CHAPTER 60

Lórien, Caras Galadhon

Night of July 22, 3019

The Elves consider the Festival of the Dancing Fireflies on the night of the July’s full moon to be one of their foremost holidays; thus an informed Lórienite can make important conclusions regarding the true situation among Lórien’s ruling elite, ‘never as united as now,’ from the identity of the person in charge and how that person goes about it. The tiniest details carry deep meaning, being a reflection of the nuances of the merciless struggle for power that is the only meaning of life for the immortal Elvish hierarchs. At the same time, a totally innocent detail (such as whether the Lord of Rivendell is represented at the Festival by a cousin or a nephew) can be much more important than, for example, the shocking re-appearance of milord Estebar, the former clofoel of Might who had disappeared without a trace some ten years ago together with the other participants in the Celebrant conspiracy, at the same occasion two years ago. The ex- clofoel stood for a couple of hours on a talan right next to the Lórien’s Sovereigns and then disappeared into oblivion once again; it was rumored (always with a careful look-around and in a whisper) that he was escorted back to the dungeons under the Mound of Somber Mourning by the clofoel of Stars’ maiden dancers, rather than the guards of the clofoel of Tranquility. Why? Whatever for? A great mystery.

This is the right policy: real Power, in order to remain such, has to be both unfathomable and unpredictable – otherwise, it is merely an authority. One could recall here the story (from one of the neighboring Worlds) of the experts who had tried, year after year, to divine the internal politics of a certain powerful and enigmatic state: they noted the order in which the local hierarchs took their places on the Tomb of the Founder during state holidays, what deviations from the alphabetical order occurred during the enumeration of their names, and the like. The experts were competent and wise, their conclusions deep and unfailingly logical; is it any wonder that they have never once made a correct prediction? Should someone have engaged the aforementioned experts to analyze the situation around the Festival of the Dancing Fireflies in Lórien, year 3019 of the Third Age, they would certainly have produced something like this: “Since this year the responsibility for the Festival has been assigned to the clofoel of the World for the first time ever, it follows that the expansionists have decisively triumphed over the isolationists in the Elvish administration; we should expect a rapid growth of Elvish presence in the key regions of Middle Earth.

Some analysts believe that the key underlying factor is a shuffle of roles in the court of the Lady, who is concerned with the inordinate strengthening of the clofoel of Tranquility.” The funniest thing is that those logical exercises would have been quite correct in and of themselves, as is usual with this brand of analysis…

As for the Festival itself, it is uncommonly beautiful. Of course, only an Elf can fully appreciate its beauty; on the other hand, man is really so primitive and puny a creature that even the visible paltry scraps of the Festival’s true splendor are quite enough for him. On this night the inhabitants of Lórien gather on the telain close to Nimrodel; the mallorns provide a magnificent view on the river valley where constellations of bright phial lamps are strewn across the dewy fields surrounding melancholy backwaters (blackened silver, like Gondolin chest ornaments). The night sky itself appears but a dim reflection of this glorious display in an old bronze mirror. Strictly speaking, that is how it really is: on that night the movements of celestial bodies over Middle Earth merely reflect faithfully the happenings on the banks of Nimrodel. As already mentioned, a mortal can perceive only a tiny fraction of what happens there: he can enjoy the starscape, created by the lamps in the grass and unchanged since time immemorial, but human eyes have no business seeing the magical patterns woven by the phials of the dancers – it is this dance that forms the basis for the magic of the Firstborn. Very rarely do the echoes of this magic rhythm reach the world of Men through revelations to the greatest scalds and musicians, forever poisoning their souls with longing for unreachable perfection.

…As befits the clofoel of the Festival, Eornis was in the middle of the ‘sky’ this midnight, right where seven phials (six bright ones and one most bright) formed the Sickle of the Valar on the fields of Nimrodel, the constellation whose handle points at the Pole of the World.

The clofoel of Stars and her dancers – the only ones allowed on the ‘sky’ – having left for the shade of the mallorns a while ago, she was completely alone, still futilely trying to figure out how baron Grager was going to accomplish what he promised: “By morning light you will find the sack with the Seeing Stone in the grass near to the phial that represents the Polar Star in the Sickle of the Valar.” Access to the ‘sky’ is forbidden to all other Elves, including even other clofoels, under penalty of death, so there’s no concern with anyone finding the palantír before her; but how will the Mordorian spies sneak here? Therefore…is it, therefore, one of the dancers? But that’s absolutely impossible – a dancer connected to the Enemy! Oh yeah? What about clofoel of the World connected to the Enemy – is that possible?

She objected to her own thoughts: I’m not connected to the Enemy, I’m merely playing my own game. Sure, I will do everything to save my boy, but I’m not even considering sticking to the conditions of their bargain. In the morning I’ll have the palantír, on noon of August first I’ll learn the name of the crown prince of Mordor – who else could it be? – and when it’s time to exchange the hostages I’ll make sure that they all remain in my hands, no worries. Apparently, these Men aren’t familiar with the Elves’ power; well, they’ll learn.

It’s not the Men that I have to fear – what can those dung worms do? – but my own kind.

When I win this game I will lay a palantír and the head of a Mordorian prince at the feet of the Sovereigns, and no one will dare open their mouth – the winner is always right.

Whereas if I fail or they simply won’t let me finish the game, the whole affair will be cast as a pact with the Enemy, as treason. The clofoel of Tranquility would give his right hand for a chance to charge me with that and send me to his dungeons under the Mound of Somber Mourning… Should he have even a shadow of doubt regarding my talks with the Ithilienians, his Guards will start digging like only they can, and then I’m finished. I did explain my visit to Emyn Arnen to Lady Galadriel by the need to check on news from Umbar: “someone in Lórien, possibly the clofoel of Tranquility, has apparently begun his own game with Aragorn.” Once he finds out about that conversation – which he will – he’ll have no choice but to thoroughly besmirch me in the eyes of the Sovereigns, and he’ll work hard at it.

She gave a start as it occurred to her: what if this whole business, including the happenings in Umbar, is nothing but a long-term play by the clofoel of Tranquility, and a Guard’s hand will be on my shoulder the moment I pick up a sack with a stone imitating a palantír?

Elandar and those Ithilienian barons working against me for the clofoel of Tranquility?!

Nonsense… I’m being afraid of my own shadow. How come the Ithilienian spies are teaming with Mordorians, obviously with Faramir’s knowledge? That’s clear, actually: they hope to gain, as their commission in the bargain, an Elvish clofoel compromised by working with the Enemy, and therefore forever pliant. Which is how it would’ve come out had I any intention of playing along.

In any event there’s no going back now: the only thing that will save me is a victory in this ‘prisoner exchange.’ Not only will it save me, it will elevate me to the next level!

Afterwards I’ll find those who will put the sack with the Seeing Stone by the Polar Star tonight; I will do it myself, with my Service, ahead of the Guards, and expose those traitors to the Council: “Our incomparable preserver of Tranquility had been so busy looking for conspiracies – we all know what that’s worth – that he managed to overlook a real Enemy spy network in Caras Galadhon. Or, perhaps, he did not overlook it at all? Perhaps this network is connected higher than I dare suggest?” He won’t survive such a blow, no matter how Lord Cereborn covers for him; it will be a clear victory for the Lady and me.

…In the meantime, Kumai’s Dragon glided invisibly through Lórien’s night sky along the dimly reflecting meanders of Nimrodel. Once he saw a large spread of bright bluish lights forming a pretty good star map in the middle of a valley, the engineer relaxed and guided the glider down; so far everything was going according to plan. He located the Dipper, for some reason called the Sickle of the Valar in those parts, among these ‘constellations’ – good, just where it belongs in the real sky, with the Polar Star in the right place. Wonder what those lamps are made from? The light is obviously cold – perhaps the same stuff that luminesces in rotting mushrooms? The Dipper was growing fast; Kumai felt on the bottom of the cockpit for the sack he had extracted last night from its hiding place in the back of the Dol Guldur fireplace, and suddenly cursed through clenched teeth: “Damn, he never told me the actual size of that thing – how am I to figure my altitude in this dark?”

Haladdin had originally asked him to just retrieve the sack from the hiding place and drop it somewhere far away from the fortress during the next flight, so he could pick it up and get away. Then the doctor cut himself off in mid-sentence and asked, amazed: “Listen, maybe you can fly all the way to Lórien from here?”

“Sure, no sweat. Well, not exactly no sweat, but I can.”

“What about at night?”

“Well, I haven’t flown such distances at night before – it’s hard to navigate.”

“What if it’s the night of the full moon, and the target site has guiding lights?”

“In that case it will be easier. Do you need aerial reconnaissance?”

“No. You see, I remembered how good you’ve gotten at dropping shells on ground targets.

That’s exactly what you need to do in Lórien.”

Kumai had justified a night flight to his Dol Guldur superiors with a suggestion to practice night bombing. “Whatever the hell for?” “To drop incendiary shells onto enemy camps. If you have to put out burning tents on the night before a battle rather than getting some sleep, you won’t be in good shape to fight in the morning.” “Hmm… sounds reasonable. Very well; try it, engineer.” He took off at sunset (“I’ll fly around a bit until it gets dark”), made a wide turn so as not to be seen from the fortress, and only then headed west-north-west. He found the place where Nimrodel emptied into Anduin while it was still light, the rest was fairly routine…

Kumai let go and the sack disappeared into the ‘star’-studded darkness below. Two seconds later the glider’s nose covered the Polar Star: all set. If he wasn’t off by much figuring his altitude, the target has been hit. “Is it some sort of poison?” “No, magic.” “Magic?! You got nothing better to do?” “Trust me: the Lórien dudes won’t like this sack at all.” “Well, well. When things are really bad, people always swap magicians for physicians…”

Whatever – he did his part, it’s the commanders’ job to know what all this is for. The less you know the better you sleep. Time to turn around and go home; it’s a long way, plus the wind is getting stronger.

When Kumai took a habitually daring turn over the sleepy waters of Nimrodel, he failed to take one thing into account: the height of the mallorns. Or, rather, he had no idea that such tall trees even exist.

There was a crash when one of the branches touched a wingtip, seemingly lightly, turning the glider into a spinning winged seed like those that the mallorns drop by the hundreds onto the wilted elanors in the fall.

There was another crash when the helpless Dragon spun right and slammed into the neighboring tree, tearing its skin, breaking its spine and bones.

Finally, there was a third crash when all that debris fell down along the trunk and onto a talan full of stunned Elves, almost right at the feet of the clofoel of Tranquility.

Strictly speaking, Kumai had done his job by then and could have been written off as an acceptable loss, with an appropriate mention of the omelet whose preparation requires breaking a few eggs. There was, however, one complicating circumstance: the Troll got quite banged up in the fall, but survived it – which was, understandably, a complete disaster.