It had been a long ride more than a difficult one. The path from Bree to Angmar was not well-worn, neither were there welcoming places to stay, not even for one such as her. Khahaynd had known that when she set out she would be on her own until she reached Lady Zairaphel’s house. But difficult? Nay, there were Men around Trestlebridge, but not the sort she would waste any time on. They were not interesting nor threatening enough for her. She had eschewed any comfort from the inn, and taking but an hour’s rest for Tahri, continued over the Trestlespan to warnings from the guards of “troublesome orcs”.
Ha! The orcs were no trouble to her. Some, the more intelligent, could sense her Master, the others would die under her will if they did not make way. She had not followed the Greenway, but made straight for Amon Raith, on the edge of the Fields of Fornost. All she encountered on that stretch of the journey were wolves, and they ran from her and from the great cat Zir. Once at the hill mounted ruin, she rested for a while longer. It was abandoned, though she knew at times Rangers of the North made use of it. Bah, who were they to stand in her way? True enough, they were descendents of Númenor, but so was she, at least in part. And she was of the loyal blood, not the whey-blood cowards. For a short while, while she rested and partook of wine and dried meat, she thought of Magan. Had he had ridden north? she wondered. There was something about him that held her interest. Something that was almost gentle about a rough-and-ready Corsair. She had known few men who managed that without being weak. Zir settled down beside her, adding his warmth to hers, that they needed no fire to give them away. Tahri grazed a little, though kept close, knowing Zir to be a better defender than she. And Khahaynd’s thoughts drifted to he who was once her brother. Naraal was somewhere in these lands, of that she had no doubt. She didn’t want to encounter him, and yet she did. He was dead to her, and yet still she wondered. For a moment she looked up at the blanket of stars in the dark sky, and pondered what her life could have been, but she was too well-trained to wax sentimental: the Lady Zairaphel would brook no weakness in any of her entourage. Khahaynd’s life was what it was. And it was a lot better than most.
Onward she rode, past the ruins of Minas Vrun. She was entering lands where the Dúnedain surely had strength. She could defeat them, but most were not utter fools. An over-confident approach simply would not do. Her thoughts were to cross as little of Annúndir as possible, and make for Kingsfell and the trail to Nan Amlug, then to the Ram Duath and her final destination. Would she encounter any, she could deal with them, and she could even handle any large drakes that crossed her path. ‘Soon,’ she said to the prowling great cat. He yawled back in reply. She had to ride atop high cliffs for some distance before she came across an old wooden bridge, but from there she turned hard northeast, and was back on track. Past a herd of aurochs and a few wandering and swiftly slain orcs she travelled. The map of the final part of her journey, of the hidden entrance to Zairaphel’s lair, was clearly etched in her mind.
She had been followed in Kingfell by at least three Men. She led them into the woods of Taur Gonwath, and ‘influenced’ what was there to attack. She did not know if any survived, and it mattered not. No one followed afterwards.
She arrived two days later at the House in Imlad Balchort. The hidden path was easy for her trained eye to recognise. Khahaynd saw the illusion, the distraction, felt the wave of horror wash over her, mastered her fear as she had been trained, and entered the Sanctuary.
How strange, in a land of death and rotting corpses, to find a wooden house surrounded by dark Southern trees. The style of the house was not quite Umbari, but as close as could be managed with what resources the land offered. It even looked cosy from outside. There were lit lamps in the several windows and a pleasing fragrance of the south lingered in the air.
Khahaynd knew what to expect. Or so she thought. She opened her thoughts a little.
“I am here, Great Lady, as ordered.”
She told Tahri not to wander far, then she and Zir entered.
Walking under a blue and white marble arch, it was hard not to think she was back in Umbar Bahrabel. The decor, the colours, the perfume, all spoke of home.
And there was the Lady herself, garbed in a long blue silken gown, with a very stylish matching blue wimple on her head. She was laughing with a squat, ill-favoured, dark-haired Dwarf, and as Khahaynd watched, she slipped off the wimple, and dropped it on the Dwarf’s broad head. Catching it up, he pressed it to his face and inhaled deeply as if it were the most pleasantly odorous flower in the world whose fragrance put him in the greatest of ecstasy.
Zir made a low growl, at which Zairaphel turned, her eyes wide with mock surprise.
“So soon! You are here so soon, my student.”
Khahaynd bowed deeply. The Lady was not one to play games with. Not yet at any rate.
Patting at her exquisitely braided locks, Zairaphel pouted almost coquettishly and said, “Duzir, lay out food and drink for our guest. And fetch a haunch of something for the kitty-cat.” Then she glided away into the next room.
Taking off her traveling cloak, Khahaynd folded it over her arm, and tried to brush down her robes with her free hand. She watched Duzir carefully, not totally trusting him.
Zir stepped forward and sniffed at the Dwarf, then lay down and began to wash his fur with a very large paw. Khahaynd saw the reaction. The Dwarf did not trust Zir. Well that was good. She felt somewhat better knowing it.
“Is there water to wash my face and hands?” she asked.
Duriz frowned, but went away and returned a short time later with a soft cloth and a bowl of warm water, its surface floating with rose petals, which he set upon a low table. He grunted, then hurried off in the direction his Mistress had gone.
Kneeling down by the table, Khahaynd almost sighed with pleasure as the perfumed water touched her skin, washing away any dirt even as she made a small circling movement with her left hand, and was no longer a traveling hag with a wolfhound. She laughed, knowing her illusion would never have fooled Zairaphel anyway. Drying her skin with the soft towel, Khahaynd walked in the direction the others had taken. “Remain here,” she told Zir. “You shall be fed. And take note of anything you see or hear. I trust not that Dwarf, even if the Lady does.”
The second room was as elegantly decorated as the first, and there was the addition of a long dining table and chairs for entertaining guests. At the head of the table sat the Lady on a cushioned mahogany chair. She motioned to Khahaynd to make herself comfortable.
“Everything within this dwelling was brought from one of our homes in Umbar,” she said.
Khahaynd nodded with understanding and appreciation. That was no mean feat. She placed her cloak over the back of a chair.
She watched Duzir bustle in and out of the room carrying trays with various delicacies upon them, and several choice wines. He began to lay out place settings for the ladies’ luncheon.
“I sense your ability: you are very skilled. I expected nothing less,” said Zairaphel, making a few last-minute adjustments to her elaborate braids. “And your arrival is timely. I expect other visitors very soon.”
Taking up her glass of sweet wine, Khahaynd bowed her head. “I knew you would see Zir and me, no matter what illusion I cast. But that one has served me well all the way from Gondor. Few are interested in a poor, elderly woman and her aged mongrel.”
The High Sorceress regarded the younger woman under dark eyelashes with something that looked like approval.
“You taught me well, Lady,” Khahaynd added, and raised her glass in a toast. She remained seated and still as her mentor looked her over closely, the light being better inside the house than outdoors, even though it was still daytime. There was nothing to hide from such scrutiny. It would have taken a very deep search indeed to even scratch the surface of any discontent, she thought, and assured of her own skill, she smiled, saying,
“I am pleased you summoned me, Lady Zairaphel. I am honoured to be in your presence again.” Through the open door of the dining room, she could see the dwarf cautiously offering a platter of meat to Zir, and smiled even wider. Duzir really did not like her cat. “I have a few observations to report from my travels, but nothing of great import.”
Zairaphel informed her that any news she had could wait, as she, too, had news.
Khahaynd inclined her head politely. Of course any news of Zairaphel’s would supersede her own.
“At this moment two Elves are being brought here,” said the Lady, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Ah…I wondered.” Khahaynd said, and explained, “There was talk of some Men capturing Elves when I passed through the lands South of this place. The local folk did not strike me as daring enough to attempt such an outrageous deed.”
Zairaphel smiled sweetly. “No, they are not as daring and certainly not half as capable as my nephew’s two men, nor as handsome,” she said with a titter.
Khahaynd nodded her understanding. ‘She is still a flirt,’ the younger woman thought, ‘though she must be getting on in years. But then again, what were years to someone who appeared perpetually youthful?’
“You and I must …work with these Elves,” the High Sorceress informed her.
“As you command, Lady.”
Duzir returned with a jug, and poured water into goblets of crystal. Zairaphel made a tiny cough, and Khahaynd turned her eyes back to the head of her order. She could tell the Lady did not like anyone’s attention to waver, even for an instant, and told herself not to let it happen again. “I foresee a difficulty,” Zairaphel told her.
“The Men of Bree are mostly coarse and uneducated folk. We cannot expect any subtlety from them, can we?” asked Khahaynd. She was already thinking two steps ahead.
“Exactly so! Once they arrive we shall spend but little time here. Those other Men must be sent away, and you and I must depart swiftly with our Elves, my nephew, and his servant Naraal.”
“Naraal?” Khahaynd said, and silently hoped that she had well-hidden her recognition of the name from her voice. This was not the time for her to give anything away.
Zairaphel appeared not to notice. “We do not want to kill either Elf, nor to be killed by them, do we?” she continued in her sweet-as-honey voice.
“We want them to cooperate with us?”
“Indeed we do. We can be even more persuasive once we have returned to our home. But that is, as you know, a long journey, and we can expect challenges on the way.” Zairaphel folded her hands in her lap and waited for her reply.
Khahaynd understood this was a significant matter, not some trifling fancy. Elves? What could the Lady want from them? The first and foremost thing in her mind was immortality. Had not the ancient Númenorians sought just that? But it was impossible that any Man could acquire the gift of the Elves, at least the Men she knew of. Did not the tales tell of half-elves, and how they would be counted among Men in regard to their span of years, living longer than usual, but achieving nothing like immortality? Not that she personally had known any half-elves.
“Lady,” Khahaynd finally said, “If you will, I shall speak my small news and then it is done. Thereafter we need only speak of the matter with the Elves.”
Zairaphel darted a glance at her. If she was displeased by this interjection, she made no sign. “Very well, tell me your news.”
With a nod, Khahaynd began. “There is but little to tell, though I would that you know all I know. The people of Gondor are torn. Although there is much love for the Steward’s son, Boromir, few love the Steward himself. Their loyalty to him is weak. Some seek out the accursed brothers, who falsely claim to be the heirs of Castamir. There is much secret talk that they would rather be ruled by a true blood Númenórian than any Steward. We also have many spies in the villages, dripping new ideas from their tongues for the uninitiated to consider: to follow a powerful King once again, to have pride in their land. Even now there are growing numbers who place their hope in King Azrazôr. And some are already positioned in high places. We have tremendous influence, Lady. Alas, there are a few traitors to our cause: I slew one during my journey here.”
Zairaphel nodded, pleased and curious. “What was the name of this rat?” she asked.
“A servant by the name of Heliabel, in Hearn. She said she was just as powerful as you, when her abode was a hovel in that backwater village. She tried to poison me. I had her swallow herself. She had visions of grandeur, but not the ability to go with it.”
Zairaphel laughed like a hyena. “And now she is dead!”
At that moment Duzir moved to stand before the two Sorceresses. “Luncheon is served,” he announced with a bow.
The older Sorceress seemed less testy at her interruption once she heard about the slain upstart, so Khahaynd pressing her luck continued, “The last bit of news I have is my encountering our folk in Bree, a man by the name of Balkumagan. We spoke only briefly. It was he who mentioned the Elves.”
Duzir began serving the first course, carefully ladling the contents of a large ornate dish into their smaller bowls. “Lobster soup,” he said, in response to Khahaynd’s mute inquiry. Khahaynd wondered from where he had procured lobster, but suspected it was better not to ask.
Zairaphel began eating the soup with dainty relish. “Balkumagan the shipwright? He is a most handsome man,” she purred. “Is that the extent of your news?”
“Yes, Lady. Those folk I stayed with, except the treacherous Heliabel, are loyal to you and our King. They do all they can to subtly influence others against the Steward. Should Boromir become Steward it may be more difficult.”
Zairaphel waved her spoon around and muttered, “Our Master knows what He is about.” Then she reached into the voluminous folds of her skirt, drawing out a long ivory-handled knife from its scabbard strapped to her leg, and laid it upon the exquisitely-carved inlaid teak table. “That Denethor is a fool.”
Duzir returned to the table, this time holding what looked like a roast pheasant surrounded by small yellow potatoes and an array of fruit compote. “I shall carve this fowl, if you are finished with the soup. There is also a quail stuffed with mushrooms to follow.”
‘Lobster, pheasant, quail…here in Angmar?’ Khahaynd wondered, but said to Zairaphel, “The Breelands and Cardolan seem even more poorly guarded. There are a few good Men, but that is all.” The younger Sorceress took a bite from the pheasant, and raised an eyebrow. It occurred to her that she may be eating caveclaw meat ensorceled to look and taste like pheasant.
“Bree is a provincial town,” Zairaphel said, stabbing at the meat with her knife. “A dozen Arnoldirs would do nicely to take it.”
“Arnoldir?” Khahaynd raised a brow, unfamiliar with the name.
Zairaphel sighed and held a hand to her brow, as if she were overcome by fevered memory, and squealed, “Oh, he is as good-looking as he is arrogant, and he knows it! Dear Arnoldir! my Arnoldir, is one of those bothersome Swan-Knights of Dol Amroth, or at least, he was, until he got into a little spot of trouble; but I have him safe in the palm of my hand.” She giggled like the young woman she pretended to be, the candlelight glinting cold in pale blue eyes that were too old and large for her face.
