Duzir greeted Zairaphel when the women returned from the Baths of Ilmai Iforikh, and switching to Adûnaic said, “Azrazôr is in the library, pretending to read a book. He can barely contain his impatience.”
Zairaphel cooed out a few words of assurance as she patted the young woman’s damp hair into place. Before she could protest and say that she was unready, the Sorceress said, “It will please my nephew to look upon you as you are, without ornament or fashionable dress. Stand over by that window and turn your face towards the light. Oh, yes! The loveliest rose of Prince Imrahil’s folk, right here in Umbar! Go to him. I shall prepare myself for the evening's celebrations.” Then she drifted up a winding stone staircase and disappeared into the shadows above.
The dwarf leered at the young woman. He wore a black conical cap with a silk turban as large as a big pumpkin twisted around its base, and very baggy silk breeches held up by a broad silk sash. All the servants of Azrazôr wore articles fashioned from this costly material; even the cook entered his presence only in Hamâti brocade. “Inzibêl, is it now?” he said. “Well, well! - a proper Adûnaic name for a proper lady. Once regaled in proper clothing and jewels, you will be even more lovely, our future queen. Do not look so worried! You are in the best of hands. Don’t you know who I am? I am Duzir, the household drudge. I do everything here, I see everything, I know everything-”
At that moment Azrazôr put his book down and angrily called out to his aunt to come at once.
“Hurry along, girl! Do not keep the King waiting!” Duzir guided her through a pair of tall polished doors. “The maiden Inzibêl of Gondor,” he announced in a loud baritone. She found herself standing in another expansive room. The walls were completely covered from floor to ceiling bookcases. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed the bindings were printed in a language she did not recognize.
In the center of the floor was a carpet heaped with cushions upon which a fair-haired man reclined in careless splendor. He was clad in a loose robe of sky blue silk and on his chest rested a massive gold chain, bearing the emblem of a triple-pointed crown, each peak punctuated by a brilliant white stone. Originally the pendant was delicately wrought in the shape of a tree with seven stones of adamant, forged by master smiths who learned their trade from the Noldor in the early centuries of the Second Age. When the Shadow fell over Númenór, the pendant was crumpled up, its stones divided, and reforged amidst the smoke of the Great Temple as a gift for a high-ranking priest. How the relic survived the Downfall of Númenór was unknown.
“My Lord,” she murmured with a low curtsey, her heart beating fast.
Azrazôr locked his gaze onto hers. She appeared to be only fifteen or sixteen years of age, small breasted and slight of figure, her complexion a luminous pink and white, her nose small and up-turned. A last ray of fading sunlight filtered through a high latticed window, catching the fine hairs along her brow, turning the dark strands into a honey-gold halo. Two thin eyebrows that looked as if they were drawn on with chalk, so white they were, blended into the pallid skin over her large dove-grey eyes and had the effect of making her look perpetually surprised.
Several agonizing minutes passed before he addressed her. “Sit,” he said at last, beckoning to a cushion beside him. Sweetened wine was poured into gold-trimmed cups, and with a sharp nod Duzir was dismissed. The dwarf quickly pulled the doors shut behind him.
“Pray, fair lady, unfold the tapestry of thy life and lineage,” said Azrazôr, each word carefully enunciated. His voice was cultured, deep, and measured. He would not stumble over the foreign tongue; over the past few months he had studied it, conquered it.
Inzibêl took a small taste of the wine and smiled faintly to show her thanks and appreciation of his courtesy. “I am the youngest child of a minor lord from Lossarnach. It is lovely there,” she murmured. “The roses grow everywhere. The land is renowned for its vast vineyards and orchards. Here it is very hot…” Her voice trailed into a faint whisper. “I - I am sorry. My tongue falters. I have not spoken of home in quite some time.”
“Thou art the very mirror of thy name, Lady Inzibêl. We trust this newly-bestowed name content thee as much as it pleases us. Wherefore didst thou depart from Lossarnach? Speak thy reply with measure, lest thy meaning be misconstrued.”
“As you are no doubt aware, Sire, our father departed this life burdened by debt, leaving us no choice but to surrender the meager remains of our estate.”
“Know that a King’s sight pierces even the deepest shadow of thy game,” he warned.
The maiden formerly known as Ivoriel blanched. “My Lord, I must object - “ she started to say, then sensing it was no use, lowered her gaze to the floor.
“Thy face is more truthful than thy tongue. Whose brain hatched this treachery? Speak!”
To her horror and astonishment she felt a cold pressure in the back of her throat seize her tongue and her jaw began to move as if pulled by some unseen force. Her voice sounded strangely distant to her ears as she stammered out that it was her brother’s idea to pose as distant kindred to Prince Imrahil. But Azrazôr was not yet satisfied. The pressure increased. More words were wrenched out, laying bare their desperate plan to find her a rich husband to settle not only her brother’s mounting gambling debts, but to pay off certain favors that had already begun to draw the eye of the Tower Guard. The squeezing on her throat finally eased, leaving her gasping and humiliated, the full extent of her brother’s ruinous scheming now laid bare.
His cold eyes remained fixed on the quickened pulse at her neck. “It seems thy brother hath bartered thee for a pittance,” he said in an almost offhand manner. “Now we must weigh the doom of that crafty son of Gondor and his luckless sister.”
There was no trace of Elvish heritage in the girl, proving that Aunt Zairaphel’s mind was finally failing her. Yet rather than being angered by the deception, Azrazôr was secretly pleased. Bold ambition in the face of adversity was a quality he appreciated. “Despite thy perfidy, thy presence shall afford us much delight. Repair now to thy chamber and array thyself for tonight’s revelry.” The maiden’s breath caught in her throat. For several heartbeats she simply stared; then the double doors silently swung open, and scrambling to her feet, she fled the library as if pursued by a ghost.
“She has no eyebrows!” said the dwarf upon re-entering the room. “Was the girl born without them, or were they burned off?”
“She is full of beauty - and fear.”
“Who wouldn’t be fearful, coming here as a complete stranger and meeting you in this gloomy dark room?”
“Ensure the great hall is ready by sunset. Inzibêl is to have every luxury, but she is not to leave this place without my leave.”
She was young, brave - to a point, and steadfastly devoted to her brother, for the present. She would soon cleave to him instead. Behind those large grey eyes lay a keen intelligence that would prove useful in future days. It may not be the most noble match, he reflected, but if he married a Gondorian woman, and one thought to be descended from the Elvish strain, it might provide a strategic advantage later. Moreover, the next northern wench his aunt caught in her clutches might not be as well-favored. Very well, he decided, he would say nothing about it. He would take pretty Inzibêl to wife, and build a palace of white marble with a rose garden to rival those of Lossarnach. On the morrow he would deal with her conniving brother Arnoldir.
