Recommended listening: Strauss — Metamorphosen

CHAPTER XXIV: MORINEHTAR

Truva and the envoy from Agdî stood at sharp attention before the desk in the tree-fortress' study. Birdsong punctuated an uncomfortable silence as the old man continued to shuffle through papers, seemingly disinclined to afford the company even the slightest wisp of attention. His glance flickered up momentarily once, twice; then all movement ceased as he fixed Truva with a piercing stare.

Captain Yicî stepped forward and bowed with stiff formality. But when he took a deep breath and began to deliver his report in rapid Easterling, the old man cut him off with a dismissive wave of the hand, pointing instead to Truva.

'Hén?'

The Captain sputtered into silence. It came Óddîr's turn to brave the old man's stony disposition.

'Morinehtar, this is Truva,' he said. 'She does not speak our tongue.'

The old man scrutinised the company a breath longer, then turned to the Easterlings. 'Yabu,' he commanded. When Óddîr hesitated for a fraction of a moment, the old man issued a sharp rebuff, sending the Easterling guard scurrying after Captain Yicî and the others. The study doors closed behind them with a soft thud.

Truva knew not what compelled her to speak first (for her recent attempts at greetings had not fared particularly well), yet the old man did not seem inclined to break his pensive silence.

'You must be Morinehtar,' she began. 'I have heard glorious things about you.'

The old man did not respond immediately. Papers still in hand, his eyes narrowed as he examined every detail of Truva, from her loose Eorling braids to the neat hem of her Easterling garb.

'I am Morinehtar,' he confirmed at last, 'though I greatly doubt you have heard any substantial talk of me at all – whether glorious or otherwise; for I have gone to great lengths to ensure against such rumour-mongering.'

Truva willed herself not to show any sign of discomfort, though her throat was parched and her legs ached from a long two days' ride. She felt certain Morinehtar would observe each and every twitch and interpret such movement as either weakness or dishonesty, which was not a disadvantage she could currently afford – for this man could be none other than he whom she most desperately sought: a Blue Wizard, one of the Ithryn Luin! If it was not the similarity in appearance to Gandalf that gave him away, it was surely the same sense of underlying power, untapped yet ever coursing just beneath the surface.

And then the haze of a memory from long ago gathered in Truva's mind – faint at first, yet even as it took shape the image retained an insubstantial blur. It was the memory of a dream, one that had arisen when she first arrived in Edoras: that of an unknown figure and his horse, riding away into the night. She had assumed, upon meeting Gandalf years later, that it was no more than the White Wizard himself; yet she recalled now that the old man of her dreams had donned a hat of grey, whereas Gandalf had always worn one of blue.

'What scarce information I have heard was praise,' she hedged.

This coaxed a wry chuckle from Morinehtar. 'And who are you, little Easterling who does not speak any dialect of Easterling, yet knows far more than she ought?' he demanded.

'I am Truva, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, come from the Western lands of the Eorlingas – horsemasters who ride with unparalleled swiftness across the central plains.'

Morinehtar studied her once more, as if searching for any mistruth. The intensity of his gaze was palpable.

'And what is your purpose here, Marshal?'

'I have come to extend the Eorlingas' hand of goodwill to all Eastern nations, in hopes of affirming the accords struck between us in the wake of the War.'

The Wizard laughed outright then, in a voice deep and colourful – though his mirth did not extend to his eyes. The sound was quickly absorbed by the study's wooden walls and cluttered shelves, or flew out through the open window.

'Gandalf has sent you to investigate whether I was successful in my task, or ultimately allied myself with Sauron!' he exclaimed. 'Whether I stayed true to my purpose, or dallied in the tantalising darkness of unbounded power. I see age has not dulled his desire to meddle wherever he might.'

Truva stood immobile, her heart racing. Morinehtar had discerned one underlying purpose of her eastward journey within mere moments. Not even Gandalf found her so transparent, and yet this new Wizard gave no indication of focusing on the actual words she spoke; he seemed more to simply breathe the information in, to absorb it as cloth does spilled water.

Truva weighed the notion of speaking boldly; what purpose was there in treading carefully, when Morinehtar knew all that she was thinking?

'Well, did you succeed?' she asked.

'Did you spy me upon the battlefields of Dale or Osgiliath, Minas Tirith or Morannon?'

Truva understood the implications of Morinehtar's rhetoric, but did not answer, choosing instead to divert the topic. 'The Noyon of Agdî claimed there was much for me to learn of Rhûn's involvement in the War, and that you might illuminate those complexities.'

'Söldan often makes promises on behalf of others, despite having no means by which to guarantee them,' Morinehtar replied impassively, though Truva suspected there was the shadow of a frown beneath his inscrutable exterior. 'Even so, I do not begrudge him this promise, for the political theatre of the East is indeed not as simple as many beyond its borders would believe. Perhaps if Gandalf understood that, he would not be so quick to suspect us of misdeeds.'

The Wizard began to shuffle through papers again, his long narrow beard catching upon the embroidered silver flowers of his robes. There was an indecipherable look in his eyes, the hint of knowledge beyond comprehension, of ages beyond time. Yet Truva wondered whether he might not be so close as Gandalf; already several of his answers had been more forthcoming than those she typically received from the White Wizard. She steeled herself to ask another question:

'What task was it you were set upon?' she said. 'And by whom?'

Morinehtar did not speak at once. Page by page he set his papers down upon the desk, then folded his hands before him and returned the full intensity of his gaze upon Truva.

'Do not feign as though seeking the answer to such questions is your true purpose here,' he said.

His voice was soft, and yet it felt to Truva as though he had shouted with the full might of his lungs; his words reverberated within her very bones, rang so loudly in her ears she feared she might go deaf. How had this Wizard, tucked far away in the furthest reaches of Rhûn, come to know information she had shared only with those most crucial to her task? She stared in open-mouthed astoundment.

'Your hair,' he continued. 'Has it always been so, or did it change over time?'

Truva's hand instinctively flew to her head, where the lock of pure white was scarcely visible, intertwined with darker strands in one of her many plaits. 'In truth I cannot recall my earliest days,' she said, 'yet to my knowledge I was born with this mark.'

'And your bow? How did you come by it?'

Again, Truva started. Although the Easterlings' billowing skirts allowed for the easy secreting away of knives – a fact which she had been sure to take advantage of – the narrow-shouldered jackets were not conducive to carrying or wielding larger weapons; Truva's bow remained with her pack on Zaĭsan's back.

'It was gifted to me by an Elven maiden of Rivendell,' was her simple reply. She suspected Morinehtar already knew this, though he did not seem inclined to confirm her suspicions.

'You are widely-travelled, Marshal,' he remarked. He did not elaborate, nor explain the reasoning behind his questions. Perhaps he followed more in the spirit of Gandalf than of Radagast, after all.

Morinehtar then stepped forward quite suddenly, plucked a scroll from off a high shelf, and exited the study in one fell swoop. He lingered on the steps of the spiral staircase for a moment before turning back to Truva, who still stood before the desk, unsure of what was expected of her. There was no sign of any Easterlings, either those of the envoy or Karkürem guards, in the stairway beyond.

'Well, do not dally!' said the Wizard, waving his scroll at Truva.

Galvanised into action, Truva hurried after Morinehtar as he ascended further up the tree-tower. He went no further than two flights, however, before diverting up a second, terrifically narrow stairwell – so steep it was nearly a ladder. The pair emerged via the floor into a tiny octagonal room, separate from the main trunk and perched instead upon several of the tree's mighty branches. Its glass walls and ceiling looked out on all sides to the surrounding forest, though the windows were shut against the rain. Potted plants were arranged so thickly that Truva felt the space was a mere extension of the outdoors.

Amidst a nest of blankets and pillows was a low table, upon which stood a steaming ceramic carafe. Taking a seat before the table, Morinehtar motioned for Truva to join him, pouring a clear liquid from the carafe into two small square wooden boxes as she did so. In accepting the drink, Truva was so focused on not spilling its contents (which were filled to the very brim of the box) that she did not see how the Wizard produced a small dish of assorted delicacies, as well.

'Tell me of the lands you come from,' he demanded, handing Truva a warm, moist towel with which to clean her hands. 'We will not be disturbed here; you may speak freely.'

Of all the varied figures Truva had encountered of late, Morinehtar was the one with whom she felt most hesitant to speak unguardedly; his demeanour was unreadable, and his eyes did not share the same spark of warmth present in those of Gandalf – yet it was Gandalf himself who had sent her in search of the Ithryn Luin. And here was one before her, seemingly having already guessed her purpose, and welcomed her nevertheless.

Still Truva sought to delay the inevitable. She turned her eyes to the food before her: a tiny selection of vegetables, the likes of mushrooms and bean curd, cucumber, and a peculiarly shaped root with many holes. The display felt as equally disjointed as her mind, and yet it all came together in one comprehensive whole – unlike Truva's thoughts.

The White Wizard was sagacious; she would put her trust in his discernment yet again.

'Drink,' said Morinehtar. It was not a request.

Truva brought the wooden box to her lips and sipped, though she almost spat it out upon discovering the temperature was near-scalding. When she swallowed, however, the fiery taste of alcohol helped dispel the chill born of having ridden beneath an unceasing curtain of rain for two long days.

'Begin from the very beginning,' the Wizard prompted.

Truva swallowed. 'Even in my earliest memories, I lived in the Hidden Lands,' she said at last.

Morinehtar did not waste a single moment in producing with a flourish the scroll he had pulled from his shelf earlier. He spread it wide upon the table: a map, quite bare save only the most significant of geographical features, even in the lands of Rhûn.

'Show me where.'

Truva indicated the now-familiar point in the northern Firienmist, partway between the Loudwater and Hoarwell rivers. Morinehtar gave a quiet 'hmm' as he examined the map for several additional moments. 'And your parents?'

'I have none – least, none that I can remember,' said Truva. At an encouraging wave of the Wizard's hand, she narrated in full the events of her years in the Hidlands, sparing him the more troubling details. Throughout the telling, his expression did not alter; he maintained a stony-faced countenance and asked but a few clarifying questions.

When Truva paused briefly, having described her escape under Éomer's guardianship, Morinehtar's lips pinched together. All he said, however, was, 'To have been raised in such an environment was a terrible miscarriage of fortune.'

Truva masked her lack of response by sipping upon a clear soup of eggplant and fiddleheads, which had appeared as she spoke. Yet when Morinehtar did not remark further, she felt compelled to fill the silence.

'Théoden King welcomed me into Edoras as he would any daughter of the Eorlingas; each injustice done unto me was repaid in kindness and warmth from the people I now call kin.'

'I do not doubt it,' mused the Wizard. 'But it ought not to have come to that; you ought to have been afforded privileges befitting your station.'

'How can a humble slave expect anything more than the basic decencies due all Men?' Truva asked. 'I was happy in the Mark, which I consider to be a fate most blessed.'

'That was not your place,' Morinehtar half-snarled, his bushy, peppered brows knitting together and the corners of his thin mouth pulling into a deep frown.

Truva sat back, startled by the ferocity with which he spoke. She dared not interrupt as he took several breaths to recompose himself. When his expression was placid once more, a shadowy gloom abated in the small room, and Morinehtar peered into Truva's eyes with such intensity that she could not help but avert her gaze.

'Do you not see?' he pressed.

But Truva did not see – or perhaps, in spite of all the notions that had flittered within her mind throughout her travels, she did not wish to see. Perhaps she had only journeyed forth, secure in the seeming impossibility of her task, and thus deluded herself into believing there was no need to consider what might happen if she were, in fact, to discover her origins.

For what was there to consider? Suffering at the hands of Dregant in the Hidlands, blossoming under the care of Théoden King and all others who had shown her care in the Mark, coming to understand that her past did not preclude her from the love Théodred and Aragorn proffered – these experiences were what formed Truva's identity, her essential self. How could a place she had no recollection of, people who exerted no influence in her life, bear any significance to her?

What once had been apathy transformed into violent denial in her breast.

Rather than answer, Truva stared at the new dish of thinly sliced orange and white acorn jelly, which appeared suspiciously similar to raw fish. The Wizard did not seem deterred by her silence, however.

'Perhaps you have heard it was three of my kind who, when placed in Middle Earth, initially journeyed East,' he said. 'One – with whom I do not doubt you have some familiarity – established himself as our leader; I believe you know this Istari by the name of Saruman.'

When Truva nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgement, Morinehtar continued. 'The other was Rómestámo, my dear friend – though he was called Pallando then, and I Alatar. We were sent with the purpose of ensuring tranquillity in the Eastern realms, and thus negating Sauron's influence here.'

Had Truva been inclined to speak, she might have asked Morinehtar to return to the very beginning of his tale and explain who it was that sent the Istari to Middle Earth. But she was not inclined to speak – for however curious she was, a far larger part of her wished to ignore the story entirely. She picked at the immense slabs of grilled mushroom stems now sitting before her (as she was already approaching uncomfortably full) and merely listened.

'For a time, we argued amongst ourselves as to how best we could accomplish this feat,' Morinehtar went on. 'Saruman believed there was no other choice than to gather about us the mightiest of armies, for his mind was, as you know, driven by metal and wheels. But fearful as Rómestámo and I were that Sauron would easily turn such a force against us, we argued in favour of an alternative method – not one of opposing force with force, but of providing that which Sauron could not: security.

'Rhûn was little more than a disparate patchwork of nomadic tribes at the time. They were herders, with no knowledge of how to till the earth or produce food beyond that which the land provided by chance. Those who were inclined to learn we gathered about the shores of the Sea, and taught them the ways of farming; and though we showed them nothing more than that which they were capable of themselves, the Easterlings considered our knowledge a kind of magic, and thus discerned our true nature. They worshipped us beyond what we deserved.'

'What of those who were not inclined to learn?' Truva could not stop herself from asking. Morinehtar once more turned the full strength of his gaze upon her, and Truva once more evaded it by downing an acidic dandelion jelly in a single mouthful.

'Many had already fallen to Sauron's will long prior,' said the Wizard, his voice deep and rumbling. A dark storm clouded his brow. 'King Khamûl and those further East and to the South lay beyond our influence. Lured by false promises, they swore allegiance to the Dark Lord, who never ceased in urging them to sow chaos and violence in the West.

'Yet while the splintered nature of Rhûn's tribes resulted in many opportunities for unification slipping through our fingers, it likewise prevented Sauron from solidifying any sort of entrenched power; disadvantage in turn became advantage. Thus I would like to think we Istari did not fail in our directive, for surely the Dark Lord's army would have marched with nearly doubled numbers had we not taken the courses of action we did.'

'How is it that Saruman came to be in the West?' Truva interrupted again. She became more at ease the longer she interacted with Morinehtar, and glimpsed in him the same hints of rational benevolence she was accustomed to seeing in his kind.

The Wizard mused for several moments, even bringing the still-steaming wooden box of alcohol to his lips before speaking.

'Saruman returned Westward some centuries ago, for reasons known only to his own mind. It is merely my own conjecture, of course, but I believe he thought Rómestámo and myself too simple, our cause insufficiently bold. For many years before his departure, he chafed at our refusal to form a standing army, and thus chose to seek his own methods by which he might prove effectual.'

But there was a second, more pressing question that seared in Truva's mind, hotter than the dish of green-skinned squash now simmering before her. 'What relevance do such annals have to my purpose here?'

'I have not finished my tale,' quipped the Wizard. 'It is not a short one, at your own request.'

Properly chastised, Truva ducked her head as Morinehtar drew the map forward once more and tapped the expansive Sea. 'Absent Saruman's dour presence, Rhûn prospered. Many others, inspired by the first tribes' success, also settled about the shores of Zünuur – though most congregated near the fertile mouth of Celduin. Yet it was not Easterlings alone we drew into our sphere.'

'Orcs,' remarked Truva, surprising even herself.

Morinehtar raised a single eyebrow. 'Precisely,' he said. 'Orcs. Many were tribesmen in their own right, fleeing the encroaching shadow in the southeast. Others, once soldiers in Sauron's armies or labourers in the lands he controlled, grew disillusioned after the failure of numerous military campaigns, and were no longer swayed by the Dark Lord's fell machinations.

'I will not say these Orcs were Man-like in nature. But nor were they the vapid, organic instruments of war we had previously believed them to be. Despite their penchant for argument and violence, they were willing to learn our ways, and to make a new life for themselves – in their own manner.

'Rómestámo took a particular liking to these pathetic beings, and so sheltered them beneath his wing. The Orcs could not be fully integrated into the society we had already established, for not only were they and the Easterlings entirely different in nature and culture, there was no common language between the two. Thus developed the arrangement you see today: Easterlings upon the east bank, Orcs upon the west. For a time, we lived separately yet peaceably.'

Truva still failed to comprehend the relevance of Morinehtar's story, yet her ears pricked up to hear him describe circumstances resembling those she had witnessed in Agdî; it seemed the tale was nearing its end. When she stuffed fried sweet potatoes and beans into her mouth, it was now to prevent herself from asking questions, rather than to avoid speaking.

'Over time, however, the Orcs' inherent rapacious nature took hold. Sporadic conflicts over resources sprang up. Fishermen sailing both upon the River and across the Sea were the most frequent culprits, though the collection of river mud ignited occasional spats, as did hunting game. One particularly bloody incident involved a deer swimming across Celduin.'

Morinehtar closed his eyes as if still affected by this last memory.

'Did these conflicts extend to the waters of the River Running itself?' Truva asked, recalling what little history the Noyon had conveyed to her.

'Naturally,' said Morinehtar, reaching to refill her square cup. When he withdrew, a tiny bowl of savoury egg custard stood beside it, still steaming. 'As I suspect you have heard, we of East Rhûn sought to divert a small portion of Ulāngól to sustain our ever-expanding farmlands. The devolution of that conflict was swift and irreversible.'

'What of Rómestámo?'

'Ah, therein lies the crux of the issue.' Morinehtar paused for quite some time then, genuine sorrow writ upon his brow. His sigh, ever so faint, bore the weight of a hundred such gestures.

'The brotherhood betwixt Rómestámo and myself quite naturally persisted throughout these turbulent times,' he continued at last, 'for our connection transcends even the most all-consuming conflicts of Men. We knew also the duty of salvaging what little peace could be had between East and West Rhûn was ours to execute.

'But not even amongst Wizards is such amity eternal. Ultimately, it was Rómestámo himself who betrayed our trust, and thrust us into irreconcilable discord. There was an Easterling chieftain, you see: leader of the tribe foremost amongst all tribes, whom they called King. Ezele was her name, and over the years, through many interactions on behalf of our people, she fell in love with me, and I her.

'But Rómestámo grew deeply resentful of this; for I believe he, too, coveted Ezele – as well as the power she wielded – and sought to spoil her mind against me. Even when Ezele and I were wed, he continued to exert his nefarious influence, sowing knotweed where we strove to nourish peonies.

'And then King Ezele bore me a child.'

The Wizard's narration stopped sharply. Truva froze beneath his searching eyes, a bowl of fermented soybean soup halfway to her lips. So she had not misjudged; her premonitions had been correct. In that moment, all the dishes she had consumed – and they were many – threatened to crawl back up her throat.

'Some twoscore years ago, Ezele bore me a beautiful baby daughter,' Morinehtar explained, 'who even in her infancy boasted a white lock upon her dark brow, like that of her mother and the people of her Shonkhor tribe.'

All semblance of thought fled Truva's mind. Emotions surged in her breast; yet she was unable to comprehend or disentangle the flashes of anger and betrayal, of hope and despair – curiosity, love, desperation. She sat immobile and suffocating beneath the airy Easterling clothing. The skin of her palms, cheeks, underarms all flamed. Words would not come, even as Morinehtar peered into her face with brown eyes so very similar to her own.

'Ezele and I adored our infant daughter with the full capacity of our hearts,' he continued, once it was apparent Truva had no intention of responding, 'yet Rómestámo's vile words worked their magic; the King, driven from her wits by lies whispered when her spirit was most vulnerable, feared for the life of her child.

'And so she ran – ran in the deepest depths of the night, when I was away defending Agdî from attacks Rómestámo had set as distraction. I dispatched the full strength of the Easterling army in search of my beloved Ezele and our daughter, and traversed the wide plains of Rhûn for many years. Not once did I give up hope, yet no trace of them was ever found.'

Morinehtar fell back against a pillow then, exhausted from his tale. Truva could do nothing more than stare at the dishes that had accumulated around her: seasoned rice, pickled carrots and onions, sliced strawberries, tea. The truth of her past was detailed clearly now – not only her appearance, but also Thranduil's tale of the Easterling woman, and Grimbeorn's information regarding the Dwarves – but she did not wish for it to be.

'Please do not tell me your daughter's name,' she whispered. 'Not yet.'

The Wizard rose and stretched his long legs. 'Very well,' he said. 'I will not. In the meantime, you may rest here, for this room is to be your accommodations. You will find bedding beneath the cushions, and there are curtains should you wish to close them – though you are so high up that none may see in. Ring if you require anything.'

He pointed to a bronze chain, fashioned in the style of an ivy vine, before disappearing into the stairway below and closing the hatch behind him without a word further.