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 Kûzar 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 your 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 no 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 Kûzar 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.

Diri and Nara

Had someone asked her before how she imagined the mountain halls of the dwarves, Jarin would have been hard pressed. Vaguely she would have thought they were very grand, though also gloomy, cold and damp. She might have thought of torches and candles, but not of light shafts, and yet the main room in Diri and Nara’s home was as filled with daylight as any Kûzar house. The bedchambers were dark, set back into the mountain, and Jarin had never before slept in such utter blackness and silence. These chambers were also austere, containing nothing but the beds, and chests for clothing. By contrast, the long main room that served as parlour, kitchen and workshop, was comfortably fitted with carved furniture, rugs, cushions, knick-knacks and even potted plants. Here Nara had her workbench where she crafted sleek silver jewellery; here was Diri’s enormous desk on which were spread large sheets of paper with his designs for what he called “devices” – an improved pulley to be used in the mines, a system of sluices that could be operated from a central place, and other such contraptions which Jarin barely understood.

On the day after her arrival, a dwarf doctor had visited, had pronounced her symptoms of nausea, headache and at times blurry vision to be a Commotion of the Brain and told her to rest and not worry about a thing. He – or possibly she – then had a long, hushed conversation with Diri and Nara in the dwarf language, and then the door was closed and Jarin was left lying in the dark.

She did reasonably well with the resting part of the prescription, but how could she possibly not worry? Her dragon was gone and her flute broken. She had trouble recalling the details of what had happened in Krandi and how she had ended up in the mountains. How was she going to get home? When would the vomiting stop? Was this Commotion of the Brain a passing injury or a permanent impairment? And these were merely her personal woes, never mind the rise of the Dark Lord in the West and the brewing of war on her country’s doorstep.

Then there was the food. When after a few days of bedrest she was well enough to sit at the table with the two dwarfs, she had casually asked, “What’s in this stew?”

“Mushroom, onions, venison…” Nara had said.

Jarin had put the bowl down. “Forgive me. Please do not be offended, but I cannot eat this. I am not allowed to. It would be against the New Way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most Kûzeen are committed to a life without violence. Eating the flesh of our brothers and sisters, the animals, is something we do not do.”

“I have heard of the New Way,” Nara had replied, “but I did not know that it made such demands of you.”

“Besides,” Diri had added, “you ate the same stew yesterday.”

And then Jarin had to vomit again.

After that, the dwarves made sure to feed Jarin with inoffensive fare, which was, however, not necessarily palatable. There was a crumbly, bitter kind of curd made from gorse which Nara praised as very nourishing but which made Jarin gag, and a paste of crushed lichen that left a rancid aftertaste on her tongue. The rowanberry jam was tolerable, but there was no bread to go with it, and the supply of root vegetables from Krâ was shrinking with no new deliveries in sight.

“But the fish are not your brothers and sisters?” asked Diri when Jarin accepted a piece of smoked trout.

“Hm.” Jarin inspected the ends of her braid. “The Archseraph would like us to stop eating fish, but I think the country is not quite ready for that.”

“And when you are ready, they will suddenly become your brothers and sisters? No, you don’t need to answer.” Diri’s deep-brown eyes regarded her with warmth. “I do not mean to mock.  I can see that you, your whole people I mean, aspire to goodness, and that is admirable, however incomplete your efforts may be.”

After a week, Jarin felt well enough to be up all day, and since she made it to the evening without vomiting or getting a crippling headache, Diri announced that the following day she would have to see the king.

“Why is that?”

“Because the king wishes to see you.” There was a hint of exasperation in Diri’s voice, as if Jarin’s question was foolish beyond belief.

“It is the custom, Jarin,” added Nara. “You are a guest in the Halls of Kamenogi, so you ought to be presented to the king for his approval. And to welcome you, of course. Would it not be the same if we came to Levare?”

“No, not unless you were someone of importance to the seraphs.”

Diri’s mouth twitched. “Being a guest here is what makes you someone of importance.”

“I guess Levare sees more visitors. If the Archseraph wanted to see them all, there would be long queues in the streets.” Jarin laughed awkwardly, then she glanced down at herself. “Do I need to wear anything special? I don’t have any other clothes…”

“Worry not,” said Nara. “The king is attired in great splendour, but would expect no such things of you. I will lend you a hood, if you wish.”

“Thank you. Do I have to go alone?”

“Nara has to go to market tomorrow,” said Diri. “But I can accompany you.”

“You do not need to go out of your way on my behalf…”

Diri rose and bowed. “I would be honoured, Jarin Dragonrider, to escort you to the king’s hall.”

If a moment ago Jarin had been vexed by Diri’s seemingly dismissive manner, she now felt nearly mortified by his sudden display of chivalry. Was he mocking her? But it mattered not, it was better to face the King of Kamenogi with Diri by her side than alone, whether he was satirical or not.

They set off mid-morning, shortly after Nara had left for the market in one of the upper halls. The king’s chambers, by contrast, lay on the deepest level of Kamenogi as became his majesty. To Jarin’s surprise, bordering on terror, they descended to this level not via flights of stairs but in a kind of metal cabinet that floated down on a set of vertical rails attached to a sheer wall.

“Is this magic?”

Diri shrugged. “Water pressure,” he said and waved his hand vaguely. Jarin couldn’t understand how water would come into this, but she didn’t ask, lest Diri were to take that tone with her again as if she were a dumb child. The floating cabin came to a halt and two guards stepped forward to receive them. They were in an anteroom lit by coloured lanterns – Kûzar lanterns, as Jarin realised, thought they seemed to give an uncommonly intense light. Ahead she saw a set of tall bronze doors embossed with braided patterns and inlaid with precious stones off which the lantern light reflected. One of the guards pulled a lever and the doors swung outwards in a smooth, silent swoop. Jarin glanced at the guards, but they had taken up position on either side of the door, facing outwards. Was she just to walk in? Then she felt Diri’s hand grasp hers.

“Come,” he said.

The king’s hall was bathed in jewelled light from lanterns that hung on chains of varying length suspended from the vaulted ceiling, their colours mingling with the glow from two fireplaces to the left and right, and bouncing off the polished pink marble floor and the walls covered in tiles of purple, deep red and gold. Guards stood at the foot of each of the pink marble columns that led like an avenue to the front of the hall, where under a baldachin of Kûzar silk the golden throne lay…quite empty.

Jarin barely had time to wonder, because a voice, in Kûzar, spoke from the left.

“I am here. You will forgive the informal reception.”

Half hidden behind one of the columns stood a desk, heavily carved out of a dark wood and scattered with books, scrolls and maps. Here, on a seat designed more for comfort than for splendour, sat an elderly dwarf, royally attired indeed, and with a white beard that nearly reached the floor. He beckoned with his left while with his right he finished scribbling on a parchment. A second dwarf, who had been standing in the shadows, received the missive and swiftly walked away.

“Come, come, let me see you closer.”

Diri let go of Jarin’s hand and bowed before the king. Jarin, unsure of the protocol, made the Kûzar gesture of greeting.

“I present to you, my king,” said Diri, “Jarin Dragonrider, daughter of Margig, from the land of Kûz.”

“At your service,” said Jarin.

The king smiled. “Baglar, son of Wargan, Lord of Kamenogi, King of the Jewelled Throne, Defender of the Deep and so on and so forth. At your service, if I can at all manage, because you have already done enough for us. Do not look so puzzled, Jarin Dragonrider. It is thanks to your warning that the dwarves of Longhaven were ready to defend themselves against the raiders from Krâ.”

“But Nara said your sentinels would spot them…”

“Our sentinels, to our distress, were murdered at their posts. How the Krâ knew where to find them is a question we are trying to answer, but that does not concern you. You came to warn us, without regard for your own safety, and for this we thank you. I wish to assist you as best I can in return. Diri tells me that you have lost your dragon.”

“In a way. The dragon has returned to his realm, but that is not so much the problem; he always does that at the end of a journey. But I need my silver flute to summon him back, and the flute was broken when I fell. I hope to return to Levare by land and sea as soon as may be.”

“As soon as may be, well, therein lies the challenge.” The King tapped one of the maps on the desk. “Our road to Longhaven is currently cut off by a landslide in the main pass, caused by the very storm that brought you here. It could take weeks to clear. We have other routes high in the mountains, but there are few even among our people who could attempt them, and you will not be offended if I tell you that you, used to travelling in the air, cannot hope to succeed on those paths. You will have to wait until the main road is accessible again, unless you can find another way to summon your dragon.”

“I don’t think there is another way. All lungi summon their dragons with their flutes.”

“Can I see this flute?”

“I did not bring it with me.”

“Never mind. You are the guest of Nara, daughter of Naluk, an accomplished silversmith. Diri, did it not occur to you that your sister might mend Jarin’s flute?”

“The thought has crossed my mind, Sire.”

“But not so much as to actually mention this to Jarin?”

Diri shrugged. “I had other matters to think of,” he said vaguely.

“It’s not so straightforward,” said Jarin. “The flute, once broken, cannot just be remade. It’s spirit is broken too, so to speak. But perhaps, if Nara were willing, she could help me make a new flute. You see, a lungi has to create their own flute, and there are traditional rules to follow, and you have to –”

“Well, so it is complicated,” interrupted the king. “We are dwarves. I should think we can cope, especially with things that are traditional.  Diri here is a very clever fellow, as is his sister. I give you this advice, to start on making a new flute, and then we shall see which way opens up to you first, by land or by air. Is there anything else I can give you apart from advice? Gems, gold?”

“Um, I did not…”

“Sire,” said Diri, “Jarin will humbly accept any gift you wish to bestow on her.”

“Is that so?” A smile flitted over the king’s face. “In that case, Jarin will be content to wait until I have chosen a suitable gift. I shall send it in due time. ”

Diri bowed. “Jarin is most grateful, Sire.”

“Very well. And now it will please Jarin to leave me to the mercy of my advisors. Good day to you both.”

Thus relieved of any need to speak or indeed think and feel for herself, Jarin followed Diri out of the king’s hall back to the anteroom with the floating chamber.

“Water pressure can lift it up, too?” she said as they stepped in.

“Yes, obviously.”

They stood in silence as the chamber moved upwards. When it came to a halt, for a brief moment Jarin felt weightless, like when she rode a dragon who took a sudden dive. The thought made her sigh. Diri was marching along without a word, and she had to make an effort to keep up with him.

“Those lamps in the king’s place,” she said eventually, “they looked Kûzar to me, but they shone so bright...”

“It’s done with mirrors,” said Diri.

“Now that I don’t believe,” Jarin replied. “I was taught that a mirror cannot augment a light source.”

“But an array of mirrors can focus a light source and direct it in the most efficient way. They need to be good mirrors, of course, and that means Kûzar glass mirrors. Your people are shrewd to keep their secret to themselves, because we pay dearly for them.”

Jarin frowned. “That’s hardly my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Why are you like this today? So…prickly. Have I done anything to displease you?”

Diri looked away from her, as if the bare walls of the tunnel held some fascinating message. “You have done nothing to displease me,” he said at last. “But I have much on my mind; I have perplexing puzzles to solve. Perhaps I will tell you more one day.”

“I might not be here for long enough to find out.”

“And then again you might.”

Jarin felt that she would be glad for Nara to come back from market sooner rather than later.

-oOoOo-

“Oh, for goodness sake, Ninod,” cried Miriel, “will you let up with your quince jelly! We have more important things to think about just now.”

“It’s the Seraphine’s favourite,” said Ninod. “I thought it would cheer her up.”

“She’s not interested in sweets while her husband’s life hangs in the balance! How can you not get that into you head! Oh, great, now she woke up. And I was so glad she’d finally got some sleep.”

“I wasn’t the one who shouted,” grumbled Ninod, clinging to her crystal bowl of quince jelly as if it were her firstborn child.

Majani, who had indeed dozed off in her chair by the Archseraph’s bed, opened her eyes and squirmed in her seat.

“What is the matter?” She rolled her shoulders and rubbed her face. “How is Hamûjil?”

“Much as he was, Seraphine,” replied Miriel. “He was able to swallow a little water earlier, but he did not really come to. I am afraid he looks paler than yesterday, but at least he is breathing steadily now.”

Majani sighed. “We can but wait and hope. Oh, is that quince jelly? Thank you, Ninod.” Absentmindedly, she spooned the jelly into her mouth, while her eyes rested on Hamûjil’s face. Was his breathing steadier? It was certainly true that he looked very pale. Like a Krâ, almost. His skin was clammy to the touch. She considered again whether it would not be better to have him taken to the infirmary, but again she decided against it. The most skilled healers of Levare were at the Archseraph’s bed thrice a day and one of them watched him through the night. There was nothing more that they could do for him at the infirmary, and she preferred to have him close by.

An attendant entered.

“Seraphine, the Wanderer has arrived and desires to speak with you. Shall I bring him here?”

“No, take him to the Council Chamber, and I will join him there.” Majani stood up and stretched. “I shall be glad of even just this short walk. Miriel, if it pleases you, you will watch the Archseraph while I am away. Ninod, you may come with me.

In the Council Chamber, Pallando stood with Sâlian by his side and reached out his arms to the Seraphine as she entered.

“My dear, how are you? And how is the Archseraph?”

“Unchanged from yesterday.”

“Ah, so the news is neither good nor bad, and I am lost for what to say.  It grieves me that I cannot be of help. You really need Alatar. At least we know he is on his way.”

“Yes, that is a comfort Have the lungi been able to pick him up? Are you here to tell me he is arriving soon?”

“Unfortunately, he has not yet been spotted. And the reason for my coming is a different one. Majani, I know you are consumed with worry about the Archseraph, but even so, while he is ill, the affairs of state are laid on your shoulders. I want to urge you to set what guard you can on the West Road.”

“Is there bad news? Have the scouts spotted an army?”

“No, those who have returned have had nothing much to report. But we are concerned with the one who has not returned. Jarin was sent to Krandi and should be back by now, but she isn’t. While she is thus delayed, we have no news of what is happening on the far shore.”

“So…” Majani’s face showed that she felt unprepared to take on the Archseraph’s mantle. “Do you want to send another lungi out that way? How long could we expect them to take? And what if they are also delayed?”

“It will do no harm to send someone else, and I think it should be done today. Nevertheless, it is causing me some concern that Jarin has been delayed and –”

At this point Sâlian, who had been restlessly pulling at her sleeves during this conversation, burst out, “How can you talk like that!? Jarin is not delayed! How could she be delayed for nearly two weeks? No, no, she’s been taken prisoner, or worse.”

“Wan would protect her,” said Pallando and laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. But Sâlian shrugged it off.

“Wan isn’t with her all the time!”

“Sâlian, my dear. I understand that you are worried. I am worried, too. But there can be any number of reasons why Jarin is not back yet, and many of them are not at all disastrous. We need to trust in her skill as a very experienced lungi. And no matter where she is, we know that Wan can bail her out at any time.”

“It’s a shame we cannot summon Wan and ask him,” said Majani.

“No, we can’t. But –” Pallando suddenly chuckled. “But we can do something else.”

And he pulled out his flute and played his tune. Majani frowned. It was unheard of to summon a dragon inside any building, let alone the Seraphs’ Palace. But before she could object, the dragon already stood squat and purple on the mosaic floor. Mûn the Magnificent would have been called the king of the dragons, if dragons had any such thing as kings, and it was only apt that he and none other was the dragon who answered to Pallando’s call.  He glanced around at the unexpected surroundings and drew his conclusion with the speed that matched his sharp mind.

“Yes,” he said before anyone even asked him anything. “I can tell you what happened.”

“With Jarin and Wan?”

“Who else would you want to ask me about? We have been waiting for days for one of you having the sense to summon one of us and hear Wan’s news. It pleases me that you, Pallando, are the one who had the wits to do so, though I’d have thought you would use them earlier.”

“I am flattered, I’m sure,” said Pallando with a grin. “You do not know what has kept us occupied here. However, that can wait. Tell us of Wan’s news.”

“Wan left Krandi with Jarin ten days ago. They were making for Longhaven, because Jarin wished to tell the dwarves of a Krâ host that had set off in that direction. On the way, they got into a storm and were blown off course into the mountains. There, perhaps due to the disturbance of the air, the lungi bond failed and Wan was transported back to our realm. He has been awaiting a summons from Jarin ever since, but none has come.”

“The bond failed while they were in the air?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

“So she must be dead!” wailed Sâlian.

“She may just be unconscious,” offered Majani, but without much conviction.

“There could be other reason why she cannot summon Wan. Don’t despair just yet,” said Pallando and wrapped his arm round Sâlian. “And I know what you’re thinking, but no, it’s not a good idea for you to set out and look for her. One woman in a whole mountain range? You could be looking forever. It is good news, though, that the Krâ host is marching to Longhaven and not to Kûz.”

“Good for us, yes,” said Majani. “For the dwarves, not so much. How awful that Jarin wasn’t able to warn them.”

“The dwarves are much better equipped to deal with the Krâ than the Kûzeen are,” replied Pallando. “And I am confident that they will know this host is coming, whether Jarin told them or not. At least we know now that Kûz is not under any immediate threat.”

“Wan had more to tell,” said Mûn. “Jarin seems to have shown herself a nifty little spy in Krandi. She found out that the Krâ are training an army to go west, but there is a fair deal of discontent among them about it.  They are also trying to build a fleet, with limited success.”

“So they are planning to attack us?”

“Us, the dwarves, the elves, who knows? There is no safety you can be sure of at this time. Why isn’t the Archseraph here to hear all this?”

“Ah, let me fill you in on that,” said Pallando, and he did.

Later, when Majani returned to Hamûjil’s sickbed, he had taken a turn for the worse. Sweat was trickling from his forehead and at his neck his pulse could be seen racing. Miriel couldn’t say what had brought about the change. With a cry of dismay, Majani sank down on her chair.

“What if he dies?” she whispered. “What if he dies?”

Lines of Inquiry

“So, you met the king today,” said Nara when they sat down for venison-free stew. “How did you like him?”

“Jarin seemed not overly awed,” said Diri before Jarin could open her mouth.

“Oh, no,” she cried, “did I offend? I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t offend. But I brought you before the King of the Jewelled Throne and you appeared to be no more impressed than if it had been the baker next-door.”

“Well…please don’t think I am bragging, but I am no stranger to royalty. You see, I am the Archseraph’s preferred lungi and see him quite frequently on business. I have also travelled with him on several occasions. And the Archseraph inspires many feelings, but awe is not generally one of them.”

“Which then?”

“Oh, loyalty, and…and love, I suppose, and somehow a desire to be a better person. He is so, how can I put it, so genuine, so honest and trustworthy and just how a ruler should be, and he truly cares about our country and our people, and he is so sweet to the Seraphine and to his children, but also kind to all he meets; and then he is so clever and he always seems to find just the right words. And my dragon carries him willingly, because he is pure of heart. Most of our people would lay down their lives for him, though of course he would never ask such a thing.”

Jarin’s voice had become softer and softer as she spoke, and her eyes shone with homesickness.

“He does sound admirable,” said Nara. “Now, we greatly respect King Baglar and consider it an honour to serve him, but I don’t think many of us feel quite so tenderly about him as you do of your Archseraph.”

“I liked your king. And I found him rather jolly.”

“Jolly!?” Diri snorted.

“Oh, I am so sorry, is that inappropriate? I only meant it was funny how he and you kept talking about me as if I was a just piece of luggage, Jarin thinks this and Jarin wants that. I felt he was having a little laugh at my expense.”

“Dwarves are not, as a rule, known for their sense of humour.”

Jarin, who had by now learned to look past the beards and see the dwarf faces, realised that Diri was supressing a smile.

“You have found favour twice today, Jarin,” he continued. “First with the king, and then with my sister agreeing to help you with your flute. I think a modest celebration is in order. I will go down to the store house and get a flagon of wine.”

He was barely gone when Jarin took the opportunity to ask a question she’d felt embarrassed to raise in his presence.

“You are quite young, aren’t you?” she said to Nara. “I mean, I used to think all dwarves looked old, because of the beards, I guess, but now I know you closer up, I have started to think you and Diri are perhaps younger than me.”

Nara shook her head. “Our life spans are different from yours. Diri and I are in our sixties, but among our people that means we are considered quite young.”

“So where are your parents?”

“There was a plague.” Jarin made a little sympathetic noise, but Nara went on in an even voice. “Diri and I were just children. We were brought up by an uncle who lives further east, near the land of the Secret People. We rarely see him now; it’s a long journey.”

“Why did you leave him?”

Nara shrugged. “This is Kamenogi.”

“I don’t understand.”

At this, Nara gave her a look that suggested determination to be patient with this foolish foreigner. “My brother is no ordinary dwarf. I would have thought you knew this by now. For someone of his talent and skill the appropriate place is near the centre of power.”

“I see.” Jarin’s mind skipped back a little in the conversation. “And who are the Secret People? I mean, I have heard of them, they come up in some of our stories, the Secret People of Oracarni, but what do you know of them?”

“Nothing. They are a secret people.”

“I mean, are they human? Are they dwarves, or what?”

“Jarin, truly, I do not know.”

“In the stories we have in Kûz, it says that back in the dark days, they hid from evil, but they hid so well that they never came back to see if the world had changed, and so to this day they are in hiding. Do you think they even exist?”

“I am not going to speculate.”

“Why not?”

“Because they either exist or they don’t, and what I think about it isn’t going to change that.” She held out her hand. “Show me the flute.”

Jarin rummaged in her pocket and brought out the fragments. With nimble fingers, Nara picked them up and held them close to the lamp, peering at them as she turned them over and over.

“The break is clean and I don’t see any cracks. Are you sure we cannot put it back together? I can make it so that you won’t see the seam.”

“Please don’t think that I have any doubt about your skills, Nara,” said Jarin quickly. “But the flute of a lungi has to be made alongside certain rituals, so that the bond with the dragon can be formed. And this starts with the smelting of the silver. The old flute can be melted down as payment for the new. Do you think that will be acceptable? I have some money on me, in Krâ coin, but I don’t think it would be enough…”

“I can arrange it for you,” said Nara.

“Thank you so much! And speaking of money, well, I don’t want to give any offence, but the Archseraph gave me this money for my keep whilst in Krandi, and given how things turned out, I think I should give it to you for keeping me…”

“Jarin, no. We are wealthy dwarves, and it is our delight to have you with us. Do not even mention such an idea to Diri; he would be very hurt.”

“I’m sorry. But why would he –”

Diri’s return put an end to this line of conversation. He placed a stoppered earthenware jug on the table and Nara brought three glasses, Kûzar crystal by the looks of them, and poured the wine.

“Tree Women’s?” asked Jarin as she inhaled the scent.

“No, Hwenti.”

“I didn’t know they made wine.”

“They do when the mood takes them. Then they lose interest and let the vines grow wild, and a few decades later they start all over again.” Diri shrugged. “It’s the elven way. There are few things they truly care about. In fact, I’m not sure there are any.”

Jarin sipped and let the wine rest on her tongue for a while, as if she could taste the strange mind-set of the elves. She swallowed and felt a trail of fire going down her throat.

“My dragon says they don’t know what to do with their immortality.”

“Would you?”

“I won’t get the chance to try.” She laughed. “But the immortals I know are not at all like that. They know what they’re doing, and they do care.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” said Diri. “I’ve never met any immortals other than the Hwenti.”

“They say,” said Nara, “that there are other elves in the West, and that they are very different. But we know nothing about them; we barely know our own dwarven kin out there."

“Do you think of them as kin, even if you don’t know them, just because they are dwarves? Because I have never thought of the steppe tribes or the Gondorians as my kin. Only the settled Krâ, because I am descended off them. But in the end, aren’t we all kin? We are all alive and aware, we speak, we share feelings…”

“You are not wrong,” said Diri, “but there are many who would fiercely disagree.”

Jarin took to her bed early that night, but Diri and Nara stayed in their seats by the dying fire.

“You have had more dealings with the Kûzeen than I,” said Nara. “Are they all like this?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t really know. There is something about her. As if she was somehow lit from within.”

Diri thrust the poker into the embers. Sparks sprayed up for a moment and lit his face, the brows pulled together over his deep brown eyes.

“I can’t say I have observed any other Kûzeen very closely.  But I do understand what you mean about Jarin. She has this air of innocence and goodwill, and this fierce desire to know and understand. Perhaps it is because she is a lungi.” He peered into the flames. “Will the flute take long to make?”

“That depends,” said Nara.

“On what?”

“On what you would consider long enough.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

-oOoOo-

As soon as he entered the chamber, Alatar took charge. He dismissed everyone, even the Seraphine, keeping only Uilara by his side. In the anteroom, Pallando spoke soothingly to the Seraphine.

“You can be at ease now that Alatar is here. He will save him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Majani, his healing gift comes straight from the Powers. And he has had millennia of practice. There is not a poison in Middle-earth that he has not studied and defeated.” He placed a hand on Majani’s arm and the Seraphine exhaled. “Anyway, have you got any further in finding out who is behind this?”

“We have done our best to track down the pomegranates,” said Miriel, “but we can’t really tell where they came from. Since they are in season now, all and sundry sends up a basket to the palace as a gift for the seraphs, as if we didn’t have our own orchard, but you know what people are like. We had a big hamper of various fruit from the Tree Women, and another from a group of elven visitors. Mistress Tilar sends some choice fruit from her gardens every week, as does Warden Olan when he’s in town. The list goes on. We get given so much, most of it is distributed among the staff. Anyone could have sent in poisoned fruit, but they couldn’t have been sure the Archseraph would eat it.”

“And therefore you think it was one of the palace staff?”

“We will have to entertain that idea.”

“Are you sure it was the pomegranate?”

“He fell ill right after he ate it. And it is widely known that he loves pomegranate. It would help if we knew what kind of poison it was, because then we could consider who’d have access to it. Do you think Alatar will be able to find out?”

“He might,” said Pallando, “but right now he will be wholly occupied with saving Hamûjil’s life.”

“Of course, of course.” Miriel glanced about the room. Majani had moved over to the window and was staring at the rain that came down with a steady roar. In her hands she held a porcelain swallow, which she turned over and over. Outside, the late November day drew to a gloomy close.

“Seraphine?” said Miriel. “I advise you to get some rest. We must trust in the Guardian now. I will make sure to let you know as soon as there is any news.”

Majani looked up from her trinket. “No, Miriel, you go and get some rest. You have barely slept this past week.”

“Neither have you, Seraphine, and it –”

“Ladies,” interrupted Pallando. “I suggest that you both seek your chambers. Quell your troubled thoughts and sleep till morning. And you, too, Ninod. The Archseraph is not in danger while Alatar is with him. When you awake, you may well find him much improved. In fact, I am so confident of this that I, too, will retire to the Houses, and Sâlian with me. We will return in time for breakfast, and I hope there is some of that wonderful quince jelly left.”

Majani looked like was going to protest, but Ninod and Miriel gently pulled her out the room. Pallando and Sâlian left through the opposite doors. An attendant snuffed the lights.

-oOoOo-

After a heavy sleep crowded with dreams, Majani woke before dawn and dressed herself in the dark without calling an attendant. In the anteroom, she nearly collided with a moving shape that turned out to be Uilara.

“I have come to fetch you, Seraphine. The Archseraph is awake and wishes to see you.”

“Oh, thank the Powers! But do you not have a light?”

“I forgot to bring one. Alatar said to hurry…”

They groped their way along the walls until they reached the Archseraph’s chamber, where many lanterns were lit. Hamûjil was propped up by pillows and was speaking softly with Alatar. When he saw Majani, he beckoned to her.

“Come and sit near me, my beloved. Have you been very worried?”

“Hamûjil! I have been frantic!” she cried and wrapped her arms round his neck. “But are you truly recovered?”

“It would seem so, thanks to Alatar’s skill. But he says I will have to rest for a good while yet. I hope the country has not collapsed in the meantime?”

“No, but many things trouble us.”

Hamûjil closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again with an expression of pain. “The library! So many books lost…”

“Oh, that’s not the worst of it. Jarin is missing, and we think that the Krâ –”

“Seraphine.” Uilara put a hand on Majani’s shoulder. “Maybe this can wait a little.”

“Of course, of course. Hamûjil, you should eat something, and then perhaps you want to see the children.”

“I do want to see the children, and I would like some food, though not pomegranate at this time, ha. What is this about Jarin missing? No, Uilara, I do want to know, let the Seraphine tell me.”

“You remember you sent her to Krandi? She left from there to go to the North to warn the dwarves about the Krâ attacking, and they got into a storm and the lungi bond failed and she has not called for Wan since.”

“So how do you know what happened?”

“Mûn told us,” said Alatar. “Hamûjil, I understand that you want to pick up where you left off, but you are still weak, and besides, there is nothing you can do for Jarin in this matter. Leave it to other heads and hands to preside for another few days. Break your fast and see your children; that is the best you can do with what strength you have today.”

Only Alatar could have spoken to the Archseraph with such authority, and so Hamûjil acquiesced and waited for Majani to fetch the little ones. When he sat with Lalina and Řahamûjil in one arm and Alamûjil in the other, Majani finally breathed calmly. By and by, Miriel, Ninod and the other ladies came in to congratulate him on his recovery. 

“I have kept the dish of pomegranates, Archseraph,” said Ninod. “Miriel wanted to throw it out because it was rotting, but I put it in a wax-sealed jar.”

“Ninod, not now!” hissed Miriel, but Hamûjil raised a languid hand.

“Thank you, Ninod,” he said. “Have it sent to the Seekers, if it pleases you, with a request to find the poison if they can.”

“See?” said Ninod to Miriel.

After another ten minutes or so, Majani sent everyone out except for the Guardian. She and Alatar ministered to Hamûjil for the rest of the day, and when evening came, she thanked the Powers and went to bed with a quiet heart.

-oOoOo-

Pallando’s rooms in the House of the Power of Air were fitted with all the comforts Kûz had to offer. The sofas were soft, the floors lushly carpeted, the cups were of fine porcelain. Shades of blue and grey set the tone. Alatar had chosen the firmest chair he could find and watched Pallando pouring hot chocolate.

“I brought the palantír,” he said. “I did not dare look into it alone again, but I think it is vital that we find out as much as we can.”

“Agreed,” said Pallando. “Some risi in your cocoa?”

“No thank you. Could I have some tea?”

“Probably, give me a moment.”

He bustled out. Alatar took the palantír out of his bag and set it on the table, but didn’t remove the cloth in which it was wrapped. Presently, Pallando returned with a teapot.

“Regards from Sâlian; she just made this.”

“That’s kind of her. Are you ready? I’ll ward against Sauron, you ward against Curumo.”

“We’re starting straight away? Wait, let me just get a cushion.”

“Are you comfortable now?” said Alatar with a smirk.

“As comfortable as I’ll be. Now, let’s see, let’s see. Pictures are coming in…very bright sunshine… ah, I reckon that’s the Southlands. I like those feathery trees. Very handsome people. What are they eating, though?”

“Does it matter? Some kind of fruit, I would guess.”

“It’s an odd shape for a fruit. A bit like…you know. And so yellow! Seems handy how they can pull the skin off it in those neat strips.”

“Pallando! Get your mind to where we want to be. Let’s look for Olórin. And let’s not talk while we look; it’ll only distract us.”

“True, true, forgive me.”

So they sat in silence as the images flitted across the stone, of Olórin smoking his pipe, of the man who looked like Mallor speaking to an elf in a blue dress, of many elves, a few dwarves, and those strange little fellows, and then a dark land, and armies marching, and a shadowy tower…

Afterwards, Alatar was the first to speak.

“What is Olórin doing? Why are they still at the same place? Do you think it actually is Elrond’s place?”

“Probably, I don’t know. Was that his daughter with the blue dress?”

“Doesn’t matter. It was definitely the same house; I recognised the furniture. Do you think it possible that they have decided to keep the Ring there? Does Elrond believe he could defend himself against an onslaught from Mordor?”

“Well, could he?”

“I doubt it.” Alatar frowned. “It would be foolish of Olórin to allow it.”

“Yes, I cannot imagine that he came to a different conclusion from us. And Elrond used to strike me as insightful enough. Surely they know the Ring must be destroyed.”

“So why have they not set out? Unless they are unsure of the way to take, or have some disagreement among themselves about it.”

Pallando drained his cup. “I wonder if we should…but it’s such a long way, even with dragons.”

Alatar shook his head. “I was thinking that, too, but there are weighty reasons against such a plan. Considering Curumo’s betrayal, they might not trust us, just turning up out of the blue. And then we have our own situation here to worry about. Besides, we cannot know that what the stone shows us is the present. These could be images from days, even weeks past. For all we know, they might be halfway to Mordor by now.”

“Then why would the stone not show us images of that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I guess that is the danger of the stone,” said Pallando. “We cannot be sure about anything it shows. Sauron’s might looks undefeatable, and yet this may be just what Sauron wants us to see.”

“You think he knows we are here?”

“Hard to say. But he would want anyone looking into any of the stones to see his might. He will try to defeat people before they even take up a sword.”

“Yes.” Alatar poured another cup of tea and sighed. “And here in the East we have cultivated a people who simply will not take up a sword. But Hamûjil will have to step up and do something. If a large Krâ host reaches the West, it could be what tips the balance.”

“What could Hamûjil do to stop them?”

“Perhaps bribe them somehow? I’ll speak to him. Though he is far from well and I reckon he will have to keep to his bed for another week at least. And I would be easier if we could find the – ”

Without even knocking, Sâlian nearly fell into the room. “Please,” she cried. “The Seraphine bids you come to the palace as fast as you can. They cannot find Alamûjil.” 

Shifting Perspectives

The search for the young seraph had already reached the point where the same place was inspected for the third or fourth time. He was not found in any of the family chambers, nor in the state rooms, nor in the kitchens, offices and storerooms. Miriel led a group of attendants in the royal gardens, while the captain of the guard had his men search the stables and outbuildings. Pallando and Sâlian had gone out onto the plaza to look among the mansions of the Sixth Rung. In Hamûjil’s bedchamber, Majani clung to the little ones as if they, too, might disappear.

“I have no doubt he will be found soon,” said the Archseraph. “Remember how he got himself lost during the Lantern Festival?”

“That was different and you know it,” said Majani.

“Tell me from the start,” said Alatar.

“He was in the gardens,” said Majani. “He gets to play alone in the gardens every day, you know, to foster independence. And when Miriel went out to fetch him, she couldn’t find him. She thought he’d gone back inside by himself, because it was drizzling. But we couldn’t find him in the palace either. I don’t think he would run away, but what if he’s fallen into a well…?”

“What do the guards say?”

“There were no guards with him,” explained Hamûjil. “We used to have a couple of guards watch him discreetly from a distance, but now with the Krâ situation we are so short-staffed, and we thought it was quite safe... Of course there are guards on the perimeter of the palace grounds.”

“Could anyone sneak past them?”

“Probably, I’m afraid.”

“What are you saying?” wailed Majani. “You think he has been abducted?”

Alatar spread his hands. “The Archseraph was poisoned, Majani. Clearly there is a traitor among us. I fear it was reckless to let the boy out unguarded.”

Pallando and Sâlian had entered while Alatar spoke.

“A traitor?” said Sâlian. “Could that be…?” She exchanged looks with Pallando. “Do you remember that day on the Quack Run when we came from the exhibition?”

“Oh my, yes, I do.” Pallando shook his head slowly. “We saw two people on a bridge, a Kûzar woman and a stranger.  They seemed to have a clandestine meeting. The stranger may have been the ambassador, and Jarin thought she’d seen the woman at the palace before.”

“That’s not much to go on,” said Hamûjil.

“No, and it may have been nothing to do with all this. But we should be alert.”

By now, it was dark outside. Miriel set out on one more circuit round the gardens, calling Alamûjil’s’ name. She held her lantern high – it made no difference to the search but it just seemed the thing to do. There was, of course, no sign of the child now where there hadn’t been a sign previously. The gravel crunched under her feet and from the pink marble aviary came the piercing call of some peacock that hadn’t settled for the night yet. A scrap of moon flickered briefly and then was hidden again by the racing clouds. The drizzle turned into a downpour. Miriel shrugged and returned to the palace.

-oOoOo-

When the boy awoke, he was confused by the darkness and the strange smells. Then something brushed against his hand and he called out in fright. His cry was answered by a shriek that seemed familiar though he couldn’t remember what it was. Shrill, but nothing bad.

He realised he was lying down and one of his arms had gone numb underneath him. He sat up. There was movement in the darkness, and then he made out a vague, pale shape. When he placed a hand on the ground to steady himself, it touched something soft and moist. Suddenly, he remembered.

“Vani!” he whispered.

The pale shape came closer and leaned against him.

Later, after he had been hugged and bathed and hugged again, after he had told his story several times over, after he had eaten saffron cakes and drunk hot elderberry juice, he slept properly, as befitted a seraph, under the silk covers of his own bed. The adults sat watching him, unsure what to believe. Had he really escaped from hooded figures and found a hiding place all by himself? How could that possibly be true? Had he dreamt it? Was it a story he had invented and then come to think of as real? Miriel explained for the fifth time why she hadn’t thought of searching the aviary, even though nobody had disagreed with her the first time. Ninod sat still clutching the boy’s filthy clothes until Majani told her to take them to the laundry.

“We will probably never know,” said Hamûjil. “But we must be more vigilant than ever, and we must renew our efforts to track down the ambassador.”

“Not you!” muttered Alamûjil in his sleep, but when he was questioned again the next morning, he couldn’t tell who he had meant.

-oOoOo-

Three weeks on and the progress on the flute and on clearing the road through the pass were equally slow, the former because such was the nature of the process, the latter because heavy rain had caused further landslides. As one day shuffled into the next, Jarin began to lose her sense of urgency to return home, until she reached some kind of inner tipping point. From then on, an unacknowledged but persistent tangle of feelings whispered to her, Not yet, just a little longer.

This far north, night fell earlier than in Levare at the same time of year. The dark evenings felt wintry to Jarin and she wanted to sit by the fire, half nodding off, but Nara often said she wanted some time to herself and encouraged Jarin to go for walks with Diri since it was still mild and the air particularly wholesome, and if the night skies were cloudless, strange sights might sometimes be seen. Diri never suggested such walks, and nor did Jarin, but they went without fail whenever Nara told them to go.

On this occasion, they had gone to a lookout point where a curved terrace had been cut into the mountainside long ago. This was high up on a slope looking eastwards, where further mountain peaks were more felt than seen in the velvet dark. It was a warm night for December, and they had cast back their hoods to get a freer view of the sky.

Diri pointed. “And there, those three in a row with the two above and then another three to the left, that’s the Wheelbarrow.”

“We call it the Cupped Hand,” said Jarin.

“Really?” Diri put his head slightly to one side. “Yes, I suppose I can see it. Does a lungi need to know much about the stars? I mean, to navigate at night?”

“No, the dragons know where they’re going. I don’t know how they do it. But they need daylight, so we don’t fly at night.”

“I see.”

They stood in silence for a while, peering up at the sky. The stars seemed clearer here and more numerous, perhaps because they were so high in the mountains, or perhaps because there were no lanterns here and no glowstones. It should have been pitch dark on a moonless night like this, but the stars cast enough light for Jarin to see the outline of the bushes beyond the parapet, and the figure of Diri beside her. There was a faint shimmer on his hair, which was smooth and sleek and fell to his waist. She extended a hand to touch it, then realised what she was doing and pulled it back.

“You mentioned once,” she said, “that you had much on your mind and would tell me about it one day.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead: “It must have been hard for you when you lost your parents.”

Diri softly shook his head. “It was, but that is not what I meant. My head is filled with mechanical problems I have to solve. I am working on an invention, a device that will allow images to – you know, it’s easier just to show you. Come.”

He led her downhill a little to one of the side gates into the mountain, and from there along a narrow tunnel that came out, quite suddenly, on the gallery that surrounded the Fourth Hall. Since it was late, few dwarves were about, and those they saw were clearly on their way home. The gallery was lined with the entrances into many storerooms and workshops, and for one of these doors Diri now pulled out a key and opened it. Jarin knew this was the workshop where he came often during the day, but she had never been inside. A smell of sawdust, wet clay and chemicals greeted them. She stepped in and looked around in the dim light, while Diri busied himself with the candles. As the room became brighter, she saw that it was larger than she had expected, and had space for the labours of at least a dozen dwarves. There were benches strewn with tools, several anvils, and a large fireplace that lay cold. The stone floor was neatly swept, but chipped and stained in many places. Diri beckoned her to one of the far corners to a table where an indistinct shape hulked under a dark sheet.

“Stand and look at the wall over there,” he said while he bustled about removing the sheet.

Jarin obeyed, puzzling as the instruction was, and scrutinised the blank wall. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about it, other than that the pale grey stone was a little smoother here than in the rest of the room. Behind her, she could hear Diri moving about, and sounds of hard objects clicking. Then her eyebrows shot up when a large image of Diri’s face appeared in a circle of light on the wall. No, it was no image, the features were moving!

“So this is the device,” said the giant Diri. “Come and look.”

Jarin turned round, and there Diri stood, his usual size, beside an apparatus of wood, metal and glass more than two feet high. He grinned. Jarin stepped closer and listened to his explanations as he pointed out the various parts of the device: an array of boxes and mirrors and lentil-shaped glass blobs, a method of bundling the light of a dozen candles and spreading it out like so, and making reflections bend this way and that, and somehow this arrangement had the power to throw an image across a room and make it larger or smaller, depending on which way Diri turned a little screw. Then Diri bade Jarin stand in a certain spot, and suddenly it was her own face, in monstrous proportions, on the wall.

“Impressive,” she said and watched her own lips moving as she spoke. “What is it for?”

“Mainly for proving that it can be done,” replied Diri. “Though there are practical applications. For example, if we wanted to carve a pattern on a wall, we could project our template directly onto it without the need of complicated tracing devices. The king is also thinking that it could be used to send messages. You know, write a letter and project it across the valley.”

“That is astonishing!”

“It would be, but the device is not capable of something like that. Anything further than a few yards and the image gets blurry.”

“And that is the problem that has been troubling you?”

“One of the problems, yes. The key is the lenses. The mirrors as well. We cannot make either of them here in Kamenogi; we rely on supplies from Levare. It is hard to get exactly what I want when I cannot speak to them directly, and I do not savour the idea of making such a long journey in person.”

“Dragons could help you there.”

“Dragons are not available.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Dragons are much on my mind.” Jarin held her hand into what she had realised was the crucial spot, and on the wall she could see her fingers move, and every line in her palm sharply drawn. “I can think of another use,” she said.

“What would that be?”

“Education. And entertainment, too, I suppose.” She flexed her fingers. “You could show all sorts of pictures.”

“We don’t need any device to look at pictures.”

“Yes, but with the device you could show them –”

“– to large groups of people all at once, yes, I see.”

“There is a museum in Levare that has some wonderful artwork, but you have to go there to see it. But if you made small copies of the paintings and sent them round the country with the device, you could show them in every village. It would be a great way of teaching children.”

“I didn’t have children in mind when I invented this. But why not? Or if the King were to give a speech, a larger crowd could see him, or when we put on a play…”

“What’s a play?”

Diri looked surprised. “You don’t know what a play is?”

“I know what playing is, but not a play. That would a called a game, surely? Is something lost in translation here?”

“No,” said Diri. “Not a game. A play is a story performed on stage by actors. They wear the costume, they speak the lines. It’s usually some story from our history. I can’t believe you don’t have plays in Kûz. Don’t you think of yourselves as the most sophisticated culture around?”

 “Do we?” Jarin noted his hint of sarcasm and felt uncomfortable. “I think I know what you mean. I’ve heard of it, just not with any name attached. A play. The Hwenti do it too, don’t they? And the Kûzeen did it long ago, but I believe Damûjil put a stop to it. He thought it was…deceitful.”

“It’s not deceitful if everyone knows it to be make-believe.”

“No, I guess not.”

Suddenly, Diri laughed. “I know what to do. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the Children’s Hall and ask the minders to put on a puppet show. Right, let’s wrap this thing up and go home.”

-oOoOo-

There was no full council, but those members who were in town had been asked to come to the palace. Warden Yun was there and the Mayor and Mistress Tilar and Master Leyo of the Guild of Artisans. And since it was not an official council meeting, Majani attended as well with her ladies, as did the Captain of the palace guard. Hamûjil was still unsteady on his legs and had been helped to his seat by his attendants before anyone else arrived. The Seekers came in last.

There was no leader among them, all three were held in equal regard at the Tower of Knowledge and in Kûzar society at large. They worked by consensus, they presented themselves in unity, and if there ever was difference of opinion among them, they resolved it behind closed doors. The respect they commanded almost matched that of the Archseraph and the Guardian and Wanderer. Their role, though, was different; they provided neither guidance nor leadership, only pure knowledge.

The current Seekers were two men and one woman and by custom they were known only by their tiles: The Seeker of Detail, the Seeker of the Whole and the Seeker of Connections. It was the latter who now stood up and addressed the meeting.

“Archseraph, Seraphine, honoured fellow Kûzeen, I am pleased to tell you that we have fulfilled the task you gave us. We have studied carefully the pomegranate seeds sent to us from the palace. We were puzzled, because we found nothing deadly or harmful and yet we had been assured that this dish was what poisoned the Archseraph. So we looked carefully into everything we had found that was not purely pomegranate. You see, a sample like this always contains some kind of contamination from its surroundings, for example from the vessel in which it is served. And then it occurred to us that there was rather more yuyuni than you would expect. Yuyuni is found in some cleaning preparations, and traces may have been left from the washing of the dishes, but the amount present here was much more than you would expect even if the dishes had not been rinsed at all. And yuyuni, while perfectly safe on its own, can be made poisonous when combined with another substance.” He turned to the woman beside him. “The Seeker of Detail will explain to you how.”

“After much pondering, we thought of dai,” she said. “It seemed far-fetched, because dai is not used in Kûz as far as we know. It comes from the Riverlands, where the people use it to preserve wood. You wouldn’t put it into food, because there is no reason to do so, but if you did, no one would notice, since it has neither smell nor taste. And if yuyuni is added to dai, a vicious poison is created. Imagine this happening in the stomach or even in the digestive system.”

 “It is an ingenious method” said the Seeker of the Whole. “Since neither substance is harmful on its own, you are much less likely to be found out. And you can poison a whole batch of food that would be eaten by a number of people and still target a single individual if you ensure he is the only one to eat both.”

The assembly seemed stunned by the malice revealed here. Especially Tilar looked concerned. “And have you identified the source of the dai?” she asked.

“No, and I don’t think we will now, because it could have been in anything the Archseraph ate that day or even the day before, and none of this food has been preserved for us to examine.”

Tilar nodded. “So there is not much chance of finding out who did this?”

Warden Yun shook his head. “As if we need to ask! It’s that ambassador. He has burned down our library, tried to abduct the young seraph and poisoned our Archseraph. Why have we still not found him?”

“We tried everything we could think of,” said Miriel. “But we think he is not working alone. He can lie in hiding while someone else fulfils his devious plans. We know his face, but we do not know the face of the traitor among us.”

They all looked at each other and felt pained, because all their lives they had trusted their fellow Kûzeen, so how could their bear this new poison of suspicion?

-oOoOo-

It was completed, and it hung from Jarin’s neck on a new silver chain given to her by the King of Kamenogi. Earlier in the day, she had taken it outside and found a lonely spot on the mountainside and nobody had witnessed her reunion with Wan.  But now it was evening, and the home of Diri and Nara was filled with friends and neighbours wishing to say farewell to the guest. None of them had ever seen a dragon, and they were full of questions.

“The flute opens up a channel between us and the realm of the dragons,” Jarin explained. “Through it, the dragons can extend a part of their self into our world, though their true self remains in their own realm.”

“A kind of projection,” said Diri. “Yes, that makes sense.”

“Each flute links a particular lungi to a particular dragon. It is the only reliable way to connect us. Dragons can appear in our world without being called, but only randomly as chances arise, and such chances are rare. The way Wan explained it, there is some kind of, well, something like weather between our realms, and sometimes a gap opens up in the clouds, so to speak, and they can come through, but they can never know when and where that may be.”

“Can anyone become a lungi?” asked a young dwarf, who may have been contemplating the prospect for himself.

“No,” said Jarin, but then frowned. “Actually, I don’t really know. In Kûz, we seek out those who show promise and we train them from an early age. The important thing is to be pure of heart. A dragon cannot lift a person who carries a burden of guilt.”

This caused some hubbub among the assembled dwarves, who seemed to test out this idea on themselves.

The young dwarf turned to Jarin again. “So does it ever happen that a dragon rider does something bad and is rejected by the dragon?”

“I know it happened once, a little before my time. The lungi seduced his friend’s wife. Dragons couldn’t lift him after that.”

“And he was cast out with shame?”

“Well, it was not a glorious occasion for him, but nobody threw stones, if that’s what you mean. He moved to the countryside. Started growing grapes, I believe.”

There was a round of thoughtful nodding, and then the conversation turned to Jarin’s journey ahead, and to how she would be missed and how everyone wished her well. It was very late when the guests finally left.

“Are you sure you want to leave at sunrise?” asked Nara as they headed for their bed chambers. “You’ll not get much sleep tonight.”

Jarin shrugged. “Yes, but I must make the most of the daylight. It’s such a long journey. I’m hoping to make it in three days.”

“Take me with you,” said Diri suddenly.

Jarin breathed hard. “To Levare?” No, he will want to be set down in Longhaven on some business.

“Yes.”

She cast a glance at Nara but met with an impassive face.

“Why?”

“I want to see the glass makers. You know I am having trouble getting the right kind of lenses.”

“If you tell me exactly what you want, maybe give me some drawings, too, I’m happy to handle this for you.”

“I would rather go myself. Um. If it pleases you.”

“It would please me. Very much. But it’s not really up to me, the dragon has to decide if he is willing to carry you. And I don’t know what your…” She stopped, blushed.

“You don’t know what my past looks like. Well, I was never a warrior, always a maker of things. I have done no wrong according to the ways of my people. Of course I don’t know how that counts with your dragon.”

“We shall have to see, won’t we?”

Happy New Year, gentle readers! I was hoping to post this chapter on the solstice, but it wasn't finished in time.

In the Dark

And who has been thinking of Margig all this time? After all, it is his daughter who is missing, perhaps dead, in foreign lands. Sâlian has told him what the dragon said, and she drops in from time to time, usually with a little gift from the Seraphine. Margig shares the chocolates with his neighbours, stashes the silk away for Jarin. He goes about his business day by day, to market twice a week to sell his pots; he takes long walks in the fields that hem the town and he sits by the fire in the evenings, imagining all the adventures and calamities that may have befallen his darling girl. There are friends, neighbours, he is not alone, but he is alone in his head and that can be a lonely place to be.

He is an unassuming man, but he is neither deaf nor simple, so he knows of the whispers. That Jarin, they say, who knows if the dragon’s story is true? Maybe she has turned a spy, maybe she always was a spy; she’s a Krâ when all is said and done, isn’t she. They are Krâ.

To be fair, such voices are few and far between, the Kûzeen on the whole being still way too comfortable and secure to engage in the ancient sport of scapegoating, but Margig hears them and he worries, though nowhere near as much as he worries about Jarin.

Work, worry, nights of uneasy sleep. And now the darkest day of the year had come. Margig rose in the dark and lit the fire. He could just about see his breath. Levare rarely got wintry weather before the end of January, but a few days ago a sprinkling of snowflakes had met an untimely end on the glowstone streets. He pulled a thick jerkin over his tunic and put on fingerless gloves. Though there seemed little point in preparing for the Festival of Renewal just for himself, he took the pestle and mortar to grind down the spices for the festive cakes: clove, cinnamon and mace. Making the cakes had been Jarin’s favourite part of the festival when she was little; she preferred it even to the rekindling of the lights. Unlike her older sister, who was placid and biddable, Jarin had been such an inquisitive child, always wanting to know the whys and hows, and often he and his wife had been stumped for answers. While he pounded the spices, he pictured her the way she was then, with her pigtails and her chubby hands. His little girl.

Grown-up Jarin, meanwhile, was soaring over the northern shore of the inland sea as the docks and squat houses of Longhaven were falling behind. With the bulk of the dragon’s neck and head in front of her and the steady presence of Diri behind, she surveyed the land below. They were heading south-east, intending to hug the great curve of the coastline rather than fly straight across the Sea of Calma, since there was no way of camping for the night on the waters.

The previous day, after a lively reunion, she and Wan had exchanged their news: relayed through Mûn via Pallando and Sâlian, Jarin had been pleased to hear that her friends and her father were biding well, but felt very troubled about Hamûjil, about the danger he had only just escaped, and the dangers that might still surround him.

“And did you tell them about the Krâ raising a big host?

“Yes, yes, they know. We are unsure about its purpose, though, and so far, it has not left Krandi. From what you say, and some other observations we have had, it seems to me that the Krâ are not in one minds about all this.”

“But the fleet they’re building! Surely that is meant to attack Kûz?”

“Or Longhaven,” said Diri.

“Perhaps both,” said Wan.” Only time will tell, I’m afraid. However, I have another, very different question on my mind. Why, in all this upheaval, are you so happy, Jarin?”

“Am I?” She felt sick with worry, about the Krâ, about Hamûjil, the future of Kûz, everything.

“The flute doesn’t lie, Jarin. I heard it in your song. Something happened on that mountain that has filled you with deep joy.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know what that could be.” Yes, you do.

Wan didn’t pursue the issue further and they flew on in silence through most of the short afternoon. The sun was still well above the horizon when Jarin suggested to land and camp for the night. The dragon could have gone on for another couple of hours or so, but she was conscious that Diri, unused as he was to air travel, was starting to flag. Their departure that morning had been delayed by heavy fog, but even if they had been able to leave at first light, the distances were such that they could not have reached the Sacred Cave in one day, so they had packed blankets for a night in the wilderness.

“Are you sure you want to go down here?” said Wan. “That’s elf country.”

“Why do you say that as if it’s a bad thing? The elves are not hostile to us.”

“Hostile, no. But odd, very odd.”

“I think we can cope with oddness,” said Diri. “And besides, we are not likely to meet them, are we? I hear there are not many of them along the coast, at least not outside Vindalondë.”

“Jarin?”

“I agree with Diri. We will probably not meet them, and even if we do and they are, as you say, very odd, well, that’s their problem and not ours, isn’t it?”

Wan gave a toss of his mane that in a human might have been a shrug. “Very well,” he said and made for a piece of grassy ground alongside a small inlet that curved northwards from the shore. He landed with his usual grace, and Diri just about fell to the ground. Jarin looked around. The views were hemmed on all sides by scattered trees, mainly alder and willow that stood in small clumps on the flat, flat land. High above circled some birds of prey.

“Well, this looks as pleasant as can be expected at this time of year,” she said. “And no signs of elves, as far as I can see.”

“Not for now anyway,” said Wan. “Listen, Jarin, do what you can to avoid them. I would stay with you, but I am too big to hide, and there are other ways in which I would attract their attention.”

“I still don’t understand you, Wan. What’s there to fear? I have seen elves before.”

“You’ve seen elves in Levare. But only the youngest ones still go out and about, and they’re on their best behaviour. Here, you could meet the very old ones.”

“And what’s wrong with them?”

“It’s hard to explain. They won’t do you any harm, I think, at least not on purpose, but you may find them quite disturbing. Just hide yourselves, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

And with that, he faded. Jarin turned her attention to Diri, who sat on the ground with both hands clawing into the turf. He looked pale.

“Are you unwell?”

“I am not ill, if that’s what you mean,” he replied. “But I have quite possibly had the most uncomfortable day of my life.”

“Don’t let it worry you. Many people have a bad experience on their first dragon ride.”

“Ha! I wish I could reply that it’ll be my last, but if we want to get to Levare from here, our choice is between a dragon and an elven ship – or walking. I suppose you don’t fancy a three week hike home?”

“No.”

“Dragon it is then.”

They ate a light meal from their supplies and then began to look for somewhere to sleep. The ground was damp in most places, or else brick-hard and exposed, but after some search they found a patch under a willow tree where the leaf litter lay deep and spongy around the trunk and where the branches, that brushed the ground, still held some faded foliage. Here they settled down and made their beds, side by side, as best they could with their cloaks and blankets. Jarin thought briefly of her previous outdoor night, back on the outskirts of Krandi. That was two months ago, but seemed much longer to her.

They lit no fire, and it was cold, so they lay awake for a long time, each in silence with their eyes closed, feeling keenly the closeness of the other and the lurking presence of the strange land. The sound of the moving air blended with the susurrus of rustling leaves and quivering branches. Jarin listened at first, then tried to ignore it, and eventually the rhythmic lapping of the waters against the shore sent her to sleep.

She awoke from the sound of voices invading her dreams.

“What’s this, what’s this? Two children alone in the woods!”

“A dwarf and a human, how curious! Which one is the abducted, you think?” There was laughter. Jarin opened her eyes and looked at a forest of legs dimly visible in the dark beyond the boughs of the tree. She tried to sit up, but found Diri’s arm draped over her shoulder, holding her down.

“That one’s awake! Get them both up, they shall carouse with us tonight.”

Figures pushed the branches aside and dragged them up. “Arise, arise, the stars are shining! It’s time for merry-making.”

“Oh, we’ll make them merry soon enough!” cried another voice, followed by more laughter.

“Who are you?” said Jarin, grateful for having Diri beside her.

“Who are we?” exclaimed a woman in a silvery robe. “Since when do people have to identify themselves to those who have invaded their homes? Who are you?”

“We are not invaders, as well you know,” replied Diri. “I am Diri, son of Naluk, and this is Jarin...from Kûz. We are travelling from Kamenogi to Levare and are resting here for the night.”

“On foot?” sneered one.

“Resting here by whose leave?” said the woman, but a man now pushed his way to the front and hushed her with a gesture.

“Peace, Undumenis! Let them be.” To Jarin and Diri he said, “My name is Lossë. We are, as you will easily perceive, Hwenti people native to these parts. These are Thinthilo, Undumenis and Saranil. We are on our way to a party, and you shall come with us.”

“We would rather sleep,” said Diri.

“I’m sure you would, but I wasn’t asking.”

Hands, soft but powerful, grasped their wrists and they were dragged along on a narrow path among the trees. There was a little moonlight, just enough to ward against stumbling over roots and stones. The Hwenti were talking in their own language and laughing a lot. Jarin wondered if Diri understood their words, but he was separated from her by two Hwenti and she had no chance to speak with him at all until they arrived at a clearing where several fires were burning. At least a hundred Hwenti were gathered here, some walking about and chatting, others reclining by the fires, and most of them drinking. Some noticed the newcomers and drew near them, and soon Diri and Jarin were surrounded by a crowd of elves pointing and laughing, and twittering in the Hwenti language.

“Do you know what they are saying?” whispered Jarin.

“A little,” Diri replied. “They mainly think we’re going to be a source of entertainment. Let’s hope it’ll be entertaining for us, too.”

Some elves had now moved in closely and were tugging at Jarin’s clothes, at Diri’s hair. But Lossë stepped in and shooed them away. They retreated, giggling. Lossë led their little group across the clearing to sit under a silk canopy that was stretched between the trees.

“Wait here,” he said, “and I shall bring you something to eat.” He gestured to a nearby fire, where a deer carcass was roasting on a spit. Jarin quickly looked away.

“I am not allowed to eat that,” she said.

“Oh, yes, the New Way, I forgot,” said Lossë. “Let me see what else I can get you.”

He returned soon with a few small bowls containing nuts, little cakes and deep yellow, fibrous chunks that smelled faintly sweet. Jarin picked one up and sniffed it.

“It’s dried pineapple,” said Lossë before she could ask.

“And what is that?”

“A fruit from the Southlands. They say the whole fruit is large and prickly, but we only ever get it in this form.”

“How does it get here?”

“You have your secrets, we have ours.”

“It’s no secret,” said Diri. “The Hwenti have some trade with the people of the Riverlands who in turn trade with the Southlands.”

“Spoilsport,” said Lossë, but he laughed.

“How far away are the Southlands?” Jarin asked.

“Further than you can imagine. Even a dragon would take weeks.”

“And yet this fruit does not spoil on the journey?”

“There are ways of preserving it. It’s a special skill.”

Jarin inspected the well-travelled treat, then chewed it up thoughtfully. It tasted tangy and pleasant and she reached for another piece. Soon the bowl was empty. Diri, however, had accepted a portion of roasted venison.

“Now let’s have some wine!” exclaimed Undumenis and proffered two goblets. “I hope you are allowed that, child of the New Way!”

“I am,” said Jarin and took the cup, “though I drink but modestly.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” said Undumenis, grabbed a cup herself and drained it in one go. Then she leaned back on the ground, propped up on an elbow, and began to talk to Thinthilo.

Diri touched Jarin’s arm and pointed. Some small distance away among the trees they saw a twinkling of lights, as if the glow of the fires was reflected randomly. The elves were now engrossed in their drinking and paid no attention to them. Jarin nodded at Diri and they moved slowly towards the twinkling lights. As the noise of the revellers began to fade behind them, a new sound emerged ahead, as of glasses being chinked together. Soon they came upon the source of the sound. Strung from branch to branch were swags of glass ornaments, some tear-shaped, some pebble-shaped, swaying gently and playing their eerie song. And suspended between the glass garlands, and propped up on the ground and even nailed to the trunks of the trees were hundreds, nay, thousands of mirrors.

Perhaps a dozen elves were moving about in this garden of reflections. They seemed each absorbed in their own world, neither speaking nor otherwise acknowledging one another. A couple of times Jarin saw two colliding with each other, and going on as if nothing had happened without any startled cry or hasty apology. Their movements appeared erratic; they would set off in one direction, then suddenly double back, then go off at a sharp angle, almost like the fitful scrambling of some insects. After a while, Jarin realised that they were scuttling from mirror to mirror, gazing at their image as it flitted by. Their hair was unkempt, their clothing frayed. Suddenly she wondered for how long they had been here.

“Let’s go back,” she whispered to Diri.

They turned and walked towards the glow of the fires.

“So now we know what Wan meant when he called them odd,” said Diri.

“Those were Kûzar mirrors!”

“So?”

“We have them all over Levare, but they don’t do any such thing to us.”

“Well, elves have more reason to admire themselves in a mirror.”

Jarin grinned. “Are you saying the people of Kûz are ugly?”

“No, I’m not saying that, and anyway, I do not care. Their pretty faces don’t ever seem to do them any good, don’t you think?”

“I guess not.”

They reached the silk canopy again, where it looked like they had just started to be missed.

“There you are,” said Lossë. “I brought you more pineapple. And how about this very tempting dish of mushrooms?”

Jarin extended a hand, but Diri nudged her and shook his head. An elf woman came over and pressed two fresh wine glasses into their hands. She twirled around.

“How do you like my dress? It’s finest silk from Mil Nahara!” Then she dragged both of them to the ground. “Come sit with me. Tell me why you are here.”

Jarin gave a cautious summary of her adventures. The elf woman shook her head.

“Oh, you children, always wanting to save your lands.” She scoffed. “The lands will change again, so what are you trying to save? See these mountains? Lakes, waterfalls, hah! Here today, gone tomorrow. You see, I’ve been here from the beginning. I can’t remember much, but it’s all changed, over and over again. You know there used to be a river right here where we are sitting? And then it just decided to flow some other way.  The sea was so much bigger then, we sailed for ages into the sunset, never finding the other shore. We called it the Sea of Helcar back then. Now look at it, a little pond. Nothing lasts, so what’s the point of planning for the future? Here, have some more wine. Don’t worry about any Dark Lord conquering your land, for in a few thousand years he’ll be gone anyway.” She drained her cup and reached for the bottle, but Lossë took it.

“You’ve had enough for today, Omarië.” Softly, he said to Jarin, “I apologise for my grandmother. She has these moods sometimes. Twelve thousand years are hard to bear, not that you’d understand.”

“Dance with me!” cried Omarië and pulled Jarin up by her arm. “Thinthilo, play for us! We must dance! Who knows if the sun will rise tomorrow!”

Jarin, tugged this way and that by the elf, felt a mingling of pity and horror creeping over her. Twelve thousand years. Was the elf insane? Could mountains really just disappear? Seas dry up? And if that were indeed so, how could a mind witness it and remain whole? But Pallando is not like this, nor the Guardian, and they are far older. What makes them different?

Thinthilo’s tune went on and on, and he did not put his fiddle down until Omarië suddenly collapsed on the ground and began to snore. Jarin breathed with relief. On her way back to Diri and Lossë, she nearly stumbled over an elf who lay half hidden among some grasses.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” She crouched down to see if she had caused any pain, but the elf stared right past her and waved only a languid hand telling her to leave.

“He is strange,” she said.

“Never mind,” said Lossë, “that’s just Estamo.”

“What ails him?”

“Nothing. Ignore him. He wishes to depart.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is tired of the world. He has not taken food or drink for many weeks.”

Jarin frowned. “He is starving himself to death? And you are letting him?”

“What right have we to stop him? He won’t succeed anyway. He’s tried many times before, but sooner or later the urge to eat and drink overwhelms him. Drowning didn’t work either. He has asked us to slay him, but none of us want his blood on our hands.”

“Has he tried jumping off a cliff?” asked Diri.

“Diri!”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

“How very dwarfish,” said Lossë with a smirk. “But let us be serious for a moment. Jarin, you really went all the way to Kamenogi to warn the dwarves? That’s noble of you. We’re going to have our minstrels write a song about you. I can just imagine it:

                        From southern shores on wings of scales

                        Arose to rush with news of woe

                        A maiden fair, and stout of heart,

                        To save the dwarves from grief and ruin…”

“Mock, if it entertains you,” said Diri, “but the Krâ really did attack Longhaven. And you should be on your guard as well in case they come to attack you.”

“The Krâ attack the Hwenti?” Laughter pealed around the group. “What next, ducks attacking eagles?”

-oOoOo-

Darkness had taken Kûz. Following their ancient custom for the Festival of Renewal, the people had extinguished every lamp, lantern and candle two hours after sunset and had spent the time between then and midnight in quiet contemplation – or in attempts to keep the children quiet, depending on their situation. Thick cloud cover hid the moon and stars, and the fields, woods and villages lay in unbroken blackness. Only in the cities was the night faintly lit by glowstone.

Earlier that afternoon, Margig had declined the invitation from his neighbours and had gone up to the Houses instead, because he felt that in this most momentous of nights, he wanted to be close to the Powers and to the place where Jarin dwelled. Many Kûzeen gathered here every year on the night of the festival, and the holy ones were leading chants in the Dome of Flowers. The people who joined them there had to sit still for hours, as it was too dark inside to move about, but Margig had chosen to stay outside in the grounds where the dim glimmer of the city allowed him to pace about on the grass. Others were milling about here, too, patches of deeper darkness in the gloom. As he turned to take a different path, he bumped into one.

“Oh, I am so sorry!”

“Margig?” It was Sâlian. “How handy that I’ve met you! I have good news.”

“What is it?”

“Mûn has told Pallando that Wan has been summoned.”

“By Jarin?”

“Who else?”

“Where is she?”

“We don’t know, it was only yesterday, and Pallando hasn’t spoken to Mûn since. But we can assume that Jarin is safe and on her way home.”

“The Powers be thanked!” Margig gave Sâlian a hug full of relief, and they continued their walk together, talking about how soon they might expect Jarin’s arrival

Over at the palace, Hamûjil and Majani had hosted a banquet before lights-out, treating all their staff to a sumptuous meal and feasting on an even more sumptuous one with the assorted dignitaries – Mistress Tilar and Master Leyo, Warden Olan, Warden Yun and Mayor Baja, the Seekers and various others, though, for the first time in living memory, none of the ezens from Krâ. Now they were all assembled, in the dark, in the throne room, listening to the big clock ticking away towards midnight.

It was the custom that on the stroke of midnight the Archseraph at the Palace and the chief Nauran at the Dome of Flowers would each kindle a flame and light a brand new candle and the flame would be passed from person to person, throughout the palace and the Houses and then out into the whole town and thus, at the darkest time of the year, the light would be renewed.  All over Kûz, in towns and villages, similar ceremonies took place.

The little ones had been put to bed, but Alamûjil was allowed up for the first time this year. He sat beside Miriel and chatted softly. Since he was a little afraid of the dark, though, and since he had taken a particular fancy to it after his adventure in the aviary, he was allowed to hold – carefully, use both hands! – the porcelain figure of the peacock Vani.

Mistress Tilar tried to entertain the child with stories of her travels, and then began enquiring after Alamûjil’s own life. Had he enjoyed the Festival of Lanterns? How were his studies coming on? Was he sure he could not remember who had chased him that night when he hid in the peacock house?

“Don’t,” said Miriel. “It upsets him to talk about it.”

“Personally, I think he was just making it up,” said Tilar.

“Don’t.”

“Can we play a game?” asked Alamûjil. “I will be an animal and you have to guess what it is.”

“Peacock,” said Tilar.

“Ow!” Alamûjil sighed. “Very well, now it’s your turn.”

And so, with little games and stories told and poems recited, the dark hours passed by. The clock chimed the quarter hour before midnight, and from then on, all sat in silence, preparing themselves for the new light. Alamûjil was all aflutter when the midnight strokes began to ring out; he was sitting with his mother now and Majani was counting along with him.

“Four…five…six…”

“Where’s the tinderbox gone?” hissed Hamûjil.

“What?”

“I had it here a moment ago and now I can’t find it.”

They scrabbled about in the darkness but the tinderbox was not found. The muttering of the guests became an agitated hubbub. Alamûjil got up, determined to help find the tinderbox, but in the general commotion he stumbled and fell and then screamed at the sound of the porcelain peacock smashing on the marble floor.

“Vani, I broke Vani!” he wailed.

“Hush, never mind that now,” said Majani. “Hamûjil, what are we going to do?”

“We sit still and wait for the light to come over from the Houses.”

But in the grounds of the Houses of the Powers, no light emerged either and the Seer’s voice was heard: “Darkness has come upon us! Darkness impenetrable! Darkness everlasting!” And the people of Levare cried out in fear.

Turnaround

After a little while, when it had occurred to the more practically-minded citizens to try their own tinderboxes (and lo! the light returned to Levare), the cosmic catastrophe shrunk to a mere ill omen. A couple of days later the earlier rumours were confirmed that the flintsteel had been missing from the tinderbox at the Houses and therefore either sabotage or sloppiness were to blame, but those who wished to believe in ill omens persevered.

The situation at the palace was a little more complex. On the morning after the festival, a woman cleaning up in the throne room found the Archseraph’s ceremonial tinderbox tucked behind the cushions of a sopha. She handed it over to the head housekeeper, who swiftly carried it to the Seraphine’s chambers and everyone was surprised when Ninod burst into tears and was unable to speak for several minutes while Majani and her other ladies tried to calm her down. Eventually, she composed herself enough to talk.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I didn’t think there would be such a fuss. I didn’t think the bird would get broken! It was just a joke. A little prank. Please don’t be angry…”

Miriel took the box and lifted the lid.

“The flintsteel is missing,” she said. “That’s just what they say happened at the Houses.”

Ninod looked up. “I didn’t take it. I only hid the tinderbox! I wanted to give you a little fright. I am so sorry…”

“But why, Ninod, why?” Majani scrunched up her silk scarf in both hands. “Why would you do such a thing, and make us all terrified? At such a time, too!”

Ninod began to sob again and said nothing more.

“I think I know why,” said Miriel quietly. “Ninod, I am so sorry.”

“What do you mean?” said Majani.

Miriel looked at the Seraphine and then at the assembled ladies.

“Well…” she began. “I think that I…and indeed all of us to some degree…even you, Seraphine…all of us have, in many very small ways, been unkind to Ninod. You know, dismissing what she said, or calling her clumsy, things like that. And I think many small things can add up over time and create one big resentment. Is that no so, Ninod?”

With a further big sob, she nodded.

“And I am sorry for the part I played in this,” continued Miriel. “I was vain and liked the idea of being the Seraphine’s foremost lady, and I made myself feel bigger by putting you down. That was unworthy behaviour for a court lady and unworthy also of the New Way.”

“And I am sorry, too,” said Majani. “It was my duty to ensure all my ladies are treated fairly, and I see now that I failed in that duty. Please forgive me, Ninod.”

“Of course,” said Ninod, somewhat confused by the turn things had taken. She looked dishevelled, with her bun undone and her glossy black hair spilling over her yellow tunic. The other ladies now also chimed in with apologies, only one of them, Rimere, frowned and whispered to her friend, “But what if…”

“Don’t whisper, speak up!” said Miriel. “What if what?”

“What if it wasn’t just the tinderbox? What if she is the one who – ”

“Noooo!” wailed Ninod. “That wasn’t me! I did not poison the Archseraph; I did not burn down the library. How can you think such a thing of me!”

“Well, until just now I didn’t think you would sabotage the Festival of Renewal either,” replied Rimere, but she was hushed by Majani.

“No,” the Seraphine said firmly. “Ninod did not do those things. If Ninod were a traitor, she would not have dissolved into floods of tears at the tinderbox being brought in. The traitor is obviously someone with cool resolve who is not easily unnerved. Ninod may be a little…peculiar at times, and she has played a foolish trick on us, but I have no reason to doubt her loyalty.”

“Then who is the traitor?”

“If wish we knew,” sighed Miriel.

“Well, there is one thing we do know now,” replied Rimere. “The flintsteel was missing, and Ninod says she didn’t take it. But it was there just before lights-out; Miriel and I checked it. So the traitor was in the room with us last night.”

They looked at each other, dismayed at who might have been sitting beside them in the dark.

-oOoOo-

It was before noon on the following day that news reached Levare which brought the Archseraph swiftly to the guest room where Alatar stayed and thence to his wife’s chambers. Majani sat by the window, absentmindedly spooning a compote of pears into her mouth whilst contemplating the loss of ceramic Vani.

“What is the matter?” she said when she saw his face.

“Scout reports.” Hamûjil sat down on a delicate chair. “The Krâ host has departed westwards three days ago. All of it.”

“That is good, yes? They are not coming here. We are safe.”

Hamûjil shook his head. “I felt so, too, at first. But Majani, that is short-sighted. They are marching westwards to swell the armies of Sauron. If they are victorious in the West, they will come marching back and what then? I have been thinking about this a lot. In fact, it has been on my mind almost constantly since the other night. What if the Seer is right? What if darkness impenetrable, darkness everlasting where indeed to come the Kûz? And I, on whose shoulders is laid the charge of guarding and leading the people, had allowed it to come and had not lifted a finger to stop it? That simply cannot be. I must do something.”

“But Hamûjil, we have been over this before. There is nothing you could possibly do.”

“Or maybe it just pleased us to think so?”

“What do you mean?”

The Archseraph looked at his hands, looked up at the window, then he sighed.

“We are such an indulged people. Favoured by history and geography alike. Look at us! Surrounded by gold and silk and marble, eating the finest bread, drinking the sweetest cocoa. What hardship have our people known in all the years of our lives? We are so used to safety and plenty that we cannot imagine anything else. And it suited us, both you and me, to think that this problem would just go away, that other people in some other land would deal with it and that we would not be called upon and could continue to drift softly through the pleasant days.”

“Our days have hardly been pleasant lately!”

“Small inconveniences,” said Hamûjil and waved his hand. “What’s a bit of poison, a bit of arson, in the grand scheme of things? Kûz remains a place of peace and abundance. It was easy for me, far too easy, to tell myself that I could do nothing, and so I could stay here and all would remain the same, more or less. But it was cowardly. I am ashamed of myself, Majani. I should have gone to Krandi when the rumours first reached us; I should have spoken with the Ezens and sorted it out before it came to this pass.”

“You had your reasons.”

“They were not good enough reasons. I was just dithering and making excuses.”

“And they might not have listened to you.”

“And then they might. Who can tell now, since I didn’t try? But it may not be too late. What are a few day’s marches? They are still many, many weeks away from Gondor. I will go after them, persuade them to turn round.”

“You can’t catch up with them!”

 “If a dragon bears me, I can overtake them easily.”

“Are you out of your mind, Hamûjil?” cried Manjani, distraught. “This is an insane plan, going out there to throw yourself in front of a marching army. They will kill you as soon as they see you.”

“I doubt that they ­–”

“And what will you do when you catch up with the enemy? Fall on your knees and beg?”

“Enemy, Majani? The Krâ are our neighbours and friends. If they have forgotten that for the time being, then it is all the more important that I remind them of it. I have known Ezen Kemra for many years; he is a man of solid sense. The other ezens, too, are decent men; they are not enemies. I can talk to them, I can convince them. I must at least try.”

“No, no, and thrice no!” In her agitation, Majani was pacing up and down in the chamber, nearly knocking a porcelain heron off a shelf as she gesticulated wildly. “This is outright suicide, Hamûjil. Your life is too precious to risk in this way. I cannot allow this. I am going to invoke –”

“Don’t do this, Majani!”

“–the Clause of the Seraphine. Hamûjil, as the wife of the Archseraph and the one charged to watch over his wellbeing, I forbid you to do this.”

“Majani, please consider –”

“The Clause of the Seraphine, Hamûjil! You must abide by it, or else the bond between us is broken. Leave my chambers now, if it pleases you, as I am tired.”

-oOoOo-

In the Fifth Rung, on the north side of the Avenue of Peach Trees and diagonally opposite the Tower of Knowledge, was one of the many wonders of Levare: the public baths. They had been designed by Pallando, and one of his cunning devices kept it supplied with fresh water pumped in from the River Leva. By no means all Kûzeen had bathrooms in their own homes, and so many came to the public baths for their ablutions, but those who were blessed with their own private bathtubs also found them attractive, since nobody, not even the Seraphs, had marble-lined pools and bubbling fountains and an artificial waterfall that filled a whole room with its spray. And for those who wished to remain dry, there were indoor gardens under glass roofs and marble colonnades inviting folk to perambulate. But possibly the greatest attraction was an outdoor pool built of pure glowstone, which kept the temperature of the water tolerable even in the winter.

Here, in blissful ignorance of what was just then happening at the palace, Uilara and Sâlian were swimming. The two young women had encountered each other several times since Uilara’s arrival in Levare, and had taken a liking to each other, and if, in suggesting an outing to the baths, Sâlian was also planning to find out what she could on Jarin’s behalf, her conscience still remained clear, because she really did enjoy Uilara’s company.

After their delight at Hamûjil’s recovery and the events at the festival had been discussed, there was a lull in their conversation, and then Sâlian began:

“Have you ever ridden a dragon?”

“No, though I would love to.”

“How about your brother?”

“Yes, he did once, on an urgent errant for the Guardian.”

“And did he…” Sâlian considered how to proceed without arousing suspicion about her motives. “…did he tell you much about it?”

“Only that he hated every second of it.”

“How so?”

“He’s scared of heights.”

“Hm, I see.”

They swam another couple of laps in silence, then Sâlian tried again.

“Have you been with the Guardian long? How old are you?”

“Twenty-five. Aluir and I have been with the Guardian since we were twelve. That was unusually young, but our parents are dead, you see.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been hard.”

“To lose them? Yes. But to stay with the Guardian, no. He is a very wise and kind mentor, and very patient, though I fear my brother disappoints him sometimes. Not that I mean I am always perfect, but – oh, look, there’s a dragon approaching!”

Sâlian glanced up. There was indeed the sleek shape of a dragon swooping in across the canal. And not just any dragon.

“It’s Wan!” she cried. “It’s Wan, it’s Wan, he’s coming home with Jarin!”

They dressed in haste and took a boat to the Houses, where they found Pallando, Vilajin, half a dozen other lungi, and Jarin – with a dwarf by her side.  Jarin leapt up and hugged Sâlian, hugged Uilara while she was at it, introduced the dwarf as “my good friend Diri” making Sâlian wonder how Jarin could have acquired a good friend in so short a time, then the dwarf bowed, declared himself at Sâlian’s service, at Uilara’s service, and eventually everyone settled down and turned their eyes on Vilajin, who had been speaking when the women had rushed in.

“We were just exchanging our news,” he explained. “Though of course much of it we already knew through what Pallando now calls the dragon grapevine. So the only real surprise to anyone is the arrival of our dwarfish friend here, and the latest report that the Krâ are indeed marching westwards.”

“I don’t know why everyone seems to be so shocked to hear that,” said Diri. “You’ve known all these weeks that they were raising an army.”

“I guess people thought it wasn’t really going to happen,” said Uilara. “I certainly found it hard to imagine. In fact, I still can’t quite believe it.”

“Oh, it’s true enough,” said Pallando. “It’s been confirmed by three different scouts. And I know folk in Levare have breathed a sigh of relief that they are going west and not coming here, but I think you all know as well as I do that this merely delays our problems.”

Nods all around acknowledged the truth of this.

“How large is this host?” asked Diri.

“It seems that most of the able-bodied men among the settled Krâ have gone. At least twenty-five thousand. Mainly on foot, but about three thousand are on horseback.”

They looked at each other in silence, trying to picture such an army. Then Sâlian said, “But Gondor has real soldiers, don’t they? Trained at arms, while these Krâ were all farmers and workmen a few month ago. Their horses, too, are plough horses.”

“They have had some training,” said Vilajin, “and besides, they could overwhelm the men of the West by sheer force of numbers. They must not reach Gondor.”

Diri nodded grimly. “Can you imagine them returning, victorious, emboldened, having had a taste of blood?”

“Worse than that,” added Pallando, “they will have fought along orcs, been encamped with men of ingrained corruption, and the very presence of Sauron will have tainted them.”

“But how can we stop them?” said Jarin. “Since nobody has come up with a plan all this time.”

“Alatar tells me he spoke with the Archseraph this morning” said Pallando. “Hamûjil regrets his long inaction and he is determined to step up now. His intention is to overtake the Krâ host by air and dissuade them from their course.”

“Can that succeed?” asked Uilara.

“Possibly.” Pallando turned the palm of his left hand upwards in a musing gesture.” The Krâ are your neighbours and have been on good terms with Kûz for many generations. Ezen Kemra is as good as a friend of Hamûjil’s. He might listen to him. And of course the Krâ are also under the influence of the Unquenchable Light, albeit to a lesser extent. Whatever wiles Sauron has used on them, his sway over them is likely not to go deep. If we act now, we might be able to remind them of their better selves. It’s worth a try.”

“That is all true enough,” said Alatar, who had just appeared in the doorway, “but it is moot. I come from the palace. Majani has forbidden Hamûjil to go. She has invoked the Clause of the Seraphine.”

“What? Why would she do that?”

“She is concerned that he will be killed on sight without ever getting a chance to speak. The incident at the festival has really rattled her and she is worried out of her wits.”

Jarin was whispering explanations into Diri’s ear. Then she said, “But I think it’s a feasible plan. The Archseraph is so good with people; he would be very persuasive. Can no one convince the Seraphine that he should go?”

“Miriel tried, as did I, to no avail. Hamûjil is in a fix. He could break his wife’s veto, but that would probably break his marriage, too. I don’t think he will risk that.”

“He wouldn’t have to go alone,” said Sâlian. “We could all come with him. Or at least some of us.”

“I completely agree,” said Alatar, “there should be a delegation, if only to prove that the Archseraph is not only speaking for himself. But the Clause of the Seraphine is a real obstacle here. I’m afraid Majani has allowed fear to cloud her judgement.”

There was more whispering between Jarin and Diri and then the dwarf spoke up.

“Tell me if I am getting this right: So the Seraphine forbids her husband from going on this quest because she is afraid the Krâ will kill him the moment they see him. And her word is binding because when she uses this Clause it makes her the protector of the Archseraph and therefore he cannot overrule her? Yes? Fair enough, but could he not send a messenger ahead? And then only appear in person once the Krâ have granted him a safe parley?”

“You do not know the Archseraph,” said Jarin. “He would not risk someone else’s life instead of his own.”

“And Majani might not be convinced by the notion of a safe parley either,” added Alatar.

“So the solution is obvious then,” said Diri. “He must speak to the ezens from a position of safety.”

“What do you mean?”

Diri shrugged, because it really was obvious to him. “He must not be seen. I have a suggestion to make.”

Back Home

Jarin considered it her duty to see Diri well settled in a guest house before she made her way to the outer town. She decided to forego a boat and walk to savour the pleasure of being back home. Tiny crumbs of snow fell down in swift, straight lines around her like so many shooting stars. Jarin noted with surprise that the streets of Levare were just the same, then she shook her head a little at her foolishness; she hadn’t been away for that long. It was dusk, and the stall holders in the market were lighting their lanterns. But there was no brilliance to the light; it diffused limply in the winter air. The sky had that stuffed, colourless look that promised more snow. Jarin stopped at one of the stalls and bought a jar of gooseberry jam as a treat for her father and then, at an impulse, a second jar to give to Diri later.

She crossed the bridge into the outer town and soon saw the windows glowing in her father’s house. With a sudden pang of guilt she thought that she should have come here first. How could her fellow lungi and a dwarf she hadn’t even known a couple of months ago have a greater claim on her than her own father?

Margig stood by the fire stirring something in a pot when she entered the house. He looked over his shoulder.

“Jarin! I thought you would get here tonight. The stew is nearly ready, and I have cocoa warming up, too. I made up your bed, in case you want to sleep here.”

“Thank you. I brought you gooseberry jam.”

She placed the jar on the table, Margig put the wooden spoon aside, and after a breathless moment they both sobbed and threw themselves into a tight embrace.

“Oh, Father, you must have been so worried! I am sorry for all the distress I caused you.”

“Shhhhh. I was worried, but it’s not your fault, my dear. And from all I’ve heard, I have every reason to be proud of you. But let’s sit down and you can tell me all. No, wait, let’s dish up the stew first.”

So they ate, and talked, and drank their cocoa, and talked, and moved over to the bench by the fire and talked, until the tale finally reached the current day and Jarin’s arrival in Levare.

“And Wan took us straight to the Houses, and there was a meeting going on when we came in, so we stayed for that, and then I had to make sure that Diri had somewhere to stay, so please forgive me for not coming here first.”

Margig waved this aside. “I had no notion of when you would arrive anyway. It was enough for me to know you were on your way home.” He swirled the dregs of his cocoa around in his cup. “But this Diri,” he said, “he’s a dwarf?”

“Yes, of course he’s a dwarf. Kamenogi is a dwarf city; you know that.”

“Hm.”

“He is…very clever.”

“I’m sure he is. So tell me about this plan of his; how exactly is it going to work?”

“I don’t think I completely understand it just yet. But it involves this device Diri has invented. Only it is in Kamenogi, and he would have to build another one here and that would take some time, but Pallando says we will need to go out on dragons anyway, so a couple of weeks won’t make much of a difference. And Diri can get all the best mirrors here in Levare anyway, and the glassmakers can make him these things called lenses, which is why he came here with me in the first place.”

“I see. And no doubt you mean to be going on this quest as well?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Then you’ll have your loyalties tested, won’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can take only one passenger. Who’s it going to be?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Oh, well.” Margig got up, took the empty mugs, and patted Jarin’s shoulder as he walked past her to the sink. “You’ll work it out somehow.”

Jarin slept in her childhood bed that night, dreaming of mirrors, and cliff tops, and a road that went on and on across a snowy plain.

-oOoOo-

When it was all explained to her, first by Hamûjil and then a second time, with more gravitas, by Alatar, Majani conceded that it was a feasible plan. She rescinded the Clause of the Seraphine, leaving Hamûjil once more to make his own decisions. He sent word to the Houses that preparations could go ahead.

By the afternoon, quite a little crowd had assembled at the palace, keen to offer help and advice. The Mayor was there, Mistress Tilar, Nevine the Warden of Plain, Alatar with Uilara, two of the Seekers and most of the lungi. What surprised Hamûjil was how many people wanted to come with him. All but one of the lungi present volunteered on behalf of their dragons. The Seeker of Connections wanted to go so he could see how the device worked, and Tilar made a case that as the leader of the Traders’ Guild, she had business relationships with the Krâ. Hamûjil thought neither of these very good reasons and secretly doubted that a dragon would carry Tilar, whom he considered a vain and foolish woman. She argued for a while, but Hamûjil told her that this had nothing to do with business relations and that if he was taking anyone at all, it would be the Guardian and the Wanderer.

“You will have to take Diri,” Jarin pointed out.

“Of course,” said Hamûjil. “Where is he, by the way?”

”At the glassmakers, talking about lenses.”

“He doesn’t lose any time, does he?”

“He came to Levare specifically to see them.”

“True, why else would he be here.”

Why else indeed.

Even though most of the visitors had come unbidden, Hamûjil and Majani nevertheless treated them to a princely dinner and then provided bini carriages to take them home. Jarin rode with Sâlian. They had barely had time since Jarin’s return to catch up fully with each other’s stories, and Jarin began to give a vivid account of her adventure with the Hwenti, but she noticed soon that Sâlian was bursting with something else she wanted to say.

“So what’s your news?” asked Jarin.

Sâlian jiggled a little in her seat. “You will like this. I struck up a friendship with Aluir’s sister. She is really nice.”

“I know. I’m glad you like her.”

“Yes, but that’s not my point. I had the chance to sound her out a bit about him, and I think I know why he couldn’t even remember you from that first time when you and Wan took him to Najûn. Uilara says he was terrified because he’s afraid of heights.”

“Well, yes, a lot of people are.”

“But it means he wasn’t ignoring you or overlooking you. He was simply too scared to pay attention to the lungi.”

“Yeah, fair enough.”

Sâlian looked at Jarin in puzzlement. “Is that all? Just ‘Fair enough’? After everything you –”

“Listen, Sâlian,” said Jarin. “I appreciate you thinking of me, but … well, I just don’t care about him anymore. It was always just a foolish infatuation. I mean, I barely know him. I think I was drawn to his good looks and his dashing manner, that’s all. And I’ve come to think better of it. So enjoy Uilara’s company for its own sake. She’s a lovely woman. But I hope I’m still your best friend?”

“Of course!”

When they reached the grounds of the Houses, the women wanted to get out and walk, but the driver said he had instructions from the Seraphine to take them all the way to their door. And so it came about that they were driven in a royal carriage past the cedar tree, where the Seer sat wrapped in many cloaks.

“Jarin Dragonrider!” she called.

“Excuse me,” Jarin said to the driver, “but I really must speak with her.”

She climbed out of the carriage and walked over to the old woman.

“So,” the Seer said. “You have returned.”

Jarin inclined her head.

“And did the north wind take you, as I foretold?”

“It did. But not for ill, I think.”

“I said it might be for ill or for good.” She scrutinised Jarin with her deep-set eyes. “That is a mighty fine bauble you have brought back with you.”

“Oh, the new flute? Yes, my old one got broken. A friend made this for me.”

“And gave you that chain, too?”

“No, that is a gift from the King of Kamenogi.”

“My, my, you are a fine lady these days.”

“He was very kind.”

“I dare say so! Kind and generous. Do you realise what a royal gift this is?”

Jarin looked puzzled. “Many people have silver chains.”

“Silver?” The Seer scoffed. “You think that is silver? Does it tarnish?”

“How would I know? I’ve only had it for about a week.”

The Seer shook her head and beckoned Jarin to come closer. Jarin crouched down beside her.

“That chain, Jarin Dragonrider,” whispered the old woman, “is worth more than a crown of solid gold.”

“Surely not!”

“Believe me or don’t,” said the Seer with a shrug. “It’s all the same to me. But don’t you think you have come back changed, Jarin? You have seen dangers and adventures, and something has taken hold of you that you did not expect. And I think you know what it is.”

“Maybe I do,” said Jarin. “But I don’t want to talk about it. There are more important things to worry about. Have you any forebodings about the Archseraph’s plan?”

“Forebodings? No. He left it a little late.”

“You think he will fail?”

“Do you?”

Jarin sighed. “You are as enigmatic as ever. Come inside with me, it’s cold, you shouldn’t be sitting here.”

“If I had not been sitting here, I would not have seen you arriving in a royal carriage.”

“Well, you have seen me now. Let me help you up, and we’ll warm ourselves by the fire. I’ll tell you everything that happened to me, everything you’ve not already seen in your mind. And there’ll be cocoa, too.”

The old woman pulled herself up with Jarin’s help and smiled.

“Jarin,” she said, “I’ve missed you.”

-oOoOo-

Within a couple of days, the news that the Archseraph was going on a grand quest to bring the straying Krâ to heel had all Levare abuzz. Fishwives in the marketplace were debating it with as much passion as the Seekers in the Tower of Knowledge and the lungi in the Houses. It was a matter of speculation at dinner tables and in coffee houses, among barbers and boatmen; even children had started to base their games on this fascinating notion and were riding chairs, brooms or pillows as their dragons, declaiming from imaginary heights, “You naughty Krâ, you must go home!”

The Archseraph, meanwhile, had declared that until he had definitive assurance from Diri that the device could be built in a reasonable timeframe, he would discuss the matter with nobody apart from the Guardian and the Wanderer. The three of them sat in his private study that overlooked the gardens. Outside, all the peacocks but Vani showed up brightly against the snowy ground, a neat reversal of the facts of summer.

Hamûjil smoothed down his moustache and took another sip of tea. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” he said, gesturing at a pile of papers that were stacked on his desk. “Here I have no fewer than a hundred and sixty-three letters from well-meaning citizens of Levare and even a few that came by dragon post from Mil Nahara and Najûn, and they are all urging me to follow their advice. Some implore me not to go, others ask why I haven’t left yet, at least a dozen have written speeches they want me to give to the Krâ and easily thirty or forty offer their services to accompany me.” He shook his head. “And now even Miriel is telling me to be careful! As if I was likely to be reckless without her admonition. She wants to come for my protection. At this rate, half of Levare will be going with me.”

“There aren’t that many lungi,” said Pallando evenly. “And the delegation should not be too big. Here’s my suggestion: Jarin will ferry you and Sâlian will ferry Diri. Alatar should go with Vilajin; they are old friends; and I will bring Uilara. That is enough. Unless…yes, I think one of the Wardens should come with us. How about Olan?”

Hamûjil shook his head. “Olan will not travel by air. Neither will Nevine, and Lainu is sick.”

“Then take Yun. He is your staunchest supporter among the Wardens and he used to ride dragons from time to time when he was younger.”

“But now he is older. It’s a strenuous journey.”

“How about this,” said Alatar. “Pallando can go out to Wood and offer to bring Yun to Levare. Tell him we seek his counsel. Depending on how he copes with that journey, he can decide if he wants to venture on the longer one.”

“A good plan,” agreed Pallando. “So, what is the word from our friend Diri? Can he build the device here or not? I should really know that before I go and drag an old man away from his home.”

Hamûjil leaned back in his chair. “As far as I understand, there is no doubt that he can build it here – most of the crucial parts for the device he built in Kamenogi came from Levare anyway. It’s a question of how long it will take. Currently he is drawing up plans and showing them to the various artisans whose services he will need. He says within the next few days we should know more.”

“Then we must wait.”

It started to snow again.

-oOoOo-

“I did what I could. But Hamûjil is not to be persuaded.”

“Never mind. His ludicrous quest will fail anyway, with or without your interference.” The ambassador drained his silver cup and tossed it aside. “And while he is away, we will prepare some surprises for his return. It’s time for more than the little mischief we’ve done so far.”

“And what of my reward?”

“You will have your reward, if you think serving Sauron the Great is not reward in itself.”

-oOoOo-

When he wasn’t trailing from workshop to workshop showing his drawings to the artificers, Diri spent his days in the Tower of Knowledge, were the Seekers were happy to supply him with all the paper, rulers, compasses and so forth that he required in exchange for nothing other than the chance to take a look over his shoulders. In the evenings, he met with Jarin in a coffee house to discuss his progress. They had a favourite table in a little nook half hidden by an olive tree in an enormous embossed brass pot.

“I told the Archseraph today that I can accomplish the work in three weeks.”

“That long?”

“Jarin, the original device took me more than a year to build! Of course that was a lot of trial an error. This time I know what I’m doing.”

“I see. Can I help you with it at all?”

“That depends. Do you have any experience with optical engineering?”

Jarin giggled. “You know I’m a dragon rider. But I am diligent and dependable and I can follow precise instructions.”

“Say no more; you’ve got the job.”

They grinned at each other. Diri refilled his coffee cup from the long-handled copper pot. For a while, they sat in silence, listening to the murmur of other conversations in the room.

“Diri, this chain the king gave me…”

“What about it?”

“Is it silver?”

Diri threw his head back. “You don’t know! How can you not know!? Ah, but of course you don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“Ha, you see, I was puzzled when the king presented this to you and you thanked him very politely but showed no sign of…well, I’m going to use the word awe again. But I put it down to what you told us before, that you were no stranger to royalty, so I thought, perhaps Hamûjil, rich as he is, has given you costly presents before.”

“No, he hasn’t. The Seraphine gives me nice things sometimes, like a scarf or a bottle of wine, but nothing extraordinary. Come now, tell me what it is with this chain.”

Diri reached across the table and let the chain lie on his palm. It was beautifully made, with thick links that each was etched with delicate patterns. Jarin was always surprised that it didn’t weigh more.

“This,” Diri said, “is most definitely not silver. It is a far more valuable metal that we call medril. By giving this to you, the king showed you great favour.”

“The Seer said it’s worth more than a golden crown.”

“Well, not quite. But it is very valuable.”

“Was he offended at my lack of gratitude?”

“I doubt it. He probably realised, like I did only just now, that you would have no idea this was medril. It may have been his little joke.”

“But how come I’ve never heard of this medril?”

“Because it is rare and we do not trade it. We use whatever we can find of it for our own purposes. No doubt you find this very unneighbourly of us.”

Jarin shook her head. “How could I? The Kûzeen keep the Three Secrets to themselves. You know, the making of silk, of porcelain and of glass mirrors.”

“Don’t I know it! Actually, I see a little problem on the horizon here. I will need some back-up from the Archseraph. Will you come to the palace with me tomorrow? I have a feeling the Archseraph will treat me more favourably if you are with me.”

“No, he won’t, he is very fair. But I can come with you anyway, if you like.”

On the following day, therefore, Diri and Jarin sought an audience with the Archseraph, which he granted within the hour. He received them in the throne room, though he didn’t sit on the peacock throne, but at a chess set where he had been pondering moves before they came in.

“Archseraph,” said Jarin, “Diri has come up against a problem that he cannot solve, but you may.”

Hamûjil raised his eyebrows. “Whatever could that be?”

“The Seekers of Levare,” said Diri, “have been most obliging and supported me in every way. But the craftspeople of this town are less accommodating. Without exception, they have made it clear to me that while they were happy to create the parts I have requested, under no circumstances will they allow me to be in their workshops while they are working on them. But I really need to be there to make sure all is made exactly as I need it.”

“Why would they not – oh, I see…”

“Yes. They think I will steal their trade secrets.” Diri scowled. “I have a secret or two at stake here, too, you know, but unlike these Kûzar geniuses, I know the meaning of the word priorities.”

“You speak very plainly,” said Hamûjil.

“In my experience, speaking with circumspection rarely achieves its purpose.”

“And what do you want me to do about this?”

“Aren’t you their ruler? I am building this device for you. Tell them they have to comply with my wishes.”

Hamûjil raised a hand. “It’s more complicated than that. I am not supposed to interfere with guild business. But I will speak with the Master of the Artisan’s Guild and tell him that I vouch for you. I am fairly confident that he will agree.”

Diri bowed.

“Other than that, “said Hamûjil, “I trust things are progressing smoothly?”

“Tell him,” whispered Jarin when Diri didn’t immediately reply.

“Very well,” said Diri. “There is another thing, though I do not expect you to have a solution for it.”

“Let’s hear it anyway.”

“I cannot project onto thin air. I need a surface, like a flat rock wall, and there is no telling if we will find such a thing whenever we overtake the host. And even if we did, it might not be in a good position for them to see it. In any case, for us to project and for them to see it at a decent angle, we would have to be almost among them.” He scratched his beard. “Jarin and I discussed this the other day. It’s tricky.”

Hamûjil frowned. “This was your plan in the first place. Did you not think of these things?”

“Not in this much detail,” admitted Diri. “I can work something out, but I don’t know how long it will take me.”

There was a pause, during which Hamûjil looked a little crestfallen, and then he asked, “Does it have to be a rock wall?”

“No, any smooth, flat surface will do. A floor, a table top, even a large sheet of paper. I suppose we could take paper –”

“Wait!” Jarin held her hand up to silence the others while she was trying to catch the thought that had just fluttered through her mind. Paper, paper…what had that made her think of? Oh, scrolls!

“Diri,” she said, “if the surface were see-through, like fine silk, could you project onto it from behind?”

“Possibly. I’d need to try it out.”

“But wouldn’t that mean,” said Hamûjil, “that I’d have to stand behind that surface? Putting me right in the line of fire with nothing but a sheet of silk between me and any Krâ arrows?”

“No, you could stand off to one side and we’d use an array of mirrors. We will have to practise this, though, because it’s difficult to do. And we would need a stronger light source. A very strong light source. I’m not sure we can find anything bright enough.”

 “I think I can help you with that,” said Hamûjil. He explained what he had in mind.

“Yes,” said Diri, “that’ll do fine.”

“Oooh, oooh,” cried Jarin, whose mind was still on silk scrolls. “I’ve had a brilliant idea! Oooh, Pallando will love this. And the Krâ will think it is magic. Listen…”

Going West

To the south of the city, perhaps half an hour’s walk from Margig’s house, lay a fallow field that was enclosed by woodland on three sides and by a stream on the fourth. They had chosen this out-of-the-way spot so that half Levare wouldn’t congregate around them and offer advice. A rare hoarfrost had lasted all day and the lacy white trees stood like elven jewels against the pink sky. Even prettier were the withered crowns of cow parsley and the seed heads of bitter dock, also in their icy garb. Jarin shielded her eyes against the sun that was languidly sinking in the West. Their shadows were so long that they nearly touched the edge of the field. Diri joked about feeling tall for once.

Pallando and Sâlian arrived by dragon, laden with boxes and an enormous scroll. The green-scaled Lu-yan faded as soon as her rider had dismounted, but Mûn stayed.

“This I have to see,” he said.

“It will be a while,” said Diri. “There is a lot of apparatus.” He looked at the boxes that had been put down in the snow and lifted the lid on the first. It contained a number of metal tubes. “We will set up today while it’s still light, though eventually we have to practice doing it in the dark.”

“Here’s Hamûjil,” said Jarin. Indeed, a figure was approaching from the far side of the field, carrying a box under his arm. The Archseraph was dressed in plain clothes with a scarf wrapped round his head. The only thing that might have still given him away to any onlooker was his magnificent moustache. He waved at the group and then jogged the remaining distance towards them.

“I am sorry to be late,” he said.

“We are only just starting,” Pallando replied. “And we cannot really test the device until it’s dark. You will be thoroughly chilled by then, Hamûjil. You should have stayed in your cosy palace a bit longer.”

“Nonsense,” said Hamûjil, “if you can all face the cold, then so can I. Majani made me put on mittens.” He held out his hands as proof and they laughed.

“Well, that won’t do for me and my able assistant,” said Diri as he and Jarin began to assemble the device with bare hands. The last rays of the sun glinted on the mirrors and lenses. They worked on in the twilight, steadily, just like they had practised before in the Tower of Knowledge. Soon it was dark. Sâlian lit a couple of lanterns that cast a pale golden light on the snow.

“So, if the screen is there, then you will have to stand about here, Archseraph,” said Diri and marked a patch on the ground with his boot. “You will be able to talk, and be heard if you talk loudly enough, but your image will be over there.”

“Will they not know where my voice comes from?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Have you ever tried to locate the source of a noise in the dark? You ask three people, they’ll point in three different directions.”

“Are you sure? It still seems risky.”

“Yes, it’s risky!” Diri sounded exasperated. “It’s a risky thing you are planning to do! All we can do is reduce the risk. Are you willing to face the remainder?”

There was a pause. Jarin and Sâlian and even Pallando looked uncomfortable at this outburst against the Archseraph. Mûn began to wander off. But Hamûjil nodded slowly.

“You are right, Diri,” he said. “I must take a risk. But don’t tell Majani.”

Their first attempt was as would be expected, slow, with stops and starts and a fair amount of confusion. The following day, things went slightly smoother, and after two more days Diri reckoned they were ready to practice setting up in the dark. They did this for a week. Hamûjil became more impatient by the day, calculating the miles that the Krâ host would cover while Diri and Jarin were fiddling with what still seemed like a magic trick to him. Pallando kept reminding him that a weeks’ march of a big host could be travelled by dragons in less than a day.

Eventually, Diri was satisfied that all would go according to plan. It would have been his preference to leave quietly, but Hamûjil declared that the people of Levare should have a share in the adventure. Their quest was therefore to begin with a torch-lit midnight procession from the Houses down the Avenue of Peach Trees to the palace.

They napped in the afternoon. At about ten o’clock, Jarin returned to her room from having farewelled her father. Margig had been offered a seat on a palace balcony overlooking the plaza; he would see her setting off, but would not have a chance to speak to her at that time.

Jarin washed, braided her hair and then checked her pack once again. Her food supplies – twice-baked bread (the last from the storeroom), goat cheese, apples, raisins, nuts – seemed inadequate for a trip that might last a fortnight or longer, but it should be possible to pick up more on the way. She sat down on her bed and stroked the pillow. Ever since her return from Kamenogi, her room had not seemed quite real to her. And now she was to leave it again, and it was not certain that she would come back. She tried to imagine what it would be like, standing in the dark with nothing but a bit of trickery between herself and twenty-five thousand hostile Krâ. Well, at least she would be with friends. And presumably the dragons would be able to bail them out if things went wrong.

At quarter to midnight, Sâlian came to pick her up. As they walked by the cedar tree, the Seer rose from her seat and without a word kissed them both on the forehead. They met up with the others by the bridge and each in turn summoned their dragon.

“You will go down in history, Jarin,” whispered Wan. She smiled and shook her head.

On the stroke of midnight, they crossed the bridge and began their procession down the avenue. A dozen torch bearers went in front, followed by Mûn with Pallando and Uilara on either side, also carrying torches. And then came the other dragons, each with their lungi and their passenger by their side: Vilajin and Alatar with the dragon Zhu, Sâlian and Diri with Lu-yan, and the dragon Yila with her lungi Marai and Warden Yun, who had indeed decided to join them. Only Jarin walked alone beside Wan, as the Archseraph was to meet them at the palace. Another dozen torchbearers brought up the rear. At a little distance, not really part of the procession but nevertheless essential, came a bini cart with their luggage.

The people of Levare did not disappoint. In their thousands they lined the street, holding lanterns, silk scarfs or winter flowers. On the banisters of the bridges, evergreen garlands and red and yellow ribbons showed the colours of the Seraphs. Lights and shadows flittered like birds across the pavement, the façades of the houses, people’s faces… Jarin walked half dazed, like one just awoking from a heavy dream. The glowstone cobbles shimmered under her feet. She clutched her torch tighter. In the Third Rung, people were singing the song of Kûz:

                        Our land, a jewel under the sapphire sky

                        Our Seraphs, our wise and noble guides

                        Our hearts, with the power to unify

                        Our future, realm where our hope abides

                        Our ships are ploughing the inland sea

                        Our hands are weaving the finest clothes

                        Our homes hold the harvest of field and tree

                        Our music summons the scent of the rose

Our fathers and mothers give love and care

Our children…

“This will be a night to remember,” said Wan. “Generations to come will speak of it.”

Jarin sighed. “You talk as if you’ve already decided that we’ll die.”

“You may. But I don’t think you will.”

“Yeah, that’s very encouraging, Wan.”

“No need to be sarcastic.”

She peered ahead to where Sâlian was walking with Diri and Lu-yan. Suddenly she wished she had dissuaded her friend from coming. Sâlian had parents who relied on her and a sweetheart whom she was to wed in the summer. What if she didn’t come back?

“Jarin?” Wan nudged her with his head. “Do not fret. Whatever happens, you will have five dragons standing by.”

“And what exactly could you do?”

“Get you away, of course.”

“And bring us back, failures. I hope it won’t come to that.”

The palace was in sight now with all its windows lit. But the procession moved slowly, and it was nearly another twenty minutes before they arrived at the plaza. The crowd cheered. Under Pallando’s direction, the five dragons spread out in a semi-circle facing the central balcony, where the Archseraph and the Seraphine now appeared with their attendants. Jarin was looking for Margig on the other balconies, but there were so many spectators there; she couldn’t make him out. Hamûjil stepped forward to the banister and raised his hands for silence.

“Citizens of Levare!” he began. “I thank you with all my heart that you have turned out tonight to show your support. The task that lies ahead of me and my companions is unlike any we have ever known. And yet it is a task that honours the New Way and the best traditions of Kûz. At a time when war is brewing in the West, we are not going to war. We are not setting out to fight the Krâ. We are setting out to call the Krâ back to the ways of peace. And this truly matters. The Guardian and the Wanderer agree that the war in the West can swing one way or another depending on whether or not this Krâ host arrives there. By doing what we are setting out to do, we are making our contribution for peace, not just for Kûz, but for all of Middle-earth. There is no guarantee that we will succeed. But I am confident that if all your good wishes accompany us, if my voice is not just my own but that of all Kûzeen, then the Krâ will listen to me.”

Cheers went up.

“But I will be honest with you. It is possible that we will fail, and it is possible that we will not all return. Should that come to pass, I trust that you will follow the Seraphine as you have followed me, until such a time that my eldest son is ready to take the Peacock Throne.”

There were a few cries of dismay in the crowd, but mostly downcast eyes and earnest nods. Long-indulged and complacent the Kûzeen might be, but they were not so naïve as to think that great deeds could be done without risk. Jarin looked at the ground. She had hoped that the risk had not been so clear to her father, but she realised that this was a foolish thing to expect. And what about Majani? Would she change her mind again, hearing these words from her husband’s mouth?

But Majani stood silently next to the Archseraph. Her ladies and the other dignitaries looked grave. Only Tilar came up from behind Hamûjil and whispered urgently in his ear. He shook his head and waved her away. Then the Seraphs and their entourage left the balcony and a while later emerged at the front of the palace. Hamûjil was now dressed for travel. He kissed Majani and each of his children and then came over to the dragons without looking back.

“Are you ready?” he said to Jarin.

“I am.”

There were no further cheers, but a solemn hush as the dragons cast off from the plaza, Mûn first. They circled twice over the palace and then headed out of the city along the river Leva. They had left many hours before sunrise because the days were so short and they intended for the dragons to follow the West Road until first light and then cut across the inland sea towards Baktu. Bonfires had been be lit every couple of miles along the road to guide the dragons.

Dragon rides in winter are a chilly affair, and though Jarin had wrapped up well, she was still glad for the warmth of Hamûjil behind her. The dragon’s body gave off no heat. Soon her fingers and toes began to feel numb. They had reached the first bonfire and could just make out the second in the distance. The third could be seen as a tiny speck of light by the time they passed the second. Jarin was glad this plan, which had been Uilara’s idea, was working out. Hamûjil had sent out the carts with firewood over the course of the last week; lungi had taken it to the furthest sections.

At daybreak they rested for an hour. The air was damp and still and the inland sea lay smooth under a thin veil of haze. To the south, the reed marsh stretched to the horizon, a patchwork of fawn-coloured islands and muddy pools. It stank of rot and mould.

“I’m not surprised nobody wants to live here,” muttered Diri. “Have you ever thought of draining this place?”

“No,” said Hamûjil. “The marshes are not part of Kûz, nor of Krâ, and it is a good thing neither country lays claim to them.”

“They’re the size of a whole country in themselves!”

“A country of treacherous ground and swamp-borne diseases. No, no, we are not so pressed for space. We harvest reeds along the eastern edge, and otherwise we leave well alone.”

“Well, at least you built the road.”

“Long, long ago. Our records do not say which Seraph had it built, and our records go back seven hundred years.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a Seraph, but the Hwenti? They used to be more spread out.”

“Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Pallando came over and suggested they get back in the air. Soon they were flying across the Sea of Calma in a north-western direction. In the later morning, the mists cleared and they could see the waters spread out beneath them like a sheet of wrinkled silk. A couple of hours later, Vilajin was the first to spot a cluster of dark specks ahead.

“What is that?”

They lost a little height to see better.

“Ships. Why so many?”

“It’s a fleet.”

 “They are sailing for Kûz!”

“They’ll attack us! We have to turn back!”

“Archseraph, what shall we do?”

The dragons were now flying side by side to allow the riders to speak to each other. Hamûjil hesitated. He had not expected the Krâ to go to war on two fronts and had made no plans for such a scenario. When he gave no reply, people started looking at Alatar.

“Guardian?”

“What shall we do, Guardian?”

Alatar closed his eyes for a moment. Then he said, “We must go on. The reasons we had for setting off have not changed. We must not fail. We must go on.”

“But what of our people?” cried Sâlian. “Can we not warn them?”

“Yes, we should!”

“No, we must listen to the Guardian.”

“Listen to me,” rang out the voice on Mûn. “We must indeed go on, but not all of us. The Wanderer, Uilara and I will deal with this fleet while the rest of you go on.”

“How could one dragon stop a fleet?”

“How could five?”

“Mûn is right,” said Hamûjil. “One dragon has as much of a chance as five, and we must go on. Do you agree, Pallando?”

“Yes. You have Alatar with you, you don’t really need me as well. You go, and leave this new challenge to us.”

So after some hasty farewells between the members of the party and a precarious mid-air rearrangement of their luggage, the four dragons continued on their course while Mûn flew a wide circle around the fleet. There was no sign from the ships that they had been spotted. They were at this point just under halfway across the inland sea. Even with favourable winds, the fleet would not make landfall until the following afternoon.

“What shall we do?” asked Uilara. “Can we somehow distract them, send them round in circles or something?”

Pallando shook his head. “These ships are captained by experienced sailors, I’m sure. They know their course. Unfortunately, we don’t. Mûn, do you think they are making for Levare?”

“Give me a moment.”

The dragon continued his circles, looking down at the fleet and up at the sun.

“No,” he said eventually, “I think they are headed for Mil Nahara. It makes sense. In Mil Nahara, they can capture more ships and then go to Levare from there, perhaps to Najûn, too.”

“What use would more ships be to them; they’re not going to have more men.”

“Ah, true. But considering the direction of the wind, if they were going to Levare they would steer a more southerly course right now. I’m fairly sure they are going to Mil Nahara. If you want to invade a country, go for its major port first. And to get to Levare, they’d have to leave their ships and march nearly fifty miles upriver; I don’t think they’ll do that.”

“Why don’t we follow them until we can be sure?” said Uilara. “And in the meantime, we can think of what to do. Because surely whichever way they are going, we want to stop them!”

“Gallant words, my dear,” said Pallando. “But we must make up our minds soon, for we cannot fly through the night.”

So Mûn flew on in leisurely figures of eight, keeping the fleet just within sight ahead. It was by now after two o’clock and they had less than four hours of daylight left. The fleet maintained its eastward course and after another hour it seemed beyond doubt that their destination was indeed Mil Nahara.

“What do you want to do, Wanderer?” said Mûn.

“We will fly ahead at full speed and reach the eastern shore not long after nightfall. Then we can follow the lights of the villages. I have a plan now. Well, more of an idea, but it will be a plan by the time we get to Mil Nahara.”

“And what would that be?”

He told them.

“This is no solution, Wanderer,” said Uilara. “If it doesn’t work out, we will all be killed.”

“So what would you do instead? If we fight them, we will get killed anyway, and we would have abandoned the Way.”

“We could warn people so they could go into hiding.”

“Then they would get killed a little later,” said Mûn. “And the Krâ would move on to other places in Kûz. No, Pallando is right. This is our best chance.”

Uilara considered briefly the wisdom of arguing with two immortals, then she shrugged. “So be it.”

 Showdown at Mil Nahara

Late in the afternoon, the dragons reached the western shore. The city of Baktu lay a mile or so to the north. They found a place to land in a small dell surrounded by gorse and juniper thickets. Warden Yun nearly fell to the ground with exhaustion; Sâlian and Marai caught him and settled him with his bedroll. He was asleep before the last dragon had faded. The others were barely less exhausted and sat or reclined in silence, too tired even to open their packs. Only Diri was still upright, checking the boxes. Since dragons couldn’t carry such inflexible loads on their backs, as it would restrict their movements, the boxes had been attached to sturdy wooden bars, one at each end in the manner of a watercarrier’s yoke, to be grasped in the dragons’ claws. The well-wrapped silk scroll, which had been carried by Mûn initially, had been added to Yila’s load. Diri made sure everything remained secure and watertight. Eventually, he sat down, satisfied that all was in good order.

In the morning, while the others prepared for the day’s journey, Jarin went into Baktu. Though smaller than Krandi, the city was still substantial and always busy. Here, as in Krandi, most buildings were wooden and many were carved with geometric patterns. Unlike in Krandi, many of the streets were lined with birch trees, their bare quivering branches shimmering red against the blue sky. Following the main road into the centre, Jarin found the market and surveyed the stalls for what might be useful, given that the party wasn’t carrying any cooking gear.  She bought a jug of goat milk, oat cakes in a paper bag, cheese, carrots and – a prize find – a box of dried figs.

“You sound odd,” said a woman who stood beside her at one of the stalls. “You from Talak?”

“Somewhere thereabouts,” said Jarin. She’d always believed her Krâin sounded natural, but clearly it wasn’t natural enough.

“So what brings you to Baktu?” asked the woman, who seemed in a mood to chat.

“Oh, nothing special. Just visiting a cousin.”

“Nice way to treat a visitor, sending you to market!”

“She can’t go herself. She just had a baby.” Jarin felt uncomfortable as her lie grew arms and legs. “I’m sorry, I must go.”

She hurried back to the camp, where her potluck breakfast was warmly welcomed. Vilajin had found a spring nearby where they went to wash and fill their flasks and then they summoned the dragons.

“You are a little on the heavy side, Jarin,” said Wan. “What happened since yesterday?”

“I strayed from the truth,” said Jarin and told him about the woman at the market. “I’m afraid it will take a while to atone for this.”

“Not too long, I should think,” replied Wan. “You told a lie, but you told it to protect our quest, not for selfish gain. It shouldn’t weigh you down so much. Sometimes you are a bit too sensitive. Try to let it go.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The dragons set off, Zhu with Vilajin and Alatar now in the lead, followed by Wan with Jarin and Hamûjil.  Once they had left the coast behind, the ground was white with frost. They flew inland in a north-western direction, reckoning that they would sooner or later hit on the track of the host, which would be faster than going all the way to Krandi to pick up the trail there. Right enough, by mid-afternoon, they discerned a broad, nearly straight line running east to west. Snow lay here, which had been trodden down by many feet, in parts down to the brown earth, and the detritus of twenty thousand men on the march lined the edges of the trail. They followed it until twilight, when they came to a copse where the host seemed to have made camp a few days ago.

“That’ll be good enough for us, too,” said Hamûjil.

Indeed, the copse provided shelter, and water from a small stream, and they even found some firewood. Little was spoken during their evening meal.

“What will Pallando do?” said Sâlian eventually.

“He will think of something,” said Alatar. “He has always been very resourceful. That young woman is clever, too, and he has the wisest of dragons with him.”

“Don’t ever say that in Wan’s presence,” said Jarin, which caused a bit of a giggle among the others, since all were glad to have something lightening the mood.

They huddled together with their bedrolls close to the fire and slept till first light. And so they went on for several days, following the host. Where possible, Jarin went into villages and lone farms to buy food, but soon the farmland gave way to the steppe and they had to rely on the supplies they’d brought from Kûz. Jarin had never seen such a land, flat from horizon to horizon, with only the occasional stream or thicket of trees to break up the vast expanse. Where there was no snow, the land was carpeted with a long, pale grass that moved in the wind like the waves of the inland sea. Here and there herds of shaggy animals could be seen, whether they were large sheep or small cows or something else entirely, she was not quite sure. Even rarer was the sight of tiny villages of octagonal tents. So this was where the steppe tribes lived, the nomadic Krâ, with whom she shared her distant ancestors. How could they live in the middle of such nothingness? She didn’t think she could ever, like Nara did with the western dwarves, speak of them as her kin.

Eventually the trail began to look fresher, the discarded litter more recent.

“We’ll get them soon,” said Wan.

Hamûjil sighed, but the wind was strong enough so that not even Jarin heard him.

-oOoOo-

Yoltuk felt unnerved by the sea. He was used to seeing it only from the shore, being by trade a baker in Krandi. Never before had he been on a ship, let alone out of sight of dry land. How far down did the water go? And what kind of monsters might lurk under its churning surface? He knew that the fishermen of Krandi sometimes found disturbing creatures in their nets. Still, it was better to stand here near the bow and look out over the water than to be below deck in the stuffy darkness. The problem was, standing near the bow and looking ahead he couldn’t help thinking about the destination they would soon reach. Thinking about what he would have to do when they got there.

He took a deep breath, rehearsing again in his head the manifold reasons why the Kûzeen had it coming to them: The prices they put on their finest wares, which were out of reach for most Krâ. The way they kept the secret of the making of silk and mirrors and porcelain, which not even the lowliest apprentice in the taverns would betray, no matter how drunk. The way they were so conveniently shielded by the mountains, while the Krâ always had to worry that their kin from the steppes might begin to covet their fat meadows and well-tilled fields. The way they looked down their noses at the Krâ as their uncouth, unworthy neighbours. Their insufferable claim to the moral high ground. It was true. It was all true.

It was true.

He glanced across the deck to a nest of coiled ropes where Silwur and Kilüg sat playing cards. Silwur was his neighbour and Kilüg his brother-in-law. At the start of their journey, they had been talking about how they would teach the Kûzeen a lesson. This whole day, they’d been silent about it, speaking only of their game, and the food, and the weather.

The weather was very fine for February. The breeze was steady, the sun shone mildly in a washed-out sky. Yoltuk looked up to check for clouds. Only a few thin scraps drifted overhead. Then, from the corner of his eyes, he noticed a speck moving diagonally to the wind. He squinted at it. Some kind of bird? No, a dragon.

Should he tell the commander? But what of it? The Kûzeen had their dragons going backwards and forwards all the time. It was probably just a post dragon. And even if the fleet had been spotted, what difference would it make? Everyone knew the Kûzeen were not allowed to fight. They were sitting ducks. Ducks sitting in leisure and luxury while the Krâ struggled to scrape a living.

It was true.

-oOoOo-

Mûn reached Mil Nahara about an hour after nightfall, having followed the lights of the shore villages like Pallando had suggested. He landed on the clifftops, near to where a stair leading down to the town was cut into the rock.

“I am going home,” he said. “But make sure to call me when the fleet arrives. It won’t do any harm to have a dragon around.”

“I thank you for your service,” said Pallando, and the dragon faded.

Pallando led the way down the stair and to the Mayor’s house. The door was opened by a chubby youth, Baja’s son, as it later turned out.

“The Mayor is resting,” he said. “Who wishes to see her?”

“If it pleases you, tell her the Wanderer, on urgent business.”

The lad’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing more, bid them in with a gesture and showed them a bench in the hall, then disappeared up the stair.

He came back down a couple of minutes later, followed by the Mayor, who sent him off to see to some refreshments. Then she led Pallando and Uilara into a chamber with a big round table and many chairs.

“Baja,” said Pallando when they had barely sat down, “I come to you with grave news. A fleet of Krâ ships is on its way to Mil Nahara and will likely be here by tomorrow afternoon. I have no doubt that they come with hostile intentions.”

Baja covered her mouth with her hand and said nothing for a moment. The lad came in with a tray of steaming cups which he set down on the table.

“Yiro,” said Baja, “tell your father to join us. And then run, if it pleases you, and fetch the town elders as quickly as you can. Tell them it’s urgent.”

“Yes, Mother.”

After about half an hour, the ten town elders sat at the table with Baja and her husband and their two unexpected visitors.

“How big is this fleet?” asked one.

“I counted thirty-three ships,” said Uilara. “Some of them are smaller fishing vessels, but the majority are the usual cargo ships. Pallando reckons they could bring altogether upwards of four thousand men.”

“Armed?”

“I would imagine so!”

The elders sat in shocked silence. Mil Nahara was a town of not quite ten thousand people.

“We had time to think about this on our journey,” Pallando said. “There are three courses open to us. We can try to fight, but we have no weapons and it would mean to abandon the Way. We can flee, and that might help you for a while, but there is no true safety in that if the Krâ come roaming about the land. Or we can choose a third way – one that fits our culture and our beliefs. This is what I propose…”

And he told them the plan he had shared with Uilara on the way. At first, most of those sitting round the table were unconvinced and favoured the idea of running and hiding. But then Baja spoke and said she was willing to follow Pallando, and then one by one the women among the town elders said it was worth thinking about.

“And what will we do?” asked Baja’s husband. “I mean, we men?”

“You will flee,” said Pallando. “You will take the children and take them to as safe a place as you can find. I’d say, take them to Najûn, at least the city is walled. We didn’t see any horses on the ships, so even if we fail here, the Krâ are unlikely to catch up with you as long as you keep moving. But I don’t think we will fail. The Krâ have never been to war before. They are not soldiers brutalised by battle; they’re farmers and weavers and shop keepers. Sauron may have given them swords, but it takes more than a sword to kill a person. The Archseraph is on a quest to remind the Krâ of their better selves, and the Guardian and I have encouraged him in this, because we believe he will succeed. And I believe we will succeed here as well on the same mission.”

“Still…” said one of the town elders, a middle-aged man with impressive eyebrows. “It doesn’t seem right, men running away leaving the women behind.”

“But you are not running away,” said Uilara. “You are taking care of your children, taking them to safety.”

“The Wanderer is proposing to stay; he’s a man,” objected Eyebrows.

“He is not what we are,” said Baja’s husband.

“I will stay, but I will keep in the background,” said Pallando. “If all goes well, Mûn and I will find you and tell you it’s safe to come home.”

“Can we not all go to Najûn?” said a woman.

“Yes, you could all go to Najûn,” said Pallando. “And the Krâ would take Mil Nahara and plunder your homes, and then they would march on to Levare and do the same there, and eventually they’ll come to Najûn and the walls will hold them off for a while but in the end they’ll take Najûn as well. It is better to stop them here.”

“But you are not sure your plan will work,” said Eyebrows. “Or else you wouldn’t send the children away.”

“It’s always prudent to protect the children. But of course there is a risk,” conceded Pallando. “I am well aware of that, and anyone choosing to do this will have to be aware of it as well. I am giving you the best advice I can but I am not infallible. So if anyone can suggest a better plan, I am willing to hear it.”

But no better plan was brought forward. After a long enough silence, Baja took the vote and all agreed to follow Pallando.

“It’s late,” said Baja. “Too late, at least, to start preparations. Let’s go to bed, and I’ll speak to the people early in the morning.”

There were nods of agreement, and the town elders began to rise from their seats.

“Is there a lungi in town?” asked Pallando.

“Yes, the post dragon came this afternoon.”

“Ask them to go to Levare in the morning and tell the news to the Seraphine.”

Their council dispersed, and each sought their own bed (Pallando and Uilara being put up at the Mayor’s), but few slept well. It was not quite dawn when heralds with big copper gongs walked up and down the streets, calling people to assemble in the main square.

Early as it was, much business had already been completed. Uilara had got the scribes out of bed and had them produce wads of leaflets with a summary of the situation and instructions for the plan. Baja’s husband had organised bundles of travel supplies to be prepared at the store houses, and a group of people in boats had been sent upriver with crates and shears. The clerks at the Mayor’s office had drawn up a list of all families with children. Pallando had spoken to the post lungi and sent him on to Levare with a letter for Majani.

The square filled rapidly as the rumour spread of an imminent Krâ attack. There were pockets of panic, which the town elders sought to quell, handing out as many leaflets as they could and asking people to pass them on after reading. In the centre of the square stood a round platform, raised some five or six feet off the ground, designed for holding a handful of speakers to address the crowds during festivals. Here Baja stood, and Pallando with Mûn, the dragon curled almost in a circle around them to fit the space.

“Citizens of Mil Nahara!” boomed Mûn’s mighty voice. “Hear what the Wanderer has to say to you: It is true that a fleet of Krâ is approaching your harbour and that you cannot expect them to ask you whether you prefer peace to conflict. You must deal with the situation as it is. Here are the choices that are laid before you.”

And he explained to them the futility of both fight and flight and then the reasoning behind the third way, Pallando’s plan. The response of the crowd was as to be expected: whispering and nodding and shaking of heads and shouting of questions. The leaflets made the rounds, some being read out to clusters of people at the edge of the square, some being eagerly snatched out of the hands of a neighbour. Then Baja spoke. Her voice rang strong and clear across the square.

“My friends! I have been your Mayor for many years and I cherish the people of Mil Nahara. You are good folk and you have accomplished many things, but the time has come now when we will be tested as we have never been tested before. You have heard the Wanderer’s plan. It is an audacious plan and a plan worthy of Kûz, but it is not without risk. I do not demand of you to do this. If you want to flee and hide where you can, that is your choice. But to all who can muster the courage, I say, you would be wise to follow him. Your council debated it last night and agreed that it was the best thing we can do at this time. I myself will be with you, of course. So make your choice now: Will you run, or will you stay?”

Nobody spoke. Nobody left.

After a while, somewhere in the crowd, someone began to sing.

Our land, a jewel under the sapphire sky…

-oOoOo-

It was overcast, so Mil Nahara lay in a gentle glowstone shimmer even in the middle of day. The commander stood at the bow of the leading ship as the Krâ fleet approached the docks. No movement could be noticed in the town, but as they drew closer, they saw that it was not deserted.

“Commander,” came a quiet voice beside him.

“Yes? It’s Yoltuk, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The man shifted from foot to foot. “We cannot do this, commander,” he said.

“I know,” replied the commander after a while. “But we have orders.”

“So we are going to kill these people, unarmed as they are? A bunch of women?”

Yes, women. All along the quayside they stood, dressed in bright clothing, with silk scarfs in their hair. Each woman held an evergreen branch in her right hand and rested her left hand on the right shoulder of her neighbour. They stood completely still, with only their garments and evergreens moving slightly in the wind.

The commander pushed out his chin.  “We do not have orders to kill them. Only to take Mil Nahara. If they don’t resist, we do not need to harm them.”

“And would you call this resistance?” asked Yoltuk.

“We shall see.” Then he turned to the men. “Disembark and form the line,” he said, “but do not draw your swords.”

This took a while, since nobody on land helped with the berthing. But eventually the soldiers of about a dozen ships had set foot on the quayside and stood in a long line, three men deep. The rest of the fleet stayed further out in the bay. The entire time, the Kûzar women remained silent and motionless, which, the commander thought, made everything so much worse. But there was nothing for it. He donned his high, plumed helmet, stepped on land and took his place ahead of his soldiers. The Kûzar women turned their heads and peered at him.

From his left, two women now approached, one middle-aged, one youthful, both clad in blue. They stopped a few paces away from him.

“I am Baja,” said the elder of the women, “Mayor of Mil Nahara, and this is Uilara, apprentice of the Guardian. We bid you good afternoon and ask what your business is in our town.”

The commander was at a loss. Until recently, he had been in charge of the Krandi City Watch, a body of men mainly concerned with theft and drunken kerfuffles. He hadn’t expected any armed resistance from the Kûzeen, but he certainly also hadn’t expected this, whatever it was. His plan had been to take over the city hall and place his soldiers in strategic positions all over the town. But now a row of little old ladies and sweetly smiling girls stood in his way.

“Move aside, women!” he barked.

None of the women in front of him budged. He saw the Mayor making a sign with her hand that seemed to tell them to wait. The women were looking past him now, their eyes wide. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Movement rippled through the line of women as some of them tried to step back but were held steady by the hand on their shoulder. The commander dithered. He became aware of some unrest behind him, muffled voices, some kind of tumult among his men. He had to do something, or he would lose control of his troops.

He drew his sword.

“Careful,” said a voice by his ear as his sword was swiftly wrested from his hand. “Someone might get hurt.”

The commander looked round and into the grinning face of a Hwenti man. And then he took it all in – the entire dockside was bristling with elves, holding the Krâ’s weapons, while his soldiers were looking sheepish. Beyond the bulk of his ship, he could see the sails of elven vessels in the bay and some vague idea of commotions on the Krâ ships suggested that the men there had been surprised by the Hwenti as well.

The Kûzar women seemed equally surprised and were urgently whispering among themselves. Then Baja stepped forward.

“Master Lossë,” she said, “I did not expect to see you here at this time…”

“You didn’t? But we always come unexpected,” he replied with a grin. “That’s why you keep the taverns open all year round, isn’t it? Imagine our surprise, though, at finding our Krâ friends here. Fortunately, we have plenty of refreshments for them. The commander and I” – here he slapped the Krâ commander heartily on the back – “will sit down for a drink and a little chat about what’s been going on here. Why don’t you ladies go home now? I’m sure you have things to do. Like dusting or somesuch. Don’t let us take up your time.”

While he was speaking, the swords of the Krâ had quietly disappeared (they were later found at the bottom of the harbour) and the Hwenti were now walking about with cups of drink which they offered to the increasingly befuddled Krâ soldiers. Lossë grabbed two goblets and gave one to the commander.

“To your health, friend!”

The commander scowled at the cup. “Let us swap,” he said.

“You think I’m trying to poison you? Haha! But worry not, I shall drink from both cups, and then you can take your pick.”

He did so, and then the commander took a sip and couldn’t believe that anything so delicious could exist in all of Middle-earth.

Things Come to a Head

And now this was a different day, and in Levare the streets were glistening with slush. The Kûzeen were carrying their colourful umbrellas against the soggy snowflakes that came tumbling out of the afternoon sky. In spite of the dismal weather, people had a spring in their step, buoyed up by the recent news that the women of Mil Nahara had stood up to an invasion of Krâ and had somehow shamed them into going away, with some help from the elves. So what better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than to enjoy the diversions of the city? There was a poetry reading about to start in the library, and at the Tower of Knowledge the Seekers were giving a lecture about The Intricate Lifecycles of Eels. Music was played in the coffee houses. The Baths were offering special lantern-lit steam treatments. And somewhere in the Fourth Rung, the ambassador scowled at his accomplice, who was dragging her feet.

“Hurry up, woman!”

“Shall we not wait till your men get here?” she said.

“They will be here in a couple of hours to secure the city. We don’t need their help to deal with a bunch of pampered ladies. Come on! I have waited long enough.”

And they hastened on towards the palace.

-oOoOo-

About two hours’ ride south of Levare, the lands of Kûz came to an end and the lands of the Tree Women began. It was not a clear-cut border, but a gradual blending, with first a Tree Woman garden among the Kûzar farms, and then another two or three, and then fewer farms, and more gardens until eventually there were no more roads apart from the Great South Road, because the Tree Women had no need for carts and no problem with striding cross-country.

Of course, the term Tree Women was misleading. The story went that thousands of years ago, the Tree Women had arrived in these lands with only their children, having fled from calamities in the West. They had left their menfolk behind. But as the children grew up – slowly, ever so slowly – new families were formed, more children came into the world, and little by little their numbers had increased. The Tree Men spent much of their time wandering about in the forests of Wood and of Hill, and so it was mainly the women with whom the Kûzeen talked and traded, and hence they had begun to give these strange folk the name Tree Women. They held them in awe, as they did all immortals, and preferred them to the Hwenti. Fimbrethil, leader of the Tree Women, was a friend and trusted advisor of the Seraphs.

The Kûzeen owed much of their wealth to the Tree Folk, who taught them many skills by way of plant lore and who had first shown them the secret of the pale caterpillars that fed on the mulberry trees. As the Tree Women rejoiced in tending gardens but wanted or needed little of the produce for themselves, they were happy to trade their fruit and vegetables, flowers and wine with the Kûzeen, who in turn gave them artfully woven baskets for the harvest, barrels for the wine, and reed panels to make into fences.

The further south the Tree Women’s land stretched, the milder the climate, but here by the edge of Kûz they could still expect the occasional frosts in the winter. It was on the off-chance of such a frost occurring that an entire vineyard had been left unharvested, as it was every year. The Tree Women had nothing much to lose with such a gamble. If no frost came, the grapes would eventually rot on the vine and be dug under to enrich the soil. But if frost did come, if it froze the grapes and by some untold mystery turned the sugars, the result was the sweetest, most delectable wine, a precious gift to be shared with friends, fit even for the Seraphs.

On a hillock by a thicket of hazel bushes stood a group of the Tree Folk, three women and their youthful sons. They looked down on the ice wine vineyard and took note of the figures that were approaching it from the farther side: a score of men on horseback, neither Kûzeen nor Krâ.

“That’s them,” said one of the Tree Women, and the others agreed.

The watched as the men dismounted and spread out in the vineyard, yanking the grapes off the vines and wolfing them down. Their horses began to graze on the withered vine leaves.

Slowly, the Tree Folk moved down the slope towards the vineyard. Another, slightly larger group joined them from behind a barn.

The men in the vineyard did not notice them. Their eyes were on the grapes, the golden green, frost-encrusted bunches which, though so cold to the teeth that it hurt, were juicy and sweet and a very welcome treat for their empty stomachs. The men had shaggy beards and unkempt hair, their clothes were grimy under their armour, but by their sides hung evil looking curved swords. They knew they were expected in Levare, but this was just too good an opportunity, and the ambassador could wait. In fact, they were not best pleased with him and the way he had abandoned them out here in the countryside to fend for themselves while strictly forbidding them to return home. “Await my further orders,” he had said, and the further orders had been, month after month, to keep waiting. So now he suddenly wanted them in the city. Well, they were not going to rush.

They had barely time to exclaim and certainly no time to draw their swords when they were suddenly, every single one of them, plucked off the ground.

“This one’s the leader, I think,” said one of the young Tree Men and held up the soldier in his right hand. From his left, another soldier dangled upside down.

“Probably,” agreed one of the Tree Women. “But it doesn’t matter. They’re all as bad as each other. Listen to me, all of you! We have watched you for a long time. Our folk don’t have many needs, and we are happy to share our harvests with friends. We don’t mind the deer and the birds and the rabbits taking a share as well. But for speaking folk to sneak round our gardens and take all the best things without asking or giving thanks, that’s just thieving. Even so, we would have let you have the apples and the carrots and the potatoes, since we didn’t really need them and you were clearly hungry. But breaking into a barn like you did yesterday, and smashing the tools and spilling the seed bags, that cannot be excused by hunger. We will not put up with such mindless vandalism. And look at you now, stealing our finest grapes. Enough of this! Your time here has come to an end.”

“What will you to do us?” squeaked the leader.

“Nothing much. There is a road that runs between the shore of the inland sea and the reed marshes. We will take you to the far end of it and from there you can go back to wherever it was you came from.”

The Tree Folk turned and began to walk.

“What, right now? What about our horses?”

The Tree Woman looked back to where the horses were still peacefully grazing.

“If you’ve treated them well,” she said, “they must love you and they will follow you.”

-oOoOo-

“Majani will be in her state room at this time. But there will be guards outside it.”

“Don’t worry about the guards,” said the ambassador. “They will be hasting away towards the fire.”

“You’re going to set fire to the palace?” she said. “But I thought that’s where we would –”

“Don’t be such an idiot! Of course we won’t burn down the palace, our palace. But these guards are simpletons. Just run up to them and shout that the throne room is on fire, and they will leave their posts. They know you; they’ll see no reason not to believe you. And by the time they realise their mistake, we will have the Seraphine in our hands.”

“I don’t like it. All your plans are just based on bluffing. I think we should get some actual weapons. Bring those kids in with a knife to their throat, then Majani will not dare defy us.”

“She will not dare defy us anyway, you foolish woman. What’s she going to do? You overestimate those ninnies.”

The foolish woman was not entirely convinced, but when she rushed up to the door and shouted, “A fire! A fire in the Archseraph’s throne room!” the men both ran off, leaving the double doors unguarded. The ambassador stepped round the corner and smirked.

“What did I tell you? And now for our moment of triumph.”

He flung open the doors and they marched into the middle of the room.

“Everyone stay where you are and listen!” shouted the ambassador. “I am taking over this land in the name of Sauron the Great. Anyone who dares to defy us has forfeited their life.”

The tableaux in front of them was most gratifying. Majani sat on her throne under the blue baldachin with a letter in her hand. Most of her ladies were clustered around her as if they had just been listening to her read out the letter. Now they stared, wide-eyed, even open-mouthed in some cases, at the unlikely pair that had just barged into their intimate group. But it was a man’s voice that was heard next.

“What are you doing here, Tilar?”

Tilar spun round and saw Warden Olan seated on a sopha near the door.

“I’m doing us all a favour, Olan,” she said. “Why are you looking so shocked? I know you hate the New Way and the Archseraph as much as I do. Well, they’re a thing of the past. A new era for Kûz is about to begin.”

-oOoOo-

After another long day’s march, Ezen Kemra of Krandi sat in his tent with his feet in a bowl of lukewarm water. The tent was large and octagonal, modelled on the tents of the steppe tribes, but without the ample woven carpets that were usually found on the floors of those. Instead, the bare ground was covered only with some limp faded grass. A ring of round boulders had been brought in to serve as seats, which were occupied now by about a dozen soldiers busy with their gear.

The tent flap opened and a man came in.

“Ezen Kemra, sir,” he said. “There is a dragon outside!”

“Where?”

“At the edge of the camp, near the river. I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s glowing in the dark.”

Ezen Kemra sighed. He’d spent all day on horseback and had really been looking forward to stretching out on his bedroll very soon, but a report like this, even though it was probably some nonsense, couldn’t be ignored. He dried his feet and put his boots back on.

Outside the tent, the February night was lit only by the diffused shimmer that came through the tent walls and the glow from various cooking fires. The sky was thickly clouded, and once they had had the camp in their back and approached the river, it was so dark that nothing could be made out at all. Nothing apart from…

“There it is, sir,” said the soldier and pointed.

“I can see it.”

There in the black floated a dragon, gleaming vaguely purple, each scale, limb, talon defined by a glowing line. It undulated, to, in a disconcerting way that was simply not natural. Ezen Kemra was convinced it was not real, but then what was it?

“Shall we shoot it?” asked one of the men.

“No.” Ezen Kemra lifted his head and boomed, “Who goes there?”

In response, a diffused circle of light appeared on the back of the dragon, and in the circle sat the Archseraph of Kûz. He seemed almost to be sitting on the back of the dragon like a lungi, but again, it did not look quite right.

“I bid you good evening!” he shouted, and it was his voice, and then again something about it was off. “And I bring you greetings from the people of Kûz. If it pleases you, I wish to speak with your Ezens.”

“I am Ezen Kemra. Why do you wish to speak with us?”

“I wish to speak about this war you are going to. I believe you are making a mistake.”

This was a thought that had also occurred to Ezen Kemra more than once during the march, but he was getting annoyed about this prank that Hamûjil was clearly pulling on him.

“We do not parley with spectres conjured up by magic or trickery,” he said. “But with the real Archseraph, we would speak. Let him come forward, and we will talk with him.”

Hamûjil made no reply; he looked aside and seemed to be talking quietly with someone beside him.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to shoot him, sir?” said the same man.

“Don’t be a fool!” snapped Ezen Kemra.

Hamûjil turned back towards the Krâ. “I will come,” he said, “if you grant me safe passage.”

“You have my word,” replied Ezen Kemra.

“So be it.”

With a flicker, the halo of light went out and the Archseraph was gone. The shimmering dragon still hovered for a moment and then, with an impossible contortion of body and limbs, it also disappeared.

“Shall we go and check it out?” asked one of the men.

“No,” replied Ezen Kemra. “We wait a moment.”

For several moments it seemed like nothing would happen. The Krâ soldiers shifted on their feet. And then, from the thickest darkness, emerged the Archseraph with both hands held out in front of him, palms up. Behind him came two other figures bearing lanterns – a gaunt, dark man and a Krâ woman. Muttering arose among the Krâ.

“Silence!” roared Ezen Kemra.

The Archseraph stopped about twenty yards away.

“Here I am,” he said. “I come in peace and bring you greetings from your friends and neighbours, the Kûzeen.”

“Fine friends!” shouted someone, but he was quickly hushed when Ezen Kemra raised a hand.

“You have come a long way, Hamûjil,” he said. “I see you have your wizard and Jarin Dragonrider with you. And I can tell there must be at least one more of you hiding in the gloom, for one lungi could not bring both you and the Guardian.”

Hamûjil inclined his head. “There are eight of us. One of my Wardens travelled with me, and a dwarf who is my guest, and three other lungi.”

“That is fortuitous,” said Ezen Kemra, “for there are eight leaders in this camp and I would not want you to be outnumbered.” There was laughter from the Krâ. “The eight of us will meet your party of eight in my tent. Then you may tell us whatever it is you came to say about the mistake we have made.”

“Agreed,” said Hamûjil.

Ezen Kemra spoke quietly in Krâin to a couple of nearby soldiers and they hurried away. Hamûjil turned to Jarin.

“Go and fetch the others, if it pleases you. I believe we will be safe.”

Jarin nodded, and so it was that some ten minutes later, she was the last to enter Ezen Kemra’s tent after Diri and Sâlian. The tent flap fell behind her.

-oOoOo-

When Yoltuk awoke, the first thing he knew was a blistering headache. He felt reluctant to open his eyes, but the next thing he noticed was that he had no idea where he was or what had happened, so he risked a glimpse.

It was mercifully dark, with only a dim light shining from a lantern that swung gently on a hook in the ceiling. Swung gently, but continuously.  The floor seemed to heave a little as well. There was the noise of creaking wood. So he was on a ship. The room was full of sleeping shapes and the sound of snores, sighs and grunts. Then he saw by the door a tall figure sitting upright. He pushed himself up on his elbows. The figure turned its head.

“Ah, you are awake,” it said. “Clearly you didn’t have as much as your brethren. Or maybe you are just better used to strong liquor.”

“We’re all drunk?”

“Oh, I’m not.” The figure got up and Yoltuk realised it was a Hwenti man. “But you and your mates certainly are. Drunk as my granny, haha!”

The Hwenti came over and crouched down beside Yoltuk. “Are you in a mood to fight me?”

Yoltuk pressed a hand to his throbbing forehead. “I’m in a mood to die.”

“Excellent,” said the Hwenti with a grin. “Here, have some water.”

Greedily, Yoltuk emptied the cup. “Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing much,” said the Hwenti. “My friends and I thought we would go on a little outing to Mil Nahara. We have a favourite tavern there, you know.”

“A little outing? There was a whole fleet of you.”

“Well, yes, I have a lot of friends,” said the Hwenti with a shrug. “And we maybe had an inkling that there might be trouble in Mil Nahara. And the tavern maybe wouldn’t fit us all. So we brought along some barrels of our finest. Well, when I say finest, I mean – ”

“I can imagine what you mean.” Yoltuk lay back and moaned. “It probably has a name like Sledgehammer or something.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said the Hwenti primly. “We call it Warrior’s Blood. But the name is ironic. At least in your case.”

“It’s starting to come back to me now.” Lots of elves suddenly appearing at the quay, greeting the Krâ like long-lost brothers, patting them on the back while they took their swords away, going round with trays of goblets… He had seized one and drained it swiftly, for it tasted like summer and sunshine and magic, then taken another, and then he wasn’t quite sure what next. But he could see it now – how one after another the Krâ would have keeled over, how the Kûzar women would have laughed at them, and then the Hwenti had captured them and were now holding them prisoner on board their own ships? Yes, on board the Krâ ships, because he was quite sure that an elven vessel would look – and smell! – differently.

“So what will you do to us?” he asked.

“Oh, you have slept a long time, my friend. You are nearly home. We will drop you all off in Krandi and then you can go on your merry ways.”

“That’s all?”

“Pretty much. We can’t let you have the ships, of course. Not until you’ve learned to play nicely with the other children. And some of them belong to the dwarves anyway. Don’t worry about that; we’ll return them for you. The others we’ll keep at Vindalondë for a while.”

“We won’t be able to trade without ships.”

“Oh, dwarf and Kûzar ships can still come to you.”

“They’ll dictate the prices.”

“I dare say they will,” said the elf cheerfully. “That’s the price of failure, I guess. Goodness me, what a total disaster of an invasive force you were! Your commander is like a little boy playing at conkers. Haha! Conkers, not conquest. And what was your long-term plan for after your conquest of Kûz? Just plunder? Trust me, that’s not sustainable.”

“Tell that to the Ezens,” said Yoltuk. “I don’t make the decisions: I’m just a baker.”

“Oh, can you make those pleated loaves with the chopped walnuts?”

“Yes, all the Kandi bakers make them; they’re a local speciality.”

“You wouldn’t have any with you, I suppose?”

“No!” Yoltuk was beginning to feel rather exasperated. Was this elf not taking anything seriously?

“Shame,” said the elf. “Anyway, we can’t tell the Ezens anything, because they’re away. But my friend Lossë has your commander and all your captains on one of the other ships and I’m sure he is explaining things to them very carefully. Like what we might do if another such…unfortunate situation should arise.”

“Why do you even bother?” grumbled Yoltuk. “I mean what’s it to you?”

The elf looked at Yoltuk like a disappointed parent at a wayward child. “Is it possible that you do not understand? Do I have to spell everything out to you? We are the immortal Hwenti. The Sea of Calma is ours, as are all the lands around it, from the very beginning. It pleases us to see mortal folk live and thrive here. We are content to leave you in peace to get on with whatever makes you happy – as long as you behave. But we will not tolerate any bullies.”

“Whatever you say.” Yoltuk really, really wanted to get back to sleep. His forearm looked like a most inviting pillow and he sagged slowly towards the floor. However, just at that moment a shout was heard from above and then another Hwenti stuck his head through the door and declared they had reached Krandi and were about to dock. The elf jumped up.

“Well, time for our sleepy passengers to disembark. And you, my friend, are going to help,” he said to Yoltuk. “Go, grab a pair of feet, I’ll take the other end.”

There was nothing left for Yoltuk but to groan.

The Hour of the Seraphs

“Tilar,” whispered Miriel. “So it was you, was it? You sent the poisoned pomegranate in one of your oh-so-generous fruit baskets? You hid your murderous intent under oranges and lemons? Did you also set fire to the library? Did you try to kidnap the young Seraph?”

Tilar sneered. “You didn’t think I’d be content just to be a guild leader all my life?”

“I should have known,” said Majani. “Hamûjil warned me about you, way back when you were first elected. He said you were dangerous because you were, what was it, ambitious and frivolous? And he told me that you tried to get the Council to abandon the New Way. But I couldn’t have imagined any Kûzin would stoop as low as this.”

“Shut up and get out the way, Majani,” said Tilar. “That is my seat now.”

Majani’s expression was hard to read – was it sadness? Bemusement? Disdain?

“You cannot possibly expect me to give up my throne to you. What a ridiculous notion. Go away or I will call the guards.”

“What is ridiculous,” said the ambassador, “is your naivety. Do you think we have come here without leverage? My soldiers have already killed your guards and taken over the palace. The Krâ are an hour’s march from your borders. And my finest warriors are just now entering your nursery. I need but send the word and they will kill your precious children.”

Majani blanched. She stood up, stepped down from the dais and walked across the room to stand with her ladies beside a basketwork cabinet that displayed some of her smaller bird figurines. Only Miriel remained beside the blue baldachin.

Tilar threw her head back and ascended the dais. With a flick and swirl of her robes, she turned and sat down on Majani’s throne. The ambassador took up position behind her.

“Behold your new Archseraphine,” he said. “She will rule over Kûz in Sauron’s name and I will be her advisor.”

Olan stepped forward.

“Ah, Olan,” said Tilar with a sickening smile. “It is good of you to be the first to pay your respects to me.”

“You are wrong, Tilar,” said Olan. “I have no respect to give you. I do not hate the New Way, and I most certainly do not hate the Archseraph. You were the one who told the council to make an alliance with Sauron, not me.  I am an old man and I have old-fashioned tastes, but I know right from wrong. If you had cared to pay attention to anyone other than yourself, you would know that while I said at the Council that the New Way has made us vulnerable, I did not vote to abandon it. We all saw the Unquenchable Light that day. I thought we all were deeply moved by it, but it seems you were not. How can you not be ashamed to consort with this lowlife?”

Tilar looked taken aback for a moment, but recovered swiftly. “Very well,” she said. “I would have put you in a position of authority, but if you prefer to languish in the dungeons instead…”

“What dungeons? We don’t have any dungeons.”

“Dungeons will be provided,” barked the ambassador.

“I warn you, Tilar,” said Miriel. “Very soon you will find the wrath of the Power of Air come down on you.” She gave Olan a look and then glanced upwards. He followed her gaze. Majani made a sign with her left hand and Miriel nodded.

“Your threats are empty,” sneered Tilar. “Everyone knows that the Powers abide beyond the seas and do not interfere with the affairs of mortals.”

“The Powers might surprise you yet,” replied Miriel.

“Enough idle chatter,” said the ambassador. “Majani will now go to one of the balconies and tell the people outside that she is relinquishing her throne and –” 

Just then, footsteps were heard by the door and in walked Alamûjil, followed by Ninod with Řahamûjil on her arms and Lalina holding on to her skirts. There was a brief moment when everyone seemed baffled.

“Now!” cried Majani, and with a swift movement of her arm she tipped over the cabinet. Tilar and the ambassador started at the noise of smashing porcelain. But Miriel and Olan leapt up and grabbed the fabric of the baldachin and right enough, this was the day that the whole wretched thing came down, muffling the cries of rage from the conspirators trapped underneath.

-oOoOo-

Nobody sat down. The two groups stood opposite each other, some seven or eight feet apart within the ring of stone seats, not exactly hostile, but wary. Ezen Kemra was the tallest and the most splendid among the Krâ, clothed in a fur coat that would have made Jarin shudder had she not seen it before, and with a beard that would have done a dwarf proud tucked into a copper-studded belt. Beside Kemra’s bulk, Ezen Worig of Baktu looked almost small, whereas when Jarin had seen him before in Baktu he had seemed sturdy enough. She had never yet met the Ezen of Talak, Gomru, who was more than ten years younger than the other Ezens. All three wore their chains of office, a necklace of beaten silver discs. The other five, leaders of rural regions perhaps, or simply able men appointed to positions in this new army, were more workmanlike in their attire and less dignified in their posture. On the Kûzar side, Jarin stood between Diri and the Archseraph, with the rest of their party on Hamûjil’s other side.

“Hamûjil,” began Ezen Kemra, “you and your companions are guests in my tent. I would welcome you with food and drink, but it seems to me you feel very urgent about this message you bring, so we should hear that first.”

“Thank you, my friend.” There was a pause, which stretched out and settled, and Jarin suddenly feared that Hamûjil didn’t know what to say, that his eloquence and power of persuasion had deserted him at this crucial moment. But then he spoke.

“We hear you are going to Mordor to swell the armies of Sauron. You have turned your back on your homes and your families to take part in the wars of the West. But why? Why do you wish to fight in battles that have nothing to do with you; why would you risk your lives for someone who neither knows you nor cares about you?”

“You make assumptions, Archseraph,” said Ezen Gomru. “Your first assumption is that we owe you any kind of explanation for what we do. This displeases us. Your second assumption is, however, more serious, because it concerns Sauron. He doesn’t care about us, you say? And what would you know about it? Sauron has offered us respect and friendship. Sauron has paid us generously for our harvest, and Sauron has promised us great riches to reward our services. Do you not know that he is the Lord of Gifts?”

 “Gifts?” cried Warden Yun. “What did Sauron give you for all your grain? Swords and spears to use for his purposes.”

“And what would you have given us for it?” replied Ezen Gomru. “All your rougher crafts, for we cannot afford the finer ones, and you keep the secret of their making to yourselves! You soar through the air on the backs of dragons while we trudge in the dirt. You sit fat and contented on your silk cushions and drink coffee and cocoa from porcelain cups, and your splendour is doubled and tripled by your mirrors. Meanwhile, we scrape the gruel off our wooden plates with our wooden spoons!”

“You exaggerate,” said Hamûjil.

“Do I now? Do you remember the winter before last? When the fever struck and the Kûzeen had a powerful medicine, but the Krâ did not?”

There was a flurry of nodding heads among the Krâ.

“We gave you the medicine,” said Warden Yun.

“Yes,” said Ezen Kemra, “eventually, and for a price! Our people were dying and you thought of filling your coffers.”

But our medicine did cure your people, Hamûjil wanted to reply, yet he remained silent. The reasons had seemed convincing at the time: That all trade was good trade. That many Kûzeen had worked long and hard, first to study herbs and then to brew the medicine, and that they deserved to be paid for their labours. Only now did it occur to him that they should have been paid out of the Seraphs’ treasury; that he, the richest man in Middle-earth, should have purchased it for the Krâ just as he had for his own people.

We did not mean it. We thought we had our ways and you had yours. We saw you dressed in drab garments and live in plain houses and we thought of it as your culture with which we should not interfere. How easily we deceived ourselves! How we have failed! How I have failed…

All the Krâ were looking at him. He was taking too long to reply. He had rehearsed different scenarios in his head on the way, but this was not one of them. He had no answer. His errand would fail. His entirely plan to remind the Krâ of their better selves was based on the assumption that the Kûzeen knew how to be their best selves.

Beside him, he could feel Jarin stir. “Archseraph?” she whispered. And he remembered what she had said to him, months ago, when they were coming down from the Sacred Cave.

Then Hamûjil took a step forward and fell on his knees before the Ezens. A surprised murmur rippled through the tent.

“Honoured Ezens,” he said, “in the name of Kûz, I turn to you and to all the people of Krâ. Ezen Gomru is right. We have not been good neighbours to you. We have lived in comfort in our house of plenty and left you standing by the door. It suited us to think that you were content with the way things were. We have done wrong. On behalf of my people, I humbly ask your forgiveness, and I beg you to turn away from your current course. We shall turn away from ours and strive to be better neighbours. Better friends. Together, we can build a future for both our peoples, for the sunflower fields of Krâ and the orange groves of Kûz. Sauron can offer you nothing but loot and pillage. We offer you our knowledge and skills, so you can build your own wealth and flourish like we do. I beseech you to go home. Do not go to this war, to be killed or become killers, on account of our shortcomings. We did not mean to treat you shabbily, but we failed to really see. But do you see it now as I do? The Kûzeen and the Krâ belong together. I have always believed that, but only today do I truly understand what that means.”

“Liar!” cried a burly Krâ and lunged forward, axe in hand. Without any notion of what she might do next, Jarin threw herself at the man. There was a crunching sound as they collided, and the thrust of her leap was such that they both fell over, and then there was another, sickening noise, which was the sound of the man’s head hitting one of the boulders. Jarin had fallen on top of him, her face buried in his furry jerkin, so she saw nothing but heard the sudden flood of angry voices. This is the end, she thought. They’ll kill us all. She sensed movements all around her, and a hand grasped hers, and then she heard the thundering voice of Ezen Kemra utter a single word, and the word was, “Stop!” And such was the power of that voice that the other voices did indeed stop and silence spread. Jarin lifted her head and saw only Diri’s face right in front of her. But the face blurred and became obscured by dark patches, and she closed her eyes. Commotion of the brain, she thought. And then she knew nothing else for a while.

-oOoOo-

It was immensely convenient that so many silk scarfs were to hand and could easily be knotted together to form a rope. Without much ceremony, Miriel and Rimere sat down on the bundled-up villains while Majani and the others began to tie them up. Alamûjil, meanwhile, was prancing around the room crying, “Get them! Get them! Get them!” until Majani hushed him. “We’ve already got them, sweetheart.”

“And be careful,” added Ninod. “There are shards all over the floor. Oh, Seraphine, your beautiful birds!”

“Yes, it’s a shame,” said Majani wistfully. “But we needed a quick distraction. And I can always get new birds. I’m more concerned about all the guards who were killed, and about the evil soldiers in the palace.”

There were still furious exclamations emanating from the wriggling blue bundle, but thankfully due to the thickness of the fabric, they were easily ignored.

“Which guards were killed?” asked Ninod.

“Well, all of them, the ambassador said.”

“That can’t be. There were the usual two outside the nursery. And I didn’t see any evil soldiers, nor any dead bodies.”

“Good gracious, he bluffed!” cried Miriel. “So I guess it’s not true about the Krâ at the borders either.”

Running footsteps could be heard approaching in the corridor, and then two guards appeared at the door.

“Is everything alright, Seraphine? Mistress Tilar told us there was a fire, but when we went to the throne room it was all fine, and we checked all over the palace and couldn’t find any fire anywhere. What happened here?”

“Something that would have been less likely to happen if you hadn’t left your post,” said Miriel. “Mistress Tilar tried to usurp the throne.”

“We must arrest her!” cried the guard, excited that finally something dramatic was happening in his job. “Where is she gone?”

Majani pointed at the collapsed baldachin.  “There she is, snugly wrapped up with her partner-in-crime.  If it pleases you, take them away and lock them up somewhere.”

Miriel gave her an urgent look.

“On second thoughts,” said Majani, “we will come with you and we will lock them up. And then I’ll have a word with the captain of the guard.”

“Can I lock them up, Mother?” asked Alamûjil.

“Well, maybe you can help, but I need to be really sure that they cannot escape, so I will take the key myself.”

“Ow, Mother!”

“Hush now. Let’s go. Oh, and Ninod?”

”Yes?”

“That was a most appositely timed appearance.”

-oOoOo-

The first thing Jarin saw when she opened her eyes was a lot of hair. Tough, dark, wavy hair. She realised it was Diri’s beard. He was kneeling beside her, but was looking up and speaking in Krâin to another person. Both sounded calm and quiet. Jarin wondered why she had expected to hear angry shouts. Then she remembered what had happened. She tugged Diri’s sleeve.

“Will he live?”

Diri looked round and took her hand.

“Oh, good, you are awake. How are you feeling?”

“Will he live? The man I attacked, will he live?”

“Jarin, you didn’t attack him, you stopped him from attacking the Archseraph.”

“Answer me, please! Will he live?” Jarin struggled to sit up, but her head swam and she had to lie down again. She glanced around and saw that they were no longer in Ezen Kemra’s tent, but in a much smaller one, and there was nobody here beside Diri and the Krâ he had been talking to.

“Hush, Jarin! I don’t know. They took him away to another tent with another healer. Speaking of which, this is Dimral.”

The Krâ gave her a solemn nod.

“Diri tells me you had commotion of the brain not long ago,” he said. “Whether or not this is the reason you passed out, I am not sure, but in any case you should rest now. You are otherwise unhurt. Try to sleep if you can. I will come back in the morning.” He went out.

“You heard him,” said Diri. “Try to sleep.”

“How can I sleep? I need to know what happened to the man. And Hamûjil too, and our mission; what did the Ezens say? And where is Sâlian?”

“Ezen Gomru said sixteen people in that situation were a liability. It’s just the three Ezens talking now to Hamûjil, Alatar and Yun. They’ve been in there for a couple of hours. Sâlian was here with you until about half an hour ago, then she went to sleep. We divided the night between us, for watching you, I mean.”

“And the man?”

“Jarin, I really don’t know. Look, it’s not your fault. We all saw what happened, and the Ezens confirmed that they hold you blameless. But I understand why you feel upset. If you want, I can see if I can find out how he is.”

“Oh, please do!”

When Diri had left, Jarin closed her eyes and replayed the scene in her mind. The axe was what she recalled most clearly. It was big, it looked sharp, the firelight reflected on it. It could have cleaved Hamûjil’s head right in half or chopped it from his body. These possibilities had presented themselves to her with such instant certainty that her body had reacted before her brain had any chance to get involved. There was no space in her mind even now for a scenario where she would not have jumped.

Nevertheless, as she lay on the pile of furs that served for a bed in the tent (someone, presumably Diri or Sâlian, had thoughtfully draped a woollen cloak over the fur so at least she wouldn’t have to touch it), something else became instantly certain to her: The man hadn’t snatched up his axe; it had already been in his hand. Perhaps he had indeed intended to use it, perhaps not. There was no proof either way. Maybe he had just meant to shove the Archseraph. Maybe he would merely have berated him. Maybe her interference was unwarranted, unjustified and unforgivable.

And how would it impact on Hamûjil’s plight? When he had knelt down and spoken so passionately, she had felt the mood among the Krâ turn and she had quivered with hope that they would listen and agree. But now? What were they even still negotiating, the six of them? Were they even considering turning the host around, or was Hamûjil right now pleading for the life of his party?

“Jarin?”

She opened her eyes to find both Diri and Sâlian crouching beside her.

“Jarin,” said Sâlian, in a voice that melted with compassion. “Jarin, dearest…”

“The man is dead,” said Diri. “The healers think he cracked his skull on the rock. There was nothing they could do for him, and Jarin, everyone agrees and I cannot stress this enough, it is not your fault!”

“How can it not be!” cried Jarin. She pulled her hood over her eyes, curled up and turned away from her friends. The sobs were coming so fast and so hard that she could barely breathe in between.

What had she become?

Hamûjil had beseeched the Krâ to return to the ways of peace. He had asked them not to kill or become killers. He had humbled himself and cast off his claims to dignity. And then she, Jarin Dragonrider, a Kûzin committed to the New Way, a lungi who had seen the Unquenchable Light, had become a killer. What was left to her now?

Turnabout

How do you tell twenty thousand soldiers who have marched hundreds of miles towards battle and glory that they have to turn on their heels and go back home? This was the question which still remained and to which neither Hamûjil nor the Ezens had found a convincing answer yet.

“I don’t think there will be an open revolt,” said Ezen Worig. “But I would expect a lot of resentment, and it will make our position as leaders very difficult.”

“It was already difficult,” Ezen Kemra pointed out, “and there was already resentment. Many of the men were not too convinced of our going in the first place. They may be glad of this decision.”

“Yes, but it still makes us look as if we are easily swayed by the Archseraph.”

Ezen Gomru shook his head. “The Archseraph’s offer is very good and I think most of the men will understand that. But we must act quickly. I reckon the news that the Kûzeen have come is discussed all over the camp just now, and we should make sure to quell any unhelpful rumours. Some kind of big gesture to get everyone’s attention would be a good start.”

“You speak with wisdom,” said Alatar. “And I think I can help.” From his robe, he pulled a wooden box and lifted the lid. Incandescent light filled the tent.

“This is the Unquenchable Light.” Alatar said. “You know what it is: the light of the Powers themselves. I am its Guardian. For many long years I have watched over it in a cave under a mountain, and there most of it remains, buried in the rock. But this piece shall no longer lie hidden. I give it to you, honoured Ezens, to be a light for your people. Let it shine over the camp tonight and I am sanguine that the hearts of your men will be moved.”

Ezen Gomru took the box and gently lowered the lid. “I am aware of the value of this gift. On behalf of my people, I thank you, Guardian.”

“Is this how you made your dragon glow in the dark?” asked Ezen Worig.

“That was a painting,” said Hamûjil, “outlined with glowstone paint. Pallando made it for Majani years ago. But the shard of the Unquenchable Light helped us make my image appear on the dragon. It was not magic, just a clever device that may have many other uses. Diri the dwarf will be able to explain it to you, if it pleases him.”

“Are you now offering us the fruits of dwarven ingenuity as well?” said Ezen Gomru. “Are you sure you are not overreaching yourself, Archseraph?”

“The dwarf knows the meaning of the word priority,” said Hamûjil, supressing a little private smile. “If Kûz and Krâ draw closer together, Kamenogi will want to make sure not to be left behind.”

“Hm, politics,” said Ezen Kemra, who had always preferred the heft of his personality to the intricacies of political games. “But we are getting side-tracked. Ezen Gomru has already drawn attention to the danger of rumours spreading in the camp. I imagine the news of Burlast’s death is also making the rounds and may be wildly distorted. However we decide to address this situation, we should not wait till morning.”

“And if we want to use the Unquenchable Light,” said Ezen Gomru, “it will be better seen in the dark.”

This was agreed on, and about an hour later, mounted on a tall pole, the Unquenchable Light started a procession through the camp. The men gathered around it wherever it went; those who were still awake dragged the sleepy ones out of the tents. And over and over in all the parts of the camp, Ezen Kemra with his big, booming voice declaimed the words that had been carefully drawn up by Alatar and Ezen Gomru:

“Men of Krâ, behold the sudden light that has appeared in our darkness! This is the light that brings life, health and happiness! It is the gift of Kûz to Krâ, the first of many to come. This very night, the Archseraph has reached out to us and promised to make Krâ prosper like Kûz. This very night, your Ezens have welcomed his offer. Our future looks bright. Men of Krâ, we are going home!”

-oOoOo-

“Ninod?” Majani laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “It’s very sweet of you to try, but I think these birds are broken beyond repair.”

“I know.” Ninod sighed and put down the brush beside the glue pot. “It’s just…I know how much you love them.”

“I do. I did. But in the end, they’re just things. I have no regrets about sacrificing them. No doubt I will acquire new ones in the future. Come, let the attendants throw out these shards before someone cuts their fingers. We’ll forget about them and have a little celebration tonight for Pallando and Uilara.”

“What a time they’ve had!” exclaimed Ninod. “They were lucky the Hwenti turned up when they did.”

“Yes, who knows what might have happened otherwise?” Majani sat down by the chess board and absentmindedly picked up the pieces.

“I’ll tell you what else was lucky,” said Miriel. “It’s that you kept putting off fixing the baldachin, Seraphine.”

They all laughed. “That stupid Tilar!” said Rimere. “I saw her face just as the whole thing came down on her; what a picture!”

Majani shook her head slowly. “I wonder, though. How did she get to be like that? She’s a Kûzin just like us. How could she become a traitor to her own people?”

“Maybe she saw herself as a saviour?” said Miriel. “Anyway, being a Kûzin doesn’t automatically make you a paragon of virtue. It’s not as if Kûz has a monopoly on goodness as well.”

“You may well be right, my dear. But it is distressing nonetheless.”

Later that day, Miriel took Alamûjil to the market so he could practice his arithmetic and the use of money. As they walked from stall to stall, she listened to the chatter around her.

“…more errands just now, but I’ll see you later at the coffee house!”

“…thought she would not get married before the summer, but it suits us so much better to have the wedding during the Festival of Birds, and why not take advantage of…”

“I’m looking for this new fruit they say the Tree Women are growing now in the South, shaped like an egg, hairy brown on the outside, green on the inside? – No? – Are you sure? My neighbour said…”

“…and another twenty before the end of the month, unless the prices go up, in which case…”

“…for the Archseraph as soon as he gets back, and I’m sure he’ll be very pleased.”

Miriel shuddered. Oh, these adorable, infuriatingly naïve Kûzeen! The Archseraph’s triumphant return was a matter of course for them and hardly more of a concern – possibly less – than the rising price of cocoa. Even Majani acted as if they had won, when in fact this was not over yet by a long shot. What had they even done? She, Olan and Majani, along with half a dozen ladies, had overpowered two people with a great deal of luck. They still didn’t know why the ambassador’s escort had not turned up, but if it had, things would have looked very different. They might turn up yet, and what then? And the people of Mil Nahara had escaped calamity by a hair’s width, if she was any judge. And even so, they only had to contend with the Krâ. What were the Krâ, when all was said and done? Just a bunch of normal folk. Misguided perhaps, ill informed, led astray, but fundamentally no different from the Kûzeen. Not like what might be pouring out of the West if the war in Gondor was lost. Nobody in Levare understands what evil people are really like, thought Miriel. Nobody but me.

-oOoOo-

Jarin had insisted on being present for the burial of Burlast. While Hamûjil had been concerned that this might cause a hostile reaction from the Krâ, Ezen Gomru had brushed these worries aside.

“We don’t blame her. It is widely known that Burlast was a rash man, and we have taken care that our people know what really happened. Besides, even though he was a man of high standing, we have decided this should be a quiet affair, with only the Ezens and a few of his close friends. We’ll do it tonight, after dark, so as not to attract attention.”

“So you do have concerns?”

“Let’s just say I cannot vouch for every single one of over twenty thousand men.”

A shallow grave had been hacked out of the frosty ground, and by the light of a couple of torches the body of Burlast, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into the ground. Ezen Gomru spoke a few words about the journey to join the ancestors, the grave was filled in and everyone placed a few stones on top, and that was all.

“Tell me of his family, if it pleases you,” said Jarin to Ezen Kemra as they walked away.

“There’s not much to tell, as far as I know. His wife died – from the fever that winter, you know. He has a daughter who is married somewhere over Talak way. There may be grandchildren; I don’t know. Probably. But there is nobody left behind who depended on him and will fall on hard times because he is gone. Do you hear me, Jarin Dragonrider?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Try not to let it weigh on your mind too much. If it helps at all, you should know that he is not the first man we lost on this journey.”

“Someone else died?”

“Three died from the runs, one drowned and one broke his neck when his horse bolted.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!”

“Why? We were on our way to the war in the West that you don’t want us to take part in. You should have been glad about every man who wasn’t going to arrive there.”

“But you’re not going now. And they were just…people.”

“And people die. Accidents happen. What else can I tell you?”

“I imagine Burlast’s daughter will not be so philosophical about it.”

“Jarin, do yourself a favour and don’t imagine her; you will only make yourself miserable.  You did what you had to do. Think of how you would feel if it had been Hamûjil we buried tonight. To tell you the truth, there is a fair amount of admiration for you among our men. Even we Ezens feel a little awed that Hamûjil inspires such loyalty. Well, here are your friends…”

Diri and Sâlian stood in front of the tent that had been given over to the Kûzeen. They nodded at Ezen Kemra and without a word pulled Jarin inside. Ezen Kemra walked away, shaking his head.

-oOoOo-

The dragon post came to Kamenogi once a week. While Diri had sometimes in the past received messages about his orders or indeed small packages from the Kûzar craftspeople, Nara had never had any air mail letters until recently. But since the solstice without fail a letter came every week from Levare. The one she held in her hand just now had arrived in the morning, when she had read it twice, and she was reading it yet again. It had been written on the morning of the day her brother had set off with Jarin and the Archseraph to catch up with the Krâ host. 

The Kûzar quest was known and spoken of in Kamenogi, for the Archseraph had considered it good manners to inform his neighbours of his plan. And she had known about it even before, because Diri had kept her well informed about his doings in Levare. The letter was therefore not a surprise. There was, however, a passage she needed to read once more:

You may wonder why I am willing to submit to the terrors of dragon travel again. Well, people simply assumed I would have to come in order to assemble the device, though in truth, the others could do that by themselves now, they have practised so often. But Jarin was sure to go with the Archseraph, and I must go where Jarin goes. Do you understand, Nara?

Yes, she understood. She suspected she had understood it before he understood it himself. But it was clear that he knew himself now.

Nara folded up the letter and slipped it into her pocket. She walked over to Diri’s desk. The paltry winter sun shone on it through the light shaft. Unlike her own meticulously tidy workspace, Diri’s desk was always messy, piled with scrap paper, splattered with ink and sprinkled with quill shavings. Pens and rulers were sticking out of the paper stacks any old way, open books lay face down on compasses and time pieces. His genius thrived on chaos. Nara smiled.

She recalled explaining to Jarin that a dwarf of Diri’s talent should be near the seat of power. And she had to admit that while the Kamenogi dwarves were a power in the region, the Kûzeen were the power.What might he not do in Levare? Nara picked up an experimental device, a helmet with two lenses set into the front to aid those with insufficient eyesight. Well, that might not go down quite so well among the Kûzeen as it might among dwarves. She put the helmet away and sat down in her brother’s chair.

After a while, she brought some rags and a couple of crates and began to pack up Diri’s things.

-oOoOo-

“Jarin,” said Wan, his voice brittle. “I cannot lift you. You are too heavy.”

“Perhaps I am the problem,” said Hamûjil and swiftly dismounted.

“No,” said Wan. “It is Jarin. I felt it straight away. What happened?”

Jarin slipped off and would have fallen to the ground if Hamûjil had not caught her. An instant later, Diri was by her side. Wan turned and brought his nose close to hers.

“What happened?” And when Jarin shook her head and covered her face, he roared, “Will anyone tell me what happened?”

“I will tell you,” said Hamûjil.

The tale was swiftly told, while Diri and Sâlian tried to console Jarin. The other dragons with their lungi and passengers stood by awkwardly, Vilajin whispering with Alatar, Lu-yan scratching the ground with her talons.

“Well,” said Wan, “this is very distressing, but there’s nothing that can be done about it now. I am very sorry, Jarin. I shall go home and consult with Mûn.”

Meanwhile, some Krâ who had been watching from a little distance drew near. Hamûjil stepped forward to meet them, they exchanged a few words and then all went over to Ezen Kemra’s tent. Jarin leaned on Sâlian’s shoulder, trying to quell her tears. But Diri had wandered off to speak with Vilajin.

“Is this forever?” he asked.

“I cannot tell,” Vilajin replied. “I don’t know of any case where a lungi has directly caused a death, even by accident. And it’s not my main concern at this time. Jarin can have a different future in Levare, and I’m sure we will all support her, but how will she get there? We’re in the middle of nowhere here.”

“I wonder...maybe I could rig up some sort of contraption, similar to what we have for the luggage, that would spread the weight over several dragons? And maybe our dragons could ask the lungi back in Levare to summon a few more dragons that could come to meet us?”

“It doesn’t work like that. I think. No, I’m pretty sure. If Jarin’s conscience is burdened with guilt, even a dozen dragons between them could not carry her. The weight would not split between them, you see, but each dragon would feel it the way she feels it.”

“Then maybe – oh, here’s the Archseraph back.”

Hamûjil came back alone from Ezen Kemra’s tent. He walked up to Jarin and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder.

“Jarin? I understand that you are upset, but we must decide swiftly what we are going to do to get you home. Now Ezen Kemra has offered to take you along with the host to Krandi, where you could get a ship to Levare…”

Jarin looked up. “Very well, I’ll go with them.”

“Are you sure? I only mentioned this because it shows his goodwill, but I am not convinced you should accept. It might not be safe.”

Jarin shook her head.

“How can we hope to forge a better relationship with them if we don’t trust them?” she said. “If I decline, they might well decide that your words were dishonest after all. No, I will travel with them. And it’s not as if I don’t speak their language.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Diri.

“You don’t have to.”

“Actually, I do. Someone has to give up their dragon ride to the Archseraph. You can hardly expect Warden Yun to walk, and I’m sure Alatar is needed in Kûz, whereas my task here is done.”

There was a general nodding and murmur of agreement.

“Very well,” said Jarin, “start out with me. Sâlian can come back and pick you up.”

“Yes, of course I’ll come back for you,” said Sâlian. But Diri shook his head.

“Sâlian should rest at home after such a journey. I’m a dwarf, Jarin. It wouldn’t be much of a hardship for me, certainly much less of a hardship than it will be for you. Have you ever walked anywhere further than an afternoon’s stroll?”

“There’s no need to be like that. Just because I’m a lungi doesn’t mean dragons take me everywhere…” She stopped short and her eyes began to fill with tears again.

“Nevertheless, it will be a tough journey for you, Jarin,” said Hamûjil, “and I am much more at ease about it knowing Diri will go with you. I will arrange for someone to meet you in Krandi and bring you home.” He looked about him, hesitant. “And I guess we should get going. Vilajin, can we split the luggage between the remaining dragons?”

“Just take the painting,” said Diri. “We can leave the device behind; I can always build another one. Or, if they want to take it, it can be my gift to the Krâ.”

“You think…?”

“Yes. And I think you should go now, you have such a long journey ahead of you, and there is nothing else to discuss here. I promise to look after Jarin.”

Jarin clutched his hand. Alatar stepped forward now and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Jarin,” he said softly. “You will recover. You have seen the Unquenchable Light. Hold on to that.”

She nodded, but didn’t look up to meet his eyes. Less than half an hour later, the dragons were in the air and rapidly shrinking in the distance. Diri and Jarin watched till they were out of sight. A Krâ soldier approached and bade them to come to Ezen Kemra’s tent. As they followed him, Jarin furtively pulled the chain with the flute over her head and dropped it on the frozen ground.

-oOoOo-

By the coast, the milder weather had already set in and the air smelled of spring. A ghostly white shimmer could be seen in places in the countryside: the first sloe blossoms had made an uncommonly early appearance, and on a clear day this could be an uplifting sight. Mainly, though, it rained, in a fine, persistent drizzle that dampened cloaks and spirits alike.

Erkane was less inconvenienced by this than many others, for she was one of the privileged owners of a Kûzar umbrella, which kept her dry and even protected her daughters Nulken and Tirkil as long as they clung closely to her. They had been to market and were on their way home to their handsome house near Krandi port. The girls, aged five and seven, chattered and giggled in anticipation of a game they planned to play in the attic that afternoon.

There was another way in which Erkane was less inconvenienced than most of her fellow Krâ: Her husband’s absence had not put a burden of work on her, because he was a merchant and there was no trade to be done at this time – the port lay deserted; their ship, along with all the others, had been taken to Vindalondë. Erkane was in two minds about this situation. She was incensed that the Hwenti had essentially confiscated her family’s property and their means of making a living, but also relieved that these same Hwenti had brought back her brother, hale and whole and with no blood on his hands. Would that the same were true about her husband! But there was no chance of the elves intervening in the march of the Krâ to the West. They had made it quite clear, in that insufferably patronising way of theirs, that all they were interested in was “all the children playing nicely” along the shores of the inland sea.

Fortunately for her, the loss of their vessel didn’t bring any immediate hardship to the two families, hers and her brother’s, who jointly owned it, since they made some money from their two lodgers, and besides, they had a comfortable sum laid by. And now, with her brother back home, he might be able to pick up some other work, given so many Krandi businesses were shorthanded. But in the long run, they needed their ship back – the elves had promised they would return it, but had refused to say when. For the umpteenth time, Erkane followed the same train of thought: Even if they got their ship back, the Kûzeen and the dwarves might be much less inclined to trade with the Krâ than before the recent escapades. And all over Krâ, the absence of the men meant that workshops stood quiet, forges lay cold, and who knew what grain there might be next summer with so many strong arms not put to the plough? The women couldn’t do it all (even though Erkane was vaguely planning to see if she could help out somewhere). There would be hard times ahead.

And what if the men never came back, or came back greatly reduced? It was not likely that the great lord who had promised them such riches for their services would take care of their widows and orphans, was it? Of course not. The foolishness of it all! It was as if some evil spell had fallen on the men that they let go of all reason. That Ezen Kemra, for whom Erkane had always had a great respect, had allowed himself to be drawn into this reckless venture! And that even her level-headed husband and her easy-going brother could not see how insane it was!

At least her brother had come to his senses now, was indeed feeling ashamed that he had almost drawn his sword at a bunch of women. That he had believed the whole nonsense about the Kûzeen having “had it coming to them” due to their comfortable lives. What, the fact that the Kûzeen prospered gave the Krâ leave to attack them? Hogwash!

Erkane herself had been to Mil Nahara a few times and was well aware that the Kûzeen were doing better than the Krâ. But whose fault was that? Why hadn’t any Krâ leader ever tried to befriend the Tree Women, who were so generous with their produce? Why hadn’t the Krâ leaders sought the advice of the Guardian? And why had they sneered at the New Way, which seemed to have brought the Kûzeen nothing but prosperity? She certainly felt that if Krâ had some women in public office, there might be considerable improvements…

Something brought her mind back to the solid reality around her. People were moving, nay, hasting in one direction, towards the northern end of the port. “Dragons,” she heard someone shouting. “Dragons on the beach!”

She stopped and bent down towards her daughters. “Quick now, go home by yourselves, you’re nearly there. Tell your aunt I will come a little later. Nulken, take care of your sister!”

“Why, Mama? Where are you going?”

“I’ll tell you later. Go now!”

As the girls ran off, she joined the steady stream of people who were rushing down to the beach. At least a hundred people were already there, crowded around the unexpected arrivals. Erkane was a tall woman, and standing on tiptoe she could see them well enough: three dragons, each with two riders, all dressed alike in air travel garb. One of them, dark and gaunt, she reckoned was the Guardian, and one appeared to be a woman. The rider behind her dismounted and made the Kûzar gesture of greeting.

“Good people of Krandi,” he declared. “I bring you news from your Ezens. They have decided to abandon their campaign in the West. Your host is on its way home.” He held up a letter that bore the seals of the Ezens.

There were bewildered mutterings and scattered cheers. “It’s the Archseraph!” whispered a woman beside Erkane. Perhaps she was right; the Archseraph was known to be a handsome man with a very fine moustache. In fact it had to be him, for now he was talking about a new relationship between Krâ and Kûz, about cooperation and mutual support. Erkane wondered if it was possible that he didn’t know about Mil Nahara. And then she realised that she didn’t care. Neither did she care to hear what else he had to say. All she cared about right now was getting home quickly and telling her children, her brother, her sister-in-law.

Dribuk was coming back. Let the Hwenti keep the ship; she would have her husband.