News of Esarhaddon's mysterious illness spread like wildfire through the villa. No one knew the exact cause of the master's malaise, but rumor had it that his sickness had something to do with the Thraqum Wood. "He has surely run afoul of the ghouls, and they have cast one of their dreadful spells upon him," the servants whispered amongst themselves, and their speculations became as good as the truth in their minds.

The precarious state of Esarhaddon's health was one of many topics which were discussed that evening at supper by the students of the School of Industry. As Elfhild and Elffled sat around the table with the friends they had made from various classes, they looked expectantly towards Rufina. The Rhunian maiden volunteered at the school infirmary and often acted as an assistant to Mistress Me'arya, running errands for the healer or accompanying her on her visits. Perhaps she had received some new tidings concerning the master.

"Lord Esarhaddon is still beset by great weariness, and spends most of his time resting in his chambers, or napping in the Room of the Willows." Rufina sighed and shook her head. "He refuses to tell Mistress Me'arya what happened to him in the forest, so it is difficult to determine the nature of his illness."

The other young women at the table murmured amongst themselves with a mixture of curiosity and concern… as well as the slightest hint of vindictive pleasure. If one of the most influential slave traders in all of Mordor was ailing, well, perhaps he was finally getting what he deserved. While many of the students who were chosen to attend the School of Industry were grateful for their good fortune – after all, they had been spared from a life of menial labor – others harbored a simmering resentment for Mordor and the cruel oppression of the Dark Lord's regime. And for some, both sentiments were paradoxically true.

"Whatever possessed Lord Esarhaddon to take a shortcut through the Thraqum Wood in the dead of night is beyond me. I would not go in the forest even if a dragon were chasing me," Haya remarked with a shudder.

Esma looked around at her fellow students, an expression of cautious skepticism upon her face. "I have heard tales about the Thraqum Wood my entire life: that it is haunted by ghouls, the spirits of the dead, and bloodthirsty heretics. However, many people still go there to seek the council of the shaman, and come back to tell the tale."

"I would seriously doubt the wisdom of the shaman, for he chooses to dwell in the forest," Haya retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Well, if the legends are true, he has been peddling potions and doling out cryptic advice since ancient days, even before the Giver of Gifts came to Mordor." There was an impassioned tone to Esma's voice, as though she were trying to convince her small audience of the veracity of the shaman's wisdom. "Now I am not saying that the Thraqum Wood is not without peril" – she lifted her hands up defensively – "but perhaps some of the danger is exaggerated. In fact, many students at this school have slipped away under cover of darkness to seek out the shaman's counsel."

Her eyes widening at this new revelation, Elfhild cast a surreptitious glance at her sister. The prospect of seeking out forbidden knowledge had piqued her curiosity, and thoughts of breaking the rules appealed to her rebellious side. Elffled coughed slightly and took a long sip of her watered-down wine.

Haya's eyebrows rose. "Have you ever sneaked off to the Thraqum Wood, Esma?"

A mischievous closed-lipped smile played over Esma's lips as she chuckled, her shoulders quivering slightly from the velvety laughter which rumbled in her chest. "Honestly, do I look like one who would dare to break the rules by leaving school grounds without permission? Oh, perish the thought!" She clasped her hands over her chest in melodramatic fashion and cast a sly glance at Koiary, who sat next to her. Clearing her throat, Koiary gazed skyward with wide, guileless eyes, the very portrait of innocence. However, a faint twitch at the corners of her lips revealed that she was holding back a knowing giggle.

Haya harumphed at the implied shenanigans of her theatre classmates. "Well, some people might be able to escape the Thraqum Wood unscathed, but it is still no place I would wish to go. Why, just consider what happened to Lord Esarhaddon! While we do not even know exactly what misfortunes befell him in that dark and haunted wood, the ordeal left him with a lingering malady which is slow to heal."

The small group of friends continued to discuss the lore and legends of the Thraqum Wood for a while longer before moving on to other topics. Elffled and Rufina excused themselves after they had finished eating, for Mistress Me'ayra had tasked Rufina with delivering a pouch of peppermint tea to the farm overseer's wife, and she had given Elffled permission to accompany her. With two of their number having left the table, the group began to disperse, for they were among the few students still remaining in the great hall.

As the last of the stragglers filed out of the spacious dining chamber, Elfhild fell into step beside Nurma. With her sister off running errands, she was not really certain what she wanted to do with the time that had been given to her. The theatre students often went to the school courtyard after supper to discuss the unfolding plot of the Tale of the Dissatisfied King, but they had decided not to gather that evening. When she was not rehearsing her lines or practicing the new skills she was learning in all her classes, Elfhild worked on her embroidery or played board games beneath the shade of the covered gallery which surrounded the courtyard. Sometimes she joined the students who practiced the fighting arts and engaged in a bout of sparring with wooden swords. However, none of these activities appealed to her that evening.

The conversation about the Thraqum Wood had left Elfhild both unsettled and intrigued. She found herself wanting to know more about this mysterious forest… not to go there, of course, but to archive its legends in the library of her mind. Even though she did not yet possess the ability to read, she supposed she could call the part of her brain which stored information a library. Perhaps when she mastered that skill, she would one day write a book about her experiences, dedicating room for tales she had heard on her travels.

"I hope Lord Esarhaddon recovers quickly from whatever injuries he incurred in the forest," Elfhild casually remarked, breaking the lull of quietude that had settled over her and Nurma. "It sounds as though this Thraqum Wood is a place of great evil."

In truth, she did not wish to have a conversation about Esarhaddon's health. It was not as though she did not feel sympathetic to his plight. Although he seldom crossed her mind these days, Esarhaddon still wielded great influence over her life; he was her master, after all, and his favor was the reason why she and Elffled had been chosen to attend the School of Industry. However, Elfhild really wanted to discuss the haunted forest and its lore, but she was uncertain how to broach the subject. She hoped that Nurma would take the bait.

"The shadow lies heavy on the Thraqum Wood," Nurma told her gravely, halting in her steps. "If legends be true, it was cursed by the Dark Lord himself."

"You seem quite knowledgeable about the forest." A glimmer of mischief twinkled in Elfhild's eyes, and she smiled furtively. "Have you ever ventured beneath its boughs?" From the conversations at supper, Elfhild discerned that many of the students were frightened of the place, so she knew she must be careful in how she approached the topic.

Nurma chuckled, a grim sound devoid of humor. "Shall we say that I have a long history with the Thraqum Wood."

"Would… would you mind sharing your story?"

Holding up a hand for silence, Nurma cast a glance around the corridor. While most of the students had migrated to the courtyard or the dormitory, there were still a few stragglers milling around in the hallway which wrapped around the classrooms. "Not here. There are too many listening ears. However, I know a place where we might speak in private."

Elfhild followed Nurma down the corridor to a side door she had seen many times on her daily journey through the school. As Nurma drew back the unlocked door, Elfhild was surprised to see a staircase leading upward. She had always assumed that the door led to a little used classroom or storeroom. A little thrill of excitement coursed through her at the prospect of exploring the unknown, but then she hesitated, remembering the many rules and restrictions which were placed upon students.

"Are you sure we are allowed to go in there?"

"Novices in their first year are not typically permitted in this part of the school without accompaniment," Nurma explained, pausing to look back at Elfhild. "In the evenings, the instructors and staff often come up here, but they usually gather when it is cooler. No one should be around right now, but if that does not prove to be true, we will leave."

Thoroughly intrigued, Elfhild followed Nurma up the staircase. The upper doorway was open, a rectangle of light at the end of the dim stairwell. A small room sheltered the stairs from the elements, and when Elfhild stepped through the portal, she found herself standing upon the long, flat roof of the School of Industry. Surrounded by a chest-high parapet of whitewashed stone, the surface of the roof was covered with smooth terra cotta tiles. Containers of potted plants were positioned along the walls, creating a small rooftop garden. A few scattered benches provided seating, and in one corner a pergola draped with gauzy fabric offered shade for all those who sat beneath its shelter. In the center of the roof was a large rectangular opening where the low din of laughter and conversation wafted up from the courtyard below, the sounds mingling with the splashing water of the fountains.

Her mind reeling in wonder at the existence of this secret world right above her head, Elfhild wandered over to the outer wall and gazed out at the countryside that surrounded the school. To the north lay farmland as far as the eye could see, a patchwork of greens, yellows, and browns stitched together with dark seams of trees and tinged with the golden hues of autumn. Far to the east, she could make out the hazy shape of the village of Blûgund, surrounded by more fields and farmland. To the south ran the pale line of the main road, where the dark shape of a cavalry patrol passed by like a fast-moving beetle, headed to some unknown destination. Beyond the road lay the silvery ribbon of the River Tornîn and the murky haze of the swamps along its shores.

As Elfhild's eyes turned towards the west, she felt a cold shiver of dread snake its way down her spine, for there, upon the western horizon, lay the dark, brooding wall of the Thraqum Wood.

"Its shadow seems to absorb the light like a Nazgûl's cloak," Nurma murmured quietly as she moved beside Elfhild.

Startled by the sound of Nurma's voice, Elfhild turned away from the parapet. "What do you know about the forest?"

"Come, let us sit down, for my tale is a long one." Nurma gestured to the plush carpet beneath the pergola and the piles of cushions which had been heaped upon it.

With a growing sense of anticipation, Elfhild lowered herself down to the rug and made herself comfortable. If Nurma's story was as lengthy as she claimed, and the telling of it necessitated such secrecy, Elfhild knew that she was in for quite a journey. With the destination the Thraqum Wood, it would be a harrowing one.

"I grew up on the estate to the north of here," Nurma began once they had sat down. "When I was a child, I liked to explore the estate and surrounding countryside. Late one afternoon when I had finished all my chores, I set off walking in the direction of the forest. Even then, it seemed to call to me." A faraway look came over her face, as though she were wandering beneath the ancient boughs once more. "It was the hottest part of the summer, and the woods provided shade from the heat. Without any real destination in mind, I allowed my wandering feet to take me deeper into the forest, following the faint traces of a meandering path. Every now and again, I looked back over my shoulder at the sunlit fields which lay beyond the forest's edge. It was as though I were looking out through a window in a darkened chamber, for the branches above me formed a heavy canopy which obscured the light of the sky, and the shadows were as thick as the underbrush. The window of the wood became smaller and smaller the deeper into the forest I ventured, and before long I was completely surrounded by trees."

Elfhild felt goosebumps begin to rise upon her arms, and she rubbed her hands along her skin to soothe the prickling sensation. In her own land, she had dwelt within sight of an ancient forest of mystical reputation – the Firien Wood. However, the Firienholt was a sacred place which was held in reverence by both the Rohirrim and the Gondorians, not a place of peril and dread.

"It becomes far darker in the forest than it does in the field when the sun begins to set, and I began to panic, for I could not remember the path I had taken, and the gathering gloom made it difficult to find my way. Though perhaps it is a foolish notion, it seemed as though the trail had somehow moved, and I found myself wandering in circles, always coming back to the point where I had started. Frightened and confused, I sat down upon a log and began to cry. As the tears streamed down my face, I saw the light of a flickering candle passing through the trees a short distance away, and then heard the faint sound of a strange, rhythmic singing."

Elfhild's heart beat heavy in her chest, and she clenched the material of her skirt with clammy hands. A mysterious light in a haunted forest was certainly an omen of dire portent, and the singing only made it more terrifying.

"My first thought was that a party of searchers had been sent out to find me, and I eagerly leapt to my feet and ran off in the direction of the light. I was just a child, and it did not occur to me that a search party would have been armed with torches, not a single guttering candle; they would have been calling out my name as they crashed through the underbrush, not singing a song of luring." Nurma gazed knowingly into Elfhild's eyes, the expression upon her face one of unwanted wisdom.

"Bobbing and wavering through the darkness, the light of the candle led me deeper and deeper into the woods. And then suddenly the candle went out, and the forest erupted with brilliant green light. When my vision cleared, I discovered that I was standing within a circle of green flame which twisted and undulated around the perimeter of a spacious clearing. In the center of the circle was a large, flat rock, the flames illuminating its dark gray surface. Once again I heard the sound of singing, and this time other voices joined in the chorus, all intoning the same doleful chant. I felt a sudden weariness come over me, and I collapsed upon the ground."

Elfhild swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling as dry as the desert of Gorgoroth. She discovered that she was trembling so hard that she could barely sit still, the sensation starting in her abdomen and spreading upward through her arms, then traveling down to her hands and fingers.

"When I awoke, I was lying upon the rock, my head spinning and my ears filled with the dreadful drone of chanting. Above me loomed several fierce looking men, their gaunt faces pale as bone, their glittering black eyes reflecting the sickly green of the flames. To my horror, I found that I could not move. A skeletal hand reached out and seized my arm, lifting it high as a blade sliced across my wrist. The pain was terrible, and I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Shadows gathered in the corners of my vision, and I felt myself starting to slip into another swoon. At that moment, I heard a loud voice bellowing out in rage, and my assailants recoiled like whipped curs being scolded by their master."

"What… what happened then?" Elfhild asked, her voice a choked whisper.

"I squeezed my eyes closed and braced myself in preparation for the next cut of the blade, but instead I felt a rag being wrapped tightly about my wrist. In confusion, I opened my eyes. There, kneeling beside me, was a man who was so ancient that he resembled an embalmed corpse, with dark eyes staring out from hollow sockets and cheeks that were withered and shrunken. A circlet of gold rested atop his long, gray hair, and jewels had been woven into the braids which hung like cobwebs from his skeletal face. He was adorned as a lord for burial; many amulets did he wear about his neck, and his bony fingers were stacked with rings.

"With a chuckle that still haunts my dreams to this day, his lips pulled back in a ghastly smile as he finished bandaging my wound. 'Little maid, I have chosen to spare thee, for thou art too young to shed thy blood in sacrifice. Always remember the mercy bestowed upon thee this night… and the debt that thou now owest me, the Chieftain of the Ghouls!' His eyes gleamed like cursed jade as he howled in laughter, and I fainted dead away."

Elfhild did not know she had been holding her breath until Nurma had concluded her tale. With a shaky sigh of relief, she shifted her position upon the carpet, trying to regain her bearings. She felt as though she had accompanied Nurma on every step she had taken through the Thraqum Wood, and she was exhausted from the journey.

"You are fortunate that the Chieftain of the Ghouls spared you." Her voice was a soft murmur, for she feared disrupting the silence that had settled over the rooftop. "I never knew that wights were capable of possessing mercy."

"A boon unasked-for from a ghoul – or wight as you Northerners call them – is not the mercy you think it is," Nurma stated gravely. "'A life saved is a life given in service,' as the saying goes in Nurn. Ever does the forest call to me, singing its own song of luring. I do not obey, for I know that if I ever return to those haunted woods, the Chieftain of the Ghouls will claim his debt."

Elfhild's stomach clenched with dread at the thought of her friend becoming the slave of a wight lord. "What happened after the Chieftain of the Ghouls came to your rescue?"

"The searchers found me lying in the grass along the forest's edge and brought me back to the estate. I was deathly ill and languished for days, passing in and out of the waking world. It was not the injury to my body which impeded my healing; the knife bore neither poison nor enchantment, and no fever caused my wound to fester." Nurma paused for a moment, weighing her words and deliberating upon the best way to express what she wanted to say. "You see, when one steps within the circle of the ghouls' power, one stands in both the realms of the seen and the unseen at the same time. Therefore, a wound received in this place has the ability to injure both the body and the spirit."

"I have never heard of such a thing," Elfhild whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

"You are fortunate to be so innocent." Nurma reached over and squeezed her trembling hand, a gesture which brought warmth and comfort. "I suppose the horrors I suffered did come with some unexpected benefits, however. I do not say these words as one who tries to find some meaning or moral lesson in tragedy, for our lives are filled with hardship and woe, and I see little point or purpose in much that we are forced to endure. Even though the cut upon my wrist healed without complication, I remained in a weakened, sickly state for weeks. Because of my lingering illness, I was allowed to work in the manor house, where I perfected my skills in sewing, weaving, and embroidery. So I suppose you could say that the Chieftain of the Ghouls saved me from a life spent laboring in the fields."

"Well, at least some good came out of the misfortune that befell you." A bittersweet smile flickered over Elfhild's face, her heart moved with sympathy for her friend.

Nurma looked down at her wrist, her fingers tracing over the faint line of the scar she had borne since childhood. Slightly darker than her light brown skin, the scar's ordinary appearance belied its sinister origin, although its straight and uniform appearance did cause some to make the false assumption that the cut had been purposeful on her part. "The ghoul's knife left more than just a mark upon my skin," she murmured, as though speaking to herself. "It also cut deeply into my spirit, and from that wound I shall never heal."

As Elfhild gazed upon her, Nurma's warm, fawn-colored complexion seemed to glow with an ethereal light, and her plain, simple beauty was briefly transformed with otherworldly radiance.

"Is… is this why you appear different sometimes?" The words stumbled out of Elfhild's mouth before she could stop them, and she felt her cheeks begin to burn. Pressing a hand to her face, she quickly looked away in embarrassment.

"You have a keen eye," Nurma remarked with a knowing smile. "Are you perhaps one who has an understanding of such matters…?" When Elfhild looked at her in confusion, Nurma shook her head. "I suppose not, then."

Elfhild sensed that the conversation had suddenly taken a more cryptic direction, one filled with implication and intuitive understanding. "The night that Lady Anúrnissa labored to give birth to her child, you brought a doll for the occasion – a doll which looked just like the Second Wife. You sang to it in whispers, and your face glowed then, even as it did just now when you looked at your scar."

Nurma shrugged, a gesture which seemed far too nonchalant for the occasion. "Sometimes that which exists in the unseen world briefly manifests itself in the realm of the seen."

"I must admit that I have been very curious about your… sewing," Elfhild blurted out, the blush upon her cheeks deepening. Her eyes furtively studied Nurma's features, which now appeared quite ordinary, without a trace of mystical glamour.

"Many are, but few are brave enough to ask," Nurma chuckled.

"I was wondering… would… would you show me how to do the things that you do?" Elfhild's heart hammered like thunder in her chest, and she forcefully rubbed her hands over the wrinkles in her skirt to keep her fingers from shaking. "That day that I toured the school with the other new students, you offered to teach me how to make dolls if I were willing to learn."

"Of course I would be willing to teach you. Since you already know how to sew, making dolls should not be that difficult. It is a matter of intention more than anything."

Elfhild's brows furrowed, and she bit her lip in consternation. "But I cannot do what you do. I cannot perform… magic."

"Perhaps you should rethink what you consider magic." A smile of profound wisdom illuminated Nurma's face, and she seemed much older than her years. "Whenever one creates something – whether it is a sword crafted in the forge, or a quilt sewn with needle and thread – they put a part of themselves into their work: desires and intentions, hopes and dreams, wants and needs. The greater the work, the greater the effort that goes into its making; the work of creation takes a toll upon body, mind, and spirit! Now, the degree of power which is imbued in a work is dependent upon the strength of its maker's will and their native abilities. Such is the nature of magic."

"I would like to learn more, if you would be willing to teach me." Warmth radiated off Elfhild's cheeks as she looked into Nurma's face and caught the faintest hint of mystery in her sparkling brown eyes.