Storms at Weathertop. Shadow over Rhudaur IV

[Duilin]

Fireside Inn, east of Bree, Nov 13 1347, evening

Duilin and Thurisind followed Aegnor into the inn – it was somewhat smaller than the Prancing Pony in Bree, but still seemed quite spacious and well-maintained compared to some of the places they’d stayed during their long journey from Osgiliath (Duilin thought back with disgust on a horrid little hole they’d stayed in in some village in Enedwaith). Entering the common room, Duilin saw that its clientele was much like that at the Prancing Pony – common men, Dúnedain, several parties of dwarves, talking darkly among themselves, a few halflings drinking merrily in a corner. Aegnor led them through the common room to the staircase at one side, and led them up to the third story. Here they entered a corridor, which they walked about halfway down. Here Aegnor turned to the left, and knocked on the door that was in front of them. “Come in,” a voice from inside called.

Aegnor opened the door, and signaled Duilin and Thurisind to follow him. The room was quite spacious, and seemed to fill up a substantial portion of this story of this floor of the inn. Seated within were several men. Duilin’s attention was immediately directed to a man seated at the head of a large table that filled up most of the right side of the room. Clearly a Dúnadan, the man was tall and well proportioned, looking neither young nor old. His hair and beard were dark, and his grey eyes impressed Duilin with their apparent intelligence and wisdom. This, Duilin was sure, was the man they had come to see. Exactly the sort of look those high Dúnadan lords, the ones with the blood of old Elendil in them – always had – even the ones who were dumb as a brick, or nasty snakes like Castamir looked for all the world like wise philosopher kings until they opened their mouths. Seated to his right was a younger man, unbearded, but almost certainly the lord’s son – the resemblance between the two was great. Seated to his left was an older man, also clear of the Dúnedain but of lesser blood – the high ones, Duilin was fairly certain, never looked old no m atter how old they might be in reality. Furthermore, the old man had a somewhat sly and conniving look about him. No matter how sly and conniving a Dúnadan prince might be, he never looked like he was.

The man whom Duilin was certain was in charge addressed Aegnor. “These are the men?”

“Yes, sir. I hope they are satisfactory. They were the best I could do in the time you gave me.”

“I’m sure they will serve quite well. You have done well, Aegnor. If you are not too weary tonight, I have another task for you. Take a fresh horse and ride ahead and find the rest of our party and tell them that I am quite recovered, and will resume the trip tomorrow – I should be no more than a day and a half behind them.”

“As you wish my lord.” Aegnor bowed and left the room.

“Now, gentlemen, I suppose you would like to know more about what all this is about. I am Galphant, and my father is the Prince of Baranduin, the greatest nobleman in this kingdom. I am also the sister-son of our late king, Dirion, who died two years ago. This,” he gestured towards the younger man, “is my son and heir Herunarth, and this,” he gestured towards the older man, “is my father’s chief counselor, Hador.”

There was a pause. Thurisind cleared his throat and spoke. “I, sir, am Thurisind, son of Theodomir, chief of the Votanii tribe who live by the lower reaches of the River Running, far to the east of here.”

“And I, sir, am Duilin. I was born in Pelargir but I am afraid I have no distinguished family background to speak of. My parents were both born in Lossarnach, in the mountain vales behind Minas Anor.”

“Well, heritage has little enough to be said for it. I have a great heritage – I can trace my ancestors back through the millennia – Princes of Baranduin, Lords of Valunië in Númenor that was, all the way back to Bëor the Old himself. And what have we accomplished in these last years? Niggling, worthless achievements in wars against our own kinsmen? Fortification of borders that should never have been borders? What, indeed, has the line of Isildur himself accomplished in these lands nigh these last five hundred years? Nothing but destroying each other, weakening our lands through ceaseless wars to satisfy their own vanity and lust for power.” Galphant seemed to have lost himself in thoughts he had long felt, but rarely expressed. He caught himself and paused, looking at his guests.

This, Duilin thought, is not one of the ones who is as dumb as a brick. After a long pause, he said, “I am glad, my lord, that you do not hold my low birth against me.”

Galphant looked at him and laughed. “And I am glad to find that I have hired such a tactful rogue. But I became carried away, for which I apologize. So now let me explain why I have hired you, although, as yet, I can give you few details of any specific jobs I may wish you to do. I will be frank with you, probably more frank than Hador here would like, but there is something in me that holds that you are men capable of keeping a confidence, provided you feel that it is provided by one whose trust is worth having. Do I misjudge you?”

Thurisind and Duilin looked at each other. Looking at his companion, Duilin could tell that Thurisind was thinking the same thing he was – either this is a truly great man, or a complete fool, and, astonishingly, the former seemed more likely than the latter. Thurisind answered. “My Lord, you do us great honor to show such trust to a pair of ruffians you have only known for a few minutes. But I shall certainly endeavor to be worthy of your trust.”

“And I as well.”

“I am glad to hear it. But I will admit that most of what I am about to tell you is common knowledge in our land, and that the rest is basic information you will need to carry out the duties I will assign you. As I mentioned before, our king, Dirion, died several years ago. The laws of the kingdom demand that we determine who is the rightful heir of Caryontar, the first king of Cardolan, who died 400 years ago. This has proved a rather difficult task. Centuries of intestine conflict and war have made the descendants of Caryontar rare indeed – at least in the direct line. It has taken the loremasters of the kingdom these two years to determine that only two possible lines of Caryontar exist – two younger sons of our kings who left Cardolan to seek their fortune in Gondor. Our own records tell us nothing further of these royal scions, so we must consult with the loremasters of Gondor, to see if they can discover if any descendants of these men live yet in the south kingdom. Tell me, do you gentlemen know of the Seeing Stones of Númenor?”

“Only through repute,” replied Duilin. “I have seen the great tower where, it is said, the stone of Osgiliath rests, on the great bridge over the Anduin there. But I know nothing of the workings of them, save old wives’ tales that my aunt used to tell me.”

“Your knowledge, then, is probably not terribly inferior to my own, for I, too, have never seen one of the famed stones. It is said in our books of lore, however, that they allow one to see events over great distances, and also that they can communicate with one another. Thus, the Council of Cardolan has decided to send a delegation to Amon Sûl, where resides the great stone of the north, that we might consult with the wise men of Gondor over whether our rightful king may be found there.”

Here the younger Dúnadan, Herunarth, interrupted, “But everyone knows, of course, that he will not be. Dirion sent messengers to Osgiliath several times in the long yeras after his own sons died announcing that he would acknowledge as his heir any man who could prove himself a direct descendant of Caryontar from father to son. And nobody ever came. There are none. There is nobody.”

Galphant looked at his son with a somewhat chastening look before continuing. “The effort must be made. The laws of the kingdom must be satisfied. But my son is right – few have any hope that this mission will have any success.”

Here Thurisind broke in. “Pardon me, my lord. This is all very interesting, but I don’t understand how we fit into all of this.”

“Forgive me, you are of course correct. The story is long and complicated, but hopefully you will understand by the end of it. There are other reasons that one might wish to speak to those in Osgiliath, but they are ones which others would oppose, should they know of them. Should, as all anticipate, there be no heir found in Gondor, the laws of the kingdom are in great doubt. Caryontar made no provision in his succession laws for such an eventuality. One who greatly wishes to take the throne is Malvegil of Arthedain. Malvegil is an old man now, and for many long years he has desired the reunion of the three kingdoms of Arnor under his own rule. He has spent many years seeking to gain influence in our kingdom, sending out gifts to our lords, acting as friend to us. And he now has many friends on our council, many who would like to set him up as our king. And perhaps it would be wise to accept him.” Galphant paused, and looked at Hador. “My father would never say such a thing, I know. But I will consider the possibility. Could the three kingdoms be peacefully united, and our family’s honor preserved in spite of it, that might indeed be the best solution for all.”

“My lord,” Hador began, “all this idle speculation is hardly going to help our guests to understand the situation. We have discussed all this again and again, and you know that we have agreed on the best course of action.”

“Of course, old friend, you are right. Because we do not trust Malvegil. With two kingdoms in his hands, what would his next step be? I fear that it would be to launch a war against the third. I know little of Rhudaur, but I know both that the line of its kings is not yet broken and that Malvegil is quite displeased with this fact. I will do nothing to make bloodshed among our people more likely, and I have seen nothing in Malvegil that makes me think he would be the right king for Cardolan. Look at the men he was corrupted to his side – weak, officious fools, for the most part. I see little greatness left in the line of Isildur. There is, however, one more option, and it seems to us,” here he looked again towards Hador – was it with hesitation? – “that the laws of the kingdom, and, indeed, the laws of Númenor which are the base of our own laws, make this option as likely to be correct as that of the kingdom passing to Arthedain. For I myself am next of kin to Dirion through my mother, and by becoming king, I might preserve Cardolan’s independence.” Here he looked mildly embarrassed, “I fear that I must confess to you that I am immodest enough to think that I would do a good job of it, even.”

“Of course you would, father,” Herunarth said. “Everyone knows you are the best man in the kingdom.”

“Thank you, Herunarth, I am glad that I have, at least, your confidence. My own confidence is somewhat less, but I can see no better option for our kingdom. Unfortunately, though, I have not strength enough within the kingdom to claim the throne for myself, nor has Cardolan strength enough to resist Malvegil, should he decide to press his claim by force. As I said, I have no desire for bloodshed. My hope, then, is to use the Seeing Stone to seek support from Rómendacil in Gondor. With the support of Gondor, I could easily trump the supporters of Arthedain in Cardolan, and Malvegil would not dare to challenge the power of the southern kingdom. Aegnor tells me that you have knowledge of great men in Gondor.” he looked again at Duilin and Thurisind.

“Some indeed, Sir,” Thurisind replied. “I am distant kin to Eldacar, the king’s grandson, through his mother, who was of my people, and Duilin and myself were in his service until, er, recently. But we knew little of high politics. I don’t think we can offer you much advice on whether the king of Gondor will be willing to help you.”

“I suspected as much, and that is not why I have hired you, although any insights you might have would be welcome. I confess that I hired you for rather simpler reasons. As I said before, there are many who would oppose any efforts I might make to claim the throne for myself. Some are within our own delegation, for as I told you, Malvegil has many supporters among our influential men. More than that, Amon Sûl itself is in Malvegil’s lands, and the men he has placed in charge of the tower are unlikely to look kindly on efforts to challenge Malvegil’s rights in Cardolan. It was difficult enough to get him to agree to our mission to merely carry out our own clearly mandated laws to make sure there are no direct heirs. So what I need, then, is to find men who can help me in finding a way to consult with Gondor secretly.”

“And this is what you want us for?” Duilin asked.

Galphant again looked rather embarrassed. “It is, I admit, not the most noble way of going about things. I would that I could do this openly, but it seems as though it is not possible. Would you be willing to take on this task?”

“I think we might be able to help on that score.”

[Kirael]

November 13th 1347, Amon Sul - Kitchen

Suddenly startled shrieks and noise of metal striking the ground came from outside the kitchen.

“The pig’s getting away!” somebody yelled, hard enough to be heard inside. Narian who had been inspecting the carving knives to see if any needed sharpening, turned and gave Kirael a meaningful look. “I told you that pig was up to something,” she said grimly.

Kirael shook her head gravely. “Pigs do grow over-bold these days,” she replied in exactly the same tone as Narian had, without a hint of pretence. “Shall I-“ she said as she half-rose and indicated the door.

“What, and rob me of one of the few pleasures of being head-cook? Oh no Kirael, I shall.” Narian said with a twinkle in her eye and a somewhat disturbing toothy grin. She stormed out the kitchen-door like a galleon in favourable wind. Within seconds her powerful voice could be heard.

“Maldur, you runt of a brain-less stork! What did I tell you about not running while carrying food? Get that pig back into the kitchen and cleaned up immediately or you will be the main course and rest assured, that bunch of parsley is going straight up y-!”

“Narian!” The scandalised cry coming from one of the older maids cut Narian’s most colourful description short.

“What do you mean, Narian?” Narian went on, “it’s not like you’ve never prepared a roasted pig like that, Glinwen.”

As the debate over proper cooking terms started in earnest outside, a teenage kitchen-boy fled back into the kitchen. He stopped and looked around like a rabbit in a fox den. Then he gave Kirael a desperate and pleading look.

“I’d go hide in the store room until she’s cooled off, lad. You can never tell whether she’s kidding about the parsley or not.” Kirael said not unkindly, while nipping her mead.

The boy flashed her a grateful look and quick as a rabbit he had disappeared into the corridor leading to the store room.

In the mean time, talking had stopped outside and Narian came back in, followed by two kitchen-boys who carried the unfortunate pig. Narian, still muttering in herself, came over to Kirael and her guest.

“I reckon you told him to hide in the store rooms, didn’t you?”

“Naturally,” Kirael said. For the sake of their visitor, she offered further explanation. “If they haven’t figured out the good hiding places by themselves by that age, they don’t deserve any pointers.”

“I’ll go and drag him out of there, then.” Narian said, but her tone indicated it as a question.

Kirael shook her head. “Spare yourself the trouble, Narian. Of course, you can always walk by the storage rooms to do your usual checking. The maids still forget to lock it after them. You should remind them to keep it closed.”

“Excellent idea,” Narian said with satisfaction. She took the corridor leading to the store rooms and then said loudly for everyone to hear: “Who keeps leaving that storage room open? Wait until I find out who, it won’t be his best day!”

Then the sound of a closing door and the turning of a key could be heard in the hush that had fallen over the kitchen. The kitchen-staff hadn’t heard Narian’s conversation with Kirael, but they realised very well where Maldur had hidden himself and what just happened. They began re-garnishing the run-away pig, this time with a little more frenzy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kirael admonished Gandalf without turning her head. “The boy will be quite alright. He just shouldn’t have been so dumb to leave the door of the room he was hiding in, wide open. She could have found him easily if she wanted too."

After a few moments of thought she went on:"But I’ll admit he was smart enough to hide in the second store room, and not in the first as that’s the cold storage, so there’s hope for him yet. And I know for a fact he has hidden his own store of stolen apples in there, so he won’t go hungry until tonight when she’ll let him out again.”

“Madam Kirael, your knowledge of your kitchen’s working still astounds me.” Gandalf said as he raised his mug of mead in salute, “as does your excellent mead.”

“I will pass your kind words on to the bees.” Kirael said, visibly pleased. “Although, mind you,” she added with a crooked grin, “if it was me still running this kitchen, I'd have gotten his father to fetch him out of that store-room and he’d never be able to quite look at pigs the same way…”

By now the kitchen-staff, under Narian’s watchful glare, had restored the pig into its former, edible glory. This time it was transported to the dining hall in the utmost care.

No-one of the diners quite noticed that the pig was served on a wooden platter instead of the usual metal one, or that there was a fairly large carving knife struck through the pig, pinning it to the platter beneath.

Piggie’s running days were well and truly over.

[Gimilbeth]

Amon Sul, early evening of November 13, 1347.


Head high and a smile on her lips, Gimilbeth walked into the Dining Hall. Barund, who was holding her arm (too tightly, blast him!), was all flushed with happiness – seemingly such great occasions to rub up against the nobility came his way but rarely, if at all. The indiscreet fool Hurgon was shuffling behind – like Barund, he also did appear excited as long as he hadn’t met Gimilbeth’s withering glare. She promised herself to have words with him later this evening.

"Good evening, Lady Gimilbeth, Master Barund, Master Hurgon," the Warden greeted his guests. “May I introduce my wife Erebloth?” A bony woman of middling years at his side bowed, and Gimilbeth flashed a warm smile and bowed in return. The Warden continued. “And here is my son Nonentir and my daughter in law.”

“You should be proud of such a fine son, lord Warden.” More smiles and bows.

“….And here is my grandson, Beleg, son of Cerebrindol,” the Warden announced, positively beaming this time.

Gimilbeth’s heart skipped a beat. The handsome young man she had seen earlier by the Warden’s side stepped forward and bowed to her. Hiding her shock, Gimilbeth greeted him, a smile plastered to her lips. There were more introductions, but Gimilbeth hardly paid attention anymore. Her lips and body moved automatically, going through well learned motions and uttering usual platitudes. She couldn’t help but stare repeatedly at the young man.

Beleg son of Celebrindol! Annundil’s grandson! So, the hated Sulawen must have been the Warden’s own daughter! Gimilbeth only knew that her rival had been one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. But she must have been of a noble family, of course… “Sulawen”… “Amon Sul”… Oh, how stupid of her – why hadn’t she made the connection right away?

“Yes, certainly”, “No, I wouldn’t mind it at all, lord Warden,” she found herself replying to something, while being led to her place. At last she was seated and the food was put on her plate.

She turned her head and glanced at Beleg again. A thought struck Gimilbeth: “He could have been my son…he should have been my son…the son I shall never have now…” She felt something she had never felt before – a deep yearning, mixed with sadness and quite unlooked for sudden tenderness. Feeling her gaze, Beleg lifted his head. His grey eyes met hers, a very puzzled look in them now. She lowered her head and bit her lip.

“Is the pork not to your liking, my Lady?” the Warden asked solicitously.

“It is delicious, Lord Annundil” Gimilbeth replied, obligingly forking a tiny slice of roasted pork. “You have got a fine cook here. Is he a local man?”

“Actually we have women running the Kitchens… Narian… and Kirael before her. Kirael has been in this place as long as I remember it – and it is a very long time!” The Warden chuckled and, much to Gimilbeth’s relief, started to tell about the running of the fortress and the fine men and woman who worked for him. Nodding politely, Gimilbeth was finally able to relax.

She surveyed the table, wondering who were the two young maidens on Beleg's right. Probably his siblings… Really, she should have paid some attention to the introductions, she berated herself. There were also two empty chairs on the right of the Warden – obviously seats of honor. Gimilbeth paled again when she finally figured out for whom the places had to be reserved. But where were they? Away at Fornost? Or somewhere nearby?

At this moment the usher tapped trice with his staff and announced: “Celebrindol the Heir of Arthedain and Lady Sulawen.” And there they were. Celebrindol looked not much older than she remembered him, if slightly paler and careworn. And the viper Sulawen at his side was positively radiant. She turned her head to her husband and smiled enigmatically, as if they shared some private joke.

The first coherent thought that visited Gimilbeth when the blood finally returned to her brain was “Decidedly, Friday the Thirteenth is a day of ill omen!”

[scribe]

Amon Sul, early evening of November 13, 1347.

Alagos nudged Tyaron under the table, but his friend merely turned his head, looked at him with eyes slightly out of focus and then turned back, gazing off into the distance at some far-away point unseen by others. "Dreaming again," thought Alagos enviously, as he listenened to his friend respond intelligently (but to one who knew him well, rather incompletely) to a question put to him by one of the men sitting nearby.

Tyaron was much better at simultaneously managing the wake-dreaming of the elves and holding conversations with the Second-Born than Alagos was. Of course, another elf (or a wizard - were those rumors born by bird and beast that Mithrandir was around true? If so, perhaps Tyaron had better wake up...) would have caught out Tyaron right away, but the Second-Born never seemed to realize when the Elves wandered in their dream world. It made gatherings with men like this one ("They don't know how to have banquets!" thought Alagos with regret) much more bearable, for men usually thought an Elf with a reflective look on his face was merely thinking gravely about the discussion. As long as you could keep enough of yourself in the waking world to keep up an intelligent conversation, you were fine. And Tyaron, a very capable person, did this extremely well.

Alagos, on the other hand, threw himself into his waking dreams with everything he had, just like he did everything else, and usually couldn't indulge in this pleasure around men because he never would hear anything that people around him said, so he had to stay awake if he didn't want to offend his hosts.

Alagos would have much rather been with Callon and the horses than in a gathering such as this one - Gimilbeth, the ice princess, sitting nearby, colder than the stones around them ("Oh, Idril, Idril ... fair, fleet-footed maiden!" he thought sadly. She was a real princess!) and men speaking of things that were of little or no concern to the First Born. His eyes drifted over to Gimilbeth, and he suddenly became more awake. What was that fleeting expression on her face? It looked like ... grief ... He studied her for a moment and then turned his eyes away as she looked quickly and alertly over at him, the momentary glimpse of her humanity shielded from onlookers once more.

He sighed and turned his eyes to look around the room, as the men next to him were more interested in eating than in talking at the moment, and his heart sank even further. The room was well-built, but where was the beauty? Firmly resisting the temptation to enter into a dream about Gondolin and the way things should be built, he decided that they really should pay more attention to the goings-on around them here. There might be some good information to pass on.

He sighed again and then, leaning over to his friend, spoke firmly to him in their mother tongue. The men next to them pricked up their ears at the strange-sounding tongue, now rarely heard in Middle Earth. Tyaron blinked, looked around, and then sighed like Alagos had just done.

"I suppose you're right, brother," he answered in the same tongue. "We need to listen. But oh, the fountains ... " and Tyaron's eyes started to get that faint, distant look in them again.

"None of that!" said Alagos firmly. "Come now, duty calls!"

Tyaron smiled wryly back, and they turned to join in the conversations going on around them.

[Aegnor]

After midnight, November 14 1347, the road west of Amon Sûl

It was deep in the night when Aegnor finally drew up his horse beside the Weathervane inn, just south of the Road. He saw that a light was still on in the common room, and hoped that the other members of Cardolan’s delegation to Amon Sûl were staying here. If not, he didn’t think that he could go any further until morning, anyway – it had been a very long day.

Entering the inn, he was greeted by a familiar voice. “Aegnor, as I live and breathe! You look like hell. Come, have a drink with me.”

Looking towards the sound, Aegnor saw the bleary-eyed, flabby face of Belecthor, Count of Tharbad. “Lord Belecthor, I must admit I had not expected to see any of our party until morning. You’re up quite late.”

“Well, you know how it is. Always time for a good drink. And Adrahil and I have been up late talking things over. He’s off in his room looking for some document or other.”

Belecthor and Adrahil, Thane of (name of proper thanehold here), were the members of the Council of Cardolan most committed to the King of Arthedain. As Count of Tharbad, Belecthor came from one of the most distinguished families in the kingdom, and he loved to play the role of the great aristocratic host. He patronized poets and artists, collected Númenorean and Beleriandic artifacts, and held enormous parties and balls and so forth as often as he could manage it. His wife always wore the most expensive gowns, in whatever style was current in Osgiliath that season, and the most extravagant jewelry. He also kept at least three mistresses, and was a constant fixture in the great theaters and opera houses of Tharbad and, when he was at court, at Harnost. He also loved playing the role of the great magnate – he had been deeply involved in the politics of the Council of the Kingdom ever since he succeeded his father as Count thirty years ago, and had accumulated both offices and dependents.

Unfortunately, the actual means of the Counts of Tharbad were not sufficient to maintain such an extravagant lifestyle. The title of “Count of Tharbad” was, in fact, something of a misnomer. Although his lands were certainly in the vicinity of Tharbad (in fact, he had lands on both sides of the river, and was, in fact, one of the great landowners of Enedwaith as well, although he rarely went there), he had no control over the great city itself, which fell under the direct control of the Kings of Cardolan and Gondor. The rents of the extensive agricultural lands surrounding the city which he controlled were not sufficient to cover the vast expenses constantly being incurred by the Count. This was especially true given the massive debts Belecthor had contracted prior to his father’s death. The old count h ad gone to his deathbed firm in the knowledge that his son would drive his proud old house into penury and ruin.

But somehow this had not happened. In the first years following his father’s death, indeed, events had taken the course one would expect, as Belecthor’s debt inexorably increased and his lines of credit ran thinner and thinner. And then, one day, about ten years after the death of the old count, everything had miraculously righted itself. From around the same period, Belecthor became a devout friend and supporter of the rights and interests of King Malvegil of Arthedain.

Aegnor looked carefully at Belecthor, who was clearly rather inebriated. “I suppose a drink would do me good,” he said, sitting in his seat. “It has been a very long day.”

Although he knew he should be wary, Aegnor couldn’t help liking the fat little count. Belecthor was certainly an agent of his lord’s political enemies, but he was a most pleasant one, and he had always been careful to stay on good personal terms with the Prince and his party. Or, at least, with most of the Prince’s party. The old Prince himself referred to Belecthor semi-publicly as “that fat little fool,” a fact which the Count must have been aware of, but never showed any sign of. Whether this was out of a desire to win the Prince over to the King of Arthedain, or to hedge his bets in case the Prince should succeed, was unclear, and was occasionally debated among the Prince’s confidantes. Aegnor himself privately believed that Belecthor’s friendliness and good spirits had little political content at all, but merely reflected the man’s character. He was naturally gregarious, and hated for anyone to dislike him. The barman, Aegnor saw, had gone to sleep. Belecthor had slipped behind the bar himself and taken out a bottle of whiskey, which he poured into a cup he took out. Aegnor wondered how much he had paid the barman for the privilege – he imagined it must have been a great deal. “A long day, eh, friend? I hope you can tell me something of it.”

Here Aegnor knew to be careful. Belecthor might seem like a silly little man, but he was no fool. “I have been riding back and forth carrying messages on Lord Galphant’s behalf – yesterday I rode to Tyrn Gorthad to deliver a message to his father, and immediately upon my return he ordered me to ride to meet you here and tell you that he will take to the road again and join you soon.”

“Ah, good to know, good to know. His stomach is better then, I trust?”

“Yes, thankfully, he is fully recovered. What news here? Lord Orogost is sleeping, I imagine?”

“Aye, of course. The man rises and sets with the sun. And Amdir has turned in as well.” Orogost, High Steward of Cardolan, was the head of the council of Cardolan, and, as such, regent of the kingdom until a king was found. Of relatively low birth, he had been a childhood friend of King Dirion, but had won his position largely by dint of an astonishing work ethic. While Dirion moped about for decades feeling sorry for himself after the death of his sons, Orogost had run the kingdom. He was quite old now, but still maintained the same grueling schedule he had done as a young man – waking up at the first light of dawn to go through state papers for hours. Since the king’s death, so long as Orogost was still at the helm, there was little change in the day to day operation of the kingdom. In spite of his long years of experience in governance and administration, Orogost had never been a very political man, and he had kept this up in the time since the king’s death, refusing to give any support to either side in the dispute over the succession, instead going to work with his usual calm efficiency at the steps necessary to determine whether or not there was an heir to King Caryontar. Amdír was Orogost’s son and, in recent years, assistant. Orogost was clearly training the younger man to be his successor in the thankless job of administrator of the kingdom, but Amdír had given signs of greater political ambition than his father. He had held long discussions with the old Prince, Aegnor knew, over the political situation, and he suspected that he may have had similar discussions with Belecthor, as well. As yet, though, he was biding his time, and, like his father, had not clearly picked a side. “Has anything happened, then, since we last saw each other?” Aegnor asked.

“Little enough has happened here,” Belecthor said. “Just some very slow travelling. Orogost wanted to make greater haste, but I said, ‘What’s the rush? We shan’t be able to do anything until Galphant and Hador get here, anyway, and a good inn by the side of the road ought to be as convenient as whatever lodging we find at Amon Sûl.’ Do you know anything about the lodgings in Amon Sûl, by the way, Aegnor? That seems like your line. Are we to stay in the tower itself, or is that House of Isildur only?”

“I admit I know little of the situation there. I believe it was your task as Secretary to the Council to write ahead to the Warden of the Tower and announce our journey.”

“Blast it, that’s right! I must admit to you, Aegnor, that I completely neglected that responsibility. So many things to worry about, you know. Ah, here’s Adrahil back. Adrahil! Come over! As you can see, Aegnor has rejoined us, and he promises us that Galphant and Hador and the rest will be back with us soon.”

“That is good news indeed. Welcome, Aegnor.” The man who spoke looked as different from Belecthor as imaginable. Tall, thin, and rather severe looking, Adrahil was the other great support of Malvegil on the council of Cardolan. Unlike Belecthor, Adrahil had no clear monetary motivation for his support of Malvegil – he lived frugally, and his wide lands in Minhiriath were more than sufficient to maintain him. So far as anyone could tell he supported Malvegil out of principle. He had spent some time in Fornost as Dirion’s personal representative, and knew the royal family of Arthedain well. Aegnor did not know why, but there was something about the man that he did not like. Belecthor was an open book, but Adrahil was a mystery. He spoke only rarely, and then with few words, and almost never gave any sign of what he was really thinking. Here, in the night, while Belecthor was clearly quite tipsy, Adrahil appeared entirely sober, although he had certainly been drinking as well. And there was something in his eyes that always seemed to Aegnor on the verge of a threat. He liked to avoid the man as much as possible.

“Lord Adrahil, my thanks.” Aegnor looked at the two men. Clearly, they had business they wished to discuss, and Aegnor was in no mood to impede them – it was, at this point, only a few hours until morning, and he wanted to get at least a little sleep before the morning. “I must, however, excuse myself, gentlemen. It is late, and I have not slept in many hours. I shall, I’m sure, see you in the morning.”

“Well, that’s not far off now, is it?” Belecthor laughed. “And I doubt that we’ll get going before mid-afternoon or so, if at all – if Galphant’s on his way, perhaps we should simply wait for him to arrive. But sleep if you must. I don’t think the innkeeper is awake, though. I’ve rented out an extra room, though, for emergencies and such. Take the key, it’s to room 15. Sleep.”

Bidding the two men his adieus and thanking Belecthor for his hospitality, Aegnor stumbled upstairs to bed.

[Orogost]

Weathervane Inn, the Road west of Amon Sûl, 6 AM, November 14, 1347.

Orogost, High Steward of Cardolan, awoke, as always, with the sun. Splashing his face with the cold water the servant had left for him, and, as always, carefully shaving his face with a straight razor, he contemplated the day before him.

He hoped that some sort of word would be received from the dilatory Prince's heir of Baranduin, whose unexplained tardiness had already delayed their journey by some days. The sooner this thankless task was completed, the better, he thought to himself. The continuing uncertainty as to who would be king was making for instability in the kingdom, and some sort of permanent solution was clearly in order in the near future. What, precisely, that permanent solution should be would have to be determined by the ancient constitution and laws of the Númenoreans, as interpreted by the Council of the Kingdom. Even in his private thoughts, Orogost was not ready, yet, to go further than that - he would have to do a great deal of research on the legal precedents before he was fully satisfied as to who was the proper heir to the kingdom.

Dressing himself quickly, he left his room and knocked on the door of the room next to him. "Amdír!" he called, "Join me in the common room when you are ready." There was a slight groan from inside the room. His son was a good lad, Orogost thought, but lacked a certain necessary discipline. Coming down into the common room to see Adrahil asleep at a table while Belecthor conversed blearily and drunkenly with the innkeeper, who had just awoken, Orogost had to amend his opinion in favor of his son. At least, he thought, he was not so foolish as these supposed counselors. Long experience had led him to expect such nonsense from Belecthor, but he'd always thought better of Adrahil. Between this foolishness and Galphant and Hador's dilly dallying, Orogost could not help but feel that the entirety of the Cardolani delegation would present a poor spectacle to the Arthedain officials at Amon Sûl.

"Ah, Orogost, my good friend," Belecthor exclaimed on seeing the old steward, "up already, I see. I was just about to put in for some sleep, myself."

"Sleep? Good god, man, it's already morning. We ought to try to make some progress in the journey today."

"No point, no point, Orogost. Aegnor arrived in the night - Galphant and the rest are finally on their way. We may as well wait for them - they should be here by the afternoon."

Orogost considered, for a moment. "Very well, then, do what you will. When you wake up, search for me. There is a letter from the Vice Admiral in Tharbad which we ought to discuss.* Where is Aegnor? I shall have to speak to him myself."

"Very well, very well, whatever you wish...Aegnor is in the extra room and I'm off to bed." Belecthor passed Adrahil on his way out, and tapped loudly on the table where Adrahil had laid his head. Adrahil awoke with a start. "Ah, my lord, I apologize for my foolishness," he said to Orogost when he had woken up enough to be aware of his surroundings. "Lord Belecthor and I were up late into the night speaking, and I must have fallen asleep."

Orogost looked at him sternly. "I suppose you wish to sleep as well. Very well, get to it." Adrahil rather sheepishly rose and followed Belecthor out of the room. On the stairs he passed by Amdír, who was rushing down to find his father.

No sooner was he down than Orogost sent him back up. "Amdír - apparently Aegnor has arrived in the night with a message from Galphant and Hador. Please retrieve him. Belecthor sent him to the extra room, apparently."

Orogost soon found him confronted with Aegnor. He had always found the Prince's Steward to be an honorable man, the sort he could respect. Hard-working, honest, intelligent, and loyal, Aegnor came from a respectable, but not wealthy, gentry family that had owned lands on the southern margins of the Old Forest since the days of Elendil. "Aegnor, it is good to finally have word from Lord Galphant."

"I am glad, my lord. He should arrive here later today, I hope. Various illnesses and other problems have detained, but I have no doubt he will want to proceed swiftly on to Amon Sûl as soon as he arrives."

"I would not have had any doubt of it either, if not for these interminable delays which he has been making for us for the last week."

"I assure you, lord, that those delays were not to his liking any more than they were to yours."

"Of course, of course. I apologize for losing my temper. I am just impatient. Amdír, do you have any thoughts as to whether we ought to do anything useful prior to Lord Galphant's arrival?"

Amdír looked carefully at his father and paused for several moments before answering. Most likely he knew that Orogost already knew exactly what was to be done, and was testing to see if the same thought had occurred to his son. "I think, Father, that word ought to be sent to Amon Sûl of our arrival."

"Precisely, precisely," said Orogost, smiling at his son. Perhaps some good would come of the boy yet. "Aegnor, you are a fine rider. I trust it would not be too wearying for you to ride to Amon Sûl after you finish breakfast - we can find you a fresh horse, I'm sure. As you have informed us of an arrival, I'm sure you can inform the Warden of the Tower of ours."

Both of his interlocuters looked somewhat dismayed by this request - Amdír had hoped to receive the assignment himself, Orogost could see, and Aegnor still looked tired from his ride of the previous night. Orogost briefly considered if he should have sent Amdír on instead. No, Amdír would be of great use to him in going through the various state papers, while Aegnor was the faster rider, and could do nothing of use here. Using everyone in the way best suited to their talents might not necessarily make them the happiest, but would accrue to the greater good in the long run.

Aegnor took a deep breath. "Of course, sir, I can ride on to Amon Sûl. I should be there before nightfall."

*In the Council of Cardolan, each of the members holds a somewhat specialized, but largely ceremonial, position. For most of these positions, a deputy carries out most of the departmental responsibilities:
Orogost - Steward (in charge of administration of the kingdom)
Belecthor - Admiral (runs the fleet)
Prince of Baranduin - Chamberlain (runs the royal household)
Galphant - Constable (runs the army)
Adrahil - Chancellor (in charge of the great seal and of justice, and of diplomatic correspondence)
Hador - Treasurer (in charge of the treasury, obviously)

[Aegnor]

Amon Sûl, evening, November 14, 1347

The sun was setting as Aegnor approached the gates of Amon Sûl. He was exhausted, and feeling not terribly charitably towards Orogost. Surely the tiresome old fool had seen that his son was eager to perform this task, and surely he could see that Aegnor was utterly exhausted, but nonetheless he'd been sent. He cursed under his breath, then pulled himself together. He must not be in a foul mood while delivering his message to the Warden. He was a representative of the Kingdom of Cardolan and of the Prince of Baranduin and his heir, and he must do his duty. He straightened himself on his horse as he reached the gate.

"Who's there?" asked one of the men guarding the gate. "State your business, sir."

"I am Aegnor, Steward of Rammastir, Prince of Baranduin, and I come bearing a message for the Warden from the Council of the Kingdom of Cardolan." He reached into his saddle bag and pulled out his message, bearing the great seal of Cardolan.

The guards looked at each other. "Cardolan, too?" one muttered, and the other chuckled, before remembering himself and turning back to the visitor. "Please sir, come into the gate house and wait with me while we send word to Lord Annundil of your arrival. Húrin, come take the lord's horse to the stable!"

While the various guards bustled about to various tasks - one taking Aegnor's horse, another running off to the tower to inform the warden of his arrival, Aegnor sat in silence at the guard tower across from the man who was apparently the guard officer, who regarded him nervously. Finally, one of the guards returned. "Sir, follow me, the Warden will speak with you."

Aegnor was led out of the gatehouse and into the fortress proper. Passing into the great court, he saw rising before him the great watchtower. At the doors stood a tall older man.

"I am Annundil, Warden of the Tower. I am told you bear a message from the Council of Cardolan?" His tone was polite, but Aegnor could tell there was a certain nervousness behind it.

Aegnor bowed. "Indeed sir, I am Aegnor, Steward of Prince Rammastir of Baranduin. The Council of Cardolan has entrusted me with this message to you." He handed the message to the warden.

The warden closely examined the seal before opening the letter. He read it in silence for several minutes, and then looked up. His face had a certain ashen cast to it. "Do you know the contents of the message you bear, sir?" he asked.

Aegnor looked at him with a slight degree of worry. From the warden's expression, he wondered for a moment if Orogost might not have written a letter instructing Annundil to kill its bearer. He quickly wiped the thought from his mind. "I have not read the message itself, but I believe I know the contents. The Council of Cardolan is sending a delegation here so that it may use the Palantír to communicate with Gondor and ascertain if there are any heirs of Caryontar in the south kingdom. They should arrive by tomorrow or the next day."

The Warden nodded sadly. "Yes, that is what the message says." Aegnor felt an unexpected surge of relief. "What can you tell me of this delegation? How many men does it contain?"

"Sir, save my master, who is too sick to ride this distance in the winter, all of the members of the council will be coming - Lord Orogost, and my master's son, Lord Galphant, and Lord Belecthor, and the rest."

Annundil did not look pleased by this information. "And I imagine a fair number of others - servants, companions, secretaries, guards, and the like?"

"Sir, indeed, yes. About sixty men in all."

"And how long is this mission likely to take?"

"I do not know sir. You know the workings of the Seeing Stones better than I, but I imagine it will take some time for the loremasters of Gondor to research the subject and give us their replies. Several weeks at least, if not longer."

"It will be a large company indeed here at Amon Sûl, then. We already have visitors from Fornost and from Cameth Brin. A meeting of all three kingdoms, as it were. I do not know that this has happened for many years. I shall have to consult with the King in Fornost on your council's mission here, but you are all most welcome here, of course, for as long as your mission may last."

Ah, there was the cause of the old warden's distress - too many people were already staying in the fortress. Looking around, Aegnor could see that there were rather more people in the place than one would normally expect, and altogether too many Dwarves. He was curious, but it would have to wait. "Thank you sir, for your hospitality. I would be happy to discuss this more with you, at your leisure, sir, but I must confess I am most exhausted. I have been very busy on errands for my master and for the council, and have not had a chance to sleep in some days. You would greatly oblige me if you could give me a room to sleep in, and we can speak more tomorrow."

[Gimilbeth]

Amon Sul, November 15, 1347.

It was mid-morning when Gimilbeth, followed by the inevitable Barund, gingerly made her way out of the palace onto the pristinely white south-eastern court of Amon Sul - at the third floor terrace level. There was a storm last night, and now most of the expanse of the square was covered with knee-deep snow; only narrow paths were cleared between the main buildings. At the edges of the paths, the banks of snow were waist-high and the rare persons who ventured outside seemed to float like ships in a white sea. And it was still snowing… Decidedly, Gimilbeth thought, her party made it to shelter in the nick of time.

The previous day had been uneventful – to tell the truth, she slept through most of it. The journey from Cameth Brin proved to be more tiresome and more taxing than expected, and the shock of seeing Celebrindor and Sulawen was hard to bear. And then again, despite her good looks, Gimilbeth was hardly young anymore. The thought made her straighten her shoulders and look around in challenge. The enamored look on Barund’s honest weather-beaten face felt somewhat reassuring. The Captain from Brochenridge was dogging her footsteps like a faithful hound, always eager for attention. Hurgon, on the other hand, made himself scarce, ever since Gimilbeth had angrily reprimanded him two days ago. Now he was most likely drinking in the kitchens in the company of the driver, the Dwarves and the two Elves.

“So, Barund, are you quite sure the Cardolani are here?”

“That is what I heard, my Lady.” Barund replied, happy to be addressed. “One Tarnost man is surely here, I have seen him with my own eyes, though I had no words with him. He is a noble, by the looks of him, albeit he doesn’t seem a great lord. And more will be coming today or tomorrow.”

“I wonder,” mused Gimilbeth aloud, “what the purpose of their visit might be?” She stood thinking and frowning to herself, while Barund, who was eager to please but obviously had no grasp on politics whatsoever, provided more and more impossible and extravagant explanations for the Cardolani’s impending visit.

She finally stopped him. “Enough, enough, Barund, don’t let your imagination fly unchecked. It is most obvious that the delegation is coming here in connection with the death of King Dirion and the election of the new King. ‘Tis strange, though, that they would come here, and not to Fornost. Hmm… Mayhap they want to use the Palantir- much as we do.” Gimilbeth gathered her fur mantle tighter about herself to ward off the chill and started walking towards the south wing of the fortress. Barund strode in tow.

They followed the path to the vaulted passage beneath the south wing and emerged in on the south-western terrace. There they turned into wide lane leading to the main entrance, when they saw Annundil and his son Nonentir engaged in conversation by the main tower entrance. Both seemed grim and preoccupied. The warden noticed Gimilbeth and nodded to her. They approached.

“I have good news for you, Lady,” the Warden announced, smiling. “Nonentir here has just received a reply from Fornost, and I was going to summon you.” Annundil cleared his throat and announced formally. “His Majesty the King has granted you a private audience in two days, on the seventeenth of Hithui, three hours after sunrise.” He lowered his voice and added, “You must understand - it is a great favor to get an audience so soon, as many a petitioner at Fornost has to wait for months to see the King.”

“I am honored, Lord Warden”. Gimilbeth curtsied.

“Two days are barely enough to get familiar with the Stone” the Warden continued. “However, when it is used for communication, it is much easier to handle than when it is used for observation, once the contact with the other Stone is established, of course. But the Warden of Fornost and I will see to that. Meanwhile, I advise you to practice: maybe an hour this evening and twice tomorrow, if you are agreeable. Nonentir and the wardens of Fornost are instructed to help you.

“I am most grateful to you, Lord Annundil” said Gimilbeth smiling. “Perhaps we could start right away?” she added eagerly. A chill of anticipation ran down her spine – all her life she craved to have a peek in one of the stones!

“Now?” the Warden asked, looking back towards Nonentir. “Hmm… then I guess I shall have to take you up there myself. Nonentir has just returned from a six hours shift and must eat and rest. But I suppose now is as good a time as any… Who knows what additional duties might come my way in the evening?” he muttered grimly.

They walked to the tower. On the steps, Annundil turned and addressed Barund. “Young man,” he said sternly, “you should return to your lodgings. I understand your concern for your Lady, but no one but the chosen few are allowed up there. That is the rule here and it is not to be broken.”

Gimilbeth watched Barund, red like a boiled crayfish, bow and shuffle back to the palace: she found herself relieved to see him gone. The warden led the way to the spiral tower stair and stepped back motioning her to ascend first. The climb was endless. Finally they came to huge oaken doors guarded by two soldiers in Amon Sul livery. Gimilbeth stopped to wait for Annundil who was now a dozen steps behind.

Trying to conceal her lack of breath, she turned around and observed the guardroom. It was chilly, despite the huge fireplace where a whole pine smoldered. Looking at the windows, Gimilbeth saw the cause of it. One of them was pane-less and suspended in the window frame was a huge bell.

“What is it for?”, Gimilbeth asked with interest, indicating the bell to the Warden.

“Uh…What?...Ah, the bell… Uh…I suppose it is no great secret lady… When Amon Sul is under attack, we ring the tocsin. But if the bell tolls but twice, it means that the Warden is summoned to the stone – and I have to climb the dratted stair (begging your pardon, lady) as fast as my old legs can carry me.” He laughed.

“Your duties are hard, indeed,” Gimilbeth concurred. "I think it is the highest tower I have ever climbed."

“Elendil himself built it.” the Warden said proudly, “and some say the Elves from the Havens helped him. But others versed in the old Lore say that the craft of Westernesse even surpassed Cirdan’s, and our ancestors needed no guidance to build a tower like this.”

“It is certainly marvelous,” commented Gimilbeth. "Not even the tower of Minas Anor can equal it.” To tell the truth, Gimilbeth had never climbed that one, but the Warden didn’t question her judgment. Proud of his tower, he had not a slightest doubt that Amon Sul was the best tower in Middle Earth.

The guards opened the doors and revealed another flight of steps leading up. “Take heart”, chuckled the Warden, “it is the last one.” Soon they were in the high chamber where a dark sphere of crystal lay in the middle of a stone table. A dark clad man rose from his chair and bowed to Annundil.

“You may as well leave now, Narbeleg.” said the Warden. “I have come earlier than planned, but I will remain here for the next shift. Nonentir will relieve me at six and your turn will be at midnight. Go get some rest now.”

The one called Narbeleg bowed (they seem a silent lot here, thought Gimilbeth) and left, shutting the doors soundlessly behind him.

“Now if you allow me a minute…” the Warden took a seat facing West and put his hands on the Palantir. Strange shadows ran across his face, like reflections of images that passed in array before his eyes. He looked at something for about five minutes, his eyes narrow, then sighed and stood. His face looked tired and drained – perhaps the strain of using the Stone was even greater than the rumor had it, thought Gimilbeth worriedly.

The Warden now invited Gimilbeth to take the seat facing North. He stood by her side and put his hands upon the Stone again. The darkness inside shifted. She peered into the stone and drew in her breath when she saw the mist inside clear and reveal high battlements of grey stone and many blue banners flopping in the wind. “Fornost?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes, of course,” replied the Warden. "We shall meet my colleague… ah… it is Evendur. Now put your hands upon the Stone, lady Gimilbeth, and you will hear his voice.”

Gimilbeth pressed her now wet palms to the smooth radiant surface. She saw a chamber, much like the one she was in, and a middle-aged man facing her.

“Greetings and well met, Lady Gimilbeth. I am Evendur, assistant-warden of the Palantir of Fornost.” His pleasant voice resonated so suddenly inside her head that she cried out in fright and jerked back her hands. The voice vanished and Evendur’s lips now moved soundlessly. The image remained in place, though, as Annundil still wisely held his own hands upon the stone.

“Don’t get too nervous, my lady,” the Warden laughed good-naturedly. “It is indeed a bit unsettling at first, but you will get used to it. Let us start again.”

[Galphant]

Amon Sûl, November 15, 1347, early evening

The Cardolani delegation had arrived at the gates of Amon Sûl. While the large party of servants bustled about, speaking with servants of the tower about accommodations for men and horses, the members of the Council of Cardolan stood outside, conversing lightly as they awaited their formal welcome. To be more specific, Belecthor was doing most of the conversing, which was largely directed towards Hador and Adrahil. Orogost was somewhat excitedly directing the activities of the servants, and had enlisted Amdír and Herunarth in his exploits. Galphant stood somewhat off to the side, still thinking pensively of the vaguely dishonorable plans he had set in motion for the coming weeks. His attention was diverted back to his colleagues’ conversation by Belecthor’s words. “So, Hador, who’s this enormous blond chap you’ve brought with you? I’m sure I’ve never seen the fellow before – I would remember a gigantic barbarian, I think.”

“Ah, yes, strange story that. Our groom managed to catch a serious fever in Bree, and we were in desperate need of a new one. This fellow had just arrived in the town, and had apparently tended horses in Gondor – apparently there’s tons of Northern Barbarian servants in Osgiliath these days. They’re all the rage, supposedly – but surely you already know that. In any event, we hired the fellow.” Galphant’s eyes met Hador’s. Thurisind’s conspicuousness was a particular weak point in his plan of deception.

“Well, that explains it, certainly. Still, it’s not every day you see such folk in Bree. I wonder what is taking so long.”

As the conversation turned to the subject of the character and age of the old warden, Galphant allowed his mind to wander again. He was disturbed again by Duilin, who had managed to insert himself much more inconspicuously in their party than his companion, taking on the previously unfilled role of valet to Herunarth. “My Lord, your son requests a word with you,” Duilin said loudly. More softly, he added, “the lad is annoyed because Orogost is patronizing him. It might be a good idea to head that off.”

Galphant nodded, and went off through the gate to find his son. He found Orogost just inside, apparently scolding his son for some failure with the servants. Before Galphant could intervene, the tongue-lashing was interrupted by the arrival of what was apparently the welcoming party. A tall, older man stood in the center, with three or four others around him. Galphant recognized Aegnor among them. The old man, seeing Orogost and Galphant, bowed and began to speak. “My Lords, I am Annundil, the warden of the tower, and I welcome you here in the name of King Malvegil.”

Rather than replying immediately, Orogost seemed to be in the midst of ordering Herunarth off to bring back the others, so Galphant stepped in and bowed. “My lord, I am Galphant, son and heir of Rammastir, Prince of Baranduin, and Constable of the Kingdom of Cardolan, and I am at your service. My companion here is Orogost, Steward and Regent of the Kingdom. The remainder of our party is outside the gates, but I see that Lord Orogost is sending my son off to bring them back. We thank you for your kind welcome.”

Orogost, by now having dispatched Herunarth, now himself turned to greet Annundil, and bowed. “My Lord, great thanks for your welcome. Soon enough I will have to speak to you more of our mission. It’s really a rather troublesome matter – we have to use the stone to consult with Osgiliath over some genealogical issues relating to the succession to the throne vacated by his late majesty King Dirion last year. Dotting the i's and crossing the t’s, you know. I could have done it all myself, I’m sure, but most everyone else on the Council insisted on coming themselves – can’t imagine why, it’s all so tedious. While we’re here, I suppose we might chat with Malvegil as well – personal relations among the leaders of all the kingdoms are always useful, I’ve always said. It’s always been a great mystery to me why there’s been so much war among our three lands, when we are all Dúnedain, you know – we all come from the men of Westernesse, and all our ancestors fought the great enemy together, you know, so we should all be able to get along well enough. And yet there was my father, killed by Rhudaurian treachery, and my great-grandfather was killed in battle with Arthedain. All a great shame, I’ve always said.”

Once going, Orogost could go on for a long time, and it was with some relief that at this point the others arrived, and made their greetings to the Warden.

Finally, the Warden spoke again. “It is good to hear you speak, Lord Orogost, of good relations among the three kingdoms, for we are uniquely honored at this time to have the highest representatives of all three kingdoms present in our tower. Besides yourselves, the Lady Gimilbeth of Rhudaur has but lately arrived with a delegation from that troubled land, and my own son-in-law Lord Celebrindol, the King’s heir of Arthedain, is here with with his family for the winter. I hope that you will be able to put your wise intentions into execution. As to your mission, you will have to explain your needs to me more fully, and I will have to discuss the issue further with His Majesty in Fornost before I can allow you permission to use the Stone. I cannot foresee any serious difficulties, however. The Lady Gimilbeth is also using the Stone in these days, but I should think that, given how fatiguing use of the Stone is, there should be plenty of time for all to use it. In the meanwhile, you are all welcome to Amon Sûl, and you are welcome to dinner at my table tonight. We should have a great company before us, and perhaps we can begin the work of reconciling the three kingdoms at the dinner table.”

The old warden looked somewhat pained for the last part of his speech, as though he did not relish the prospect of a feast. Now the Warden introduced the other men around him, but Galphant was once again absobrbed in his own thoughts and only took in a few. There was one Barund, some sort of officer from Rhudaur, and Beleg, the heir’s heir of Arthedain and the Warden’s grandson, and several others whose names did not sink in. Annundil offered various servants to take the members of the council to their rooms, and the group gradually dispersed. Galphant kept his assigned guide waiting, still standing where he was for reasons, contemplating possibilities he did not really understand. He felt that there must be some significance to this - representatives from all three kingdoms, here at one time by complete coincidence? Galphant was sure it was an opportunity of some sort, but an opportunity for what? “Father,” Herunarth said, pushing him out of his reverie. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just lost in my own thoughts. Let’s find our apartments. There will be plenty of time to consider the situation.”

[Duilin]

Amon Sûl, late evening, November 15, 1347

From a very young age, Duilin had discovered that he was very good at sneaking around. After his parents died, when he was nine, he'd been forced to act as chief breadwinner for his little brothers and sisters. For several years, he'd accomplished this largely by stealing - picking pockets of the wealthy merchants and merchants' wives in the bustling port city of Pelargir. It had only been when he was sixteen and his innkeeper uncle in Osgiliath had found them and taken them in that he'd been able to return to relative respectability.

His skills, however, had been useful in numerous situations during his long years at various outposts of the army, and had been very useful during the year back in Osgiliath. Now, it seemed, those skills would prove useful again. His job now was to investigate, as best he could, how well-guarded the chamber of the Seeing Stone was.

His first few hours in the fortress had been consumed with the first preparations for the task. He had wandered through the various corridors of the fortress, trying to get a sense of the layout and situation of the place. As the supposed valet to a great nobleman, he found he had a fairly free reign through most of the place. Unfortunately, he found he really had no way to get into the place he most wanted to go - the great tower itself. Guards were encamped by the main entrance, and would only allow those with clear business to pass through. Beyond that point, he could acquire no information, for now.

"All in good time," Duilin said to himself as he felt his stomach rumbling. "Right now, what I need is a meal and a good stiff drink." Sneaking past the guards oughtn't to be overly difficult, but he would need to discuss the situation with his employers before doing anything about it, and they were presently inaccessible. Duilin turned back towards the mess hall he had seen earlier next to the kitchen - a meal later on had been promised for the various auxiliaries of the Cardolani delegation, and the time seemed promising.

Duilin arrived to find the mess hall quite full. Some were men of Cardolan whom he'd met before - servants and assistants of various sorts, mostly, but he also saw Amdír and Aegnor talking to what he took to be a Rhudaurian officer. There were also many he didn't know - men from Rhudaur or Fornost, or members of the household, he assumed. There was even a party of Dwarves, puzzlingly enough. And of course, unmistakable, a head higher than everyone else, was Thurisind, a large tankard of ale and a plate before him, with a small group gathered about him, rapt with attention to the story he was telling. Duilin moved closer.

"So, there I was, on my own on the eves of Mirkwood Forest. The damned Scilfing ambush had separated me from my companions, and I managed to get lost in the forest just as night began to fall." It was a story from Thurisind's youth in the barbarous lands of the north that Duilin had heard many times before. The slaying of gigantic spiders was involved. Thurisind looked up and saw his friend, "Ah, Duilin, good to see you again! Come, join us!" he gestured to a seat next to him.

"I've made some friends from Rhudaur. This young fellow was working with me in the stables - Callon, right? Got injured in an orc attack on the way here. Orcs are nasty little brutes, eh? And this here is Hurgon - Lord High Portrait Painter to King Tarnendur. Good fellows, I think, but the one is too drunk, and the other isn't drunk enough!"

Duilin took the proffered seat. "I find myself in the latter state, but certainly that is something which can be corrected! Where does one find a tankard of ale, here?"