“Northern merchants say that none are swifter than the wild horses of Râbâzayan. That is a lie. Fastest are the winds of vengeance, the same which bore Castamir south before Vinitharya's horsemen could seize him. He sailed to Umbar Baharbêl, where he was known by the name Balakhôr Ship-lord. When his ship sailed into the haven, bright as a pearl on the water, he was hailed by the northern sailors who had long swelled the ports of Umbar with their ships. Yet too he was attended by the folk of Umbar: porters, divers, and fishwives; sailmakers and shipwrights; urchins, hungry and unshod, who had lost their families to the cruel neglect of Castamir’s uncle, the indolent King Valacar. The crowds filled the wharves and rushed down from every ward of the city.
"Castamir's voice was buoyed by righteous indignation. 'People of Umbar! As the rightful king of all lands from Calenardhon to Ambarûl, I come to you not as a conqueror but as a kinsman. The builders of this great city—the men of drowned Anadûnê—were my forefathers as they are yours. How many times have I returned, retreading their steps and walking their great ship-yards? Umbar and her glories are close to my heart; ever it has pleased me to see her blue waters, the fairest in all the world, and her harbor filled with treasures and tall ships.'
"Yet we, who had long chafed beneath the yoke of Gondor, were not so easily persuaded until Castamir spoke of the doom which would befall us if we did not heed his words. ‘The northerner Vinitharya now sits upon the throne of Gondor. He spent his youth roaming the frigid wilderness of Râbazâyan in the company of savages and beasts. Now he declares his dominion over Umbar. If Vinitharya defeats me, he shall make Umbar a slave. Would you have northern barbarians descend upon the Fruitful Land like locusts? They shall strip this realm of its wealth—the yield of its forests, fields, and rivers—and leave it as barren as the lands whence they came.
"'I come to warn you of the Northron scourge,' said Castamir. 'I would that Umbar Baharbêl suffer no such plague; neither would I see her bent to serve Osgiliath. She should be the brightest jewel in Gondor's crown, unparalleled in all the world, and her people the wisest and wealthiest, suffering neither plague nor famine. Umbar will be free. But only a king can make such promises… and a king needs ships."
"News of Castamir's proposition swiftly spread throughout the city. Our forefathers were quick to join with Castamir’s host, raising their violet banners beside the Tree of Gondor. Together they sailed north to the havens of Pelargir, where Castamir had many friends, then upriver to where the armies of Vinitharya had gathered.
"Vinitharya had swelled his armies with Northern barbarians: shaggy, yellow-haired brutes. True to their reputation, they fought with the ferocity of cornered dogs. The rivers of Gondor ran red with Umbari blood that day, and seemingly for naught: Castamir was slain. His sons, however, survived the battle. Although Vinitharya’s wild-men followed them to Pelargir, they could not pursue the sons of Castamir back to Umbar, for they were bereft of ships.
"In time, Castamir’s promise was fulfilled. Umbar was declared free of Gondor a thousand years ago, never to be made a slave of the northern kings and their stewards again. Like countless lords of the West before them, Castamir and his sons have faded into legend. Is that so terrible? We have done quite well by ourselves without them.”
A smattering of applause rose from the children gathered at Imêna's feet as she swept into a bow. Most of the children were the heirs and apprentices of scholars and apothecaries, but one was the daughter of Minalkhôr, a great lord. Ûrikali clapped politely and tossed the storyteller a coin. Her mind was already wandering elsewhere.
“Sister!” She turned to see her brother Niluzîr standing in the shade of a gazebo. He wore a sly smile and the linen shirt and short breeches of a sailor. Ûrikali could imagine Mother scolding him for trying—and failing—to conceal his station. With sufficient gold, a petty merchant could shroud himself in silks, but no rags could hide what money could not buy: Niluzîr's proud nose; his noble brow; his eyes, gray as the Sea in storm, that were the birthright of the few families who could trace their ancestry back to the Lords of Anadûnê who had built the havens of Umbar thousands of years ago.
"Have you been here all this time?”
“No.” He grinned. “Finding you was no effort at all. Like a butterfly among moths, you could not hide if you tried."
Ûrikali felt the heat of the afternoon sun upon her face. "Of course I cannot hide. I do not make a habit of skulking around in peasants' clothes!" She shook her head. "You shall embarrass yourself, Niluzîr."
"Perhaps I shall. But will you not hear what your dear brother has to say first?" She did not object. "In my infinite generosity," he said, his eyes glimmering with amusement, "I thought I would tell you to come and join the others."
He caught her by surprise. Unlike the highborn maids whose mild company Mother and Father preferred for her, Niluzîr's friends were bold and curious, and dreamed of sailing to little-known shores. "Where are you going?"
Niluzîr lowered his voice to a whisper. "Kamrabezûr." Ûrikali had read of the Vaults, but had never been. The name had always been an odd euphemism for the empty courts and catacombs that lay buried beneath the Tor-Gardens. No sunlight touched the old coffers and the stone sarcophagi of lords and princes said to lie buried there. Yet if Niluzîr sensed her apprehension, he did not show it. "Isân will be there."
“What of your other friends?”
“Khelêx and Aphir will be there too, but I know you like Isân the best.”
Ûrikali wanted to curse him for knowing that the paper-merchant's daughter was her favorite. "If I just vanish from the Tor-gardens, Mother will be worried sick," she said limply.
Laughter bubbled in Niluzîr's voice. “I took care of that already! Never tell our mother that I have not been generous with you, phazânî.”
Even as she looked away to spare herself his look of satisfaction, Ûrikali found herself smiling. “Then bring me there.”
Taking her hand, her brother led her back through the Tor-gardens. Together they avoided the streets in favor of a narrow path that wound between the trees. The gardens were in full bloom, a riot of blossoming color. Yet as Ûrikali passed beneath the bowers, the sweet perfume floating on the air could not conceal the smell of burning parchment. From behind a curtain of wisteria, she spied what she had missed while Imêna was telling her story: an inquisitor of the All-Seeing Eye, his face half concealed by a bronze mask. Unmoving as stone, he watched as the harâph began to weave her next tale. Ûrikali felt her stomach twist as Niluzîr pulled her away.
When they were out of earshot of the inquisitor, Niluzîr spoke. “Imêna told it wrongly. She knows nothing of Castamir."
Ûrikali clucked her tongue. “Must all stories be historically correct? You have no appreciation for pageantry, Niluzîr! I found the addition of Balakhôr’s name rather inspired.”
Niluzîr scoffed. “I just wonder how much he paid her. She spins like a spider. Is every harâph in his pocket?”
“He wishes to build his own legend," said Ûrikali, tugging on Niluzîr's sleeve. "In that regard he is not so different from another man known to me."
“Balakhôr Ship-lord is not satisfied with wealth alone; he wishes to be famous. What else is new?" He shook his head.
Emerging from the bowers, they stepped into the shadow of a fountain from which no water flowed. Carved from lusterless black stone, the basin was a canker on the green. A sense of unease rose in Ûrikali's chest, its cold tendrils curling around her heart. "Do you see the fountain?" she asked, clutching Niluzîr's hand. "Birds rest in the trees around it, but none dare alight upon it. Why might that be?"
Her brother shook his head. “Perhaps they simply dislike it.”
“That cannot be the end of it,” she insisted. “There must be more…"
Her words quenched any hint of mirth in Niluzîr's eyes. "Those are dangerous words, Ûrikali." His countenance, once boyish, was grave as an old man's. “As curiosity can lead babes into the jaws of beasts, such folly makes corpses of wise Men." He squeezed her hand. "So let these wayward thoughts pass and come with me.”
Ûrikali knew better than to press the question. Yet as she followed Niluzîr away from the gardens in silence, she wondered why she had been denied the answers to the questions she had long sought in Dâr Tabib. Why had lesser students had been inducted into those mysteries which remained forbidden to her?
Niluzîr's path ended in an alley. Ûrikali watched as her brother reached out and felt along the wall like a sculptor examining his handiwork. His fingers stalled over an uneven edge in the stonework, revealing the contour of a hidden door. With a firm press of his palm, the door opened into the mouth of a passage to the Vaults. There were no stairs, only a single ladder whose thin rings vanished into the lightless depths.
Nimble as ever, Niluzîr climbed down before Ûrikali, flitting from one foothold to the next until he disappeared into the shadows below. Then it was her turn. Her heart hammered in her chest as she began the slow climb down into the catacombs. Ûrikali's hands trembled as she climbed; she wondered if, in her nervousness, she would dislodge the ladder and fall the rest of the way. Yet death remained nothing more than an idle wondering until she heard a creak.
"Niluzîr!" she cried. No one answered.
With no time to wait, Ûrikali descended into the Vaults, watching the last shaft of sunlight grow paler and weaker with each rung down into the darkness below.
