Recommended listening: Wolf — String Quartet in D Minor
CHAPTER XXVII: PALLANDO THE BLUE
The instant Truva regained consciousness, she threw herself against the cell bars with an animalistic shriek. Paying no heed to the stripes of pain sure to form bruises later, or to her dislocated auricular finger, she continued to hurl herself time and time against the door; in her mind, the corporeal world no longer existed – only the flashing images of her time in the Hidlands: Dregant's snarling face, bloodied and battered bodies, the whip's crack, whispers from other fighters as she was dragged from the Training Compound to be sequestered in a cramped cage for years on end.
She could not endure it again. Not the long, listless days. Not the confinement. Not the sense of belonging to another human.
The very notion shattered her soul. She could not.
A gaoler appeared just as she clashed against the gate again. 'Amä kamkıkh!' he shouted, striking at the bars with his club and splintering Truva's fingers in the process. When she did not fall back, merely continued to stare at him with eyes wide and wild, he used the end of his weapon to shove her away.
Yielding to the club's pressure, Truva stood just beyond its furthest reach. She did not avert her gaze. The gaoler lingered but a moment longer, observing her askance, then turned back to his duties with a furious muttering that was surely half curses.
When he disappeared, an emaciated figure lurking in the cell across the passageway rushed towards his own bars, clutching them with hands of dark, mottled skin. The Orc's voice was hushed – as not to be heard by the gaoler – but he spoke with desperate rapidity, imploring Truva with words she could not comprehend. When she shook her head in bewilderment, he raised long, skinny fingers in a gesture that was quite obviously intended as lewd, and spat in her direction.
Truva fell back against the cell's foul straw. Her heart still raced, yet it seemed as though the worst of her sudden panic had faded. Resetting her dislocated finger – an old and oft-recurring injury – she breathed deeply and evenly. Her captors had not stripped her of Aragorn's Star; her fingers worried its patterns and edges as she sought to replace frenetic thoughts with more calming ones: of Éomer the moment she encountered him in the Hidlands, the first occasion on which Théoden King had called her 'daughter', Aragorn's gentle kiss upon her lips.
Eventually, she turned her mind to a more rational assessment of circumstances – little good though it did her, for all options were terribly unpromising. She did not so much as share a common language with the gaoler; there was no potential for escape on that front – and even less so in her fellow captive, it would seem.
Nor was there hope of immediate rescue; any friend aware of her general whereabouts had no notion of when her reappearance ought to be expected. Even Legolas and Gimli, those last to see her, knew nothing save that she had gone off into the lands of Rhûn on some ill-defined venture.
Shifting variables made more protracted plans harder to assess. With greatest fortune, Lord Faramir and whatever forces remained in Gondor would repel Alatar's attack, and send the Easterlings back to their homelands with tails between their legs. But subsequent to their victory, the likelihood of any Western host – weak as they would be – venturing into Rhûn and stumbling upon Truva was nonexistent, nor could she foresee any circumstance in which Alatar would agree to an exchange.
And if the Stonemark should fall? Truva shuddered to think – though perhaps that would offer her the greatest opportunity to flee. Surely Alatar, upon his triumphant return, would not be content to leave her locked up and wasting away in his dungeons, bereft of all potential. Knowing the meddling Wizards, Truva could only suppose he would make yet another attempt at persuading her to ally herself with the Easterlings.
Contingencies swirled in Truva's mind as the hours passed unmarked in the depths of Baradorn, where the meagre sun did not penetrate. She was accompanied only by the sound of the guard changing or the chains that hobbled the Orc rustling across the way. Then, after a time, a low rumble could be heard above, a steady beat of marching feet: the Easterling company moving out.
Truva's heart palpitated painfully in her throat at the thought of what lay at the other end of their journey, and the further the sound faded away, the more restless she became. In an attempt to dispel some modicum of her scarcely-contained energy, she moved about her cell, examining every nook and cranny. The enclosure was well-forged; not a single stone loose, not a crack too wide, not a bar out of place. Not that she had any real expectation of escape – for even if she succeeded in extricating herself from confinement, she would have to be very lucky indeed to overcome whatever guard remained behind at Karkürem.
In spite of her agitation (or perhaps as a result of it), Truva began to doze fitfully. Her eyes fluttered closed against her will, only to jerk open suddenly, accompanied by a rush of ragged gasps. This cycle repeated itself ad infinitum, broken only momentarily by a bowl of broth being shoved unceremoniously into her cell. Nearly half its contents spilled out, though this did not seem to discourage her Orcish companion across the way, who plied his tongue to the filthy cobblestone floor and lapped up every last drop of broth he could.
Truva brought her own bowl to her lips, and soon the warmth of the broth invited slumber to overtake her. This time she slept soundly, as though she lay upon her bed in Edoras; not even her quarters in Aldburg afforded her such deep sleep.
But then, with an abrupt shake, she was woken.
Truva leapt to her feet, finding herself face to face with a strange, elderly man whose features flickered in the torches' paltry light. He was garbed in blue robes like those of Alatar, though his silver hair was streaked heavily with black, and the lines of age were not so heavily ingrained upon his round face.
Yet Truva noted none of this. All she could see was the open cell door behind him.
'Come!' the old man urged, his voice reverberating off the stone walls of the gaol. Already the Orc lingered in the passageway beyond.
Truva did not hesitate. She leapt towards the exit, attempting to evade the old man, yet he was far more sprightly than his age would suggest. He outpaced her easily, slipping out of the cell and darting along the aisle between those that now lay empty. Truva had no choice but to follow.
The gaoler lay unconscious at his desk, but neither Truva nor the other two paid him any mind as they passed, ascending the steps three at a time and emerging into the Baradorn entrance hall. It too was empty, save the clatter of rain lashing against its windows, falling from thunderous clouds which obscured the early morning sky beyond.
The old man bustled towards the far corner of the hall, but Truva had no intention of waiting to discover his aim. Spying a gardening scythe hung upon the wall amidst an assortment of other tools, she lunged for it – only to turn and find the Orc similarly armed. He stood directly in front of the main doors, blocking her escape.
Truva's eyes flickered to the old man, who was pulling several bundles out from where they were hidden beneath the immense fronds of a potted caladium, oblivious to the standoff. 'You are Rómestámo,' she stated.
'Very well deduced,' the Wizard replied. He placed the bundles in the middle of the hall and began to unroll them. 'And while it does not surprise me that Alatar insists upon using that name, I do prefer Pallando.'
'You ally yourself with the Orcs.' It sounded like an accusation; perhaps it was.
'And it appears you have already met their queen, Azgaur,' said the Wizard, extricating a scimitar from the mess of fabric and handing it to the Orc. Truva's heart pounded as the Orc unsheathed his blade; now she could not possibly rely on force to secure her escape. She sought instead to distract the duo with conversation:
'I see Orcs are very much like Dwarves, in that males and females are indistinguishable to those not of their kind. If royalty of any sort, I would have thought your companion a king, not a queen.'
The Wizard glanced at her briefly. 'Nothing of the sort; "king" and "queen" are merely titles in Rhûn, belonging to the most premier leader and their partner, regardless of sex. Rather like your mother and Alatar.'
Truva allowed the scythe to drop to her side. 'How do you—?' She couldn't bring herself to finish the question.
'One does not ask a Wizard to unveil his mysteries,' he said with a wink. 'And the identity of my informants must be protected at all costs.'
He straightened then, and extended the hilt of Fréodhel towards Truva. She hesitated, slowly reaching for the leather grip, when the Wizard suddenly withdrew the sword.
'You may, of course, go where you will once freed from this place,' said he, 'yet I suspect you will make directly for Gondor in the wake of Alatar and his host. Is that not true?'
'Very well deduced,' Truva echoed.
The Wizard paid no mind to her impertinent answer. 'If I were to imply I had a proposal that would increase the West's hopes for victory, would you be at all inclined to listen?'
Even as he spoke, he gently lowered the sword hilt into Truva's outstretched palm. Drawing the sheath towards herself, she freed the blade in one sweeping motion, and upon careful inspection was convinced it had not sustained any damage.
'What is the nature of this proposal?' she asked, resheathing Fréodhel once more.
'There is no time,' the Wizard urged. 'We must begone; if you wish to hear my explanation, I will give it on the way.' He passed to her the Elven bow and other weapons, as well as the horn of the House of Éofor.
'And my armour? My rucksack?'
'If you wish to have any hope of escaping this stronghold unscathed, you would do well to conceal yourself with the Easterlings' own armour. As for your other effects, I know not where they may be found.'
Truva grimaced and drove to the back of her mind the loss of the greatest physical reminder she possessed of Théoden King – just when she desired it most – and even Gimli's tiny carving of Bron. Thus emptying her thoughts, she rushed to exchange her silken garb for the blue and gold livery of an Easterling rider, as Azgaur Queen had already done. With Fréodhel secured about her waist, Truva made for the main doors, but Pallando caught her elbow.
'There are no guards within the hall, but there are many without,' he said in a hushed voice.
He instead led the fugitives up, up the tower's spiral staircase, stopping when they had nearly ascended to the third floor, where thick strands of woodbine brushed against a window, tossed by stormy gusts of wind. He pushed open the pane and clutched at the vines, but Truva stopped him with a stifled, 'Wait!'
Leaving the odd duo behind her, she ascended the remaining floors to Alatar's study. Its doors were closed, but yielded easily to her touch. The study was unoccupied. Entering furtively, Truva strode across the lush carpet to the pedestal and ripped the cloth off the palantír. She stared into its murky depths, but felt no hesitation; she knew now precisely what to expect, and what information she sought most desperately.
Placing her hands above the glassy sphere, Truva allowed its rush to consume her, welcomed its disorienting sights which sent her careening southward to where she knew Aragorn to be. And then there he was – watching the races of some peculiar creature – rushing across empty golden sands upon the back that very same beast – wielding Andúril at the prow of a ship under fire –
She stepped back and stood gasping in the centre of the study. Alatar's words rang in her ears: sometimes the palantír shows things that have not yet come to pass, and such things are never certain until they do. And yet, and yet… what she had just witnessed was so entirely consistent with events she knew to be occurring in the south. Aragorn was in danger.
She turned to spy Pallando and Azgaur standing in the doorway of the study, staring at her.
'I suppose I ought not be so surprised,' the Wizard muttered.
'I must go,' Truva insisted. 'Now.'
Pallando did not gainsay her, and merely descended once more to the third floor landing, where he carefully lowered himself down the makeshift rope of woodbine into the thicket of purple azalea below. Truva glanced questioningly at the Queen, who returned a glower that clearly indicated he expected her to follow first.
The woodbine's waxy leaves were slick with rainwater as Truva climbed hand over hand down, nearly slipping on several occasions. No sooner had she gained her footing in the loamy earth than Azgaur dropped down behind her with a grunt. Pallando raised his finger to his lips for silence – though his companions needed no reminder; just around the bend of Baradorn, two Easterling guards chatted away as though they hadn't a care in the world.
Pallando darted from one voluminous hydrangea to the next, leading the fugitives westward away from the tower's entrance until they slipped out of the garden and into the paths of the city. A great many villagers still milled about their morning business, though none so much as cast a glance in the trio's direction. Far more dangerous were the infrequent guards, at whose passing Truva and the others were forced to duck into alleyways and shopfronts to evade detection.
They soon came upon the stables. With a breath of relief, Truva darted across the way before striding in through the double doors with an air of confidence, hoping against hope the stablehands would not recognise her. She needn't have worried, however, for the stablehands were occupied as ever in their game of cards, and paid her no mind.
When she stopped in front of Zaĭsan's stall, however, it lay empty, as did a number of others. She raced up and down the rows, searching frantically for the fiery piebald, yet was unable to locate him; of those few horses that remained, none bore his distinctive markings.
In her panic, it took Truva several moments to hear Pallando whistling to her from outside the stables. Abandoning her search, she scrambled out a window opening onto the rear alleyway. But even as she did so, one stablehand called out in Easterling – though he never took his eyes off his cards, and made no rush in Truva's direction.
'Did you perhaps befriend a steed by the name of Zaĭsan?' Pallando whispered as Truva dropped down into the alleyway beside him.
'Yes,' she replied, brows furrowed in confusion.
'Laddie says Alatar himself rode off on that horse,' said the Wizard, with a nod in the vague direction of the stablehand who had called out.
'Helm take that pernicious Wizard,' Truva swore quietly.
'It would have been folly to ride out on horseback, as it is,' Pallando quipped as he crept along the stables' rear wall. 'The main gates of Karkürem currently boast more guards than Morannon ever did.'
Truva could make neither heads nor tails of the Wizard's wild plans, and yet it appeared they coincided with her own – for a short while, at least – and so she continued to follow after his bobbing blue hood as he wove along uncrowded byways and hidden paths. In a matter of minutes, the southernmost stretch of wall rose up before them.
'How long has it been since the company's departure?' Truva asked, casting her glance first to her right, where a noisy cohort of guards at the main gate were just hidden from view by the wall's curve, then up at the towering battlements.
'They broke camp yesterday, just after dawn,' said Pallando. 'They will have a significant advantage; we must move with all haste.'
'Move whither?'
But the Wizard did not answer. After glancing both ways along the street to ensure no villagers were about, he bounded across the cobblestones and scaled the wall as if upon air. Truva stared in bewilderment, yet Azgaur was already shoving her forward. There, sweeping against the wall's immense stone blocks, dangled a creeper stripped of its leaves. Truva wound it round her hand, ignoring the biting cut of vine against the flesh of her hand, and ascended after Pallando.
There were no guards upon the battlements. Perhaps it was as Óddîr claimed: that none dared attack Karkürem, and so its defenders grew content, their patrols lax. Or perhaps they had marched out in too great of numbers to maintain a standard watch. Yet while the fortress might be safe from assault, that said nothing of escaping prisoners.
As soon as Azgaur gained the parapet, the three fugitives turned away from the city. Truva saw then that her fear upon entering Karkürem had become her very path to salvation, for against the outer battlements rested a felled tree, its vines cast over the ramparts in order to allow their ascent – and presumably the Wizard's initial descent. Pallando made the short jump down to the trunk, then scrambled branch by branch along the tree until he dropped with a flourish of blue robes onto the greensward. Truva followed close behind, as did Azgaur, and in a flash they were beneath the forest's cover, dashing between birch and pine as they bore directly southward.
Their headlong sprint did not last long, however. Scarcely a mile had been put between themselves and the fortress before Pallando slowed to a swift stride, which carried him at nearly the same pace as a jog.
'A sprightly walk is as good as a stuttered trot,' he said, waggling his eyebrows significantly. 'Best not overexert ourselves.'
Indeed, Azgaur's breathing had grown somewhat laboured – though he strove to conceal that fact, and Truva feigned to pay it no mind. She instead drew apace with the Wizard, intent on determining what his precise intentions were.
'I have come with you thus far because you offered not only freedom to me, but also succour to my people,' she said. 'Yet I cannot say that I trust you – especially following so hard upon your compatriot's betrayal. Tell me, what aid might Rhûn render Gondor, and for what purpose?'
'You needn't rely upon mere belief,' the Wizard replied. 'Least, no more than you already afforded Alatar, poorly though that served you. But first, tell me all that you know of circumstances here upon the Sea of Rhûn – or all that Alatar told you.'
Truva shot him a mistrustful look, then glanced over her shoulder to where Azgaur continued to stumble along behind them, indifferent to their conversation in a language he did not understand.
'He is a figurehead, nothing more,' Pallando clarified. 'His threats in Baradorn were mere showmanship, designed to buy time with which we might convince you of our value. Do not mistake him as representative of the forces that defend Uzdígh.'
'Alatar said you did not favour amassing a standing army, for fear of Sauron turning it to his fell purposes.'
'So I did, so I did – as did Alatar. Yet shifts in the political landscape of Rhûn caused us both to reassess positions we had previously held. I suppose Alatar suggested it was the Orcs of Uzdígh who built the irrigation system that initiated the conflict between us, as well.'
'Nothing of the sort,' said Truva, launching into the history Alatar had relayed to her: how the Easterlings' agricultural expansion had increased their need for water, the subsequent construction of an irrigation system and the Orcs' violent reaction, the rapid disintegration of diplomacy between the two factions, and finally Pallando's own role in the disappearance of King Ezele.
After she concluded her narration, Pallando remained silent for quite some time. His stride had slowed, and a pensive expression lay upon his face. Fat drops of water fell through the canopy onto the company's heads and down their necks, suggesting the rain overhead had grown to a downpour, if the thick fronds of oak and beech were no longer sufficient to protect them.
'Well,' said the Wizard at great last. 'That is quite some tale.'
'Do you deny it?' Truva accused.
'Deny it?' Pallando mused. 'No, I do not think I can in good faith claim anything my dear friend said was an outright lie.' His demeanour had grown clouded, his voice no more than a murmur. A singular bead of rainwater struck his forehead and trickled down to drip off the bulbous point of his nose as he sighed heavily. 'I suppose it is merely a matter of perspective – but nor do I believe Alatar was entirely forthright regarding the true nature of his motivations.'
Truva made no further remark, for she sensed the Wizard would diffuse the haze of her confusion in his own time. Though neither Ithryn Luin had proven nearly as close as Radagast – let alone Gandalf – it was clear that, of the two, Pallando was more inclined towards the characteristic Istari reticence.
'It is true Easterling Orcs are hardly an accommodating, neighbourly folk – even those who shunned Sauron's influence,' Pallando continued, resuming his headlong pace. 'Indeed, I quite think it was due to their quarrelsome disposition, and disaffection to fall under the rule of another, that they evaded his clutching fingers in the first place. Yet Orcs are not impervious to reason, and it proved no difficult task to convince them of the advantages living in a moderately altruistic society would provide.'
Azgaur gave a grunt then, as if confirming what the Wizard said, though in all likelihood it was due more to having tripped over a particularly prominent root system. Pallando stopped briefly to offer him a hand before forging on.
'Relations between Uzdígh, Agdî, and their inclusive territories were never easy. A great many isolated incidents of dispute arose – yet none were sufficient to spark larger conflict. That is, until the first dam was built. It is from that point I believe my understanding of events begins to deviate from that of my companion.'
'Alatar said he built the system to support expanding infrastructure in the East Sea region,' said Truva with all the impassivity she could muster.
'And I imagine that was his partial intent,' Pallando admitted. 'Yet what I suspect he did not tell you is that the system they built funnelled the Celduin in its near entirety into their own lands, leaving Uzdígh deprived of the very resource most necessary for survival. The dam was constructed without our consultation, and Agdî made no attempts at fair distribution. While I have no proof of my suppositions, I do believe this served a dual purpose: to bolster the strength of East Rhûn whilst simultaneously weakening Uzdígh.'
'So you attacked.'
'Negotiations would have been far preferable, I must admit.' The Wizard's sighs grew deeper. 'Yet as I mentioned, Easterling Orcs are a belligerent bunch, and are not liable to allow even the smallest of slights to go unavenged – let alone significant ones. The Agdî dam was swiftly disassembled, only to be reconstructed in a manner benefitting the West Sea alone, thus perpetuating a destructive cycle that would endure for hundreds of years.'
'Then what is Uzdígh's motivation for allying itself with Gondor? Whether it be resources or revenge you seek, surely you would benefit greatest by assailing the Easterling defences while their main host is away, marching upon distant lands.'
'That only holds true if Alatar and his Noyon find defeat in the West, and return with a force insufficient to retake their strongholds.'
'You do not think Gondor capable of staving off Rhûn's assault.' Though Truva could not fault Pallando for his assessment, she would not say it in so many words.
'I do not wish to leave it to chance.' Pallando stared determinedly ahead. 'Should the Easterlings be met with victory, they will return to Rhûn with strength enough to seize control of the entire Zünuur region, whether we keep to ourselves in Uzdígh or no. Ensuring Gondor's victory is the only hope we have of maintaining our own security.'
'Alatar is intent on acquiring resources; surely those of the West will satisfy his needs. Perhaps he might not even return to Rhûn. Why risk the safety of your forces on an uncertainty?'
The foreboding look in Pallando's eyes was more chilling than the rain that seeped into the gaps of Truva's armour. His strides grew even longer, much to Azgaur's vocal dismay.
'Alatar's greed cannot be sated,' the Wizard murmured, as if to himself. 'He is not the man I once knew, and has not been for quite some time. That is why I gave warning to your mother.'
'I know no mother!' Truva exclaimed fiercely.
Pallando glanced over his shoulder once more to his Orcish companion, who was straggling even further behind. A string of muttered curses – distinguishable regardless of language – sputtered from his lips. When the Wizard spoke again, he did not address Truva's assertion.
'Even if you choose to forgo our cause and instead make directly for Gondor, you are bound in the same direction as we,' he said. 'I beg of you to camp with us this night, and hear the full length of my tale ere you make a decision. If you remain unconvinced, you shall of course be free to travel whither you will.'
Some aspect of the Wizard's expression told of his unwillingness to discuss the issue at length – though what the source of his hesitation was Truva could not guess. She pursed her lips but nodded, trusting there was no harm in accompanying this strange duo for a short while; Pallando had, after all, rescued her from a desperate situation, even if their encounter was the result of mere fortuitous happenstance.
Thus the Wizard pressed on at a furious pace. But Azgaur's complaints grew so insistent – his stomach likewise lending its voice – that the company had little choice but to halt briefly around the time Truva assumed to be midday, though the overcast sky and thick foliage did not easily allow the passing of hours to be tracked. Taking shelter beneath an umbrella of butterbur leaves sprouting from a nurse log, the three passed around waterskins and loaves of Orcish waybread in silence. The Queen devoured every last crumb of blackened cram with apparent relish, but Truva found the fare so unpalatable she joined Pallando in fasting.
When they took to their feet once more, the ground began to slope heavily downwards, transitioning from soft loam to gritty soil. The dense forest grew thicker about them before thinning ever so slightly; the giant, unidentifiable trees like that of Baradorn became less frequent, replaced by spruces and firs. Crowded undergrowth slowed the company's progress.
Hours passed. The minimal light that filtered through the trees gradually became dusky, then turned fully dark. Temporarily satiated by his noon meal, Azgaur began to voice his dissatisfaction yet again, but Pallando did not slacken his pace – and indeed seemed to increase it.
Then quite suddenly the earth fell away beneath their feet. Even in the darkness, Truva could see moonlight glinting upon the Sea of Rhûn, could hear gentle waves curling upon its sandy shores as she scrambled down a rocky escarpment after Pallando and came upon the beach itself. The Wizard then turned sharply west and travelled along the treeline parallel to the water's edge, glancing back through the forest every now and then.
'Ah hah!' he cried after a time, dashing towards a small thicket of windswept juniper and barberry shrubs. From the topmost branches he shook down a carefully concealed tarpaulin to reveal a dinghy, with two sails strapped neatly about its tiny mast.
'We will make camp here tonight and depart in the morning,' he said, extricating blankets from the hull as he held a short exchange with Azgaur in their own dialect. Whatever Pallando said to the Orc caused the corners of Azgaur's mouth to pull down and form a truly ferocious glower, demonstrating to Truva that he had not, in actuality, been scowling continuously at her since their first encounter, as she previously believed. When the two finished speaking, Azgaur turned on his heel and stomped off through the trees.
'We could make a veritable bonfire and have reasonable assurance of not being detected,' Pallando remarked, wholly unaffected by the Queen's discontent. 'Yet the docks of Karkürem lie at the head of an inlet just to the east, and I think it best not to tempt fate – even if all the East Zünuur forces are on the march. A small fire shall suffice.'
'I will go collect firewood,' Truva offered.
'That is the task I have just sent Queen Azgaur on,' said Pallando, with the shadow of a self-contented smile upon his lips. 'He is not accustomed to procuring anything for himself, and I rather think the work shall do him some good.'
Truva studied the Wizard as he set about arranging an astonishingly large assortment of crockery. 'Was the Queen not just confined in gaol?' she asked. 'I would think he is deserving of rest.'
'Confined for scarcely longer than yourself!' Pallando chuckled. 'He was captured while enjoying a poorly-earned snooze upon the Sea not three days ago. His attendants thought – or hoped, perhaps – that he had drowned, and so the task of retrieving him fell to me.'
'Three days? He appears so emaciated!'
Pallando fixed Truva with a curious look. 'Orcs are a peculiar people; their bodies do not function in the entirely same manner as those of Men. I assure you, Azgaur eats a great deal more heartily than even the most portly of gentlemen in the West.'
'You do not seem to hold a high estimation of the Queen,' Truva remarked.
'Easterling Orcs abide by a system of values that does not always align with my own.' The Wizard offered a skin of wine to Truva, which she politely refused. 'What I can say in Azgaur's favour is that he boasts a great many traits the citizens of Uzdígh find desirable; for although it is true he is no hand at combat, he is cunning and sharp-witted, and by some means contrived for the King to choose him above all others.'
Unconvinced, Truva mused silently on this information a moment before rising. 'If you'll excuse me,' she said, gathering a cloth and drifting towards the forest. 'I think I will go foraging, regardless. Grateful though I am for your inclination to share your waybread, I do not think I can bring myself to subsist upon it.'
'I spied a rather lush patch of knotweed a short distance back,' offered the Wizard, busy preparing what looked suspiciously like tea. 'And I apologise for the nearly inedible cram; I did not realise I would be taking on a second, unexpected fugitive until I had already arrived in Karkürem.'
'I could not dare fault you for something so entirely beyond your control,' said Truva, wandering off in the direction Pallando had indicated.
He had not been mistaken; she soon stumbled upon a carpet of the bristly knotweed shoots, with the additional good luck of bracken stems poking through here and there. She gathered as many as her cloth would hold and returned to camp, where both Pallando and Azgaur sat about a fire, having somehow managed to both construct a meagre lean-to and snare several silver carp in the short span that she was away. The Queen was in the middle of prattling on about some story he apparently deemed hilarious – as evidenced by his own uproarious laughter.
Stone-faced, Pallando placed Truva's contribution beside the fish to roast before pouring Azgaur another glass of wine. 'I won't translate,' he said archly, with a nod to the Queen. 'He's elucidating on some of the more, ah, primal activities he and the King regularly engage in.'
'I see,' was all Truva said as she took a seat in the sand and accepted the cup of tea he offered.
Throughout the telling of Azgaur's tale, all three members of the party took turns tending the carp, though the Queen did not possess the patience to wait until it had cooked fully, choosing instead to pluck a fish from the fire and consume its entire head in one bite. Its tail disappeared in a second mouthful, and the Queen leaned contentedly back against a rock, eyes fluttering against the weight of wine.
With Azgaur's ribald tales finally at an end, silence fell between Truva and the Wizard, broken only by their companion's surprisingly gentle snores. Another cup of tea passed before the fish was prepared, yet when Truva offered a portion to Pallando, he politely refused.
'Have you never wondered why Mithrandir eats very little, if at all?' he asked.
Truva pondered this a moment, for indeed she had never made note of the fact. 'Why is that so?'
'I mention it only because the reason perhaps relates to Alatar and the circumstances of your birth.' The Wizard glanced at Truva, who suddenly found her meal far more fascinating than their conversation, and refused to return his gaze.
'You see, the corporeal body is not a Wizard's true manifestation, nor is he inherently bound to it,' Pallando continued. 'In coming to Middle Earth, we were given the figures of old men as a mere contrivance by which we might attain the task set upon us – the details of which I will spare you for now.
'Yet with each act of humanity a Wizard commits, the more tied to this form he becomes. Every sip of tea, every embrace, every puff on a pipe, every summer afternoon doze decreases the likelihood of an Istari returning to his true nature, and inspires in his mind the more base thoughts of Men.'
'I have seen Gandalf embrace many others,' Truva interrupted. 'He is particularly fond of the Holbytlan – the Halflings – and I imagine that fondness is aided in no small part by his penchant for their pipeweed.'
'So Hobbits do exist, after all,' murmured Pallando. He paused briefly to fumble around in a pack, extricating a pouch of his own tobacco before pulling a pipe as if from nowhere. This he packed and set alight, then settled back, allowing gentle wisps of smoke to be carried adrift by the wind off the Sea.
'I suppose to forgo food, yet not the touch of others, is consistent with the ever-foolish and sentimental character of Olórin,' he continued. 'But it was not so for Alatar. Even in our earliest days, he felt an affinity for the Easterlings, yet not in the way I suspect Gandalf – as you call him – did for the Periandi. Alatar revelled in being considered a deity, in being elevated to a position of significance beyond anything he had previously known. He indulged immensely in the pleasures of Men, and so was born into his mind the notions of ambition and avarice; it was not concern for the Easterlings that drove his actions, but rather the acute desire for power.
'This the Easterlings gave him, fully and easily. They promoted him above even their own Chieftains, above all save the very King; and so Alatar's rapacity only increased. It was then he sought to sow seeds of instability in West Rhûn, under the guise of infrastructural growth – yet with the underlying hope that it would one day allow him to control the Sea of Rhûn in its entirety.'
Pallando fell silent a moment, the dying fire flickering in his eyes as he sighed heavily. Truva added another log and stoked the flames, observing the Wizard from the corner of her eye. Whereas all aspects of Alatar were long and thin, there was a tired roundness to Pallando; he had the appearance of a man who had been portly in his youth but since lost much of the weight, as if deflated by the years. Only his beard, silver curls so dark they nearly appeared blue, was robust.
He indulged in another puff of his pipe before speaking again. 'Yet even this was not sufficient to sate Alatar's greed, and so he set his mind upon that which he had yet to subsume: the Kingship. Had Alatar but asked, the Easterlings would surely have transitioned power into his hands – and happily at that. But Alatar's mind became so corrupted by his indulgences that he felt the need to possess the King in the way a Man would. He took the King as a wife.
'I do not believe Alatar ever truly loved Ezele,' said Pallando softly. His eyes glimmered in the firelight. 'If he did, such sentiments were secondary to his aspirations for power.'
'Alatar said you poisoned her mind out of jealousy for their love,' Truva stated bluntly. She had been played for a fool once already, and was determined not to be moved by Pallando's display of emotion. She would hear his iteration of the story, compare it to Alatar's, then parse out her own understanding of the truth – nothing more.
'It does not surprise me that he interpreted my actions in such a way,' said Pallando with a humourless chuckle.
'Were you envious of their love?' Truva pressed.
'It is impossible to have coveted what they did not possess,' the Wizard insisted, his lips pressing into a bitter line. Then his voice grew hushed as he murmured, 'Yet I cannot in good faith say I did not care deeply for Ezele.'
Only the tranquil rush of waves and crackle of fire could be heard as Pallando once more allowed his narration to lapse into quietude. Truva observed him closely. There was a moment in which she thought she spied the ghost of an expression Gandalf often wore when he was deepest in thought, but then it was gone, and Pallando regained his phlegmatic manner of speaking.
'Perhaps I, like Alatar, indulged in a few too many cups of tea.' He took a sip as if to confirm this. 'You see, as quarrelsome as Uzdígh and Agdî were throughout the years, their respective leaders spent a great deal of time in communication, always attempting to ease tensions between two disparate peoples. Many a late evening was spent in Karkürem and the study of Baradorn – for that citadel Alatar built to woo Ezele. Thus through our unceasing negotiations I came to sense Alatar's intentions, and my affections blossomed despite all efforts to the contrary.
'She was powerful – far more powerful even than the Orcs of West Rhûn, for though many Easterling tribes had fallen prey to Sauron's influence, still they feared her. But she was kind also, and thoughtful, and cared deeply for her people. Agdî flourished under her policies, and even Uzdígh prospered from her stance of pacification. This is why I believe she fell susceptible to Alatar's subterfuge; she believed his concern for the Easterlings equal to her own.
'I voiced my concerns to her but once,' he whispered, taking a long draw from his pipe. 'She married him regardless.'
Here Pallando paused for quite some time, staring into the settling fire, before taking a deep breath to continue. 'At first I thought my initial impressions must have been mistaken, for they appeared happy, in their own way. Their union also allowed Alatar the one act that would unequivocally tie him to his life in Middle Earth—'
'Fathering a child,' Truva interrupted. When Pallando looked upon her, his dark eyes were full of sympathy.
'It was only then that the illusion began to unravel. Ezele came to me, distraught, with neat braids dishevelled and tears in her eyes. It was difficult to understand through her sobs, and she gave no details – only that she had grown to fear Alatar's insatiable hunger for power, and the plans he had concocted to attain it.'
'Did those plans perhaps include me?' Truva asked, her tone dispassionate. 'Was I no more than a tool by which he might accomplish his objective?'
Pallando's eyebrows arched high. 'What gave you that impression?'
'Alatar himself,' said Truva. 'I did not think much of it at the time, yet hard upon our first meeting, he seemed most intent on evaluating my abilities and discovering the ways in which I might be useful. There was no mention of more… familial connections.'
'He must have been terribly distracted by the impending military campaign,' mused Pallando. 'Alatar is typically far more adept at manipulating those around him without their knowledge. But yes, I suppose that is also what drove him to search so thoroughly for you, following Ezele's disappearance. I doubt he carried much consideration for his wife – with all frankness, he stood to benefit considerably from her absence – yet he would not have been pleased to lose whatever advantage you might have brought him.'
Truva's mouth twisted into a frown, although it was an answer she had foreseen, and indeed expected. 'Do you know what became of the King?' she asked softly.
'No,' whispered Pallando, a tear trickling down his cheek. Truva started; she could not recall having ever seen a Wizard cry, yet Pallando did not seem intent on hiding his distress. 'In my distrust of Alatar, I too went in search of Ezele – yet all trace of her disappeared beneath the eaves of Taur-nu-Fuin – the forest I believe you know as Mirkwood.'
Perhaps it was all a facade; perhaps Pallando was in league with Alatar, or some other such convoluted twist. Truva found that she did not care. Of what consequence would it be if she laid bare the details of her tale?
'I do not know at what point it happened, but the King and I were separated. I fell into the hands of Dwarves – I suspect those of the Iron Hills – and Ezele was discovered in the Enchanted River by Silvan Elves. Perhaps she fell in and I wandered off, to be snared by greedy hands; or perhaps I was snatched away, and as a result she threw herself into its waters – I know not.'
The silence that followed was oppressive. Pallando was now dry-eyed, a lull in the wind causing a cloud of smoke to accumulate in the twists of his beard and about his balding head.
'That ought not to have been your fate,' he murmured at last. Unlike Alatar's reassurances – which were likely spoken in truth but with greedy intent – Truva could not help but feel as though Pallando proffered earnest sympathy.
'Perhaps not,' she replied, wrapping her cloak against the chill night and settling against the bole of a coarse pine. Her mind ought to have been racing with this trove of new information, desperate to seek out the truth between the two Wizards' tales, yet instead there was some strange sense of emotional fulfilment, of unfamiliar contentment. The glow of the fire and Azgaur's soft snores lulled her to sleep.