[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Chamberlain found the King awaiting him in the private audience chamber of his apartments. It was rare that Faroz would be there before Jarult, but the King had been an early riser of late. In fact, the Chamberlain suspected some days that the King had not slept at all the night before, and yet he did not seem fatigued. The King rose and came toward him, and his face – so taciturn these last weeks – bore the trace of a smile. "Come my Chamberlain, be seated. Shall I pour us some tea?"

Jarult’s composure remained intact. "Thank you Khamul, but I am afraid that I cannot take tea in the morning anymore. My stomach…"

"Yes, Chamberlain, I remember. I have ordered that tea be brought that is made of certain herbs from the gardens. It is, they say, wholesome drink and should not upset you."

Jarult doubted there was any tea that he could drink so early, but he did not contradict his King. "Thank you Khamul," he said, settling himself upon a few narrow cushions while Faroz poured them out two steaming cups. They drank together in silence for a time before the King spoke. The Chamberlain could tell that there was an issue of great importance the King wished to discuss. Jarult knew from his King’s manner as well that the issue was one that Faroz had already decided upon, and that the conversation was to be about implementation rather than counsel.

"Tell me," the King began, "do you know aught of the Emissary’s god, Melkor?" Jarult merely raised his eyebrows slightly and shook his head. "He and I have been speaking of Him. He sounds not unlike Rae. The Emissary would have me believe that they are the same, and that we have merely perceived Melkor incorrectly."

At this Jarult could not contain his surprise. "Indeed?" he said. "And in what ways are we mistaken in our faith?" The King seemed not to notice the Chamberlain’s tone. Jarult was not an overly pious man, but he did have faith in the old ways and the gods. The idea that they were being criticised by a foreigner did not sit well with him. The thought that these criticisms might be having an impact on the King alarmed him.

"Melkor is not only the god of the sky, but the god of all," the King proceeded as though repeating a lesson. "He is the bringer of freedom, and a mighty teacher. It is said in the Emissary’s land that Melkor gives the Kings who worship him the ability to create wonderful objects, and the wisdom to use them in their rule.”

“He sounds mighty indeed,” Jarult said in response, setting the half finished cup of tea on the table. Already, his stomach was griping up and he knew that he would feel uncomfortable all morning. “But what of Rhais? Is she entirely unknown in the West?”

“She is known, but by another name. Elbereth they call her, but she is not worshipped by Men, for she is the handmaiden of Melkor. The Emissary says that the Elves in his land pay the goddess great tribute, though. He believes that it is the Elves of this land who have made Rhais the equal of Rae.”

The Chamberlain, distracted by the growing discomfort of his stomach replied without thinking. “Many believe that Rhais is supreme, Khamul.” He winced at his lack of discretion, but the King barely seemed to notice the gaffe. His gaze was now on a point somewhere above, or perhaps behind, the Chamberlain’s head, and his hand stroked the Ring that Jarult knew lay beneath the fabric of his robes. “Yes, yes,” the King acknowledged almost dreamily, “I do not dispute it…” He shook his head as though to wake himself and then smiled, saying. “But it is too early for theological debates. Tell me, have the Lady Arshalous and Priest Tarkan arrived yet, for we have important matters to discuss about the new Temple.”

Chamberlain Jarult, happy for the excuse to get away from the tea before his King bid him to drink more, rose to his feet. “I will see if they have arrived, Khamul.” Bowing deeply he left the room, his sandaled feet making a dry whisper across the stone as he went.

Alone once more, the King smiled at an empty corner of the room and said, “You should be going too, should you not?” Ashnaz removed his Ring and stepped forward.

“You are becoming ever more perceptive, my friend. You saw me almost as soon as I arrived.”

“I knew you were coming,” the King said. “I felt you.” The Emissary smiled before departing.

Now truly alone, the King settled back upon his cushions and let the memory of his dream take hold of him once more. It had come to him in the few hours of sleep that he had each night before Ashnaz came to fetch him for their forays into Korak’s villa. It had come to him seven nights in a row now. There had been a figure of light calling to him from the West amid a gathering of cloud and shadows. Howls, high and fierce, like the despairing cries of lost things had filled the air, and he had covered his ears and quailed. But then a voice, strong, melodious and pleasing had been heard, and the howls had become as voices in a chorus, harmonious with the song of the Voice. He repeated the words of the song to himself now, just beneath his breath, the strange syllables dribbling from his lips like honey:

Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul,
Ash nazg thrakatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.