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.”