Mairon's Apprentice

Er-Mûrazôr stood in the barrel-vaulted room where he'd taken the entrance exams two weeks before. About a dozen apprentices crammed into the back of the room, sitting on the edge of workbenches or leaning against the wall.

The three senior apprentices, Ferran, Raedwald, and Eamur, were familiar from the entrance exams the day before. His roommate, Sevv. Six more he didn't know. All were from the race of Men, but they seem to come from every nation in Arda, based on the wide variety in the style of their clothing. This would be his first real lesson in sorcery, hands-on and advanced.

The door opened, and Tar-Mairon swept in. He was wearing the same clothing as the day before, and he carried a sheath of notes.

"Today we're going to learn how to communicate using just our minds."

"Sevv here communicates without his mind being actively involved," said Eamur.

"That I can't fix. I only teach telepathy," said Tar-Mairon.

The master sorcerer walked to the chalk board and wrote something in the symbols used by all magicians. Er-Mûrazôr didn't have them memorized yet. His eye moved back and forth between the chalkboard and a cram sheet in his hand.

His uncle used to tell stories about getting a glimpse of Tar-Mairon across the battlefield, huge and terrible, a mace in his hand, his face concealed under his helmet. The Elves called him a demon. Not "demon" as in a ferocious warlord, but a literal demon like a Balrog.

Watching the dreaded warlord writing on the chalkboard and assigning practice exercises made Er-Mûrazôr snort with laughter, which he hid under a cough.

"Tomorrow I'll teach you how to throw curses," said Tar-Mairon.

"I would, but I don't want my mouth washed out with soap," said Sevv. Someone else sniggered.

Tar-Mairon ignored them. "We'll begin with theory. It isn't something you should attempt when you don't know what you're doing."

"Instead of curses, could we do shape-shifting?" asked Raedwald.

"Shape-shifting can't be taught. It's an inborn talent," said Tar-Mairon.

"But you can do it, right? They say you can turn into a wolf. Can you show us?"

"Not right now, it takes preparation."

Er-Mûrazôr felt disillusioned. Atelic had warned him Tar-Mairon had a casual relationship with the truth, and was given to overestimating his own abilities.

Tar-Mairon tapped a pen against a book and looked at the ceiling. "Tell you what. Tomorrow morning, instead of meeting here, let's assemble in the great hall by the platform where High Table used to be. I can't teach shape shifting, but I can demonstrate it."

That night in the dining hall, crowded around the table with the other students, Er-Mûrazôr lifted his goblet and regarded its contents. The water was an unnatural color, and it smelled poisonous.

At the Haven, there were no grapes for wine. He'd grown accustomed to drinking ale, which was normally only for peasants. In his three years as Captain of the Haven, he'd actually learn to like the bitter draft. Here, the grain, harvest had been disappointing both this fall and last. They couldn't spare the barley for ale, so everyone in the fortress drink water, regardless of rank.

The water here had an unnatural color and was slimy to the touch. He didn't even like to wash in it. He longed for a taste of clean water, and even more in this land of volcanic fumes, for a breath of the clean-smelling air of the sea.

He brought the goblet to his lips, then held his breath and swallowed.

A servant set hunks of bread and a moldy piece of cheese in the middle of the table. Another set a bowl of broth before him. The steam smelled like parsnips.

He left the cheese to the others, who didn't seem to mind the mold, and reached for a end of a loaf. It was as hard as stone. He sawed at it with a dagger, but only left scratches in the crust.

Sevv laid a hand on his arm. "There's a trick to it. When the loaf is hard like that, don't even try to cut it. The blade will slip and you'll cut yourself, or you'll manage to hack off a slice but break your teeth on it. Soak it in broth first. It'll be soft enough to eat in no time."

Er-Mûrazôr did as he said. Soft bits of bread detached themselves and floated around the broth.

It occurred to him that he'd tasted something like this before. Once, when he and Atanamir were children, they were trapped at the end of High Table, at a feast that showed no signs of ending. Atanamir looked sideways at Er-Mûrazôr and stirred gravy into his wine cup.

"I dare you to drink that," said Er-Mûrazôr.

Atanamir brought the cup to his lips and drank. Which was bad, because now Er-Mûrazôr had to taste it, too. Atanamir slid the goblet over to him. The mixture was dark gray, gelatinous, and kind of chunky. It felt slimy in his mouth, and tasted like salt.

"It's not quite as bad as you'd think," said Er-Mûrazôr, scrubbing his mouth with a napkin.

The next morning, Er-Mûrazôr arrived in the great hall early. The long, vaulted-ceilinged room was rarely used, as so few people lived in the fortress. Ever since he arrived, he'd been taking his meals with the other apprentices in the kitchens.

The great hall was laid out like the great hall in any fortress, except it was considerably larger. A vast expanse of flagstones, which would normally hold row after row of trestle tables, reached out to an empty platform at the far end of the room. Presumably, it had once held the high table. Now, it made an excellent stage. Most of his classmates were already there.

"It looks like word got out. The blacksmithing apprentices are here too," said Sevv. Several dwarves, an elf, and a young man he didn't recognize gathered around the edges of the group.

A door in the wall opened, and Tar-Mairon stepped onto the stage. He was wrapped in a blanket which he held closed with one hand. His legs were bare beneath the brown wool.

He crossed the stage on bare feet. The blanket flapped around him as he walked, and for a moment, the gap revealed bare skin from knee to rib. Er-Mûrazôr looked away, embarrassed. However long I live, I will never be able to un-see that.

Tar-Mairon shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and held it in front of himself casually, as if he didn't realize he was naked.

He was as scarred as any warrior. A long, white line crossed his shoulder, and there was another on his upper arm and a stab wound on his belly, but the worst was a raised scar that showed where his throat had been slit.

Er-Mûrazôr looked at the floor, his face burning. He didn't know where to look. In the end, he fixed his eyes on his teacher's face.

Tar-Mairon addressed his apprentices. "The first thing to know about shape shifting is that you have to do it naked. If you shift to something large, your clothes will shred. I personally don't have the money to replace my wardrobe every time I do this. But you already knew that, since I pay you in seashells and small rocks."

"You get paid? Bastard!" A student punched his neighbor in the arm.

The master sorcerer lowered his head like an actor getting into character, and rolled forward until his knuckles almost touched the stage. His shoulders broadened, his arms thickened, and his body was covered in dark brown fur, grizzled silver. He growled, a low rumbling threat Er-Mûrazôr felt in his gut.

The wolf became a serpent, impossibly long, its middle as thick as a man's waist. The serpent took the form of a fanged creature with leathery wings. The monster became a wolf again, which became a man on all fours, wearing only his skin. Tar-Mairon sat back on his heels and pushed his hair out of his face, leaving his other arm draped across his lap.

"Toss me that, will you?" he said, pointing to the blanket. He caught it with one hand and held it in front of himself when he stood up.

"That's the problem with shape shifting. Everyone thinks clothes turn into fur. They don't."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Er-Mûrazôr stood in class with the others. To fit in, he'd begun to wear the same homespun clothing they did, grays and browns with a little bit of color in the trim. His tunic was loose and coarse-textured, and completely drab. He felt ridiculous. Númenorian peasants dressed better than this. He was happy about being here. He didn't regret his decision. But even though, as a general who'd been in the field and was used to sleeping rough, he'd never felt this poor before. Yet he didn't mind. It wasn't the poverty of a peasant, it was the poverty of a student, a priest, a wanderer who'd taken holy vows. He was here because he wanted to be.

That evening, Er-Mûrazôr sat around the table with a group of Tar-Mairon's apprentices after they'd finished work for the day. The remains of the evening meal had been pushed aside to make room for a game of dice.

Ferran, Raedwald, Eamur were all there. So were at least four of the junior apprentices, one or two of the smiths, and a few foot soldiers.

Ferran scooped up the dice and set them aside. "Let's make this more interesting. We'll play a drinking game. Never have I ever … "

"Paid back the money you owe me," said Raedwald. Everyone laughed.

"Never have I ever… seen an Orc," said Raedwald. Everyone except Tar-Mairon lifted his glass.

"That will change," said Tar-Mairon.

"Never have I ever … lain with a girl," said a young apprentice, barely old enough to shave. Color spread upward from his jaw. Er-Mûrazôr felt his own face burning. He knocked a coin to the floor on purpose and made a fuss about picking it up, leaving his goblet untouched.

"Never have I ever … told my mother I loved her," said one of the foot soldiers. Two others lifted their goblets and drank.

"Never have I ever… had a stupid argument with my father and had to leave home because I wouldn't apologize." Eamur looked right at Er-Mûrazôr, his eyes teasing. Per the rules of the game, Er-Mûrazôr picked up his glass and drank. He wasn't the only one.

Many rounds later, when Er-Mûrazôr reached for his goblet, or to be exact, for the space between two goblets, his knuckles grazed something metallic and he heard a clunk.

When it was his turn, Er-Mûrazôr said, "Never have I ever … seen the coast of Valinor."

Tar-Mairon lifted his glass.

Liar. It was almost certain Tar-Mairon had never been to Valinor. He claimed to have studied under Aulë the Smith, but when it was discovered that no one there knew him, the Jewel Smiths kicked him out of the guild.

Er-Mûrazôr met his teacher's eye and held it. "You know what? You're full of shit."

"What did you say?" The goblet froze halfway to his lips.

I don't care who you studied under or where you used to live. I just don't like being lied to."

Tar-Mairon slammed his goblet down on the table. Wine slopped over the rim and puddled on the table.

"Calm down, I'm on your side." Er-Mûrazôr laid a hand on bis teacher's arm. The muscles beneath the linen sleeve were rigid.

Er-Mûrazôr leaned closer and lowered his voice. "For someone who walks around in his skin with no more concern than a beast in the field, you're the most inhibited person I know. It's like you're an actor playing a role. Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds rehearsed. I'd rather deal with you, the real you, than with some script." Er-Mûrazôr realized he was slurring his words.

Mairon looked at him. For the first time since they'd met, the expression on his face reached his eyes. It was like watching actors rehearse a play, when they take a break, and you catch a glimpse of the person behind the role.

Mairon studied his hands. "I tried that once. It ended badly. When I lived among the Jewel Smiths, I confided something I swore I'd never reveal to anyone.[1]

"What something?" Er-Mûrazôr asked.

"Let's just say I had to choose between going to prison, or changing my name and devoting my life to anonymous good works."

A guardsman burst into the room. "I heard shouting. Is anything wrong?"

Mairon waved him off. "Eönwë and I were just talking. I mean Er-Mûrazôr. Melkor's chains, I'm drunk."

[1] That he used to be known as Sauron Gorthaur, Melkor's second-in-command