It was long past dawn when Esarhaddon and Zabar rode into the stable courtyard and turned their horses over to the attendants. Both men were haggard and weary, their garments mud spattered and torn in a number of places. Their horses' legs and bellies were scratched and covered with grime, and both animals seemed skittish and restless. Their faces drawn, the two men did not have the look about them of those returning from a festive occasion. As they walked towards the manor house, they were greeted by Chamberlain Nobo, Abaru and Kabtu, and various household servants.

"Welcome home, Master! We did not expect that you would stay the night at Shakh Sandana's villa." Nobo smiled in greeting, but his eyes held an expression of worry. Esarhaddon had never visited with his friend that long, for the two men were of different minds, the old vintner valuing literary and artistic pursuits, while the merchant was obsessed with money and prestige.

"There was a terrible fog, and we lost our way in the Thraqum Wood," Esarhaddon remarked vaguely. "It took us quite a while before we found the path." That, of course, was the truth, or at least part of it. He was not about to tell them what had really happened, and he had sworn Zabar to silence on the threat that he would cut his tongue out if he betrayed the trust.

"Father!" Abaru exclaimed. "We were worried when you did not return last night when you said you would."

"Nobo allowed us to come to the stables and wait," Kabtu told him. The little boy's eyes were red as though he had been crying. "I had bad dreams about snakes and lizards all night, and they ate my pony!" He shivered.

"We saw no snakes on our journey, and the few lizards that came across our path would have choked to death had they tried to eat your pony," Esarhaddon laughed as he picked the boy up under the arms and kissed him on the forehead. "You had nothing to worry about, my son. We simply were lost in the forest." He put Kabtu down and turned to Zabar. "Go to the kitchen and find yourself something to eat. If I have need of you again today, I will call you."

"Thank you, Master! A bath and a good breakfast would be more than welcome." Zabar backed away three paces and bowed, then turned and walked towards the servants' entrance. He had been shaken by the experience of the previous night, and all he wanted to do was forget his troubles with a hot bath and a hot meal.

"I could use some breakfast myself," Esarhaddon remarked. "Come, let us go inside."

They were nearing the sprawling manor house when Nobo asked, "Master, you look a bit pale. Do you feel well?"

"There is nothing wrong with me that some wine would not cure," Esarhaddon replied, fighting down a pang of anxiety. How could he explain what happened the previous night? He could not understand anything about it himself. He had thought of a number of theories to explain what he had seen. While he put little stock in tales of wizards and sorcery, he knew there were many ways one could cast illusions without any sort of supernatural power: sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors, and other tricks of the theatrical arts. Perhaps the woman had been one of the cult priestesses, and her screams for help had been a ploy to lure him deeper into the forest. The circle of fire which suddenly appeared had been naught but a magician's trick, and not some portal into the realm of spirits as the shaman claimed. The treacherous priestess had not turned into a hideous ghoul; she had merely been wearing a mask which resembled a skull. It might not be the best explanation, but it seemed a reasonable one, emphasizing stagecraft over witchcraft.

"Father, while you were gone," Abaru's voice was hushed, "there was a party of Mordorian Inquisitors here, men from the Benevolent Order of the Watchful Eye. They said they were searching for a heretic from one of the more fanatical sects, and asked if we had seen anyone suspicious. They did not tell us much, but we had the impression that they feared there would be some sort of sacrifice in the Thraqum Wood last night. You and Zabar were lucky that something terrible did not happen to you in the forest!"

"Yes, Master," Nobo added. "These zealots have been branded as outlaws by the Tower, but the Thraqum Wood is an ancient forest, and one can easily hide beneath the darkness of the dense trees. You know it is said that the trees move of their own accord, and the forest paths change beneath a traveler's feet, causing him to become hopelessly lost."

"There are a lot of nonsensical tales told about that wretched wood," Esarhaddon scoffed. "Our journey through the Thraqum Wood was uneventful, and had not the fog been so dense, we would never have become lost."

"Yes, Master," Nobo bowed his head. He wondered what had really happened in that dank and mournful wood, but a servant did not question his master. He would probably never find out the truth of the matter, but he wondered if it had something to do with the visit from the Mordorian Inquisitors. They were a grim lot, but at least they kept the peace. He did not have to think about them, though. The lord of the manor had returned, and once again, the world was settled and made sense.

Halting, Esarhaddon turned and looked back at his sons. "Kabtu, you need to attend to your studies. You too, Abaru. I do not wish for you to fall behind during your visit." Both boys looked disappointed, but they knew not to argue with their father. He nodded as Abaru bowed and then hugged his younger son. "I will see the two of you later in the day." Smiling, he watched as the boys departed.

Servants bowed their heads as Esarhaddon walked along the portico and into the villa. He smiled when he saw that the gardeners had already tended to a small bed of autumn flowers. He was thinking that everything was as it should be when he felt a slight itching sensation on his arms. Thinking nothing of it, he discreetly rubbed his arms and went into the villa. He passed the public areas and went into his private chambers, where he sat down upon his divan.

"Nobo, my clothes reek of the swamp. Once I have changed them, I will have my breakfast in my chambers. When I have finished, I will want a bath." The muscles in his back and legs were stiff and aching, and if he soaked in the steam and warm waters of the bathhouse, he was certain that he would feel relief. "A goblet of wine now, Nobo."

"Yes, Master, I will see that your breakfast is brought to you," the chamberlain replied as he fetched a goblet. "Will there be anything else before I go?"

"Yes, send Shumeeren, Anúrnissa, and Goldwyn to attend me at my breakfast."

"Yes, Master, as you will," Nobo nodded.

After the eunuch had gone, Esarhaddon had little time to think about the approaching visit with his women before Yar, his personal attendant, arrived to help him change his clothing. As he was being undressed, Esarhaddon noticed that the skin on his arms appeared irritated. They had been itching earlier, and he assumed that he had merely scratched his skin too roughly. Thinking nothing of the matter, he finished dressing and sat down on his divan to await his breakfast and the company of his women.

Soon the three ladies of the house were ushered into the chamber. They approached him in order of seniority, bowing as they each kissed his hand in turn. He gestured for the three to sit on the cushions around the low table. Shumeeren gazed at him with restrained concern, Anúrnissa's face lit up with joy, and Goldwyn's expression was inscrutable.

"My lord, when you did not return last night, everyone feared the worst," Shumeeren told him. "Nobo even sent a messenger to Shakh Sandana's estate."

"While I will not say that your worries were for nothing, I am home now, and that is all that matters," he reassured her. "Now here is our breakfast." He nodded as the servants brought the food and placed it on the table.

"What happened last night, my lord?" Anúrnissa asked after the servants had been excused.

"Zabar and I took a shortcut and became lost in that damn mist-shrouded wood. Shakh Sandana could have sent out a hundred men to search for us, but in that fog last night, they never would have found us." Esarhaddon took a drink from his goblet and rolled the liquid around in his mouth to wash away the taste of the night. "The dark ones were abroad, prowling the Thraqûm Wood. We did not know that though when we left Sandana's villa. As we rode through the forest, we heard a woman screaming." He swallowed another drink of wine. Although he had scarcely touched his breakfast, somehow he no longer felt hungry.

"May the Giver of Gifts protect us!" Shumeeren shuddered. "Those foul cultists pretend to worship the Great One, but they are naught but brigands and murderers!" She was glad that no cultists were prowling the woods that night that she had sent her handmaiden Bimi to purchase a fertility charm from the shaman.

"My lord, what did you do?" Anúrnissa asked fearfully, not wanting to hear Shumeeren's praises of Sauron. All Zigûrites seemed the same to her, whether they abided by the more moderate state religion or practiced the extreme religion of the zealots. After all, these people all worshiped the same Dark God.

"Though it was really none of my affair, I felt that I should try to rescue the poor woman from these fiends," Esarhaddon continued. "However, it was too dark and foggy to see, and the lantern was of little use against the mists. We searched blindly through the forest, groping like sightless men. When at last we found the woman, she hurled herself upon me and knocked me to the ground. I think she was intoxicated upon kapurdri mushrooms, for her strength was as great as that of three men." An exaggeration, perhaps, but the truth was far too strange to tell.

"That is horrible!" Anúrnissa exclaimed, throwing a hand up to her mouth.

"She played the part of the damsel in distress to lure you into the forest." Shumeeren's dark eyes flashed with anger, and her hands clenched into fists.

Having need of liquid fortification to continue discussing his harrowing experience, Esarhaddon reached for his goblet once more. "I suspect that the woman was a cult priestess. It is well known that the forest attracts practitioners of dark magic, evil men and women who engage in necromancy and other abominable acts. I am quite fortunate that I did not end up as a sacrificial victim in some bloody rite."

"How did you escape?" Goldwyn inquired, a concerned expression upon her face.

"Both Zabar and the old shaman came to my aid," Esarhaddon replied. "The woman was terrified of the ancient seer, and fled at the sight of him. The way his eye roams in its socket as though it has a will of its own could send many into fits of trembling. He seems to hold some power over the forest and its inhabitants, but I do not care to know what it is."

"You came back to us, and that is all that matters." Anúrnissa touched his cheek. "I could not bear to live without you!"

"I feel it best that Kabtu know nothing of this." Esarhaddon looked at each of the three women in turn, his face grave. "Kabtu is young and impressionable, and such frightening matters would cause him to have bad dreams."

"I understand, my lord." Shumeeren took her husband's hand in her own. "I will say naught a word to him about this matter." Of course, she tried to speak as little as possible to Kabtu, but now she had even more of an excuse to avoid the boy.

As the conversation progressed, Esarhaddon's arms continued to itch. Absentmindedly, he pushed up his sleeve and scratched his arm.

"My lord, what are those marks!" Shumeeren gasped.

He looked down at his arm in disbelief, catching his breath as he saw the angry red streaks that raced from his elbows to his wrists. He touched the wounds gingerly. "When the woman attacked me, she grabbed me by the arms. It appears that the injury is more serious than I had thought."

"I know that you said that she was strong, but I did not realize just how strong," Anúrnissa exclaimed, her dark eyes wide with alarm. "I can still see the impression of fingers!" She gently touched the darkening bruises and angry scratches upon his arm.

Shumeeren's brow furrowed with worry. "You should call Mistress Me'arya from the school and have her look at these wounds."

"That will not be necessary," he reassured his wives, his heart touched by their show of devotion. "I have no doubt that these scratches will have faded by tomorrow."

Shumeeren's gaze returned to the angry red streaks which marred her husband's arm. "If they are not mostly healed within a few days, I feel it would be prudent to have Tushratta examine them." She lifted her eyes to look urgently into his. "I have heard tales of assassins using poisoned fingernails to kill their victims. Since the cultists worship death, I would not put it past them to do the same."

"I agree with Shumeeren." Goldwyn, who had been mostly quiet throughout the whole conversation, spoke up. "There is something strange about those wounds… something dark and sinister."

Esarhaddon leaned back against the cushions and gazed upon each of his women. "While I appreciate your concern, you all worry too much. A few scratches and bruises will not be the death of me!" He chuckled at his grim jest. "Now let us think about more pleasant matters, such as eating breakfast."

As Esarhaddon listened to his wives and concubine discuss their plans for the day, he asked them all the appropriate questions and made all the expected remarks. However, he began to feel a peculiar sense of emptiness settling over him, and the food tasted like grave dirt in his mouth. Perhaps after enduring the long night of horror, he was finally beginning to experience the delayed effects of exhaustion. He resolved to take a nap later that day, but there were still many matters to be settled ere he could sleep. He would need to give his sons some explanation of why his homecoming was delayed, for the boys would not rest until they had answers. While Abaru was mature enough to learn the truth of what happened in the forest – or at least as much of the truth that Esarhaddon was willing to reveal – Kabtu was too young to be exposed to the horrors of the world. He would have to concoct some fantastical tale to tell Kabtu, while giving Abaru a more truthful account in private.

The Room of the Willows was one of the most beautifully decorated rooms in Esarhaddon's villa. Frescoes of graceful willows growing along a peaceful stream adorned the walls on all sides of the chamber. Esarhaddon had been pleased with the room from the time when he had first seen the artist's preliminary sketches. Often he met there with his chamberlain and other high ranking servants when there were matters to be discussed.

The western wall showed a scene of winter with the willow fronds hanging stark and bare covered with a mantle of snow. Here and there the artist had embedded tiny particles of silver into the wet plaster and paint so that when the light hit the fresco just right, the ice-covered branches would glisten and gleam as though covered with hoary frost.

The southern wall showed a willow-lined stream bank in early spring with the palest of flowers growing beyond the range of the roots of the trees. Forest animals scampered along the banks of a gurgling, bubbling stream as birds sat in the high branches of the trees.

Summer reigned supreme along the eastern wall as a doe and her twin fawns ran in fear from a party of horsemen who had just ridden up to the grove of willows. The men's heads were turned towards the doe and her young as they watched her bound off in the opposite direction.

An autumn scene painted the willows in yellow, the leaves caught in motion as they swirled into the water. Far away on distant hills, the hardwoods were in their full autumn glory of red, orange, yellow, brown and russet, while down in the valley, the grass was yet green.

There were couches set along all four walls, and here and there along the breaks in the line of furniture were large urns with potted plants. Behind the couches were latticed windows which offered a view of the surrounding farmland. Low tables, some with ornately carved legs, were in profusion, all covered with rich damasked hangings. A hookah sat upon a table near one of the couches, left for the use of the master whenever he should be in the room and desire it.

Even though the Tulip Room offered an exquisite view of the garden, Esarhaddon wanted to feel a greater degree of seclusion, and so he had chosen to take his ease in the Room of the Willows that morning after breakfast and bathing. His eyes closing to block out the world and its troubles and responsibilities, he leaned against the cushioned back of the grandest couch in the room. After his harrowing experience in the Thraqum Wood, all he wanted to do was spend a few quiet moments in solitude. This much-needed peace soon came to an end, however, for a knock upon the door announced the arrival of Abaru and Kabtu.

Putting a pleasant smile upon his face, Esarhaddon greeted his sons. Kabtu sat down beside him, while Abaru took a seat upon a heavily cushioned divan by the window. Both boys looked expectantly at their father, waiting in quiet patience to learn what had befallen him in the Thraqum Wood.

"Will you now tell us what happened in the terrible forest last night?" Kabtu asked, gazing up at his father with eager eyes.

"Zabar and I lost our way in the fog coming home from Shakh Sandana's villa," Esarhaddon replied, beginning the tale he had concocted to spare Kabtu from the horror of what had really happened. "We were quite a comical sight blundering about in the fog, sometimes walking into trees, sometimes tripping over branches."

Kabtu arched a questioning eyebrow, a puzzled expression crossing his face. Disappointed, he muttered, "I thought there was an adventure."

"Is it not adventure enough for two men to become lost and grope through the fog to find their way?" Esarhaddon's voice was filled with false exasperation. "I even dropped the lantern! Zabar, poor fellow, saw demons behind every tree."

"Was that all?" a frowning Kabtu questioned. "I wanted an exciting tale!" He grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table. Biting into the crisp fruit, he wiped off some juice that had slid down his chin. "That tastes good! But, Father, truly is that all there is?"

"No, of course not! In the midst of the blinding fog, a breeze came up and chased the mists away..."

"Did you see a ghost?" Kabtu asked breathlessly.

"Son, it is not good to interrupt your father," Esarhaddon frowned, mildly scolding his son. "But no, there were no eerie spectres rising out of barrows or trees with branches that reached down and grabbed for cloaks." What a falsehood that was! But it was far better to tell Kabtu a pleasant lie than terrify him with the truth.

Kabtu hung his head. "Father, I am sorry. I should have known better."

"That is my brother for you, always talking when he should be listening," Abaru interjected, sounding quite supercilious.

Kabtu shot him a warning glance and raised his hand as though to hurl the apple at his brother's face. Abaru scowled at him and Kabtu thought it better to take another bite out of the fruit.

"No wolves or orcs?" Kabtu asked after he had swallowed. "I was hoping that one of those awful creatures would have come out snarling and lunging for you and then you would have raised up your scimitar and lopped off its head!"

Abaru frowned a disapproving look at his brother. "If such a thing had happened, would you want our father chased through the forest by howling wolves and screaming orcs?"

"It would have been much more exciting," Kabtu beamed.

Abaru shook his head in disgust. "Did anything else happen?" he asked.

"Not that much," Esarhaddon replied. "Some old hermit came wandering out of the trees, said he could not find his way home, and pled with us for sympathy."

"Father," Abaru scoffed, his eyebrows furrowed, "why was the hermit there?"

"Because he had been chased by a dragon and was running for his life!" Kabtu interrupted, pleased with his version of the tale.

"Son, how many times have I told you never to interrupt?" Esarhaddon looked at him sternly.

Kabtu cast his eyes down. "Many times," he mumbled. "But I always forget."

"His mouth is too big and silly words spill out of it," Abaru snorted.

Esarhaddon rose to his feet and walked over to the latticed window and looked out at the fields beyond. "Son, there were no dragons, wolves, orcs, ghosts, or phantoms. There was nothing but trees, fog, and an old hermit who babbled senselessly as though he had drunk too much wine."

"Not even a bear?" Kabtu asked hopefully.

"Not even a fox," Esarhaddon replied.

"What happened next?" Kabtu demanded, hoping the story might improve.

"The fog by this time had cleared greatly and we could see our way much better. We helped the hermit find his way back to his cottage. He was very grateful and said that of late he had taken to wandering about at strange hours." That was at least partly the truth, for did not the shaman speak constantly of how he was a sojourner in the wilderness? Esarhaddon chuckled at the brilliance of his deceit.

Abaru studied his father's face, as though trying to discern how many truths and how many falsehoods his story contained. "How did you and Zabar find your way out of the forest?"

"The cottage was near the edge of the woods, so it was a short ride back to the main road," Esarhaddon explained smoothly.

"Perhaps the old hermit had been trying to help you find your way all along," Kabtu giggled.

"I wondered that myself," Abaru remarked, crossing his arms over his chest as he gave his father a skeptical look.

"Now that my tale has come to its end, perhaps you would like to play in the garden for a while, Kabtu?" Esarhaddon gave his youngest son a meaningful look.

Kabtu glanced between his father and older brother. "I can tell when you wish to discuss things when I am not present," he pouted, sticking his lower lip out.

So much for his clever deception, Esarhaddon thought to himself with a chuckle.

Esarhaddon was far more truthful with Abaru than he had been with Kabtu, although he did not mention the circle of green flame or the shaman's words concerning the realm of the unseen. The story was the same as he had told the women: whilst taking a shortcut through the Thraqum Wood, he heard a woman screaming, and he and Zabar charged off into the forest in an attempt to rescue her. Much to their dismay, however, the woman had been in no peril whatsoever, and the screams had been a ploy to lure them deeper into the forest. Most likely she was a cult priestess who wanted to sacrifice them in some dark ritual.

"Perhaps she was somehow connected to the heretic for whom the Inquisitors were searching," Abaru suggested when his father had finished telling his tale.

"That could be a possibility," Esarhaddon remarked, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "I will file a report with the authorities at the first opportunity."

A false promise, for he had no desire to tell anyone other than the members of his family what had happened in the forest. The sooner he could forget the whole affair, the better.

After Abaru had departed, Esarhaddon lingered in the Room of the Willows, enjoying its beauty and solitude. As the day turned into evening, a mood of restlessness came over him. His arms had begun to throb relentlessly, the faint red rash turning a wicked shade of crimson, and the rest of his body ached as though he had fallen off his horse onto a rocky path. He drank more wine than was his custom, draining one goblet after the other. Finding little solace in the wine, he called for Yar to bring him his hookah. Surrounded by the heavy resinous vapors, he pondered the events of the previous night. Finally the hashish did its work and he fell asleep, leaning back against his couch, the stem of the hookah falling out of his hand to the floor.