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another thing he’d learned from Mithrandir, though Mithrandir possibly didn’t
realise it.
Or perhaps the meaning of the word could be worked out from the rest of
the sentence. Mithrandir had told him that more than once, when he’d been stuck
for a meaning: You’ve a head of your own, use it. Don’t expect to borrow mine.
He began to scrape again, very gently – and stopped with a jolt. The tail of
his eye had caught a movement where no movement should be. The door was
opening. Someone had come up the turret stairs, soundlessly, unless Faramir’s
preoccupation had blotted the sound out. He looked around wildly, but there
was nowhere to hide. Hastily he clapped the volume shut, but there was no time
to put it back on the shelf.
It was ridiculous to think like that. He was the Steward’s son, surely he had
a right to be here? But, right or no right, the chronicles were his secret adventure
and he didn’t want anyone to know about it. Now his father was bound to find
out.
The visitor came in, soundlessly, and Faramir’s heart gave a bound of joy.
The cloak, the slightly bowed shoulders, the long beard – could it be…
‘Mithrandir?’
But the gathering shadows had deceived him. This was not Mithrandir,
though he looked very like him – or did he? This man was taller, lordly-looking,
and though plainly very old, he was handsome, with large dark eyes and fine
features. Nobody could call Mithrandir handsome, any more than they could call
him ugly. He was just himself, trustable, unforgettable.
‘A very youthful scholar we have here! And one who has the good fortune
to know my esteemed colleague!’
‘Sir?’ said Faramir, getting to his feet respectfully – and as slowly as
possible, playing for time to readjust his ideas.
‘I beg your pardon. My name is Cúrunir, or to some, Saruman. I am the
head of the order to which Mithrandir belongs, and for a time, a guest of the Lord
of this City. Whom have I the honour of addressing?’
The voice was pleasant, the smile kindly, the tone without irony, yet for
some reason they repelled. Faramir admitted his identity.
‘And what is it, in these dusty volumes, that so interests the Steward’s
son?’
‘I’m interested in the history of our family,’ he hedged. It was true enough,
though he had not had that particular interest in mind on his present visit.
‘And have you found something of interest in the volume before you?’
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