Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Tarniel]

Near the Palace Stables, November 2

Laughing, Tarniel caught up with Odaragariel and Caelen, Amantir and Daurendil following close behind. "Congratulations, Caelen!" she exclaimed, looking up into the flushed face of the young woman. Then, considering Odaregariel, who felt perpetually inferior, she added tactfully, "It was a close match!"

The sight of Odaragariel dressed so austerely and without any jewelry at all was quite disconcerting, and Tarniel tried not to gawk. She had not even dressed so plainly at Nauremir's funeral! Tarniel wondered the cause of this strange transformation. There was something going on, brooding under the surface. Whatever it was would surely come out soon. She noticed the way that Odaragariel glowered at Caelen and the way she ignored Daurendil, as though he were some lowly peasant. Before the hunt, Odare had told her about the mysterious newcomer to Cameth Brin, although Odare knew relatively little about the woman except that she caught her kneeling before the prince and kissing his hand. Since then, Odare's mood had been quite...mercurial.

"The gesture was probably innocent," Tarniel assured herself. After all, Caelen was a married woman. Royalty was always to be treated with respect, and that was what the hand kissing incident was all about. But why did Daurendil keep staring at Caelen, a peculiar emotion in his eyes - was it desire?

Somehow Tarniel knew that ere the day was over, the tongues of the gossipmongers would be wagging.

[Caelen]

The second hunt (the race was the first) was nothing special - it was "been there, done that" for most of them, but to Caelen, it was wonderful. It was so intoxicating to be out on a horse again, free and safe. Her mare had rested long enough in the stables and was "feeling her oats", but Caelen was more than up to the challenge. More than one eye followed her with admiration as she rode the spirited mare around the grounds, laughing with delight.

But all things come to an end, and soon enough, the party had to turn for home. Daurendil had been very attentive to Caelen, but Caelen had been too wrapped up in her own enjoyment of riding to notice. But eventually, Daurendil's attentions got through even to her, and she sobered up as they got closer to home. She even became aware of the other people in her party as things other than riding companions, and noticed a marked lack of gaiety. What was wrong? What were the looks for? Daurendil seemed to be the only one having a good time. She wondered if she had been wise, after all, to confide in this young man.

Daurendil leaned in a little closer than Caelen liked and made a comment about her beautiful mare and what a pair they made. Caelen, a little late in the day ("but better than never!" she thought), remembered Arinya's advice to act as a modest married lady, and decided that now would be a good time to bring her "husband" into the conversation.

"Yes, she's lovely, isn't she?" she said in what she thought was a modest married woman's voice. "This is my husband's favorite mare!"

More than one jaw dropped at the mention of Caelen's "husband", and Caelen, looking furtively around the group, felt ashamed at her selfish lack of consideration towards her brother and his efforts to protect her.

She had hoped to cool off Daurendil's manner towards her, and it did in a way, but it also had the opposite effect - Daurendil looked upon it as a shared secret that increased their intimacy. In a manner that he hoped was convincing, but was actually a bit theatrical, he replied, "Your husband has excellent taste!"

And Odare caught the wink that was meant for Caelen's eyes only.

[Eryndil]

November 2, 1347 - Royal Stables at Cameth Brin

He was waiting for them when they got back - just out of sight, and he waited a little more while they dismounted and turned over their horses to the stable hands, amid tittering laughter and witty remarks.

Then, when she was just enough apart from the rest to not draw attention, and near enough to hear him, he said her name in a voice that was low but strong.

"Caelen."

She halted in mid-laugh and turned toward his voice, her face suddenly serious, wondering. But then her countenance turned joyful once again, but with a different kind of joy - no longer the exultation from a high moment, but the joy that comes with the warmth of a steady friend.

"Eryndil!" she replied, smiling at him gently.

"Come here, please... Caelen," he said, calling her aside. She came and they stood just a bit beyond her friends, so that it was plain to see that they only spoke with one another, and yet a clear view, or any sound, were obscured by stables, posts, barrels and whatnot.

Eryndil swung Caelen past him and turned his back on her friends to face her, that they wouldn't hear his words.

"Caelen - I saw what you did today. And that was rather thoughtless and callous of you."

"Huh? What do you mean?" replied Caelen, looking perplexed.

"Oh - your idea of a race through town. I saw it! I was watching from the walls - over there!" he gestured. Her look was still blank.

"Caelen, look... that man, the one with the cart of apples. You could have KILLED him!"

A look of shock - or dread came over Caelen's face, and she lowered her head.

"Now," he continued, "maybe your new friends make you too good to care about the commoners, but in a Thane's house, we watch out for them."

"I'm... I'm sorry."

"Caelen - did you know that man is a widower? He brings his wares up the King's Road from Tanoth Brin - pushing that cart up those steep hills, every day - to try to sell for a little bit more, and take care of his four children, his ailing mother-in-law, and a sister besides!"

"I... I didn't know. And it all happened... so fast. It just seemed like, the best thing to do... didn't it?"

"No Caelen! Turning off would have been the best thing to do - like even those new friends of yours had good sense to do. But you wanted to win that race, didn't you? No matter what?"

"Well I..." she tried.

"No matter," continued Eryndil. "I made it up to him. I gave him your brooch."

"My brooch!" she gasped, wide-eyed.

"Yes... and it was awful troublesome to have to buy it right back. Now THAT's what cost me," he added with a triumphant smile, as he pulled it forth, displayed it to her, then returned it to his pouch.

"Now Caelen," he said - and at last his stern visage had softened into a gentle smile of his own. "Where is your... where is Callon? I have desired to speak with him for some days now."

"Oh," she began, "he is gone as wagon-driver, to take the body of an unfortunate young nobleman back to his parents. He should be back in a few days."

"I see," said Eryndil, looking all at once reflective. "Well, for your part, please try to exhibit better judgement - and greater self-control, for the rest of his absence. And now... good day, Miss Caelen."

And he bowed stiffly to her, then walked out of the stables, bowing to the various princes and princesses who still stood waiting for Caelen at the stable entrance.

[Hurgon Fernik]

Near Brochenridge, afternoon of November 3, 1347.

Hurgon dipped his brush half-heartedly into the paint and experimentally dabbed at the canvas. It was no good - he felt too distracted to paint. It wasn't simply the motion of the cart - it was that he was fast becoming convinced that he was traveling with two very disturbed men.

The first few hours after his release, Helmir had talked incessantly, trying to make sense of what was going on, asking numerous questions, so that Hurgon had to remind him several times to lower his voice in case they were overheard. He seemed to be pretty sick, too, feeling hungry and sleepy all at once and sometimes feverish. The closer they got to Brochenridge, though, the healthier Helmir seemed to feel- and that was acting as a powerful restorer of hope. He was nearing his home and his family, and he could not but help think that there must be some more conventional method for paying back his debt to Gimilbeth than by being a painter's apprentice. The fact that Hurgon was a completely innocent bystander in this scheme did not cross his mind; as Hurgon was the visible symbol of Gimilbeth's power over him, perhaps it was not altogether surprising that some of his resentment rubbed off onto Hurgon. He did not rave at him, or threaten him, for he knew better than to draw attention to himself. He just sat there for hours with a mocking smile at Tarniel's potrait, occasionally making a sarcastic remark.

The cart-driver was a different kind of madman. For a long time, Hurgon was certain he was a sane person altogether, though very quiet, but then it took all sorts; until he suddenly jumped up and ran after a man, shouting and gesticulating. In the end, the man was hanged, though Hurgon was still not sure why, and Callon came back to their cart, still quiet, but with an oddly satisfied look on his face. The kind of look that is enough to send a chill down a man's spine... All in all, an uneasy, tense journey that was making it even harder for him to render true Tarniel's innocent beauty.

Of course, Gimilbeth had her share in handing him yet another worry. She had sent him a note saying, "On no account are you to let Helmir out of your sight when we reach Brochenridge." Short and bitter.

And now the walls of the fortress were in view, and Helmir looked stronger than ever and Callon was hardly the man Hurgon would confide in to help him with this. If Helmir made a run for it, what then?

[Caelen]

Afternoon of November 2, 1347 - Royal Stables at Cameth Brin

Caelen walked back to the group, her cheeks still hot from Eryndil's well-deserved reprimand. She had indeed cared only about winning, and the man with the apple cart had only been an obstacle to that goal, instead of a person with a life and loved ones. But she had only wanted to ride ... it wasn't fair! She bit her lower lip in frustration. Why can't a girl just have fun?

"Who was that?" asked Odare, curious as to the identity of the good-looking nobleman.

"Oh, that's Eryndil of Nandemar - my father's asked him to join his new council - jolly good fellow," answered Daurendil, eager to show that he was on the "inside" group now that he was a man.

"Would you please excuse me?" asked Caelen hastily. "I'm feeling a little unwell..." Turning to Daurendil, she added, "Thank you so much for your invitation to join in the ride, your highness - it was very kind of you to include me."

And amid the polite remarks from Daurendil and the group, Caelen headed back to her room, trying desperately to reach its sanctuary before the tears came. But tears have their own timetable, and came earlier than the room did - right as Caelen turned the corner and ran into two of the young wives that had been so kind to her since her arrival.

"Caelen! Are you well? Were you out ... riding? Is that wise right now?" they asked, concerned about "one of us".

"I was wrong about ... my condition," said Caelen, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh, you poor thing," they comforted, embracing her. "Come with us and let us make you more comfortable!"

"No, please - thank you very much, you're so kind - but I just want to be alone in my room right now," answered Caelen, sincerely thankful for their kindness and hating to deceive them.

It took awhile, but she finally convinced them that being alone in her room would be the best thing for her right now, and she practically ran down the rest of the hall to her room, where she locked the door and threw herself on her bed, sobbing in her pillow.

"Oh mother, father, I miss you so much!" she cried in agony. "I need your help - I just can't master myself - I'm like a horse with the bit between its teeth - oh, I miss you ... please help me ... please help me ..."

And she fell asleep with those words on her lips ...

[Caelen]

Late afternoon of November 2, 1347, in the land of dreams ...

In Caelen’s dream, she was walking around a pasture in her riding clothes, but she had no horse. “Where is my mare?” she wondered. “I must go to the stable and get her!” She found the little path that went to the stable and followed it, and as she came over the top of the ridge and the familiar building came into sight, there were her mother and father standing just inside the stable doors. They looked up and saw her and smiled. “There you are!” they said warmly, holding their arms out to her. “We were waiting for you!”

"Mother! Father!" she cried, running to their warm embraces. After a few blessed minutes of reunion, they pulled back and looked at her with the firm but loving expression that she knew so well, and Caelen’s heart skipped a beat.

"Come now, Caelie - you left the tack room a mess again, and you need to clean it up," said her father.

"I'm sorry, I'll go do it right now," she answered penitently, and they headed towards the tack room, which was indeed a mess.

Her father picked up a slender hackamore, made with soft, supple rope. "Put this in its place, sweetheart - but tell me what it is, first."

Caelen was a bit surprised, but obediently answered. "It's the hackamore we use on the young horses when we first train them to the saddle.”

Caelen’s father nodded, and Caelen hung up the hackamore on its peg.

Her mother picked up the next bit of tack. “And this?” she queried, as Caelen took it.

“It’s what we use next – the bridle with the soft, “broken” snaffle bit,” answered Caelen, and hung it on its peg.

“Go on, now,” said her father, and Caelen picked up the D-ring snaffle next, saying, “This is what we use if they fight the broken snaffle,” and she hung it up. As her parents watched silently, Caelen picked up the short curb bit next and hung it up. As she picked up the harsh, long-shanked curb bit, she realized what they were trying to tell her, and turned around to ask for their forgiveness, for they had had this talk before. But her parents were gone, and now the floor was covered with long-shanked curb bits, the harshest bit used for the most disobedient, foolish, headstrong horses.
“I must clean up the tack room, I must!" she thought desperately, and picked up a handful of bridles, starting to hang them up on the pegs. But as soon as she hung one up, it went up in flames. She worked faster and faster, but the pile got bigger and bigger, and the flames spread, and then she realized that she had been hearing a voice calling her name for quite some time now – the voice of her brother Callon.

“We have to go now, Caelie, we have to go,” came his well-loved voice, tinged with sorrow. Caelen turned around with bridles in both hands, saying, “But I have to hang these up!” and stopped short when she saw only a beautiful red-bay stallion. But it was the stallion talking to her, in her brother’s voice. It looked at her sadly, saying, “Put them down, Caelen, it’s too late now. We have to go.” And Caelen knew they had to go. She put her hand on the stallion’s strong neck, and he walked her safely through the flaming tack room wall and back out to the pasture.

They walked many a long mile, although Caelen didn’t know where they were going. She just knew they had to go. As the sun set, she was so weary that she started stumbling. “Ride on me, Caelen – I’ll carry you now,” said the stallion, and she climbed onto his back, burying her hands in his rich mane and laying her head on his strong neck …

When she woke up, they were approaching a dark forest, filled with strange, twisted pines.

“Stop! I don’t want to go in there!” she cried in dismay.

“I don’t want to go there, either, but that’s where the road goes, Caelen. We must go on – there is no road back,” replied the stallion sorrowfully.

“No, no, let’s just turn around and go back!” she implored, but when she turned around to look, there was indeed no road behind them, and then she knew that the stallion was right.

Their journey through the dark, twisted forest seemed to last forever. The trees were harsh and cruel, their branches and needles dry and sharp. They reached out for Caelen and the stallion, slashing at them and raising cruel welts and bleeding wounds. The stallion tried his best to avoid the waving branches and to try to keep them away from Caelen, but it was no use. Caelen cried out in pain and bent low over the stallion’s neck, holding on tight and closing her eyes, but the slashing went on and on …

Suddenly Caelen realized that it was quiet now, and there were no more tree branches hurting her. She slowly straightened up and opened her eyes, and saw that they were in a small clearing with a giant oak in the middle, waving its branches as though there was a storm going on, but there was no storm. Then Caelen realized that the oak was keeping off the cruel pine trees, and she jumped down from the stallion to thank the oak tree.

“Oh, thank you so much!” she said gratefully, and the oak swept a branch gently by her face. She turned back to speak to the stallion, but to her horror, he was already far off in the distance, stamping and fighting as he was being pulled off by a giant lady who had a rope around his proud neck.

“Stay with the oak tree, Caelie!” the stallion cried, his voice faint from the distance. “Stay with the oak tree!” – and he was gone.

Caelen started to run to where he had disappeared, but as she neared the first pine tree, it slashed at her neck, and she ran back to the oak and flung her arms around its trunk. As night fell, the menacing pine trees moved in closer and closer, and Caelen kept moving around the trunk of the oak tree, trying to get away from them. But they were closing in on all sides, and would reach her soon.

“You must leap now,” said a voice, and a branch of the oak tree bent down towards her. But Caelen had always been afraid of climbing trees, and she shrank back in fear. “I can’t; I’m afraid of trees,” she said in a small, frightened voice.

“Leap!” cried the voice, more urgent this time. “You must leap, Caelen, for I can bend down no further,” and looking at the menacing pine trees approaching, Caelen finally chose the lesser of her fears and leapt up into the oak tree, catching the branch and swinging up into the tree.

It was quiet in the heart of the tree, and the bark and leaves were soft and warm to her touch. Caelen climbed up higher and nestled in a comfortable nook, leaning her head back and slowly relaxing. She looked at her arms ruefully; they were bloody and dirty and covered with scratches and welts. She raised a hand to her face and neck; it came back marred with blood and dirt.

Then she saw a branch of the oak tree moving slowly towards her. She drew in a sharp breath, and her heart leaped in fear, for she was afraid that the branch would slash at her as the pine branches had, and she cowered back against the trunk. But the branch kept coming, and it finally touched her arm. She stiffened, afraid of more welts and cuts. But the branch merely swept its soft leaves across her arm and then drew back. Caelen was surprised; the branch had very soft leaves, and it felt soft and warm on her arm. She looked down at her arm and stared in astonishment; the blood and dirt were gone; the welts and bruises healed. She looked at the drooping branch and saw that some of the leaves were crushed and torn, and her blood was staining them red.

“You were trying to help me, weren’t you? I should have known!” she said in wonder. “But oh! you’re hurt now!” she added sorrowfully. But when she looked again, the leaves were whole and clean.

Another branch reached out towards her and then stopped, its leaves waving gently.

Caelen slowly reached out her other arm towards the branch until the leaves were touching it, and the branch swept gently over her arm, leaving it whole as it did the other arm. Caelen held her breath, looking anxiously at the branch’s crushed and stained leaves, and then laughed out loud as the leaves were slowly restored again.

She stood up cautiously, hugging the tree trunk tightly and closing her eyes, and then held her face up as the topmost branches bent down towards her, letting their leaves play over her face and neck. When she opened her eyes again, she saw to her surprise that her arms were turning into slender branches, covered with tiny green budding leaves.

“Look!” she said, holding tighter to the tree. “We’re growing together!” Caelen held up her hands towards the sun, and the tree held up its branches, and they rejoiced together in the warmth and strength that flowed to them from the sun …

and Caelen slowly opened her eyes, blinking in the bright afternoon light that was falling across her tear-streaked face, and she was back in her room at Cameth Brin.

[Odaragariel of Mitheithel]

Why had Daurendil winked at the mention of Caelen's husband? Given how freely he had showered her with attentions all day - to the point where Odaragariel had married them in her head - he ought to be feeling very shocked right about now. And here he was, treating it like a joke, like a secret joke between the two of them. Maybe... maybe Daurendil was secretly married to Caelen! Or... Caelen was married to someone else, and she and Daurendil were planning to do away with the poor bloke! Or maybe... and her mind flew off in different directions, each speculation worse and wilder than the one before.

She watched intently as a nobleman talked to Caelen - maybe he was the husband? He certainly seemed to be scolding her... maybe for the way she and the prince had carried on... and Odare could hardly blame him. Why, she herself felt an increasing desire to tell off Daurendil, or maybe just stomp on his feet and pull his ears. Caelen rejoined their group and Erindyl passed them by, giving them a nod as he went. Maybe it was the stern look that accompanied his nod, but suddenly Odare found herself feeling faint vestiges of guilt.

She asked Caelen, who was petulantly biting her lower lip, who the man she was talking to had been. Daurendil's casual reply only confirmed her view that she was being rather malicious. After all, it was hardly fair for her to be obsessing so much over other people's private affairs. She had known for a long time that she and Daurendil might get married someday, which she didn't mind - but she had also known long ago that the two of them could be nothing closer than friends.

"So, Odare, trying out something new, I see." Tarniel had obviously been struggling not to comment all day.

"I lost the key to my jewellery box, thats all." Odare replied, blushing slightly at the lie. "Lets go back... I'm tired, and its making me act strangely."

Tarniel nodded her acquiescence. The hunting party separated and each made their way home.

[Gimilbeth]

Brochenridge,late afternoon of November 3, 1347.

Gimilbeth’s eyes widened when the approaching riders came close enough for their faces to be seen. Old Ormendur, Lord of Brochenridge, came out to meet them himself! Not that surprising, though, considering that they were bringing along the coffin of his eldest grandson… And with him were his son Laengrim father of Nauremir, tears glistening on his gaunt pale cheeks, and even Nauremir’s mother, still young and obviously grief-stricken.

The last thing Gimilbeth had time to do before greeting the riders was to send her page Edelbar to reiterate her orders to the painter. Hurgon was to watch over Helmir and not let him out of the wagon. Then the Brochenridge riders drew rein and the customary greetings were exchanged. Gimilbeth’s words of condolence to Nauremir’s family were compassionate and touching – she had time enough to prepare her speech and delivered it really well. By the end of it, most of the listeners were crying and Nauremir’s mother had broken down in tears, wailing and sobbing, her face red-eyed and blotchy. Gimilbeth thought that if she ever needed to cry, she would do so in a more decorous and less face-damaging fashion..

Lord Ormendur, however, remained thoughtful and grim and replied rather stiffly, thanking Gimilbeth and inviting her to the Castle. Once past the drawbridge, he gave orders to bring the coffin to the family crypt and the procession moved there directly.

The crypt was cut deep in the rock at the base of the tower, in Numenor fashion. An ornate bronze grid followed by a heavy door barred the entrance. Four guards took the coffin into the vault, and, following Ormendur’s directions, placed it upon an empty stab of granite next to Nauremir’s grandmother. Then, to Gimilbeth’s dismay, Laengrim expressed his wish to open the coffin, regardless of the stench that everyone could not fail to notice.

“But, My Lord,” protested Gimilbeth, “I am loath to say it, but the embalming has been inadequate. Something has gone awry and I am afraid the view of the corpse will only add to your grief and will prove a cruel blow to your poor Lady.”

At these words Nauremir’s mother who sank to her knees by the coffin finally fainted. Gimilbeth knelt by the lady, trying to revive her with a vial of smelling salts. Ormendur ordered the guards out, as the air in the crypt was stale and suffocating.

When the area cleared, the lords of Brockenridge became aware of a tall hooded figure standing silently by the door, hidden in shadows. A sudden chill running down his spine, Lord Ormendur asked:

“Who are you, stranger, and why do you disturb the privacy of a grieving family?”

[Caelen]

Cameth Brin, late afternoon of November 2, 1347.

Caelen watched the late afternoon sun sink lower and lower. She had a lot to think on, and a lot of it wasn't pleasant. Suddenly she turned from the window with a little smile on her face. She looked anxiously out of the window again. "I don't think it's too late," she thought, and she grabbed her hooded cloak and some money and slipped out of the room.

Many of the merchants had closed their stalls, but some were still out. Caelen walked swiftly through the marketplace, her eyes searching back and forth, until she found who she was looking for.

"Excuse me, sir," came a soft voice, and the apple seller looked around to see a tall, slender, grey-eyed noblewoman, with wisps of reddish-gold hair curling around her face.

"Evening, miss," he replied, touching his hat in respect. "May I be helpin' you with something?"

"I see you have some apples left - may I buy them, please?"

"Certainly, miss - how many would you like?" asked the man, pulling out a small bag.

"Um, all of them, please," said Caelen. She held out some money. "Is this enough?"

The apple seller's eyes opened wide. What a day this had been! It had gone from normal, to disastrous, to wonderful! What a blessing this extra money would be to his family!

"'Tis more than enough, miss," he replied gratefully. "Here, this is all they're worth," he said and took the appropriate amount.

"But there's too many for me to carry," said Caelen. "Would you just please take the whole amount and then deliver them for me?"

The apple seller objected at first, as it was quite a bit over what he would have normally charged, but Caelen was insistant, and he finally accepted it, shaking his head a bit at "the whims of those noblemen..."

Caelen told him the address, and then added, handing him a note, "And if you would be so kind as to have this delivered to the master of the house, please."

The seller took the note and put it away carefully in his vest, and then picking up his wheelbarrow, turned around and headed in the direction that Caelen had indicated.

As Eryndil headed home for a brief check-up on how things were progressing at his house, he was surprised to see the apple merchant slowly pushing his wares down his street.

"Good evening, my good man," Eryndil greeted him kindly. "You're working late tonight!"

"I was jes' heading home to a right good meal, thanks to your kindness, sir," and he bowed to Eryndil in gratitude, "when a young lady stopped me, and would you believe it, she bought all the rest of my apples!" he said in wonder, shaking his head at the strange day he had gone through. "I'm supposed to deliver them to the house of a lord ... Eryndil," he concluded, checking Caelen's note again.

"Well, I am he, and the house is right there!" said Eryndil, intrigued.

"Well, then, this note is for you, sir," said the apple merchant, handing Caelen's note to Eryndil.

As the servants came out to unload the apples into the house, they stopped in surprise as they heard Eryndil's hearty laughter, for the note read :

"An apple for the teacher!"

[Nauremir]

Brochenridge, late afternoon of November 3, 1347.


“Who are you, stranger, and why do you disturb the privacy of a grieving family?”

The tall figure stood brooding by the doorway, like the spectre of death itself. Beneath the dark hood, Nauremir's eyes blazed like two fires as he beheld the scene before him: his grieving family and the witch who had caused all his problems. His first impulse was to damn her right there and reveal the truth to his family. But he knew that if he did, Gimilbeth would shriek for the guards and claim he was some crazed madman. And who were they to know otherwise? Nauremir was "dead," and few would recognize him in this new disguise.

"An acquaintance of the deceased, come to pay my respects," he spoke quietly, his voice muffled. Then he turned upon his heel and left the tomb like a storm cloud.

He fled into the darkling evening, evading the members of the funeral entourage. Seeking shelter in the woods, he sat down on a rock and observed the mausoleum and surrounding buildings from afar. Several choices lay before him. He could stay as Helmir the painter's apprentice, ever under the close watch of Gimilbeth. This would mean severing all ties with his parents and other relatives and forfeiting his inheritance and position. He would go from a well-liked nobleman to a pauper whom no one knew. Or he could hide out until the witch turned her attentions to matters other than him, and then return to his family, reveal his identity, and tell them the truth of what happened. How would his family react? How could he go back to living his old life? His "resurrection" would probably be a scandal that would shake the country and be on the tongues of all in Arnor.

Gimilbeth wanted Nauremir to remain "dead," he knew. If she had been working with only his best interests at heart, she would have told his parents the truth and conferred with both him and his family. After Broggha's ire had calmed, she could have helped weave some story that Nauremir was not really dead, but merely in a deep, long-lasting swoon like, say, Turin after he slew the dragon. But, no, Gimilbeth had other plans. What they were he did not know, but he was sure there was some dark conspiracy brewing in her mind.

He was a man with powerful enemies – Broggha the Hillman chieftain and Gimilbeth the witch of Cameth Brin. He hated being so weak, both in power and in body, for he was still recovering from his wounds. Right now he needed some powerful friends and allies. Clutching his head in his hands, he struggled to plot and plan, racking his brain for ideas.