In the morning, after they had breakfasted, Saruman summoned both men to his study. He had set the stage carefully, with books and scrolls scattered across the desk and tables; some wedged open at strategic pages, others lying discarded on the floor as if they were of no use.

As Éomund and Boromir sat, he ran a hand across his brow, feigning weariness. “I have spent the night studying my library searching for an answer to your questions,” he began. I have books from Harad and lands even further south, scrolls from lost Númenor, and letters in languages long since forgotten.” He paused for effect, watching as Éomund twitched impatiently, though he held his tongue. “Perhaps if I search for longer, or open the oldest archives I may yet find something that may be of use to you, but I fear that so far I have been unsuccessful. I am more sorry than I can say that I cannot help you.”

Éomund’s impatience boiled over. “Is there nothing you can do?” he burst out. Boromir gave him a reproving glance. “Your pardon, Lord Saruman,” he amended. “But my people are desperate!”

Saruman paused as if deep in thought, his fingers steepled. “There is perhaps one answer mentioned in some of the older scrolls,” he began. “But I am not sure it would be possible.”

“What?” Éomund demanded. “Please, we must try – anything!”

“It is a palantír,” he explained, his voice soft and lyrical. “One of the seeing stones crafted by the Noldor. They were made long, long ago, beyond Westernesse. Of the seven that were made, most have been lost, or destroyed. But I believe I have found one that remains.”

Boromir stirred, fighting the spell, and spoke for the first time. “A palantír?” he questioned. “What is that? What do you mean by a ‘seeing stone’?”

Saruman smiled inwardly. Good. Both men were following the bait obediently, and would soon fall into his trap. Boromir might not be swayed by his voice, but there were other weaknesses which could be exploited. “It means ‘that which sees far off’,” he explained. “The men and elves of old used them to converse in thought over great distance. And it is said that if one who has the power and skill and birth-right to use the stone looks into it …”

“What?” breathed Éomund, seduced by his voice. “What will he see?”

“The answers he seeks, whatever the questions may be,” he purred, his voice silky. “It is my belief that the stone can be used to reveal images of the future, or show you the answers you require.”

“Your belief?” Boromir questioned. “You do not know?”

“Alas …” Saruman hesitated. “I do not have the power or knowledge to use it. It is said that only those bearing the blood of the high Númenoreans may look into the stone. I have tried for many long days and nights, but it remains dark and silent. It will not speak to me.” He watched the despair grow on Éomund’s face.

“Then why do you speak to us of it? You give me false hope that I may find a cure and save my people, when it is all for naught!” Éomund, impulsive, had leapt to his feet and now paced the chamber restlessly.

Boromir stirred uneasily. “Peace, Éomund,” he murmured. He looked at Saruman, still wary, but lured by the promise of power. “You said the blood of Númenor?”

“Aye – but who, now, is of pure-blooded descent?” He sighed with regret. “The fall of Númenor was long ago. The survivors are scattered and lost, their blood diluted by lesser men. Who knows if the true Númenoreans still live?”

“They live.” Boromir’s voice was soft but determined. “The house of the Stewards is descended in direct line from Húrin, Steward to King Minardil. I can trace my lineage through a thousand and more years to him, and thence to Númenor itself!”

Saruman hid his smile. The great lord Boromir was as vulnerable as Éomund in his way – though his weakness was in his pride and lust for power. It would be easy now.

“Boromir!” Éomund pleaded. “If you have the right and power to do this, to look into the stone, then please help me! Help me find a cure!”

“Aye, lord Boromir. Will you do it? You have the birth-right, but can you be sure you have the strength of mind for such a venture?” With this final prod to Boromir’s pride, Saruman watched as the man stepped willingly into the trap.

“I will do it,” he vowed.

Saruman nodded gravely. “Thank you. With your help, perhaps we may find a solution to this distressing plague.”

Éomund rounded on them eagerly. “Then do it now! There is no time to waste – the horses, the mares and foals – they are dying as we speak. Do it now, Boromir, I beg of you!”

Saruman eyed him gravely, and Éomund fell silent. “It is a difficult and possibly dangerous task we ask of our companion. It would be best if lord Boromir had peace and silence around him. Your impatience and eagerness is understandable, but I must ask you to leave, lord Éomund.” He smiled coldly. “I will send for you later.”

Chastened, but unable to protest, Éomund left silently. Saruman turned to Boromir, and led him to the curtained alcove that concealed the stone. In silence, he drew back the dark cloth that covered it, revealing the stone.

It was a perfect sphere of black crystal, highly polished so that the flickering candles reflected in its surface. Boromir stared at it, stretching his hand towards the stone, but then withdrawing it. He licked his lips, and glanced at Saruman.

“It is time. Come now, and look into the stone,” Saruman encouraged. “Use it to your advantage, and Rohan’s. Seek the solution to this devastating plague. Find the cure, and you will have the undying gratitude of the kings of Rohan for all time. They will honour and revere Lord Boromir above all others, and your name will be celebrated in song throughout the land. Look now, and see.”

He stepped back, and Boromir approached the stone. It stood on a plinth at chest height, and he placed his hands upon the dark sphere reverently as he gazed into the depths. Slowly his eyes lost focus and became blank as the power of the stone ensnared him, and his hands tightened.

Deep within the heart of the black crystal, a red glow began to flicker, pulsing like a heartbeat.