Khahaynd thought about Zairaphel and her frequent mentioning of handsome men; clearly that was her weakness on full display, and she wondered briefly if her brother Naraal was handsome enough to hold the Sorceress's favor, so that she could gain something by it. “You have a traitor to Prince Imrahil?” she said to her, raising her glass of wine in silent congratulation. “That is most unusual and useful.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes more, then Duzir was back with another tray, this one heaped with loaves of a fine-grained bread, slices of cold beef, and a pale yellow cheese.
“Did you prepare all of this, Duzir?” asked Khahaynd, wanting to know more of the dwarf’s capabilities and loyalty to his Mistress.
The dwarf nodded with a distracted air, his mind seemingly concentrated on his task as he portioned out food.
“My, what an asset you are!”
Duzir grinned a mirthless, yellow-toothed grin at the woman - it was not very friendly or wholesome; however, Khahaynd the Sorceress remained undaunted, and pressed on, saying, “I have eaten some exquisite food in my time, but this is like eating with the Royal Court. Ah, but of course you are the Royal Cook here!” and saw his little eyes narrow into a piggy squint as he poured more wine into the women’s glasses.
The High Sorceress sniffed it, wrinkling her nose, and said, “Alas! This sea-water and vinegar concoction must suffice until we return home.”
“Of course, Lady Zairaphel. Here we must make do or do without. I must say that I am amazed at this little oasis that you have created here; Angmar is not the most hospitable location.” As Khahaynd spoke her attention was on Duzir as he gazed at the swallowing motions of Zairaphel’s white throat.
“I grow tired of salted beef,” she complained.
Immediately Duzir picked up the platter and hurried away with it, soon returning with a steaming dish of what looked like chicken.
“How I long for some fresh figs,” Zairaphel sighed, “or a dish of crispy fried scorpions, or roasted heart of lion grated over palm shoots and rice.”
Making a swift glance towards the room where Zir kept watch, Khahaynd was thankful it had not been ‘heart of panther’. “You have dwelt here long, Lady?” inquired Khahaynd. “There was little talk of you in the Great City this past year.”
“I have been here long enough.” Then the Sorceress asked, “Tell me, what do Elves like to eat, Duzir?”
“Hmmm,” said the dwarf, halting in place and stroking his beard. Zairaphel considered Duzir an unimpeachable authority on Elves (and all other persons that were not distinctly Mannish).
“I have heard some say they only eat plants,” Khahaynd suggested, adding, “although there are several mentions in lore of the Elves’ love of hunting.”
Duzir’s eyes flashed with malevolence. “Yes, the Elves are notorious hunters with hoity-toity tastes,” he said. “Roasted peacock and swans’ necks, and a certain moss that grows in the highest treetops: that is what Elves like to eat.”
Zairaphel giggled behind her hand. “But we have none of that here! I suppose they will have to eat salted beef and boiled ash-crawler, the same as us.”
“They also eat bread,” said Duzir, and continued serving, tossing a few pieces of this upon their plates as he stumped around the table.
“I have heard tales of their wondrous elven bread, made from corn with a special virtue.”
“Oh, yes, Lady Zairaphel,” Khahaynd agreed. “My old tutor told me of the Elves’ magic waybread. It keeps you full for days upon end.”
“Then we will ask them how it is made, and whence we may obtain this magic corn. My nephew will find it very useful to feed his herds of slaves; they are always clamouring for more food to stuff their bellies, he tells me.”
The Black-Dwarf could not believe what he was hearing. “Bah!” he snarled. “I tell you again that the Elves will not give up their secrets!” How many times must he say it?
His mistress pushed her red lower lip out in a sulky pout. “They will tell me,” she declared. To this Duzir said nothing, only raising his eyebrows, which made his small malicious eyes a little more visible, but not much.
Khahaynd nodded in sanguine approval, by all appearances eager to please her mistress, and said, “I am certain that with the right sort of encouragement, most of their secrets will be freely shared. If we know what they want in their hearts, what they desire, and what they fear, nothing will stop us!”
“And we know how to encourage hearts, do we not, Khahaynd?” Zairaphel tittered. “It may take some time, but Elves have all the time in the world! Yet,” she added, growing more serious, “we, on the other hand, do not. That is why we must be ready for their imminent arrival.”
“Where is King Azrazôr?” Duzir asked. The women turned their attention back to him, their thoughts shaken from schemes of dominating elven hearts and minds, and frowned at the interruption.
“My nephew said that he was going to pay those pesky witch-priests of Câr Bronach a long overdue visit. Are all the bags packed?”
“All is ready, Lady.”
"I, too, am ready for the Elves’ arrival, Lady Zairaphel. Tell me your bidding and I shall accomplish it,” said Khahaynd. As she munched on bread and cheese, she was astonished to hear that dissent was rife within the group of Men who had captured the Elves, and that their numbers could be counted on one hand.
“Now they are incapable of killing a single Elf, let alone the three mighty ones that pursue them,” Zairaphel concluded.
“Fools! Do they not know that their strength lies in numbers? Useless Men! Why do they fight each other?”
“I know not why. I can only feel their strife; some strange power of the Elves is at work; it is evident that the Men have bitten off more than they can chew! Perhaps an elf-curse has been laid upon them.”
Khahaynd grew thoughtful. “I have been taught, though I know not the truth of it, that much Elven 'magic' is not magic at all,” she said. “As you are well aware, their 'magic' is often a craft of a more material kind, such as their waybread, or their fabled Rings of Power.”
That might explain it: the Men quarreled over cursed treasure. Turning to Duzir the High Sorceress said, “Anything the Elves have brought will be left behind. Search the Men for spoils before we send them off to meet my nephew. Very soon Captain Naraal and his handsome second-mate Balkumagan will arrive. There is another one among them with golden eyes,” she crooned out, her eyes half-closed. A tall good-looking dark-skinned Umbari had appeared in her dreams, and he cut a dashing figure.
“Is he one of ours, Lady?” asked Khahaynd.
“Oh, yes! He will come along with us as well.”
“Does the King know of this plan?” said the dwarf.
“My nephew has many concerns, Duzir, but he will agree that these Elves are of the greatest importance to his reign,” was Zairaphel’s reply, and she decided to change the subject. “Now eat hearty! We must gird ourselves for the long road ahead.”
After the meal was finished, the two conniving women retired to Zairaphel’s chambers above. These were more sparsely furnished than downstairs, only containing a bed and a desk cluttered with papers. In a small room beyond stood a table covered with various bottles and vials. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Khahaynd noticed an old wooden cradle in a shadowy corner beside the bed, but before she could ask about it, Zairaphel spoke:
“There will be no need for illusions on the road as we travel through the little lands. Save your strength for the long road ahead.”
“Only Gondor and Rohan are dangerous to us. The Breelands are but an afterthought, and the villages of Cardolan offer little challenge.”
“Exactly! Then you guess correctly that we take the Southern Greenway.”
Khahaynd looked up at this news with a shrewd expression. “So we do not dwell for long in these uncivilised lands? I will willingly go where you order, Lady, but my heart is lightened that I shall not be away from home for too long.”
Zairaphel’s attention was focused on the stack of documents. Selecting one, she showed it to Khahaynd. “Here is our royal bloodline, stretching all the way back to Castamir, Lord of Ships.”
Khahaynd nodded as she peered at the finely detailed chart.
“Do you see that mark of the tree with the seven stars in the corner? That is the official stamp of the documents filed in the historical archives in Gondor.”
“The Steward wishes this was forgotten!” exclaimed Khahaynd.
“Of course he does! He knows the truth of things but refuses to acknowledge it because he stands too much to lose.” She took up another paper, also stamped with the same wax seal. “And here is big handsome Arnoldir's line,” she said.
“Ah, the Swan Knight,” Khahaynd said, looking from one chart to the other.
“Yes. And as you know, my nephew remains unmarried, because he needs a queen worthy of him from the purest descendents.”
“Such is a rare find nowadays.”
“Our bloodline has petered out, much like a sickly, frail plant, so we must carefully cultivate it and nurse the tender blossom. That is why we must look outside the usual families, to others. From what I know, Elven Women are useless for this purpose. They demand love to bear offspring, can you believe it? So then I wondered if there was some way to distill the essence of the elvish strain, and use it to lengthen the span of years allotted to us: there are two ways we could try this.”
“It is quite true that Elven women would rather die rather than be taken against their will.”
“But what about the Elven men? Are their hearts made of stone?”
Khahaynd gasped. “Would you beget a child with an Elf?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Zairaphel, throwing her head back and showing twin rows of perfectly white teeth. “Me! Ha! Ha! Oh no! It must be another. That one,” she said, pointing at the name beside Arnoldir's on the line of descent.
Khahaynd squinted and read the name written in very small print: ‘Ivoriel’, his sister.
“My big strong Arnoldir will bring her to me. He is not a direct descendant, but it is the best we can do; and as for the elf-woman, we will take her and study her.”
“Elven blood is powerful; it does not hide itself, though a mortal ancestor dilutes the undying aspect,” observed Khahaynd.
“Yes! We will see what power the elf woman's blood will yield: it surely will enhance our potions of longevity, and imbue them with greater strength!”
“Do you know much about her, Lady? Is she one who succumbs to tinctures or goading of thought?”
“I know that she is of high blood with a firm will. But the other Elf they bring to us! Why, I will have you know that he is no less than the High Lord of the Noldor!” Zairaphel announced, exultant. It was hard to peek in upon any Elf’s dreams or sense their thoughts, but what little she could glimpse pleased her immensely - in her mind’s eye his form seemed to dilate so that he was of towering height, and his hair was black and glossy silver, and hid his face in negligent, graceful waves, but she imagined that as she peeked in upon him while he slept, he smiled with seductive pleasure.
“The Noldor are a force to be reckoned with," said Khahaynd. "If we have their High Lord, why, we could gain control over them!”
“Control? No, the Elven King will sire a queen for us! And his progeny will wed my nephew.”
“It is a worthy plan, Mistress,” said Khahaynd, her face expressionless except for her half-smile.
“'You and I have much work ahead to ensure the High Lord is willing. We have our ways, do we not? Are we not the most persuasive of women, when we want something?” She turned to the dwarf, who was standing in his usual place behind her chair listening to every word. “We have our ways, do we not?” she said again to Duzir.
He leered at the two enchantresses, and said that many a proud man has fallen victim to a woman’s irresistible beauty and become lost in the frenetic mazey ways of love, no matter how proud, noble or firm of heart, and if the Elf King knew what was good for him, he would learn to kiss the serpent.
“Serpent, indeed!” snapped Zairaphel, failing to appreciate the metaphor. “Go see to Mistress Khahaynd's comfort. Show her the ways of the house.”
Duzir gave her a sharp glance. “All of them?”
Zairaphel nodded and smiled sweetly. “All of them. Then return here: I want my braids uncombed.”
“As you command, Mistress.”
