Storms at Weathertop. Shadow over Rhudaur IV

[Gimilbeth]

Amon Sûl, late evening, November 15, 1347

Meanwhile, the dinner was in progress in the main Hall of the Tower. Gimilbeth observed that the company at the High table was much different from that of the last Friday, and the mood was somehow grimmer. There were the Warden with his wife and son, Celebrindol with Sulawen and Beleg, members of the Council of Cardolan, a gray clad old man, called lord Mithrandir, and herself, seated between two Cardolan nobles: Galphant and Belector. No children or noble maidens were present this time; in fact, there were only two young faces: Beleg and another young noble, the son of lord Galphant of Baranduin. Some kind soul had placed them side by side and the youngsters were whispering animatedly between themselves, oblivious to the general gloomy atmosphere at the table. The two elves were also missing; apparently they had left early the previouis morning for some errand of their own ... good riddance!The Steward of Cardolan, Orogost, was talking incessantly in his old strident voice: something along the lines of the necessity to unite and the shame of killing each other in the past - hardly a suitable subject for a dinner conversation.

Gimilbeth felt tired and irritable: an hour-long talk with the warden of Fornost palantir proved to be more draining than she had expected, regardless of the fact that they never discussed anything but weather. Now she found herself discussing weather again with Galphant on her left and felt sick of the subject. Her neighbor on the right, the fat and cheerful lord Belector of Tharbad seemed more likeable; moreover, he hinted he was her distant kin of some sort - as Gimilbeth’s ancestor Hyarandil, King of Rhudaur, had once married a daughter of the Count of Tharbad.

The dinner was drawing to a close: the empty dishes were removed and more wine was brought. To let the men enjoy their drinks in peace, the ladies present: Sulawen, Erebloth and her daughter-in-law, made their excuses and withdrew. Beleg and his new friend slipped quietly out as well. By the custom observed in the North, Gimilbeth was expected to follow the other ladies, but she stubbornly set her jaw and remained seated. She was a representative of her father, King Tarnendur, and no way was she going to let the others discuss important matters behind her back! There were several raised brows, but nobody had the gall to ask her out.

As the general attention was drawn to her, Orogost addressed Gimilbeth directly. “How are the things going in Rhudaur, my lady? We have very confusing reports from the north, you see… Some say you are beset with rebel Hillmen. I don’t know what to believe.”

Gimilbeth sipped her wine to give herself time to think and waved dismissively. “The native rebels had been a problem, indeed, but recently my august Father has succeeded in pacifying them. Now the Hillmen have sworn allegiance to the King and swelled our army. Rhudaur is strong again,” she lied. Orogost seemed doubtful, so she hurried to change the subject. “And tell me please, have you succeeded in finding a suitable Heir to the late King Dirion?”

Everyone was now listening eagerly. Orogost shook his head and replied in his piercing voice. “Nay, we haven’t found living heirs to the King Caryontar. Mayhap there isn’t one left. But we still need the lore masters of Gondor to clarify the fate of two princes who left to dwell in the Southern Kingdom. One was Galendur, son of Tarennor the Second King and a daughter of the Prince of Calenardhon. He was born in 920 and as a young man he went to settle with his mother’s kin - but we don’t know what happened to him later. Another one was Tarhael son of Anardur the Fourth King who left in 1105. We know he used to live in Osgiliath, but we are not sure if he has left male descendants. We have to learn these important issues before deciding on the course to take.”

Gimilbeth’s brow darkened. “I think I can enlighten you on the fate of the first one, Galendur, for he was well known in Umbar, where my mother’s kin lived – and the memory is evil. Galendur served in Umbar in the occupying force of King Ciryandil and was high in the King's favor. He gradually rose in rank to become the head of the Gondorean garrison, but one night in 1000 he was assassinated in the street. He left no heirs, at least no legitimate heirs, though it was said that he had consorted with all manner of women, high and low alike.” Gimilbeth smiled evilly at the assembled men. Some seemed shocked by her straightforwardness unbecoming for a lady, but Gimilbeth couldn’t have cared less.

“Most likely he was killed by a cuckolded husband, but King Ciryandil chose to see it as a Black Numenorean conspiracy against the occupying force. The King avenged his minion’s death cruelly: many noble Umbarians were executed, including my own ancestor lord Azrathon, and many more were taken as hostages to live in Minas Anor. Indeed, Galendur’s death was long remembered in Umbar - it is called “the bloodbath of the year 1000”.

[Galphant]

Galphant had found that some gnawing thought in the back of his mind that he could not quite reach had distracted him throughout the long dinner. It got worse whenever he glanced at the lord Mithrandir, who seemed to look in his direction with a knowing half smile.

His attempts at conversation with the Rhudaurian princess beside him had thus been somewhat cursory. The Lady Gimilbeth was beautiful, especially for a woman whom he understood to be a few years his senior, and seemed clever and engaging enough, but he felt somewhat uneasy in her presence. He could think of no clear rational reason for this, save that he found her name somewhat off-putting - he had heard that in Rhudaur it was more common to give children names in the old language of Númenor, but he would not have thought such customs extended to the royal family itself. But that was hardly in itself a reason for his discomfort. A half-hearted attempt on his part to begin a discussion of the weather had met with little enthusiasm, and Galphant had then largely withdrawn from the conversation, which Belecthor was more than capable of carrying on on his own.

While he sat and half-listened to Belecthor's compliments and discussions of genealogy, he realized he should be trying harder. Hador would certainly chide him, he thought, for not making more inroads with a woman who certainly might be a useful ally.

When dinner came to a close, Galphant was surprised to see that, rather than leaving for the drawing room with the other ladies, Gimilbeth remained seated. The conversation became more interesting, as political issues began to be discussed - problems with Hillmen in Rhudaur, apparently.

When the conversation turned to the issue of the Cardolani delegation's own mission, Galphant found that his attention had finally become fully focused on it. Gimilbeth's remarks about the fate of Galendur, son of King Tarennor, were certainly jolting. Orogost looked particularly outraged. Galphant himself was surprised at the openness of the lady's apparent sympathy for the Morgoth worshippers of Umbar, but thought it best to remain quiet on that score.

"That is sad news, indeed, my lady, if true" Galphant quickly interjected, before the situation escalated any further. Changing the subject seemed appropriate. "But speaking of Black Númenoreans, in Cardolan we have heard strange tales of the realm of Angmar in the far north - a Sorceror King out of the south ruling over primitive northern hillmen, they say? Do you in Arthedain or Rhudaur know any more of this?"

[Gandalf]

November 15, 1347, evening – Amon Sul

“We in Arthedain have had almost no contact with Angmar to date, though it does rouse our suspicions,” volunteered Celebrindol. Although Rhudaur of course, is much closer. Some in my land wonder whether Rhudaur’s more recent troubles might have some connection there – with Hillmen being the common thread.”

The Lady Gimilbeth was quiet for a moment, apparently pondering how to respond. Wishing to spare her perhaps further awkwardness, in what he knew had already become for her an awkward visit, Nonentir turned to address the Lord Mithrandir.

“Well Mister Gandalf, what do you have to say of it? You came to us from the northeast, the very direction in which Angmar lies. Have you been there? Is there aught you can tell us of it?”

Gimilbeth started just a bit. This Lord Mithrandir was Gandalf? She had heard that last name much before, but had never met him. He had once visited her father, but it was when she was away in the south, but still… there was something familiar about him, but tied to neither name.

Meanwhile, Mithrandir had been stroking the long beard on his chin, trying to determine how HE should respond. But at last he seemed to reach a decision and said, “I have been there indeed. I found out some, but I’m sure I did not find out all – though I have some 'suspicions' myself. One thing I do know is this; the land is steeped in... the Black Arts,” and his eyes darted around, from one of them to another, as he said these last two words in a whisper.

“One thing I can tell you about the Black Arts,” he continued in a low voice, “is that many even among the Dunedain dabble in them, and to their own peril. For don’t you know that those who dabble risk falling into a trap – set by one who is a master of them?”

And his eyes roamed slowly around his listeners this time, resting at last on Gimilbeth, holding her own eyes just long enough that she thought his look to be significant. And then he looked away. After this he sat back in his chair and was silent once more.

INCANUS! This man… Mithrandir, Gandalf… he was Incanus! Gimilbeth was just sure of it. What she was not at all sure of was how he had guessed at her own involvement with the Arts. Had he simply heard rumors about her? Known her grandmother? Or was there more? Although none of the others seemed to notice at all, she began to feel quite uncomfortable, and to wonder if she should have joined the other ladies in the Drawing Room after all.

At last Mithrandir leaned forward once more and turned to face Gimilbeth directly. “Tell me, young lady of Rhudaur – how do the small people of Rhudaur fare? The half-heights? From what I hear, things have gotten so desperate for them in your land that they’ve fled both east and west – across the Misty Mountains whence they came, or onward as far as Bree! Do any still dwell in Rhudaur?

[Gimilbeth]

The half-heights?

Gimilbeth absently fingered the chain that held her hidden medallion engraved with the Black Runes - then jerked her hand away. What if Incanus were capable of feeling its presence that one such as he would believe malevolent? She sighed and sipped some more wine bringing her mind back to the question at hand.

“I can tell little about Halflings, as I have never seen one myself. Certainly there are none in Cameth Brin: they never venture into big cities, I heard. It’s a pity– a half high little human with hairy feet would be such a curiosity for the crowd in a marketplace!” Gimilbeth grinned.

“When I first came to Rhudaur, I couldn’t even believe that such freaks of nature really existed – but there are lots of reports from trustworthy people who have seen them, despite their stealthy ways. Some say they even have some basic intelligence. You say they have moved west – so, are there any in Arthedain?”

[Galphant]

Orogost was the first to reply. "Lady, I can tell you little of Arthedain, of course, but I can certainly tell you that the Halflings can certainly be found in Cardolan. There were quite a number in Bree when we passed through there. I hadn't realized there were so many. I am beginning to consider that perhaps some plan needs to be worked out to insure that the Halflings are paying their fair share of taxes to the royal treasury. I shall have to look into it when I return to Harnost."

"Indeed," Galphant added with a smile, "we should indeed be certain the Halflings aren't cheating the royal treasury. Lord Orogost is certainly right that they are quite common in the northern reaches of Cardolan these days, I think. My father's men have even discovered some trying to dig burrows in the Barrow Downs, the ancient burial downs of the fathers of the Edain, near our home. We've driven those away, but the Halflings in general seem harmless enough. Tell me, lord Mithrandir, why so much interest in such insignificant folk?"

[Gandalf]

"Oh, no particular reason really," and the old man sat back in his chair once more. "Just a passing fancy. They're a curious-looking folk, you know. So it's 'halflings' - not 'half-heights'?"

[Galphant]

Galphant looked closely at the old man. He clearly knew a great deal that he was unwilling to say. It was Belecthor who responded to Mithrandir's question.

"That is what we call them in Cardolan, yes. Although in Bree there was another name they were using. I can't recall it at the moment, though." Belecthor paused for a moment, as if trying to remember, and then continued. "But Lord Mithrandir, I must say that I am more interested in your travels in Angmar than in these Halflings. So far, you've only spoken in riddles of your visit there. Can you tell us more of it?"

[Gandalf]

Gandalf reached for his steaming mug, and slowly drew another drink. At last he put the cup back on the table and relaxed. He knit his bushy eyebrows together briefly and then looked upon his listeners.

"What more can I tell you of Angmar? It's cold! And besides that, it's not a pleasant place at all. As bad as things have gotten in the Three Kingdoms, they are better here than there. That's about all I have to tell of it."

"But come now, it's getting late, and the ladies must be awaiting us in the Drawing Room. I would either go there, or retire for the evening. Who will join me, should I choose the former? Lady Gimilbeth, I am getting along in years, and this drink hinders my walking the straight path. Would you kindly take this old man's arm, and direct me to a nice warm corner there? Something close to a fire?"

At that he rose, nodded briefly to the other men there and turned to face Gimilbeth.

[Gimilbeth]

What? It was utterly ridiculous! This Incanus, the accursed Northern spy, the ancient wanderer who had reportedly known Gimilbeth’s great-great-grandfather, now needed to be led to a warm corner? Wasn’t he the very same man who, back in 1150, had sniffed out the cleverly hidden Dark Temple, sending Gimilbeth’s great-uncle, the High Priest of Melkor, to the execution block? Or was it another of his kind? Gimilbeth paled, her heart laboring in her chest. All the eyes were on her.

Why did he chose her hand while there were so many stout men present? Gimilbeth’s mind screamed a warning – assuredly the uncanny old hypocrite wanted a word with her in private! Perhaps he remembered her Black Numenorean ancestors? Perhaps he knew more about her own magical experiments than she had originally feared? He could smell magic like a bloodhound smells game, they used to say. What sort of being was he anyway? Gimilbeth gritted her teeth and rose, her knees suddenly feeling wobbly. Swaying slightly on her feet she made a shaky step towards Incanus.

“I am afraid I have also indulged in too much wine, Lord Mithrandir,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “Why won’t you ask one of these fine young men to lead you upstairs and let another one help me?” She glanced pleadingly into the piercing eyes surrounded by deeply etched laugher-lines – but her ruse didn’t work.

“Oh, dear lady”, replied the old man, “then let me lead you upstairs, for frail as I may be, I can still find some unexpected vigor when dealing with such a fine lady, daughter of my friend Tarnendur.” He grinned, and it appeared to Gimilbeth that one of the shrewd dark eyes winked at her. A strong hand took her arm and propelled her towards the dark corridor. In a daze she followed Incanus, her left hand tightly clutching Serinde’s charm through the soft fabric of her gown and her lips moving silently in prayer “O dear Grandmother, o Almighty Melkor, help me now!”

[Hurgon Fernik]

Hurgon had been in a happy drunken haze pretty much since he had arrived in Amon Sul. He was busy blotting out the bad memories of the road, and had finally stopped obsessing over whether it is better to have orcs chasing one, or the Lady Gimilbeth, by deciding that it was simply better to have none - as in Amon Sul. He had already decided that he liked the place more than Rhudaur - here, he was a guest, and hence got treated well. Familiarity breeds contempt, and here no one had yet managed to get familiar enough with him. He was still Hurgon Fernik, Royal Painter, which meant he got privileges. Gimilbeth was too busy dealing with all the 'lords and ladies' as Hurgon thought of them, to bother him... and he had made some friends.

Callon for example, seemed to stick by him more because he was a familiar face in a strange, bustling place, but Hurgon was glad of the companionship. He had also made the acquaintance of Kirael, and though both Narian and Kirael were sharp enough with him, he had always found that persistence and a hungry face always helped in securing a position in a kitchen. Not to mention that since the Cardolanis had arrived, the kitchens had become too busy a place for anyone to attempt to shoo him off more than once a day.

With the Cardolani had arrived a man named Thurisind who befriended them as well. Hurgon, never one to bother about details, was perhaps the only man in Amon Sul who did not question why someone who was obviously not from Cardolan should travel with them. It was enough for him that Thurisind was generous with his wine, and friendly with Hurgon - though he did tend to ramble on a bit too much about his own exploits. For the last half an hour he had been going on about some spiders, and completely ignoring Hurgon's attempts to tell the story of his own exploits. Meanwhile, he had introduced them to his friend Duilin, and Hurgon finding a new person to boast had got hold of him.

"Master Duilin, I am at your service. I have a bottle of wine here... somewhere... which I will gladly share with you. Only, I can't quite remember what happened to it. Callon, dear boy, you haven't taken it, have you?"

"You finished that half an hour ago," said Callon drily,"But see, here is a jug full of something that I suppose will suffice."

Hurgon tasted a bit of it, and made a face. "It is some variety of ale, I suppose. Never could stand the taste. But perhaps my new friend will have some?" He poured some out for Duilin, and began his story, "As I was telling my good friend Barund, who you may know is some kind of Captain, I myself have encountered horrors the likes of which even Master Thurisind here may not comprehend. I do not wish to brag - in fact," he amended with puzzled brow, "I believe I am not supposed to tell you anything about this; express orders from the Lady, actually. Ah, I knew I had forgotten something. Well, now that I remember that the Lady has forbidden it, I suppose you will never get to hear of my adventures, exciting though they were, so perhaps you, Master Duilin, can tell me how you ended up here?"

Surprised at the turn that had taken place, Duilin asked in turn, "The Lady Gimilbeth has commanded silence, then? Who is she to deny us the enjoyment of your tale?"

"Well," replied the drunk Hurgon, "She fancies herself a queen, and orders everyone about; but I know her for what she really is - a witch! And no one with an ounce of common sense would question the orders of such a being." This last in a soft whisper.

"A witch, did you say?" Duilin said eagerly, raising his eyebrows.

"I really do not want to talk about her. There are better topics under the sun than Lady Gimilbeth, you know. First that old man in the kitchen, now you. And here I am trying to forget her tyranny..." Saying which, Hurgon lapsed into silence.

Duilin pressed him, "Surely, Hurgon, you do not speak of your mistress as such without great cause. I myself would never speak that way of a beautiful woman, even if she stood naked before me covered in the blood of a virgin calling out incantations -"

He was intercepted by Thurisind, who had noticed the look of horror on Hurgon's face at this recital, and said, "Yes, we all know you are the slave of any woman with a pretty face. Our friend Hurgon here is of stronger will. But this certainly promises to be a more interesting story than any that you or I could tell. Come Hurgon, won't you explain yourself?"