The ride had taken two more weeks. Fortunately a considerable amount of time had been through uninhabited lands, so she had not had to use any energy in maintaining an illusion. She had followed the south road, through Enedwaith, and across the Gwathlo at Tharbad and on to Herne. She knew from that time forward the roads would be busier, she would need the best illusions she could muster.
So upon arriving at Herne she was again the bent, white haired old woman, Tarhi a worn old pack horse, and Zir a hoary old wolfhound. There was the usual meeting with a villager, all arranged by another of the Lady’s servants. This was Heliabel, who was one of the village herbalists. She had something of an aristocratic look, at least for her people, being tall and slightly cadaverous, with grey eyes and thick brown hair, pulled back in a bun. Her expression from the start was one that would brook no disagreements. Indeed, she held very little human emotion.
It mattered not. They both served the same Mistress, and ultimately the same Lord.
Heliabel ushered Tarhi and Zir into her small stable, ordering a young girl with curly hair, no more than seven years of age, to feed and water the ‘animals’.
And Khahaynd had caught the dog-formed Zir blink at her in disbelief. ‘Does she not know what I am?’ he said in her mind. “‘’Tis but for one night,’ she thought back, though truly she was disappointed by the woman’s lack of regard.
There was basic courtesy and hospitality only. No sisterly-like talks, no discussion of skills or news.
“I have been ordered to feed you and provide a room for the night. No more, no less,” Heliabel had addressed her, and swatted the young girl round the ear for taking too long to bring her supper. “Your next stop will be in Bree. Enter by the South Gate and ride past the Auction House and stable yard. There is a lane winding uphill on the left. Ask for Calla Thornley.”
That was it. No more was said.
Stepping through the door to the room Heliabel had indicated, Khahaynd was surprised to find it a bright and airy space. There was the scent of dried lavender, and some dried flowers in a couple of clear glass vases. A thick, red rug covered the wooden floorboards, and a meticulously clean double bed with fresh laundered coverings was facing the large window. But it was to the wash stand and a pitcher of water she went first.
Tossing her travelling cloak onto the bed, Khahaynd poured water into the basin, as she lowered her disguise. She luxuriated in being herself again, even as she heard squeals and snorting from the stables nearby, as Zir took on his true form. She congratulated herself. It was harder to fool animals with illusions, and those horses had thought they shared accommodation with a hound.
Khahaynd laughed with amusement. ‘Make no mischief, Zir,’ she thought to the great cat. ‘We move on at dawn, and Bree is our last stop.’
She rolled up the sleeves of her gown and took up the new bar of soap on the table, making a fine and foaming lather to wash her face, arms and hands. It felt good to be able to relax.
The bed was not too soft, nor too firm, so she kicked off her dusty boots and settled herself for a short rest. Despite the lack of courtesies, Heliabel had left a tall glass of some sort or cordial by the bed.
Khayand took up the glass and sniffed at the contents, just in case. It smelt like elderflower, with just a hint of something else. Rose, she suspected. It quenched her thirst and cooled her down. Delightful, she thought, as she rested on the hop filled pillow.
And her thoughts were away as fireflies on a night breeze. Part dream, part memory took hold of her.
~ ~ ~
The Lady Zairaphel was speaking: ‘You called on our Lord for deliverance from the trammels of your past life. Now that you are called, you must set firm footing on your path to Him. Learn well, and focus your thought on achieving His will.”
Narryd (Khahaynd’s birth name) was still weak from her recent experience, both her parent’s betrayal of her, and her choice of death rather than arranged marriage, but the Sorceress knew that. She was encouraging but implacable: her words purposed to seal the young girl’s declaration into a lifelong dedication.
“My life is in Sauron’s hands,” she had called out, as she threw herself off the cliff top to certain death on the rocks below.
Only he had answered. He had taken her at her word.
Her memories were vague. She recalled the feeling of the wind blowing out her cloak, the air becoming buoyant almost as if it had changed element to become supporting as the Sea. The rocks were there below her, but she was not falling. There was a dark fire about her, a sense of being completely drained of all will and purpose. She shuddered in terror.
“Show me your hatred,” he had said. “Show me what caused your action, and I shall show you how to remove your pain.”
Suspended mere feet above the rocks, and then surrounded by crashing waves that hid her from sight of any above, she was powerless to resist. Powerless to utter even a word. She was battered about, as if a struggle was going on for her between waves and the dark fire.
Hate was a strong word. But she was full of hate, and she summoned all she could to as an offering to him, dredging up even minor memories of the preferential treatment her brother Naraal had been given. She had been accounted as naught by family, yet at that moment a god was listening to her.
“I hate Arnuzir, who sought to buy me. No love has he for any, only lust and desire to possess. I hate my parents for selling me to him, and my brother for doing naught to protect me. I hate being considered of no value, save as a bargaining chip.”
“You hate your family?” he had asked, in an amused tone that suggested he well knew the answer.
Narryd had thought again on her words, but only for an instant. “Yes, mighty Lord Sauron. If they can sell me to an old and ugly man to heighten their status, then I curse them all! May my loss be but the first they endure! May they lose my useless brother, their business, home, status, before they meet a miserable end - I shall have no pity.”
And she had felt wrapped in approval. Not something warm and comforting, like a thick coverlet on a cold night, rather something exhilarating, and elevating, justifying her desires. It was as if she was back on the cliff top, but knew she had the power to fly to the stars. The waves abated and she was indeed on some mountain peak, looking down upon Arda.
“Sufficient,” he said without feeling, then “But you have not told me everything.”
“I would slay Arnzir by my own hand” She stretched up her arms as if she would pluck the stars from the heavens, as trinkets to adorn herself with. “These past months he has watched me in the gardens, commanded me to dance for him, prodded and poked me as if I was some prize mare. I am too good for him, and he does not see it. I would have him at my mercy, as he would have had me at his. I would kill him slowly so that he begs for death. But I shall have no pity.”
There was no response, and she wondered if she had said too much. Then slowly a different warmth spread over her, and she relaxed as she felt a wave of amusement flood over her almost as a lover’s caress. She began to realise what was being offered to her.
“I am untrained, Mighty Lord, save my Mother’s kin in the deep South were ever your servants. My will is strong, but my body is not. You have saved my life for a purpose I deem. Teach me, I beg of you, what I need to know to curse and slay?”
For a fleeting moment it seemed she caught his aspect in the rarefied air. He towered over all creation, nigh all-powerful, she was less than a gnat to him. But he seemed pleased with her, for that instant he was pleased. She dreaded to think what might happen if he were not.
Fingers snapped in her face. “Attend to me,” said Zairaphel. Narryd found herself once more in the darkened room full of overstuffed cushions and soft rugs. The two women were seated beside a large iron fireplace. The blaze played strange tricks on the wall around them, making the shadows jump and contort in a grotesque dance.
“As the earth drinks in the rain and bears herbs useful for those who cultivate them, so you must drink in our Lord’s power and bear that which is useful to Him. I see your heart, and that you have fled for refuge by giving away that which you wished to take back, and now you are bound fast by an immutable oath. In return you have been blessed, and have his favour, protection, and counsel, offered through me. I see your heart and its desire for revenge, fed from righteous anger; while you may have the will to act, the skill is beyond you, and your burning flame will soon extinguish and your dreams of retribution shall be put to death - but I will teach you.”
“Thank you, my Lady,” she had managed to utter as she tried to ground herself in the moment. “But why me?”
Firelight played over the Sorceress’ face, and showed a curving smile that made her face even more beautiful, but it did not bring any warmth to her eyes. She was cold, queenly, wearing a dress of white silk shot with silver thread, and her skin was white as a lily.
“Why not you?” was the cryptic reply.
Narryd felt her head still swimming as Zairaphel passed her a goblet of something like elderflower cordial.
“Drink this, it will aid sleep. When you are refreshed the servants will bathe and garb you in preparation for your novitiate role in the Order. You shall be presented officially to our Lord at the next Dark Moon. There is much to learn before then, and you must choose a companion.”
“A companion? I am to study with a friend?"
“Drink,” ordered Zairaphel.
~ ~ ~
Zir was yowling in the distance. He was throwing himself against the stable door. He was driving the horses at the door, Tahri assisting him. She tried to send her thoughts to him. What was wrong? She tried to open her eyes, move her head. Nothing! It was as if her body was not her own.
~ ~ ~
She was in a large room with a vaulted ceiling and red painted walls. The sign of the All-Seeing eye hung over a raised dais at the front. There were several rows of lush and ornate chairs, and on them sat mostly members of the Church, garbed in black. Some wore ceremonial masks. Under their hoods or veils, Narryd could make out some faces she recognised from the city. There were a few of Zairaphel’s serving women, and a couple of men she had seen as officiating Priests of The Eye. There were also half a dozen other younger folk. The girls were dressed like her, wearing flowing scarlet silks with a gold slave bangle round their left ankles. The boys, young men rather, for they seemed to be older than the girls, wore black robes, but also had gold slave anklets.
An imperious looking woman stood, glided to the forefront and mounted the dais. Her long hair, a dark auburn colour, as was Narryd’s, was adorned in golden ‘flames’, and her long black gown was also embroidered with golden flames. All stood and bowed to her. Narryd noticed the dark expression on Zairaphel’s face, and understood that the auburn haired woman would not be alive for much longer.
The thought that she would have to be as wary of others of the Church as those who were not, crossed her mind, but her Lady touched her arm. “Fear not. Choose well,” she whispered.
Narryd was fourth in the line with a clear view of what was transpiring. The black gowned official beckoned to each of the would-be novices and then asked if she or he would serve Lord Sauron. After an affirming reply (who in that place would say ‘no’?) the novice was told to walk before a large oval mirror. Various forms appeared, phantasms from a dark grey mist, ranging from an elderly wise-woman to a small curly haired child, then shifted to an elf, then to a bear and then to a snake. That is all they were, illusions, crying of starvation to be given solid form. The initiate was told to choose which one they would have as a guide and companion. Once chosen, the Spirit possessed image stepped out of the mirror and was living and breathing. A guide, a guardian, a teacher. The first, a boy, chose a snake. Easy to carry, easy to hide. The second boy chose an elf, (Though she knew nothing much about Elves, she thought that one was exceptionally ugly of feature and form, little knowing that it was a pale imitation of the actual creatures) The girl before her chose the child, whose cruel and conniving features were the most unconvincing of all, and then it was her turn.
She had already determined to choose an animal, the human and elven forms seeming to lack subtlety, but what sort of animal?
Looking in the mirror, Narryd watched the mists swirl aside to reveal a Dwarf, male or female she knew not. The Dwarf grinned, showing broken and crooked teeth, its pale hair and beard braided and ornamented with what looked like finger bones.
She shook her head. A staunch protector most likely, but not as easy to explain to others in Umbar as she wished. (She did wonder about the boy with the Elf?)
The next was a youth. Her heart was in her throat. He was very beautiful to look upon, glistening olive skin, a mane of dark hair and a trimmed but well grown beard. Golden eyes twinkled at her…a well-muscled arm twitched forward…but…she saw through him, and waved him away. Golden eyes, full of possessiveness, a fair but downward twisted mouth, and an attitude that he would be in command. No, a million times no!
And then there was something small and black. So small it was that she thought perhaps it was a joke. But then it turned from its side of the mirror, and she realised it was a cub, a small panther cub. It looked at her and yowled. The sound echoed through her. She held the creature's gaze, or it held hers, and she saw it as a huge and terrible beast, yet loyal without measure to one whose intelligence it admired. She knew beyond doubt this was the one, and beckoned the cub forward.
Of a sudden there was a clamour in the audience. Narryd turned to see a black robed Man remove his gold mask and shout at the official, “She lives, she lives! What is this betrayal?”
Narryd gasped to see her would-be husband, Arnuzir, threatening those who tried to restrain him. He was calling slurs on the auburn haired official, and stating their Lord had given him his word.
Now at her knee, the black furred cub arched his back and spat at the man. Arnuzir was forcibly removed from the room by four other black robed men.
Later that evening, Zairaphel explained. Yes, Arnuzir was a member of the Church, and their Lord had blessed him with great wealth, even as his family and bloodline were in decline. But it seemed in the past year he had neglected certain duties and had complained about anyone appointed above him as if he were the Lord. Worse still, he had made plans without consulting his Master. He was out of favour, and was likely out of time.
“You see, it delights Lord Sauron to show you favour? He may well even let you deliver the killing blow,” Zairaphel said, another cold smile playing across her face.
~ ~
The killing blow?
Upon the bed Khahaynd struggled to move any muscle. She lay helpless and paralyzed, cursing her own stupidity. ‘Never trust anyone completely,’ Zairaphel had taught her. And tired as she was, she had let her guard down. She sensed rather than saw Heliabel by the foot of the bed, heard her chanting to hold stronger her poisons. Heard her call upon Lord Sauron?
And she smiled at the thought of her Master. It may not last forever, but for now she was one of his favoured ones.
At that moment the window exploded, wooden frame cracking and glass shattering, as the huge black cat leapt through. And she heard a young child giggle.
It was more than enough. She sat upright and gathered her will.
“Why?” she demanded of the cowering woman.
“It is my place to stand beside the Lady, not some dark Umbari woman,'” she cried out.”You try to usurp my place.” Then she saw the curly haired girl, giggling in the doorway. “Molly, do as you are told. Give me your power!”
The girl grinned and shook her head. “Never again, unappreciative one,” she replied in a voice as sweet as a nightingales'. “Zir has told me how we should be treated, and I break all bond with you.”
Narryd looked to the great panther, who seemed to have no real wounds from breaking through the glass. He rubbed his head against her affectionately, then walked over to the woman and pinned her to the ground.
“Break the bond, Molly,” Khahaynd said. “Be free.” And she sent forth her own power to ensure that happened. The cadaverous Heliabel appeared to fold in to her own open mouth, and her dusty remains were sucked into a gaping, much larger, barely visible mouth in the wall.
