Surrounding a secluded valley at the southern tip of the Misty Mountains there stood a great ring-wall of stone, like towering bluffs. From the shelter of the mountain-side it ran around the valley and then back again. Upon entering the plain of Isengard a visitor had to pass it’s only gate delved into the southern wall, travel through a long tunnel and pass through iron doors before arriving in the plain, green and lush with trees and vegetation, a garden upon the Middle-Earth. A river ran down the mountains, forming a lake in the bottom of the bowl-like plain. And right in the center, half a mile north of the gate, there stood the looming tower of Orthanc.
It had been a warm, sunny day of early autumn, but the sun was setting now and the gardens of Isengard were relatively empty of people, not that there were ever that many to begin with. Most travelers shunned the Wizard’s Vale, because the Lord of Isengard was rumored to be a powerful wizard, and he was not famous for being a welcoming host for uninvited visitors.
There were two men walking together in the gardens around the tower, talking to each other. The older of the men was an old man with long, mostly white hair and beard, with some black hairs around his lips and ears. He was tall, his face was long and his eyes were deep and dark. He was dressed in a shining white cloak, and he carried a rod of polished ebony as dark and gleaming as the midnight stone of the tower of Orthanc itself. Sharp-edged and unyielding, Saruman’s black staff held a single orb of white stone amid four projecting fingers at it’s crown, recalling the four blades of Orthanc’s pinnacle.
The other man was in his late thirties, a little shorter and a little stockier than Saruman. Martun was a Dunlending, and his thick, dark hair had only a hint of gray on the sides. His face was swarthy and weathered and serious. He had been born as a member the Falcon-clan in the village of Tûr Morva. His father had been a great hunter and a warrior of the clan. As a young man Martun had shown great promise for following in his father’s footsteps to become one of the most revered hunters of Hebog-lûth, which is why his parents and relatives had been so amazed and disappointed by his decision to move into the Wizard’s Vale to become a servant of the White Wizard instead. Martun’s father had accused him of abandoning the clan traditions and bringing shame to his clan and his parents by his decision, his mother had wailed inconsolably, but neither had been able to sway him from the path he had chosen. Martun had lived in Isengard for more than ten years now.
Saruman had noticed Martun and the promise he had shown from early on during his travels in Dunland. He had befriended the young man, he had counseled and helped him generously until Martun had felt that moving into Isengard was the right thing for him to do – moving into the estate of his friend who was also a mighty wizard and one of the most powerful beings alive in the Middle-Earth. Saruman was the only one who could challenge the might of Sauron and prevent the world from being devoured by darkness. Saruman had explained Martun how things were, and he knew the stakes were high. He was proud of having been chosen to serve the great man in his mission to save the Middle-Earth. Martun, who had been disowned by his birth-father, had found a new father in Saruman the White.
”You are so brilliant, Martun”, Saruman had said to him once in his elegant, booming voice. ”But you hide this spark of brilliance so well under your simple wildman nature that it takes an equally brilliant person to see kindred intelligence.”
In truth Saruman had spotted some time ago that Martun was not as intelligent as he had first thought. Martun would always be a very competent servant, but he would never rise to a significant leadership position. But there was no harm in letting his fairly competent, loyal servant to believe otherwise.
”Do you understand the delicate nature of the matter, Martun?” Saruman asked now as they walked through the gardens of Isengard.
”Of course I do”, Martun said. His voice was low and his accent still reminded of his Dunlending background. There was a trace of bitterness in his voice too, as Martun had lately come to suspect that Saruman’s final opinion of him was not as flattering as his adopted father would want him to believe. ”Even I understand that.”
”Now, now, Martun”, Saruman said in his gentle, amused way. ”Of course you understand the delicate nature of the matter, otherwise I would not have brought it up with you. But do you understand the delicate nature of the way the matter must be handled? I must know if the man in Minas Tirith really is Romenstar like he claims to be. And I must know what he knows… what he saw or did or felt out there… in the East. And where is Morinehtar? Why have the Rangers of Ithilien kept him all this time? Why are they hiding him? It stinks, and I think somebody should mention to the prodigal wizard, if that’s who he is, that he should first and foremost be reporting to the First of the Istari. First. And last!”
”Can the Rangers of Ithilien really be keeping him as a prisoner?” Martun asked.
”They can and they have. Not for long, I’m sure. What I cannot understand is that if he’s really Romenstar, why has he returned now? Why not a thousand years ago? Or two thousand?”
”Do you think the whole thing is a plot then? A scam, cooked up by the Rangers?”
Saruman smiled. ”I have thought about it. But what would be their reason?”
”Influence”, Martun responded.
”Very good, Martun”, Saruman approved. ”Good thinking.”
”It does not seem logical, I think. The return of Romenstar.”
”Precisely, Martun. Very good.”
”So when I meet him, what do you want me to do?”
Hesitantly, as if being disturbed in the middle of something important, Saruman shifted his gaze from the tower of Orthanc to Martun. ”You are an emissary of Isengard. You are to keep a low profile in Gondor, but make them know I have sent you. Make him know that. I don’t want Romenstar, if it is him, to think that there is a decision involved in which he can make up his own mind. I am the first of the Istari, the one he should be reporting to. Nobody else.”
Martun said nothing about that. For a moment the two men strode silently across the garden. It was autumn, and leaves were just beginning to change color to red and yellow.
”Martun”, Saruman said. ”This is the best time of year. The time we can finally see all the colors in the nature, the cycle of things as they really are. All the colors. Don’t you think so?”
Martun did not know what to say. He had never heard Saruman talk like this before.
”Do you think Romenstar has a secret?” Martun finally asked.
”I don’t know.”
”Has he told it to the Rangers?”
”That is for you to find out.”
Morinehtar and Romenstar should be dead, Saruman thought. For a long time he had thought they were dead. But now, someone calling himself Romenstar had come back to life and created an imbalance in Saruman’s delicately balanced world. The man calling himself Romenstar would have to be dealt with before the silence would rule again. History had no room for the likes of Morinehtar and Romenstar.
”He has a secret”, Saruman finally said. ”Something big enough to stir the Gondorians.”
And you, Martun thought. But he did not say it out loud.
