Burn Like Cold Iron

Chapter 17: Houston, We Have a Problem

My footsteps were heavy and purposeful, echoing loudly as I strode through a hall that seemed more and more familiar with each step. Tall, vaulted ceilings, imposing stone walls, and cold beams of weak sunlight streaming through high, narrow windows...I was back in Orthanc.

But I wasn't a prisoner this time. Things were different now.

"Saruman!" My own voice startled me as I stormed down the hall, the unnatural force of it tearing through the silence and reverberating in the cold, dusty air. "Saruman, come and greet your guest!"

Suddenly I was in a room I knew well. Dusty books lined the walls, their shelves carved into heavy black slabs of granite, and in the center of the room was a small stone pedestal, on which a gleaming black orb rested. I found myself smiling.

"So the little musician returns at last." I whipped around. The White Wizard had emerged from the shadows, looking uncharacteristically wary. Clearly he hadn't expected me to return to Isengard voluntarily. I hadn't expected it either. "To what do I owe the honor, girl? Have you seen reason at last?"

"Be quiet!" I snarled. Again my voice startled me, echoing like a drumbeat against the heavy stone walls.

His black eyes narrowed to slits. "Just who do you think you are dealing—"

"I said be quiet!" The torchlight flickered as I advanced on the wizard.

Saruman studied me cautiously, then his eyes widened in rage—he seemed to have seen something, understood something, at last. "Ah," he said, carefully this time. "So you have taken it for yourself." There was fear in his voice, and I found myself relishing the sound. "You continue to surprise me, girl. I will not ask how you managed to obtain it. But perhaps," he went on, eagerness flashing across his sallow face, "perhaps you have come to make a bargain."

"Why would I bargain with you?" I snapped. I didn't know my voice could hold such menace, and I wondered at the sound.

"Why?" the wizard repeated, as though it should have been obvious. In his eagerness, his voice had gained back some of its confidence, the unctuous, persuasive menace that had twisted my mind once before. "Why else would you have returned? You are not built for vengeance, I think, and so you must have come to me for a favor. We can work together, you and I."

"Don't pretend to know anything about me!" I spat. His words, dripping with corrosive magic, had no effect on me—not anymore. "As it happens, I do want something from you," I added. "But trust me, Saruman, it won't be a bargain or a favor, and we will not be working together."

His jaw tightened. "Do you seek, then, to supplant me?" Scorn had crept back into his voice. "You are a fool to think you can wield it alone. You will need my help, sooner or later; you will see. And I promise to give it, if only you allow me to share in its power."

"Enough!" My hand rose in the air, pointing at the wizard, and a gust of wind followed the gesture, blowing my hair forward and making Saruman stumble back. "Stop talking about help and promises. You know as well as I do that its power can't be shared. And you know why I'm here. You brought me to Middle Earth with the palantír. Now I'm going to use it to go home!"

He hesitated, eyes darting back and forth calculatingly between me and the orb atop the stone pedestal to my left. He looked trapped, torn by his thoughts, but he finally moved to stand between me and the palantír, staff outstretched like a sword.

It was the wrong choice. "Saruman," I snarled, the words sharp in my throat, "you have been supplanted." The wizard's staff flew towards me, as though pulled on a string, and he let out a shout of anger.