Storms at Weathertop. Shadow over Rhudaur IV

[Beleg]

November 12, 1347 – late afternoon – Amon Sul

Beleg stood looking west over the lower battlements of the fortress, oblivious to the chill winds of late autumn, his eyes sweeping the horizon. West and north he looked, toward Fornost. Already he had been away from there for over a month, and now he might not see it for 16 months more!

The news had been hard to bear at first, especially as it came at his grandfather’s jovial greeting upon their arrival. Even after three weeks he had barely reconciled himself to it, and hardly given thought to the proposed purpose of this coming year – making plans to increase the strength of this fortress.

This line of thinking brought that purpose back to his mind, and he began to make the effort. The place was already defensible all around, but it was a bit of a trap too. Here, along this line of hills north, he thought, they might work in a hidden path, on the west side facing Arthedain. A path they could use for secretly bringing in supplies, stores or reinforcements – even for escape, or at least preservation of the Palantir, if the tower might one day be taken.

But, he sighed, who, in his own lifetime or for many generations beyond, would be able to take this tower, or even make the attempt? Cardolan and Rhudaur were both greatly weakened. The Elves would never attack it, nor would the Dwarves. Certainly not Gondor! No collaboration of hillmen or Dunlendings could even think to do so. Could Orcs manage it? They had somehow pulled off the sack of Gundabad, but reports were that its Dwarven forces were low. There remained the mysterious new land arising to the north and east – this Angmar. But they still seemed so far short of ascending to such power as to threaten Arthedain and lay siege to Amon Sul.

Perhaps the purpose to strengthen the tower lay not in resisting assault, but in speeding reunification. Perhaps his grandfather and father hoped that such a show of Arthedain’s vigor would be the final impetus now needed to draw back the wayward Dunedain of Cardolan and Rhudaur.

His eyes wandered back westward. First he looked south and west, to where some of his companions surely journeyed on their errand toward Tharbad, which would bring them on around due south. Then he looked north and west, toward Fornost once more, and longed for the pleasant company of his sister Ethuiliel, surely enjoying her newly wedded bliss.

The rest of the family was enjoying themselves here well enough. His mother was glad to be back among her own father and mother and brother and sisters. His father was perhaps a bit relieved to be away from his own father, the King, for just a few months. His youngest sister Estelien and her friend Calafornien had joined the choir of young ladies from the court and nearby towns who would sing and play at the Yule. His brother Aramacil was content riding about with the cavalry most every day, drilling the horsemen, sometimes under their father’s watchful eye.

Today had come a small disappointment for Aramacil though, and he had spent much of it pacing about and chafing, himself. Their father had decided to send the entire troop of cavalry east, to meet the party approaching from Rhudaur. Beleg smiled grimly to think that at least one other person out here didn’t have everything going entirely as they wanted it, if only for a single day.

He heard someone approaching from behind and turned. A young nobleman, just a bit more than a boy, drew near and bowed. His livery marked him as belonging to those employed in running errands for the ones on watch in the tower. “Your Highness, I seek your father, the Heir Celebrindol. Might you know his whereabouts?”

“He was at archery with my brother Aramacil, but they should be back shortly. What is it?”

The youngster paused before turning to go, “The watcher has bid me call the Warden and the Heir to the high chamber of the tower. The Warden already ascends, and I must find the Heir.”

That bit of news was interesting. Beleg wondered what was afoot. For a few days now they had watched the advancing party from the east, but by now the horsemen might have met them. Was there trouble? There had also been much movement on the road to the west, at a time of year when things were generally still. Was it there? The one thing Beleg knew was that he was tired of surprises, and tired of being the last to know. Leaving the battlements behind, he went inside and worked his way toward the tower stairs, thankful that the young messenger at least, had been willing to tell him something.

- - - - - - - -

Beleg was nearly at the top of the stairway when he came right up behind his grandfather the Warden, whose ascent was steady, but rather slow. It would have been ungracious to pass him by, so he offered the elder man his arm and together they climbed the last 40 or so steps. Alighting at a landing with two guards who stood aside to let them pass, Beleg stepped on past the other, but only to open the door to the high chamber and allow the Warden to precede him up the last flight of stairs and into the room. The watcher on duty stood at their entrance, and Beleg saw that it was his uncle, Nolentir, who would be the next Warden.

The room was octagonal in shape. On each wall were three tall windows, a wider one at the center, flanked by a narrower one on each side. The lowering sun bathed the room in light, but the windows could be shuttered at need, or closed up with dark heavy curtains. The ceiling was high, and the timbers showed the shape of the tower’s peak above them. A guardrail at the stair went on to circle the entire room, the stair's breadth from the outer wall, with a gate near the top of the steps. At the center of the room was a massive, round table of granite, with marks carved into its face – Elendil’s diagrammatic map of Arnor, arranged such that the very center of the table stood at the position of Amon Sul, and there at the center of the table sat a large, dark stone, spherical and smooth – the Palantir of Amon Sul. About the table sat four wooden chairs, elegant yet sturdy, arranged with one north, one south, one east and one west. There was no other furniture in the room.

It was from the west chair, facing east, that Nolentir had risen. None other was in the room, just the three of them. Wordlessly, the Warden lowered himself into the seat vacated by his son and began to peer into the stone.

In a short time, Beleg’s father and brother both arrived. They had been nearly back when found by the messenger, and came straightaway, only setting their unstrung bows and quivers beside the bottom of the long stairway before ascending. Aramacil chided Beleg gently that had he remained out there with them, he would only now be arriving himself, but Beleg only smiled in return. He had gone out before them and stayed twice as long. His brother might be his superior on horseback, but he could not match him with either bow or sword. With the bow in particular, Beleg took pride that he was as proficient as his ancestor of the same name*, and that both had aspired to the greatness of their mutual namesake**.

But now for the matter at hand. The horsemen sent out this morning were just about to encounter the party coming out of Rhudaur. A party of over 40 coming from Rhudaur would draw enough attention anyway. But with Dwarves in the group – possibly even a few Elves, it was really remarkable. And then there was the question of just who the persons were who might be among them.

“It is long since I saw her, and we only met in person that once, but I dare say she looks like Lady Gimilbeth indeed,” offered Nolentir.

“Hmmph! It’s Gimilbeth alright,” declared the Warden. “I’m certain of that. Here,” he said, rising and turning toward Celebrindol, “take a look.”

Celebrindol hesitated at first, but then declined, his face looking a bit pale. At once Beleg stepped over, took the seat facing eastward and began to look into the depths of the Palantir. His uncle, Nolentir, tried to help guide his view, and Aramacil looked over his shoulder, but Beleg had practiced this a bit already and soon the mists began to part before him, and he saw the meeting of the two groups – first as if at a great distance, then he was able to make the view closer – wait, too close! He drew it back to where he could best see what was happening.

“And what do you see, my son?” asked his grandfather the Warden.

“They have just met and exchange civilities… they gesture back in this direction. There… all now seems arranged. Our horsemen draw themselves up into an escort about the visitors. They’re starting up again.”

“How far are they?” ventured Celebrindol.

“I’d say eight or nine leagues,” interjected his brother-in-law, Nolentir. “If they travel but until sunset, then make their camp before dusk fades into night, they should easily arrive tomorrow, though many are not mounted.”

There was silence for a good while as Beleg continued to watch them in the Palantir. At last the Warden spoke once more, “Well Nolentir, is this what you so urgently called us all up to see?”

“It seemed… of moment, the meeting between our men and this party," began Nolentir in reply. “But there is one thing more.”

“Oh? Well, what is it?” asked the Warden, perking up.

“Here…” said Nolentir, now to Beleg again, “swing your view round to the north and east.” Beleg complied. “Now… steady, let me help you get the range. Say, you’re pretty good at this, but you could still use practice. Why don’t you come up for an hour each day… after the mid-day meal? There now… do you see it? Tell us all what you see.”

Beleg was still working to get the distance just right, and began slowly, “I see… a lone figure. A man… it appears to be. Yes, an old man with a white beard… in a gray cloak. He’s coming this way… walking with a staff.”

“I don’t suppose he wears a blue hat?” asked the Warden.

“No… no, a gray hood. But wait! Even now he stops… he pulls back his hood, and… and puts on a blue hat – a tall, pointed blue hat! He’s walking again. I think… I think he’s looking right at us!”

“Gandalf!” said Aramacil with a grin.

‘Mithrandir’ thought Beleg to himself, with a smile. ‘Well, this should be a very interesting visit to Amon Sul indeed!’

- - - - - - - -

* ancestor: King Beleg - second King of Arthedain, and great-great-great-great grandfather to this Beleg.

** namesake: Beleg Strongbow - famed Elven archer of Doriath from the First Age.

[Duilin]

Prancing Pony Inn, Bree, November 12, 1347

"Ah, that was a merry day, was it not?" boomed Thurisind, laughing heartily. "Slaying orcs is fine work."

"Yes, quite enjoyable, certainly," Duilin replied.

He glanced around the bar. Many of the inn's patrons, including the fat old innkeeper, Rodolphus Butterbur, and, Duilin noted approvingly, several rather pretty serving girls, were gathered around the table. "I cannot believe, though, that we were so gullible as to believe that there was buried treasure in the ruins of the Dark Lord's tower, on the word of a pair of captured orcs. All that riding about in Mordor and fighting orcs for nothing."

"Yes, and how our comrades laughed when we got back to the base - our commander nearly had us hung for deserters - but, as you see, we're still here."

The crowd roared with laughter. For the past two days, ever since their arrival at the inn, Duilin and Thurisind had been regaling the crowd at the inn's common room with somewhat exaggerated tales of their past exploits. The idea had been Duilin's. "We know this town not at all, and asking if anyone is looking to hire a pair of foreign rogues is only going to lead to suspicion. Better to get them to come to us."

Now Duilin scanned the room. Most of those present seemed to be townspeople - the local, non-Dúnedain folk, of the same sort that had been common in Tharbad, and, indeed, back with Duilin's relations in Lossarnach. Here, the people had the strange distinction of largely being named after plants of various sort, but otherwise seemed undistinguished. Duilin doubted that any of them would be likely to have any use for his and Thurisind's services.

Interestingly, there were also various folk present of other races. Duilin regarded the Dwarves curiously - Dwarves did not normally go to Gondor. The Dwarves at the inn were travellers, and seemed clannish and unfriendly, largely keeping to themselves. Only one or two had tarried to hear Duilin and Thurisind's tale.

The other non-human folk were of a sort Duilin had never even heard of before their arrival in Cardolan, but he'd seen a fair number of them in the lands between Tharbad and Bree, during their lengthy journey up the North Road. Halflings, the men of the region called them, and it seemed an appropriate name - they were about half the size of the average man, and most considerably less than half the size of a giant like Thurisind. The Halflings at the Inn seemed mostly to be residents of the town itself, and they were as intrigued by the two garrulous travellers as their larger neighbors. Duilin, though he had not had much direct contact with them, already felt a certain fondness for the Halflings - at five and a half feet, constantly paired with a gigantic Northman, and in a country full of a race of irritatingly tall men, it was not often that he was able to feel particularly tall. But he suspected that the halflings of Bree were in even less need of his services than their larger neighbors.

That left the Dúnedain. There were a few, here and there at the inn's common room. Most seemed of no more interest than the Bree-folk. Duilin's eye kept turning towards one in the corner, who had been watching them closely for the several hours, but had hung back from joining the table. The man looked rather much like any other Dúnadan - tall, with dark hair, enragingly good looking. But he was better dressed than most of the others in the inn, though he tried to conceal it behind an old cloak and hat. As Thurisind began another tale, Duilin looked back to the corner where he had seen the man a moment before. He was no longer there.

Duilin was turning his attention back to Thurisind when he heard a voice speaking low into his ear. "Beg your pardon, sir, might I have a word?" Turning, Duilin saw that it was the man he had been trying to keep track of. Thinking back to the tankards of ale he had been drinking, Duilin silently cursed. The weeks of travelling seemed to have lowered his tolerance for the stuff. He would have to correct that quickly.

"Certainly, sir." he replied. He looked back to his friend, but he was already in the midst of another story, and had gripped one of the prettier barmaids and sat her in his lap as he spoke. "If you would excuse me," he said to the group at the table as he stood.

Duilin followed the other man to a table at the other end of the common room. "You and your friend certainly seem to have had a number of remarkable exploits."

Duilin regarded the man closely before responding. "You might say that, I guess. Certainly the folk here in Bree seem interested in our stories."

"That they do. That they do. And these stories you tell, are they true?"

"What's it to you?"

"Curiosity. And perhaps more."

"Ah, I see you wish to keep your secrets, then. I'll just say, then, that the stories we've told are largely true."

"Most interesting. And how would you and your friend like to add another tale to your repertoire?"

"You are offering to provide us with one?"

"Perhaps I am."

"Then perhaps we are interested. What sort of tale is it?"

The man shrugged. "That, you will have to ask my master, when you speak with him. He has not entrusted me with the right to tell his business to dubious travellers from far away."

"When we speak with him? You have gotten rather ahead of yourself, haven't you? I have not agreed to meet with anyone."

The man looked slightly flustered. "I apologize, sir. I have not had much experience in this line. If you meet with him."

"And who is this master of yours?"

"That is also not for me to say. But he is a powerful man, and he is willing to offer a fair bit of money to employ such men as you and your friend on a sensitive task, provided he can trust you."

"That is hardly very much to go on. What makes you think we are here to be hired for mysterious tasks for mysterious men with no names? Perhaps Thurisind and I will settle down here in Bree, marry some fair wenches, farm the land like good honest folk. It seems like a pleasant enough land here."

The man looked at him, uncertain how to respond. After a moment, he replied. "Well, before you take up the plough, perhaps you would like to speak with my master yourself. We shall be at the Fireside Inn, a day's ride east of here on the Road. Come tomorrow evening, and you can hear what he has to say. And take this for your trouble." Standing up, he tossed Duilin a pouch full of coins. "Now I must ride back to tell him of our discussion."

With that, he quickly strode from the table and out the front door. After he had gone, Duilin realized that he had never asked the man's name. He turned back to Thurisind and the crowd surrounding him. Taking the pouch of coins to the bar, he handed it to the barkeep. "Drinks for all until the money runs out!" he cried. The inn's patrons cheered heartily. The Halflings seemed to cheer particularly loudly, especially given their small size. Even the Dwarves looked at him appreciatively. Most importantly, his primary purpose had been served, as Thurisind had been abandoned by his listeners, who were clamoring to the barkeep for more drinks. The Innkeeper stood last and walked back towards the bar, somewhat sternly motioning for the serving girl in Thurisind's lap to follow him.

Duilin sat down next to his friend. "Your plan has worked, I take it?" Thurisind asked.

"So it would seem. We are to meet with a potential employer at an inn a day's ride east of here, if we want to. His man wouldn't tell me much more than that. Shall we?"

"Well, since you've just so generously given away the money the man already paid us to do nothing, I don't see why not. Let's enjoy ourselves tonight, and ride out first thing tomorrow. I promised Daisy there that I'd tell her about the time we chased a party of Easterlings north all the way to the Sea of Rhûn."

"Yes, fine, enjoy yourself. Perhaps I'll find myself a pretty halfling girl, see how you always feel with your women."

Thurisind laughed. "If you can abide the hairy feet, I'm sure it would be a fascinating experience."

Duilin could not help from laughing as well. He lifted his glass. "To our mysterious potential employer, then, who has made this inn a happy place tonight."

They clinked glasses.

[Thurisind]

The Road east of Bree, November 13, 1347

Thurisind looked cautiously from side to side. to his right was Duilin, leading the faithful mule, fondly dubbed “Castamir,” who had carried their gear on the long walk from Tharbad. To his left were the woods which spread out to the east of Bree. Thurisind was vaguely uneasy. It would soon be dark, and there was as yet no sign of their destination. They had gotten off to a late start that morning – Duilin had, as usual, woken late, and apparently with a terrible hangover. When Thurisind, who had, as usual, been awake for hours, had asked him if he had, indeed, found a pretty halfling girl to bed, Duilin simply scowled at him.

Thurisind was jolted from his thoughts by a tug on his shoulder by Duilin. He looked up to see five men standing on the road ahead of them, apparently barring the way. “Highwaymen?” he asked, trying to get a better look at the men.

“Perhaps,” Duilin replied. “Though I’d not heard that highwaymen were a danger on this road.”

“Nor I. Let us be cautious. Something about this feels off.”

They approached the men. One of them, who was revealed to be a tall Dúnadan, strode forth, but did not speak.

“Friends,” cried out Thurisind, who was several paces ahead of his companion. “Why do you bar our way? We are but travellers, passing down the road, seeking rest for the night at the inn that we have heard is further along the way.”

“Travellers, I’m sure,” replied the other man. He paused, then looked back towards his companions, also apparently Dúnedain. “We cannot allow you to pass.”

“You cannot allow us to pass?” asked Thurisind. “On what basis? Are you out to rob us, then?”

The man looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Indeed, we are,” he paused, “Robbers. I must insist that you give us anything you have which is of value.”

“You must insist? Would you mind if I took a moment to confer with my companion before answering your demand?”

The man again looked questioningly towards his companions, but they gave him no support. “No, of course not,” he finally replied. “Take all the time you need. But know that if you do not yield your valuables willingly, we shall be forced to take them from you by force,” here he paused again, “and to kill you if necessary.”

Thurisind smiled. “Of course, of course. Give me a moment to confer.”

He walked back to Duilin, who had stopped some ways back from the men. “These are not highwaymen.” said Thurisind.

“No, I think not. We’ll have to fight them, though, I suppose.”

“Yes – but be careful. Don’t kill any of them unless absolutely necessary.”

Duilin and Thurisind stepped forwards towards the men, hands to their scabbards. “My friends,” Thurisind said. “I am afraid we shall have to decline to give you our valuables.” Here he drew his sword. “You may attempt to take them from us, if you can. I’m most sorry for the inconvenience.”

The five men all drew their swords, and rushed towards them. “The three to the left for me, and the two to the right for you?” asked Thurisind, to which Duilin nodded. By this time Thurisind had already knocked one of his adversaries out with a blow to the head with the side of his blade.

[here there should probably be a better, more detailed fight scene, but I’m not terribly good at writing them.]

The fight was over in a matter of minutes. Thurisind looked around, surveying the scene. Three of the men had been knocked unconscious, while a fourth lay groaning by the side of the road. The leader, still, conscious, had Duilin’s blade at his throat.

“I’m dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience,” Thurisind said to him. “Perhaps I should have warned you ahead of time that you might wish to choose easier targets.”

“But then again, you weren’t actually out to rob us, were you?” Duilin asked.

The man looked as though he were about to speak, when he was interrupted by a new voice. “No, indeed they were not.”

Thurisind looked up to see before them the very man Duilin had spoken to in the Prancing Pony.

Thurisind eyed him cautiously, sword still in hand. “It would be best, sir, if you explained yourself.”

“My apologies, gentlemen, for the rough treatment.” the man replied. “But I had to be certain that you were the right men for the job before I took you to see my master. For all I knew, you were a pair of drunken braggarts with no skills to speak of.”

“So, then, you set your men to attack us so that we could prove our fighting skills?”

The man looked somewhat embarrassed. “Yes. Although you had already figured that out, hadn’t you?”

“More or less.” Duilin grinned. “Your men were not terribly convincing highwaymen. That’s why we made sure not to kill them.”

“I apologize again for the deception, and I thank you for your mercy to them. For this, I should now give you at least some notion of who I am. I am Aegnor, son of Boron, House Steward to the Prince of Baranduin. The man who awaits you at the inn is Galphant, the Prince’s Heir of Baranduin. He wishes, as I told you before, to hire you for some sensitive work, which I cannot discuss further. Are you still willing to meet with him?”

Thurisind looked for confirmation in his companion’s eyes, and found it. “We should certainly like to hear out a man who has taken such pains to make sure we are appropriate men for the job.”

“Then let us hasten to the inn. Halmir,” he spoke to the leader of the “highwaymen,” “Bring three horses here. You wait here until the rest of your men are able to travel, and then join us back at the inn.” Now he turned back to Duilin and Thurisind. “Would you be willing to trust my men to bring your mule to the inn with them? That way we can arrive faster.”

“Your men were such poor highwaymen,” Duilin replied, “that I do not doubt that they are honest lads who will do no harm to our Castamir. Thurisind, is it alright with you”

Thurisind nodded. Now Halmir brought out three horses. Mounting, Duilin, Thurisind, and Aegnor rode off to the east. Thurisind was now quite curious to learn what this Prince wanted of them.

[Gimilbeth]

Weathertop, early afternoon of November 13, 1347.

The road went up the slope of Amon Sul, winding like a serpent amidst grey boulders and dry yellow grasses. Reduced to a walk, the tired horses snorted and puffed white clouds of vapor. The howling wind tried to tear away the rider's cloaks and horse's trappings and played with Gimilbeth's unbound locks, whipping the dark strands around her head. She stopped and tried to tuck her hair beneath her cloak - to no avail. She looked up: the base of the tower still loomed ominous and unreachable high above her head.

"Do you need some rest, my lady, before we proceed further?" Barund, who rode at Gimilbeth's left, inquired, solicitous as ever. The lieutenant of the Arthedain cavalry, his face unreadable, reined in his stallion on her right.

Gimilbeth almost snapped back that she needed no rest while ascending a miserable hillock, be it a famous historical landmark, but she bit her tongue just in time. It would do no good to offend the Arthedain men without reason, much as she disliked them. And it would not do to appear before the Warden or whoever-else-may-be-lurking behind the walls with her hair a total mess, looking as if she had slept for a night in a hayloft.

"Yes, captain Barund, it is so thoughtful of you!" She smiled sweetly at the delighted man. "I shall go to my wagon to readjust my hair."

Gimilbeth dismounted, leaving her bay stallion for Barund to hold. The Arthedain lieutenant saluted and remained waiting astride his horse like a carven statue. Grinning inwardly, Gimilbeth noticed that the two men had not exchanged a single word, apart from the inescapable civilities at their first meeting. Small wonder that - the last few decades of peace notwithstanding, Arthedain and Rhudaur had been at war for so long that the last generations were raised in hate and mistrust of each other.

Gimilbeth made her way back to the wagon. The driver, Callon, obligingly helped her up the steps and through the canvas opening. Inside she found Nimraen and asked the maid to redo her hair, putting it up this time and pinning it with golden clasps. It took quite a long time, as the maid's fingers were all but frozen in the cold wagon. In a corner Hurgon was snoring, his arm wrapped protectively around the rolled canvas. Gimilbeth sighed and allowed herself to relax thinking back on yesterday's meeting with the Arthedain cavalry.

The Amon Sul lieutenant had been non-committal. Nay, she corrected herself, not "Amon Sul" lieutenant, for he bore no livery of the fortress, but instead belonged to Arthedain's regular army. He must have been of this new cavalry Celebrindol the Heir was rumored to train. The fact that a large part of this cavalry was now stationed at Amon Sul was disquieting. What if its Chief were here as well? Gimilbeth winced at the thought. Celebrindol was certainly not a man she wished to meet again - ever! Nor the little bitch he had married… Sulawen! Gimilbeth stomped her foot, causing the startled Nimraen to drop the comb - now she would have to adjust the left side of Gimilbeth's hairdo once again.

Still there was a reassuring thought: the tight-lipped Arthedain lieutenant had told Gimilbeth that the King Malvegil was still alive and relatively well, as much as his advanced age permitted. The lieutenant wouldn't have dared to lie on a matter so grave when asked after the King's health. Ever since she had set out from Cameth Brin, Gimilbeth had fretted: what if the old King died (as he was bound to die anytime now, given his age) and she would have to deal with Celebrindol instead? The thought sent shivers down her spine. She wasn't sure Malvegil liked her (had the old fox ever liked anyone in his life?), but still they used to understand each other. They thought alike - in terms of successions, treaties and unions to be straightened by marriages, balances and counter-balances, bribes for possible supporters in other kingdoms and ruthless elimination of enemies. Malvegil was certainly genuine when he said he regretted that Gimilbeth had not become his daughter-in-law. Now he might look favorably on the union of Beleg and Tarniel, not so advantageous as hers would have been, but still a step towards the reunification of Arnor.

When Gimilbeth's hair was finally neatly arranged and covered by the protective golden net, she resumed her place at the head of the procession between her two (now somewhat bluish) knights, and the cavalcade rode on towards the open gates of the fortress. Edelbar preceeded the Princess, proudly carrying the royal pannant of Rhudaur.

In the court she was met by the Captain of the Guards, this one in the Amon Sul livery all right. When she asked to see the Warden, Gimilbeth, escorted by Barund and the Lieutenant of the Cavalry, was led up a flight of stairs to the main entrance of the tower. They passed a hallway and were ushered into a semicircular room with white stone walls, well lighted by numerous narrow windows and also most gratefully warmed by two fireplaces - much to Gimilbeth's relief.

The room appeared to be full of people. She recognized the Warden, Lord Annundil, whom she had last met twenty-one years ago, in 1326, during her brief stay at Amon Sul on the road from Umbar to Rhudaur. Annundil had been the apprentice-warden under his father then. Now he was sitting on a dais, in a gilded chair, almost a throne, and was seemingly not going to stand up to greet the visiting noble lady. "Phew… those northern rustics" she thought.

She bowed to the Warden with practiced dignity - not too low, but enough for not to seem offensive. The man bowed in return, a slight smile on his lips: it seemed he noticed Gimilbeth's reticence and was amused by it.

"Greetings, Lady Gimilbeth", he offered first, as a host should. "Welcome to Amon Sul. May I be so bold as to inquire for the reason of your unexpected visit?"

"Well met, Lord Annundil," Gimilbeth replied in her clear rich voice. She looked around the audience - none seemed familiar. She drew to her full height and continued proudly. "I am here as an authorized representative of my Father, King Tarnendur. As a direct descendant of Elendil, and the Kings of Rhudaur, my august Father claims the right to use the Palantir of Amon Sul to communicate with his Royal kinsmen: King Malvegil of Arthedain and King Romendacil of Gondor, as well as to observe the situation within and around his Kingdom, now beset by troubles. Will the Warden of the Palantir grant him that boon which is his by birthright and position?"

[Kirael]

The kitchens of Weathertop were a busy place, at least, when the kitchen staff thought the higher-ups were watching. Preparation for the noon-dinner was in full swing. The cooking fires were burning warmly, casting a pleasant yellow glow on the kitchen. Enticing cooking smells rose from pots and furnaces. And the air inside was filled with the sounds of quiet conversation and laughter, bubbling pots, shouted orders and the occasional hiss of a drop of fat falling into the fire.

The back door to the herb garden opened and an old woman entered. She purposefully strode past the benches and tables until she reached the furnace. There, plump woman was busily basting a pig on the grill with honey, while sending off a young kitchen-maid for more onions. The old woman walked over to her and put a bundle of herbs down on the nearest table.

“Raneth said you needed more dille, Narian.” The old woman said quietly.

Narian the cook turned around and gave a nod of welcome: “Much thanks, Kirael. Have you heard the news there’s a princess from Rhudaur on her way? She must be arriving soon, I hear.”

Kirael chuckled, a strange dry sound. “Who hasn’t by now?”

In the kitchens, Kirael was the odd man out, due to her age she was no longer a full member of the kitchen staff, yet the kitchen were still you best bet to look if you were searching for her. At first glance Kirael often seemed occupied with sitting near the hearth most of the time, do some idle sorting of kitchen utensils, or filling up the herb pots. But if one looked with more attention, one could also see her often keeping an eye on things, stirring in pots that were left unattended, taking pots off the fire when they started to boil over, and giving advice to kitchen maids when Narian wasn’t around. But Kirael never gave actual orders, her ways were more subtle than that and somehow she always managed to make her suggestions seem valid.

Narian appreciated Kirael’s unsolicited help, not in the least because the old woman knew the ins and outs of the Weathertop kitchen but also because Kirael never interfered with the way Narian ran the kitchen. In the kitchen there could only be one boss.

“Will her arrival influence your cooking?” Kirael asked.

“Not particularly,” Narian said with a shrug. “We’ve got fresh bread, fruit, and broth to start with. Then there’s this delicious gentleman over here,” she said indicating the pig above the fire, “for the second round, with cabbages and two ducks. And then some cheeses for desert. Since the dinner is delayed I told the bakery boys to bake some honey-bread instead of the usual bread.”

“Why not go for ginger-bread instead?” Kirael suggested.

Narian looked thoughtful for a moment. “Why yes, why not? It would make a nice treat… Watch the pig for a moment, will you, just prick him with a fork if he thinks of escape. I go tell Falmion the change of plans.”

“It looks quite beyond such bold thoughts,” Kirael said dryly as she regarded the honey-covered pig.

“Never trust a meal to cooperate until it’s well and truly on the dinner table,” said Narian firmly, quoting an old cook’s proverb as she left for the bakery.

[Annundil]

November 13, 1347 – Amon Sul

Annundil sat silent for a moment, considering what Gimilbeth had just requested. At last he leaned forward and gave his response. “This being a royal matter, I must consult with King Malvegil upon it.” After a brief pause, he again sat back just a bit and continued, “But I shall do so directly, and shall recommend you to the King myself.”

“Thank you, Your Lordship,” replied Gimilbeth with another bow.

“Meanwhile, Lady Gimilbeth, how are you?,” asked Annundil now with a slight smile. “You look quite well. It is many long years since you last passed this way. I believe my father was Warden still, at that time."

“Yes, your father was the Warden,” responded Gimilbeth with a smile of her own.

Why was it, Gimilbeth wondered, that all her visits to Amon Sul revolved around a marriage of one sort or another? The last time, it had been her father’s disappointing re-marriage that brought her in haste from Umbar, cutting short her pleasant stay with her grandmother Serinde. The first time – well, there was that whole heartache with Celebrindol. And even now… the propects she had in mind for Tarniel. She hoped that this one at least, would not be so aggrevating to her. She searched her mind, hoping that she hadn’t been previously unpleasant to the man in her despair, while here before. But he seemed pleasant enough toward her.

“You come when winter first besets us,” went on Annundil. “Will you dare to return to your own land this late in the year, or will you stay here until spring’s arrival?”

Gimilbeth had wondered how delicate a matter this might be. After all, she had brought quite an entourage to the outpost, and was not certain whether Amon Sul could feed all the additions through a northern winter.

“I do have a good deal of matters to investigate, with the Palantir, Lord Annundil, if I am so permitted. And – never having used it, I am yet mindful that those who do claim that it tires one swiftly. My hope was to use it for a matter of weeks, or even months.” Gimilbeth reflected briefly on how openly one might discuss the palantiri at Amon Sul – this peculiarity from other Dunedain cities she remembered from before, for the sole purpose of this place was the keeping of this stone. She continued, “But – if you will permit me and a small part of my people to stay, the rest may return to Rhudaur on the morrow.”

Barund, beside her and half a step behind, fidgeted at this, causing Gimilbeth to smile to herself, but her face retained the gravity it had assumed on making this last statement.

“Nonsense!” replied Annundil. “We have the wherewithal to provision an army through the winter.” But Annundil’s mind was already at work on how his men might gather a bit more to store up before winter came in earnest. Could he still send to Fornost for a few more wagons? Even without that though, they should make it. Just so Cardolan didn’t send a like delegation for the winter as well.

“Chamberlain,” called out Annundil, “You have prepared rooms for the Lady Gimilbeth and her staff?”

“Yes Lord, according to your order, the Lady has the finest rooms in the east wing, where she may look toward her homeland,” said the man standing to the King’s right.

“Captain,” called Annundil to the guardsman who had escorted them in, “You have made arrangements for the rest?”

“Yes Lord,” replied the man. “A barracks was made ready for the soldiers of her escort, and a room by the gate was set up for the Dwarves. The teamster can stay with the soldiers, and the Elves as well, if they like.”

“Lord Annundil…” it was the lieutenant of Arthedain’s Cavalry escort.

“Yes?” acknowledged the Warden, turning toward the man.

“Her Highness, the Lady Gimilbeth even understates the severity of the trouble in her land and how dire are their circumstances. For even while journeying here, they were fallen upon by a great band of Orcs, while still in their own Kingdom. And THIS man,” he continued, indicating Barund, “led his forces through the woods and recaptured Lady Gimilbeth from the creatures, after they had taken her and carried her off.”

Annundil’s eyebrows rose sharply, but Gimilbeth turned toward Barund more sharply still. The fool of a braggart! What else had he told of his rescue to raise himself in the eyes of Arthedain’s riders? For his part, Barund looked quite uncomfortable, and somewhat surprised.

“Did you hear this from the Lady Gimilbeth herself, or from this man?” asked Annundil.

“Neither,” replied the lieutenant, “But from a painter who traveled with them., and who was a witness of the whole event – and even drove the last of the Orc band from the scene, unaware as yet that they had captured his Princess.”

Annundil recoiled slightly. A Painter? And one who drove off Orcs? This man would bear watching. He then addressed Gimilbeth, who had already re-directed the outrage in her mind toward Hurgon.

“Is this true, Lady? Were you beset by Orcs, and captured, and rescued by this fine man beside you?”

Gimilbeth bowed and admitted that it was so, but that she had been too occupied to be able to give direct observation to the painter’s valiance.

“Well then – this man must be placed in a seat of honor for the whole time he is with us. What is your name, good fellow?”

“Barund,” answered her recent companion, raising his head. “of Brochenridge.”

“Very well, Barund of Brochenridge, we honor both you and your town for you great bravery and industry! And Lady Gimilbeth,” he went on, looking back at her. “YOU were attacked, and even taken by Orcs? Were you harmed, or… compromised in any way? Are you alright?”

Gimilbeth assured him, that she was certainly alright, and upon the Warden’s prompting, granted that it was with much thanks to her bold rescuer.

"Now, Lady Gimilebeth,” continued Annundil on a different track, “why in middle-earth did you bring a painter with you to this place?”

“Why…?” began the Lady hesitantly. “As a show of our friendship with Arthedain, my father, King Tarnendur, wishes to have the likeness of you, and your good Lady, to display in his royal chambers. Would you consent to this?” Gimilbeth smiled outwardly this time, but inwardly as well. Now that he had finished his portrait of Tarniel, this would keep Hurgon busy enough to hopefully keep him out of trouble. Occupying Annundil may not be a bad idea either, and the man seemed responsive to flattery, for this could be such a lonely post. Still – maybe she could contrive later to have Barund sit for Hurgon, but that would hardly work as an excuse for bringing him in the first place.

“Then… the painter and Barund must both have rooms in the east wing as well! And Lady Gimilbeth, after acquainting yourself with your new quarters and refreshing yourself from the road, you are most welcome to join us for our Friday Dinner; you, Barund, and this painter of yours. We have already held it up and shall continue to wait until you are all ready.”

Gimilbeth was somewhat amused that the faithful of Arthedain retained so many of the ancient traditions regarding Fridays. In Rhudaur, it was at best considered just a day of rest, though some considered every day alike. It was rare in her land to find any who still observed the day in honor of the Valar, as the mid-day meal signified.

On concluding that statement though, Annundil rose from his seat and descended the three steps on which it stood. He beckoned a tall, well-formed young man toward himself – well, young for a Dunedain in that he looked between 30 and 40, thought Gimilbeth. The two turned half away, Annundil speaking low to the other, who departed at the conclusion of Annundil’s words.

Turning back to Gimilbeth, Annundil noticed that she watched as the young man left them.

“Fine young man, is he not?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “My own grandson! I sent him up to the tower, with a message for Fornost, to arrange my interview with the King over your request. Perhaps I should have presented my grandson to you, but you will meet him at dinner. Come on to dinner as soon as you’re able. It won’t be a Yule Feast, but that will come, in its turn. Chambelain!" he barked, sharpening his tone immensely as he turned toward the named official. “Escort the lady to her rooms. Her servants and her things have already been taken there?”

As she was led away, Gimilbeth was momentarily puzzled. From what she remembered of him, Annundil’s son should be too young to have a son of his own so full-grown. But even as she considered this they were led forth from the reception chamber, and that line of thought was further interrupted by the delighted discourses of Barund, rapturing in the attention he had received and even going so far as to speculate on how very near their rooms might be to one another.

[Kirael]

Most of the cooking had finished and Narian was overseeing the transfer of it to the dinner hall. The first course has already been put on the table and the pig had made no attempt to escape so far.

At the other end of the kitchen, the back door opened and a cold winter wind crept in.

“The door!” Somebody called.

“There’s a visitor,” countered the maid who had opened the offending door. “He asks if there is place for an old man to warm his bones and by chance a small meal.”

“Then let him in!” yelled Narian from the other side of the kitchen. “The kitchen’s of Weathertop never let a visitor go hungry. I have a reputation to think of.”

Kirael rose from her spot at the fire and gave Narian a nod, indicating she’d take care of it. Narian flashed her an appreciating smile before turning around and promptly scolding a kitchen-boy for messing with the water pitcher.

Kirael walked over to the grey-cloaked visitor. She offered him a quiet spot near the fire. Around them the final preparations for the dinner went on.

“There’s broth, fresh bread, and a quarter of a cold chicken, will that suffice?” She asked.

“No meal has ever been insufficient at your kitchens, madam Kirael,”

The mention of her name made her look up sharply. With a ladle she lifted the unknown visitor’s hat a little and peered attentively below it for a moment.

“I might have know,” she grumbled, but not unkindly. “There’s always something afoot when you turn up, old fox. I can't imagine what’s has drawn you here today.”

“For starters, Narian’s most excellent food.,” her visitor replied with a wink as he sniffed the aromas of the kitchen.

Kirael grunted with disbelief. As she ladled some broth into a bowl, her grey clad visitor removed his shawl and coat and warmed himself. She handed him a bread and the bowl.

“We will see yet, won’t we?”

[Gimilbeth]

Amon Sul, afternoon of November 13, 1347

“Well, Barund, you may retire now” Gimilbeth told the excited captain who was dogging her steps to the very door of her new room. “Go and get ready for the dinner!” She stepped over the threshold and quietly but firmly closed the door right in his face. Barund was becoming a bit of a problem, she thought. She could handle him, of course, but he was liable to be another nuisance.

The room assigned to Gimilbeth was rather small, with high vaulted ceiling and bare whitewashed walls. The austere aspect of the chamber was softened by two high tapering windows; the upper parts of the frames contained gorgeous ancient panes of colored glass transforming the pale winter light into dazzling rainbow of colors. By the wall there was a rather narrow canopied bed (“Is the Warden concerned about keeping me chaste?” Gimilbeth smirked to herself), a washstand, a writing table, two trunks for clothes and a dressing table with a medium-sized mirror. In a corner there was a niche with a maid’s cot, concealed by a painted screen.

Once inside, Gimilbeth was greeted by two shy, plain-looking local girls, scullery-maids or kitchen-help by the look of them, who proposed their assistance in washing and dressing. Gimilbeth dismissed them almost right away, after making sure they had brought her enough hot water to wash and enough towels to dry. For the rest she would rely on Nimraen – how fortunate that the Gondorian maid had not been harmed in the orc raid! Blast it all… she hated thinking back to the fight, but Hurgon’s and Barund’s indiscretion and Annundil’s questions made it so vivid again… Gimilbeth shook her head and concentrated on the task at hand – to make herself presentable as soon as possible.

The local maids left a copper bath tube half-filled with hot water. Aided by Nimraen, Gimilbeth bathed in haste, taking care not to soak her thick dark tresses. It would take them too long to dry – so she would postpone the full bath till the evening. While the maid combed her hair, Gimilbeth looked into the small mirror: she noticed that the cold wind that had buffeted her on the road and the subsequent contact with hot water had brought color to her pale cheeks. By tomorrow the frostbites might turn ugly, if not treated, but today the blush looked quite becoming, making her seem younger.

Satisfied with her appearance, Gimilbeth opened a small case with her jewelry. The collection looked meager enough for a Princess. Some turquoise pieces, sets with malachite, aquamarines and amethysts. Of the precious stones there were only rubies, a gift from Serinde, and even those gems were small enough, with diminutive surrounding diamonds. Oh, Elessya, how handy it would have been now!

How incongruous, Gimilbeth thought, that almost everything she had of value had come from her mother’s line, while her father’s line, royal as it was, had leagued her next to nothing. A series of fratricides and palace coups had ruined the Kings of Rhudaur, and while the crown had been restored to the rightful owners, the crown jewels were not. The rich nobles of Arthedain would never understand her predicament –they still held their coffers intact for generations. “I suppose this little conniving baggage Sulawen has better jewels,” she thought bitterly. But that was beside the point, as tonight she only had the Warden and his family to impress.

She chose a beautiful amethyst collier with long pendants that had matching coronet, ring and earrings. “Now bring me the amaranth gown” she ordered Nimraen. The dress was made of soft dark-violet velvet with wide trailing sleeves that were only elbow-long in front and allowed to see the narrow diaphanous sleeves of her pale-violet under-dress. The bodice of the outer gown was cut quite low, while the thin under-dress could have been buttoned or unbuttoned at will. Gimilbeth left it almost totally unbuttoned as was the custom in Umbar. “I sure hope the dining hall is well heated” she winked to herself.

Last but not least, she took out Serinde’s charm against evil magick, clasped the chain around her neck and pushed the golden disc with engraved runes in the Sacred Tongue deep into her bodice. Considering that today was the thirteenth of Hithui and a Friday, the day of the accursed Valar, - quite inauspicious day by all accounts - Gimilbeth wished to be well protected.

“Go and tell them that I am ready, Nimraen, and bring captain Barund back with you. He will lead me to the Hall.”

[Celebrindol]

Amon Sul, Chambers of Lady Sulawen, November 13, 1347

“It is time to go to the Hall – are you ready, Sulawen?”

Celebrindol entered the dressing-room and looked in shock at his wife. She was definitely NOT ready, regardless of the fact that she had spent the last three hours dressing for the dinner. The bed and chairs were strewn with discarded gowns and the dressing table was aglitter with scattered jewelry. Two maids were running around carrying more dresses. Sulawen herself looked unsettled – more unsettled than he had seen her in decades - actually, he thought, she looked ready to burst into tears any time. Upon seeing her husband, she gestured the two unhappy maids out. The girls, keeping their eyes downcast, scurried past Cerebrindol and closed the door.

“What…” he started worriedly, but she interrupted him by an angry glare.

“Ah, I see,” she sneered in an unnaturally shrill voice. “YOU are already washed and combed and have donned your best garb – all too eager to meet your sweetheart, aren’t you?”

Celebrindol’s jaw dropped. He was silent for a moment, then, recovering somewhat, tried to reason with his upset spouse. “What are you implying, Sulawen?” he ventured. “Do you really think that I am glad to meet this woman again – after all the unpleasantness I had to suffer? Of course, I have changed clothes – but I do so every time before dinner, especially on Fridays…”

“So you want me to believe that this Friday will be like any other?” she said, unclasping her necklace with shaking fingers and throwing it irritably back into the box.

He frowned back. “This Friday is likely to be more unpleasant by far than any in the last decades - and your reaction is a harbinger of it. But, Sulawen, please, be fair: had I ever wanted this woman, I could have married her then and there, as my Father wished.”

Once these words had left Celebrindol’s mouth, he became painfully aware that it was just the WRONG thing to say, as Sulawen made a double take and her cheeks covered with red spots.

“So you have come to regret your decision now, haven’t you?” she hissed. “Your father never looses an opportunity to make me feel how far inferior I am to his precious Gimilbeth – in all ways! And how upset you ALL must be now, when the crown of Cardolan is finally free for the taking! Had you been Gimilbeth’s husband, you would have been crowned King of Arnor!”

“Sulawen…”

“Well, it is never late to change your mind”- she was crying openly now – “HER father had remarried, so – why can’t YOU do the same? I have done what I could – I’ve birthed your fine heirs – now she can take over…The old witch is still fair to look upon, they say… Perhaps your father will dispatch me with some poison to make things easier for you…”

Celebrindol shook his head in bewilderment. His wife was clearly beyond reasoning – an incredible thing to happen to a woman normally so sure of herself and so composed as Sulawen. To such a fit there was only one remedy. He approached and picked her up in one swift motion, cradling her in his arms. She stopped struggling and only cried weakly into his shoulder. Celebrindol approached the closed door.

“Hey there, maids”, he called, “sent someone to warn the Warden that we shall be late for dinner!”

[Annundil]

November 13, 1347 – Amon Sul

When Annundil had word that Lady Gimilbeth and her two escorts were ready and would be arriving at the dining hall shortly, he rose from his seat by the fireside, sent for his wife Erebloth, and with her arm in his, strode down the connecting corridor that they would be present to receive them.

On entering, he looked about before taking his place at the center of the dais. The room was another semi-circle, its flat side back-to-back with the half-circle of his reception room. But because that middle wall was shifted a bit the other way, and because of the tower stairs, this room was the larger. In addition to the two fireplaces at the outer corners, there was a third at the center of the dais – to his back when he took his accustomed place.

Together with his wife, he walked down a center aisle past the various domestics who would be eating with them, at the lower floor. He looked before him at the long head table. The two center seats would be for himself and his wife. To her left would be the three seats reserved for their newly arrived guests – and his son Nolentir and his younger daughters had been moved down the table accordingly (his son already displaced from his father’s right by Annundil’s highly esteemed son-in-law, Celebrindol). Last of all on the left was Sulawen's favored lady-in-waiting, Vorondariel.

But then Annundil paused for just a moment. The two seats which would be just to his right were also still vacant. Where were Celebrindol and Sulawen? Beleg was in his place after that, and then Aramacil, Estelien – and the maiden Calafornien, who tried to be discrete about keeping Beleg under a watchful eye.

The doors behind him opened once more and a servant announced the arrival of the Lady Gimilbeth, Hurgon of Cameth Brin and Barund of Brochenridge. Annundil and Erebloth turned to meet them.

But… where WERE Celebrindol and Sulawen?