Chapter Sixteen: Of Prizes and Prices
Barking instructions to the house slaves to leave me undisturbed, I paced the floor for hours. I swear I must have worn that carpet down to threads. There were simply too many questions to ponder. Could I save Zimraphel? Should I save Zimraphel? Could I convince her to spare the lives of the conspirators, or at least Nâmalzôr anyway? I was being handed the throne outright: a living Zimraphel would be the greatest threat to my legitimacy. Yet I could not deny her ability, both as an administrator and in bed: living, she would be a useful ally. The only way out, I saw, was some sort of marriage agreement, but would she use her knowledge of Inziladûn's murder to reduce me to a puppet, as Makadam had suggested?
I wished Amandil or my mother were here, but as the hours slipped by, and the Sun began to sink into the West, I had no-one but myself. Forcing myself to eat a light seafood dinner – one should never kill on an empty stomach – I tried to recall any historical precedent for this. I could not think of one, and I cursed myself for not having paid more attention to my history tutors in my youth. Oh yes, there were the usual lembas-eating lies about how my grandfather had tried to murder the young Inziladûn, but they were all utter nonsense. As much as Ar-Gimilzôr hated Elves and their friends, he loved my grandmother Inzilabêth too much to hurt any of her children.
I did not go to bed that evening. Instead I sat in my armchair, alone with my thoughts, and awaited the inevitable knock on the door. It came, as expected. Nâmalzôr was as punctual as ever, though cloaked and hooded, he resembled a forest bandit from the wilds of Andustar more than the Captain of the Royal Guards.
"Well, Lord Pharazôn," he said on seeing me, "tonight is the night."
"The weather seems to be against us," I said, pulling on a cloak of my own. "Clear skies, Full Moon, hardly a night for conspiracy."
"We are working indoors, my lord. It hardly matters."
"We need every bit of fortune we can get," I said. "But, yes, let us go. Tonight we change the course of the Empire forever."
The street outside was eerily quiet, being devoid of men, horses, and carts. Once, the main thoroughfare of Númenor's capital had been busy, noisy, and smelly with commerce and civilisation all night long, but no longer: my uncle's ever more restrictive curfews had seen to that. It was now just us, beneath the Moon, hooded shadows of vengeance descending on the Palace. We silently made our way up to the Gates; as promised, the Guards appeared to be expecting us, and we faced no difficulties. One of the guardsmen even winked at me, though in the dim light I was perhaps imagining things. Then it was past the gallows, where the fop's corpse still dangled as an impotent warning, up the wide marble steps, and through some great iron-and-oak doors. Nâmalzôr had the key, of course. A man clutching a candle awaited us on the other side, the solitary flame illuminating his shock of red hair and making shadows dance across his face.
"Lord Pharazôn," he said in a hushed tone, "all is prepared."
"Thank you, Makadam," I whispered. "I will see that you get your reward when I come into my own." Indeed he would, I thought.
Makadam smiled. "You will be pleased to know that Ar-Inziladûn went to bed early tonight. His dinner appears to have disagreed with him. And to think that the King was always so careful…"
Two armed figures suddenly emerged from the shadows. Nâmalzôr and I drew our swords in a heartbeat, but it proved to be only a couple of Makadam's sympathetic guardsmen. Inwardly castigated myself for my nervousness, I resheathed my blade.
"My lords," one of the new arrivals said, slightly sheepishly, "we have a difficulty. The Princess is nowhere to be found. We have searched every inch of her chambers."
It may have been a blow to my aspirations, but I have seen few sights more satisfying than the smug grin being wiped from Makadam's face at that moment. His face went as red as his hair.
"Keep looking, you utter fools," he hissed. "While she lives, we are in mortal peril. Come, follow me, I will help you search."
As he departed, Makadam seemed to remember the presence of Nâmalzôr and myself. He turned, and then bowed slightly, though hardly politely. "I wish you well against your uncle," he said. Then he was gone.
"I will come with you, my lord," murmured Nâmalzôr at my shoulder. "If this be treason, I would rather look the crime in the face."
"Life gets interesting if they cannot find Zimraphel," I said, "but that is for later. First I must avenge my father." If only my mother could have seen me then.
Though the walls were lined with dimmed lamps, I needed no light to find my way to my uncle's chambers. Through dark corridors and up dark stairs I flew. We passed numerous guardsmen, none of whom gave us a second glance. Makadam had done his work well, though even I was surprised how many of the Palace guards loathed their King sufficiently to wish him dead. Or perhaps, I reflected, they did not wish him dead. Perhaps they were being bribed or threatened into turning a blind eye. Who knows? All I knew then was that fortune was, despite my earlier fears, smiling on me. Inziladûn's fate was sealed.
There were two guardsmen standing watch outside King's bed chamber. One short, one tall, and both bearded. Neither moved as Nâmalzôr and I approached.
"The key," said Nâmalzôr to one of the guards. He said it in such a deadpan fashion, he might have been buying fish at the market.
The subordinate wore the key on a chain around his neck. Silently, the man pulled the chain up over his head, and handed it to the Captain. Briefly nodding at me, Nâmalzôr inserted the key into the lock, and turned. With a gentle nudge, the door swung open soundlessly.
This was it, I thought. Drawing my sword, I strode through the door, into the dark beyond. It turned out to be not so dark after all. Moonlight bathed my uncle's chamber in a pale glow. I crept across the floor, towards the massive royal bed. The King lay on his back, asleep beneath the coverlets. I raised my sword.
Then his eyes fluttered open.
"Pharazôn," said my uncle. "So you too have betrayed me."
"This is for my father," I said.
There was no shouting, no defiance. Inziladûn seemed to accept death. A tear slid down the old man's cheek. "Betrayed by all," he whispered.
"It is nothing that you have not earned a thousand times over."
"I did what I had to do," said the King. "You will discover that all Kings must do what they have to do. May you have better fortune than I."
He must have thought Zimraphel dead already. Given his suspicions, I wondered if the King took any consolation from that, or whether his impending death had given him cause for forgiveness. Suddenly realising that a pillow would be safer and less messy than a sword, I seized one from the bed.
Inziladûn did not move. He looked at me one last time: sad, lonely, and defeated. A man who had lost everything, even his own family.
"But remember, Pharazôn," he said, "when the White Tree fails, the Line of Elros will fail. Remember that, Pharazôn."
I have never forgotten those words, the last utterance of a doomed tyrant. How could I forget? It was such a strange thing to say. He did not cry for help, or beg for mercy. My uncle's last thoughts were of Nimloth.
Inziladûn was still muttering 'remember' as I smothered him with the pillow. He barely struggIed. Then it was over. The mighty Ar-Inziladûn son of Ar-Gimilzôr, Tar-Palantír in the Elvish tongue, lay dead before me, his tear-filled face peaceful at last. I stood back and frowned, as though something should now happen. Nothing did. It was all so strangely anticlimactic.
"Very nice, Pharazôn," said a voice from behind me.
I swept around. "Zimraphel?" I said, holding my sword at the ready.
She was standing there, a shadow among shadows. She must have been in the room all the time, watching her father sleep. Zimraphel moved forward into the moonlight. She was wearing that pleasant little green dress of hers; I knew it from the outline, though here it appeared grey.
"Yes," she said, "it is I. Now the only question that remains is whether Tar-Míriel should thank you for your kind gift of the throne, or whether I should have your head for regicide and the murder of my father. It is a tough choice, is it not?"
My mouth was dry. "There will be no Tar-Míriel, cousin. The throne now belongs to Ar-Pharazôn the Golden." It seemed appropriate. Behind the bravado of my words though, my mind was frantically working on how to resolve this. I did not want to kill this woman.
"So Ar-Pharazôn intends to slay me too?" said Zimraphel. Her tone was mocking, but without a hint of fear. The woman, incredibly, seemed to be enjoying herself. "What a mighty King he is, a reign born in the slaughter of elderly cripples, and defenceless women. Sauron of Mordor must be quivering with fear."
"Nevertheless, you must die." I saw that Nâmalzôr and the guards had entered the room.
"I do not think that is in your interests," said my cousin. "Think for a moment. Few men will mourn Tar-Palantír's tragic but hardly untimely end. He died in his sleep, after all." The lie came easily to her. "But to brazenly murder the Princess, why, that is an altogether different matter…"
"I am more beloved than you. Everyone knows that."
"Kill me, and money or no money, that love will melt away like snow under the midday Sun," said Zimraphel. "Andunië will rise in revolt, and you will face bloody civil war."
"Andunië will not rise while Amandil still breathes. Besides, I know how to fight a war," I said.
"Against your own people? Even if you win, what sort of Empire, what sort of nation would be left? I tell you, Pharazôn, yield up the throne to me and I shall be merciful."
"There she is!" Several men, including Makadam, suddenly ran into the room. The vile little upstart elbowed his way past Nâmalzôr. "Kill her, Pharazôn," he urged. "Swiftly! We have no time to lose!"
That was the last straw. I was not to be bullied by a common dung-eating weasel. I was Ar-Pharazôn, and I was no man's puppet. "Silence!" I barked, using my sharpest regimental tone.
The room fell silent. No-one moved. I turned to Zimraphel.
"Princess," I said softly. "Will you marry me?"