Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

---

An Aristocratic Upbringing

---

An Aristocratic Upbringing

Urzahil sat on the stone steps to the garden, watching his father teach his two brothers how to handle a sword. After the first few bouts, sweat plastered their hair to their faces. From his perch in the shade, Urzahil felt hot and dusty just watching them.

Unlike his father and brothers, Urzahil wasn't required to bear arms to protect their city, the Havens of Umbar. Nothing prevented him from training in swordsmanship, he could have been a hired blade when he came of age if he wanted to, but he wasn't interested. He did wear a sword on his belt on formal occasions, but if he'd pulled it out, he would've dropped it.

The drills weren't as interesting to watch by the tenth repetition, and Urzahil started to get bored. He picked up a sword his brother wasn't using and swung it back and forth to see how it felt. He felt very dashing. His father came over, holding his own sword and smiling.

"Would you like to spar for a few rounds?" his father asked.

They circled each other, holding their swords away from their bodies, tense and alert. It was harder than it looked, and Urzahil didn't really know what he was doing. His father swung his sword, and Urzahil flinched away.

"Oh, come on, It's just a practice weapon, it can't hurt you," his father said.

The next blow landed on Urzahil's hand, and his sword fell to the ground. His fingers tingled, and drops of blood beaded along a line on his wrist. Urzahil clutched his hand and wailed.

"That's nothing, it's barely a scratch," his father said, but he wrapped it in a strip of linen when Urzahil insisted. The wound stung. Urzahil expected blood to soak through the bandage, but it didn't.

Urzahil was glad he wasn't expected to go into battle[1]. He wasn't a swordsman, he wasn't good at any sport. He would serve from within the city, writing documents or adding columns in a ledger book. Or possibly he would navigate the complex political waters of Umbar. Men standing around talking could be as dangerous as men wielding swords, maybe even more dangerous. Alliances, conspiracies, intrigue, that's where the fortunes of the great rose and fell.

Urzahil had a gift: he could read men's thoughts by watching their hands, the muscle in their jaw, their posture. If he was called upon to defend the city, politics, not warfare, would be his realm.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"It's cruel to raise him as a nobleman, Eädur. You're putting him in a terrible position."

The voices wafting from the dining chamber stopped Urzahil in his tracks. He flattened himself against the wall next to the door and held perfectly still, listening.

"What will happen when he comes of age and realizes that all the professions he's ever considered are reserved for the nobility? Or that he can't marry any of the girls he grew up with?" Lady Lintoron's voice sounded shrill.

His father answered, but Urzahil couldn't make out the words.

"His only skills are going to school and conducting himself at Court. He can't even handle a boat; he gets sick on the water. He has no titles and no lands; he won't be able to support himself when he grows up. You should have apprenticed him to a blacksmith or a shipwright," said Lady Lintoron.

"I've left him enough to finish school and set himself up in business afterwards," said Tar-Lintoron.

"Oh? Does he have a head for business? Because I've never seen any sign of it. Please, do you know anyone in the skilled trades? Maybe it's not too late to get him an apprenticeship," said Lady Lintoron.

Urzahil leaned against the wall and clenched his teeth. She was trying to get rid of him. Let her try, he was under his father's protection.

-o-o-o-o-o-

During the Summer Solstice festival, Pellardur took Urzahil and his brother and sister on an outing to the oldest part of the city to watch students from the University perform a play. At seventeen, Urzahil felt he was too old for a tutor, but until he entered University, Pellardur was responsible for his education.

The square where the play would be performed was inside the original city walls, which in addition to the Temple, enclosed several dozen houses and shops. The buildings inside the walls were small and crudely built, sometimes just a single room with a loft above it. Some dated back thousands of years, to the time when Umbar was a colonial outpost of Númenor.

Urzahil stopped in front of an ancient mud-brick house, preserved as a historical site. He bent down to study the brass plaque beside the door.

Home of Er-Mûrazor, First Captain of the Haven, SA 1900

Behind him, Pellardur was reciting interesting facts. Interesting to him, maybe.

"Er-Mûrazor, the Black Prince, was the younger son of Ciryatan the Shipbuilder, twelfth king of Númenor. He was one of the founders of Umbar, and the first Captain of the Haven." [2]

Urzahil sighed heavily. Pellardur could turn anything into a lesson, even a holiday at the Summer Solstice festival.

"Er-Mûrazor sailed from Númenor and led the early coastal campaigns. A great general, he captured huge swaths of the coast, but the most important, strategically speaking, was this port, the Haven of Umbar. High above the harbor, he built a fortified city and made it his capital."

The door to the ancient structure stood open. Urzahil stepped through to escape the lecture, but Pellardur followed him, still talking.

"No, really, it's an interesting story. Er-Mûrazor was fiercely loyal to his father, the king. They say he led the military campaign hoping to win his father's approval. But instead of being impressed, his father ordered Er-Mûrazor to gift Umbar to his older brother, who already stood to inherit the throne. Er-Mûrazor refused to give up the Haven, even at the risk of being disowned. And that's how Umbar became independent."

Urzahil ignored him. By now, his eyes had adjusted to the dimness. The primitive space had a hard-packed dirt floor and a huge walk-in fireplace built from round stones. The low ceiling was supported by beams black with smoke, and a ladder led to the attic.

The dwelling resembled something a homesteader would make for himself using simple tools, yet the furnishings inside this primitive shelter were spectacular. The table and chairs were made from imported hardwood, carved with more skill than modern craftsmen possessed. A casket inlaid with ivory sat on the table.

In the far corner of the room, there was a magnificent four-poster bed. The embroidered silk hangings were finer than any he'd seen in the home of wealthy friends. The conquerors must have brought them here from Númenor.

"Are those the original bed curtains?" Urzahil asked.

"They're copies. The originals would be five thousand years old, they'd have crumbled to dust by now," said Pellardur.

The rest of the furnishings were just as splendid. A painted chest against the wall was the work of an artist. A bowl on the table, an oil lamp, a sword in a leather scabbard, they were finer than anything that could have been made in colonial Umbar.

Pellardur was still lecturing. "Er-Mûrazor was born during a solar eclipse. He had the blackest hair any of them had ever seen. His given name, Tindomul, means 'Twilight'."

Urzahil liked history as much as the next person, but he didn't see what any of this had to do with him, unless …

"Was he one of my ancestors?" asked Urzahil.

"No, Er-Mûrazor never married, he didn't have any children," said Pellardur.

"He could've had children outside of marriage," said Urzahil's sister Aranelaith.

"He could have, but they wouldn't count, would they?" Pellardur snickered, and then his hand flew to his mouth. "Oh Urzahil, I didn't mean that."

Sure you didn't. Urzahil glared at him.

By this time, a large crowd had gathered in the square to see a play about Sauron's surrender to Ar-Pharazôn. Urzahil and Pellardur were tall enough to see easily, but the others weren't, so they pushed through it to get close to the front.

A chair decorated like a throne had been set up on the stone platform surrounding the fountain in the center of the square. Around the throne were half a dozen soldiers, heavily armed. A tall man with untidy hair and the embroidered silks of Númenor stood on the dais. He introduced himself as Caldûr, an instructor of Númenorian History at the University. His baritone voice boomed across the square.

"People of Umbar, today the History of Númenor class will present a play about one of Númenor's greatest military triumphs, an event which occurred on this very spot over three thousand years ago. The play will be as historically accurate as possible, not only because my students are dedicated scholars, but because their grade depends on it." The crowd tittered.

"It is the year 3262 in the Second Age. Ar-Pharazôn the Golden has challenged Sauron of Mordor for the title, Lord of the Earth. Ar-Pharazôn raises a great army, and Sauron's forces drop their weapons and flee before the might of Númenor. Now, to save his realm, Sauron has come to kneel before the throne of Ar-Pharazôn and speak the words of surrender."

Urzahil loved stories about the renegade Maia[3], a figure out of legend, larger than life.

Just then, a man dressed in magnificent robes and wearing a crown ascended the dais and took his place on the throne, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, last king of Númenor. He looked over the crowd, his face stern and commanding.

There was a stir on the far side of the square. The crowd parted to reveal a man in simple blue robes, with smooth black hair that hung to his waist. Alone and unarmed, he held his arms away from his body, the palms turned upward. Urzahil craned his neck to see better. On one hand, he wore a plain gold ring. Like all the Holy Ones[4], he looked Elvish. Where did they find an Elf to play Sauron? But Elvish merchants often passed through Umbar, the students must have hired one.

The guards in front of the king stepped aside, and he approached to the king and knelt at his feet.

"I surrender to one greater than myself, and express regret for my crimes," said the Elf playing Sauron.

"I meant to have you killed, but I will allow you to become my vassal instead," said Ar-Pharazôn.

Sauron placed his hands between Ar-Pharazôn's and swore the oath that made him Ar-Pharazôn's servant in which he vowed never to harm the king, either by his own hand or through the hand of another.[5]

When Sauron got up to go, soldiers seized him and clapped him in irons.

"No! You promised me I could leave afterwards," cried Sauron.

"I changed my mind," said Ar-Pharazôn.

The actor playing Sauron was forced down the steep road to a ship waiting in the harbor. The crowd lined both sides of the road and jeered at the prisoner.

Caldûr's voice turned ominous. "Ar-Pharazôn didn't know it at the time, but he had just made the greatest mistake of his life. When Sauron was finished with Númenor, all that remained of the island kingdom was a smoking crater on the floor of the ocean."

"Even so, the surrender of Sauron to Ar-Pharazôn was one of the most important events in Númenorian history. A thousand years later, the Pillar, a monument to Dúnedain strength, was raised to commemorate the occasion."

The crowd broke up, and the five of them went to look for the sweets vendor who sold cold lemon juice.

"It's a true story, and it really did happen in this very square, three thousand years ago. That's where Ar-Pharazôn throne stood when he accepted Sauron's surrender, and this is the road where Sauron was marched to the waiting ships. It's just about the most important thing that's ever happened in Umbar," said Pellardur.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was the morning of the summer solstice. Urzahil stood with his father and brothers in the front hall, washed and dressed in the best clothes they owned.

"Let's see your nails." Lady Lintoron inspected his brother Êruhil's nails. "Go give them another scrub. Hurry, we should have left already." She pointed, and Êruhil scurried off.

She scrutinized the rest of them, but must have decided their hair was sufficiently combed, their collars straight, and their boots polished, because she didn't say anything more.

The Temple was in the oldest part of the city, within the inner walls built when the city was founded. Tar-Lintoron led the family, followed by the household servants.

"Today is the longest day of the year," said Êruhil.

"It only seems that way because we'll be stuck in the Temple for most of it." Urzahil grinned, knowing he was speaking blasphemy. His father swatted at him, and he ducked.

They approached the old city walls, built when the city was founded. Above the walls, the gilded dome of the Temple glittered in the morning sun. A slender wisp of smoke escaped from its peak. Urzahil's chest tightened.

"Look at the smoke. Will there be a sacrifice today?" He hated having to watch.

His father squeezed Urzahil's shoulder. "Don't worry about it. We haven't captured any prisoners of war or arrested any traitors lately. I'm sure they'll use animals instead. They haven't done what you're worried about since I was a boy."

The main road passed through a gate in the wall and emerged in the market square, the heart of the city. To the right, one whole side of the square was taken up by the front of the Temple. Its coral façade was blinding white.

The square was crowded with people pushing towards the broad stone stairways that led to the great doors of the Temple. The interior of the Temple was dark, but there were candles inside, pinpoints of light broke up the gloom. A red glow flared up, revealing intricate stone carvings on the interior walls. Urzahil caught a glimpse of statues and ornamented pillars, and then the glow receded.

The Lintoron family joined the crowd inching towards the steps leading to the great doors, flung open to admit them. Urzahil stood for several minutes without moving, and when he did, it was a step at a time.

Urzahil studied the Temple wall beside him. The stone near the ground was darker than the white coral above it, and pitted with age. The line between them was jagged as a broken bottle. Where he was standing, the older stones reached his shoulder, while a few paces away, were they only knee high. His father touched Urzahil's arm and pointed.

"See the darker stones? That's a remnant of the original building. In 933, invaders from Gondor overran the city walls, seized control of the Haven, and burned the Temple to the ground. A few fragments of wall and the foundations beneath them are all that remains."

Finally, they made their way up the steps into the great space within, divided into alcoves by rows of pillars.

The altar was in the center of the Temple, on a raised dais beneath the dome. A wooden railing fenced off a wide expanse around it. Laymen were forbidden to approach the altar, so in spite of the crowding in the Temple, the marble floor around the dais was empty.

Tar-Lintoron led the way to one of the low-walled enclosures reserved for the Great Families who sponsored the Temple. Built against the rail as close as laypeople were allowed to go, they offered an unobstructed view of the ceremony. Each box had a bench built around three sides, so the family could watch in relative comfort compared to the majority of worshipers, who would find themselves standing for four or five hours, for the most part watching the heads of the people in front of them.

Urzahil found a seat between his father and sister. The altar was ten or twelve paces away. Acolytes moved around the dais near it, lighting torches and arranging sprays of greenery nearby. Urzahil noticed they didn't touch the altar itself.

The Temple Bell tolled once and fell silent, and the bronze doors were closed. The shutters were sealed, plunging the Temple in darkness. Apart from the pinpoints of light from oil lamps and candles, the bonfires flanking the altar gave off the only light. Sparks lifted by the fragrant smoke rose to the roof of the dome and disappeared.

The sound of drums signals the arrival of the anointed clergy. A line of priests entered in silver robes, hoods pulled low over their faces and hands concealed in their sleeves. His father nudged him. "There's Súrion, third one from the front." Urzahil didn't know how he could tell. The priests of Melkor all looked alike.

Urzahil's father whispered, "On High Holy days, the priests go through ritual purification before the ceremony. They fast, abstain from speaking, and kneel before the High Altar all night. It helps to put them into the trance state from which they conduct the sacred rituals."

The sacred rituals: that meant prayers in Black Speech, which he'd never learned. It meant burnt offerings, and on occasion, blood sacrifice. Urzahil dug his nails into his palms. If the High Priest performed a sacrifice today, it would be an animal, but even so, Urzahil would rather not see it happen.

Tar-Lintoron started to say more, but his voice was drowned out by a crescendo of drums. Fires flared up from every recess of the Temple. Unseen singers, their voices droned the ancient chants.

There was a clash of cymbals, and the High Priest entered the Temple of Melkor. His heavy robes showed no color other than black. An acolyte walled before him carrying a standard, black with a crown bearing three white gems, the emblem of Melkor.

One of the most powerful men in Umbar, the High Priest was a tall man with proud bearing. It was said he occupied this world and the supernatural one at the same time. Secluded behind Temple walls, the High Priest rarely appeared in public. Urzahil had never met him, but Tar-Lintoron had.

"A cold and distant man, and politically ambitious. I suspect his high rank is due as much to court intrigue as it is to piety."

The procession passed through a gate in the rail, but stopped three or four paces from the altar. The standard bearer fell back, and the lesser priests stepped to either side.

The High Priest reached to his throat. He undid the clasp of his mantle and let it fall to the floor, revealing a robe of pristine white wool that stopped just above his bare feet. He approached the altar and, extending his arms, spoke the holy words.

"Melkor, Giver of Life, hear our prayers." He used Black Speech, the tongue spoken in Utumno, and later, in Mordor.

Urzahil knew only a few words of Black Speech, but like everyone else, he'd been forced by his parents to memorize the chief prayers, so he had no trouble following the ceremony. He knew what was coming next.

A pair of acolytes carried in a lamb, bound and struggling. They placed it on the altar and held it down. A priest placed a ceremonial blade in the High Priest's hand. He raised it high above his head. Light from the altar fires reflected red from the steel. Urzahil covered his face and squeezed his eyes shut. There was silence, and from the crowd behind him, the hiss of breath. He lowered his hands. The High Priest's white garment was splashed crimson. The cuffs of his sleeves were soaked with it, and his stomach was more red than white. Urzahil covered his face again. He breathed deeply, held it, and let it out.

The lights went low and the drums began again. The hard part was over; everything after this was just repetitious chanting and the drone of unseen instruments. Before the end of the ceremony, Urzahil had been drawn into a trancelike state himself. At that moment, he believed. Melkor would give him the years of life he longed for, if only Urzahil would worship him.

The ceremony drew to a close. One of the silver-robed priests said a blessing over the assembly. Urzahil found himself in the street with the rest of the crowd, blinking in the sunlight and no more of a believer than he'd been that morning when he went in.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil often spent the evening in his father's study, where he and his father played chess while discussing politics or historical events. Urzahil wanted to go to University when he was old enough, and to stay on as a scholar when he finished his course of study. He would give lectures to the young university students when it was required of him, but scholarship was his real interest.

"The University only needs so many instructors," said his father.

"If I can't teach at the University, I want to be an emissary," said Urzahil.

"Well, when they do those role-playing exercises in Diplomacy class where they tell you to look bored and roll your eyes, I'd say you'll do fine," said his father.

Urzahil stuck out his lip. "And you're always telling me not to be sarcastic. At least when I do it, it's funny."

"But I meant it, you should consider diplomacy as a profession. Remember, history isn't just something that happened long ago, it's happening all around us.

"The tension between Gondor and Umbar began in Númenor during the reign of Ar-Pharazôn, then moved to the mainland after the island kingdom was destroyed. Three thousand years later, the Black Númenorian and the Faithful are still deadly enemies."

"Which are we?" Urzahil asked with pretend innocence.

His father cuffed him. "We're Black Númenorians. We seek long life through the worship of Melkor, as you well know."

The Temple taught that Sauron revealed the secret of immortality to Ar-Pharazôn when he was a hostage on Númenor. Ar-Pharazôn was captivated by the secret knowledge. He elevated Sauron from prisoner to trusted advisor and built the Temple to Melkor; Sauron was its first High Priest.

Urzahil rolled his eyes. He thought the whole Cult of Melkor was a scam. It was possible that Sauron invented the whole religion for the sole purpose of winning over the king and driving a wedge between the Black Númenorians and the Faithful.

He considered sharing his views with his father, but decided not to. It wasn't worth a lecture about how he was risking his chances for a long life, maybe even for immortality itself. Urzahil wanted more years than he was entitled to, everybody did, but he couldn't make himself believe something when he didn't. In the meantime, Urzahil kept his lack of faith to himself.

Luckily, his family wasn't very observant. They didn't attend the daily ceremonies in which the priests sang prayers and gave blessings to those assembled. Urzahil got nothing from it but excruciating boredom. Thankfully, his family only went on High Holy Days, when the Temple put on an excellent show.

"And while we're thinking about careers for you, you might want to consider the Priesthood," his father said.

Urzahil was in the middle of drinking from his wine cup. He snorted, and wine went out his nose, but it didn't sting badly enough to make him stop laughing.

"Don't look at me like that, you might like it. Much of the work of a priest is scholarship. It's a prestigious profession, the priests come from some of the best families in Umbar. One of my closest friends went into the priesthood," his father said.

"Well, I'm going to be a scholar, or possibly a diplomat," said Urzahil.

A shadow passed across his father's face. "I'm sorry, Urzahil, I was forgetting. It's impo…very hard to enter those professions unless you have an ancient family name, and unlike myself and your brothers, you're not officially a Lintoron."

Sometimes Urzahil hated being illegitimate. He really, really hated it.

"But there are so many other things you could be, a store owner or a clerk or a clerk in a counting house, or you could apprentice yourself to a shipwright or a blacksmith …"

Urzahil had the build for manual labor, but not the inclination.

"There's no way I would ever fall so low that I'd agree to be apprenticed to blacksmith," he said.

Yet, if his mother's family had raised him, he'd be unloading cargo on the docks now, unless he'd been sold into servitude first. He started to feel afraid, and looked to his father with pleading eyes.

"Don't worry, it won't come to that," his father assured him.

---

Chapter End Notes

[1] "…the other quailed and gave back as if menaced with a blow. 'I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!' he cried."

Return of the King, The Black Gate Opens.

[2] In TA 1350, Er-Mûrazor acquired another title, the Witch King of Angmar.

[3] Maia = an angel, or in the case of Melkor, Sauron, or Saruman, a fallen angel.

[4] Ainur

[5] The oath did not precluded Sauron from persuading the king to harm himself.