Chapter Thirteen: Aftermath

By morning, the house was a burnt out shell. The wooden parts had mostly been reduced to charcoal, while the stony skeleton of the building jutted out, scorched and sad. Remnants of furnishings, shattered ornaments, and blackened books littered the ground; the floors of the upper-stories had caved in, adding to the chaos. Some of the more isolated parts of the property, notably the stables, had survived, but repair and restoration would be a truly monumental task. Having located spare clothes and boots, I wandered around in the dawn light, surveying the wreckage. The place reeked of dead flesh.

"This is Inziladûn's work," muttered my mother, her eyes red-rimmed. "No wonder he lifted that prohibition on you visiting us. He was trying to kill us all."

I sighed. "You know that, I know that, and anyone with half a brain probably suspects it. But without proof, we can do nothing."

My mother placed a hand on my shoulder. "Pharazôn," she said, "I know it in my bones that I will not long survive Gimilkhâd. Please tell me that you will one day avenge your father."

"With all my heart," I said. I mean it too. The madman in Armenelos had claimed thousands of lives, merchants, petty nobles, and commoners. But this was different. For all Gimilkhâd's faults, he was still my father, and Inziladûn would pay. Yes, I thought, one day my uncle would die screaming.

My mother smiled and patted me on the back. "Good lad," she said. "I shall rest easier in my grave when you have put Inziladûn in his. But we now we have work to do." She shouted at some slaves, more of whom had survived than expected, to move their lazy backsides and help clear the wreckage. My mother was a tough woman of Old Númenor. Looking back, I still miss her terribly.

Within a fortnight, my father's funeral took place on the estate, within sight of the ruin that had once been his home. There would be no burial beneath Meneltarma, of course, no chance to lie beside his own father or the great Kings and Queens of this isle. That had been denied to him by accident of birth: in death, as in life, Gimilkhâd found himself a second son. Beneath the overcast sky – it was unseasonably chilly that day – I stood by the graveside, wearing a long sable coat, and watched as the mourners came forward to pay their respects. It was strangely gratifying. They had come from all parts of the Empire, even the lembas-eating lords and ladies who despised my father while he lived. Lord Numendil was there, wrapped in furs and leaning on Amandil for support. With a nose of red set in a face of green, the drunkard old Lord of Andunië looked to be half in the grave himself. Never one to waste a tragedy, Raphizôn was there too, his clothes and moustache uncharacteristically clean. I saw him chatter with Zimilgâr of Forostar, one of the few lords who had genuinely liked Gimilkhâd for who he was, and had stuck with him at all times.

Then there were the more interesting attendees. Elendil and his mother, though whether they had been dragged out of Andunië by Amandil or by some forgotten shred of human decency, I will never know. Zimraphel , wearing that same black mourning outfit she had worn for the death of the Queen. And none other than the King himself, stern, and scowling, and garbed in dark blue velvet. Inziladûn had clearly decided that a non-attendance would raise questions, but one could see the fear in his eyes when he looked around at his loyal subjects. The Palace Guards hovered around my uncle, armed to the teeth, and in no mood for polite discussion. Now was not the time, it was clear, to broach the subject of Gil-galad's missive, or indeed any subject at all.

"He's not looking well," muttered Amandil later, nodding in my uncle's direction.

"Physically or mentally?" I said. The formalities of the ceremony had been completed. We now stood a few feet away from the estate's large Mallorn tree, well out of earshot from the rest of the gathering. "Speaking of ill relatives, your father looks to be at death's door himself." Lord Numendil had needed to sit down after his earlier exertions, and was now quietly snoozing in a chair, supervised by one of Amandil's slaves.

Amandil smiled sadly. "Yes, I fear that he will not live out the year. His physicians warned him about attending your father's funeral, but he insisted on coming anyway."

"To make sure that Gimilkhâd really was dead?"

"Give the Lords of Andunië some credit, Pharazôn," said Amandil. "Not all of we Faithful are like that."

Perhaps Numendil in his twilight years just wanted to make his peace with his old enemies. The lembas-eaters supposedly believe that Eru and the Valar look kindly on such things. Who knows? Not all old men are like my uncle, growing ever more bitter and consumed by hatred as the years lengthen. My uncle…

Though we could not possibly have been overheard, I dropped my voice to a whisper. "You must know that the fire was not an accident."

Amandil nodded. "I think that too. Be wary though. He might try again."

So Amandil had figured it out. I wondered who else had, and whether this could be used to advantage. The fire and my father's death had already attracted a lot of politically useful sympathy for my family. "If he does, I will be ready," I said.

"And you will not be alone," murmured Amandil, almost silently. My heart missed a beat. If only Inziladûn knew the treason that was been talked under his very nose …

I suddenly found myself wondering what Zimraphel thought of the King's failed attempt to kill me off. The King was old, and his daughter was ruthless, ambitious, and utterly without scruples. Nor was she likely to forget that her beloved father had tried to set her aside, contrary to all the laws of Númenor. That was two of my uncle's plans that had failed miserably. Combine that with the general ill-will from the terror … would Zimraphel overlook vengeance against her own father? She must surely: it would give her the throne. Tar-Míriel indeed. With an Ar-Pharazôn sitting beside her, a voice like my mother's whispered. Oh, how the earth would shake and Sauron himself would quail…

My friend turned his head and squinted. "Speaking of the King, is that not him talking with your mother?"

I looked over to the gathering by the graveside. Sure enough, the old monster was standing beside my mother, leaning on that cane of his and engaged in conversation. Even from here, it was clear that the Palace Guard were on edge. I had to do something, and quickly. I ran.

"Mother!" I cried out.

Pushing my way through the bemused mourners, I arrived just in time to see the most powerful man in the world wiping spittle from his face. The spittle, I saw at once, was not his. My mother stood there, in her mourning clothes, looking the King straight in the eye and glowering like a cheated dwarf. Zimraphel, standing a few feet away and holding a glass of water, had gone as white as a ghost. Zimilgâr looked ill, while Raphizôn was nowhere to be seen. I imagined the opportunistic slug was edging back from what looked to be a very, well, delicate situation. I could hardly blame him. Standing there, feeling as helpless as a kitten, I could only thank fate that no-one, with the exception of the Palace Guard was armed: this was a funeral, after all, and there was protocol about such occasions. And as for the Guards, while solid old Nâmalzôr was not there, surely they could recognise that this was not a time for armed intervention? My uncle was a paranoid tyrant. But was he unstable enough to fight with a grieving widow at her husband's funeral?

"My condolences again, madam" said the King, with a quiet formality. I could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the spectators as he said this: Inziladûn's paranoia had not completely displaced his sense of decorum. There was no eruption, or even emotion from the sour old man. Notwithstanding the abrasive treatment he had received, the King bowed his head with his customary insincerity and retreated. The Guards followed in his wake.

I watched them go until it was safe to breathe again. My mother had not moved. I could still hardly believe it. She had spat at Ar-Inziladûn? "That was brave," I whispered in her ear. "Or else incredibly foolish."

"How dare he," she muttered. "The vile hypocrite."

"He's a vile hypocrite with two dozen armed Guards. And he was giving his formal condolences."

"This is our land, not his," she snapped. "And he's always been a coward at heart. Now go and talk to Amandil or something. I need peace."

Sighing, I walked back to the Mallorn tree and Amandil. Families, I decided, were complicated things.