CHAPTER XXIX: The Sundering of the Istari

Pallando snarled between his teeth and grimaced. "Your persistence is irritating," he said, and I was rather taken aback with the notion that anyone should be annoyed with me. "Very well," he sighed in resignation, "since you have managed to pry secrets from even the Lord of the Moriquendi, who am I – a wayward pilgrim strayed from his journey -- to withhold that which no longer matters?" He made a futile gesture, a wave of abnegation. "There is no cost to me in any case, as such secrets lost their potency and privilege in another age. For who is now left to judge me?"

I replied that I knew neither who would judge him in the first place, nor what crimes he committed to require judgment in the second. He rolled his eyes and said, "I was merely speaking in general terms. Now, do not interrupt me further."

I sulked at the rebuke, but obeyed.

Pallando went on to recount the many great hunts in the East in the eldest of days as one of the vassals of Oromë, Lord of Forests, where their prey were fell creatures no longer of this world (save those that now perhaps slink and slither about in the darkest recesses and deepest pits, gnawing the very roots of the mountains – unknown and unnamed – abominations of the First Great Evil). From what I could see of his home in exile, this blustery series of caves on the verge of the world, Pallando still retained that hunting spirit, as there were pelts in profusion and his cutlery and tools were crafted of bone or horn. But on a time early in the First Age, when it was discovered that Elves and Men had taken up their abodes in Middle-earth, there was some sort of prohibition against the Valar and Maiar (those being Pallando's folk) setting foot again on the shores of this world. I do not know the reasons for this, nor did Pallando, annoyingly reticent even when telling his tale, expound on the origins of this self-invoked ban; yet he did intimate that many of his kin were dismayed at being forbidden from visiting their old haunts in Arda (or Ardan as the Dark Elves called it).

With naught now left to do, and fenced in by the constraints of Valinor, Pallando went into the service of Nienna, another of the Valar, and kinswoman of Mandos, Master of Fate and Keeper of the Halls of the Dead. In her house he learned the virtues of solitude (which explained to me the forsaken home he now kept), for Nienna lived alone and her windows look outward from the very walls at the brink of the world, from which vaults the fathomless canopy of the sky. Great was her wisdom, but never did Pallando stay long in Nienna's house, for he was restless; and although he loved the solitude, he could not attain the level of patience that lay at the heart of Nienna's teaching. Therefore, when a chance came to return to Arda and walk once again in the ancient forests he so loved, he quickly grasped the chance – although in retrospect, he claimed he did so for the wrong reasons.

And so it was that the Valar had decided to send an embassy to embattled Arda, which they had long neglected. For the Dark Lord Sauron had once again risen and vied with the Powers for dominion of the earth (based on my previous studies, I assume this to be somewhat after the War of the Last Alliance). But the Valar chose not to strive with force against force as they had in an earlier age against Morgoth, a war that rent asunder the very fabric of the earth. No, this time they chose a few emissaries to spark the resistance against Sauron's domination, to enliven the hearts of Men and Elves, and to act as beacons of hope in the coming storm.

Foremost among them, and the first chosen, was Curumo, he who was later named Saruman or Curunir, a formidable disciple of Aulë the Smith, as was Sauron once. It was believed by Aulë and others that Curumo could best combat Sauron, for his knowledge of crafting was deep, and he could divine the secret ways of the Dark Lord. Next, Oromë chose Alatar, a great hunter, quick to anger, and feared for his skill in bringing to bay the dark beasts that lurked in the primeval forests 'ere the rising of the sun and moon. Next to be chosen, and by Manwë the Sky Lord, was Olórin, who had many names in Arda, among them Mithrandir, Incánus and Gandalf. At first, Olórin was loathe to go on such a mission, for he felt it was beyond his strength; but duty was impressed upon him by Manwë, and Nienna, who knew well his full measure. Pallando, with whom he was acquainted during his time in the House of Nienna, considered Olórin to be a great soul, with a fortitude and strength hidden behind a humble mien. Yavanna, Queen of the Earth and of all living things, chose Aiwendil (or Radagast as he became known in this world), a lover of birds and beasts. Wroth was Curium at the choice of Aiwendil, and he spoke against him in council; but at the intercession of Olórin, who was Aiwendil's friend, and Yavanna, who wished her children, the olvar and kelvar, protected, the stern disciple of Aulë was overridden. Pallando was the last to be chosen ("an afterthought," he told me sadly), but he had striven long in council to be included among the emissaries, and used his influence with Oromë, and his ages-old friendship with Alatar, to turn the decision in his favor.

Thus was formed the Heren Istarion -- the Istari or wizards -- who came to Middle-earth cloaked in the habiliments of old but hale men, who aged not, or so slowly that mortals could not discern their advancing years. And the Istari traveled forth in Middle-earth and journeyed long amongst Elves and Men, learning their ways, and gathering allies for the coming conflict against Sauron. For many decades the Istari toiled together at their thankless task in the West of the World, but eventually need drove them to go their separate ways – the better to reach the greatest number of folk who might listen to their call: Gandalf journeyed to the far south, Radagast to Rhovanion, and Saruman, Alatar and Pallando to the furthest east. It was during that time that both Alatar and Pallando fell out of all reckoning in the West, but not so Saruman.

Now, Pallando was not yet aware of the mind of Saruman, for even in Valinor he was a closed book, and it was always said among his peers he kept close council; but the Blue Wizard (for each was known by the color of their robes) knew the inner workings of Alatar well enough. Great was Alatar's thirst for combat, and he had little use for words when direct action and the glory of battle beckoned; in fact, he began referring to himself with a new name now that he was in the East: Morinehtar, that is, Dark Slayer. It was during that time Pallando began to take notice of Saruman's subtle manipulation of Morinehtar, who fed his overweening pride as a master-of-hounds might feed scraps of meat to a hungry dog. Even Pallando found himself swayed, and often against his will, by the mellifluous overtures of Saruman. At times words would drip from Saruman's tongue like honey, reasonable and with a logic only a fool would debate. At other times, when reason did not suffice, and a fool indeed questioned his logic, Saruman's authority was towering; but even so it was without seeming malice, rather, as a father might chastise a wayward son, or a king upbraid an errant vassal. And as Alatar (or Morinehtar, rather) deferred more and more to the judgment of Saruman, he became increasingly condescending to Pallando, derisively referring to him as Rómestámo, which means "East-Helper", as if Pallando was naught but a mere servant to the greater powers that were Morinehtar and Saruman (or Saruman alone, although Morinehtar knew it not).

Yet there was little Pallando could do, save to remind his comrades of their mission, limiting their aims when they seemingly strayed from the path of reason. And to Pallando's mind, Saruman and Morinehtar's efforts eschewed the mandate given to them by the Valar, and became more a method of self-aggrandizement. By now, they had passed the great bastions of the East, the Orocarni Mountains, and were in the lands of the Far East proper, where no Elf or Man of the West had set foot for ages, and none but the Dark Elves or Dwarves of the Blacklock clan could recount any dealings with the West. Pallando thought it natural to make accords with the Dark Elves and Blacklocks, seeing in them the strength of their sundered cousins in the West, and upon this firm foundation build further alliances eastward; however, Saruman (and as ever Morinehtar was of like mind) strove to bring to heel the restless nomads, the ignorant horsemen of the plains, playing on their fears and superstitions with grand deceptions and wise-seeming words.

Instead of alliances, Saruman and Morinehtar would have these mean folk build altars, rather than teaching statecraft, they required sacrifice, and in place of friendship, Saruman and his martinet marionette Morinehtar through fear fashioned foes against which they could target the restless and violent energies of their vassal tribes. But Pallando became less and less inclined to be daunted by Saruman's suave domineering as the gulf between what Pallando perceived to be the Istari's mission and the competing agenda of other two wizards became more pronounced; but Pallando, ever on guard as he was against Saruman's machinations, had not counted on the abominable perfidy of Saruman, who had previously hidden with fair dissembling his true intentions. The break came at last on the sere verge of the Roaring Waste.

After a particularly heated argument between Pallando and Saruman, there came a cold pause, a passage of several days in which not a word passed between the two. Shunned, Pallando found himself riding ever farther and farther behind Saruman and Mohrinehtar, who spoke to each other in low, conspiratorial whispers, their voices masked by the incessant hiss of desert wind driven across aimless sand. Then came a night of storm, and a virulent and seething blast of flaying sand engulfed the three Istari. But Saruman rose from the leeside of a great dune against which they were sheltering, and it seemed to Pallando that Saruman was unaffected by the buffeting wind, which roared around and over him but touched him not; in fact, to Pallando's eyes Saruman towered above the storm, encapsulated in a fiery glow. At his right hand stood Morinehtar leaning heavily against his staff, his wincing face pale and haggard, as if the spectral light emanating from Saruman offered little protection for his fawning acolyte.

"Pallando, I will have your staff!" Saruman's fell voice loomed large above the howl of the wind, or perhaps his command was driven by the storm itself, which smote Pallando like a bolt.

"So, it has come to this!" Pallando gasped, his words barely audible through the shrieking savagery of the blistering torrent.

"Yes, it has come, fool!" Saruman mocked. "I have no longer the patience for your pitiful and contrary notions -- your goodly-seeming but misplaced piety. Can you not see that the rabble you strive to unite are mere chattel -- pawns in a lofty game played by greater minds? They shall not be proof against the coming storm!"

"You must be blind, Saruman, for the storm is upon us," Pallando bit back; "although I see clearly you have chosen to ride its coat-tails."

Pallando felt a tug on his staff as if by unseen hands, and he grasped it fervently, his only anchor in a sea of swarming sand. Then Saruman laughed, a cold and calculating cackle as devoid of humor as the desert was dry. The laughter did not die away, it still echoed tauntingly in Pallando's mind as Saruman struck again, his voice grown haughty and cruel. "Mighty Pallando, last of the Istari," Saruman jeered, "do not speak of coat-tails, for it was you who rode here bound by the will of greater spirits. Unworthy Pallando, least of the Istari, begging his way to Middle-earth on the whim of a friend."

Saruman's envenomed words were a vicious slap to Pallando. He could not reply. He was wavering. It was true, he knew himself to be the least of his comrades, and he had pleaded for a chance to leave the confines of Valinor. He had begged favors from Oromë and Alatar like a selfish child, and now it was clear the other Istari perceived his weakness, his pettiness, his false pride. Pallando's faltering glance shrunk from the cold glare of Saruman, and he gazed beseechingly to Morinehtar, who looked at Pallando, his old friend, with a pity bordering on disgust. Pallando could see in Morinehtar's eyes that he had fallen completely under Saruman's spell, and no words, no plea for aid would avail him in this sore trial.

"I may fall," Pallando managed to croak, "but there is one among us whom your perilous voice will not sway." He coughed hoarsely as if the sand was strangling him and he sputtered, "Gandalf…Gandalf shall stop you!"

With a wave of Saruman's hand, Pallando fell as if stricken, still clinging desperately to his staff. "The Grey Pilgrim…stop me?" Saruman seethed at the insult. "Gandalf is an even bigger fool than thee, Pallando, bending and scraping to the Elves and the petty princelings of Men. He will pay dutiful homage to Saruman the White when the time comes. He will listen to reason! In our battle with Sauron for the overlordship of Middle-earth, Gandalf will see the wisdom of joining with us" -- and here he emphasized the word 'us' to indicate the muddled Morinehtar was wise as well – "Gandalf will despair of these weak mortals and dispirited Elves and come to the same conclusion: that I…that we…must rule once we have Sauron's Ring!"

Pallando knew he was overmatched. He could no more face Saruman alone than have the combined power of both his former comrades arrayed against him; yet neither could he surrender his staff to Saruman and thus be at his mercy. Trying desperately to buy time, and certain that Saruman was as enamored of his own voice as those who fell under its spell, Pallando wheezed with as much force as he could muster, "Saruman, do you really believe Sauron will surrender up his Ring to you?"

"Fool!" Saruman spat, "Sauron cannot surrender that which he does not have. He has lost it – lost it I say! This I know: it was cleaved from Sauron's clutching fingers at the foot of Mount Doom by Isildur, Elendil's son. Isildur, in his vanity, took the One Ring for his own; however, he was a lesser scion of nobler sires, and was unworthy, being a mere mortal of a waning race, and unaccustomed to wielding True Power. Thus, he lost the Ring in turn, and lost it remains, waiting for us to claim it. And if it remains lost, so much the better, for we still have time to divine the nature of this One Ring and devise our own. We may even have to play the role of abettors and accomplices to Sauron in order to keep him off the scent -- so be it; whatever it takes!"

"You play a dangerous game, Saruman," Pallando winced through gritted teeth, "but why play at being Melkor among these simple eastern savages when the Ring beckons in the West; for surely that is where it lies hid."

"Why? I had my hopes set on both you and Morinehtar holding sway in the East, whilst I returned to the West to claim our prize. But you have chosen the path of folly, and only Morinehtar has remained true to our vision, to our new order!" Then Saruman, thinking better of it, stopped and stared malevolently at Pallando with a hooded eye. "Do not bandy whimpering words with me, Pallando, our judgment is upon you!" he bellowed. "I shall have thy staff, and send thy houseless spirit unshriven to the Halls of Mandos!"

But Pallando had been given precious time – a respite in which to counteract the distracted Saruman. Rather than contest the will of the White Wizard or match his might with might, Pallando instead summoned up his flagging strength and caused the great sand dune that stood behind them to come roaring down upon their heads. There was a muffled cry of outrage from Saruman, and his coruscating aura was quickly extinguished under a massive crush of sand. Then there was a rumbling silence such as one experiences when suddenly submerged in dark waters, for Pallando had not escaped the fate heaped upon his treacherous foes. His chest constricted as great gouts of sand pummeled him where he knelt. But by blind luck (for Pallando no longer put faith in Providence), the immense wave of sand cast him backwards, and like a pebble tossed by a rip tide he was dragged several feet from the main cataclysm.

Through a supreme effort of will, Pallando managed to retain consciousness under the black blanket that enveloped him. Blindly groping in this suffocating barrow mound, he located his staff and staggered upward, inch by haggard inch, through the sucking sand. When at last he struggled to the surface, he found the desert storm had abated somewhat, although the sirocco wind still whipped sand in his mouth as he gasped for air. Sputtering and spitting, he dragged himself along, planting the butt-end of his staff at intervals in the sand as a lever for his battered body to shimmy behind. Although he was dead tired, Pallando crawled to his steed (who had the horse sense to avoid the inundation altogether), and barely managed to mount the beast before exhaustion took him utterly. The horse needed no encouragement to beat a hasty retreat, and galloped off with Pallando barely keeping a grip on its mane. The last sight Pallando could recall as he crested the nearby dunes was that of a brilliant burst of light from the spot where the other two wizards lay buried. He had not destroyed Saruman (although he had briefly entertained that slight hope), nor had he the strength to face him again. His faith shaken, his worth found wonting, and his mission in utter ruin, Pallando surrendered to fitful sleep and dark dreams. His horse, more intent on survival than harboring any philosophical inclinations, maintained its forward momentum and the precarious balance of its melancholy master, and soon they were far away from their enemies, the storm swallowing any sign of their escape.