And Now We March East

“So, like I said, it will cost us. At least initially. Though I believe in the longer term, a more prosperous Krâ will also make for a more prosperous Kûz.”

“But even if it doesn’t, if that’s the price for peace, we’ll have to pay it. I am proud of you, Hamûjil.”

Majani leaned on her husband’s chest. The hullabaloo of greeting the returning dragon party, of expressions of delight, of quick questions quickly answered was over and they were on their own now, snuggled up together on a sopha. Hamûjil had spent the last half hour or so telling Majani in detail what went down in the steppes.

“I remember you saying,” he mused, “whether I would get down on my knees and beg the Ezens. I wouldn’t have thought it then, but that’s exactly what came to pass. Are you a seer, Majani?”

“You can joke now, but I imagine it was very hard for you.”

“Not really. I suddenly saw in my head what needed to be done and I did it.”

“I mean, to humble yourself like that.”

“Are you saying I am too full of myself?” He smiled mischievously.

“You know exactly what I mean. You are a conscientious and hardworking man, but you are still the Archseraph of Kûz.”

“Yes, I am he… But tell me your story properly now. Tilar! I always thought she was a poor choice for guild leader, but to become a traitor to us! But go from the start, if it pleases you.”

So Majani told him the whole tale, the threat to kill the children, Tilar’s insolence, the almost miraculous silent agreement between Majani and Olan and Miriel, the smashed birds, the baldachin.

“What puzzled us was why the ambassador was alone. But two days later, Fimbrethil came to town and told me that some of her people had picked up – literally picked up! – his soldiers and dropped them off at the far end of the West Road to make their way home if they could. So I thought that was a good solution and decided to send the ambassador the same way. The boat must be nearly there now.”

“Well done. We’ll get it checked out, but I doubt he will have the nerve to come back.”

“He might think the third time would be the charm?”

They laughed.

“And Tilar?”

“She’s a problem. I have her locked up and guarded in one of the servants’ rooms, but I have no idea what to do with her.”

Never in all the centuries since the Kûzeen had adopted the Way of Light had there been such a thing as treason. What crime there was in Kûz was petty, or else the result of an illness of the mind. In the former case, some form of making amends, along with a thorough scolding by the authorities generally sufficed, and in the latter case the perpetrator was admitted to a special ward at the infirmary. There was no prison in all of Kûz, and most certainly no capital punishment.

Hamûjil smoothed down his moustache. “Yes, it’s a tricky question. But we don’t have to answer it straight away. It can wait until Council.” He sighed.

“You look worried.”

“I am worried. I made promises to the Krâ which were not strictly speaking mine to make. What if the Council disagrees?”

“How could they disagree? You are a hero now.”

“Trust me, Majani, where people’s business interests are concerned, they can be extremely tenacious. The guild leaders could cause a big fuss.”

“Then perhaps you should discuss the case of Tilar first.”

“Hm. A little manipulative perhaps, but I think you are right. Anyway…”

“Anyway what?”

But Hamûjil, who had been away from his wife way too long for his taste, had decided it was time to stop talking.

-oOoOo-

Over the next few weeks, Jarin learned her mother tongue anew. Its rhythms and cadences ceased to sound unusual to her. She began to distinguish the accents of people from different regions of Krâ. She got the jokes. Sometimes, the soldiers would sing songs that she hadn’t heard since childhood. And then came a morning when she woke up and thought, What a strange dream that was, and she thought it in Krâin.

Hamûjil’s misgivings turned out to be unfounded. The Krâ treated Jarin with touching consideration, almost with awe, and also with a good deal of curiosity. To them she was not a Kûzar woman with Krâ ancestors, but a Krâ woman living in Kûz.  They wanted to know why she followed the New Way, why she spoke Kûzar with Diri although he also knew Krâin, why the Kûzeen let her be a lungi. And time and time again someone asked her why the dragon hadn’t been able to carry her, given that Burlast’s death was an accident.

“The weight comes from how I feel about it,” she explained.

“So if someone commits a terrible crime but feels no remorse, they could still ride a dragon?”

“Oh, no, that would weigh them down as well. In Kûz, we believe that a tiny part of your soul always knows when you’ve done wrong.”

After such conversations, she could usually see on the soldier’s faces how they were trying to work out their own chances of a dragon ride.

Diri was proven right in his concerns, though. The daily marches from first light to last, with only two short breaks, covering more than twenty miles, were too much for Jarin. When she had realised on the second day that she couldn’t keep up, she had suggested that she and Diri would travel on their own after all, but Ezen Kemra wouldn’t hear of it. He’d offered her the use of a horse, but that was hardly an improvement, given how inexperienced a rider Jarin was. In the end it was decided that Jarin would travel part of each day in one of the supply carts. A few hours around midday tucked in between sacks of oatmeal and jars of sunflower oil did nothing for her dignity, but gave her enough respite to march till evening afterwards.

The mood in the host was patchy. Many were relieved, buoyant even, and spoke much about the wives and children to whom they were returning. Others maintained a sullen silence that may have been a sign of resentment or of resignation. A lot of anger wafted about, too. In some cases, it was anger that the prospect of loot and adventure had disappeared, and on the second day of their return journey, a group of about five hundred men had felt strongly enough about this to leave the host and set off west on their own. But these were a minority. Among the weavers and potters, the joiners, cobblers, coopers, wainwrights, butchers and bakers of the cities who had left behind their businesses, who had piled their usual burden on the shoulders of their already hardworking women – among the farmers who were daily  calculating the distance travelled and the distance remaining to work out if they would be back in time for the ploughing, the sowing, the lambing – among the husbands of new mothers and pregnant wives and among the youths who were courting, there was a fair amount of anger that they had ever been dragged out here at all for what was increasingly referred to as “this nonsense.”

It made the position of the Ezens difficult indeed. Granted, now they were leading the way back home and talking of a prosperous future, but then they had talked of … what had they talked of? Many of the men found it difficult to piece together the arguments that had seemed so convincing at the time. Had they really left their families and livelihoods behind for the prospect of some vague reward in a foreign land when they could have just sought a better deal with Kûz? Ah, but the Archseraph would never have made his offers if we hadn’t been on the march, said some. Perhaps not, was the reply of others, but that was hardly the purpose of our going, was it? It wasn’t a case of Let’s pretend to go to war in the West and the Kûzeen will come to bribe us out of it, was it? Conversations like that could be heard every day somewhere. On Alatar’s advice, the Ezens had the Unquenchable Light paraded around the camp each evening. It probably helped.

Jarin, though, had other things on her mind. Perhaps it was being immersed in the Krâin language, perhaps it was her misery about Wan, or maybe just her exhaustion, in any case, scraps of memories of her mother were surfacing. Nazal had died when Jarin was seventeen, from an illness the Kûzar doctors could not cure, and while Jarin remembered her fondly, she rarely recalled her with such sensory immediacy as now. She saw her mother at the potter’s wheel, drawing up the neck of a jug with a smooth gesture, and she could almost smell the clay. She remembered her mother’s hands, squat and nimble, knitting socks or chopping onions. And for the first time in years, she could hear her mother’s voice in her head. N’tak bemene, she said. It will pass.

“You look pensive,” said Diri as he stirred the oatmeal. “Are you missing Wan?”

“I do miss him, but that’s not what I’m thinking of just now.” Jarin received her bowl and wistfully held the spoon up in the air. “It seems strange, but I suddenly miss my mother. I’ve never missed her quite like this all these years, not after the first period of mourning.”

“It’s the walking,” said Diri.

“What do you mean?”

“I imagine that, like me, you have always been busy, with plans, with tasks, with experiences. And now you have nothing to do day after day but to walk, and walk in this…” – he made an expansive gesture –  “…flat and featureless land. So the mind wanders. And it comes up with images of the past.”

“Is it the same for you?”

“Yes. I have been thinking of my parents.”

“Then you know.”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry you have this grief, but it comforts me that you understand.”

“Yes.”

Jarin shuffled a little closer to Diri and silently ate her porridge. The stars began to come out. There was the Cupped Hand – the dwarves called it the Wheelbarrow, she remembered. Strange how they looked the same even so far from home. The light of the Powers, shining on all.

-oOoOo-

At first, Tilar had laughed at her captors, telling them that soon the ambassador’s soldiers would arrive and set her free. When no such rescue arrived, she had raged on and off for days, had thumped the walls, kicked over the furniture and even thrown the food back at the attendants who brought it to her. Then she had gone quiet, and sometimes she could be heard crying, but she spoke not a word to anyone. They told her the Council would decide her case on the second day of the week, and she only narrowed her eyes and turned away.

And now that day had come. The very first strawberries were ripe, brought up from the South and served at the Seraphs’ breakfast table, but Hamûjil had no taste for dainties this morning. The Council would sit at ten, and Tilar was the easier item on the agenda. He sat tugging at his moustache while Majani urged him to have at least some coffee. In his head, he rehearsed his arguments again and realised that they sounded defensive. He sighed.

“You will succeed,” said Majani. “You are far more persuasive than Master Leyo.”

“That may be so,” replied Hamûjil, “but I am not even sure whether in this matter the Council can overrule a guild master. The Book of Ways offers no clear guidance.”

“What is the worst that can happen? If you reneged on part of your promise but kept the rest, what would the Krâ do? I doubt they would come and attack us.”

“I doubt that, too, but it would undermine the trust I want to foster. It is really crucial that we honour my promises in full. Well, I must go.”

He kissed her on the cheek and walked down to the Council Chamber.

At quarter past twelve, after a thorough deliberation on the case, Tilar was brought before the Council. As the eldest mortal present, the task had fallen to Warden Yun to address her.

“Mistress Tilar,” he began. “Not long ago, you were a member of this venerable Council, but today you stand before us accused of a heinous crime. We have this morning heard the account of it and after careful debate have come to a decision. It is beyond a doubt that you conspired with the ambassador of Sauron to overturn the rightful government of Kûz. You took a seat on Majani’s throne and had the ambassador proclaim you as the new Archseraphine. This was an act of high treason and on its own justifies the strongest measures the Council could conceive. Furthermore, you are suspected of arson at the library, of an attempt to poison the Archseraph, and an attempt to kidnap the young Seraph. But since we cannot prove you are culpable of these crimes, we will content ourselves with sentencing you for your high treason alone.”

“You hypocrites!” hissed Tilar. “Always going on and on about your New Way, but now you’re going to kill me!”

“Nobody said we would kill you.”

“Then what is this strongest measure of which you speak?”

“Here is what will happen, Tilar. You will be taken to Mil Nahara on the next available ship and from there to the Sacred Cave. You will stay there under the supervision of the Guardian, reflecting on your actions, and you will spend an hour every day in the Hall of the Unquenchable Light until such a time when a dragon is able to carry you. Then you may return to Levare, or go wherever else you please.”

“You expect me to repent?”

“Repent and reform.”

Tilar shook her head and looked at the floor, but it was palpable that she felt relieved. The guards took her away and Hamûjil called an hour’s break for lunch before the next point on the order of the day. As ever, the food was splendid, and if it didn’t help to soften the hearts of the Council members, then at least it didn’t do any harm.

“My friends,” began Hamûjil when all had returned to the chamber. “The business of this afternoon is of the utmost importance. As you know, the Krâ have agreed to return home in peace. I am aware that many people in Kûz think I only had to talk to them nicely and that the matter is quite settled now. But it is not so. It was only when I stood in front of the Ezens and heard their reasons for going to war that I realised that we have been at fault, too, and that we carry some responsibility for their turning to Sauron. So I must speak to you now of the failings of Kûz and the grievances of Krâ.”

“Are you serious?” Baja had jumped up from her seat.

“Peace, Mistress Baja,” said Hamûjil. “We are all well aware of the events in Mil Nahara. But in the end, no harm was done there. And we need to ask, how could it come to this: the Krâ endeavouring to attack us? Have we not always been their neighbours and their friends?”

This prompted much nodding from the Council members.

“And yet,” Hamûjil continued, “we have not been as true and as generous in our friendship as we could have been. Much of the blame for this lies with me…”

And he told them of the parley with the Ezens, of their reproach, especially with regard to the fever and the medicine, and of his own epiphany. “There has always been an imbalance between our two countries, an imbalance that worked in our favour, and we have been content to let things continue that way. We have been naïve not to see how the Krâ resented it. It was this resentment that drove them into the arms of Sauron. It is this resentment that we must address to secure a lasting peace. We must overcome the imbalance and reach out to lift the Krâ to a level that matches, up to a point, our own.”

“How?” asked Warden Olan.

“By sharing with them our knowledge and skills. I must confess to you all now that during that parley on the steppe, I made some promises to the Krâ which I would very much like to keep, but which will require your consent.”

Whispering and raised eyebrows greeted this revelation.

“What promises?” demanded Baja.

Hamûjil willed his hands to lie without trembling on the armrest of his throne.

“That we will show them how to build water-powered machinery such as our looms and pottery wheels. That we will teach them our reed weaving techniques. That we will welcome a delegation of their healers to be trained at our infirmary. That we will instruct them in our more advanced farming methods and give them starter quantities of any such of our superior seeds as will flourish in their climate, along with cuttings for grafting. And that we will reveal to them the secrets of the making of silk, of glass mirrors and of porcelain.”

Now it was Master Leyo who jumped up with an incredulous exclamation, but looks of dismay and disbelief were also seen on the faces of many other Councillors. One of the insitters, a trader in fine ceramics, threw up her hands and silently mouthed angry words. Warden Olan quietly shook his head. Only Alatar, Pallando, Fimbrethil and Warden Yun looked serene.

Since Master Leyo was already standing, Hamûjil gave the first word to him, hoping also that the less time the man had to prepare, the weaker his arguments would be.

“I have no doubt that the Archseraph acted with the best of intentions,” Leyo began, “and I acknowledge that he had no opportunity to seek our approval. Nevertheless, I am aghast that he felt authorised to make such sweeping promises, knowing fine well that he was interfering in matters that duly belong to my Guild. Did he even think of what he was saying? What, give away all our trade secrets? Give up on every advantage in our trade with Krâ? And what are our artisans to live on? How will our merchants fare? Is he aware that he is pushing our people into poverty? That he is ushering in the ruin of our industries, that he is shaking the very foundation of our wealth? As the leader of the Guild of Artisans, I object in the strongest terms! No, no and thrice no! The trade secrets that we have kept so carefully for generations shall never be revealed to the Krâ, or anyone else outside Kûz! I absolutely refuse to give my consent, and I urge all the honoured members of the Council to do the same.”

He had barely breathed during this impassioned speech, and now he sat down, gasping heavily, with his fists clenched and his head trembling. Hamûjil acknowledged his words with a nod and passed on to the next speakers. The ceramic trader talked about profit margins, rattled out numbers and dazzled the Council with mental arithmetic, done at breakneck speed, which proved beyond any doubt, she said, that if Hamûjil had his way, the people of Kûz would be beggars within five years. The Mayor of Najûn pointed out that the seraphs had an infamous track record of making decisions without considering the impact on others, predictably cited the establishment of Levare as an example, and did not hesitate to call the reduced national importance of his own city a shocking decline. Mistress Baja queried whether the Archseraph really thought the Krâ should be rewarded for their vicious attack on Mil Nahara. The Warden of Plain was concerned that the Archseraph had humbled himself in front to the Krâ and thus destroyed any respect they ever had for Kûz. And then came Warden Olan.

“My friends,” he said, and his slow, solemn tone was in contrast to all the agitated voices that had gone before. “Like you, I was taken aback by the Archseraph’s proposals. They seemed rash and I understand why you are dismayed. But while I was listening to you, I had some time to think, and I believe you are looking at this in a manner that is too one-sided. Would it bring substantial change to us if we honoured the Archseraph’s promises? Yes. Would these changes be all bad? I doubt it. For a start, I do not see what objection we could possibly have to training some of their healers. We have no disadvantage from that, if anything, better health in Krâ means better health in Kûz as well, as less disease would be brought across the inland sea. With regards to farming too, we would not lose out – better harvests in Krâ would bring down food prices for all. The same is true for any improvement of their manufacturing methods. As for the trade secrets, there are clear drawbacks, but there are also opportunities. How many people in Krâ can even afford to buy silk or fine ceramics at this time? Very few. If their general wealth increased, more of them would be able to buy Kûzar products, and even if they can make their own, there would be many who would buy Kûzar crafts, provided that our artisans continued to strive for new and appealing designs. Instead of clamouring that we should cling to what we’ve always had, perhaps we should ask what else we can create. Have our people been complacent, secure in the knowledge that our trade secrets guaranteed us the Krâ, dwarf and Hwenti markets?  Would we perhaps even benefit from a bit more competition? I think it might spur our artisans into being a little more inventive, and to taking some risks in their designs that may in time lead to greater progress. All in all, I believe a wealthier Krâ will also mean a wealthier Kûz.”

This speech, which elicited some thoughtful looks and even a few nods, was followed by Warden Yun, who felt somewhat put out that Olan had stolen his thunder. Nevertheless, he repeated much the same ideas in slightly different words and as he spoke, the mood in the room was visibly shifting. When he had finished, Alatar stood up.

“The Wardens Yun and Olan have made a very good case,” he said, “and I believe they are right that this new accord will, in the long run, benefit Kûz almost as much as it will benefit Krâ. However, whether you benefit from it or not, is entirely beside the point. You do not have a choice between the Archseraph’s proposal and the way thing used to be. You only really have a choice between the Archseraph’s proposal and an armed and angry neighbour. The plan that has been put before you is a plan to secure peace. Peace which is more precious than wealth. Do not think of profit margins at this time, but think of what you truly value. Waking up every morning and going about your day without a threat of violence – that is worth more than any luxury. You owe it to the people of Kûz to preserve this greatest blessing of all.”

After this, the resistance against the Archseraph’s proposal was broken, though the nitty-gritty of practicalities was still discussed at some length. In the end, the lesser points were all agreed on, but it was decided that only one, not all three of the big trade secrets would be revealed to the Krâ. Which one was to be decided by casting lots. The Archseraph would compensate the losing industry out of his private purse. Pallando then made a suggestion that nobody had thought of but which found broad approval. It was nearly seven o’clock when the meeting finally closed. Hamûjil, though he felt exhausted, immediately wrote a letter to the Ezens and another one to Jarin, to go in the dragon post the following morning. What would the Ezens say?

-oOoOo-

The land, no longer frosted, was drained of colour. Grass of a faded brownish yellow lay limp and flat, a grubby white sky was mirrored in rivers and pools, and the edges of forests stood as walls of greenish black or lavender grey. The only clear colour was speckles of white, from the sloe blossoms, from the snowdrops.

One afternoon as they marched alongside a boisterous river, they were watched by a group of women and children on the opposite bank. They stood in their long coats and fur-lined hats, their buckets on the ground, staring at the host. Jarin got off the supply cart and walked down to the water’s edge. She pulled off her hood so they could see she was a woman. Then she waited, she wasn’t sure for what. Diri came up beside her.

One of the women stepped forward and raised a hesitant hand in greeting. Jarin waved back. The woman called out, and Jarin could barely hear her above the noise of the water. She shrugged her shoulders, held a hand behind her ear. The call came again, louder this time, in oddly-pronounced but still comprehensible Krâin:

“Is anyone else coming back?”

“What can I tell them?” whispered Jarin. Diri made a helpless gesture.

“I don’t know,” called Jarin. “I hope your men will return. I really hope so.”

Without another word, the women picked up their buckets and walked away. The children stood for another moment, then ran after their mothers.

Jarin clenched her fist. “How could they do that? Just leave their families behind? What will become of them if…”

Diri touched her arm. “Jarin. These are resilient people. Don’t you think you have enough to trouble you as it is?”

A week later, the host broke up, with a part turning southeast towards Talak and Baktu, while the rest moved on towards Krandi. Before he set off, Ezen Gomru spoke quietly to Diri and gave him a small parcel, that Diri stashed in his pack.

“What is it?” asked Jarin.

“A memento.” Diri wouldn’t say any more.

The remainder of the host plodded on, with smaller groups breaking away every day to head for their rural homes. When they finally arrived in Krandi, little more than six thousand were left. There was bunting, and music, and people lining the streets. It wasn’t long before the first men spotted their family in the crowds or vice versa; cheers, tears, hugs and general rejoicing followed.

Ezen Kemra soon learned that there was only a single ship in the harbour, and it was Kûzar and was waiting for Jarin. He was relieved to hear the story of the elves and their killer booze. Even though Hamûjil, when the Ezens had confessed about the fleet, had said he knew about it and that Pallando was dealing with it, Ezen Kemra was by no means confident that something terrible might not have happened at Mil Nahara which would seriously undermine the plans for the new accord between Krâ and Kûz. But there was no need to worry, thanks to the intervention of the Hwenti – the interhwention, as he thought to himself with a chuckle. He dismissed the last men with words of praise for their endurance and then went home, where his wife within the first twenty minutes presented him with a to-do list. Thus ended the march to war of the settled Krâ.

-oOoOo-

In his Dark Tower on the plateau of Gorgoroth, Sauron was subtly deceived by his palantír. He saw, just as he had many times before, a mighty host marching. He reckoned it was twenty-thousand strong, maybe more. Nothing the West could throw at him could possibly withstand such an army. And day by day, there were drawing closer. Soon he would be able to send them into the fray.

Soon, but not quite yet. He held back his plans and postponed blowing the horns to start the war proper. This host was worth waiting for. In his arrogance, in his eagerness to anticipate his triumph whenever he looked into the palantír, he paid no attention to details. He didn’t note which way the shadows fell. He didn’t realise which way the host was going. He only revelled in the foretaste of his crushing victory. And thus, even though the armies already at his disposal were large and powerful and ready, he did not unleash them on Gondor. He even began to think that without this host he was vulnerable, that going to war without it would end in defeat. Certainly he needed it for the complete dominion of the West. And after all, Gondor had no way of increasing her strength during this interim. Gondor would inevitably fall, and then Rohan would fall, and the all of Middle-earth. Week on week, he told himself how it would all be, soon, soon…

And so it was that eight travellers in three elven boats set out from Lothlórien with gifts from the Lady Galadriel, that in Rivendell the Lady Arwen completed her banner and sent it on its way, that Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee crept step by hairy little step closer to Mordor, that in Rohan the orcs were defeated and the king filled with new courage, that the power of Isengard was broken by the very husbands the Tree Women had left behind so long ago, that Isildur’s Heir walked the Paths of the Dead, that the Lady Éowyn picked up her sword and rode to war, that Sméagol led the way through the Dead Marshes, that Gandalf the White came to Minas Tirith, and all this while, Sauron was waiting, waiting, for a host that would never arrive.