Saruman paced his tower room, his thoughts agitated. He was irritated with the Man of Gondor, but even more so with himself. He had truly not expected the son of Denethor to be so difficult to control, in spite of the evidence of his strength. Yes, his will was strong and his resistance to the power of suggestion great, but still... It had been long since Saruman had been countered at every turn, and this by a mere mortal!

The plan to have Boromir use the palantír had been a good one -- had not the heir of Gondor come to him just when he needed him most to test the use of the seeing stone? One with the inherited right to use the stone could learn of its uses more safely then he; Saruman had only to look on, watching, without putting himself in danger too soon, before he was ready. Perhaps the stone, once again tuned to use by one who wielded it by right, could be then more easily turned to his own need, without him having to risk himself. The power of his own mind was great, and once he knew he could do so without risk, Saruman knew his strength would be enough to see much and use it for his own advancement -- and to search for that Thing he desired above all else...

But first, he had to know more about the stone. Would it look where he needed it to look? Could it be used to a purpose, or would it only show random images that were of no use to him? Boromir's gazing would help him with that. He was the one with the blood right, and had the best chance of success in turning the palantír to his will. And his will was very strong!

In his heart of hearts, Saruman had hoped that Boromir, under the spell of his voice, could be controlled to look for him, and perhaps even see something that would give him a clue where to search for the One Ring. Boromir, of all Men, might feel that same drawing to a tool that would give him power over others, for was he not young and strong, and a leader of men? Surely he would desire more, much more, as he grew older! That pride in himself and his future might guide his eyes to see that which Saruman most desired to see. And if he did see something to Saruman's advantage, there would be time afterwards to deal with Boromir's memory of that knowledge...

Boromir's strength of mind and will had been all that Saruman could have hoped for. But that was exactly the problem. Saruman had overreached himself when he had played on Boromir's relationship to Éomund and the alliance with Rohan to convince him to look in the stone. Use it to your advantage, and Rohan’s, he had said persuasively to Boromir. 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 honor and revere Lord Boromir above all others...

And that was what Boromir had done. That and little else! Oh, he had seen many visions, of places he had never been and sights he had never seen in person -- but they had all been of Rohan, whether to the East or to the South, or to the northern plains that extended past Fangorn to the Wold. The solution to the plague was Boromir's most pressing need, for it would help his friend and ally, and strengthen the ties between them, thereby bringing glory and honor to himself. He had little thought for other things at this time, or perhaps Saruman could have made better use of his seeing ability. But no matter how many times he had urged Boromir to look again, gaze in this direction or that, tell what was to be seen when the stone is directed thus -- it was all for naught, as far as Saruman was concerned.

Well, perhaps not entirely for naught. Saruman had at least been assured that he could use the stone with care and not be caught. He had feared to use it himself, in case one of the other stones might have fallen into the hands of Sauron in Mordor. He did not think he would win a battle of minds with the Dark Lord -- at least not at this point in time! Once he had found the Ruling Ring, perhaps things would be otherwise...

But his own trial of the palantír would have to wait. There was much to be done, to repair the current situation and regain the advantage he had held. Saruman had unexpectedly been countered in his secret strategies by Boromir's ability with the palantír -- another reason why he was irritated with the Gondorian! In his surveying of the lands of Rohan in the stone of seeing, Boromir had actually hit upon the cause of the plague. Still under the influence of Saruman's guiding voice, he had reported seeing bands of Uruk-hai roaming the eastern lands near the Emyn Muil in pursuit of the horses that roamed there. Boromir had even been innately skilled enough in the use of the stone to be able to isolate the vision and draw in on it for a closer look! And what he had seen had revealed to him that the Uruk-hai were doing something to the horses that made them ill.

Those Uruk-hai answered to Sauron as their lord and master.

It was well that the palantír could not reveal the truth that the horses were being poisoned under Saruman's own orders, as a first step in establishing dominance over Rohan. He would have to make certain that Boromir remained ignorant of that truth, in spite of what he had seen.

And then there was the Marshal of Rohan to deal with. Éomund might be difficult to coddle and convince, after so many days of imprisonment. Surely he must suspect something by now! If so, it was of no consequence. His mind was weak enough that Saruman would be able to sway him and make him forget. Boromir, on the other hand, would be the one to prove difficult.

A gentle tapping at the door to his chamber drew him out of his thoughts.

"Enter!"

The door opened and the man Gríma entered. He bowed before Saruman with reverence.

"You called for me, my lord?"

***

Boromir stretched, and turned his head carefully this way and that. Yes, there was still pain at the base of his skull, but it was dulled now, and his mind was clearer than it had been for days. Looking in that stone must have taken more strength out of him than he had at first realized. He had been at it for hours, and mightily weary he had been afterwards! But Saruman had given him a draught of something, to help him recover from the effects of the strain. Since then, he had done little but sleep.

But he had now had enough of sleeping, and he was ready to get back to the business at hand. Éomund would surely be wondering what had happened to him – though Boromir seemed to recall someone telling him in response to his queries that Éomund had fallen ill and was unable to visit him. He hoped the Marshal was well once more, for now that he himself was feeling better, there were things to be done, if this plague was to be stopped and the horses of Rohan saved. Boromir felt certain he had seen something that would aid in the production of a cure, though he could not quite remember what it was. He would have to speak to Saruman about it; he had been present, of course, and had made note of everything Boromir had seen and shared as he reported the visions that came to him in the stone.

What an extraordinary experience it had been! he recalled. Even now, he felt drawn to look in the palantír again, to see what else could be learned to Gondor's advantage – and to his. Would that he had such a tool in his own keeping! The knowledge it would give him for Gondor's defense would be invaluable.

Boromir sighed, and smiled ruefully to himself. There was little chance of Saruman allowing him to look again in the stone on a whim, and there were no such artifacts to be found anywhere else. Not that he knew of, at least. If any were to be had in Gondor, his father would have found them by now, and he would have shared that knowledge with his son and heir.

There was a knock at the door and a rattle of the latch, and the grey-haired healer entered the chamber.

“Ah, Linhir!” Boromir smiled in greeting. “You have come to check on my well-being, no doubt. And scold me for not being more careful!”

“I have,” retorted the healer. “You require such attention, my lord Boromir, not to mention scolding! You will insist upon putting yourself in danger with little thought for the consequences. I suppose it never entered your mind that your health might be in peril when you submitted to the whim of this wizard? No, I thought not! You are fortunate you fared as well as you did, though I like not this lethargy that has clung to you for days. It is most unusual! Do you still have pain in your head?”

Boromir waved Linhir’s fears away.

“It is nothing. The pain is little more than the ache that comes after a night of too much ale. It will pass. According to the knowledge Saruman has gleaned from his scrolls, the use of these stones is taxing to the uninitiated. I took little hurt, I deem, and it was a small price to pay for knowledge that will help our allies.”

“And are you a healer that you know the full price you are paying?”

“I had to do it, Linhir, for Rohan’s sake! Nothing else matters.”

Linhir frowned, and then relented.

“Yes,” he sighed. “I know! You were honor bound! Still, I wish you had let me attend you while you were expending your strength in this way.”

Boromir shrugged.

“There was no time to discuss the matter, Linhir. But enough of that! Tell me, how are my men? Are they restive, wondering what is keeping us here? Are they being cared for?”

“Fear not, they await you patiently, and have been well-treated during their stay here. The assumption is that you are in long council with the lord Saruman, and I have let them believe that. I did not think it wise for them to know the exact nature of your seclusion, or the reason for it. I will leave that explanation to you to give – or not.”

Boromir nodded slowly.

“I will not lie to them,” he replied firmly. “But neither will I speak of it without need. You have acted wisely. Artifacts of this nature are best not discussed openly – so Saruman says, and I agree. But what of Éomund? I trust he has not spoken openly of these matters… But wait! I seem to recall hearing he had been ill. Is that so, or did I dream it?”

“Nay, you did not dream it. He has been ill, and Wulfgar, as well. Their illness is some form of poisoning from the wounds they received at the hands of the orcs, I deem. I have not seen or examined them myself, however, though I have offered several times. The man Gríma is attending them. He seems to have some skill with healing herbs, and is trusted by the Men of Rohan.”

“Do not look so chagrined, Linhir!” Boromir laughed. “I know it is hard for you not to be the one to care for all who need you. They would trust you if they knew you better. I trust you, at least – with my very life!”

“I thank you for that, my lord,” Linhir replied warmly. “Nor will I fail in that trust – when I am allowed to do my work! Will you now let me examine you and see for myself how you fare, for I will not otherwise be content.”

“Very well,” sighed Boromir. “Do what healers do, and when you are satisfied as to my health, I will seek an audience with Saruman. I must know where we stand in the matters at hand!”

****

The first change in the routine of Éomund’s despair came unexpectedly. He had heard no key turn in the lock to warn him, but suddenly the door opened and in came a man bearing a laden tray of food and drink.

It was Gríma Gálmódson.

“My lord!” Gríma greeted him with a smile. “You are looking much better today. Your illness must have loosed its hold upon you at last!”

“My illness?” stammered Éomund. “I have not been ill! I have been made a prisoner! My weapons have been taken; I have been locked in this room for days on end, and fed nothing but bad water and drugged food!”

“Nay, my lord Éomund,” answered Gríma in a soothing tone. “You are not imprisoned. That was only a dream of your illness! See? Here are your weapons against the wall, where you placed them when you arrived in your chamber, before the fever took you.”

Gríma looked, and was astonished to see his weapons in place, as if they had never been moved or disturbed.

“How came they here?” he cried, feeling greatly confused. “I awoke… they were not here, and the door was locked…”

“Nay,” soothed Gríma. “It was a feverish dream. You have been ill, lord, and Wulfgar, as well. But he, too, is mending, and asking after you.”

“Ill? I can hardly believe it… But… if I have been ill, then why has no one come to see me? Why has no one attended me?”

“I have tended you, lord. Alas, you do not remember! No others were allowed to come, for we were not certain why you had fallen ill. We thought it likely the illness stemmed from poisoned wounds, but as we were not certain, we have kept you isolated from the other men, rather than risk contagion.”

“We?”

“The lord Saruman and myself. I have some skill with herbs, and he taught me more of what I must know in order to draw you back to health.”

Éomund hesitated, still confused, but he could see no reason why it should not be as Gríma had said. It was hard to believe, yet why would Gríma lie to him? Perhaps he truly had been very ill.

“I… I am grateful, Gríma,” he said at last. “I did not know of this skill of yours. But I am indeed grateful. It must be as you say, then, though my memories of these last days hardly seem like a dream. It was so real…”

“I know, lord. It is often like that when one is gravely ill; dreams are more real than reality! Sit you now and rest, I have brought more solid fare to strengthen you. You must regain your strength, so that you can attend the lord Saruman. He awaits you with news.”

Éomund looked up, startled, and his confusion drained away as sudden hope filled his heart.

“Boromir was successful, then? He has discovered what ails our horses?”

“Yes,” replied Gríma with a smile. “A cure is found.”