part of the way with you. Here, have another persimmon to make up for your missed breakfast.”

“Walnuts! I forgot the walnuts!”

-oOoOo-

The air was tense in the Council Chamber, too. Most of the Councillors had assumed that the meeting had been called to discuss the bread shortage, and they were perplexed or even dismayed when they found that it was not on the Archseraph’s mind at all. If he brushed this aside with a glib remark, what then was the weighty matter for which they had been assembled?

“Before we come to my reason for calling you here,” said Hamûjil, “I ask you to approve, if it pleases you, our friend Aluir as the Guardian for the duration of this meeting. Alatar has not been able to travel to Levare on this occasion. Some of you may be willing to accept Aluir simply because he is Alatar’s apprentice, but even those of you who would consider that not strong enough a claim will, I hope, be convinced when they see with their own eyes that he is indeed the Guardian of the Unquenchable Light.”

Aluir arose and held up a silver trinket box. He lifted the lid and for a brief moment, light poured out. Then he closed the box.

“This,” he said, “is the Unquenchable Light, a small piece of the Lamp of the North, entrusted to me by Alatar so you may accept me among you.”

“Those of you who approve, raise your hand,” said Hamûjil. All hands went up.

“Thank you. As some of you know, I have paid Alatar a visit not long ago. The reason for this visit is not known to any of you, save Aluir, but it is time to reveal it now.” And he told of the purchase of the palantír, of his journey to the Sacred Cave, and of what Alatar had seen in the stone. “On my return, I found graver news still: That the Ambassador of Sauron, the very same this Council rejected a decade ago, had come to Levare again, this time threatening us with war and demanding that Kûz surrender its independence to Mordor. He insulted me in my own throne room and – please, my friends, I am almost finished – he insulted me, so I banished him from Levare. No doubt his report will kindle his master’s wrath, but Sauron remains two thousand miles away. Our more pressing problem lies at our own doorstep – what will we do about the Krâ? It is on this matter that I am consulting you today.”

It looked like there would not be much counsel forthcoming from the assembly, who sat in stunned silence. At length, Warden Olan stood up.

 “It seems to me,” he said, “that the Archseraph is a little short-sighted. Sauron is two thousand miles away, he says, and we should think of the Krâ. But why do the Krâ prepare for war, if that is indeed the case? Who stirred them up against us? If Sauron wants to make war on us, he doesn’t need to send a host marching from Mordor. He can use the Krâ as his puppets, and they can sail across the inland sea in less than a week under favourable winds. Then what will we do? We have sworn off all violence long ago, and even if we wanted to take up arms now, who is there among us who knows how to wield them?”

There were hesitant nods around the room, and slow shakes of the head, both expressing much the same helpless trepidation.

“We have been foolish!” This was Tilar, Leader of the Traders’ Guild. “Foolish for too long! Why are there no armed men among us? Why are we sitting ducks as the Krâ approach to pillage our land? I’ll tell you why. It is through the folly of Damûjil. His New Way has made us soft and useless. Once upon a time, an Archseraph could command and all would obey; and he would appoint the Wardens and Mayors for life based on loyalty and firmness of hand instead of letting the people pick whoever they fancy. It is through the folly of Damûjil that we now cannot utter a word without saying if it pleases you or by your leave. In the old days, people would work from sunrise to sundown and not laze about half the day in the parks and the coffee houses. And there was none of this nonsense about killing nothing larger than a thumb – we are the masters of the world and it is our right to subdue all lesser beings. Back in those days, Kûz was great and our people were hardy. We didn’t live in fear of boats landing on our shores. See where the New Way has taken us: we have made an enemy who has the might to destroy us, and we have no way to defend ourselves. We must abandon this madness; we must go back to strong leadership, hard work and blunt words. We must learn to hunt in the woods again, and kill creatures as we see fit –” The hubbub that had gradually risen during this speech now became so loud that the Archseraph gestured for silence. “–and we must ask forgiveness of Sauron and welcome his alliance, late as the hour may be.”

More than half the council had jumped up, desperate to reply. Hamûjil considered for a moment and then gave the word to Yun, the Warden of Wood. Yun was an old man, oldest among the Kûzeen on the council, and he wore a silk cap to cover the baldness of his head. He took his time to look around at the council members, and then he spoke.

“I will forgive Mistress Tilar her hasty and ill-considered words. She is young and does not know of what she speaks. My own grandparents grew up in the old days and they did not remember them with such fondness. The people grew old and died before their time, and though they toiled from sunrise to sunset, they did not bring forth such bounty as we do now. There was sickness and poverty. There was violent crime, as those whose hands are stained with the blood of their fellow creatures are one step closer to staining them with the blood of their fellow man. Let me be blunt, since Mistress Tilar has called for blunt words: The folly is hers. In the old days, she would not even be a guild leader. Have her teachers not told her that women used to be barred from public office? And now here she stands and demands strong leadership. This is like clamouring for a bridge to be built big and painted bright without asking whether it will hold up. We do not need strong leadership, we need good leadership. We most certainly need no alliance with Evil, but we must resist it in any way we can. As for being masters of the world, let me ask Mistress Tilar who raised the mountains and who makes the seeds sprout and who set the sun in the skies: is it she, or is it the Powers we revere in the Houses?”

“How do we know these powers are even real, since we’ve never seen them?” exclaimed Tilar, but Hamûjil bid her be quiet; she’d had her turn. Speech followed speech now, and all were discussing the merit, or failing, of the New Way. It turned out that one of the insitters, a basket weaver from the outer town, was a member of a group who called themselves Men of the Old Ways, and he spoke for nearly ten minutes about the virtues of meat and the evil of letting women have too much power. In response, Fimbrethil extolled the nourishing qualities of legumes. The Warden of Shore asked if the bread shortage would not be discussed at all. Nobody had any suggestions for dealing with the Krâ.

Then Pallando rose to his feet.

-oOoOo-

The Seraphine had her own, lesser court in the women’s wing of the palace.  Here she hosted her poetry recitals, or heard the petitions of citizens seeking charity. It was where she now sat with her ladies, awaiting the outcome of the Council meeting. Three brass braziers warmed the room. The floor was inlaid with patterns of many-coloured wood. Over the Seraphine’s throne, heavy brocade swags hung from the ceiling. They were of a rich blue and adorned with gold and silver birds, very beautiful, but sagging a little on one side. Miriel glanced up.

“It is high time to fix this baldachin,” she said. “One of these days, the whole wretched thing is going to come down.”

“I know,” the Seraphine replied. “I meant to get something done about it. Remind me –”

 The Archseraph’s entry made them forget their domestic woes. He looked wearied and defeated. With both hands, he held a silver box.

“I would speak with my wife…alone.”

Swiftly, the ladies rustled out. Majani stood up and put her hand on his arm.

“What happened?”

Hamûjil set the silver box down on a small table. Then he pulled Majani into his arms and held her very tight.

“Hamûjil!” she cried in alarm. “What happened?”

He released her and sighed.

“I hardly know. I called the Council to advise me in the matter of the Krâ and their preparations for war. I did not expect that I would end up with a debate on whether or not to continue the Way.”

“No! Do not tell me the Council chose to abandon the Way!”

“No, but they might have done, if it hadn’t been for the Wanderer. Our people are pettier than I thought, Majani. Fimbrethil talked about lentils! And can you believe, the Mayor of Najûn resents the Way because Damûjil moved the capital?”

“I can believe that, actually. But Pallando talked sense into them?”

“He uttered not a word. He just took the box from that hapless youth Aluir and opened it.”

“You have lost me, my Beloved. What is in the box?”

“See for yourself.”

Gingerly, Majani lifted the lid for a fraction. She stared for a moment, then snapped the box shut again.

“Is this…?”

“It is the Unquenchable Light. A fragment that Alatar sent with Aluir. He wants me to keep it here, because he has a feeling that I am going to need it, though I am not sure how it is going to help us.”

“Has it not helped us already? I thought you meant that seeing the light made the Council decide in favour of the Way.”

“Yes, but what does the Way require us to do now? I am still no closer to an answer, and I am not going to ask the Council again.”

Majani ran her fingers across the lid of the box. “Before you can think of an answer, you need to be much clearer on what the question is. So far, you only know what Alatar saw in the stone, and he said himself that the images might be misleading. Pallando only saw the steppe tribes moving east. You should send scouts and find out exactly what is happening on the other shore. Perhaps they are really going to Mordor and not coming here. Or perhaps it is all just a misperception.”

Hamûjil shook his head. “Our few scouts are already on their way, but it will be many days before they can report back. I feel I should act now. And besides, if there are ships already on the way…”

“Send the lungi.”

“They are not spies… I cannot imagine…but no, you are right, in a case like this I think they might agree. Some of them anyway: Sûn, Wan, maybe Lûan.”

“I am sure Jarin would go.”

“It is not up to her to decide, you know that. But yes, I will speak with Pallando about it tomorrow. Oh, Majani!” He leaned his head on her shoulder. “All these years I have been wishing for a chance to show my mettle, to step out of the shadow of Damûjil. But I had thought perhaps of some grand building project, or of finally persuading our people that the fish are our brothers and sisters, too. Not this. I am not the right man to deal with a situation like this.”

“Listen to me, Hamûjil!” Majani took him by the shoulders. “You are the Archseraph of Kûz. You are perhaps the richest man in Middle-earth. You have the Guardian and the Wanderer at your side. Your people are wise and skilled and solid at the core, this nonsense at the Council notwithstanding.  You have dragon riders at your service. You have the Unquenchable Light. You have –”

“I have you, Majani. I have you.”

Krandi

At this early hour, few lights were on in the homes, but the gentle glimmer of glowstone caressed Levare as always. Where the last houses of the outer town met the meadows beyond, a few people were already up and outside, because even in Levare and even if your neighbour’s daughter is a lungi, you don’t get to see dragons up close very often.

“Look at them,” said Margig, peering out the window. “You’d think there’s going to be a procession or something.”

“I don’t mind,” replied Jarin. “I’d do the same in their place. And I’m sure Wan will love the attention. In fact, I could call him now.” She was busy rearranging her pack for the third time.

“Don’t encourage them. Have you got enough food?”

“Yes, Father. I’m not going into the wild, I’m going to Krandi. I can buy food there. They might even have bread, ha!”

“If you’re on a secret mission, you shouldn’t go to their markets. Especially not spending Kûzar coin.”

“The Archseraph gave me enough Krâ money to last a month!  Besides, who’s going to recognise me? I’ll just put my hood up. Like you said before, I look Krâ. And stop calling it a secret mission. The main task is to check what ships are crossing at this time. The Archseraph said to see what I can see in Krandi, but he’s not sending me to infiltrate the citadel or any such thing.”

“But you might try to do it anyway.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Just be careful.”

Jarin turned round and hugged him tight. “Of course, Father. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And if things get too tricky, I’ll call Wan and come straight back. Right then. I’ll just go to the closet for a moment and then I’ll be ready to leave.”

A little later she played her flute and Wan manifested before the eyes of the appreciative neighbours. Jarin had been right, he basked in their admiration. He even let a young boy pat him.

“Careful though,” he whispered with a wink. “Touching dragons makes you grow scales.”

“Awesome!” said the lad, but his mother hushed him.

“Good luck, Jarin Dragonrider,” said an old woman, and the call was repeated by the other neighbours.

All heads tilted upwards when Wan took off into the darkness. Jarin looked down and saw the lights of Levare falling away below her. It was about an hour before sunrise and the first hint of dawn could be guessed in the eastern sky. Wan turned a big circle above the town, just for the fun of it, and then headed towards the inland sea. Soon a vague shimmer ahead told them that they were drawing close to the shore.

“Tell me all then, Jarin!”

Jarin, pressed against the dragon’s neck, spoke into his ear. “I have already told you all yesterday.”

The previous day, Vilajin had assembled the lungi in the grounds of the Houses. Only seven lungi were present; the others were away on errands. Pallando had gone with Mûn to take home Aluir and to see Alatar. They had called the dragons and Vilajin had explained the quest: to cross the Sea of Calma and gather news of the Krâ, using stealth and cunning if required.  All but one of the dragons had agreed, but three of the lungi had also expressed misgivings. So only three riders were setting off this morning, of whom Jarin, making for Krandi, had the longest journey and the furthest North. Wan would be hard pressed to reach the far shore before sundown.

“I was not speaking of that,” said Wan. “You are out of sorts, Jarin. I could hear it in your tune. What is vexing you?”

“Nothing but my own foolishness.”

“Don’t expect me to be satisfied with that answer. Look, we have a long flight ahead of us. You may as well tell me, even just to pass the time.”

Jarin said nothing for a while. Glints of morning sun could now be seen on the water below. The sea was empty as far as they could see, apart from a few Kûzeen fishing boats.

“Aluir came to Levare for the Council,” she said at last. “I bumped into him at the market and we walked and talked for a while. Not that he’ll remember my name next time, though. He’ll say again, Oh, aren’t you that lungi? I really shouldn’t waste any thoughts on him. He must be, what, ten years younger than me? Hardly more than a boy. And he’s a bit of an airhead. Frivolous. Pallando said he was no use at all at the meeting and would have idly stood by while the Council abandoned the Way. I think Alatar only keeps him as an apprentice because his sister is sensible and it’s supposed to be twins. He’s not worth our time.”

“I see you have settled this to your satisfaction,” replied Wan. “So where does the note of pain come from?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s true what they say; the heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Bah, the heart, the heart!  What does Jarin’s head want?”

“To serve the Archseraph, and the people of Kûz.”

“Then let me give you this advice, Jarin, whom I love dearly: your heart will change again. But if you follow your head and do what you know to be right, you will not regret it.”

“Probably. Oh, look, there’s a ship!”

“I see it. Looks like elves.” Wan swooped down to get a better view. “Yes, definitely elves. Perhaps on their way to Mil Nahara.”

“To drink and sing raucous songs in the taverns?” Jarin laughed. The elves on deck the ship had spotted the dragon and were whooping and waving. “Why are they like that?”

“They don’t know what to do with their immortality.”

After the elven vessel they only saw two other ships during their crossing, one a Kûzar ship apparently on its way to Longhaven, the other Krâ, maybe headed for Mil Nahara also, but too small and too alone to be a threat.

It was indeed sunset when the coast came in sight. The land on the western shore was flat, a chequerboard of fields, meadows and groves of timber. Wan landed near a copse of junipers a couple of miles from the city. Since it was late in the day and getting dark, they hoped they had not been seen.

“Thank you,” said Jarin, “for carrying me so faithfully. I will call you in a day or two to take me back, if it pleases you.”

“I will come at your call. Look after yourself, Jarin, and take no needless risks.”

“Isn’t this whole journey a risk? And I hardly know what I’m supposed to do. But at least we didn’t see a fleet heading for Kûz. That’ll let me sleep tonight.”

She slept, as it were, very uncomfortably on the ground in the shelter of a large juniper bush, an experience she did not wish to repeat. In the morning, damp with dew, she removed her lungi headscarf and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. She took the silver flute from her belt and stored it in her pack. No more disguise should be needed, since the warm woollen cloth of the Kûzeen was worn by people all around the Sea of Calma, and boots were boots. She looked like any other Krâ woman dressed for a day’s work outdoors. Only at home or on feast days did Krâ women don their long skirts sewn of coloured bands of cloth.

She made a simple breakfast of her supplies and set off. It was chilly, but bright, and the walk along the shore towards Krandi was almost a pleasure in spite of her apprehensions. There were no reed beds here, but a long, pebbled beach where waterfowl frolicked and limp waves hit the shore with barely a sound. Thin, feathery clouds caressed the sky. In less than an hour, Jarin reached the first houses.

The city was big, bigger than Levare, and the wooden buildings with their steep gables and carved beams stretched far inland. There was no natural harbour at Krandi, so the Krâ had built a long breakwater out into the lake. A good number of ships were anchored in the sheltered waters behind it, perhaps somewhat more than usual, which might be for several reasons – because they were not sailing to Mil Nahara with cargoes of grain, for example. In truth, as an air traveller, Jarin had rarely paid much attention to the harbour. Nor did she know the area around the docks very well, having previously spent most of her visits in the citadel. There she would rather not go now, as she might be recognised and she was not sure what kind of welcome she would find at this time. The latter was also the reason she had determined to talk only in Krâin. Many people in Krandi spoke a little Kûzar, as in fact did most folk around the Sea of Calma, but she thought it would arouse suspicion if she, a Krâ by the looks of it, should be so fluent in the language of Kûz.

Once again she noticed that, even though the docks were busy, there were very few men about. Those few were mostly employed with loading and unloading ships and with other nautical tasks. But up and down the streets, with bags, bundles and baskets, walked the women. Jarin mingled and tried to listen in to their conversations.

“… since last night, quite a high fever, and coughing all the time.”

“Have you tried giving her a hot poultice? I always use one with …”

“… said that the Ezen needs at least another two thousand. Where would they find that many, I wonder? He’s already pretty much emptied this town.”

“They’ll not rest until we’re …”

“… and a teaspoon of honey, but you have to make sure you heat it up before you stir it in, or otherwise you’ll end up with just a lump of …”

“… can’t agree with that at all!”

“Why not? It’s not as if they’ve ever done anything to help us, and besides …”

“… with the steppe tribes, but between you and me, I am not too happy with that.”

“You’ll get yourself into trouble talking like that, Ragki. Just last week they took… “

It was hard to make any sense of this hubbub, but after a couple of hours of ambling up and down the quay, she had gathered at least this much: that men were being mustered, and trained at weapons in a camp outside the city but that there was a notion they were not enough, or not good enough, or not reliable enough. That bread was scarce in Krandi, too, as were Kûzar goods, and that the general opinion was that the Krâ needed more ships.

“Hey, you!”

Jarin turned round. The caller was a woman running a fish stall near the south end of the quay. “I’ve watched you. What are you loitering about for?”

“I’m waiting for my lover,” replied Jarin. “What’s it to you?”

“Looks to me like he’s not coming. Take my advice, forget him. He’s not worth your while. None of them are.”

“You’re right, I should forget him,” said Jarin and walked off. The woman, who clearly hadn’t expected much agreement, gave her a baffled look, but Jarin paid not heed. She decided to stay away from the docks for now and check out the market instead. Krandi held a market every other day, and by her reckoning that should be today. The market place was not far from the harbour on a square overlooked on three sides by rows of wooden houses two and three storeys high, while the fourth side was taken up by one of the few stone buildings in the city: the town hall and gaol. Unlike in Levare, where the market stalls consisted of tables sheltered under tent-like awnings that were set up anew each day, the Krandi market had rows of solid plank huts with steep gables, like miniature versions of the Krâ homes. Crowds of Krâ were shuffling about but again, very few of them were men. Jarin scanned the boxes of root vegetables, the garlands of onions, skeins of sheep wool, candles, belts, apples, socks, sausages, carved bowls, cabbages and wicker baskets. Right enough, there was no bread to be seen anywhere. Bloodied lumps of animal carcasses, surrounded by flies, festooned the butcher’s stall. Jarin turned away in disgust, wondering how anyone could wish to eat such fare, however, there was quite a queue of customers.  From a fruit vendor, she bought a handful of plums; they were a deep, glossy purple and tasted of autumn sunshine.

The scraps of conversation she picked up here were much the same as those at the docks and told her nothing new. She left the market and wandered around aimlessly for a while, unsure about the layout of the place she had usually only seen from the air. Should she seek the storehouses, and if so, where were they – close to the docks or close to the citadel? Would it be wise to go to the citadel? It was the place where she had the best chance of finding out something of importance, but also the place where she was in most danger of being recognised.

What was the point, though, of returning to Levare and bringing the Archseraph news that amounted to little more than gossip?

The citadel sat more or less in the centre of the city on a little knoll, barely high enough to be called a hill. It was surrounded by a palisade about twelve foot high with a south-facing gate through which the road entered. Stalls of a different kind lined the paling: soothsayers, dice players and vendors of ale. There was much traffic going in and out the gate, some of people on foot, but mostly of oxen carts apparently delivering supplies. These were mainly driven by men, but here and there a woman sat among the sacks and bundles, presumably to help with unloading. Two guards stood at the gate, stopping each driver and asking for a password. Jarin considered whether she might be able to get close enough to overhear them, but then a better chance offered. One of the carts was stalled when a group of youths chased each other through the crowd and startled the oxen: people cried out, the driver berated the boys’ retreating backs, and in the kerfuffle Jarin climbed onto the back of the cart. Moments later she rolled through the gate, sitting bold as brass among baskets of potatoes.

Once out of view of the guards, she slipped off the cart. Nobody had noticed her. She was in the lower part of the citadel, among the workshops and stables.  From behind a shed, she grabbed an empty basket, dropped her pack inside, covered it with a shred of sackcloth and placed it on her hip. Thus disguised, she made her way towards the keep. There were more guards at the gate here, and she did not count on any further lucky chances, but she hoped she would be able to go round the back and find some way in.

By now, it was late afternoon and the sky was overcast, making the deserted north side of the keep gloomy. A scathing wind blew. Jarin dropped the basket and slung her pack back over her shoulders. She looked up and scrutinised the face of the building. The Ezen’s quarters and the main offices faced north, this much she knew. From some of the bottle glass windows, light could be seen. And one, on the first floor, stood a little ajar. There was a sound of voices from within, though she couldn’t make out the words.

The stone wall offered no purchase, but there was a low, wooden lean-to somewhat to the right, some kind of wood store. With the help of an upturned bucket, Jarin scrambled onto its flat roof and from there onto the sill of the nearest window, which was dark. The entire row of windows was set back within the wall, leaving a ledge just wide enough to stand on. There was a drop of a good eight feet behind her, but she wasn’t exactly afraid of heights. Slowly, she shimmied along till she reached the open window. The voices were still talking, two men sounding business-like but ever so slightly disgruntled.

“… expects another twenty cartloads of barley for the last batch.”

“He said fifteen!”

“He said the price has gone up. But it’s decent gear, and we’ll need it for the march.”

“We won’t be ready to march for at least another six weeks. In the meantime, I have to listen to the daily complaints about the bread shortage.”

“You wish to leave sooner?”

“I wish we hadn’t sold our entire harvest to feed the steppe tribes in exchange for a pile of ironmongery. But that’s not for me to decide, is it? Still, I wonder if not the Ezen is beginning to have some doubts.”

“Not a good time for doubts.”

“No, indeed. Well, there’s nothing for it, we have to make do without grain. Fortunately the great lord has no interest in potatoes. Did you at least have enough way bread for company four?”

“Yes, and they set off this morning. They should be in Longhaven before the week is out, and hopefully they’ll bring us a dozen ships or more.”

“Hopefully. But if those dwarves put up much of a fight, there may not be any.”

“That’s why it’s so important to take them by surprise. Hey, what was that?”

A gust of wind had snatched Jarin’s hood and flapped it against the wall. In the room, the men looked up. By the time they reached the window, Jarin was hanging from the ledge by her fingertips. The ground below was soggy, though she might still at least twist an ankle. But it was that or get caught. She let go.

On hitting the ground, she crouched and fell backwards. She felt the mud soak her breeches, but she wasn’t hurt. She got up and started to run.

“Hey, you, stop! Guards! Guards! Get the spy!”

Into the North

With gusto, Pallando bit into his third blueberry tart. Purple smudges around his mouth were testimony of his enjoyment.

“These are really rather good,” he said.

Alatar had not touched the tarts and stuck to his mug of coffee. “Aluir made them.”

“Ah. He’s better at baking than at diplomacy.”

“Don’t mock,” said Alatar. “He wasn’t quite ready for the task. His sister would have acquitted herself better in his stead, but I needed her here. The palantír had taxed me greatly and for a day or two, I feared I would lose my mind. But Uilara saw me through.”

Pallando licked the crumbs off his lips. “Tell me all. Jarin said you saw the Krâ and you saw Olórin. I wouldn’t have thought either of these would have caused you such distress. So what did?”

“More than one thing. To begin with, as I told Jarin and the Archseraph at the time, several of the other stones are still in use, and I could sense that at least one of them was connected to a mind of great malice. Very great malice, Pallando, do you understand me? And I said at least, because I felt there might be two such. I wondered, who could the other be? How could there be a second Sauron in Middle-earth? So this unsettled me greatly. Then I thought about what I had glimpsed of Olórin, and the more I mulled over it, the more convinced I became that the dark creatures I had seen attacking him were Nazgûl.”

“That is very bad news indeed.”

“It gets worse. The following day I looked into the palantír again, trying to find out more about the second malevolent presence. I did my utmost to steer clear of the mind of Sauron, and I hope I succeeded, though it cost me much. But the second mind caught me! That was the shock from which I struggled to recover. Pallando, the second mind…the second mind is Curumo!”

Pallando put down the fourth tart. “Curumo!”

“Yes. He has betrayed us. He caught me suddenly in his gaze, and then he laughed and mocked me. He said, Soon I shall have the Ring and there is nothing you and the other fools can do about it. What ring, I ask you? There is only one ring he can mean.”

They stared at each other for a while, until finally Pallando sighed and shook his head. “You are right,” he said. “And if the One Ring has arisen again, then the peril to Middle-earth is much greater even than we thought.”

“Yes.”

“And with Curumo a traitor, there is even less chance of defeating Sauron.”

“Yes, or a chance of defeating him only to replace him with a new Dark Lord.”

“But Olórin remains true?”

“It appeared so.”

“Aiwendil?”

“I saw nothing of him.”

“If Sauron conquers the West, he will conquer the East next.”

“Yes. Pallando, what can we do? Even if we took dragons and went out to Gondor, what aid could we bring? And I am loth to abandon the Kûzeen, especially after what you tell me about the Council.”

“I agree.” Pallando pressed his hands against his brow. “We should have acted more decisively earlier. Ten years ago when that ambassador first came.”

“I know,” replied Alatar bitterly. “I was foolishly hoping this would pass us by, and as long as we kept the Kûzeen to the Way, all would be well here. I thought we didn’t have to step up until…later, some kind of later. And there was me thinking procrastination was Olórin’s domain…”

“Alatar, if you can bear it, I think we should look into the palantír together. We should try to find out what Olórin is doing. If we do it together, we should be able to protect each other from Sauron and from Curumo.”

“This has been my thought also. But it is risky.”

“Yes, it is risky. But we are in the Sacred Cave of the Unquenchable Light. If in this place, you and I cannot show courage, then what hope is there for Middle-earth?”

Without a further word, Alatar stood up and fetched the palantír from the chest where it was stored. They joined hands across the table, with the stone in the middle. Silence spread as they gazed, their fingers tightly clasped, for an hour, maybe more. At long last they released their grip and leaned back. Pallando breathed hard, like one who has been running.

“What do you make of this?” asked Alatar, somewhat breathless as well. “What did you see?”

“It was a very strange assembly. Elves, dwarves, men – those little people? But they were not children.”

“Elrond was there.”

“Elrond was presiding. So they are at his place. And that man…?”

“He’s the spitting image of, what was his name, Mallor. Must be a descendant. But how can they have the Ring? Unless it was one of the others – a dwarf ring, perhaps?”

“Not by the looks on their faces. What were they saying? That’s the crucial matter here. Fëanor should have found a way to include sound in these things.”

“Not you as well!”

“What?”

“Oh, Hamûjil said the same.”

“Well, if the Kûzeen made anything like this, it would have sound.”

“A thing like this is beyond the Kûzar skill, and you know it.”

They stopped and exhaled. Pallando slammed the table, making the palantír jump. “This is infuriating! What use is it to us to see this? We can do nothing!”

“We can think,” said Alatar. “We know Olórin was there. If he was there, he was very likely the leader. Do they know of Curumo’s betrayal? He was not there.  So let’s assume for now that whatever they do will follow Olórin’s counsel. What would he do with the One Ring?”

“What would we do with it?”

They thought for a moment and then, “Destroy it,” they said simultaneously.

“Can it be done?” said Pallando.

“Not easily. You would need a fire drake. Do any of them remain?”

“Not if the dwarves’ rumours are true. What about Orodruin?”

“Yes, that would do it. But does the West have armies that can invade Mordor? Even without all the Variags and the steppe tribes, Sauron’s might must be formidable.”

“So then, do it secretly. Make him think you are bringing down hosts from the North, make a big distraction, meanwhile have a few people go down the river, sail to Pelagir, come at Mordor from the South. Hide the ring well, maybe encase it in iron, let it be carried by an unlikely-looking person –”

“– one that looks like a child, perhaps? That one little fellow … there was something about him…”

“You saw that too? Yes, someone like that, perhaps. So, come at Mordor from the South; there are a couple of passes on the Harad side that they might attempt if they have decent maps. Then cross Nurn, but make sure your friends keep Sauron’s eye in the North while you get to Orodruin. That’s how I would do it.”

“Perilous,” said Alatar.

“But possible.”

“So where do we come in?”

“I don’t know. Not yet. But I think you should come to Levare with me. Whatever we decide to do, Hamûjil will play a part in it. Mûn can have no objection to carrying you.”

“I will come, but I will travel by land.  I want to bring Uilara with me. Besides, Mûn will struggle as it is, with you being so full of blueberry tarts.”

“Ah, but my heart is pure.”

-oOoOo-

Only when it was fully dark did Jarin dare peek out of her hiding place. When the chase had started, she had slipped into a gap between a wood shed and the palisade, shielded by a heap of debris on one side. She had pulled some sacks over herself and lain still, and eventually the shouting and the sound of running feet had stopped, though her heart was still pounding.

But now all was silent.

Jarin considered whether she should attempt the gate. If the Krâ were at all organised, the guards would be on high alert there; her chances of sneaking out were very low. She had to either hide in the citadel until their vigilance relaxed again, or else climb over the palisade. Her instinct was to hide, but that fourth company was on the road and she had no time to spare. She rummaged among the broken planks and burst buckets, but she found nothing of use to her. Where had she seen rope? By the stables.

Gathering the courage to go down into the busier part of the citadel took her a good while. She told herself to be calm – if she didn’t run or creep about, nobody would think her a spy, would they? It wasn’t so long ago that she had brazenly climbed on the cart. However, getting so close to being caught had unnerved her. And she was covered in mud, which might attract attention.

As casually as she could, she walked over to the stables. Some lamps were lit there, and through the main door she could hear the grooms talking inside. An irregular rattling sound told her they were playing at dice. When she stuck her head round the doorway, she could see that the noise and the lamp light came from one of the stalls. She looked around: buckets, hay bales, old boots. And there on the opposite wall among the tackle hung a coil of rope. Should she make a dash for it? No, better to take it slow. Step by ginger step, she crept up to the wall. The voices of the grooms continued unabated. She tossed the rope over her shoulder and slunk out.

Back in her hidey-hole behind the wood shed, she made a noose and after several attempts succeeded in flinging it over the pointed tip of one of the stakes. She tugged it a few times and looked at it doubtfully. Then, with the rope secured round her waist, she scrambled to the top of the palisade and peered over. On the other side, an alley ran along the back of a row of houses.  No-one was about. Jarin clambered over the top and abseiled down the other side. She left the rope hanging – she had no intention to be anywhere near it when it was discovered.

Krandi at night was eerily quiet and dark. On most of the houses, the windows were shuttered. Where in Levare there would have been lanterns or glowstone paving, here only the occasional torch by the door of a tavern gave any light, but even their doors were closed and no sounds reached the outside. Moreover, the layout of the city was haphazard, the result of growth over many years rather than of design. After stumbling about for a while, Jarin finally came upon a wider street with a paved sidewalk that had fist-sized glowstones set into its edge every few yards. This road she followed, sticking close to the shadows of the houses. The few folk she encountered seemed as eager to be unheeded as herself. Once again she was in luck, for after a little more than half an hour, she came to the edge of the town. It seemed to her she was on the northbound road, close to the shore. A beech hedge fenced it on the inland side, and along this she walked on.

Dragons couldn’t fly far in the dark without getting lost. Nevertheless, when she had reached the open fields and was sure she was out of earshot of the town, Jarin pulled her flute from her pack and played her tune.

“Why do you call me at night?” said Wan. “What happened?”

“I was nearly caught. I’m very scared. If it pleases you, stay with me and guard my sleep.”

“Very well. And do you wish to return to Levare in the morning?”

“No, not to Levare. We must go to Longhaven. I have to warn the dwarves.”

And she told Wan what she had overheard in the citadel. Then she laid herself down and the dragon curled around her, and in this nest of scales and love, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

-oOoOo-

For one hour each day, strictly within the confines of the Royal Gardens, Alamûjil was allowed to roam about on his own. He had a new game in which he was the most famous lungi ever and travelled across the mountains and into the Riverlands, where many adventures awaited him.

All the leafy trees had turned by now into hues of rusty orange and purple brown, and the flowerbeds had been covered with straw mats to protect the more delicate roots from the frost that would soon descend.  But winter was not yet here, the air felt fresh and wholesome, and for a boy wrapped up warm by his minders there was no hardship in sitting on the damp grass or running among the shadows under the trees.

The adventures! There were the spiky husks of the beech nuts to inspect, piles of leaves to jump into, and the crazy dance of the sycamore seeds to watch – could he catch one? Was that a squirrel? With a cry of delight, he picked up a long, pure white feather, lately shed by the peacock Vani. The boy regarded his trophy, then he ran back to the palace to show it to his father.

Not far from the spot where he had just stood, the laurel hedge rustled.

-oOoOo-

“There they are!”

On the road below, Jarin had caught sight of what had to be the fourth company: a long line of men marching four or five abreast, with about a dozen horsemen at the front. Wan began to fly in loops above them.

“Count them!” he cried.

“Ten, twenty…fifty…two, four, six. Look like about three hundred to me. I don’t understand. Alatar said the Ezens would be able to raise a host of twenty or thirty thousand.”

“This is just a foray,” replied Wan. “Enough for a surprise attack on Longhaven. They could capture the ships and be out on the lake before the dwarves know what hit them.”

Someone on the ground had spotted the dragon, and an instant later a hail of arrows went up, one flying high enough to brush Jarin’s boot. Wan rose to get out of range.

“They shot at us!” Jarin stared down in horror. “They actually shot at us!”

“What did you expect, a friendly wave? We’re on our way to rat them out to the dwarves, so of course they will try and stop us.”

“I know, said Jarin miserably. “I just didn’t imagine that things would become so…so war-like, and so soon.”

Wan made no reply and headed out over the lake, seeking to get to Longhaven in a direct line while the road had to make a wide curve to the West. The day had started crisp and sunny, but now dense purple clouds were moving in from the mountains. They flew on for several hours while the air grew chilly and the wind picked up. Eventually they could see, still many miles ahead, the northern end of the Sea of Calma. The mountains came close to the shore here, and somewhere, Jarin was not quite sure where, the port of Longhaven was tucked away on the mouth of the River Harrowling where it emerged between two peaks. It was only mid-afternoon, but the sky had become so dark with clouds that it felt like twilight. The wind was so strong now that it was impossible to talk, even at a shout. A corner of Jarin’s scarf had come loose and was flapping around her head with a deafening noise, but she did not dare fix it, clinging instead with both hands to Wan’s mane.

The storm increased. In wave after wave of bluster it came down from the North and shook the dragon like a toy. Wan struggled to gain more height, and for a short while he seemed to have found a calmer plane, but then the wind seemed to turn and swept them along. Jarin had her eyes closed, and when she risked a glimpse, she saw rocky peaks beneath her. Suddenly, the dragon dropped, only to be picked up again and be tossed about, upwards, sideways, any which way. Then the ground reared up in front of them, and Wan tumbled, over and over and over, until Jarin lost her grip and fell four, five yards into a tangle of shrubs. There was a sense of the world turning. The light flickered. And where a moment ago a dragon had been, there was now nothing but the empty air.

It Gets Worse

Ninod was playing the harp. Leastways, she was plucking the strings wistfully, and such was the skill of the elven maker that the instrument sounded delightful whatever you did with it. Limpid notes fell off her fingers like raindrops. With half an ear she listened to the hushed conversation between the Seraphine and her husband.

“…all the guesthouses, but there is no trace of him. His escort was tracked as far as the Reed Marshes; he was not with them, and if they met up later, it would have been far from the city. So, we are not sure if he is still here. Miriel thinks he is gone.”

Hamûjil picked at his moustache. “I would not count on that. Someone might be hiding him.”

“One of our own people?” said Majani, appalled. “But what can we do about that? We cannot search all the houses in the town.”

“No, but we may not need to. Where exactly did Miriel say she saw him?”

“Right next to the jetty by the Tower of Knowledge. She thinks he had just got off a boat, and then he walked towards the baths. She tried to follow him, but the street was busy and she lost him.”

“That is too bad,” said Hamûjil. “Where is Miriel anyway?”

“Down at the museum. They have to rearrange some of the exhibits and I asked her to make sure all is done with care.”

“Majani.” Hamûjil sighed. “I understand that you are concerned about the artwork, but is that really the most urgent matter right now? You as good as promised me that Miriel would outwit the ambassador, but so far neither of you have come up with an inspired plan.”

“And neither have you. Anyway, if we –”

The sound of running feet was heard from the passage, and then the door was flung open.

“Archseraph! Archseraph, you must come! The library is on fire!”

Ninod left the harp, Majani jumped up, Hamûjil was already by the door; by the time they reached the stairs their following amounted already to a few dozen people, all shouting at cross-purposes. Out onto the plaza and up the avenue they ran, towards the Fifth Rung where a pillar of black smoke rose into the still air. People were streaming in from all sides, and when the seraphs arrived, there was already a bucket chain coming up from the canal. But the fire was on the third, the top floor, and hardly anyone had the nerve to walk into the burning building, so most of the buckets just ended up standing pointlessly on the pavement. Buckets seems to be in short supply, too, since the Fifth Rung was full of public buildings and few folk lived here. A middle-aged woman, the head librarian, ran back and forth yelling, “Do something! Somebody do something!”

“Is there a cistern?” Majani shouted into Hamûjil’s ear. Many large buildings in the city had wooden rainwater cisterns on the roof.

“If there is, how would we reach it?”

“Maybe with – look, there is Miriel!” Indeed, Miriel stood not far away beside some of the museum keepers, her hands clenched to her side. But before Majani could attract her attention, people started pointing upwards and cries of, “Lungi!” rose all around. Five, no, six dragons were approaching, Mûn with Pallando in the lead. He waved his hand showing that he wished to land, and the crowd moved outward to make space. The other dragons circled overhead.

“Why are you all just standing here?” roared Pallando. “Get those buckets inside!”

Those nearest the doors looked uneasy. Each seemed to wait for someone else to make the first move. Then Hamûjil seized a couple of buckets and marched into the building, and now others followed with cries of “Archseraph!” Pallando turned to Majani. “Lungi can carry buckets up, but we’ll have to break the windows. Axes or hammers would be best, but sturdy bits of wood will do.” They both looked around but nothing suitable caught their eye. Miriel now appeared next to Majani and was quickly told of their plight.

“There is a cabinet of ancient dwarf axes in the museum,” she said. “I’ll fetch some.”

Hamûjil returned to exchange his empty buckets for full ones. His silk tunic was peppered with tiny singed holes, but he was otherwise hale. “We can only get as far as the third floor landing,” he said. “We are drenching the stair in the hope the fire will not spread further down.” He gave Majani a reassuring smile and hastened back inside. From across the square, they saw the Mayor running up with a troupe of people carrying empty buckets. By the time they had joined the chain, Sâlian brought her dragon down beside Mûn.

“There is a cistern. If we could smash it…the fire has burned a hole into the roof…but I’d need an axe – oh, thank you.” She grabbed the dwarf battle axe Miriel proffered and then her dragon soared upwards.

Pallando took the remaining two axes Miriel had brought. “I was all I could carry,” she said, but he was already airborne. Majani shooed the crowd backwards so they would not be hit by falling glass. She flinched at the sound of the shattering windows. Smoke and sparks emerged, and then, to her horror, she saw a man appear between the ragged shards. She screamed to help him. A lungi passed close by the building and pulled the man out. Majani couldn’t see where he was brought to the ground, but a wave of movement passed through the crowd and she trusted he would be cared for.

Aiming a bucket of water through a half-broken window while in flight turned out to be not without challenges, and the lungi missed almost as often as they hit their mark. For a while it seemed as if the breaking of the windows had only fed the blaze with the inrush of air, but then a sound from up high, half roar, half hiss, signalled that Sâlian had succeeded in smashing the cistern. The deluge pouring through the hole in the roof must have put out the core of the fire, since soon Hamûjil came outside to tell them that only small pockets persisted. People now poured into the building eagerly, be it to help with the remaining effort or merely to gaze on the destruction.

“What a mess, though,” said Hamûjil. “What a terrible mess.” He stroked Majani’s hair as she cried. Right then, as if to mock them, a sudden downpour started.

-oOoOo-

Stark grey rocks pierced the grassy slope that fell steeply towards the little stream. It came down from the heights, already covered in snow, of the mountains to the north and tumbled into the valley more than two hundred fathoms below. The valley was fringed by another, much lower string of peaks, and far beyond those peaks lay the plains, and under a blanket of haze the inland sea. Up here, the autumn was far advanced, the rowans stripped of their berries, the ash and alder trees clinging feebly to their last few withered leaves. Immense firs were pummelled by the wind on the ridges, or clustering in the dells for mutual support. The grass was yellow and limp.

About a stone’s throw away from the stream was a thicket of hawthorn, brambles and nettles, plants that are not the most pleasant to the touch, but which nevertheless had been very welcome when they obligingly broke Jarin’s fall. She had lain stunned for a while and unsure of what had happened, but now she crawled out of the scrub, not without being stung and scratched on the way. Once clear of the thorny limbs and burning fingers, she took in her surroundings. She couldn’t understand how they had come so far up the mountains, but then the storm had been so very vicious and everything so very confusing. Wan might have been blown off further up, or further down, who knew. There was no sign of him, and when she began to call, there was no answer.

It must have rained at some point, because she was completely drenched, and shivering in the cold wind. She felt light-headed, and realised that her clothes were stained with wet blood in several places. One of her boots was missing, as was her scarf, but at least her pack remained on her back. When she tried to get up, black spots appeared in front of her eyes and she had to sit down. It began to rain again.

At first she panicked not to find her flute attached to her belt, but then she remembered that she had stored it in her pack. She rummaged around among her food supply and change of clothing. Her fingers touched a sharp edge, she pulled out the object – half the flute, snapped in the middle. She found the other piece and pointlessly held them together.  Broken, broken. So, she was utterly alone.

She cried, howled, hit the ground with her fists.

A sudden sense of being watched, or else some noise, made her look up. Not five yards away from her stood two hooded figures. Dwarves. She struggled to her feet.

“Kind sirs…help me…if it pleases you…”

The dwarves exchanged looks. “Looks like a Krâ, talks like a Kûzin,” said one in Kûzar, but more to the other dwarf than to Jarin.

“I’m a Kûzin,” said Jarin. “I’m…a lungi…lost…” She staggered. The other dwarf stepped forward and took her arm. “Come to warn…dwarves…”

“Warn us of what?” asked the first dwarf but the second dwarf, hooded in green, turned towards Jarin and reached out a hand to pull her up.

“You asked for help,” said the dwarf, with a softer voice but casting a meaningful glance at his fellow dwarf, “and we shall give you help, and then you can tell us. Look, can you walk that far?” He pointed and Jarin saw a little way ahead a wooden hut half hidden by conifers.

“I’ll try.”

Now the first dwarf came along to her other side, and between them they supported the stumbling Jarin. By the time they reached the hut, she felt ready to faint. The dwarves deposited her on a bench and lit a fire in an iron stove.

“You are exhausted,” said the dwarf with the green hood. “Sleep a little and we can talk later.”

“No, please…you must listen…the Krâ…”

“What about them?”

“They’ll attack Longhaven…to capture your ships.”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard them talk. Saw them march, too. They left Krandi…two days ago, I think.”

The other dwarf frowned.  “How can you be here if you were in Krandi two days ago?”

“I told you…I’m a lungi. But my dragon is gone and my flute is broken.” She opened her right hand, in which she was still clutching the broken pieces of the flute. The dwarves looked nonplussed.

“What is the meaning of this flute?” asked the dwarf with the green hood.

“To call the dragon. Please…warn your friends. I’m –”

She leaned over and retched onto the floor. “Sorry…so sorry…”

The dwarves whispered with each other, then one left the hut. The other, the one with the green hood, cleaned up the mess on the floor, then he sat down on a stool next to the bench and gingerly touched Jarin’s clothing.

“You should let me have a look at your wounds,” he said. But Jarin had fallen asleep or otherwise lost consciousness.

When she came to, she lay under a blanket with her head on her pack and the room was warm. The dwarf was busy at the stove, but when Jarin made a noise, he turned and came over, a steaming mug in his hand. “Here, drink this.”

Jarin sniffed, the smell was unfamiliar. “What is it?”

“Chamomile tea. I should introduce myself. I am Nara, daughter of Naluk, at your service.”

“Oh, you are – ” Sure, the dwarf’s face seemed a little softer than the other one’s. But my, what a splendid beard… Jarin realised she was staring and pulled herself together. “Jarin Dragonrider, daughter of Margig. Is this your home?”

“Goodness, no!” Nara laughed. “This is only a way shelter, for dwarves who are travelling. It was the closest place. My brother has gone to fetch help. We live in the Halls of Kamenogi, but you could not have walked that far. It’s nearly two hours.”

“I have heard of that, Kamenogi. The dwarf city on the mountain.”

“In the mountain.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Will your brother warn the people of Longhaven?”

“He will make sure someone does. But we are not as unprepared as you seem to think. Any Krâ host coming up the Shore Road should be spotted by our sentinels long before it reaches Longhaven.”

“Then I came for nothing?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Why did you come up here anyway? Why not go directly to Longhaven?”

“We were caught up in the storm. I fell off and then Wan was gone. I don’t know –” Jarin burst into tears. This appeared to be outlandish behaviour to Nara, because she looked embarrassed and walked over to the window. Jarin breathed deeply and wiped off her eyes.

“It was a big storm,” said Nara thoughtfully. “Even so, it carried you far, far off your trail. It is nearly sixty miles from here to the lakeshore, as the raven flies, and longer on land.”

“Then you can’t send a warning to them in time?”

“Oh, the raven will be there by tonight.”

Jarin screwed up her face in confusion. “Sorry, what raven? When you said as the raven flies, I thought you meant in a straight line.”

Now it was for Nara to look puzzled. “Of course the raven flies in a straight line, more or less. He doesn’t have to worry about rivers and mountain slopes. On land, the way is nearly twice as long.”

“Oh, I see, you are sending an actual raven. With a little letter tied to his foot, yes?”

“Of course not, why would we do that?”

“Well, how would the raven deliver the message?”

“He’ll tell them.”

Jarin sank back. “This is a wondrous land – talking ravens!”

“Says she who comes from the land of dragon riders.”

They both laughed.

“How come,” asked Jarin, “that you speak Kûzar so fluently?”

“There’s nothing unusual about that” replied Nara. “Our people learn languages with ease. Most of our folk can speak Kûzar and Krâin and the speech of the Hwenti. But not the speech of the Tree Women, which is secret, just as our own.”

“I speak only Kûzar and Krâin.”

“Yes, we took you for a Krâ until you started talking.”

“My grandparents were Krâ, but I have lived in Kûz all my life.”

Voices were now heard outside, and then the door opened and four dwarves entered. Seeing that Jarin was sitting up, they bowed and made their introductions. Ingu, son of Balud, at your service, Rhuna, daughter of Keini, Diri, son of Naluk, Tuli, son of Daz, at your service, at your service, at your service… Jarin gave her own name but doubted she would remember all of theirs. Was Nara’s brother called Diri or Keini?

“We brought a pony,” said one of them to Nara. “Do you think she is well enough to ride?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I think I am well enough,” said Jarin. “But I have never sat a horse.”

“Surely a horse can’t be a problem for a dragon rider?”

“I have no way of knowing. Let me try.”

The pony was a gentle beast, patiently standing still while Jarin struggled into the saddle. She realised her left leg was stiff and hurting, and her head swam by the time she was finally mounted. It felt strangely exposed with no dragon’s neck and head looming up in front of her. Perhaps that was the reason for the blurry patches moving across her field of vision? Nara’s brother took the bridle and the company set off. It was no longer raining, and heavy fog wafted across the mountainside. The air smelled earthy and wild.

Uphill they went, over faded mountain meadows, past daunting crags and under towering pines. Jarin had slumped forward, hugging the pony’s neck as she was used to doing with Wan. Soon she fell into a half-sleep from which she only awoke when she heard the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoing around her. They had arrived in the Halls of Kamenogi.

-oOoOo-

The following day, Hamûjil left the palace early to survey the damage with the Mayor, the head librarian and the Captain of the Guards. It was early afternoon when he returned. Majani and her ladies were sitting in the room with the blue baldachin, which still hadn’t been fixed. Two of the younger women were entertaining the children by folding paper flowers. Hamûjil took his wife and the other ladies into a quiet corner.

“It could have been worse,” he began, “though it is bad enough. Fortunately nobody was badly hurt – the poor man who was trapped has only slight burns and some cuts from the glass. But the books!” His eyes teared up. Almost all the books on the third floor had perished. This was very painful, because the most precious books of Kûz had been kept there, and many of them were of elven make, acquired by the seraphs over generations. On the second floor, too, books had been damaged by the water, though some at least of these might be salvageable, if only by having their content copied. The first floor had escaped both fire and water. It held the bulk of the Kûzar books, sturdy, woodcut-printed volumes designed for lending.

“Much lore is lost to us,” said Hamûjil. “Though we may hope to recover some of it with the help of the elves. However, it gets worse. We believe this fire was no accident, but a wicked act of arson.”

Miriel blanched. “How could you know?”

“A few oil-drenched rags were found on the second floor. It looks like the arsonist was disturbed before he could light those. Since it was after closing time, he probably thought the building would be empty.”     

“But who would do such a thing?”

“Really, Ninod?” said Miriel with raised eyebrows. “Nobody springs to mind?”

“You mean that ambassador? I don’t see what good it would do him to burn down our library.”

“He is not trying to do good to himself; he is trying to do evil unto us,” replied Miriel and passed a bowl of pomegranate pips to the Archseraph. “To harm us, to scare us, that is his desire. Believe me, you who have lived all your life among good people have no notion of how the wicked think.”

“We must have more guards,” said Majani.

“My dear, I cannot conjure guards out of thin air,” replied Hamûjil. “Those we have are already doing long shifts. And there is no telling what he might target next – the palace, the Tower of Knowledge, the Houses… We really have to find him as quickly as possible.”

“But how can we do that? We have already tried.”

“Perhaps we will get some clue when we find out how he got into the building. The door was locked after all.” He frowned. “Say, was that pomegranate quite fresh? It tastes strange.” The women shrugged; none of them had eaten any of it. Suddenly, Hamûjil slumped forward and began to splutter. The women crowded round him, helplessly patting his back. Ninod shouted to fetch a healer. Hamûjil’s face turned green and he slipped off the chair onto the ground.