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The temple rose, a looming behemoth of black stone, windowless and without entrance save its great iron doors. Yet, more than casting an ominous shadow over the city below it, it seemed to absorb all light around it. “I swear the days are darker since it was built,” whispered Old Castrin to anyone who would listen.
Privately, Zira agreed with the old slave woman, but she did not dare voice it. Everyone had become more wary of the words they spoke, glancing about them as if shadows had ears. And who knows. Maybe they do now.
Umbar had grown quieter too, a city that had once heaved with foot traffic now seeming to echo emptily, streets that had once thronged with lost tourists, smiling con artists and shrieking children now populated by soldiers and mercenaries, wagons of war spoils and slaves rattling their way toward the city proper. Partly it was due to the emptying houses, Zira knew. Villas and old apartment buildings alike looked out onto the streets, windows staring like empty eye sockets. When the temple to Uru Digir had been torn down and the first of the black walls began groping toward the sky, many families had left, not wanting any part in the turn to the Black God. Now those who left did so in secret, not wishing to have a target on their back as they departed.
And yet where will they go? He watches us all.
That is what they had said, those men who came back from war with the men of Gondor. An eye, lidless and sleepless, unblinking and ringed with fire, watching, burning into the hours of their sleep.
There seemed to be some confusion as to whether the Eye and the Black God were one, or the one was the brother of the other. Regardless, the Eye’s envoys had demanded that the temple be raised and so it had.
“They say,” Castrin whispered, “that when they mixed the mortar to hold together the bricks, they were ordered to pour in the blood of a hundred slaves. Imagine it, a hundred corpses drained of blood ‘til they’re white and empty and dry.”
Dragur had laughed at the old woman when she said it, but it had been an uneasy laugh, too loud, as though he were trying to scare away his own fear at the thought.
Sometimes Zira would see one of the priests standing outside the temple’s entrance, staring down the endless steps down to the city proper. It was unknown exactly what the qualifications for being a priest to the Black God were, but it was widely agreed among the city’s citizens that one of them was a ready hand with a knife.
“It's an incentive for raiding,” Gulmagol had said, prodding the fire with a stick. Gulmagol had been something of importance before Zira’s father bought him. He had known how to read in many languages, including Westron, and had agreed to teach Zira without any prompting. “So long as we bring back prisoners, we need not give him our own.”
“Your own you mean,” Dragur had remarked.
The fire had flickered in Gulmagol’s eyes, grey where theirs were dark. “I have lived here a long time,” he said steadily. “Long enough that it saddens me to see this place fall into shadow.”
“I thought that this place was always a cesspit of darkness,” Dragur had said, leaning forward. “What was it you used to call us? Witches and demon-worshippers? Traitors and cheats?”
“Do not fight,” Zira had rebuked them. “We are all men of Umbar now, whether we like it or not.”
“I will allow,” Gulmagol had said, ignoring her, “that the men of Gondor may have created their own doom when it came to Umbar.”
“Yes,” murmured Castrin. “The routine conquering does get a bit old.”
Gulmagol inclined his head in admission, greying black hair sliding into his eye.
She had often wondered how Gulmagol came across such a name, since it was not at all Gondorian-sounding. He eventually told her that it had been his father’s name for him, a fisherman from the shores of Umbar. “I thank the Valar that my parents have died,” he had told her. “My mother is not forced to see the death of Gondor and my father must not suffer the corruption of Umbar.”
“They say,” Castrin had said, clicking her back in the way which always made Dragur wince, “that Urshan the Red is a descendent of Castamir the Cruel.”
Gulmagol shrugged. “Many nobles of Umbar are descended from Gondorian traitors.”
Dragur nodded. “Would explain why they’re all complete shits.” He immediately turned to Zira, a hairy hand on her shoulder. “You excepted, child.”
Zira had laughed, half sadness, half genuine amusement that he still thought of her as such. “I am hardly noble anymore, Dragur,” she had assured him. “I’m the dregs of it all.”
And she had felt it then, the empty house around them, most of its rooms abandoned. Her parents' rooms, her father’s cluttered study, even her room with its view of the sea, falling steadily into disrepair. Only the slave quarters and the kitchens were still inhabited. And the small family temple, of course, although that was attended with growing furtiveness. Even after her father’s execution, when her mother had lit a candle for him, Castrin had quickly snuffed it out and thrown it away. Zira had caught her and the old woman had frozen, babbling that she was not being disrespectful, only that you could never be certain who was watching. And even then, when the paranoia was only beginning to dig its claws in, when Zira had only been a child, she had known, had whispered that she would not tell.
“Maybe that’s why he’s so onboard with this Black God,” Dragur had suggested of Urshan. “Didn’t your old island folk make a shrine to him back in the day?” he added, nudging Gulmagol.
Gulmagol had glanced at him sidelong, exasperated amusement lining his face. “Since when did you become an expert in Númenórean history, Dragur?”
“Everyone knows,” said Dragur impatiently. “You bowed to the Black God and your island sank beneath the sea.”
There was a haunted pause as all of them, Dragur included, pondered his words. The distant whisper of the sea seemed suddenly menacing and Zira fought the urge to rush to the window and check that the waves were not creeping up the bay, devouring houses and men with cold teeth.
And yet she had always thought that the temple seemed hungrier, almost maw-like, a great black beast crouching on the hilltop, eyeless and hungry, a bloated belly leeching its lifeforce from the mortals too scared or blind or tired or poor to distance themselves from its looming shadow.
She wondered which of them had eaten her mother, the open black maw or the whispering embrace of the sea? She had left no clue, only saying that she wished to go for a walk. Had she leapt from the cliffs, so burdened by her husband’s execution that she could no longer bear to live? Or had she been seized by the Black God’s many hands, dragged into the shadows within, never to return?
And yet what would have happened to her then?
There were all sorts of horror stories, and Castrin of course knew all of them. The Black God’s victims were blinded, forced to clean the temple and serve the priests, alone and in the dark. Their tongues were cut out so that they could not tell any of what they saw. They were fed to a beast that lived in the bowels of the temple. They were skinned, boiled, dismembered, forced to fight for the amusement of a laughing shadow. Their hearts were cut out and fed to the god, the priests, the captains of ships heading out to attack Gondor. They were possessed by an evil spirit, forced to dance until they died.
“Do you ever think that they do it on purpose?” Zira had asked Gulmagol. They were working in the orchard, attempting to harvest the oranges. The crops were bad that year, worse even than the year before. The fruit came forth pale and hard, or soft and rotten. The trees seemed thin and grey and oddly silent, the song of insects feeble and infrequent.
“Do what?” Gulmagol asked. He was not used to hard labour or labour of any kind but, with her parents' demise and their subsequent alienation from any family who wanted to keep their head above water, he had been forced to work like the rest of them. His skin, paler than the rest of theirs, had reddened and burned and peeled, his soft, ink-stained hands hardening into calluses. She had struggled too as her body, made for a life of embroidering dresses and organising parties, adapted to the demands of destitution.
“Keep the sacrifices private,” she said. “Well, payments, I suppose. We’ve no proof they’re sacrificed.”
But they both knew. And anyway, whether the victims were killed or not, their lives were still sacrificed, lost into the darkness of the Black God’s house.
“You know,” she prodded. “So that people will be so afraid that they will spin a hundred awful stories. They don’t need to terrorise us if we do it on their behalf.”
“It is a good strategy,” he had agreed. He frowned down at the orange he had picked. It had seemed good but, looking at it more closely, it seemed a little too orange, too smooth, the pores so small that the texture was almost entirely changed. Like a bauble. Like a smooth, slippery pellet of poison. He let it fall to the ground with a too-heavy thud.
“What did the old temple look like?” Zira asked. “It was taken down when I was only small.”
It had taken Gulmagol a while to reply, so much so that she wondered if he had not grown distracted by his own thoughts. Eventually he said, “It was not as tall, only one storey. It was round and at the centre sat a garden. I remember there used to be a statue of the Lord of the Waters or the Old Man of the Sea, as you call him. Every few years there would be some controversy of whether he should be removed or not but he always stayed. I remembered that the corsairs and their sailors would pray to him before they set out for Gondor. I always found it somewhat amusing that the men of Gondor must also pray, asking that he sink their enemies. And I remember the fire. It always burned atop the temple tower, a winking light that you could see far out to sea, or so sailors have told me.”
There was no light now. Smoke issued up from the temple, acrid and heavy, pungent with nameless dread. Yet no fire could be seen, only the fog of smoke.
“Maybe we should seal the doors,” Zira had whispered once, as she and Castrin looked up at the yawning black entrance. “Just seal all the priests in and set it on fire.”
“And then what?” Castrin muttered back. They spoke in Castrin’s tongue, a provincial dialect of Hargad which she had taught Zira when she was her nursemaid. She had been old even then, her voice harsh and croaking as she sang lullabies. It was only when she was older that Zira realised it was not normal for children to be sung to sleep by songs about burning halls and empty lands, cities emptied by the insidious influence of the Eye. “Even if Urshan and the corsairs and the ruling families all agree that the place should be torched, what will happen then? Will we alone defy the might of Harad? Will we turn his servants away when they come to our gates, with weapons instead of words this time? Will we hold our heads high when his swooping furies come wailing down, when the docks burn?”
Zira said nothing, feeling suddenly helpless, like an unmoored piece of wreckage tossed about by a storm. She was suddenly aware that they were alone in the marketplace. It was increasingly empty and shoppers either kept their heads down or walked with a swagger, proudly showing off tattoos of a red eye and bragging of all the spoils they had gained in their raids against Gondor. She could see a group of men lurking about the doorway of a bar, nursing their drinks, eyes bright and greedy as they surveyed the civilians about them. She noticed that women in particular gave them a wide berth. Women left their homes less and less frequently and never alone.
“He didn’t used to rule Harad though,” Zira said. “It didn’t have to end up like this.”
“No,” Castrin agreed. “He took his time. He sent his servants.” She smiled joylessly. “And it is an appealing prospect. The end of Gondor. An old enemy finally vanquished.” She began cracking her knuckles meticulously and Zira winced quietly to herself. The sound was horrible but she could never bring herself to tell Castrin to stop. “And now it looks like we shall both die. Gondor and Umbar and all the kingdoms of Harad. Oh, we may linger on, dead, soulless spectres of our former greatness, but we shall march to his tune and sing his songs.” She glanced up at the temple, malice glinting in her eyes. “They cast down the crystal-crowned pillar. He tore down the house to our god. And now he is eating us. Do you notice that there was no spring festival this year?”
“Well, there was -”
“Then where was the maiden with the sheep? Where was the lottery? Where was the Fool and his Minister? Where was the farce play? There wasn’t any! Only corsairs drinking in the streets and gambling their money on women and wine and knife fights. Grand processions of war spoils and speeches in praise of our victories.” She snorted. “Our victories! Our victories indeed! They are his, all of them! Every man we kill, we kill for him. He would distract us with riches and the glory of war but it is his. All of it. He took the spring festival and turned it into a carnival of war. Soon he will take the spring.”
Zira had shaken her head, keeping a wary eye on the corsairs. “He cannot change the seasons, surely.”
Castrin only rubbed at her nose, feeling her eye bags. She had once been beautiful, so she would tell Zira and anyone who would listen. It was difficult to imagine the jumpy, superstitious old woman, back hunched and knuckles knotted, as a beautiful, arrogant young woman, dark skin smooth and shining, eyes bright. Zira wondered how she would change as she got older, whether the poisoned smoke and the deepening shadow would corrupt her somehow into a ghostly image of herself. She had nightmares about it, of looking not up at the temple but out to the city, her feet welded to the stone, unable to step beyond the bounds of the shadow. Sometimes Umbar was a ghost city below her, the houses empty skeletons, a carcass stripped of all flesh by the vulture which hunched over it. Sometimes it burned and the smell of cooking flesh rose up with the screams as the armies of Gondor torched their old colony in righteous victory.
There are no good ends. Either way we will be eaten.
“I suppose you would be happy at that,” Dragur had said when they discussed it. “If Gondor triumphs somehow and takes back Umbar, you shall be freed.”
Gulmagol shrugged. “Free to do what? What is there for me? A freed slave with no master and no lands.”
“Maybe they’ll give my lands to you,” Zira suggested. She laughed suddenly. “Maybe I’ll be your slave then!”
Gulmagol shook his head. “The Gondorians do not have slaves.”
Castrin chuckled darkly, scratching at the head of the cat in her lap. “Of course not. Only colonies.”
“Besides,” Gulmagol said, “I do not know how well I would be received. Men of Umbar may see me as a Gondorian but men of Gondor will likely see me as a Haradrim.”
That thought halted the conversation as they all considered that. Zira supposed that was true. When Gulmagol spoke Westron he did so with an Umbarg accent. The language he spoke most naturally was Ulûm, the language spoken by the coastal peoples of Near Harad. He dressed, spoke and prayed like a Haradrim of Umbar. And isn’t that all that matters, in the end?
It had seemed so theoretical then, discussing freedom and slavery. And now they were all free. Zira had freed them when she saw the men coming up the road to her family’s house. She thanked the Valar that the lands were so open leading to the villa. Dragur had seen them while trying to fix a leak in the kitchen roof. He had scrambled down so quickly that he had broken his ankle, his cry drawing Castrin to him as quickly as her old limbs could move. In the end it was maybe for the best that he had done so, otherwise he might have tried to fight them. Instead he had only shouted his helpless fury, leaning on Gulmagol’s shoulder, his face red with rage as tears ran into his beard.
She had scribbled it all down on a scrap of paper, frantically trying to remember how to sound formal and official as Castrin collapsed into the corner, her breaths so panicked and rapid that she almost passed out.
I, Ziralindel, daughter of Binyal and Kestara, of the Family of ir-Kuram, free the slaves who belong to my family, in particular Gulmagol, Castrin and Dragur. They have been of great service to my family and have shown more loyalty than we have deserved. They remained when no one else did and it is likely that without their help, I would have died within weeks. As a reward for this service, I free them and bequeath my family’s estate and its lands to them, for them to live in and use as they choose.
Zira.
She wished she could have said more. She did not know why they had stayed, when everyone else had left. Maybe they were too tired. Castrin was probably too old to be taken on by anyone else. Even her father had found Gulmagol difficult at times; he would have struggled to market himself. And Dragur had a reputation for starting fights and causing trouble. Yet they must have known that other, potentially better, opportunities awaited them elsewhere. They had skills, unlike her. They did not have to stay in this dying house. Maybe that had been what stopped her from freeing them before, fear that they would leave her. It was foolish. They had no reason to stay in any case. Any authority she had over them had long since evaporated. Castrin saw her as a child, Gulmagol as a pupil and Dragur as an orphan pup in need of feeding. And yet she had held onto it, this last, nonexistent piece of power that supposedly held them to her. And now it is gone. They are free of me on all counts. Whether they like it or not.
They had been hammering on the door by the time she finished. She had thrust the paper into Gulmagol’s free hand, the only one of them who could read, the one who would be forced to speak on their behalf. Whether he will be listened to is another matter.
They had looked normal, the men who came for her. Black-haired, dark-skinned, strong and armed with swords, they could be any corsair or warrior who had lived in these parts for centuries, like her father, before he had met his end. Only the red eye glowed, tattooed on arms and the back of hands. It glittered on pendants and gleamed on bracelets. The woman who led them was pale-skinned and pretty, her eyes snake-like in their malice. The red eye was inked onto the back of both her hands and it stared at Zira from the golden necklace that swung in the black folds of her robes.
“Priests are meant to wear blue,” said Zira numbly. She did not know what she had meant to say. Maybe she should have begged. Maybe she should have been defiant, should have spat in her face and called her a wretched witch.
“In the old order,” the woman agreed. “Not the new.”
Zira could feel her face immobilising, freezing into a numb, emotionless mask. She wondered if she would wear it still in her death, or whether it would be warped by ugly screams. “The new order is disappointingly monochrome.”
The woman clicked her teeth and one of the men stepped forward, beginning to fasten manacles around her wrists. “Tell me,” she continued, “does your Eye not see colours?”
“You do not need to speak,” said the woman. She sounded bored but the men behind her glanced behind them, as if fearing that the Eye would sense her animosity.
“You do realise how ridiculous this is? My father might have posed a threat to you, but I don’t. I’m an orphan in a crumbling house surrounded by barren farmlands. What threat do I pose to you?”
“Do not think I will not cut out your tongue.”
Behind her, Zira heard Castrin sob.
“You’re doing it to be cruel,” she said. “Because you can.”
The woman looked her in the eye and Zira wondered if she had always been so soulless. “I can.”
Zira nodded. “You can feast on corpses in the dark. How delightful.”
They did not let Castrin embrace her, pushing the old woman away. Gulmagol reached for her, pulling her to him with the arm that was not supporting Dragur, his grip so tight as to be painful. And then they tore her away from him too, striking him when he refused to let go. Why did he cling on? There was nothing that he could do. Only offer the frail illusion of safety within his arms. When Zira glanced over her shoulder, she saw him watching her, hollow-eyed and grave. Blood dripped down from a gash in his forehead but he did not look away. He held onto her with his eyes until she was lost to sight.
And now she stood atop the temple, before the heavy, iron-bound black doors. This close she could see runes in the black iron. The letters were beautiful, flowing, in the script of the Sea Kings. Yet the sight of this beautiful script, foreign letters forming foreign sounds, made Zira feel vaguely sick, nausea climbing up her throat and infecting her mind, her thoughts muddy and filled with bile-thick dread. She struggled to keep herself grounded, to draw breath, in and out, to perceive something other than the alien words digging into her skull. There was no wind today, the sea smooth and sullen. Heavy clouds cast the world in a dim, grey light. Zira wished for the faintest breeze to bring the promise of seasalt to her lips, for the cry of a gull, a witness gliding among the clouds, for the smallest drop of rain, cold and sharp, alive on a body that would soon be entombed in dark death. She watched as the doors creaked open, great jaws slowly opening. No light issued from within and the darkness that she could see seemed so thick as to be a presence in itself, rather than a mere absence of light. It hardly receded when one of the men handed the priestess a torch.
“Come,” she said, not looking back as she went ahead.
Zira remained, rooted to the spot just as in her dreams.
I am not going to grow old. I am not going to marry. I am not going to have children.
And yet she had never really thought that she would ever do any of these things. They all seemed so far away, part of other people’s lives, people who had lived and died before her, outside of the shadow. She could not truly mourn joys which she had never hoped to live.
I am not going to swim in the sea again. I am not going to help Castrin cook supper. I am not going to read an old novel with Gulmagol. I am not going to go hunting for crabs with Dragur. I am not going to see the spring.
And that was what formed the lump in her throat, the grief so heavy and thick and unfair that she knew even screaming would not release it. It would be curdling in her body as she died, growing stronger and more bitter. Maybe it would flow out with her blood. She wondered if it would poison the god who drank it, if he would recoil at its bitterness. Or maybe he enjoys it. Maybe our torment brings him joy. Maybe he enjoys the twisting of things, the corruption of what was meant to be alive and good.
One of the men prodded her with the pommel of his sword and she stumbled forward. She could feel the seconds rushing through her fingers, suddenly so fast. I need time. I just need more time.
She had nothing to live for, she knew that. The trees in the orchard were dying. The house was collapsing around them, rooms haunted by her parents’ ghosts falling into decay. With every day defeat moved closer, wearing the pomp of victory. And yet she did not wish to die, did not wish her life’s purpose, her final end, to be a sacrifice on the altar of a bloated god.
A hand pressed against her shoulder and she was thrust into the darkness.