Pirin - Book II - Hairam the Queen

By Brocchi Sebastiano B.

Back then, I had not yet learned how, by getting married, Hairam and I had triggered a whole series of uprisings in the cosmic order of events. We were living the final years of an entire Age. Many prophecies were going to be fulfilled, spells a thousand years old were going to be broken. The world as we knew it was going to pass, and we would be the tools the Gods themselves chose to put into act the inexorable Fate. The forces we had put into motion since the Crown of Sibereht had fallen into our hands were beyond any expectation. Soon even the golden palaces of the Immortals would tremble. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sebastiano B. Brocchi
• Release date: Aug 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9791221381481

Book preview

Sebastiano B. Brocchi

PIRIN - BOOK II - HAIRAM THE QUEEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I dedicate this book to my mum.

who proved me to know what it takes to be a mother

both in silence and in speech,

as much in quietness as in deeds,

And in stepping aside no less than in participating.

And I shall never be able to

speak, nor enact, nor participate

properly

in any attempt to express to her

my gratitude and

my love.

I also thank my dad

for helping and lovingly supporting me,

so much as to constitute a warranty to me

in my every enterprise my whole life through.

To you, reader, I say:

in this labyrinth of tales

some get lost, some find themselves,

and yet what really matters

shall be the end of the path.

NOTES

This romance is a work of fantasy. Any possible reference to names of actual people, places, events, historical facts, past or present, is completely unintended and purely fortuitous.

Sebastiano Brocchi

Pirin – Hairam the Queen

First Italian Edition September 2016 -

Second Italian Edition June 2019

© Sebastiano B. Brocchi

contact: [e-mail]

Translated into English by Giovanni Carmine Costabile

Reproduction and translation rights are reserved. No portion of this book can be utilized, reproduced or disseminated by any means without explicit, prior authorization in writing by the author.

Lyrics, cover and illustrations by the author.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

Sebastiano B. Brocchi (Author) was born on 18 March 1987 in Montagnola (Switzerland), where he currently lives. He left high school to become an independent writer and researcher in the field of Art History, Hermetic Philosophy, Sacred Symbology and Inner Alchemy. In 2004 he published his first work, the brief treatise Collina d’Oro – I Tesori dell’Arte. In the following years he also published Collina d’Oro Segreta (2005), a book causing amazement in the Canton Ticino local press, and Riflessioni sulla Grande Opera (2006), considered by specialists as a masterwork on Alchemy. In 2009 he dedicates the essay Favole Ermetiche to the esoteric interpretation of traditional fairy-tales. In 2011 the historical detective-story L’Oro di Polia is published, while in 2012 he presents to the general public the first Italian edition of the first volume of the Pirin fantasy saga, thereafter titled in English Memoirs of Helewen. The second volume, in English Hairam the Queen, is first published in Italian in 2016.

He is also the author of several articles, studies, and interviews to important international characters, published on journals and web-pages, both in Switzerland and Italy.

Giovanni Carmine Costabile (Translator, MPhil) born in Italy in 1987. Independent scholar, writer, translator, and private teacher. He presented at conferences both in Italy and abroad, and published on Tolkien for academic journals Tolkien Studies (2017), Mythlore (2018, 2022), Settentrione (2020), Journal of Inklings Studies (2022), Journal of Tolkien Research (2022), and Inklings Jahrbuch (2017). He contributed to Tolkien Society's Peter Roe series (2017, 2019), to their journal Mallorn (2018), and to volumes published or forthcoming by Lexington Press, Aracne, and Walking Tree. He was finalist at Medieval Philosophy Arosio Award 2019, hosted by Ateneo Pontificio Regina Apostolorum, Rome. His monography, Oltre le Mura del Mondo: Immanenza e Trascendenza nell'Opera di JRR Tolkien (Il Cerchio, 2018), was well received in Italy. He is a writer and proofreader for the foundation and magazine Fellowship & Fairydust from Maryland.He translated and co-translated ten books, both fiction and non-fiction, and both from English into Italian and from Italian into English. He is the official translator into English of the Pirin fantasy saga by Swiss talent Sebastiano B. Brocchi.

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

For Lothriel to have a Queen

When Professor J.R.R. Tolkien in his late years was asked to write the Preface to a new edition of The Golden Key by George MacDonald, he was so involved in the undertaking that he ended up writing a fairy tale of his own instead, the one we all enthusiasts know and love under the title Smith of Wootton Major. Writing a Preface to my translation of Sebastiano B. Brocchi's Hairam the Queen, I feel somewhat to be exposed to the same risk. For verily Brocchi's imagination, mastery of symbolism, and insight is so great that one feels inspired to compose some flight of fancy of his own, in the trail of the Swiss writer.

Readers of the first volume of the Pirin trilogy are already familiar with this sort of inventiveness, happily married with a profoundity of thought, but they will still be surprised by the many turns unfolding in the narrative, as well as by its tackling, this time, a single, problematic issue: trust. This of course entails that new readers, however they are of course advised to begin their reading from Memoirs of Helewen, would still be able to enjoy the present volume on its own standing.

A book on trust is inevitably also a book on love: that between Helewen and Hairam, first of all, which we have learnt to somehow mirror that between Theoson and Atthù-ath-Hir, and even Ghaladar and Uhilyn, in the remote past. But it is also love between friends, or relatives, or parents and children, or subjects and rulers. Eventually, it becomes the very bond between forces keeping together the universe. So we are reminded of reflections as old as Plato's Symposium and as contemporary as Fritjof Capra's Tao of Physics.

But there is more, and even more entanglement, as we consider that, among the nets of relationships the characters are interwoven into, there always comes the time to make a choice, to assign priorities: a motif already dear to the anonymous 14th century poet of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, whose knight of the Round Table is forced not to be a paragon of all virtues anymore. Also Helewen and Hairam, in all their Pirinness, remain human, very human, and eventually it is the acceptance of their humanity making them a good couple and their journeys of discovery a successful quest.

In the sequence of adventures leading to an unforeseen ending, even you, dear reader, may find answers you had been looking for, and finally understand what it means for Lothriel to have a Queen.

Giovanni Carmine Costabile

Moncalieri, 12/05/2022

...THE STORY INSOFAR…

PIRIN – BOOK I – MEMOIRS OF HELEWEN

The young scribe named Nhalfòrdon-Domenir, an olive-skinned boy forced by leg paralysis to use a wheelchair, is entrusted by his parents to the foster-care of Helewen. The latter, having retreated to a great river mansion called Magnolias Estate, is a man of astounding looks and a troublesome past: his white hair and golden eyes reveal him to belong to a race of demigods, the Pirin, a thriving civilization which once flourished upon the high peaks in the East, whose King the very man was.

Their land, Lothriel (meaning 'The Realm of the Lotus Flowers') was a mythical, glorious Kingdom, a verdant paradise preserved by glaciers, defended by the snowy peaks encircling its boundaries. During his first few days at Magnolias Estate, Domenir soon gets familiar with his new environment and his mysterious, yet fatherly and caring landlord. In order to get to know his foster-child better, and also to preserve knowledge and memories otherwise soon lost, King Helewen decides to dictate Domenir his memoirs, as much as the general account of the legendary past of his people. Among many episodes recounted, one in particular shall constitute the main thread, not only in Helewen's personal vicissitudes, but also in the general plot of the whole of the peoples in the known world: during one of his journeys, Helewen, accompanied by his dearest friend from his childhood, Hairam, eventually gets to the royal court of the wide underground Kingdom of Hagardtyh.

The Queen of Hagardtyh gives to Helewen as a gift the first half of a secret item, invisible until the second half is found. A little while later, Hairam asks Helewen to join her on a journey in search of a lost hamlet nowhere to be found on maps. Rirhos, Hairam's grandmother, wrote her grandchild a letter confiding her to have left her an important legacy, having hidden it in the aforesaid village, more precisely in the saffron field of a local farmer named Ofat.

Having finally come to the village after their share of adventures, Helewen and Hairam shall actually find a chest buried in the saffron field, and within it no less than the second half of the secret item given them by the Queen of Hagardtyh. Contrarily to their expectations, though, the item is neither finely-wrought nor precious: they have only gotten the two halves of a cheap, rusty metal circlet. Even so, Rirhos' journal, also found within the chest, shall reveal to them the nature of the most ancient relic: the metal half-circles belong to the Crown of Sibereht, the King of the World announced by prophecies, who shall defeat the dark power of the fallen God Belhagard.

A God of War and Chaos, Belhagard had been thought to have been vanquished many centuries earlier, during the latest War of the Gods, having been imprisoned within the ice at the bottom of a chasm, and yet, for unknown reasons, it seems he still secretly rules the fates of peoples. Only once the Holy Crown comes into the hands of the Chosen One, the rough iron in which it is made shall turn into bright gold, thus putting an end to the dominion of conflict and hatred. In order for that to happen, in the first place they shall find a way to reforge the broken crown: since in their journeys Helewen and Hairam had already come into possession of the Fiery Hammer of the Alliance, which would allow them to weld once more the two shards, still an item is missing in order to perform the ritual: an anvil fit to the holiest of relics.

Before the two Pirin may get in search of the anvil, though, an unexpected tragedy upsets their existence: King Osondel, Helewen's father, dies, thus compelling his son to take the throne of Lothriel instead.

PART ONE

THE TEN PROBLEMS SOLVED

Where, now and then, the mist receded

CHAPTER I

dragodipalude-filtered.jpgA swamp dragon had settled within the reedbed

It was in the eighteenth year of the Eighth Age of the world. Winter ran along the river, swept hither and thither through tree-branches, seeped as a frozen breath into wood, hill and plain, paralyzing them all before snows came.

Inflating his lungs, Helewen breathed in the poignant vapour, faintly smelling like algae and fish, hovering over the river, and, as soon as he exhaled, his breath slowly rose in a cloud, and, like some bird coming back to its nest, rejoined the surrounding mist. The King covered his nose in his gloves, in order to warm up. Then he collected the javelin he had previously put upon the keel, returning to observe, wary, the shore and the reedbeds where, now and then, the mist receded. He was sitting, watchful, astern of a long, slender canoe, sliding over Pafantehes-yedo River, piercing the skin of the still water as a keen blade, leaving a trail of ripples behind it hurting the smooth face of the stream. Once in a while, the oarsmen plunged their oars in order to wake up the boat's boost, and all of them kept silent as in reverence, ready to catch any tiny move around them, any imperceptible nuance in that moving landscape.

Helewen had been warned by fishermen that a swamp dragon had settled within the reedbed, not too far from Magnolias Estate. There are many species of dragons. Some are colossal, their lungs filled with fire, like those overflying deserts in Noghard, ridden by the sultan's dragoneers. Others are as large as magpies, and harmless like butterflies, like the ones fluttering among the flowery bushes in the woods of Banoymiribin. Swamp dragons do not spit fire, their wings do not overshadow towns, their fangs do not lift horses from the ground. And yet their presence is soon felt, along a river course. Since fishermen's nets soon cannot catch fish anymore, just as clouds made empty by the rain. Those who had sighted the dragon in the property of Magnolias Estate described it as long three or four dektelatthadar, with scales coloured in dark green, almost grey, and long, slender neck, almost like a heron's. They had seen it laying still upon a trunk rising from the waters, while it ambushed its prey, swiftly sticking its hungry fangs into an unfortunate duck, unaware of the whole affair. A short while earlier, it was floating upon the river, squawking among its fellows, soon thereafter to have been caught in the reptile's mouth. Eventually, after the dragon had rapidly finished its meal, swallowing the whole duck, they had seen it dive into the water in an explosion of splashes, and never saw it again.

A day later, Helewen had already prepared his hunting party, summoning his holdstead's hunters, then to embark his canoe, following the rivercourse down to the place where the dragon had last been sighted.

At a certain moment, Helewen's pupils were captured by a sudden glimmer upon the water surface, which he had caught from the corner of his eye. The Pirin's reflexes, like their sixth sense, are much quicker than most men, since they train them since a very young age. Therefore, Helewen was the only one on the boat noticing how the dragon, hiding in the reedbed, had just dipped into water, silent and curvy as a snake. Below the water surface, the dragon's wings, membrane-bound in their skin, acted as flippers, while their tail was used to steer. The beast's narrow nostrils were shut, its eyes covered by a semi-transparent veil, protecting them underwater. The large reptile thus became like a fish, feeling at home on that murky riverbed. The sand disturbed by the beating of its great wings made the water so muddy it was impossible to see the beast moving down there.

Helewen, though, had noticed the dragon. It only took that sudden glimmer of scales beaten by a ray of the sun.

Now the King's focus was even more impenetrable. Nothing could distract him. By resting a finger upon his lips, he commanded the other hunters to shut up and stop rowing. The quietness of that cold morning was ironclad. If he had been able to have it so, Helewen would also have ordered the crows resting upon the taller branches of the nearby trees to take a break from their crackling, since their shrill voices defied the silence's authority, as much as the teams of squawking ducks, a little way afar down the river. The King's fingers more firmly clasped the icy wood of the javelin, while the other hunters also got their weapons: daggers and knives, as much as keen-edged axes. Abruptly, though, the watchful hunters were all caught off guard: a sudden wave, and the canoe was thrown off upon its side, so much it was capsized, overturned, and broken! The dragon had come out of the water from below the boat in its devastating fury, soon to shut its frightening jaws upon the unfortunate people who had come to hunt it down. Its pointed claws had already seized the shoulder of one of Helewen's men, when the King tried to harpoon the mighty beast by the point of his javelin, but, alas, he missed the target, and the dragon snapped the dart, waving it hither and thither, before tossing it aside.

The piercing eyes of the monstrous winged lizard for a moment were stuck into the golden, bright eyes of Helewen, who was now seriously afraid to end up as a tasteful meal for the hungry beast. It was then that, unexpectedly and providentially, an arrow, who knows from where shot, hissed through the chilly air of that winter morning, making its way through the fading haze, eventually to stick itself, with lethal precision, in the middle of the dragon's forehead. The beast's pierced head, after a little while writhing, fell beside Helewen's shoulder, who witnessed the scene as paralyzed, unable to understand what had just happened. Finally sighing for relief, the King turned toward the shore, but there was nobody there to see.

It was I saving you, Milord!, a voice was heard, both timid and proud, shouting, from the shores, thick with dark trunks covered in musk and other climbers. It was the young Nhalfòrdon-Domenir. Helewen looked closer in that direction, and he actually recognized the profile of the wheelchaired boy, accompanied by trusted Dhaldèrien. He also saw Domenir had raised his arm, in order to show the bow he was carrying.

Seeing Domenir puzzled the white-haired, shaken King. How could he be the one shooting that arrow? How could he kill a dragon, piercing its head with such precision from so long afar?

I told you to keep safe, within the estate walls! Why did you disobey my commands?, the old Pirin shouted to his beloved foster-son. And what about you, Dhaldèrien? I am talking to you! Why did you bring him here? It could have been dangerous, he then told the young servant.

But I have just saved your life!, Domenir shouted in reply. How can you even think about my disobedience in such a moment?

Helewen was silent for a while, unable to speak. It all had happened too fast. He swam in order to regain the shore, alongside the rest of his men. Then, as soon as he had come out of the water, he came close to the couple, still shaking from the risk he had taken as well as from the unexpected cold shower, giving him shivers.

Some servants had meanwhile hastened to bring their Lord warm blankets and dry clothes to wear, and all were looking at the King's skin, worried he might lose blood, the shining, copper-coloured blood, mixed with divine ichor, running through the Pirin's veins. Luckily, except for a few scratches, the King was fine and well, totally unwounded. Succour the others!, Helewen exhorted them, also urging them to fish out the dragon's corpse, now floating upon the river surface as a lifeless puppet, soon to be brought away West alongside the quite currents. The dragon would be stuffed and exposed as a trophy in Magnolias Estate, while its precious organs would be made into medicines of great power...

Eventually, as his guts gradually warmed up once more, after drinking a few sips from the smoking infusion promptly prepared by his servants, Helewen came close to Domenir and replied: You are right, lad, but I was worried for you. I ignored that... He could not finish his sentence before being interrupted by Domenir: That I could hold a bow? Yes. My mother taught me.

Helewen smiled. I forgot. Your mother was... He stopped. After all, there was no telling she was dead. On the contrary, he still hoped in his heart of hearts she was still alive and well. He corrected himself: I forgot your mother is the best archer Gaimat ever saw! Thanks, lad, you saved my life.

That evening, beside the crackling fire of a great fireplace where Helewen and Domenir loved to stay up late and sort things out, the lad asked the old sovereign: Milord, it has been a while since you last dictated to me your memoirs. I know well you were busy lately, and yet I cannot pretend I am not curious to learn how the tale goes on. Please, tell me what happened after you became the King of Lothriel!

Helewen smiled and took a deep breath. You are right, lad. It is past time we resumed the tale from where we had left it. And, having said so, he clapped his hands in order to call for a waiting Dwarf, lingering on the threshold, and have him satisfy any of his requests. Please, asked Helewen, always proving very courteous toward servants, fetch Nhalfòrdon-Domenir his pen and notes.

The Dwarf, very much satisfied to have a chance to be useful, but mostly eager to hear himself the continuation of Helewen's tale, ran away and did as he was bid, swiftly moving his short legs and his pointed slippers. He came back soon thereafter, proudly flaunting the long handwriter's pen, and barely managing to hold the heavy paperwork, so much so that, as he had to bend in order to pass it to young Domenir, I shall be blessed if he did not lose his balance!

Here, Milord!, he confidently announced.

The lad released the Dwarf from his heavy burden, thanking him. He passed one hand over the cover's leather, almost caressing it as one could a beloved person, or a pet. Meanwhile, the valet had slinked below a shelf upon which an inkwell was found, but the height of the Gottilsi did not help him, therefore he looked around, searching for a stool that could ease his task. Helewen goodheartedly urged him not to bother: Do not worry, little Dhurhar! I can do it myself. After all, I am fresh as a daisy, compared to my two hundred and forty years. And this very morning I hunted down a dragon!

Thus, smiling, he got up, took the inkwell, and put it upon the little wooden tablet fixed to Domenir's chair's armrests. Here, lad. Nothing can now stop me from resuming my tale, nor you from writing what you hear. Therefore, I shall begin to tell you what happened in the years following my coronation...

Nano.jpgA Dwarf

She had left

CHAPTER II

There follows the account of the years following Helewen's coronation, as told by the latter and written by Nhalfòrdon-Domenir:

I still recall, as though it was today, one day as I stood on the wide balcony towering from the royal palace over the huge garden enclosed within the court. Such a thriving theatre of shapes and colours disclosed itself before my eyes, composed of majestic tree-tops, luxuriant ornamental shrubs, flowerbeds overflowing with corollas. In that garden, the most wonderful, rarest varieties of plants in the known world grow, blossom, and bear fruits, and one may listen to the songs of a thousand birds, ranging from the colourful parrots and paradise birds to the daring peacocks... An enchanting experience, capable of indulging one's senses so much that only a few others may compare. And yet, on that day, my disposition would not allow me to enjoy those pleasures... My spirit was elsewhere.

The sky looked like a jewelled canopy of embroidered silk, in changing hues of blue, decorated with fine tapestries of clouds. In the West, the celestial vault was still clear, but a stormy greyness, although yet unseen, was threateningly thickening on the Eastern side. Ominous roars of thunder were heard from afar, as swifts, busy in their frantic hunt for flies and gnats, were now flying low. The wind was not strong yet, but its occasional gusts foretold rain, temporarily awakening from their slumber the white banners cascading from the porches of the palace above the garden. Reanimated by those flutters of breeze, they would flaunt their brief flapping, not unlike the sound of sails billowing among quays in a dock, shortly after to return to their sleep.

My eye was caught by those flags, looking like dying fish on the hull of a fishing-boat, and the sky about to bring the storm, still without a single dark stain. In my heart, instead, darkness had already seized control over my whole soul, tearing me apart with a sadness almost catching my breath. Hairam, my best friend, had left. She had left the Kingdom before I could ask her to be my wife and queen. Before I could tell her I loved her...

When a year had passed since my coronation, she had asked me to follow her. She wanted to leave with me in search of the anvil which we might use to reforge the Crown of Sibereht from its shards, thus honouring the promise we had made to each other before the death of my father. And yet, when the time had come, I had flinched.

How could I, after all, have given her a different reply? Fate had brought me to Lothriel. I could never serve two crowns, I tried to explain to her.

But what we have been given, Helewen, is the most important of all crowns! How can you ignore that? she insisted. And one of its halves was given by the Queen of Hagardtyh to you! To you, Helewen, in your very hands! Have you already forgotten? Did you also forget my grandmother Rirhos' journal, and the tale concerning the way the second half was found, preserved, and kept hidden? Were you not with me as we found out about this, committing ourselves to the task of carrying out what the others started a long time ago in the first place? Her voice at times bounced about in its fierce, confident overtones, at times it would come down to a fragile, desperate, almost sickened wailing.

Please, Hairam, try looking at things from my point of view, I defended myself. Indeed, I helped you retrieving the crown. And yet, how can you ignore the changes my life has gone through? My father suddenly died, and in the blink of an eye I was the King of this realm. And I... I do not know whether the Chosen One to bear the Crown of Sibereht might ever be found... One might even doubt the accuracy of the prophecy! Have you ever given a single thought to the notion that there might be no Chosen One, and that those shards might not be anything other than what they look like, that is, merely two cold pieces of iron, bitten by rust? One thing, instead, I know for sure: I already have a Kingdom, and that is here! Not the whole world, not at all, and yet my own Kingdom, Hairam! My own Kingdom. The Kingdom I was truly meant to rule. And I wish to be a good King, in my Kingdom. At least I would like to try and be one, and how could I do so, by leaving my people after barely a year since my investiture, in order to search for an anvil with you? Furthermore, leaving, without even knowing whereto, without even knowing where to start looking for it? For that is the truth, Hairam: we know nothing at all...

I was holding her shoulders, as if attempting to wake her up, to open her eyes to the very fact of how difficult it was for me to make such a choice. Instead of opening to an understanding of me, though, her eyes, her beautiful eyes, were looking at me in bitterness, disappointment, contempt, while her tears dissolved the black lines of make-up the delicate hands of the handmaids had skillfully drawn upon her face.

Hairam's voice pierced my heart with its sternness: The Kingdom you were truly meant to rule? How can you even talk of what you are meant to do? Did Fate not call you to a much more urgent enterprise? Are you perchance deaf? The fates of this realm, as much as any other realm, might rest in these cheap pieces of rusty metal!, she yelled at me, waving the crown's shards before my eyes.

By looking at those iron half-moons, I felt a sense of cold and fear running through my veins. I felt the burden of such a responsibility as something way surpassing my powers. How could we, mortal, imperfect beings, be meant to carry out such an impossible task? How might the Gods, immortal and excellent, have devised such a twisted game? It was like putting the reins of a horse in the hands of mere fleas, or entrusting the steer of a vessel to tiny mosquitoes, or maybe commanding a little mouse to climb up and down a whole mountain chain... What did we represent, Hairam and I, in order to be able to keep the Crown of the King of the World? Perhaps I had already taken such a choice within me a while earlier, but had been waiting all along for the right time to confess it. Had it been it cowardice guiding me? Had it been craven-like to let Hairam continue her journey alone? There is never an unanimous consent concerning choices to make, even within one's mind. One cannot say whether a choice one has to make might be right or wrong.

Although a part of me was grievously suffering, another was unspeakably relieved, as soon as Hairam, staring at me in her icy scowl, and talking to me in a voice turned once more still and confident, concluded: Then I shall go on my own. And what good might you ever do? I shall find the anvil, and, as soon as I achieve, I shall also find someone else to wield the Hammer beside me, so that we may reforge this crown once and for all! And, in case that should prove necessary, I shall myself leave in order to find the Chosen One to wield it, thereby defeating Belhagard's power! Farewell, Helewen, we have come to the parting of our ways.

The reason for my relief, though, was simply the Crown letting my life go. That bewitched item, like the stinger of some bumblebee, had filled my guts with a feeling of constant inadequacy.

Nonetheless, the relief only lasted a short while, only but one second, and so, one moment later, the heaviness of an uncomparable regret completely took over my soul, since I was aware I had betrayed Hairam's expectations in acting like a craven of sorts.

I did my best to have her reconsider: You said you would keep by my side in any circumstance! Are you always so good at keeping your promises?

You better believe it. I promised you I would keep by your side in order to help you, as long as we were fighting together toward the same goal! Instead, it is you forsaking me. Apparently it does not matter to you, whatever may happen to all the peoples of the world. You are only interested in your little seat, those meaningless sceptres you bear, and the jewel encircling your forehead! Be that as it may, suit yourself, hiding among your golden temples, the comfortable gardens of delight, and all those peaceful, snow-capped mountains. But keep well in mind: as long as Belhagard is not defeated, it is only a matter of time before war comes here too. Contention shall arise in our very charming Lothriel as well on that day, and our people shall return to honing their swords. Only then, perhaps, will you realize your mistake! And yet, on that day, it may well be too late...

Hairam left Lothriel the day after our quarrel. It was the year 1793 in the Seventh Age. And I stood alone upon the wide balcony facing the huge garden, contemplating the changing skies of silk, bordered by clouds, waiting for the storm to come from the East.

I had seen her leaving, and did nothing to stop her. I had even offered her an escort and supplies for her journeuy, an offer which she had naturally turned down. She did not even accept Hèren, the Emerald of Immunity, which I meant to give her in order that she be protected from charms and spells. She would not take anything from me, since she had already asked me something, and I had refused the offer. I had seen her leave in a gallop on a smoke-grey steed, her proud Canafaldon, 'The Unremitting'. A good horse, never losing the way, and one which, I hoped, would one day bring her back to me...

A good King for my people

CHAPTER III

Not even the passing of days, weeks, months, and years could ever lead me to forget the suffering, the emptiness, striking my heart after Hairam's leavestaking. And yet, there is quality in the passage of time, that it conceals sorrow under a layer of bark, getting harder and stronger as years go by, and allowing us to tolerate our wounds, although they may not be healed for good. During the days following Hairam's departure, I paid a visit to my mother Ahdehtal, all the way up to her house in the fells, and listened to her as she plucked the strings of her harp, playing a sorrowful tune. I had not told her about Hairam, but she knew, or could feel it, perhaps simply deducing it from the way my eyes looked. I recognized the melody she was playing, and it was a sad song:

Aranteha kem xadeha,

deh ham dhal woesis arantehes

alan

mahii ural.

Tisal goi, wosat,

osondel ath esisaar mahii,

vençteseh sohl eh tadsisaar

tadsisi ath kem mobalohl.

Deh ta woesis evmaar ha sarèd,

shasmeteha sth,

ekèm esistehes nau, eh halbar,

canciàtiaar xadi ath rhosmyn.

Nau evisilaar wifen

fenes hèronareth hes,

ub hol,

uron intal xome.

Deh esistehes mono evisilaar

wifen dinva lusef,

ni hol uhar in urgowin,

ni xad uus sanoaar hes.

(I know I made a mistake,

but my heart cannot

always

tell what is best.

Sometimes fear, or uncertainty,

some belief to be so very right,

they all lead us to act in a way

we shall then very soon so regret.

Do not judge me so easily, please,

I humbly beg you, do not punish me,

for, in truth, it is the morning wrongs

which the sunset does always make worse.

Any fish any time can be told

once it takes unawarely your bait,

any bird any time can be sold

which was caught beforehand in your net.

Yet does anyone know who can tell

any fish as it swims underwater?

And does anyone know who can sell

any bird as it flies on its wings?

Thus indeed no mistake would be made

just as soon as one knew it for wrong).

Listening to that melody, and recalling the lyrics of the song, I realized my mother was aware of my mistake, and yet she did not judge me. Since things were so, before leaving, I took her face in my hands and kissed her between the eyes. She stared at me, a glance looking as a wish to protect me from any mischance Fate might bring about, and I replied with a look meant to express my self-confidence and will to reassure her and tell her not to worry, as long as she could. Therefore, concealing my sorrow behind a jovial mask, I returned the day after to my Kingdom, putting on my good face, and ready to prove myself a good King for my people.

Those who do not bear a crown might think that ruling over Lothriel is easy, since our country never had to face sieges, invasions, epidemics, or famines, nor other calamities or great upheavals. The stores were always full, as much as markets, and everywhere you could only see wealth and gladness. Yet, my dear Domenir, you should believe me when I tell you that ruling is not easy at all, never, anywhere, over any kingdom. In order for wealth to last, there are subtle harmonies which must be preserved, so that the ruler must always be able to pull the strings as a skilled puppet master. People walking in the streets, when everything is right, do not even realize there is somebody ruling them. They only look for the responsible people when things are wrong. Subjects ask for a hearing before the King only when they have to present their issues and their complaints. Only rarely a sovereign is sought for in order to be praised, and only a few are those queuing outside the audience hall in order to relate how glad they are.

Therefore, Domenir, you may well guess how many problems of every kind, both great and small, I had to wrestle with during my long years as a King, although such things are never sung in gest-songs, when feasts are held. Bards praise heroes, great knightly feats, leaders of armies, and Kings who built marvels. Nobody sings the one who rules after the only purpose to have things work. Nobody dedicates verses to Kings who everyday welcomed into their palaces and listened to people coming to have their say, also trying their best to offer them some help. One can do without astounding deeds, but, for a Kingdom to prosper, it is necessary to come to terms, one after the other, with each person's issues.

I would like to tell you about some of the many issues I was presented with during my earlier years as a King. I shall therefore tell you about ten problems I solved...

The court cook

CHAPTER IV

One day a young assistant cook from the royal kitchen came before me in the audience hall.

Please, speak, and present your issue to me, I invited him.

And he replied: You should know, my noble Lord, that the chief cook in the royal kitchen, the skilled Osondeljui, master chef in the making of all sorts of prelibacies palatable to the pickiest foodies, gave up cooking for you as much as for any court member. It has actually been a few days already since we are lacking his expertise, therefore any dish coming to your table lately, my King, are prepared by us, doing our best to recall and ape Osondeljui's teachings, although we certainly cannot compare, and we shall not be able to do it for long. We would all like to get the reason for his forsaking the kitchen, but the master's mouth is shut as an eggshell before us. Therefore I come to you, noble sovereign, in the hope your influence and authority may succeed in restoring master Osondeljui to his proper position.

Having being told so, I first consulted my ministers and advisors, in order to learn whether any of them knew about the chief cook Osondeljui's matter, but all of them shook their heads in denial.

Then I asked the man himself, having him summoned and brought before me. As soon as the court cook was before me, I spoke to him in the fashion: Master Osondeljui, I learned, to my utter surprise and bewilderment, that you have been diserting your task of chief cook in the royal kitchen for a few days already, refusing to explain your reason for so doing with anybody who asked. Would you then like to kindly explain the matter to me?

The chief cook closed his eyes and raised his chin proudly. My Lord, my noblest of sovereigns, tell me, please: have you ever had any reason to complain about my service?

No, Osondeljui. Truth be told, I think there is no man nor woman, in this realm, who can compare with you, as far as the precious art of savours goes.

Thank you, Milord, and I am convinced of that, since you never even once refused my dishes, nor ever expressed any lack of enjoyment of the meals brought to your table.

What then?

Please, my noble sire, tell me once more: have you ever heard anybody in this court complaining about what was brought from my kitchen to the long tables of your banquets by hosts of slender handmaids and young pages?

Not at all, master, that was never the case, if my memory can be trusted.

What did you hear, instead, concerning the dishes I prepared?

You should indeed know that I only heard, and myself spoke, praises and compliments in great number. And never did I see any tableguest anxious to leave the table, as long as your prelibacies were served. On the contrary, may you take pride in this: I saw more than one person cleaning their plate so thoroughly they stole the job from the servants supposed to take care of polishing in the best of ways the tableware in smoothened quartz and the cutlery in refined silver, set with gemstones, which, as many as the stars in heaven, crowd my dining hall! Speak, then, in the Gods' name! Tell me once and for all, without further concealment, the reason for diserting your role.

The chief cook sighed, turning his eyes left and right, then shaking his head in displeasure. Your Highness, Sire Helewen, you should know that at the beginning of this week... Osondeljui started, interrupting after only about a dozen words, overcome by emotion.

Continue.

You should know that at the beginning of this week my art received the worst treatment one could imagine!

Alas, tell me who and how caused such offence, I insisted.

The person responsible, Milord, is a newly elected minister. I am talking about young Ercbadeim, who, thinking to be only heard by his colleagues, pronounced scornful words of vile derision toward my work. He ignored I chanced to pass through the corridors as he so spoke, therefore hearing the whole thing!

What did you hear out of minister Ercbadeim's mouth, master?

He said, and I am citing his precise words, that before being elected to his political role, he could taste a better cooking than the one he had been served by the court cook!

Therefore you quit cooking, is that so? I asked.

Not straightaway! he denied.

How so?

"After spending a horrible night awake, doubting my talent and qualities, I came to the kitchen in the early morning, even before the Song of Dawn, and put myself to work in order to prepare such prelibate delicacies that may surpass everything I had made before. I can well say, then, may the Gods prove me wrong, that I never committed myself so much to the preparation of a meal! Without even counting upon the assistance of my apprentices, who had not come there yet, I undertook the meticulous cutting, shredding, peeling, seasoning, cooking, and stirring over lake fish, fruits, fowl, honey and cheese, liquors, and finely-savoured spices.

Eventually, I put everything into suitable earthenware-topped pans, and, as soon as it was time to serve lunch, I had everything brought to minister Ercbadeim..." the chief cook explained.

And at the end of the meal you asked him about his impression?

No! I would be risking to appear anxious about his judgment! I abstained completely from any talk with the minister... but I hid myself behind the curtains, finely wrought, belonging to the drapes adorning the hall of feasts, and listened to the comments exchanged between tableguests.

Did you so managed to catch any comment pronounced by minister Ercbadeim concerning the dishes you had prepared for him?

Indeed, my King, you may well believe my word when I say I heard Ercbadeim repeating what he had stated the day before in the afternoon! He expressed himself, for the second time, by relating how he had eaten better meals before being elected to his political charge. At that point, so much bewildered by what I had just heard, I went back into the kitchen and threw the towel in, gave up the ensigns of the cookmasters guild, and came back to only observing the others at work in complete silence, never to touch a single ladle anymore... Osondeljui concluded, his arms folded against his chest.

Being things so, I had the young minister Ercbadeim summoned to the audience hall, in the presence of the chief cook Osondeljui, in order to hear his version of the happening.

Tell me, minister Ercbadeim, who are in charge of the roads of our Kingdom: does it correspond to truth that, thinking not to be heard by anybody except your colleagues, you pronounced words of spite toward our good chief cook in the royal kitchen, master Osondeljui, the expert in all savours and prelibacies?

The minister was astounded. I deny it, Milord. Never did I pronounce any word of offence toward the chief cook. May the Gods bear witness!

And yet, I explained to him, master Osondeljui laments you stated to have tasted better cooking before being elected to your political charge. Besides, he complains you repeated such words for two consecutive days. Do you deny that, minister?

The minister seemed to have figured it all out now.

I do not deny at all, Milord.

I stared for a few seconds at the young minister, trying to realize whether he was abusing my patience, but a serene, untroubled look never left his face. Since Ercbadeim was not speaking anymore, I decided to break the silence: Minister, as you certainly know, the laws of our country allow everybody to express their opinion, even concerning one's taste, therefore I am not charging you with any offence. Nonetheless, a man was offended by your statement, therefore depriving us of his esteemed service. You may well appreciate how I might wish to solve the matter. And so I ask you: is it true you did not like the cooking prepared in this palace?

I deny it, Milord. I doubt it is possible to find a better table to sit, as far as delicacy and richness of savours goes, as well as the taste in the combination of flavours, and the mastery of seasonings.

Are you then retracting your statement? Or do you wish to make fun of this court and myself?

Minister Ercbadeim shook his head, smiling in amusement: Never, my excellent Sire, would I dare to disrespect you! Nonetheless, I am afraid, my words have been completely misunderstood, by the chief cook Osondeljui, in the first place, and then by yourself, who keep by his version. You should actually know, in fact, that my intentions were quite different, as much as the meaning of what I said to the other honourable ministers, my colleagues. I was explaining to them how, indeed, since I have been elected to my chair, although I may sit at the King's table, it is difficult for me to savour the dishes there served, since rarely does my mind now follow my palate in its enjoyment of meals. Indeed, an evergrowing amount of issues, botherings and worries crowd my thoughts all the time, keeping me from the chance to properly savour the prelibacies of the table, or the company of so many distinguished tableguests! Before being elected, instead, when I had no responsibilities, even a mere grape, taken off its cluster and eaten in the shadow of a porch, would give me more pleasure than I am able to taste now, since my head was free to follow my mouth in its savouring.

Having listened to both statements, I pronounced myself thus: I hope both of you learned something from this unpleasant misunderstanding. You, master Osondeljui: do you think it right to give up what makes you appreciated by everyone, and your King in the first place, in order to focus the whole of your efforts and talents over the only contrarian? Does the love you feel for your occupation entirely depend on what is thought and said about you? You shall then learn how the judgment of other people is ever changing and mutable, therefore one cannot rely upon that whether he does or not what nature spontaneously guides you to. As a consequence, I invite you to resume as soon as possible your late charge, retrieving the ensigns of your guild, until you are the one who wish never to practice the art of savours anymore!

Then I turned to the minister: And you, honourable Ercbadeim, should learn to handle your everyday worries better. The ones putting their troubles above their head are like the man who, instead of sitting upon his cart, holding both reins and whip in his hands, lies himself upon the ground, letting the cart come over his back. The man who brings his troubles upon the table at lunch is like those who sit upon thornbushes in order to get berries. Remind yourself how a man must be able to his problems, and, in order to do so, he must himself, first of all, be sated, rested, and sound, as far as possible. Worries and troubles are similar to parasites in that they shall try every way to weaken you, depriving you of food, slumber, and health, so that you may lack the energy to face them. And that is not all, but the more they shall take energy from you, the harder they shall get. Be wise, instead, and learn to get strong, in order for your troubles to weaken, and you prevail.

The singer

CHAPTER V

In another occasion, a man called Bineharanur, who had been working for several years as an ironsmith, specializing in horse-shoe forging