Chapter XXI
Minas Anor
Light streamed through the windows of Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun. From the airs outside was borne the sound of the sea crashing on stone. The Tower of Anarion stood high over a rocky bay, where ever was heard the music of the waves. High and fair that stronghold was, and it could be seen by all who lived round it for many miles, for it was shaped and formed of gleaming white stone that caught the sun. Black were the banners that flapped above it, bearing the white tree and the silver stars, and above them the golden sun of the House of Anarion.
Far beneath the Tower was the sound of great working, and the chopping of many axes, and the sawing of wood. Ships were being built there, many ships. Their keels lined the stony beaches, and with their ribs and skeletons laid bare they looked like the bones of great whales. Amongst the clamour came the sounds of singing, for the Dunedain took a joy in shipbuilding, and it was merry work for them. Yet amongst their voices was the sounds of Northmen's voices and Northern songs, as the Westerosi laboured alongside the Numenoreans who were at once their tutors and their friends.
In the courtyards and squares of Minas Anor, there was a ringing of metal hammered, metal worked, and metal clashing on metal. Forge-fires roared as the bellows worked. New sword-blades glowed red and orange. Men drilled and sparred with spear and shield, in pairs or companies, and some strove with each other in the wrestling-ring. Yet also there was the sound of laughter, and the speech of merry voices, rising from the archery-range that lay just outside the outer walls. There the Dunedain gathered at their leisure, and their bow-strings sang and the air whistled with the sound of black arrows. Now and again there was added to the chorus the roll of horse hooves, as a Numenorean would gallop down the range, shooting his bow as he went.
Across the bay, high upon a stony hill, where the sea-winds grabbed and pulled at clothes and cloaks, and the sea-birds cried their endless songs, looking out over the gleaming citadel and the grey beaches, stood Anarion son of Elendil. His fair face was drawn, as if he carried a heavy burden.
"What tidings do you bring me, Master Tolomei?" he asked to his companion, for he was not alone.
Two horses grazed not far off. Had any wished to eavesdrop upon Anarion, they would have found it hard above the howling winds and the sounds of the gulls.
The Lord of Minas Anor's guest was a Braavosi. His skin was olive and his black hair was a mess of curls. He was not fat, but his hands were small and soft, with the rounded shoulders of a scribe. Rings adored each finger, and he nervously turned them as he spoke. His name was Tolomei Meichios, keyholder of the Iron Bank.
"So little is spoken now in Braavos. Once we were the crossroads of the world, yet little news reaches us now, save from Westeros and the other Free Cities, and that you know already," said Master Tolomei. His face was pale, as if fearful of his own words.
"The squabbling of rats over an iron trinket is no news to me," said Anarion. He set a hand upon the hilt of his sword and looked out to the sea, and to the building of the ships below. The waves were hissing against the sheer rocky cliffs that lined the bay. Winds wrapped his grey cloak tight against him.
"Ah, but at least you know there are rats, my lord. We in Braavos, we do not know what lurks in the shadows. Even the Iron Bank is not all-knowing," replied Tolomei, wringing his hands.
Anarion asked "Surely there are rumours?"
"Rumours, oh yes, oh there are the rumours. Black sails and red eyes. Sailor's stories,"
"I would trust a mariner over a merchant, in matters of the seas,"
"The mariners know no more than the merchants in Braavos these days," Tolomei rubbed his brow. "Foreign ships come less and less to our harbours,"
"Many are the ill chances upon the seas. Pirates, storms," said Anarion, though his voice betrayed that he doubted such things were the explanation.
"But such a long string of ill luck? That is uncanny, unheard of in my time," replied Tolomei.
Anarion said "Has the Iron Bank sought any news? Your arm is long and your eyes are not blind,"
"We may as well be blindfolded," said Tolomei. Both were quiet for a long moment, the Braavosi huddling within his finery against the chill wind, the Dunadan unmoved and staring at him with keen grey eyes.
Tolomei spoke at last, in a slow voice. "We haven't heard from Qarth in months… We have not seen a ship from the Jade Sea in a year. Our sailors fear the southern seas and the southern shores. No word has returned from Ghis… It is as if the lights are going out all over the east,"
"A shadow falling," said Anarion. "My sight too has been shrouded as of late, I cannot see as far as I once did. It is as if I am wrestling some creature of smoke and mist, and I cannot grasp it, however hard I try. Something is stirring though, I feel the warning in my heart,"
They rode back to Minas Anor around the bay, and above the rocky cliffs and beaches the rolling green lands of Anorien stretched away into the moorlands. Here and there, stout stone homesteads and farmhouses dotted the lands all around the Citadel. There were fields of swaying wheat and barley, turnips, legumes and potatoes. Cattle grazed upon clover, which the Numenoreans sowed for pasturelands. Herdsmen napped beneath rowan trees. As they drew closer to the immense, jet-black outer walls of the Tower, they heard excited shouts and laughter. A band of young Dunedain on horseback were riding hard, jumping farmer's fences as they went, whooping with joy.
"Seldom have I seen a people in these western lands with a greater love for their horses," said Tolomei.
"A man of Numenor knows three great joys, Master Tolomei. A good horse beneath him, a good shot with his bow, and the feeling of a ship's till in his hands when the wind is in his sails," replied Anarion.
The huge steel gates of the Tower were opened before them, and they rode at a swift trot down the cobbled main road which bent and turned and wound its way up the hill. Minas Anor was not a great city like Annuminas or Osgiliath, but the narrow alleys between its many houses of stone thronged with the busy folk of Anarion.
The Citadel rose atop the summit of the hill, gleaming in the sun like silver and pearl. The banners of the House of Anarion floated in the breeze, five hundred feet above the fields below. A watchman atop that lofty tower could see for miles over the moors, stretching away into the faint blue horizon till they were lost in sight behind grey northern mists, or turn his gaze to the sea and observe far off distant white sails of passing ships flying across the dark waters.
At the gates they dismounted, and their horses were led away. In black livery and mail, Anarion's guards saluted as they passed.
"I have read the letter from your Sealord. When you depart once more, will you carry my reply to him?" asked Anarion, while they passed beneath the gate.
"Of course my lord, it would be my honour," replied Tolomei.
The courtyard was paved of stone, but swards of green grass surrounded it, and a fountain of clear water burbled in its center.
Anarion said "Where shall you be traveling when you leave us?"
"To Oldtown I expect, and then to King's Landing. The Bank has business in the south before I may return to Braavos," said Tolomei. He smiled helplessly. "The Iron Bank must have its due,"
"Do not hurry yourself, good master Tolomei. Stay here a few days with us, rest and refresh yourself, it would honour us," replied Anarion, smiling and setting a large hand on the Braavosi's narrow shoulder.
"I have heard it said that the Dunedain are fair spoken and courteous to travelers and to strangers, and I see now truly that it is not said in vain," Tolomei said, bowing his head.
Standing before the entrance to the great hall was a tall Dunadan, broad of shoulder and long-limbed, mailed in black and cloaked in grey, with a long sword sheathed at his side and a long spear in his hand. Keen blue eyes regarded them from within a lofty helm, adorned with seabird wings. He was Halbarad son of Inglor, door-warden of Minas Anor and captain of the housecarls of Anarion.
"Hail my lord," Halbarad greeted, raising a hand. He smiled through a short, well-trimmed beard. Behind him was the door, two huge pieces of oak, banded by iron, richly carved in likenesses of forests and leaves and running beasts.
"Hail to you Halbarad," Anarion said, and he began to undo his belt "Master Tolomei shall bless us with his company for a few days yet,"
The Lord of Minas Anor took his sheathed sword and handed it to the door-warden. Tolomei immediately handed over a long dagger he wore thrust through his belt. Carefully, Halbarad placed both in a niche next to the door.
"Guests are always welcome amongst us, Master Tolomei," said Halbarad with a nod, leaning against his spear-shaft.
Anarion ordered a room prepared for his guest, and commanded that there be wine and music and song in the great hall that night to honour the good Braavosi. He left Tolomei in the care of his Steward, Amlaith son of Belemir, an old Numenorean of silver hair but still straight-backed despite his age. With promises to see him and speak further at the hall that evening, Anarion left Tolomei and disappeared down the corridors of the citadel.
Near the centre of the Tower, hidden from view by walls and bastions, there was a garden, a cloister filled the scent of flowers and grass and the soft sounds of water. There grew a weirwood tree. It was surrounded by trim grass and well-tended gardens, yet it remained gnarled and wizened and aged as the hills themselves. Upon the green grass it dropped its blood-red leaves, and the red eyes of the carven face upon its trunk stared knowingly at all who passed it. Anarion had found that weirwood growing alone at the summit of the hill where he had chosen to raise his tower, many years ago, and it had seemed a part of the land, rooted in its very bones. He would not cut it down, though the citadel grew and flourished and spread out all around it. It was unlike the White Tree which came out of Numenor, for its power was wilder, more fell somehow, but Anarion would suffer no harm to come of it, and it was watered and tended by his folk with a wary respect.
Sitting in the cloister, not far off from the weirwood, Anarion found his son Meneldil. He was sitting on a stool, with a table before him, sketching on a piece of parchment. He approached silently behind, and observed Meneldil tracing with a sure hand a design for a soaring tower of great height. Meneldil had the eye and hand of a draughtsman who knew well his trade.
"A new tower, my son?" Anarion asked.
"For the havens at Annuminas," Meneldil replied "Ecthelion requested it of me. It needs to have great height, and a belfry at the top, for they shall mount mighty bells there to warn mariners of the approaching shore in the fog or the mists,"
Anarion said "And perhaps warn our folk of the coming of foes,"
Meneldil put down his quill and turned to look at his father. "You spoke to the usurer?"
"Master Tolomei's words have not eased my fears," Anarion replied.
"He is a moneylender, Father. I would not put much trust in their words," said Meneldil
The Lord of Minas Anor grimaced. "They have their uses, distasteful though they may be. They are canny past what you might guess. Greed and fear and cunning keeps their eyes open and their ears to the ground,"
Meneldil rose from his seat, and together father and son slowly walked round the gardens, speaking softly to one another, and they headed to the covered walkway that surrounded the cloister.
"For all that they are short-sighted if they have nothing to tell us," said Meneldil.
"The lack of tidings is news itself. Already the Shadow seems to have fallen upon Qarth, Ghis, perhaps as far as the Jade Sea," responded Anarion.
"To cut off dealings between Braavos and the far east, that would take the work of a mighty fleet labouring endlessly. They would have to scour the seas far and wide. There would be blood," mused Meneldil.
Anarion's voice was dark and troubled. "Oceans of blood,"
"If Qarth has indeed fallen under this Shadow, then we must consider the Jade Sea fallen as well… And Ghis?" Meneldil paused a while in thought. "That is a line along the southern shores of Essos, but is it a line that is marching east or west?"
"West," said Anarion. "I cannot explain it, nor reason why, but I know this Shadow is coming west,"
"How could it be the King's Men? They fell, you told me. They were cast down by His wrath. The waters consumed them,"
"I do not know, my son. The red eye was always the sigil of the Enemy and his cult. The King's ships always had black sails in those days, blackened by soot at first, but later black by the King's command"
"It could not be Ar-Pharazon, he set foot on the Uttermost West, nor could it be the Enemy. They both perished with Numenor itself,"
They both heard the sound of a light step upon the stone stairs that wound down to the cloister from its north end. Looking up, they saw a tall woman gracefully descend to the covered walkway. Even centuries since he met her, the sight of Morwen still brought a thrill to Anarion's heart. Her eyes a sharp green-gray and they seemed to glimmer with an elf-light in them, her hair was a long mass of thick black, and her face round and beautiful. To look upon her, she seemed gentle as a mother, lively as a maiden and proud as a queen.
At the sight of her husband and her son, the Lady of Minas Anor's eyes lit up in a smile.
"Ah, now what are you two debating this time? Is it the wandering of the stars or the curious customs of the wildmen? Is it a Monday or a Tuesday?" Morwen teased lightly.
The sound of her voice, light and fair as music, seemed to lift a heavy burden from Anarion's shoulders. All he could manage was a smile of his own.
"Now, well I know that look," said Morwen, brows furrowing. "You spoke with the moneylender, what he told you troubles you?"
"Much troubles me, my lady. Worry yourself not with my burdens," said Anarion. His wife frowned sternly.
"A household run thus is a shameful thing," she answered. "If they burden you, they burden us all,"
"The moneylender has brought no tidings to Father," Meneldil said. The heir of Anarion leaned against the stone banister, locking eyes with the weirwood tree. "He said that Braavos hears little from the far east, and that the sailors are frightened of the southern seas,"
Anarion's voice was grim: "Tolomei said that the lights are going out all over the east. I fear that our days shall grow dark soon,"
"Before the winter?" asked Morwen. Anarion shook his head.
The Lord of Minas Anor spoke; "After it, I deem. I do not know the hour when the storm shall break, but it shall be when we are weak,"
Morwen rested her head in a pale hand, eyes full of thought.
"Ill was the chance that led the southmen to strife," she said after a silent moment. "What word has there been from Isildur your brother? Will the House of Lannister make their war?"
"When last I turned my Stone to King's Landing and he was there to answer, he meant to ride into the Riverlands, seeking Gregor Clegane to deliver justice," said Anarion. "Tywin has set his liegemen loose upon the marches with fire and steel, and Isildur rides with the King's Banner. He will lay the choice before Tywin,"
"Bold is Isildur our kinsman, and true of heart, but unless his counsels are subtler than I guess, I fear this will fan war's flames, not extinguish them, worsen the wound rather than heal it," Meneldil tore his eyes from the cold red stare of the weirwood and turned to his mother and father with a pensive face.
Morwen spoke, and her voice was musical no more: "War. Brother felling brother, father against son, friend baring steel against friend, lord and servant torn asunder, and when a worse foe yet waits. Anarion, my lord, my love, this war would be a black evil if it comes to pass,"
The three were silent, and in the moment they almost seemed to hear far-off but clearly the blowing of horns, and the shouting of warriors, and the rumble of hooves. A vision swam up before their eyes of shadowy hosts with bright swords and spearpoints gleaming like the stars, and the cold leaves of autumn stained by the blood of men. Then it was gone, and they were in the gardens of Minas Anor once more, and the sun shone upon grass and flowers
"Your voice is soft and sad, my lady, yet wisdom dwells still in it," Anarion's voice broke the quiet. "I must think upon this. But come now, there is a guest, and we should put aside these troubles, lest we be ill hosts. The Braavosi expects food and good cheer while he is amongst us, and he shall have it!"
Food and good cheer there was. As the sun disappeared in a blaze of gold behind the western seas, the fires were kindled in the mead-hall of Minas Anor. The great hall was a place of courtly function, of judgement, counsel and law, and so when Anarion had built his Tower he had constructed, behind the great hall and on the upper western slopes of his hill, a mead-hall, a place of merriment and feasts. It was long and low, with a high peaked roof, and though built all of white stone it was wrought much in the fashion of the halls of the Edain of old. Inside there were long tables and benches, a floor of fresh rushes, walls that hung with tapestries and storied webs, and hearths that burned with crackling fires along either wall.
Servants laid out plates and vessels of silver and copper upon the tables, and then led the feasters in. Hither came the housecarls of Anarion, sixty strong, led by their Captain, Halbarad. All were Numenoreans, tall, broad-shouldered and keen-eyed, and many were the scars that they bore on faces and hands. No swords did they carry, for Anarion permitted none within his halls. Amongst them was Amlaith the Steward, and Angon the Keeper of the Horses, Borlas the Smith and Minastan the Scribe, and all their wives and children about them.
There was not Dunedain alone in Anarion's halls, for present was Maester Dunstan, a small Westerosi man of middle age, whose maester's chain swung low to his waist, and whose brown eyes were lively with laughter. There were Northmen too, the lords of the nearest holdfasts, and the reeves of the closer villages, and their wives and children too, and unlike the Numenoreans they wore their hair long and spoke the Common Tongue more than the Elven-tongue, but their songs were joyful, and they drank merrily together with the Dunedain.
At the high table at the end of the hall sat Anarion in a high-backed carven chair, and his wife Morwen sat at his right, her hand in his. To his left was Meneldil, laughing at some jest of his sister Miriel, who had her mother's hair and her father's eyes. Beyond them sat bluff, stocky Earendur, Miriel's husband, and his elder sons Earnur and Ostoher, the three mariners appearing as if they had been chipped out of the cliffs above the sea. The younger ones, Valacar and Vanimelde, were chasing each other about the pillars of the hall and through the legs of their elders. Anarion felt a tug at his tunic sleeve, and looking down he saw his youngest grandchild, little Yavien, a girl of only four years. She raised her arms to her grandfather. Smiling, he reached down and plucked her in his strong hands and placed her on his lap.
"Ah my sweet summer-child," Morwen said, ruffling the girl's hair. "How fair you are tonight, one might mistake you for an elf-maid!"
"Thank you Grandmother," Yavien said in a small, polite voice.
Food was brought before them: Meats and cheeses, mounds of vegetables, and warm, fresh loaves. Wines, ales and meads flowed in rivers. As the food was laid out, the Dunedain rose as one and turned and faced the western end of the hall, bowing their heads for a moment of silence. Then the feast truly began. The whole company ate and drank to their fill, and they spoke and sang of many things as the night wore on.
When all had eaten to their content, and Tolomei Meichios had been toasted by the company many times, and many laughs were had, the hall grew silent and the fires grew low and dim, then Anarion called for his harp. He took the tall, richly carven instrument and set it before him, and then plucked a single golden note upon it. When it had quivered into silence, he plucked another, and a third, and then he filled the hall with the melodious sounds of his playing, and he raised his voice in a song of his own. The words were slow, and they seemed to live as a part of the music, or the music was a part of the words. To Tolomei, it was like no song he had ever heard. Fair upon his ears, yet bearing a sadness that struck him to the heart but could not understand.
The moon and stars were veiled that night, as the Lord of Minas Anor walked his silent halls. His guest had retired, and the feast was ended. His lady and his family had gone to their rest as well, yet he remained restless. He passed down corridors and across halls with nearly noiseless steps. Ever inwards and upwards he walked through his citadel, till at last he found himself standing before a dark, iron-bound door. On the other side lay the stairs of the great tower, the highest point of Minas Anor.
"The hour is late to be out of bed, my lord," said someone behind him. Anarion turned, and there saw Maester Dunstan standing in a circle of flickering torchlight. The fire cast an orange glow upon the white stones of the hall.
"You go to look into the Stone?" the maester asked.
"I cannot see with the eyes of ravens, Dunstan," Anarion replied. "If we are to have any warning of what is to come, I will see it in the Stone,"
Maester Dunstan stood beside his lord. He was a small man even amongst the Westerosi, fine boned and lean, and his maester's chain looked too heavy for him. He drew forth one of its links, forged of a smoky dark metal.
"This link is of Valyrian steel. Few maesters carry it anymore. It signifies the study of magic. All that I learned of magic is that it is perilous to men's minds, and souls,"
"This is not sorcery, Dunstan. The Stone is of elf-make, ancient beyond reckoning," said Anarion.
"Why trust something that you can conjure?" said Dunstan. "You spoke to the Braavosi to seek news my lord. That is sounder counsel than turning always to this stone for knowledge. How many hours of the night have you spent in that tower? How can you even be sure of what a stone tells you? What if it merely makes you relive old nightmares best forgotten?"
Anarion's grey eyes flashed dangerously in the torchlight, and his voice was low and hard.
"Dunstan, you are of Westeros, and you are a man of the south. Were I to dismiss you tonight, you could find the country you call home, where your tongue is spoken, and the people know you. From whence I came there is no returning. All that we have built in Gondor is but a fair echo of what Numenor was in the days of its joy. There was beauty and music and content such as Westeros has never known. It was taken from us, for our own people fell to depths darker and crueler than anything you can imagine. I will never forgive, Dunstan, and I will never forget,"
The little Westerosi master sighed, running a hand upon his short-haired scalp.
"There is no certainty that it is these King's Men who cast their hand across the east. Realms have ever risen and fallen like the winter wheat," he said.
The son of Elendil said: "This is something different. If this is what I fear it to be, then war and pain shall be unleashed yet unheard of within the circles of the world,"
Dunstan grimaced: "You were borne here upon the western winds, my lord, and yet you set your gaze upon the east. Are you not giving shape to your own fears? If these things are the doing of your old enemies, would they not come from the west? Yet all that is to the west is the sea. Your own folk charted it, the Sunset Seas are vast and endless. How could these King's Men land in Essos when the Dunedain came from the west? And if they are in Essos, they are far away my lord, across mountains and seas,"
Anarion set his hand upon the door: "I came here across many leagues of the sea. None know the whale-roads as the sons of Numenor do,"
The long staircase of the tower wound ever upwards, higher and higher, and through arrow-slits Anarion caught glimpses of fields and hills covered in night, and of the houses of Minas Anor far below, twinkling with faint lights. At last he came to a small chamber, high in the spire, with an open window that faced upon the west. The sea-waters stretched out into a horizon that seemed to meld with the night sky, waves restlessly heaving and sighing against rock.
The chamber was bare, save for a pedestal of stone set in its very centre. There sat the Seeing Stone, a perfect sphere of dark glass, or crystal. Anarion walked around it, setting his back to the western window and facing east, then he set his hands upon it and cast his eyes into its black depths.
He was soaring above Minas Anor, and the citadel below was small and remote. He looked out over the lands of Gondor, a rocky, rugged land of heath, moor and pine forest, crossed by cold rivers, studded with foothills and low mountains. He felt the draw of the other Stones. To the south there was Annuminas, where his father sat and pondered upon the quarrels of magnates. Anarion did not seek his father's words tonight. He felt the other Stones too: Pelargir, Osgiliath, Fornost, Orthanc, he could look into any of them and speak with their lords, but did not. Further south still, he could feel the Ithil-stone, and for a moment he longed for his brother's voice and laugh, but that was not his purpose.
He turned his gaze eastwards, and soared over the lands of the Starks. Away to the north he saw the Wall, pale ice gleaming in the moonlight. The tempestuous waters of the Narrow Sea he crossed in a fleeting moment, and spotted beneath him the western coasts of Essos, dotted with Free Cities like the jewels upon a belt. Over plains and rivers, and mountains and forests, he looked ever further eastwards. Away to the south he caught glimpse of the foul vapors and impenetrable fumes of the Smoking Seas, where once gleaming Valyria sat in its pride and power.
It was to the southern shores of Essos that Anarion's eye was drawn that night. For there his gaze was shrouded. A veil lay upon the lands, and where once he could gaze clearly across Ghis to Qarth and the Gates of the Jade Sea, now his vision shimmered and shifted and he could not see clearly. He tried to focus, but the southern shores were like a mirage in the desert, now fading, now flickering, now rising and falling. This veil of illusion covered a vast swath of the southern shores and the southern seas, and beyond it to the farther and wilder lands of the East he could not see. Anarion set his will upon the veil, and strove and wrestled with it, but the harder he assailed it the more his vision darkened. It was as if black smoke was rising from within the palantir itself.
He looked beneath him. There was the bay of the slavers, and he could see stepped pyramids rising from ancient cities. Ships criss-crossed the bay, bearing their cargoes of groaning thralls. After a moment of thought he recalled their names: Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen. To the north was the vast steppes of Dothrak, where the horse-nomads rode and thundered. Neither had yet to fall under the veil. Where would the hammer-stroke fall?
Long into the night, in secret thoughts and inner counsels, Anarion dwelt upon the east, and upon the shadow that lay upon his mind, and upon the veil across his sight. He remembered the King's Men, and the smoke above the Black Temple, and all that the smoke meant. He remembered the awful power of Ar-Pharazon, whose hand lay upon Middle-earth with an iron grip of dominion even as the Deceiver whispered in his ear, and of the sudden and bloody wars by which the Golden King of Kings had extended his sovereignty. He thought of the limitless might of Numenor of the Kings, towering up in her royal splendour and delving down in her deep, secret, profound fear.
The western skies outside his window were streaked gold and pink and blue by the coming of dawn. On the horizon he saw a speck of white. His keen eyes spotted there a cog ship of Gondor, white-hulled and black-sailed, with the star of Earendil upon her banners, and the prow carven as an eagle's head. A wind was at her back, and she sped across the waters, bow rising free in bursts of silver spray, sails under full press. In Westernesse of old, the very majesty and power of the Kings had floated upon the wooden hulls of their ships. Somewhere inside himself, Anarion knew that all that Gondor was and all that Gondor meant and all that Gondor could be rested upon her ships. Distant, frail, storm-beaten, but the only shield that Gondor and all Westeros would ever have.