A great bank of clouds towered in the West, their edges yellow-gold in the late afternoon sun.

From the height of the aft deck, Er-Mûrazôr scanned the endless line where the sea met the sky. A swell rolled beneath the ship and lifted it high in the air. There it was, a roughness on the horizon, barely noticeable but definitely there. He stepped up on the stern rail for a better look, holding the backstay for balance. Tolan, the old helmsman shot him a warning look. Have a care, young princeling.

Above the irregular spot, the undersides of the clouds were tinged with green. Every sailor knows that clouds over land are green, they reflect the color of the fields and forests beneath them.

The swell rolled on, and the ship dropped into the trough between waves. The prow dipped below the water, dunking the lavender and rosemary tied to the bowsprit, an offering to Ossë.

When the ship rose on the next swell, he saw it again. It could be a triangle of sail, but more likely it was Tol Eressëa, the westernmost outpost of the undying lands. He would hold this course just long enough to get a better look.

He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of home. A small bump, the peak of the highest mountain on Númenor, interrupted the otherwise unbroken horizon. The cities hugging the coast had long since disappeared beneath the sea, visually speaking, but as long as he could see any part of Númenor, at least intermittently, he considered himself not in violation of the Ban.

They continued sailing West. When they slipped into the troughs, he lost sight of the tip of the mountain. He sent Wynn, the lookout, into the rigging to keep an eye on it.

"I can't … oh wait, I can still see it," the slender boy called from his perch just below the tip of the mainmast. Their pennant, a tree with seven stars, snapped in the breeze above his head.

His interpretation of the Ban was more flexible than most, and every time he sailed West, he pushed the limits a little harder.

Someday, he would see the undying lands with his own eyes. If the sages were right, it would add years to his natural life. Not by as many as if he lived there, but every added year was precious.

A wall of squalls was moving in from the north. The ugly clouds danced with lightning, and a low rumble reached him from across the waves. If the squalls continued on their current course and speed, his view of the peak would be cut off behind diagonal curtains of rain.

Er-Mûrazôr took a last look to the West, at the billowing white clouds reflecting green underneath, which might be the only look he would ever have of the undying lands. Reluctantly, he gave the order to turn around.

"Jibe ho." The stern swung around, and the sails filled with wind.

The course back to Númenor led them directly into the path of the squall. If they were lucky, they'd outrun it, but if it caught them, they'd be in no real danger. They'd shorten sail, drop the sea anchor, and wait out the storm below decks. There was nothing to run into out here. They were sailing through blue water, unimaginably deep, with no rocks or shoals.

The great mass of cloud lit up from within, revealing the enormous height of the waves. The water was pockmarked from rain, and wisps of spume raced across its surface.

The wind freshened. The deck tipped until it dipped into the water, and the sea hissed along the gunwales. The sky turned black. When the rain hit, it was stinging hard and cold as ice, startling compared to the warm water sloshing over his feet.

A gust blew out one of the sails, leaving ribbons of canvas flapping in the gale. The bow drifted off the line of swells, and a wave broke over the bow.

"Helmsman, I relieve you." The exhausted man shot him a look of gratitude, and Er-Mûrazôr took over the tiller.

"Shorten sail." His words were torn away by the shriek of the wind, even he couldn't hear them. He put his fingers in his mouth and blew ear-splitting blasts, two short and one long. A sailor at the bow nodded, and took down the larger of the two remaining jibs. There was almost no canvas left to take in. They were flying a jib the size of a snot rag, and nothing else.

Hours past dark, and the squall showed no signs of letting up. The stars were hidden behind the clouds. Without them, Er-Mûrazôr lost his bearings. It didn't matter, in a storm like this, he had to abandon his course and steer directly into the waves.

The bow of the ship lifted on the next crest, and the hull slid down the side of a mountain of a wave. They landed wrong, and the keel shivered as if it would snap. Er-Mûrazôr gripped the rail and struggled to keep his footing on the slippery deck. He stood upright, his face still. It wouldn't do for the men see him afraid.

A bolt of lightning struck, too close, and the crack of thunder came at almost the same moment. The lookout on the prow turned around, gesturing wildly and pointing to something off the port quarter. Er-Mûrazôr saw his lips move but couldn't hear anything above the shriek of the storm and the ringing in his ears.

He looked where the man was pointing. The light from the next strike revealed a line of breakers, the boiling foam pale against the black water. Rocks, where there should be only blue water, of unplumbed depths.

He threw his whole weight against the tiller. "Ready about!" The jib swung from one side to the other, and the ship began to turn. The waves hit them abeam, driving the ship closer to the rocks. He cringed at the drawn-out scraping of wood against stone.

"Ossë, spare us and I will raise a temple to you."

Assuming Ossë wanted another temple. Númenor was a seafaring nation. It was lousy with roadside shrines and temples to Ossë, probably one for every person on the island.

He ordered the mainsail raised, and the canvas filled with a snap. The deadly breakers passed alongside them, and soon, they left the fangs of rocks in their wake. Er-Mûrazôr put a hand to his chest and held it there until his pulse dropped to normal.

Sometime past midnight, when the storm had died down to a heavy rain, he told Sevrann, his first officer, "Set a double watch. We'll update the charts as soon as it's light."

He went below into the low-ceilinged cabin, barely large enough for the six bunks shared by a twelve-man crew, and flung himself onto the nearest one fully clothed, too tired to care that he was dripping onto the sheets. When he closed his eyes, he felt like he was falling. He clutched the edges of the pallet for support.

There was shouting on deck, and the sound of running feet. Someone screamed. He struggled from deepest sleep, as if swimming toward the surface from a great depth.

"Hard a lee," ordered the first officer. The ship wallowed through its turn, and canvas flapped.

A blow struck the vessel. It flung him from his bunk and resonated through the hull like a drumbeat. He was on his feet in an instant, but the next blow knocked him to the floor. Pain shot from his wrist to his elbow.

The ship was lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, and each time, the vessel rolled further onto its side. There was the scrape of wood against rock, and the sound of timbers splintering. The blows sounded flat and dull, as if they came from a drum with a split skin. At that moment, he knew the hull had been breached.

He crawled through seawater a foot deep and reached the hatch. The deck was canted at an unnatural angle, but he could keep his footing by hanging onto the roof of the cabin.

"Captain, there was another rock." His first officer looked terrified, either of being shipwrecked or of his own Captain. Er-Mûrazôr couldn't tell.

The ship rolled in the surf and seemed to twist, and the timbers groaned like whales. The ship started to break apart.

"Abandon ship," he said. The order no captain ever wants to give.

The hull had been driven so high up on the rocks, they could step from the deck and wade through the foaming surf.

Judging from the height above which no mussels or barnacles clung, the rock would keep them above water at high tide. However, no plants grew here, and as far as he could tell, there was no water.

He stood among the rocks, breathing hard and staring out to sea.

No one knows where we are.

It was his own fault. Er-Mûrazôr hadn't told anyone he was planning to sail so close to the undying lands.

If his brother Atanamir failed to return on time, they'd search for him right away. Unlike Er-Mûrazôr, Atanamir did what he was told. But if Er-Mûrazôr were late, his father would assume he'd gone off exploring, and wouldn't worry.

Some captains always kept a silver mirror used for signaling on their person at all times against this very possibility. He felt for the cord around his neck, at the same moment he remembered when he'd taken it off and where he'd put it. Ossë's stiff cock! They might be here for a long time.

But there was no time to brood. The more food and water they could recover from the disintegrating ship, the longer they could hold out. The men made trip after trip over the razor-sharp rocks, moving the wounded, carrying water kegs, and bringing out whatever tools and equipment they could carry, taking care not to fall in the darkness and the swirling water.

Some of the men refused to go below decks, now in pitch darkness and tilted at an unfamiliar angle. Er-Mûrazôr could have ordered them below, they needed to retrieve the kegs of water in the hold, but there was only so much he could ask of the terrified men, so he did it himself.

After that, Er-Mûrazôr carried armloads of wet canvas from the wreck until his limbs trembled from exertion. His left arm was almost unusable. He could grip with his hand, but it hurt to lift any weight.

The hull rocked in the waves. It could crush a hand or foot is a sailor was unlucky. Timbers cracked. Something snapped, and the mainmast came down. Hempen ropes trailed in its wake. However badly they needed supplies, it was no longer safe to collect them.

"All ashore. We've done enough for tonight."

He went to the makeshift tent where they were treating the wounded, jury-rigged from a sail draped over a spar across two boulders. He lifted the edge of the canvas and crawled beneath it. There was enough sand between the rocks to lay a man on, but it was soaking wet.

Tolan, the old helmsman knelt over a still form. "It's Sevrann, Captain. He's bad hurt."

The fabric of his legging had been cut away to above the knee, and pieces of wood were bound the length of his shin with strips of cloth. Er-Mûrazôr hoped the bone splinters hadn't pierced the skin. If they had, it would be a death sentence.

Er-Mûrazôr knelt beside the wounded man and asked, "How's the leg?" His first officer bit his lip and grimaced. He turned to the helmsman. "Was there any wine among the water barrels we managed to save? Give it to him." He couldn't do anything more for the man.

Outside, he stood in the rain, the cold water running in rivulets down the side of his face, down his neck. This was his fault. He looked around to be sure he was unobserved, then fell to his knees and punched the sand over and over. Remorse hit him like a punch in the gut, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

Recovering his composure, he joined the others and counted those who remained. Two were in the tent and the rest were salvaging things from the ship. That made ten. No, eleven, he'd forgotten to count himself. They had been a crew of twelve. Wynn, the lookout, was missing. Er-Mûrazôr punched the sand again.

The rain was still coming down, icy cold. It didn't rain often in this part of the world. He tasked two sailors with catching rainwater in a square of canvas, and told another to find a cask or pot, anything that would hold water.

Sometime in the small hours, the moon began to show through broken clouds. The rain had stopped, but mist continued to soak his hair and clothing. Er-Mûrazôr sat in the sand with his knees pulled up to his chin, his thoughts swirling.

The helmsman came over and sat beside him. "Sevrann's sleeping now." Er-Mûrazôr nodded. "And now for you. That's blood on your leg. Do you want me to patch you up?"

Er-Mûrazôr looked down. A dark stain spread across the outside of his thigh. He touched it, and his hand came away sticky. Something protruded from the fabric. He tugged, and eased out a splinter the size of a writing pen. It must have been four or five inches deep, just under the skin. Ugly, but not serious.

The helmsman tore a strip of linen from the tail of his shirt and passed it over. Er-Mûrazôr knotted the ends, then dropped it over his head. With the weight of his arm supported by the loop of fabric, the sudden stabbing gave way to a dull ache. Much better.

"Thanks," he said, and he meant it.

Nearby, two men bent over the collection of driftwood and broken timber, striking a stone against the blade of a knife over and over. Every once in a while, a spark landed in the shavings cupped in the second man's hands. Once, it glowed for a moment under his breath, but it didn't catch.

It would be better to have a signal fire at night, it could be seen for much further away. He wouldn't want to lure a ship up onto the rocks, but experienced mariners would know not to approach until daylight.

Er-Mûrazôr looked from one face to another. "Did anyone rescue the tinderbox?" The men looked at each other. In the dark, with the waves threatening to drag them over rocks as sharp as knives, while thinking of more important things, like rescuing the drinking water. "It must have been lost with the ship."

Once, Er-Mûrazôr had seen one of the court astrologers light a candle with his will alone. It took a long time, and seemed to take a lot of effort, but finally there was a curl of smoke, and a yellow flame leapt up from the wick.

Er-Mûrazôr had assumed it was a street conjurer's trick, something with flammable oils and a rough surface to his fingertips, but the man didn't seem the type. He was a serious scholar, and not one to draw attention to himself.

"How did you do that"? the young prince had asked him.

"Keep your mind still, and focus the whole of your attention upon the wick. Be patient, and expect to have to work at it."

Er-Mûrazôr had tried a couple of times. He'd stared for what seemed like long minutes, and had punched the wall when nothing happened. But once, just once, he managed to produce the smallest wisp of smoke. When he touched the wick, it was warm.

Er-Mûrazôr knelt beside the makeshift fire circle. "Let me try."

The sailors had arranged a bundle of driftwood twigs into a miniature tent, and put shaved curls of wood under it.

Er-Mûrazôr knelt in the wet sand by the edge of the fire ring and sat back on his heels. He rested his hands on his thighs, to the extent the sling would allow it. His left wrist was twice the size it should be, the wrist bone and tendons had disappeared under puffy flesh.

"Give me some room." The sailors withdrew by two or three paces, but he still felt crowded. Maybe the secret to magic is getting past the fear of looking stupid.

Er-Mûrazôr focused on the shavings. He drew a breath, held it, let it go. The stones on the shingle beach clattered as the waves lifted them and then drained back. His wrist hurt. He ignored it. The ankle he was sitting on started to go numb, and he shifted his weight. Focus. He closed his eyes. Breath in, breath out.

The swell of the ocean all around him was like a living thing. The power of it seemed to fill him. Breath in, breathe out. Send with it all the power from the surf, from the ocean, the storm.

It took what seemed like hours, but finally, a curl of smoke rose from the shaving. A spark glowed orange, and the tangle of shavings burst into flame, which ignited the tip of a driftwood twig. Soon the whole structure was burning, the wet wood popping in the heat. Er-Mûrazôr hung his head, exhausted.

"How did you do that?" The sailor's voice was awe-stricken.

"He's a sorcerer, that's how. Don't ask stupid questions," said his shipmate.

Er-Mûrazôr was as amazed as the sailors. Was he a sorcerer? Or, as the court astrologer had said, did you just need to be patient and work extremely hard?

The men fed timbers from the ship into the blaze. Someone slapped him on the back. The flame shot up four or five feet high, burning hotter than a natural fire, the soaked wood popping and hissing with steam.

Er-Mûrazôr unfolded himself from the sand and brushed off his knees. "Get some rope and an oar."

They wrapped the rope around the blade of the oar and wedged it between two rocks, a fiery beacon high in the air. It was impossible to tell if anyone was out there, all they could do was wait.

All night they fed the fire, keeping it alive in the drizzle and damp. Even standing on his feet, Er-Mûrazôr's head kept falling forward and snapping him awake.

The day dawned under a cloudless sky with glassy calm seas. What was left of the ship were strewn up and down the shore. Debris floated on the water.

"Captain! There's a ship on the horizon. We need to fashion a smoke signal, right quick."

There were no plants on the rock, and everything from the ship: timber, fabric, or rope, was soaking wet.

"Bring some more tarred rope," Er-Mûrazôr told the nearest sailor.

A sailor came back with a coil of rope over one shoulder and dumped it into the fire. Resinous smoke billowed from the twisted hemp, forcing Er-Mûrazôr back, his eyes burning.

An oily black column rose hundreds of feet in the air, as thick as the trunk of a tree. On the horizon, the ship tacked, and tacked again, the white triangle of sail growing larger as it drew near.

A pennant floated from the top of the mainmast, unreadable against the sun. The rock on which they were marooned was to the west of Númenor, far from the normal trading routes. Reputable vessels didn't come this way.

"Captain, what if they're pirates?" The young sailor's face turned pale.

Er-Mûrazôr kept his face still. Worse than that, what if they're slavers?

He lifted the sling over his head and let it drop to the ground. The newcomers needn't know he was injured. He stepped to the edge of the surf, motioning his men to stay back. His good hand tightened around the hilt of his dagger.

The vessel completed another tack, bringing it closer. Its lines were slender and graceful. Men had no trading routes west of Númenor, but the Teleri, famous mariners who sailed between the mainland and Tol Eressëa, passed this way all the time. Er-Mûrazôr chewed his lip, waiting.

The breeze freshened and lifted the pennant, revealing a blue background arrayed with a host of stars. Er-Mûrazôr's knees almost buckled with relief.

"Captain, it's an Elvish ship," said Tolan.