Recommended listening: Zhang — Northern Forest

CHAPTER XXII: KARKÜREM

Following her expansive supper with the Noyon, Truva was escorted by the guard Yestîl to a smaller residence within the compound, about which the ubiquitous guards were stationed. There were a small number of side rooms, though she was led to that which lay at the furthest end of the short hall: a modest bedchamber spread with neatly-woven reed mats. There was no bed save padding upon the floor, yet it looked far more inviting than many a camp Truva had made.

There, tucked within the far corner, sat her rucksack. It looked none the worse for wear.

Yestîl did not say a single word, merely opened a door upon the right to reveal a small washroom, then made the motions of washing up. He then slid the main lattice door closed behind him, feet padding off down the corridor.

Truva raced first to her belongings, which she found astoundingly dry. There was not an inch of rope or leaf of athelas missing (it seemed only the dried pike and morels had been pilfered, if even the Easterlings had known they were hers); nor had Truva once been deprived of her weapons. It was as though this Easterling community had at once accepted her as one of their own, questioned her as one of their own, forgiven her as one of their own. A peculiar warmth burgeoned in her breast – a tenderness she had not felt since her first few months in the Mark.

In the cramped washroom, there was only a tiny, high-walled tub, so small Truva was unsure as to whether she was expected to fully immerse herself in the steaming water or simply rinse off. Opting for the latter, she used a cloth to wipe away the spray of river and the sweat of exertion. When she was finished, the water was tinged pink with the traces battle had left upon her.

Emerging again into the bedchamber, Truva spied thin linen undergarments folded and placed thoughtfully upon a stool. These she gratefully donned, though the lavender and seafoam silk outer garments she laid beside the mattress so they did not wrinkle. In diving between the bedding's blankets and padding, she felt certain that not even Mundburg's most opulent accommodations were so comfortable – judgement perhaps altered by her lassitude. Still, she slept briefly and lightly, as was her habit.

Come morning, she was struggling to tie the unwieldy bolts of silk when a hand rapped at her door. Before she could so much as reply, the guard she had determined was Óddîr stepped into the bedchamber. His impassive face swiftly transitioned to one of exasperation.

'No, no, no,' he tutted, unravelling the convoluted hunting knot Truva had tied, then rolling his eyes at the mess below. 'Backwards.'

He gestured for her to turn the skirt around and tie it at the front, muttering in Easterling all the while. Once the lavender skirt was affixed to his satisfaction, he pointed to the short jacket that accompanied it.

'Čamča,' he demanded. Truva threaded her arms through the jacket sleeves and attempted to secure it herself with its long ribbons, but Óddîr swatted her hands away. 'Wrong!'

'You speak the Common Tongue,' Truva remarked, observing carefully as he wove the ribbons into a one-sided bow.

'Yes,' said Óddîr. 'A little. All warriors do. Halt! Name! Surrender! Snake-eater! Coward! These words all warriors must know.'

'Snake-eater?' questioned Truva.

'South Men eat snakes. The name is a joke. Sometimes it is not.'

'And the Noyon? He speaks as one native to the West.'

'He is the Noyon. He learned from Morinehtar,' said Óddîr, dismissing her question with a wave then stepping back to admire his own handiwork. The knots and bows appeared simple to Truva, yet it seemed they were dictated by guidelines indiscernible to her. When Óddîr glanced briefly at her Rohirric braids, however, he quite clearly abandoned all hope, and pointed instead to her pack.

'Bring.'

He gave Truva only the briefest of moments to gather her belongings (though she took the opportunity to surreptitiously pin Aragorn's Star beneath her skirt when he turned to speak with the servant boy) before leading her back through the hall of painted paper and wooden lattice.

They emerged onto the garden, which blossomed with the faint warmth of morning. To the hall's northern side, a vast pond spanned to the compound wall, waters rippling in the sunlight. Irises clung to its loamy edges, purple heads nodding in the gentle breeze as a slow current drifted past and cascaded over a minute waterfall into a second pool below.

Within an open gazebo jutting out over the pond sat the Noyon, absorbed in reading. Curtains of gauze billowed about him, lending an aura of serenity to the intimidating leader – though this illusion was abruptly shattered when he turned at the sound of Truva and Óddîr's approach.

'An envoy goes to Karkürem tomorrow,' he stated, sparing no breath for greeting. 'I have informed the captain that you will be accompanying them, as will Óddîr.'

'Tiĭm, Noyon,' said the soldier. He bowed his head and assumed a post just outside the gazebo.

'I should like to go today, if at all possible,' said Truva, sitting upon a cushion opposite the Noyon. A handful of servants appeared immediately – one taking Truva's pack away, the others placing bowls of steaming rice porridge upon the table. The earthy scent of mushrooms wafted up; surely that was the last of her morel harvest.

The Noyon poured tea for both himself and Truva.

'Perhaps it is as you have demonstrated thus far – that you come in peace, with no ulterior purpose beyond the discovery of your origin,' he mused. 'Or perhaps not; I am not so naïve as to allow a stranger to roam freely across my lands. You will go with the envoy, or not at all.'

Truva glanced at his expression as she took the dainty tea cup into her hands. The Noyon's stern brow spoke as clearly as his words did: there would be no argument.

'Today,' he continued, 'if it so pleases you, I shall show you our glorious city of Agdî and its surrounding lands, and teach you a great many things any spy of the West would be ecstatic to learn.'

'I would be truly appreciative of such an opportunity.'

'As I thought,' said the Noyon with a soft harrumph. 'Now tell me of your own people, and of this "Riddermark"; I desire to confirm all I have heard.'

And so, as they ate, Truva spoke extensively of Edoras and Dunharrow, Aldburg and the Wold, of Entwood and Mundburg – avoiding sensitive topics all the while; there was no need for the Noyon to hear of the harsh winter the Mark had just endured, or the Eorlingas' precarious truce with their neighbours, the Dunlendings. She avoided also any mention of the War – for she sensed there was some peculiar situation, the nature of which she could not quite grasp, regarding these Easterlings and their role in that conflict.

Porridge soon gone and their meal concluded, still Truva was in the midst of explaining the Mearas and the role they played in Eorling culture. The Noyon rose from the table, though he indicated for her not to stop, and so Truva continued to detail the finer points of daily life as he strode off along a garden path.

Óddîr and half a dozen guards fell into formation as the Noyon exited through a side gate into the street beyond, taking an immediate left and continuing along the compound wall. Opposite were the numerous facilities necessary to the running of a palace: kitchens, laundry, servants' quarters, guard house, dovecote, apothecary – each accessed via its own alley, rather than the main street.

Even before the Noyon slid open the doors to a long, low building, the rumble of horses' nickering revealed their destination. Truva breathed in the comforting smell of haylage; these Easterling stables were nondescript but dry and warm – passable enough. When he recognised the scent of his rider from the previous day, Zaĭsan stuck his piebald nose into the aisle, whiskers quivering.

'He is the colt of one of Morinehtar's own herd,' said the Noyon, 'brought westward to see if he might be broken upon the wide open lands of the river plains. Instead, he merely taunts us, and defies all attempts to train the wild out of him.'

'There are some horses from whom the wild cannot be separated,' Truva acknowledged, still cautious in her approach of Zaĭsan despite the rapport she had built with the pony. 'In the Mark, the most crucial knowledge is understanding when to change the horse, and when to admit it is we who must change.'

The Noyon sniffed at these words, but said nothing as he leapt into the saddle of his own strawberry roan mare. His silk robes billowed about the beast, and in that moment Truva understood why the undergarments she had been provided were trouser-like, rather than any sort of smock. She spared a moment to ensure her pack was fastened properly before following Noyon's lead.

Followed by a mounted guard led by Óddîr, the Noyon descended towards the docks, where the small company wove through a maze of market streets. Truva delighted in the way the Easterling throngs paid her little mind. Rumours of a warrior from distant lands but bearing Rhûnic features must have circulated, for whispers followed wherever she went; yet most passersby were content to dismiss her as one of the Noyon's company, no more or less remarkable than the leader himself.

After coming upon the quay itself, the Noyon turned eastward, his passage eased by the guards' parting of the multitude. Eventually, the city's eastern wall became visible through the patchwork of stall canopies. Cutters and sloops glided this way and that about a substantial breakwater, attesting to the activity of a great many docks beyond the walls as well.

Unlike the northern gate of the city, which had borne the brunt of the Orcs' attack, the eastern entrance's narrow archway was still intact. When the company drew near, rank upon rank of guardsmen stood at immaculate attention, flanking the gate. They held their blades aloft in salute, without a single tremble of fatigue; it seemed they dared not even breathe in the presence of the Noyon. Not until he had passed through to the outskirts beyond did they turn in sharp formation and resume their posts.

The bustle of activity outside the battlements was more boisterous even than the market within; indeed, the docks appeared to stretch endlessly, a forest of white sails beside a veritable second city – albeit a far less prosperous one. If Truva had believed the northern outskirts to be expansive, she now saw far more Easterlings had opted to construct their provisional homes upon the shores of Zünuur, rather than in lands more susceptible to the attack of Orcs.

The company's progress grew slower, for not only were the outskirts' paths narrower, but the guards also struggled to part the press of villagers. At a sharp command from Óddîr, a barrier was created about the Noyon, restraining the masses who cried out to their leader. Though Truva could not understand the Easterlings' clamouring tongue, she could discern a few enthusiastic greetings, but dissent also; and the pleading expressions upon man, woman, and child alike required no translation.

Truva glanced towards the Noyon, who did not answer the villagers' shouts. He stared straight ahead, turning neither right nor left; the muscles of his jaw twitched and the veins of his hand stood out as he clutched the reins in a vise-like grip. Though his pace did not increase, his discomfit was apparent; even the guards cast questioning looks over their shoulders.

But the dwellings gradually petered out, as did the teeming throngs when they saw the Noyon would not deign to offer them a response. Beyond the outskirts, only rolling plains lay before the company – save a single rocky outcrop some distance to the southeast. It was substantial in size, but nothing like the soaring, snow-capped peaks Truva was accustomed to; it was not quite tall enough to be considered a mountain, but nor was it a mere hill. Upon its crest stood a solitary watchtower.

In making for this outcrop, the company broke into a canter, revelling in the whip of wind as the ground flew by beneath their horses' hooves. These lands were not so lush as those of the Mark; the greens were faded, the grasses short, and the trees scraggly and few in number; overcast skies washed the scene in desolate greys and blues, exaggerating the bleak appearance of featureless plains sloping sharply into the dull Sea. But still there was a desolate beauty to the sight, a subdued strength that demanded respect Truva was more than willing to give.

The company gained the outcrop's western foot come early afternoon. The grumbling of Óddîr's stomach was audible to all, and yet they did not break for lunch, instead ascending the pathless hillside, their horses plodding sure-footed around rocks and through patches of sagebrush. As the small party neared the crest, they were not greeted by militant walls or regimented soldiers – indeed, there was little more than a circular hut and a high wooden platform atop the hill.

Upon hearing the Noyon's approach, a pair of drably-clad watchmen peered from over the watchtower's parapet. The first called out a greeting in Easterling, and with a sharp whistle from the second, four more watchmen stumbled from the hut. They all bowed and scraped before their leader, still adjusting tunics and jackets as the Noyon gestured towards Truva, which elicited even more bowing.

Dismissing the watchmen with a wave of his hand, the Noyon then mounted the watchtower ladder, beckoning for Truva to follow. From the elevated platform, even the furthest corners of all the lands of Rhûn seemed to reveal themselves. The River Running cut westward from the grey haze, splitting the land like a crack between two pottery shards, then tumbled into the Sea – and truly it was a sea, for even from such a height, its furthest shores could not be discerned. Upon the distant eastern reaches of Zünuur, however, the verdant shadow of a forest unfurled across faded hills.

Just to the west, Agdî and its harbour sprawled in an array of neat, grid-like cobbled streets, surrounded by an indistinct cloud of bustling outskirts. But this was not what drew Truva's breath from her chest: directly opposite the expansive mouth of River Running sat a second walled city, dark and foreboding.

When she had first stumbled upon Agdî the previous day, Truva assumed the settlement on the river's western bank was a mere extension of that very same city, in the manner of Osgiliath, Pelargir, or Dale – or indeed nearly any township spanning a narrow waterway. But she could see now that in place of inland ports, both cities boasted heavy fortifications along the Running River – fortifications which extended far into the waters of Zünuur.

'The city of Uzdígh,' the Noyon said, standing at Truva's shoulder.

She turned to stare at him. 'Is that not an Orcish name?'

'It is,' he replied. His laugh was no more than a gentle huff, which was swiftly replaced by the same grim expression he had worn earlier as they rode through the city outskirts. 'We maintain a faltering truce – though in truth it is violated more frequently than it is abided by, as you yourself discovered. Look to the north.'

Truva followed his outstretched finger, observing a vast patchwork of furlongs there: swaths of corn, wheat, barley, potatoes, and a great many pastures for livestock. An occasional creek – like those she had stumbled through whilst fleeing from the Orcs – wend its way from farm to farm, yet far outnumbering these were the scars that marred the plains: barren remnants of water sources long dry.

'We till land far from Ulāngól's fertile riverbanks, for fear of attack,' the Noyon continued. 'But this was not always the case. It is said that long ago, we lived in relative peace alongside the residents of Uzdígh—'

'Live in peace with Orcs?' Truva exclaimed, incredulous. 'It is not possible!'

'I likewise find such tales bordering on the absurd, myself; antagonism between our two peoples has been unceasing since my youngest days, and since those of my father, and of my father's father. Yet so it is spoken; the history conveyed from generation to generation relays that the people of Agdî grew so numerous, and our farmlands so vast, that the smaller waterways became insufficient. And so we sought to divert water from Ulāngól to feed our crops and our livestock.

'The Orcs of Uzdígh interpreted this as an act of hostility, however; they feared we would deplete the river's boundless resource, and therefore set out to destroy our irrigation systems – only to construct their own in turn. We retaliated, naturally, and there has been no peace between Agdî and Uzdígh ever since.'

'The dam,' Truva murmured, recalling the ruins she had encountered along her journey.

'Yes,' said the Noyon. 'That was one of Morinehtar's more recent conceptions, designed to supply both our peoples in equal measure, thus ending the conflict definitively. Alas, it was not to be.'

'What of the Sea? Can you not draw water from Zünuur?'

'The discrepancy in elevation is too great to allow the successful installation of a distribution system of any complexity. Those with land in close proximity to the Sea can, of course, draw water by hand and transport it to their furloughs – but the produce of such fields alone is insufficient to meet the burdensome demand of Agdî.'

A long pause extended between the two. A breeze sprang up and whisked their fine silks about, carrying the chatter of Óddîr and the other guards up from below. Truva shrugged her modest jacket closer and broke the silence.

'Why do you show me this, sharing the weaknesses of your land?' she asked. 'Have you determined I am not a spy?'

A chilling grin spread across the Noyon's face then. His dark hair – so very similar to Truva's own – caught on a draught and fluttered like black flames.

'No,' he said. 'I have determined that I care naught for whether you are a spy, because in revealing Agdî's weaknesses to you, I demonstrate also our strengths; that even after centuries of enduring Uzdígh's pernicious forces, we persist. East Rhûn cannot be subdued, shall not be broken, will always emerge with ever greater power. I show you all our lands and resources, content in the knowledge that not with the combined might of Gondor and Rohan could you best us.'

It was Truva's turn to smile, though hers was more cynical.

'You have little to fear from the West; not since the days of Narmacil I has Gondor's reach extended beyond Dagorlad,' she said, foregoing any mention of Minalcar being sent forth only in response to news of Easterlings marching within the lands of Rhovanion during the early Third Age. She sensed the Noyon was a prideful man, and did not wish to risk the tenuous accord between them.

'These ancient histories are lost to us,' said the Noyon with an enigmatic look. 'Our knowledge does not extend beyond the defence of our people here and now.' He pondered some unspoken thought a moment, then turned sharply and descended the watchtower.

'I return now to Agdî,' he called over the rising whistle of wind as Truva clambered down after him. 'You may accompany me if you like, but your path lies due east; should you wish to avoid doubling back, I suggest you pass the night here. I will hasten the envoy's departure from the city, so that you might proceed on your journey at dawn.'

'That is agreeable to me,' said Truva, understanding now why Óddîr had ordered her to gather her pack.

'It was most unusual to make your acquaintance, Truva Marshal of the Mark,' said the Noyon. 'If perchance your path returns you to these lands, I beg of you to grace our halls once more.'

'Your hospitality was all the more gracious in having been unlooked for,' Truva replied. 'When my steps once again fall under my own jurisdiction, they will surely lead me back to Agdî.'

With a graceful bow, the Noyon mounted his horse and galloped off, followed by the entirety of his guard. Only Óddîr remained behind with the original watchmen, two of whom ascended the platform to resume their duties. The others shuffled about awkwardly, attempting to mask their curious glances at Truva. Óddîr quickly stepped forward and indicated each of the remaining guardsmen in turn.

'Oböç, Bocür, Yostu, Kurıl,' he said, then pointed up towards the platform. 'Ólun, Gölfiç.'

Truva caught on at once, and spoke her own name with a hand upon her breast. The guards nodded in understanding; indeed, Óddîr had already introduced her long ago. The gathering immediately lapsed back into silence, but after a brief lull, Yostu clapped his hands and raced into the hut. He emerged with a handful of knucklebones.

'Shagaĭ!' he shouted enthusiastically. His intent was apparent, and the company swiftly clustered about him. Óddîr attempted to convey the rules to Truva in his limited Westron, but for the most part, she and the Easterlings conversed in the language of gestures and facial expressions. They spent the better part of the afternoon in childish revelry, cycling through several renditions of knucklebone games as day shifted to evening.

Then came the hour for changing watch. Even as Oböç and Kurıl took to the tower ladder, however, a heavy patter became audible in the distance, and the company turned as one to observe a curtain of rain advancing across the Sea. In a flash, Óddîr led both Zaĭsan and his own horse beneath the shelter of the watchtower, where makeshift stables had been constructed. The others raced about, collecting tools from a small garden or snatching garments from a clothesline. They all ducked into the hut just as the first drops of rain struck its roof.

The watchmen stored their gardening tools just inside the entrance, next to an array of saddles and weapons, and shook off their jackets. Low cots were positioned about a central stove, interspersed with trunks and blankets, racks of drying meat and vegetables, and all manner of supplies necessary for an extensive stay.

'Gér,' said Óddîr, indicating the hut in general. 'Ancient home of my people.'

The other Easterlings seemed to take encouragement from this. They began looking about, pointing at certain objects and stating the term in their native tongue. Truva struggled to take in the word for 'bed' and 'sword' and 'fire' and 'horse,' basic greetings, and – when she rushed to assist in dinner preparations – those for 'bowl' and 'knife' and (most importantly) 'hungry'.

Then, just as the company sat down to its dinner of boiled boar meat, Yostu leapt up with a sudden cry and dashed outside. He could be heard climbing the low gér walls, and when he reappeared, he bore a small oval object.

'Qurút,' he said, slicing the soft cheese into cubes and adding it to their bowls one by one. The Easterlings dug in heartily, evidencing their enjoyment with wordless exclamations of delight.

'Tonight is good food,' Óddîr said to Truva. 'The Noyon brought meat from Agdî.'

'How long are soldiers stationed at this outpost?' she asked.

'One month, sometimes two,' he replied. 'Supplies must last. No time to hunt – only watch.'

Yostu interrupted them, handing Truva a ceramic bowl of the milky beverage the Noyon had offered her the previous night. 'Makŏlli,' he said, knocking his own bowl against Truva's and taking a deep draught. Encouraged by the friendly atmosphere (in stark contrast to the Noyon's stern, unnerving presence), Truva took a deeper sip than before.

Heated discussion then sprang up amongst the group of Easterlings, although it was jocular in nature and had not a hint of aggression. Following this brief debate, Bocür rose and collected an instrument from one corner of the gér. It had a trapezoidal body, roughly the size of a fiddle – though its long neck had but two strings, and its head was whittled to resemble that of a horse.

'Destü,' explained Óddîr, pointing to the head. 'Steed of Bór the Faithful.'

The significance of such histories was lost on Truva, but that mattered little. As Bocür wielded his horsehair bow, the fingers of his left hand flitting over and under the strings in a pattern too swift to be followed, she could feel the music's soulful mourning within her breast, comprehend the loss of ages past, hear the trials of generations within its wavering notes.

But then came an uplifting melody, the kind that spoke of fragrant autumn winds off the grasslands and of honeysuckle blossoming in summer, of love requited and of bountiful lambing seasons. Truva felt compelled to clap her hands in time with the music – or at least try – and the Easterlings rose up to dance, skipping about the enclosed space of the gér and nearly colliding with each other on more than one occasion in their inebriation.

But when Yostu and Bocür stepped outside to relieve Oböç and Kurıl at their watch, the remaining Easterlings prepared for the night, putting away the fiddle and tidying up after their meal. Two spare cots, outfitted with a nest of blankets, were pulled from a corner and set up with especial care for Truva and Óddîr, right next to the central brazier. Yet even as the company lay tucked in their beds, several of the Easterlings continued to banter and chatter deep into the late hours. It was well past midnight by the time Truva drifted off to sleep.

Her repose would not last long. Quite some time before dawn, she was awoken by Yostu's face looming in the darkness overhead. Even as she sheathed the knife she had half-consciously drawn beneath the blanket, he gave her shoulder another prod, then whispered something in Easterling before disappearing beyond the flap of deer hide that covered the front door.

'The Captain comes,' Óddîr murmured to Truva in explanation, for he was already awake and straightening his cot.

They emerged from the gér, still rubbing sleep from their eyes, and mounted the watchtower to observe the Captain's approach. Óddîr passed two mugs of black tea and milk to Yostu and Bocür as the four of them gazed out into murky darkness. The previous evening's rain had lifted slightly, but still a light drizzle trickled down and obscured their vision of any great distance.

The sounds of a company ascending the outcrop was eventually heard below, and half a dozen Easterlings slowly appeared through the mist. Óddîr beckoned for Truva to descend the watchtower, and they had just finished tacking up their mounts when the riders gained the outcrop peak. One man leapt down from his horse and stepped forward to address Óddîr, his bearing proud and unforgiving. Óddîr returned his greeting in kind, and the man then turned to Truva.

'Yicî,' he said with a slight bow.

'He is the Captain,' Óddîr explained.

'Saǐm ou?' Truva said in Eastering, repeating the greeting Yostu had taught her the previous evening. Yicî Captain immediately stiffened and a frown split his face.

'Saǐm,' he replied coldly, his gaze sliding back to Óddîr. They exchanged a few additional words, then Yicî was back in the saddle and riding out with his company down the eastern side of the outcrop before either Óddîr or Truva could react. The two bade hasty gestures of farewell to Yostu and Bocür, then mounted up and followed after the Captain, their pace slowed by the escarpment's steep incline.

When at last they gained more even terrain, they raced after the company, eventually coming amongst the Captain's men. Yet not even when Truva had first fallen under the protection of Éomer Marshal and his Eorling Riders had she felt so out of place. Yicî and his men did not hide their displeasure at being ordered to take on the transport of an outsider; they turned from Truva and did not address her, nor did they make any attempt to communicate, and all took on a stormy mien – Yicî especially.

As she rode, Truva drew nearer Óddîr and quietly asked, 'Did I misspeak? It appears the Captain has taken a hasty disliking to me.'

'Yes, but you did not know,' he explained. '"Saǐm ou" is used with friends. You are Yostu's friend, but you are not Captain Yicî's friend. To him, you must say, "Saǐm baǐn ou".'

Shame roiled in Truva's stomach. 'I see,' she said. Perhaps it was best to reserve linguistic experimentation for less consequential situations.

'Also, the captain does not like rising early,' Óddîr added with the wisp of a smile and the hint of a wink.

'Is that so?' said Truva, allowing the guard's faint strain of humour to lighten her spirits.

The grey cast of rain did not lift all day. The company bore down across the waterlogged plains of East Rhûn as if pursued by Orcs, for none wished to linger in such miserable weather. They made camp that night beneath a paltry copse of larches, and forwent their evening meal out of convenience, sleeping in fitful, damp bursts.

In the dim hours of pre-dawn the following morning, the company set out in a disheartened and sodden repetition of the previous day. Rain fell even thicker, no longer an inconvenient trickle but a veritable deluge. As their path carried them further and further eastward, however, this curtain of grey was disturbed by a swath of green across the horizon: the woodland Truva had spied from the watchtower. Pines and cedar, spruce and birch – all reared skyward to create a barrier, dark and foreboding, between the riders and their destination.

Still the company pressed on, foregoing any rest in their determination to gain shelter all the sooner, and so came under the forest's eaves a few hours after noon. To the riders' immense relief, the rain immediately slackened, and a faint path emerged from the chaos of trunks and bramble. This path came in stuttering starts and stops, and sometimes disappeared entirely for short distances, yet Yicî guided them ever onward with assurance. It seemed he had made the same journey between Rhûn's foremost city and the residence of its reclusive lord many a time.

Modest cabins and gér gradually began to appear alongside the pathway. Amongst these residences' expansive gardens, delineated only vaguely from the surrounding woodland, rhododendron and azalea blossomed with lush richness, throwing bright splashes of yellow and pink and purple against the dull cast of the sky. Yet there appeared to be few occupants; the road was not well-travelled, and the company encountered no other wayfarers along their way.

As they delved further into the wood, the trees grew thicker about them, evergreen needles of pine now shielding them almost entirely from the rain. The loamy forest path hardened beneath their horses' hooves, allowing them to fly through the cool, shadowy forest all the faster. Gér sprang up with increasing frequency, occasionally forming veritable villages just off the track.

Then, some distance ahead, the unmistakable sounds of a town filtered through the foliage. No sooner could these noises be discerned, however, than a mighty fortress reared up all at once, in the very midst of the forest. Trees grew nearly right up to its towering, moss-covered walls, and tall boles of ash and elm sprouted thickly within the stronghold itself, giving it the impression of having been built first and foremost in deference to the woodland.

The towers were certainly not of Elven construction – most notably because many were stone, in the style of Gondorian Men. Those few wooden structures nestled amongst the forest canopy were simple; they lacked the elegant architecture inherent in the flets of Dwimordene or the halls of Rivendell. Still, there was some echo of the Elves' affection for nature in the burg's modest spires and columns – in the way branches rapped gently upon arched windows, requesting entrance, or the way ivy spun lace along every surface.

Truva gazed in wonderment at the beauty, both natural and man-made, before her. Yet the concern that overwhelmed her awe was the ease with which an attacking force could fell the outer trees and scale the fortress walls. Not even a moat had been dug.

'Are these defences not unsafe?' she whispered to Óddîr.

'Morinehtar does not care,' he shrugged in return. 'No one dares attack Karkürem.'

The company slowed to a walk and dismounted before approaching the gate. There were no dwellings or markets outside the walls, and not a single guard stood beside the sturdy oak doors, which were left ajar. Yet when Truva and the others entered, it was as though they had wandered into an immense, half-wild garden teeming with life. A tumble of stalls was crammed into every spare inch of space between broad tree trunks. Tiny huts, overgrown with grass and wildflowers, formed meandering pathways, and curtains of wisteria graced the eaves of every house and shop, flowing unbroken from one roof to the next.

Where there always seemed to be an underlying purpose and order to Elven cities, here nature had been allowed to take its own course. Sprawling root systems guided the jumbled array of buildings, and no attempt at paving the thoroughfares had been made, in deference to the trees' spidery veins. Plants sprouted where they willed – even if that be in the very midst of the central fountain – without threat of being plucked.

The townspeople did not so much as glance up as the company passed through; they went about their business as if the sight of heavily armed guards and a well-dressed companion was unremarkable – and perhaps it was. But when Truva looked upon their linen garments in comparison to her fine silks, discomfort welled within her breast. Karkürem was not the flourishing metropolis of Agdî, with its lavish lords and ladies and sprawling palace compound.

There was, however, a prodigious tower, which Truva had at first assumed to be a tree – and in truth, she couldn't entirely be convinced that it was not. The walls and windows and turrets of this structure were so intertwined with its bark and branches that she could not begin to suppose where building ended and tree began. Nor could she discern its species, for the columnar trunk and needle-like leaves were wholly unfamiliar to her.

The company followed a twisting path through the city, drawing ever nearer to this natural spire, until they arrived at its base, and the low hedge that encircled it. There, amidst a garden of chrysanthemum and quince, stood a tunnel of woven saplings, its ceiling a sea of purple wisteria undulating gently in the light breeze. To one side, the wings of a dovecote's residents fluttered beneath an awning sheltering them from the rain.

No sooner had the company come before the entrance than a contingent of six guards emerged from the tunnel's lavender shadow to greet them at last. These soldiers marched with purpose, the blue-black steel plating of their armour glinting in the overcast light. They halted a short distance away and exchanged a brief greeting with Yicî Captain, two stepping forward to lead Zaĭsan and the others' mounts away. The remaining guards then turned sharply and marched back through the tunnel. The company followed close behind.

Upon the far side of the garden, saplings simply became one with the massive tree, opening upon an austere entrance hall. The walls within gave every indication of being living wood, and fern moss sprouted up in the gaps between the black marble tiling of the floor. Orbed lamps cast a soft golden glow across the hall as the company crossed towards a staircase leading to the upper floors.

Up this spiral staircase were they marched, first past one floor then the next, and the next as well. Truva grew dizzy as they ascended further and further; through the window, the ground became increasingly distant. When they reached the forest's lower canopy, the company was forced to duck around branches from nearby trees that protruded through open windows, though none save Truva appeared surprised by this.

At last the guards paused before heavy double doors, carved with the same insignia of sturgeon as the Noyon's helm, and knocked.

'Orj,' said a voice within.

Two guards shouldered aside the doors to reveal a cosy study. All manner of books lined the wall, and opposite the entryway stood open a very round window, through which jutted a leafy beech bough. Several birds flittered about its smaller twigs, or upon the desk strewn messily with papers before it.

In the very middle of the room stood a wizened old man, still tall despite a back bent by many years, and bearing a tremendously long beard. He was garbed in magnificent, midnight blue robes and a grey, wide-brimmed hat.