Denethor had guarded the thought all day. He had not told anyone of his intention to look into the Anor-stone again tonight, not even to Parthadan, who was one of the very few people who knew of Denethor’s habit of consulting with the Seeing-stone on occasion. Parthadan had been dour as usual when he had come to see Denethor this morning to discuss their mutual problem.
”Why are you still so obsessed about Imladris?” Denethor had asked. ”What about Sauron’s army in Dol Guldur? Have you sent spies to Mirkwood to find out more about it?”
”No, my Lord. I cannot send anyone into Mirkwood. Not if I expect them to return.”
”And you can’t really send anyone into Imladris either. You already sent one elf, and he never returned. Then what good are you?” Denethor’s own nerves were on edge. The months since the palantír had started acting up on him had cost him his peace of mind.
”My Lord”, Parthadan had replied, folding his colorless fingers together in a vague imitation of sincerity. ”The question is why the Anor-stone has been sending you these visions over the past six months. And who’s responsible for sending them? If it is Sauron, his purpose is likely to deceive and obfuscate. Obviously someone is expecting us to react in some way, but how do we know we aren’t playing straight into Sauron’s hand by reacting to the visions, no matter what we do?”
”If it is Sauron, yes. But what if it’s someone or something else? I need to know who is sending those visions.”
Denethor had stopped speaking then and stared at Parthadan with clouded, unseeing eyes. In his mind he was no longer in the vast, cold Hall of the Kings beneath the White Tower of Ecthelion. He was in the uppermost story of the tower itself, staring into the depths of the dark orb that was kept there in a room only Denethor could enter.
”My Lord? Are you all right?”
Denethor had snapped back into the present, gotten up from his unadorned chair of black stone and pulled his cloak around him tighter. It was always cold in the Hall of the Kings. Denethor had smiled at Parthadan then. It was so rare to see the Steward smiling that Parthadan was startled by it and staggered back a step as if Denethor had struck him.
”Yes. I am all right. And this meeting is now adjourned. Dismissed!”
He had spent the rest of the day holding court for several kinds of ambassadors from the fiefs, noblemen and knights, receiving news from all sorts of places both within and without Gondor and arranging what should be done about them. He had promised to solve some matters, forbidden unreasonable requests, accorded favors and signed letters with his own hand. Late in the afternoon he had withdrawn and retired to his own chambers and given the Citadel Guards instructions that he would not be disturbed for the rest of the day.
And now, finally alone in his private chambers Denethor turned, slowly and almost reluctantly, and started up the spiral staircase to the upper levels of the White Tower. His dark and gray robes were unsoiled by the day’s work, his graying beard and hair was perfectly groomed, his stern, chiselled features like carved in marble. He knew what he wanted the palantír to show him now, finally, after six months of frustration. This time he would get some answers.
The ascend to the uppermost story of the White Tower was long, but he did not feel tired when he got there. His step was light on the polished marble floor. He passed a Citadel Guard and nodded to him as he passed him by. He passed more Citadel Guards standing before more locked doors until he found the one he was looking for.
He unlocked the door, opened it and stepped inside the dark, secret chamber. There, on a stand made of black stone stood the dark, smooth palantír – the Anor-stone, his all-seeing eye of stone. Denethor climbed on the dais, walked over to the stand and bent deeply before it, staring into the orb.
For a few minutes nothing happened. The orb was dark, pitch-black like oil; starlight shimmering on it’s surface. Then the very air around him seemed to tense and stop moving. Something stirred somewhere deep inside the stone, a faint glimmer that captured Denethor’s gaze so that he could not avert his eyes. Soon it was like the inside of the orb was burning. Flickering lights were churning and rotating in it’s core. Suddenly the lights disappeared.
Denethor reached out his hands and squeezed the orb with both hands. He felt like he was floating upwards. He could not feel his hands.
I have to fight this, he thought, I should never have…
And then he saw it: walls and battlements, a black tower of stone standing impossibly tall against the starless night sky. But there was light, a red orb like a monstrous eye between the two pinnacles on top of the tower. He stared into the red eye.
And slowly, the eye turned to gaze upon him.
