A Citadel Guard opened the door of the Tower Hall before Parthadan, the Warden of the Green and an unofficial spymaster for Steward Denethor II, the regent of Gondor. Parthadan walked along the long aisle bordered by gigantic statues of dead Kings and great pillars of black marble on his way to the far end of the hall. The throne that sat high upon a dais was empty as always, but at the foot of the steps sat Steward Denethor on his unadorned black chair made of stone, the traditional seat of power of the Stewards, the regents of Gondor in the absence of the rightful King. It was chilly in the hall, just as it was chilly outside the Tower of Ecthelion. It was mid-winter in Minas Tirith, and while it almost never snowed in Gondor, the winters were always gray, windy and rainy.
”It’s the seeing-stone”, the Steward said before Parthadan had had an opportunity to say anything. ”There’s something wrong with it.” Denethor’s voice was old and weary, barely more than a raspy whisper.
It was commonly known in Minas Tirith that the palantír of Minas Anor was kept in a secret chamber in the Tower of Ecthelion above the Tower Hall. There were some whispered rumours and speculations about Denethor’s ’far-seeing eye’, but only a handful of people truly knew the extent in which the Steward routinely used the stone to spy on his people and others in far-off places. Parthadan was one of those few. Such habitual use of the Anor-Stone had aged Denethor and made him old before his time, and in Parthadan’s opinion it had also softened his brain somewhat. Of course Parthadan never mentioned this private opinion to Denethor out loud, or anyone else for that matter.
”Something wrong with it?” Parthadan replied cautiously. ”Do you mean it doesn’t work anymore, my Lord?”
Denethor looked up and stared at Parthadan. The Steward’s face was statuesque with angular, proud bones, white alabaster skin and long, hawkish nose. His eyes were dark and piercing. Looking at Denethor reminded Parthadan of statues of ancient Númenoreans. Senile or not, Denethor was still an imposing man with a lot of innate authority. The Steward held his piercing gaze upon Parthadan for a long time.
”Oh, it works”, he said at last. ”It works, but there is something wrong with it.”
”My Lord?”
”It shows me visions”, Denethor explained. ”And makes me hear things. Not like… words. More like thoughts. Thoughts in my head.”
Parthadan waited patiently. He thought Denethor had lost the rest of his marbles, but tried his best to hide his thoughts from showing on his face.
”Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work, my Lord? You look into the stone, and it shows you visions?”
”It shows me visions of places I want to see, Parthadan, that’s how it’s supposed to work! It’s not supposed to show me visions I don’t understand or make me hear things in my head I’ve never heard before.”
”So what have you seen?” Parthadan asked.
”Last night I was in the chamber, looking into the stone. I was trying to concentrate my mind at Mordor, to see if there was any change in the size or composition of Sauron’s forces. Instead I suddenly saw a range of rolling hills, and built on top of the hills there were three tall white towers. Somewhere up north, I think, because there was snow.”
”That could be Emyn Beraid”, Parthadan said. There was not much Parthadan did not know about the geography of the Middle-Earth, and he relished every opportunity to flaunt his superior knowledge. ”The Tower Hills, in western Eriador, east of Mithlond. Built before the end of the second age by the Eldar. It is said that one of the remaining palantíri, the Elostirion-Stone, is kept in one of those towers. The towers are probably guarded and maintained by the elves, although I don’t know for sure. I don’t know much about that region of the world in general.”
”All right.” Denethor paused and shifted his thoughts, as if contemplating what Parthadan had just told him. ”Anyway, after a while the vision changed. Now I was looking at a little town at the edge of a narrow gorge of a river, hidden in a deep, forested valley. The houses in the valley were beautiful to look at, very elegant, but the architecture was alien to me. And then I heard a voice in my head… no, not a voice, a thought, like some malicious entity was transferring a thought in my mind. I received a definite sense of malice from whoever was sending that thought, a chill went down my spine, and a single word: Laureanis.”
”Imladris”, Parthadan speculated. ”An elven refuge in eastern Eriador. I have been in correspondence with somebody who lives there.”
”Don’t tell me you have spies among the elves too!” Denethor snapped.
Parthadan shook his head. ”I wouldn’t call Cugusaelon a spy exactly. I don’t think he sees it that way. He occasionally sends me letters of the events and happenings in Imladris and the Trollshaws region, and I respond in kind with news from Minas Tirith and Gondor. In Cugusaelon’s mind we are all united in our cause to oppose Sauron, though there has been little contact between Gondor and the elves for centuries. But he sees no harm in exchanging information with me. He sends his letters to Lórien through an elf messenger, and I have someone who regularly travels between Gondor and Lórien to pick them up. An elf who calls himself Gwathrandir.”
”An elf! Here… in Minas Tirith?”
”Oh no, my Lord. Gwathrandir doesn’t like big cities. He usually… just wanders in the forests and wilderness. Close to the shores of Anduin, I think. He’s a peculiar character. But I have my ways of contacting him, and for some reason he has been willing to help me out in this way. He doesn’t want money, he never wants anything in return. Who can really understand the motivations of these elves? They have such long lives, they have no need for wealth or power…”
”I see.” Denethor whisked his hand and leaned back on his chair, quite bored of the topic. ”What about Laureanis? Can you tell me what it means? Is it a name, a place…”
”I’m sorry, my Lord. I have never heard that word before.”
”I see.”
”Was that all, my Lord?” Parthadan asked.
”No, Parthadan, it was not all. The visions and thoughts stopped after that, so I attempted to look at Mordor again, and this time I succeeded. Everything there was as usual, the way they have been for a year at least. No change. So then I concentrated my mind on Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, and what I saw there made me reel back a few steps. Dol Guldur is swarming with orcs and trolls and siege weapons, Parthadan, positively swarming! Maybe one hundred thousand orcs, and at least five thousand trolls. And they were geared up for war.”
”Is that possible?”
”You tell me.”
Parthadan stroked his chin. ”If you are right, my Lord, if the visions you see in the palantír are real, then it could be the army Sauron used to crush the remaining opposition in Rhûn. If all of Khand has now capitulated, Sauron could have called back the attacking force.”
”Yes, but why station them there? Why Dol Guldur? Why not in Mordor? Do you think Sauron is putting together a war machine to attack one of the elven realms next? Lórien or Imladris?”
Parthadan shook his head. ”It should not be possible. The elven realms are protected by powerful magic. Otherwise they would have been wiped out a long time ago. But tell me, my Lord: This malicious entity sending you thoughts and visions through the palantír – who do you think it is? Sauron himself?”
”I don’t know.”
”And if it is Sauron, what reason would he have for sending you those thoughts and images? What reason would anyone have?”
”I don’t know that either. That’s why I summoned you. I thought that perhaps you could come up with some answers.”
Parthadan was quiet for a long time, staring at the empty throne over Denethor’s shoulder. His eyes were aimed at the throne, but their gaze was directed inwards as Parthadan considered the problem. Finally he said:
”Alright, my Lord. I will contact Gwathrandir about this matter. Perhaps he can be persuaded to travel all the way to Imladris to find out if the elves of the north know anything about this… Laureanis.”
