Gimilbeth
Member
Eldest daughter of King Tarnendur, also called the Witch of Cameth Brin
Posts: 51
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Post by Gimilbeth on May 1, 2008 10:09:16 GMT
Late morning of November 16, 1347.
Her second lesson with the Palantir over, Gimilbeth descended the endless winding stairs leading down from the High Chamber and stopped, leaning tiredly on the tower wall. Her mind was still in turmoil after the strain of using the Palantir and her knees felt wobbly after the long descent.
If anything, her stay at Amon Sul was providing opportunities for daily physical exercise – opportunities she found herself resenting. But there was mental training as well, training in mind-communication, Osanwe, which she appreciated much more, as it enabled her to use the Stone and also opened new horizons in sorcery.
Having rested a bit, she walked slowly through the tower hall towards the exit to the court. From outside, the jovial banter of the guards was heard: someone with a northern accent was telling a funny story – quite salacious in content, as she could glean from its ending. The audience first howled with laugher, but then one of the Arthedain guards chided the storyteller “But really, Northerner, ‘tis not good at all to lay with a married woman! Them Gondorian wenches are no better than sluts if they cuckold their men like that!”
“Look,” the Notherner started to counter, “I have been in Tharbad and in Bree, and I can tell you on good authority…” Here he stopped, because Gimilbeth had emerged from the tower doors onto the terrace. The guards promptly wiped the bawdy smirks from their faces and bowed to her as she passed by them. She descended the main stair and made her way through the court, with the guards following her with curious glances. She was sure that she was bound to become the next topic of conversation.
Gimilbeth had nothing to do till lunch time, so she decided to go see Hurgon. She needed the portrait tomorrow, so it was high time to make sure the painting was ready. However, as it was almost noon, there were much more chances to catch the painter near the kitchens than in his room. Gimilbeth turned right and walked towards the West wing, where the Cardolani delegation was housed, aiming to pass through the arch into the next court to the Kitchens and the Common Dining hall.
By the West wing, she met a tall noble clad in ermine cloak, whom she recognized as Galphant of Baranduin, her new acquaintance from yesterday. At the dinner he seemed a rather dull fellow, so Gimilbeth sighed inwardly seeing him, but some exchange of civilities was now unavoidable. She noticed that another man, Hador by name, an old weasel by the look of him, who was following a step behind Galphant, stopped, bowed to her deeply and instantly disappeared inside the building, leaving his colleague alone to greet her.
Gimilbeth contrived a polite smile and walked towards Galphant.
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Post by Galphant on May 4, 2008 14:29:19 GMT
November 16, midday
As Galphant had expected, the Lady Gimilbeth did not seem particularly pleased to see him. No matter, he thought. It must be done. He had spent the last few hours going over his rather rusty courting techniques – it had been a long time since he successfully courted his poor late wife, and since her death he had not had the opportunity to try them out again. This would, at the very least, be interesting. And she was certainly a very beautiful woman.
"My lady," he bowed. "It is a pleasure to see you once again. It is such a small, dreary place here – it certainly relieves the monotony to find myself at least occasionally in the company of such a remarkable and accomplished lady as yourself. Until we met at dinner last night, I had feared that this whole trip would be merely an exercise in tedium, but now I have some hope that it may be quite interesting."
Gimilbeth looked at him for a moment, briefly puzzled. This was a much warmer greeting than she had expected from a man she barely knew. Their conversation at dinner the night before had been brief and largely focused on the weather – she was certain he had shown no great interest in her before. And yet now he seemed to be quite deliberately flirting with her. Deciding to play along, for the moment at least, she flashed him a shy smile before replying. “I fear that you flatter me too much. I cannot think that I am so interesting as to warrant such praise.”
Now it was Galphant’s turn for puzzlement. If he had taken any impression of this woman in his previous encounter with her, it is that modesty was not one of her virtues, and the last response he had expected was coy encouragement – a haughty dismissal had seemed more likely. Perhaps Hador was right after all. Galphant was not sure if he would be glad of that or not. “Well, you must give me the opportunity to test my hopes. I’m certain we shall spend enough time here together for us to learn if it is your or I that is correct in this.”
Gimilbeth merely smiled slightly, without speaking. There was no doubt of it now – the man was most definitely flirting. To her surprise, she found it somewhat pleasant – it had been some time since she had even been in the company of a man of near her own station who might pay attention to her as a woman. The Barunds of the world were well enough, but it was entirely different to receive attention from somebody who might actually mean something by it. She resolved to remain on her guard, though.
“Tell me, lady, what brings you to our dull side of the compound? I can’t think that there is much here that would be of interest.”
“I was only going to the dining hall to look for someone.” Gimilbeth said. After a moment’s thought, she added, “my court painter, Hurgon. I must set him to begin a portrait of the warden.”
“A painter, eh? Is he a talented one? I have been thinking for some time that I would like to commission a proper portrait of my son, but we have no good painters at Tyrn Gorthad, and events have always intervened to prevent me from finding one in Tharbad.”
“He is thought to be quite good, yes.”
“If you don’t mind, then, my lady, I should be glad to accompany you in finding this man, so I might have a few words with him.”
He held out his arm to her.
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Gimilbeth
Member
Eldest daughter of King Tarnendur, also called the Witch of Cameth Brin
Posts: 51
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Post by Gimilbeth on May 4, 2008 18:05:30 GMT
Gimilbeth inclined her head in assent, put her forearm on Galphant’s sleeve as the courtly custom demanded, and let him lead her through the long archway into the next court. Once in the noon sunshine again, she studied him briefly through her modestly lowered long lashes – not a young man, but still hale and handsome, with wavy dark hair only starting to turn gray at the temples, strong chin and clear gray eyes of a Dunadan noble.
“You have mentioned your son, Lord Galphant,” Gimilbeth said softly. “Was he the charming young man who sat by the Prince Beleg yesterday evening?”
“Yes my Lady,” Galphant nodded, smiling. “Herunarth is his name and he is my heir. I am a widower and have no other children left.”
“Please accept my sympathy for your lady’s tragic demise,” Gimilbeth murmured dutifully, inwardly excited. So it was no meaningless flirting, after all… Perhaps he planned to propose to her…
“Oh, my late wife had passed out so long ago, that no condolences are needed, my Lady. Thank you all the same, though,” Galphant politely replied.
They lapsed into silence, walking slowly side by side through the north-west court. “The Prince of Baranduin,” Gimilbeth thought, “or soon to become one. Not bad, but a King would have been way better.” There was no King in Cardolan, and Galphant was Dirion’s closest relative – his sister-son. The realization struck Gimilbeth: she understood the reason of Galphant’s sudden interest in her. “He strives to become King and needs Rhudaur’s support,” she guessed. She fluttered her lashes and her smile turned a shade warmer.
Galphant smiled in return. “Now we are almost there,” he commented as they approached the busy common mess area. ”I think I see one of my servants, Duilin. If you permit me, I will send him in to fetch the painter for you.”
“I am truly grateful for your company and your assistance, my Lord Galphant,” she said, frowning at the bustling thong of people by the mess door. “Please, do send your man. I have no wish indeed to venture inside myself.”
Galphant did as he was bidden. They waited standing by the low hedge of the snow-covered herb garden, until the tipsy painter was finally apprehended and led out of the Dining hall by Duilin and Barund, who had happened to be there as well.
Hurgon proved to be unsteady on his feet, so the two men continued to support him on both sides, while he faced his Lady. Gimilbeth noticed that Barund seemed to be glaring at the Cardolani Prince by her side. She smiled inwardly at Barund’s apparent frustration and, conscious of Galphant’s presence, addressed the painter in a much milder tone than she normally used for him.
“Hurgon,” she said, “I trust your last painting is finally ready?” Hurgon was nodding vigorously, so Gimilbeth hurried to continue, before the undiplomatic painter had time to disclose Tarniel’s name for everyone to hear. “If so, you have to get started on the next project – the formal portrait of the Lord Warden Annundil and his Lady. Moreover, his Highness Lord Galphant here also wishes to give a commission to you.” She gracefully gestured for Galphant to continue.
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Post by Galphant on May 5, 2008 17:10:54 GMT
November 16, midday
Having secured the apparently inebriated painter's somewhat dubious agreement to the painting, Galphant thought it likely time to make his farewell to Gimilbeth, for the moment. He wanted to speak to Hador, and he felt a tedious conversation with Orogost was in order, as well. "My lady, I thank you for bringing this talented artist to my attention, and for brightening an otherwise dreary day. I have some business to attend to for the moment, but perhaps you would care to go for a promenade later this afternoon."
Gimilbeth smiled with what she took to be an approximation of warmth. "I would be delighted, Lord Galphant."
"Then, I will bid you adieu for now, my lady." Galphant bowed deeply and kissed the hand that Gimilbeth proferred to him. He then nodded curtly at the Rhudaurian officer. "Captain, a pleasure. Come, Duilin.”
Followed by the small Gondorian, Galphant headed back towards his room. “Duilin, I would like you to find Herunarth and tell him to come speak to me.”
“I will. And what should I do when I have finished with that?”
“Oh, continue with what you’ve been doing, I suppose – make friends with the servants and keep your ears open. But tell me, Herunarth says that you’ve told him an interesting tale about the Lady Gimilbeth.”
Duilin looked at him somewhat nervously. Galphant had seemed awfully cozy with Gimilbeth moments before. It was probably best to be delicate. “I meant no offense to the lady, sir. That drunken painter was spinning tales last night. He said that she raised a man from the dead, but that’s impossible, obviously. There’s no question the man is utterly terrified of her, but I wouldn’t put much stock into such ridiculous stories. The lady is certainly formidable.”
“Formidable.” Galphant laughed. “Yes, that would describe her well. I know you meant no harm, Duilin. Now go and find Herunarth.”
Arriving back at the delegations quarters, he knocked on Hador's door. The older man opened the door and looked at his colleague slyly. "How did it go, then?"
"Better than I had anticipated. She seemed quite...receptive. We are to go on a promenade this afternoon - Eru knows where. A walk through the interior of the fortress seems distinctly depressing, but there doesn’t seem to be much alternative.”
“I suppose you’ll have to grin and bear it, then. I’m glad to hear that things are going well. You see? It is not wise to doubt my expertise on the ways of women.”
Galphant looked at him dubiously. “I’m sure. Certainly she was far more pleasant than there was any reason to expect from her conduct at dinner last night. A political marriage is what it is – if it well help to preserve Cardolan’s independence and bring about good relations with our estranged cousins in Rhudaur, it does not seem like it would be such a great sacrifice for me. And she seems willing enough – although I doubt that any particular fondness for me plays much of a role in it.”
“Your person, I’m afraid, Galphant, is almost wholly irrelevant here. A woman of her age will jump at any chance to escape her father’s home and become mistress of her own household. She will come to appreciate your many virtues, I’m sure.”
“And I’m sure I’ll learn to appreciate hers, if it comes to that. Certainly that’s how it was between my mother and father – that match was entirely arranged between King Minalcar and my grandfather, and they came to love each other well enough over the years. But for now I think we should go find Orogost. He’s surely talked to the Warden by now, so we should have a better sense of what this visit will entail.”
“I imagine it will involve a great deal of contemplation of genealogical records and perusal of old Númenorean chancery precedents. Orogost was telling me yesterday about a case involving the inheritance of the Lords of Nindamos in the middle of the third millennium of the Second Age that apparently parallels our situation quite closely. Apparently its settlement took up almost the whole of the reigns of Tar-Alcarin and Tar-Calmacil, and well into the reign of Tar-Ardamin before it was finally discovered that all possible claimants of any kind had died, possibly of boredom.”
“Typical. And yet I still suspect that Orogost is the most shrewd of us all.”
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Post by scribe on Jun 17, 2008 16:02:28 GMT
Adrahil
late afternoon, November 16
"And so I think I have found the woman I will make my wife, Celebrindol. She is beautiful and vivacious, and the only child of one of the greatest landowners in Minhiriath. I intend to make my intentions known as soon as we return from this interminable visit. Although I should not damn it so much - it is good, at least, to see you once again."
Adrahil had been sent as an envoy to Fornost several years earlier to help negotiate a treaty of friendship between the two kingdoms. As a young nobleman of no especially distinguished name or fortune, Adrahil had made his way to the top ranks of power in Cardolan thanks to the favor of old King Dirion, who, after the death of his own sons, had liked to take favorites from the more promising sons of the nobility. His rise had been swift - granted high office and the lands of a number of extinct aristocratic families, Adrahil had soon become one of the leading figures in the kingdom, and thus a natural choice to act as chief envoy to Malvegil Adrahil's six months in Arthedain's capital had led to a fast friendship with Celebrindol, the king's heir, and had helped make him, after Dirion's death, one of the leading supporters of the interests of Arthedain in Harnost.
"And I you, Adrahil. It has been too long. I am most pleased to hear that things are going so well for you in recent days. I would be remiss, though, if I did not inquire about politics - my father will certainly want to know, and I'm sure a conversation with you will be much more illuminating than any letter."
"I fear, Celebrindol, that our position at this moment is not very strong. The old Prince is very unpopular, but he clearly does not have many days left to him, and Galphant is not so disliked as his father. And there are many who dislike the House of Baranduin, but would likely prefer them to rule by your father from Fornost. I fear that only the threat of force will put your father on the throne - he does not have enough supporters in Cardolan to win an internal struggle for power against Galphant."
"Is there anything my father can do to increase his popularity?"
"He could renounce his own claim. Cardolan has been independent for nearly 500 years. The people view Arthedain as a foreign country, and would view your father as a foreign conqueror."
"So, you hope for Aramacil? I had thought that you, at least, would know better - Count Belecthor has been pushing this idea upon my father for some time now in his letters. But there is no hope for my father to be brought around to support it. I do not think I could support such a plan, even. The boy is too young for such burdens, I think. But even more, it has been the policy of our kingdom for the last 500 years to work towards the peaceful reunification of the three kingdoms of Arnor. To come so close to reunification, only to see it fall through our fingers, would be unacceptable."
"I know this. I am not Belecthor, always wanting to take the path of least resistance. You know that I feel as strongly as you that the reunification of the three kingdoms is necessary, and that our danger increases as long as we are separated. But Cardolan, by and large, does not agree with you - Belecthor's opinion, unfortunately, is likely closer to that of even most of Arthedain's friends in Cardolan than my own. I had someone else in mind."
"Speak your mind."
"Perhaps you might consider Beleg for the role. It would delay reunification, certainly, but it would also make it inevitable. Cardolan would have a century to get used to the idea of reunification, and when it happened, it would be the King of Cardolan returning in triumph to his native land to take up its throne as well, rather than an inglorious annexation from afar.
"And Beleg is ready for the task, Celebrindol. Perhaps your own eyes blind you to it, but he has grown into a fine young man. He would be a good ruler for our kingdom, and would rule wisely, without coming under the thumb of any faction. Have you seen how he has already made Galphant's son into his intimate friend, in the space of a day? If anyone can tame the violence of faction in our kingdom, it is he. Belecthor would be pleased. Orogost would like nothing better than a young prince that he thinks he can dominate. Galphant would have much more difficulty rallying support against your son than he would against your father."
They sat in silence for several minutes as Celebrindol seemed to ponder his friends words. "You make some convincing arguments, my friend, but I shall have to consider this more carefully. Have you written to my father of this idea?"
"I have not yet. The idea only came to me in observing Beleg since our arrival - before I had still thought of him as he was ten years ago. I had thought that perhaps I would leave it to you to suggest this possibility to him, if you think it best."
"I will have to consider it. If my father insists on pressing his own claims, what do you foresee as the outcome?"
"That is most uncertain. At this point, it seems impossible that the council would freely vote to make Malvegil be the successor. Orogost talks constantly about precedents and legality, but I am sure he is only looking for a precedent that will allow him to refuse to support your father. He does not particularly want Galphant, but I suspect he would see him as the lesser of two evils. And many of the others on the council are the same way. Hador and the Prince constantly whisper poison in their ears about the King, and there are many who are only too eager to hear it. Only the threat of force, I think, could convince the waverers on the council to support Malvegil. And I do not know what the result of that would be - bloodshed between our two kingdoms should be avoided at all costs, and who knows if Galphant would accept such a result without a fight?"
"Whatever comes, Adrahil, I know we can rely on your wise counsel and true friendship. We will have to speak further on this. But for now I have to ask that you excuse me - I must speak with my father-in-law before dinner."
"Of course."
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Post by scribe on Jun 17, 2008 16:03:15 GMT
For Nov. 16.
To be used by anyone who needs it
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Post by Kirael on Jun 17, 2008 18:58:10 GMT
Evening of 16th of November Weathertop kitchens
Kirael retired to her own chamber, leaving Narian to deal with the kitchen maids and the final clean-up. She could still hear them through the wall, chatting and rattling with earthware.
Kirael was the only one who had a room to herself. A small, narrow room with no windows, but one that was entirely her own nevertheless. One of the perks of seniority. On the other side of the wall was the kitchen’s hearth, making it always comfortably warm in her room, something she appreciated more and more as the years went by.
Lighting a small oil lamp, she sat on the narrow bed and untied her grey hair. Then she rose again and went to the old trunk that stood at the end of the bed. She had no other furniture, or rather she had no need of anything else. She took a small bundle out of the trunk and returned to the bed. With some difficulty she bend her legs until she was sitting cross-legged.
Before her on the sheepskin-cover she unfolded the bundle, revealing a handful of small bones on a worn piece of leather.
“Now,” she said quietly to herself, “now that matters of food have been dealt with, let’s see to the matters of curiosity.”
Taking the pieces of bone in both her hands, she closed her eyes and hummed an old children’s song. The song didn’t mean anything, like most children’s song do, but Kirael liked the pleasant tune of it and she always felt she had to hum something when casting bones.
She breathed on the collection of bones in her hand and then scattered them on the leather cloth in a swift, smooth motion. With one bony finger she traced the words of bone, muttering softly. In reality, the bones told her little, she had a small talent of fore-sight, but with age, she found that fussing over something tangible helped her sort out the images she saw before her mind’s eye.
“An unprecedented occurrence on Amon Sûl,” she whispered, “three royal houses instead of one. Although long apart, the Stone remains ever their point of contact… aha, only old Kirael has lived through them all!”
Her finger stroked gently over one bone, before moving further. “Hmm. All have come for the Palantír. That much has been obvious. But not to peek under the kitchen maids' skirts, that’s for sure! Narian needn't worry. But what’s this? United in purpose, but not in openness. Does someone wish to pay you a secret rendezvous, my old friend?”
She laughed quietly at herself. Foolish old Kirael, having fond feelings for a stone tool that she had never even seen. No, not just a tool, she corrected herself, the Palantír was an enduring work of art. Sometimes she thought she saw it in her dreams and she then wondered whether the Seeing Stone could also dream of her.
She shook her head while chuckling, and went further on the bony path. Motives she now searched, they'd better not try and use the Stone for nefarious purposes! She would not be pleased. But no, there did not seem to be a direct threat to her beloved Weathertop or even Arthedain, although the real reasons were tangled and confusing.
She eventually gave up, so many woven reasons of why all these people had ended up in Amon Sûl at the exact same time! Impossible to make head or tails of it.
But history would be written here, that was certain. Kirael at least has had a sneak preview.
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Post by Amdir on Jun 23, 2008 2:45:34 GMT
Late Morning, November 17
Amdír strolled along the battlements of the fortress with Barund, the young Rhudaurian officer, who was complaining. Amdír had seemingly become his confidant the night before.
Amdír had, as usual, been kept closeted with his father for most of the day writing out correspondence and the like. When his father had finally dismissed him at dinner time, Amdír had thought to seek out Aegnor, the only other junior Cardolani nobleman present at Amon Sûl. Aegnor was potentially a political enemy, and the two men were not particularly close, but with the absence of any alternative society they had tended to gravitate towards one another. Aegnor was pleasant enough company. At least he was a sympathetic ear for Amdír's complaints about his father. Amdír had been pleased to see that Aegnor hoped to seek out Barund to renew their society of the night before. "He seems a pleasant enough fellow, in spite of that silly infatuation with his mistress. At the very least, it will be amusing to get him drunk and mooning over her again."
Amdír had not demurred. Thinking of his conversation with his father that morning, he remembered that he had good reason to cultivate the Rhudaurian. They had been unable to find him in the dining hall, however, and set out to look for him. After wandering about the complex some, they had come upon him in an empty corridor, pacing back and forth in some agitation. "Barund, we've been looking for you - we hoped to share a drink with you." Barund looked up and, on recognizing Aegnor, Amdír saw with some surprise that his face was transfigured by something resembling hate. "Oh, I'm sure you did!"
Aegnor's further efforts to open a conversation only led to more bitter outbursts from the Rhudaurian. Aegnor seemed more bemused than surprised, but eventually gave up. "Well, friend, if you see fit to be in my company, I will be back in the dining hall. I trust this rudeness is merely temporary." Turning to Amdír, he went on. "He seems angry with me, but perhaps you'll have better luck. I'll leave you with him - I hope you'll find me soon."
Amdír had indeed had better luck. Soon after Aegnor left, he was able to learn from the Rhudaurian the gist of the problem - Barund, it seemed, saw Aegnor's master as a romantic rival, and now felt embarrassed by his previous loquaciousness on the subject of the lady Gimilbeth's charms, which he felt left him compromised. Amdír had soon enough convinced Barund that the best course in this situation was to compose himself and act as though nothing was wrong. They had returned to the main dining hall and Barund had made his peace with Aegnor. No further discussions of the merits of the lady were forthcoming from Barund that night.
The next morning, Amdír had found himself with no responsibilities. His father had meetings with the other council members and the warden for most of the day, meetings which were seemingly too sensitive for Amdír himself to be present for. Amdír had soon found that he would not be able to enjoy his vacation in solitude, however - he had run into Barund at breakfast and the Rhudaurian had insisted that they converse further on Barund's personal problems. Apparently, Barund had seen Amdír's fairly boilerplate advice of the night before as a sign of true friendship, and Amdír was not particularly interested in disabusing him of the notion.
Barund had thus spent much of the morning engaged once more in airing the many charms of the Lady Gimilbeth, describing, yet again, his own heroism in her defense, and complaining, once more, of the effrontery of this Cardolani nobleman in thinking himself possibly worthy of her love. Amdír took it all in quietly. Galphant courting the lady might merely be an innocent flirtation, but it also might be more than that. This might very well be some sort of political game. It would bear watching. Suddenly, Barund's tone changed. "I am sorry for subjecting you to all this, but I find myself able to think of little else, and it does me good to speak of it. Is there anything more you can tell me of this Galphant? What sort of man is he? Is he well-respected in your kingdom?"
Amdír thought for a moment before answering. Perhaps now was the time to begin to prepare the way for his political overture - if Galphant was working on the princess directly, there was little time to be wasted in putting his own plan into operation. "Lord Galphant's father, the Prince of Baranduin, is the greatest nobleman in the kingdom. The family rules over their lands practically as an independent fief. The Prince himself is a disagreeable man - arrogant and harsh. His wife was sister to our last king, and he has spent the last two years arguing that, should the line of Caryontar prove to be extinct, as we all fear, Galphant, as next of kin to old King Dirion, should be the heir."
"What a presumptuous old fool! A mere nobleman to become king! In Rhudaur such a thing would not be tolerated, I'm sure. What effrontery!"
"Some view it that way, indeed." By his look, Amdír hoped to convey that he was among those who did. There could certainly be no harm in using Barund's dislike for Galphant as a way of bringing him to agree with Amdír's own ideas. "They say the old prince is dying now - Galphant likely will succeed him very soon. Galphant himself is, I think, a better man than his father, but he has much of the same arrogance, I fear. Certainly he will press his own claims to the throne."
"The throne claimed by a man not even of the House of Isildur. Shameful! Tell me, is he likely to succeed?"
"I cannot say. The Prince is powerful in the northern reaches of the kingdom, and has powerful allies among some of the merchants of Tharbad. But in the south he is unpopular, and he has few friends in the capital. Even in Tharbad and the north he and Galphant have many enemies."
"And who do those enemies support for the throne? Malvegil, I expect."
"Indeed, most do. Malvegil's agents have been busy currying favor with those who do not like the Prince. They say the old man is obsessed with reuniting the three kingdoms of the north."
"Yes, he has agents in our lands as well, I'm told. So Malvegil will take Cardolan, then?"
"I do not know, he faces as many obstacles as Galphant, I suspect. There are many who do not care for Galphant and his father, but who cherish the independence of our lands, and do not wish our great kingdom to be ruled as a province from Fornost, either. Many of these, I think, will, in the end, prefer Galphant to Malvegil, if those are the only choices."
"It seems a difficult situation, then."
"It is. My father fears the day when we finally discover with full certitude that the line of Caryontar does not continue in Gondor. He fears it will be the signal for civil war - both sides are too committed to their own ends, and both see too much to lose in the other's victory. Those of us who just hope for the continued peace and unity of the kingdom may very well have to choose sides."
"That is unfortunate indeed. Is there nothing that can be done? No other candidate who could be chosen?"
"I do not know what other there might be. If the line of Caryontar is dead, Malvegil is the senior heir of Isildur, and Galphant is the next of kin to the old king. My father and some others had hoped that Malvegil might be persuaded to make one of his young grandsons our king, so as to maintain our independence, but Malvegil will hear of nothing but his own ascension over Cardolan."
"Malvegil's grandsons? Are they not here at Amon Sûl even now?"
"I have heard as much. But it matters little so long as Malvegil holds so stubbornly to his own rights."
"Unfortunate, I guess."
"Yes." Now it was time, Amdír thought, to bring his interlocutor to the proper point. "But the grandson really would have been ideal, I think. A young man, with impeccable pedigree, and with no prior loyalties to any existing faction within the kingdom. But, it was not to be."
Amdír paused, and the two walked on in silence for a few minutes. Barund looked to be lost in thought. The slow gears in his brain were apparently grinding into motion. "I have just been thinking of your predicament. I had a thought. Our king has two young sons. Mightn't the younger fill much the same role that you envisioned for Malvegil's grandson?"
Amdír looked at him, putting on his best impersonation of surprise and gratification. "A young Rhudaurian prince, you say? There are many objections, I fear, but the idea seems intriguing nonetheless."
"I assure that none of the objections would be on our side - we would surely be delighted to send one of our young princes to you, I'm sure! That would put that Galphant in his place, I'm sure."
"You are getting ahead of yourself, I fear. You are surely not one who can make such promises on behalf of your king. Nor can I make any promises on behalf of our kingdom - we are too divided to be making any clear decisions at the moment."
"Still, you must admit it is a fine idea!"
"It is certainly a relief from the dreary impossibility of all our other options."
"Then I tell you what I shall do - I shall speak to my lady - to the Lady Gimilbeth, that is - of our conversation and this idea. If she thinks well of it, perhaps you can meet with her and discuss it further."
"I suppose there can be no harm in it. But, for some advice, do remember in advocating this idea that the Lady Gimilbeth might not think as poorly of the Lord Galphant as you do. It might be unwise to mention anything about the harm this would do to his cause in your discussion of it with her."
"Of course, of course! I shall relay the message as soon as I have the chance!"
Amdír was pleased. He enjoyed the art of convincing others to do what he wanted them to, while they all the while thought it was all their own idea. "There's no need to hurry, Barund - there is still plenty of time. Why don't we go back to the dining hall and see if we can find something to eat?"
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Gimilbeth
Member
Eldest daughter of Tarnendur
Posts: 19
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Post by Gimilbeth on Jul 2, 2008 7:14:29 GMT
Amon Sul, High Chamber, late morning of November 17, 1347.
It was close to eleven in the morning - the appointed time for the audience with King Malvegil. Gimilbeth was waiting in the High chamber, the portrait of Tarniel, now framed and put on a portable stand, by her side. The painting was concealed by a curtain attached to the upper rim of the frame, but Gimilbeth wasn't sure that the assistant warden, Narbeleg , who had carried the portrait upstairs, hadn't taken a peek on it along the way. Annundil, however, didn't ask a single question about the painting Gimilbeth wished to show to Malvegil - he was not one to meddle in the affairs of his king.
Now Annundil was sitting by the Palantir, in the chair facing north. His hands were pressed to the surface of the Stone, but he remained silent, waiting patiently. Unable to control her mounting nervousness, Gimilbeth rose, walked over to him, and looked over his shoulder into the depths of the stone. She saw the same chamber of grey stone, but the pedestal, where the Palantir of Fornost used to rest, was now empty. She drew in her breath in disappointment.
Alerted to her presence behind his back, the warden shifted irritably, ready to rebuke her, but then thought better of it and smiled instead. "Don't worry, my Lady, the audience will be granted on schedule. The King has requested the Palantir to be brought to his chambers: he rarely climbs to the High chamber nowadays."
"Is this possible?" asked Gimilbeth in wonder. She looked at the Palantir before them, appraising it. "This Stone looks very heavy… "
"Indeed," the Warden replied, pride in his voice. "The Palantir of Amon Sul is the biggest Stone in the North, only second to that of Osgiliath. But the Palantir of Fornost is smaller and easily portable. It doesn't need to be in a high chamber to be used for communication with other stones."
"And for observations?" prompted Gimilbeth eagerly.
"That is another matter," replied the Warden dryly and said no more. Gimilbeth understood that she was going beyond the boundaries of what Palantir-lore the Warden was ready to share with the outsiders. She bit her lip and continued to wait looking over Annundil's shoulder.
Suddenly the image in the stone shifted. Gimilbeth felt as if she was falling down from the top of the tower of Fornost - level upon level rushed before her eyes. She swayed on her feet and had to grip the back of Annundil's chair. Then she saw the King's Palace - the oh-so-well remembered magnificent structure of local grey stone. Her gaze rushed through an enfilade of chambers, some empty, some full of people, and then the image froze to show the familiar face of Evendur, the Warden of the Palantir of Fornost.
Evendur said something that Gimilbeth was unable to hear, and the Warden Annundil rose and ceded his seat to Gimilbeth. She placed her trembling hands on the stone. Annundil carried the covered painting closer to her side and left the chamber.
"Greetings, my Lady Gimilbeth," the voice of the warden of the Fornost stone rang out in her head. "His Majesty the King deigns to grant you the private audience you have requested."
Gimilbeth saw the bony face of the king of Arthedain appear in the stone and barely suppressed an exclamation of dismay. Malvegil had aged so greatly as to become a withered, balding, wrinkled caricature of his former imposing self. It was clear that his body was fast declining. The shrewd piercing grey eyes, however, had lost none of their sharpness. He grinned mirthlessly at Gimilbeth's halting words of formal salutation.
"Time had not been kind to me since we last met, eh, Gimilbeth?" the King's grating voice said in lieu of greeting. "Don't look so horrified, girl, I may look ancient, but I am not yet in dotage. Hmm…You fare much better, I see, the tales were true on that account. How old are you now - hundred, or even more? They say you use sorcery to preserve your good looks, is that true?" he added mockingly.
"It is definitely not true, your Highness…" Gimilbeth felt at a loss at this rather rude reference to her age, but that had always been Malvegil's disconcerting way to conduct a conversation. He preferred his interlocutors unsettled and on the defense, taking advantage of their gaffes. "Our Hillmen are not used to long life-spans of the Dunedain, so they can't help to think of it as magick," she added, ostensibly sighing.
"Your Hillmen, yes, let us talk about them," the king took up. "I heard Tarnendur had pacified them. The question is, for how long?"
"That is exactly what worries me, my Lord." Gimilbeth regained some of her assurance now when the talk took the desired turn. "The pacification of Hillmen is only temporary, I fear. Their chief, a common brigand and murderer called Broggha, was given a County to rule and a place on the Council of Rhudaur. But he wants more - the whole Kingdom as his own and death to all the Dunedain. It is only a matter of time before he strikes us treacherously in the back. We have to attack the Hillmen first and wipe out the source of the plague afore it spreads."
"And for that you need Arthedain - again," snickered the King malevolently. "Are you aware that your father cheated me the last time?"
Now, that was slippery grounds. There was never any written agreement as to Malvegil's line taking over Rhudaur after Tarnendur's death without male heirs, but Malvegil had clearly counted on it - and was shorn of his hopes at Tarnendur's second marriage.
"As far as I know, King Tarnendur had not given you any promises not to remarry," Gimilbeth countered. Seeing Malvegil's wrinkled face darken ominously, she hastened to add "Of course his second marriage was a bad mistake - but he didn't mean to dupe your Majesty, I assure you. It seems my father had fallen in love and thought little of the consequences of his actions."
"That blasted marriage with Eilinel!" Gimilbeth thought to herself - "what a misstep, what a folly! And now the time has come to pay for it…"
Maybe, due to Gimilbeth's inexperience with the Stone, Malvegil was able to catch a snippet of her thought, maybe he simply shrewdly guessed her feelings, but the King's thin pale lips contorted in a smirk. "You don't seem to be happy about it either, my dear…" he commented. "I suppose you are not too fond of your new mother-in-law… and your young brothers."
"Not particularly," Gimilbeth conceded. It was hellishly difficult to hold her own with Malvegil whose mind lost nothing of its keenness. She licked her dry lips and continued. "But apart from the brothers, I have a charming young sister, Tarniel. She will come of age in a decade or so, therefore it is time to start looking for a suitable husband for her. Remembering his old ties of friendship with Arthedain, my august father desires to offer her hand in marriage to your grandson Beleg." Gimilbeth took one of her hands away from the stone, reached for the portrait and revealed it.
Hurgon had done quite a decent work. The willowy figure of Tarniel clad in sumptuous pink-and-silver dress looked beautiful, innocent and noble. There was also something else about the princess on the portrait, about her sad eyes and thin swan-like neck holding a heavy bun of dark hair. It was an eerie and vulnerable feeling, begging for protection from a dark doom looming ahead. Looking on the portrait gave a pang to one's heart even long after Tarniel herself had become a long-forgotten legend.
Malvegil, however, gave the portrait only a cursory glance. "She seems a fine young girl," he conceded. "But that is beside the point. I understand the advantages Tarnendur craves to gain from the alliance with Arthedain. But what is in it for me? Tarnendur has two sons, so this Tarniel would hardly ever have even half-rights to the throne."
"Your Highness, Rhudaur is an insecure, tumultuous kingdom. As you undoubtedly know, hardly any of its kings had the privilege to die in his bed of old age. Having two male heirs doesn't assure the continuation of the line. If it is interrupted, Tarniel's husband would have a solid claim to the throne, especially if he is of the main line of Isildur."
"We have been over it once, haven't we?" chuckled Malvegil. "It is uniquely my son's fault that the similar and far better arrangement had not been made years ago. Don't blush, Gimilbeth, you know full well that you would have made a better queen than that fool Sulawen. I always repeat it to my son, but he wouldn't listen."
"Hmm, the relationships between Malvegil and Celebrindol must be still somewhat strained, then" thought Gimilbeth. "Moreover, Sulawen likely hates the King, if he is so overt with his bad feelings towards her. It might be to my advantage one way or another…" Aloud she said "What is past, should better be forgotten, your Highness. We have to deal with the present. May I ask you to consider my half-sister as a bride for your noble grandson?"
"I shall think on the proposal and discuss it with my Council. However, if we do agree, are you willing to send the princess to be fostered at Fornost? I need a properly brought up and educated bride for my heir. I won't let her remain among the brigands in Rhudaur, where her life is in jeopardy and her education and manners suffer."
Gimilbeth stiffened in frustration. "I assure you, the princess is being properly brought up. My father has even found an Elven tutor for her, Lady Arynia, a very accomplished maiden from Rivendell. But the idea to take Tarniel to the safety of Fornost has occurred to the Council of Rhudaur as well. Nobody will gainsay this arrangement."
"But, mind you, Gimilbeth, my favorable decision on the matter of the proposed marriage doesn't entail my consent to send my army to Rhudaur. To go to war against your Hillmen is not in Arthedain's interests, unless you could offer something better than the vague promises for the future." The King frowned angrily when Gimilbeth opened her mouth to counter. "Don't interrupt me! I say "vague promises", because they are vague indeed, empty words, no more. I prefer something more substantial. You have no money, I believe, but how about ceding some lands to Arthedain?"
"What lands does your Majesty have in mind?" Gimilbeth asked, her mouth suddenly dry.
"I want all the lands west of the Mitheithel" - replied Malvegil coldly - "to be ceded by Rhudaur before my army sets out, and to remain Arthedain's solely, regardless of the outcome of the campaign. What say you to that?"
Gimilbeth's breath caught in her throat. The old greedy fox Malvegil lived up to his reputation, indeed! She took a quick tally of the lands in question: Imlad Methed Valley - the richest pastures and crop-fields in all Rhudaur, County of Nothva Rhaglaw belonging to Curugil's brother Ondoher, half of the Princely fiefdom of Imlad Mitheithel (that serves Odare just right!) and… the County of Pennmorva, belonging now to Broggha himself. She almost laughed at the irony of it: to sell Broggha's lands under his nose in order to buy an army to fight him - that was the ultimate beauty and thrill of politics.
"But…your Highness - it is about a third of the territory of Rhudaur, including our principle tillable lands and pastures," she said hesitantly.
"Well, you can always check with the King Romendacil - maybe he offers a better bargain," the King replied with feigned indifference in his voice. "However, I doubt it - with all those troubles he has with his own Southern provinces."
"Anyway, Your Majesty, I have no authority to make decisions of such magnitude. I will have to contact my father, the King Tarnendur and the Council of Rhudaur. It can hardly be done until the next spring."
"Why not? You have quite an escort with you, I heard, poor Annundil is hard put to it to feed them all." The king's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Send a couple dozen loafers to Cameth Brin with a letter - and in a month or two they will be back, unless they freeze to death on the way."
"That shall be done," replied Gimilbeth somewhat dryly. The reference that the Rhudaurians abused Amon-Sul's hospitality was not lost on her.
"Than let us part. Leave the portrait in the Palantir chamber - I will discuss the marriage proposal with my son later today. Once you get the reply from Cameth Brin, let me know. I wish you good day, Gimilbeth."
The King didn't wait for her parting words. The Stone went blank, with only a cloud of swirling mist in its depth.
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Gimilbeth
Member
Eldest daughter of King Tarnendur, also called the Witch of Cameth Brin
Posts: 51
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Post by Gimilbeth on Jul 12, 2008 19:22:58 GMT
Midday, November 17
After the unsettling interview with Malvegil, Gimilbeth ran down the stairs of the tower, her heart hammering in her chest and angry red spots on her cheeks. She felt angry and helpless like a pike suddenly caught in the steel jaws of a shark.
Panting, she emerged into the pale winter sunlight of the court and stopped to catch her breath. Barund, who was strolling by the entrance to the Tower in the company of one of the men of the Cardolan delegation, rushed to his Lady’s side, abandoning his interlocutor without even a casual apology.
“How did it go, my Lady? What did Malvegil say?” Barund asked solicitously. “Did he promise the armed help?”
Of course, Barund was being presumptuous. He was no counselor to ask such questions, and were Gimilbeth able to think clearly, she would have never told him anything of import. But just now, being so angry and upset, she felt the need to confide in someone, be it even the dumb Brochenridge scout.
“Oh, Malvegil is willing to help,” Gimilbeth spat, adding scornfully “only he wants half of Rhudaur in return for his services”.
“Half of Rhudaur?” gasped Barund, genuinely outraged. “The old King must have outlived his wits to think we would ever agree to it! Every true man of Rhudaur would as soon be dead than to see our land captured by Arthedain scum!” He grasped the hilt of his sword and pulled out a few inches of the bright blade while glaring at the blue-clad guards of the tower. Then another thought struck him. “But what about the marriage proposal?”
“I think Malvegil will agree to that, because the alliance with our house gives him nothing but advantages – and no obligations,” replied Gimilbeth bitterly.
“Then withdraw the proposal, my Lady! No military help, no marriage, as simple as that.”
Gimilbeth sighed. “It is not as simple as that, Barund,” she explained patiently, as one would to a small child. “Tarniel married into the ruling family of Arthedain will give us moral right to expect their help, if matters turn for worse. The greedy bastard Malvegil may not see it this way, but his son, soon-to-become King, and his grandson possibly would help us in the future. I think I will go along with the betrothal, if Malvegil agrees to it.
Barund offered Gimilbeth his arm, led her to the most secluded corner of the court and took the liberty to whisper right in her ear:
“I have a better idea, my Lady, a plan to save us all.” He paused for emphasis, noticing that Gimilbeth didn't seem particularly impressed – yet . Well, she soon will be!
He continued importantly “Do you know, my Lady, that the majority in the Council of Cardolan would be happy to have a young, inexperienced prince of the line of Isildur as King? They thought of Armacil, Malvegil's grandson, but our Amantir is a much better choice, isn't he? Once King of Cardolan, Amantir will undoubtedly sent his army to help his father or older brother out – and won't ask for lands in return!”
By this time, Gimilbeth was already able to master her emotions, and regretted confiding in Barund. Still, what he said seemed quite interesting. She studied Barund's honest weatherworn face, noticing an old scar on his forehead nearly reaching the right eye.
“Are you sure it is your own plan, Barund? Or, maybe it was suggested to you by somebody in the Cardolan delegation?” She looked around, but they seemed well out of earshot of anyone in the court. However, the walls of the fortress loomed over them and someone standing on the walkway above could possibly overhear them. Gimilbeth wondered where the Cardolani man she had previously seen with Barund now was.
“I swear I was the one who thought of Amantir!” replied Barund visibly outraged by Gimilbeth's suspicions. “Amdir, son of Orogost the Steward of Cardolan, seemed quite stunned by my idea and liked it immediately. He only instructed me to ask your opinion on it, my Lady, before bringing it before the Cardolan delegation. It might well work to everyone's satisfaction, he said.”
“Everyone's?” Gimilbeth repeated sarcastically. “And what about Galphant? I thought he had a solid claim to the throne?”
“But nobody wants him! I know it on good authority. Moreover, he is not even of the line of Isildur!” Barund countered scornfully, forgetting Amdir's warnings.
“Few are those who can claim to be, nowadays...” Gmilbeth smiled, inwardly grinning. The Captain was certainly driven by jealousy – she hadn't missed his angry glare directed at Galphant yester eve.
She turned and started waking across the court towards the eastern wing Barund following silently, like a faithful hound. Gimilbeth was deep in thought: the new idea seemed promising, indeed, but not in the way the Brochenridge scout reckoned.
The were already at the doors to Gimilbeth's room, when Barund, fully prepared to see the door slammed in his face as usual, prompted “My lady, what should I tell the Cardolani?”
Gimilbeth's calculations interrupted, she looked around, somewhat at a loss. Talking in the corridor was certainly not a good idea. There was no place but her own room where she could discuss politics with Barund, away from attentive ears. Yet, a tête-à-tête with a Brochenridge scout in her bedroom could hardly be considered proper. Being a woman had a lot of extra disadvantages, despite the loss of the birthright to the throne!
Yet, there was no choice. Gimilbeth pushed the door open and motioned to Barund to follow. The elation written on the scout's plain face was another proof that she was about to do a wrong thing. Gimilbeth scowled in frustration and shut the door. She sat down in the chair by the dressing table and looked around for another seat to offer to Barund. But there was none – only the bed.
“Sit here” she growled, pointing to a big embroidered cushion where a lady would rest her feet while sitting in a high chair.
Barund picked up the cushion, brought it closer to Gimilbeth's chair and sat at her feet looking up with an expression of pure bliss.
She cleared her throat. “Barund, this is a matter of state, and I am not sure that you are fully prepared for negotiations of such import. Do you realize the implications that the choice of Amantir as King of Cardolan entails?”
“No, my Lady,” replied Barund happily, his eyes sparkling. At the moment he couldn't care less about Cardolan and all the kings in Middle-Earth. What took all his attention was a loose strand of Gimilbeth's shining dark hair that lay on her white bosom rising and falling with every breath she took.
“You see, Barund,” Gimilbeth began her lecture, oblivious of Barund's train of thought, “in Numenor of old and in Dunedain kingdoms, its heirs, a King is never chosen, he or she always gets the Crown by birthright. The Council of Cardolan would never declare that Armacil or Amantir is the most suitable King, what they have to declare is that the right to the throne of Caryontar belongs either to the line of Amlaith, or to the line of Dauremir. In the former case, the rightful King would be Malvegil, in the latter, Tarnendur. Either of them could renounce his right in favor of one of his heirs, if they so wish, but first their own right should be officially recognized. Do you get it? “
“Certainly, my Lady...” Barund replied breathlessly. His thoughts had wandered far... much further than it was proper or reasonable. Gimilbeth would have been utterly shocked if she could but glimpse the images that flowed through the Captain's head. But the power to read thoughts she did not possess, so she continued.
“What we have to obtain from the Council of Cardolan is the official confirmation that, given that Caryontar, the founder of Cardolan, has left no living male heirs, the right to the Crown now passes to his younger brother, Dauremir, over the older brother, Amlaith, because when granting the land of Cardolan to Caryontar, Amlaith must have renounced his own right to this land, for himself and his heirs. I am not sure he actually did this, you understand, but there is a possibility that the council of Cardolan would find the corresponding clause in the old treaty of Annuminas, dating back to year 861.”
Gimilbeth's voice droned on and on, but Barund had completely lost track of all those ancient kings and moldy treaties. His breath came in strangled gasps, his head swam and his hands trembled. Finally Gimilbeth stopped – she had asked him a question.
“Oh, my fair Lady – your wisdom is surpassed only by your beauty!” Barund exclaimed, his throat dry and eyes ablaze. He seized Gimilbeth's hands and covered them with ardent kisses.
Gimilbeth blinked. She had been so deep in her lecture on Arnor politics that Barund's outburst came totally unlooked for. And now the dumb scout was kissing her hands and even attempting to grab her around the waist! What in Angband did he think he was?!!!
Gimilbeth jumped up, outraged to the point where words utterly failed her. She could only glare at Barund, making a hasty retreat to the door.
As if on cue a delicate tap sounded from outside. Both Barund and Gimilbeth froze. Motioning to Barund to move left, out of sight from the entrance, Gimilbeth swung the heavy oaken door open, nearly hitting someone. Upon examination it proved to be a young servant or page, clad in the green livery of Cardolan. He held a silver platter with a sealed letter.
"My Lady, greetings," he offered shyly. ""My lord Glaphant of Baranduin sends you this message and begs for a boon."
Gimilbeth's brows rose at these cryptic words. But "the boon" proved to be only a gracefully worded impromptu invitation to share the midday meal with Galphant and Hador. She smiled.
"I accept your master's invitation," she informed the page. "Please lead me there - I am not sure I am able to find my way through this maze on my own."
She thought she heard an offended grunt coming from Barund, but she paid it no heed. The impertinent scout could be dealt with later. She slammed the door shut and followed the page.
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