Disclaimer: All the wizards here minus Mithrandir/all his other names and Saruman are mine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"How many wizards are there?" Boromir demanded, having just realized who Siriandil was.
"Including me," Mithrandir reported, "there are six Istari in this room."
"Six?" Boromir, like everyone else, began scanning the room for our unknown wizard. "Calmacil?" he asked, also arriving at the same conclusion as everyone else. "Is that how you got out of the closet?"
He smiled. "Technically, I'm only Nenlom's apprentice, but it was enough."
"And I," explained Nenlom, "infiltrated the secret Society of the Istari when I first heard of their activities. I also sent Calmacil here at that time. I knew even then that something was bound to happen in Minas Tirith eventually."
"Since that was probably hundreds of years ago," I said, addressing Calmacil, "I would hazard a guess that you have no existing records prior to your days in the Gondorian army because you switch every twenty years or so between that position and palace guard and destroy the records behind you; thereby disguising your age."
"What about Nenlom himself and the other wizards?" Anborn asked, perplexed. "Would they not be a bit obvious hopping between various occupations?"
"They would, but you make that assumption without one vital fact." I glanced at Boromir, who nodded his agreement and filled in,
"Father knew they were wizards, as did, most likely, a line of Stewards before him. They could cover it up well enough." Our father smiled approvingly at him, which we all took as an affirmation.
"Is there anything else that needs to be cleared up before I bring these two to the White Council?" Siriandil asked.
"One thing," Damrod said. "Are you working for anyone?"
Siriandil smiled at me in a friendly, half-challenging manner to give me the opportunity to guess. I did not disappoint him, either. "Saruman," I guessed. "He would never want to be left out of anything this large. Siriandil nodded, then with the assistance of Calmacil and the now-convalescing Nenlom, he silently escorted Tarfea and Dinanna away as everyone else dispersed.
When almost everyone was gone, something occurred to me to ask of Mithrandir. I was hesitant to interrupt his thoughtful mood, but when he noticed me approaching him, he smiled at me. "You were wondering something?"
"Several somethings, actually, but for now, I will content myself with only one question. Do you know, or have you heard of a wizard named Gandalf?" That was one of the many odd points in my dreams, and somehow, it stood out for me. It wouldn't hurt to ask about it, at least, but I neglected to mention the origin of my query.
"Yes, I know this wizard well," he responded sounding quite amused, "for it is another name of mine."
"You have two names?"
"Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the elves, Tharkun to the dwarves; Olorin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incanus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not."
I was not actually surprised. I recalled my father in my dream referring to Gandalf as 'Grey Fool'. Who else could he have been referring to? Still, it worried me for some reason. "Thank you; that gives me the answer I sought, but from it springs more questions; questions that I dare not ask." Noticing his eyebrows drawn together in thought, I felt a sudden wish to prevent him from thinking on it further. "I may tell you in the future what those questions are; but now I can not."
"I will, but first let me venture a query of my own. Where did you here the name 'Gandalf'?"
"Mithrandir, please..."
"Never mind. Just forget I asked."
I smiled gratefully, and he left me with Boromir, who was pacing around the area, waiting for Mithrandir to leave. He was not filled with as much animosity towards the wizard now as he had been a few days ago, but he still would not willingly enter into a friendly conversation with him. But at least I could harbor hopes for the future.
My brother joined me, and I couldn't help sighing. Boromir's one-sided conversation did not interest me at that moment, any more than wizards' talk interested him, and now that all of the problems with the wizards were solved, I felt entitled to some rest. So I excused myself from Boromir's company, although he was reluctant to let me go. When I arrived in my inner room, the first thing I saw was, as always, the painting of my mother opposite the door. I smiled at her contentedly then lay down on my bed for some sleep, but it did not come.
No rest came at all, for that matter, for I was in one part of my mind reluctant to, and reluctant to dream. I feared those words 'the threshold of death' and the all-consuming pain that went with it, and the thoughts that filled my mind. But why? Did I harbor some belief in the reality of those dreams? I probably did- why not?- for it made sense in a distorted sort of way.
On the other hand, the world around me was so real, and I knew how I got there and why events were happening around me, unlike that other world inside my head. I could not now be living in just a dream.
Either way, I could be sure of one thing. I was indeed on some kind of threshold. In one world, it was the doorstep of death, and in the other, the beginning of a new stage of my life. If the latter was true, I knew I would be all right, but not so if it was the former.
I moaned at the thought. Boromir and my father would be dead, as well as countless others; probably some of my other close friends. War would have come to Minas Tirith and darkened the gates of the White City. But there was only one way to find out.
Thoughts swirling in my head, I finally let myself sleep.
