Chapter Five: Uncle Tar-Palantír

The welcome at the royal palace in Armenelos was frostier than the one I had received at Rómenna. Indeed, not since the Bay of Forochel had I encountered such coldness. Inziladûn's functionaries recognised me on sight, of course, but they were not in the least bit awed by my presence. The King, they said, would see us shortly, but in the meantime we were to wait in a side-hall.

"I have always loved the architecture of this city," Amandil said to me, as he admired some obsidian stonework. "Everything is so much larger, and grander than Andunië."

"Do not let your wife hear that," I said. "Did she not once say that this city was a celebration of cruelty and decadence?" I wondered if she had even permitted young Elendil to journey anywhere near the capital. The poor lad would have grown to manhood knowing nothing but the icy spite of his mother.

Amandil smiled. "She spoke truly. Our civilisation is one of cruelty and decadence. But that does not mean that our people do not produce fine buildings and artwork."

"Poor Sauron. If only Barad-dûr had been more aesthetically pleasing, the mighty Amandil of Andunië would have never waged war on him."

We were still laughing at that when a herald marched in, wearing a dark green tabard over polished silver armour. "All kneel before Tar-Palantír," he called out, "King of Númenor, Lord of Armenelos, and Protector of Nimloth the Fair."

I knelt like a good Númenórean. Whatever I thought of my uncle as a man, I owed my loyalty to the Throne of Men, and would die defending it if need be. Amandil knelt likewise.

Then Inziladûn himself hobbled into the room. He looked much the same as ever, with his prematurely greying hair, thick eyebrows, and scowling countenance. He was known to be physically strong in the upper body, but a riding accident in his youth had ruined his legs, so that he could only walk with the aid of a cane. The King wore woollen robes, dyed dark blue, his favoured colour. He did not wear a sword.

"It is you," said the most powerful man in the world.

"Very perceptive, uncle," I said. Fifteen years had not made him a fraction more pleasant.

Inziladûn's mouth twisted. "Were there no more battles to fight in Middle-earth, that you had to return to trouble my thoughts?"

"The battles are over, uncle. Númenor is victorious, and I have returned with many shiploads of tribute and booty."

"The battles are never over, Pharazôn," said the King, as he eased himself into a baroque wooden chair. "You may rise."

I got to my feet. "My brother Gimilkhâd is causing strife again," said my uncle. "What are you going to do about it?"

Ah, father, I thought, your incompetence knows no boundary. With a monarch like Inziladûn, a potential rival could easily have had every lord in Númenor eating out of his hand. But Gimilkhâd had managed to do the impossible and make himself even more unpopular than the King.

"What is my father doing now?" I asked, morbidly fascinated.

"He has been talking. Spreading rumours that my little Míriel is not my daughter, but rather some other man's get."

It was true that Zimraphel resembled her mother Queen Gimilbêth much more than her father, but this was self-serving foolishness.

"Are you sure that my father has been the source of these lies?"

The King snorted. "Of course. Who else would it be? It is treason I tell you, treason. I will have your father's head for this, and yours too if you do not put a leash on him."

"Gimilkhâd is my father. It is not my place to chastise him."

Inziladûn spat. "Weakling!" he said. "But no mind. I have news that will make these lies of his moot anyway. The Queen is pregnant again. All my doctors have told me that it will be a son."

My heart missed a beat, and I heard Amandil gasp. Queen Gimilbêth was pregnant? The news would soon spread like wildfire across the Empire. Zimraphel would not be amused by the prospect of a younger brother, that was for certain.

"But my King," said Amandil in a more respectful tone than I could have ever managed, "Princess Míriel, by the ancient laws of Tar-Aldarion, is eldest and still the rightful heir, regardless of whether the child is male or female."

Inziladûn swept aside my friend's objection. "The law can be changed. It comes with being the King. When this land was founded, succession went from father to eldest son. Perhaps I am minded to restore the even more ancient laws of Elros Tar-Minyatur, and do away with Tar-Aldarion's edict."

"Yes, my King," said Amandil, the blood visibly draining from his face.

Zimraphel was not going to be pleased at all, I thought. Was she being punished the Melendur betrothal fiasco? Or perhaps, despite her best efforts, my uncle believed that she was not sufficiently aligned with the Faithful?

"When the child is born I shall have three days of public celebration and thanksgiving to the Valar," said Inziladûn. "I also expect every nobleman in Númenor to provide suitable gifts for the new Prince." The King eyed me malignantly. "Pharazôn," he added, "with your newly garnered wealth, I am sure that we can expect a generous contribution from you."

"I will see what I can do, uncle. But do you not first want to hear my account of the wars in Middle-earth?"

"By which you mean you wish to bore my ears with tales of how you cut down unarmed peasants and called it bravery," snapped the King. "Very well, I shall listen." He gestured behind him to one of the slaves who stood silently by the door. "Be so good as to fetch chairs for my nephew and his friend. Also, I will be needing fresh water. Listening to Lord Pharazôn is thirsty work."

I spent two hours telling my uncle how I had spent the last fifteen years. Every so often Amandil would interject to clarify something. I was pleased he did so. Amandil may have been my best friend, but he was also one of the Faithful, and as such the King was more kindly disposed towards him. As for Inziladûn himself, he was largely silent as he listened, refraining, for once, from making bitter commentary.

"So the entire western lands of Middle-earth, from the Misty Mountains to the Sea, now acknowledge our sway," I said in conclusion, "save only for the Elven outposts around Lindon, who are, of course, a special case. Sauron has retreated behind the Mountains of Shadow, but cannot be rooted out of his land unless Númenor sends all its strength."

My uncle frowned, a facial expression that came as easily as breathing to him. "I take it," he said, "that you wish me to order a full muster of the Empire, and send a vast armada to Middle-earth in the fashion of Tar-Minarstir?"

"It would be the only way to finally defeat Mordor," I said, "but such a muster is entirely the King's prerogative." Were I the King, I decided, I would have already pulled Barad-dûr down around Sauron's ears. I wondered if my uncle was actually going to do something brave for the first time in his life.

"Pharazôn, I take it that if such a force were sent, you would be seeking the command?"

"Why, uncle, only if you deemed me worthy of such an honour," I said. In truth, I would be Inziladûn's only option. The King's leg injuries and distaste for war prevented him from personally commanding, Gimilkhâd would prefer to lose the war rather than give his brother a victory, and it would be unprecedented for someone outside the royal family to lead such an undertaking. That left me, and the King knew it.

"And are you aware how much your proposed invasion would cost the treasury?"

"Wars are always expensive, uncle. But with the wealth we have brought back, the Empire is in a position to easily pay for the costs."

"Pharazôn, you are asking me to take vast sums of money out of the public purse, and send many men to their deaths, merely so that you can win fame as the commander who defeated Sauron of Mordor."

I had expected my uncle to object with the Faithful arguments that Zimraphel had used the other night. This was unexpected.

"It is not about me," I said, feeling myself beginning to sweat, "it is about liberating the Men of Middle-earth from the grip of the Dark Lord…"

"Something that has already been achieved," said the King. "For a given value of liberation, that is. Somehow I suspect that you never asked those savages whether they wanted your freedom before you butchered them. But as for Sauron: if what you say is true, and I am sure, Pharazôn, you would never dare lie to me, he is now safely penned up behind his mountains. For the foreseeable future he will only have orcs to torment."

I was fighting a losing battle here. "But, uncle, think of your legacy!"

"My legacy," said Inziladûn, getting to his feet, "is in seeking to return this land to the path of righteousness. So, sorry to disappoint you, nephew, but I will not order a Númenórean assault upon Mordor. I bid you good night."

"But uncle…"

"My steward will find rooms for you, allowing you to return to your estates in the morning. I trust that you will remember what I have said about your father's lies."

The King left the room, his cane tapping on the polished floorboards as he went.

"Pharazôn," said Amandil, "you have gone bright red."

"Thank you, Amandil, that is just what I needed to hear."