Disclaimer: no more disclaimers from now on.

Chapter Three

In which a secret is revealed after more than a thousand years.

It was a grey and misty morning, and the fog was so thick that she felt it would support her weight if she cared to test it. However, Sayre dared not, for she sat directly beside a terrible fall to the sixth level of the city. She settled with simply taking in the views of the land; from here she could see Osgiliath, which was being rebuilt, and shadows of the mountains of Mordor.

A year has passed since she took up a position in the bakeries, a year that felt longer than any of the centuries she had endured. She could almost feel time slip by like some precious, invisible stream. It felt as if she had never been to places more treacherous than she had dared imagine, and that she had stayed here for all her life. She could remember now the laughter of her mother as she listened to her friend the baker, and the deceit said baker-

Foul servant with a fair face

-Had pulled over them all. She felt no anger; just regret that the young are so naïve.

The echoing patter of hooves wakened her from recollection. She looked over the wall, and smiled grimly, but with a trace of hope.

Gandalf has returned.

When he was finished in discussion with the king, around noon, Gandalf exited the hall to find Sayre waiting patiently by the doors. Although her demeanour seemed calm, there was a sort of urgency in her movements, and in her eyes.

'Welcome back, my lord Mithrandir. You have had a pleasant journey, I hope?'

'That would depend solely on one's view of "pleasant", but I have learnt much, and am satisfied.' Sayre's eyes widened in understanding. So the few secrets she had divulged have proven useful, it seems. And the answers are so near…

She followed Gandalf to his lodgings, and they settled themselves in front of a large window, with a table between them. Sayre laid a wrapped loaf of bread, fresh from the morning's batch, onto the stone table. Gandalf regarded this with amusement, his moustache quivering.

'I will not be persuaded to give away information with a loaf of bread, Sayre.'

She raised her eyebrows and smiled. 'So you have found the answers about the Tower. I was beginning to suspect you are losing your touch.'

'That certainly I am not. As for your answers, listen to this tale:

You have undoubtedly heard of the Seven Seeing Stones, and know that the greatest of them was located under the Dome of Stars, in the once-charming Osgiliath.

In the year fourteen hundred and thirty-seven, Osgiliath was burned and the Stone was lost during the Kin-Strife, or so we are informed. However, it was later found by a poor fisherman in his net, which he was dragging along the bottom of a shallower part of the Great River, near its mouth. It was large, and heavy, but he was able to haul it in his boat. He knew not what it was, for even in the olden times the Stones were a well-guarded secret, and foolishly kept it. It was apparently passed down in the family as an heirloom. Not more could be learnt of this.

Almost five hundred years later the Stone - I presume it was the same one - was seized by the enemies of Gondor, the Wainriders from the East. It passed its time in obscurity, amongst hoards of other loot, until it was happened upon by a sorcerer, or a servant of one. I know not who he was, or if he had any other deeds to his name, but I know he was not of the Istari and for that I am glad, for he seemed supremely unwise in his uses of the Seeing Stone.

The palantíri were made with ideas of the seeking of knowledge and truth, and the merging of minds. Those ideas were moulded and fitted inside the stones by a powerful being, so that the Stones contained them in a state usable by any outsider. I know not how he managed it, but the sorcerer somehow dislodged the ideas, or so to speak. He possibly did so in an attempt to seek out the future. The stone was left empty, and the powerful ideas…'

Sayre had a horrible sinking feeling inside her stomach, but she held her tongue, and kept on reminding herself that all the hardship has passed.

'…Took up residence elsewhere. The Tower of Truth that you spoke of, Sayre, is a mental manifestation of them.'

'But why me?' She blurted. 'It was many centuries before my time, and I do not see why the ideas would lurk for that long.'

'I think that you were not the only one who has had access to this. The ideas are drawn to honesty, Sayre. They possibly sought out the most truthful being nearest them.'

It dawned on her. The young are naïve…

'And in death they simply pass on to the next being?' She enquired eagerly, and in wonder.

'I believe so. I have travelled far into the East, but the information available was extremely fragmented. It seems that most people never realize the presence of the Tower, or never told anyone about it.'

'Alas!' Sayre sighed. 'To have lived in the times of the arising Shadow, and to have a spy find out about the Tower!'

'All that has passed into history, so do not linger over them any longer, after you have told me your tale. This is a good day to listen to a story, and we have a long time yet.' It was indeed. The sun shined brightly in a pale summer sky, and a cool breeze flowed through the window. It did not, Sayre reflected, feel like the correct atmosphere for her story.

'It is very long, my lord. The points I have told you are merely the rough guide.' She sighed again. 'But perhaps I can bring myself to relate it, after we have eaten some of this bread.' Gandalf smiled, and Sayre felt strangely relieved.

She unwrapped the food, and they each took a slice. Before his entered his mouth, Gandalf suddenly put it back and stood up. He strode over to a corner, where he had deposited his travelling bags, and took one with an irregular something inside it. This he gave to Sayre, who gasped when she withdrew the object.

It was a helm that has possibly saved her life. She had used it to carry the Ithil Stone, and had dropped it after Minas Morgul.

This black helm had once belonged to Sauron.

Sayre took one very long and ponderous look at it, then drew a deep breath and began her story.

Author's Note: the part about the Osgiliath Stone I completely made up. You decide if it's realistic or not. Research indicates it could work. We will be commencing Part Two next chapter, and it will be the bulk of this story. Let us just assume that it was recorded later by Sayre, and that the version she told to Gandalf was much shorter.