Storms at Weathertop. Shadow over Rhudaur IV

[Gandalf]

November 15, 1347, evening - Amon Sul, Guest Chamber Level

Gandalf led Gimilbeth outside the door of the Dining Hall, straight ahead toward the Drawing Room where the other ladies had already preceded them. But as they drew near, Gimilbeth resisted, trembling somewhat. She reminded him that she was indeed too tired to make a later evening of it. So admonishing her to get some more rest and not stay up too late with her books, he turned and led her back the other way. They passed back into the outer corridor of the lower tower and ascended the northwest stair. Then, one-quarter circle around at the Fourth Level to where the long corridor of the East Wing branched off to one side.

'For once in his life, Barund could have been useful!' fumed Gimilbeth inwardly. 'Where is he when I really need him?' she thought, forgetting that the man had likely saved her life - or else spared her from even worse.

But outwardly she stopped abruptly, turned sharply and smiled politely as she disengaged her arm from that of the old man.

"I thank you for your gallantry, In... Mister Gan... Lord Mithrandir. But I had best make my own way from here," she said with a slight bow of her head. "It would not be proper to be escorted further by a gentleman." She turned quickly to go and only at the last moment remembered to pause, and looking back over her shoulder she added, "I bid you good night, sir!" And then she was off, heading briskly past the tower guardsman at the junction and down the long corridor to her chambers.

Gandalf stood watching her go until she reached her door at the far end and fumbled with a key before opening the door and going in. He continued to look down the corridor long after she had entered her room. If the guardsman took any notice, he didn't indicate so. At last Gandalf looked away and sighed.

It would be tough, he thought. But still, maybe she had a chance. At least she seemed disturbed enough - embarrassed maybe - by his confrontation of her. That indicated that her conscience was still at work. But he feared she may be quite far along, and may not make it back.

He sighed once more and turned to walk away. Well... he had tried, and would try further. But so few of his attempts to right things had ever gone well, in all his years of dwelling on this Middle Earth.

[Gimilbeth]

November 15, 1347, evening - Amon Sul fortress, East wing.

Once inside her room, Gimilbeth collapsed on the bed, feeling suddenly out of breath, as if she had been running. The old sorcerer had given her quite a fright - she still couldn't figure out why he had let her out of his clutches so easily.

Yet, he definitely suspected something - his piercing gaze riveted to her when he was referring to dabblers in Black Arts spoke volumes. She wiped cold sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. How much was he able to glean? Did he sense the spell she had weaved to kill Broggha? What if Incanus was the very magician who had countered it? If he now returned from Angmar, then he could have been in Rhudaur in Narbeleth! She closed her eyes and recalled again the moonlit path and a black horseman with drawn sword she had seen in her dreams. She was never able to see the Black Horseman's face. Could it have been Incanus? But why would he save Broggha? It didn't make sense…

With an exasperated sigh, Gimilbeth rose and called for Nimraen. The maid soon appeared gingerly carrying a big pitcher of hot water for washing. Gililbeth's nightdress and her pot of greenish night cream were already prepared.

Suddenly, Gimilbeth remembered another urgent matter: Tarniel's portrait that she would have to show to Malvegil during their interview. The portrait had to be ready tomorrow - and she had to tell the painter to hurry. Gimilbeth opened her door a fraction and peered outside. Incanus was nowhere to be seen, so, silent as a mouse, she walked a few paces along the corridor to Hurgon's room. She tapped on the door, but got no reply. Most likely the painter was drinking himself silly somewhere around the kitchens. Cursing inwardly, Gimilbeth went further to Barund's door, planning to send him to fetch Hurgon, but her faithful knight was absent. She tried Edelbar's door - but the page was away as well. Everyone was enjoying a merry night, it seemed, everyone but her!

She returned to her room and penned a short note to the painter.
"Hurgon,
Tarniel's portrait must be ready by tomorrow evening. I mean READY - lacquered and dried. I plan to show it to the King the day after tomorrow.
Gimilbeth"

"Nimraen, find Edelbar or one of the fortress pages and ask him to deliver this note to Hurgon the painter," she ordered. " Tell him it is urgent and can't wait until tomorrow. Then you will assist me with the night mask."

[scribe]

Posted by Hurgon Fernik


"Come, Hurgon, won't you explain yourself?"

Hurgon, was by this time, rather drunk, to put it mildly, though he did not look it much, and all of Thurisind’s audience had now focused their attention on him, so he shrugged and set about his new tale. “If I am to explain myself, I would like to get something clear. I am not casting any insinuations,” he stumbled over the long word, and appeared not to know when it finished, till rescued by a kind-hearted Callon, “on anyone’s character. I am merely relating facts, witnessed by many, and if anyone wishes to draw conclusions from them, why they are free to do so.”

“Of course, of course,” Duilin murmured coaxingly.

“In my long association with the Lady Gimilbeth, dating six months at least, I have witnessed a number of strange, small events. I pass over the incidence of the possessed bear. I will not now tell you her ladyship’s exact age, and ask you to compare it with the age she looks to be. I refuse to mention her demon-cats, the terror of the palace in Rhudaur. Of her fearsome hold over her father, I will merely say that perhaps she is merely bossy, and on her family on the mother’s side, well-known to be immersed in the Black Arts, I hold my tongue.” He could see his audience was already impressed, and sufficiently prepared for the next stage of the recital, into which he launched promptly.

“I will, however, tell you the tragic tale of a young nobleman of our country, called Nauremir, who was the bosom friend of the heir to the throne, Prince Daurendil. Relations between the Prince and Lady Gimilbeth have never been cordial. Things came to a head during a visit made by a most atrocious Hillman chieftain, Broggha, who is generally believed to be a bad sort, liable to try and undermine the king’s rule given any opportunity. The bear that I have mentioned earlier, went on a rampage during his welcoming feast, and Prince Daurendil and Nauremir, and others of their friends, ended up in a bit of swordplay with Broggha in all the ruckus. The upshot of all this was that Nauremir ended up seriously wounded, and lay at death’s door.” He paused to take a swig out of the nearest jug, forgetting that it contained ale, and came out choking.

The pause allowed Thurisind to ask, “If this Broggha was given a welcoming feast, and considered a friend, why then did the Prince and his friends attack him?”

“Don’t ask me,” answered Hurgon between coughs, “I have long given over trying to understand politics. It caused an uproar, of course, and Lady Gimilbeth was not pleased at all. Which may explain the motive behind what occurred next. Nauremir began to heal slowly, and my good friend the doctor, was confident of his recovery. He was telling me that the young man might be expected on his feet within the week. Precisely at this moment, Lady Gimilbeth came up, sweet as anything, which should have alerted us, because she is usually as thorny as a rose-stem, and apparently being full of concern over the invalid, went in to see him – privately. She would not allow a soul near her during that time, and even gave the impression that he was something of a sweetheart, so that no one would disturb them.” Shaking his head gravely, Hurgon then said dramatically, “In under an hour after she left, he was dead. The Prince went mad with grief, and for some reason, he thought she was responsible.” Hurgon hesitated a bit over this, and decided not to mention that he had made Daurendil think so. He also decided to leave out the lengthy scene in the embalming room – for he had sworn then not to tell anyone, and besides, his story was more interesting that way, much as a magician’s trick can only amaze as long as it is not explained.

“I now come to the strangest part of my tale. When we came on this journey – I myself came because I was commissioned to finish a painting of the Princess Tarniel on the way, to be shown to the Stone, I am given to understand, and this fine fellow here,” he slapped Callon on the back, “was the driver of our cart, and he was witness to all that happened. Nauremir’s remains were taken with us, to be given over to his family in Brochenridge. On the way, we were disturbed by the sounds of what we thought were orc-drums, but they were coming from the coffin. The coffin which contained nothing but a dead man.

“When we stopped that evening, waiting until the deepest mirk of midnight, when ghosts are abroad and spirits rule over the earth,” Hurgon found himself getting poetic, “the Lady Gimilbeth called to- ” there was a general hush as everyone tried to guess which god or spirit Gimilbeth had called upon, “me,” Hurgon ended, resulting in disappointed sighs, “as well as two of her pages, and together we three prised open the coffin of Nauremir. The pages dressed the corpse in different clothes, and then Lady Gimilbeth chanted – “New life awaits you, life that is my gift. Your old life I have ended, and as Nauremir is now no more, I name you instead Helmir, that your heart be now as cold as it once was fiery. Kiss my hand, and be grateful for my gift. You are now forever in my debt.” ...and the dead man’s eyes opened.”

The entire hall seemed to fall silent under the weight of Hurgon’s words. The dwarves at the other table had heard the story, too, with many dismayed and incredulous glances. A page who entered the hall seemed to have giant feet, so loud his footsteps were in the silence.

“The Lady Gimilbeth bids you to read this note, and said that I am to escort you upstairs, Royal Painter.” Hurgon took the note, with trembling hand, convinced that Gimilbeth had realized clairvoyantly that he had given her away and was now summoning him to his punishment. To his relief, it was only a lot of tosh about finishing Tarniel’s portrait to be ready for the next day. All the same, he dared not delay longer, and hurried out with the page, whose assistance he needed in walking straight.

Duilin called after him, “Will you not tell us the ending of your tale?”

“There is not much more left, anyway,” Hurgon said over his shoulder, “Just the five rabbits.”

With which mystifying statement, he left them in uproar, and a lot of questions for the hapless Callon.

[Kirael]

November 15, 1347, evening - Amon Sul kitchens

After the evening-dinner, Narian and Kirael made their inspection-round of the storage rooms. Narian was making notes on a wax tablet.

“Hm, I’m glad you convinced me last month to get those extra bags of grains and taters,” Narian mumbled as she regarded her tally.

“I had an inkling we might end up entertaining visitors this winter, although I didn’t quite think it would be that many,” Kirael said, sounding somewhat dissatisfied. “It won’t be enough in any case, will it?”

“No,” Narian agreed. “Three royal delegations was more than we anticipated. More than we even ever had. It makes you wonder why they all turn up so suddenly.”

“Don’t wonder, that much is obvious,” Kirael said with a short laugh.

Narian gave her a questioning look and Kirael mouthed: 'the Stone.'

The people of Weathertop seldom dared mentioning the Palantir aloud and none had actually an idea how it looked like. Most were discomforted about the whole idea. Elven works or not, magic was not something ordinary people should meddle with. Only Kirael didn’t seem to fear the thought of the Stone. Something about it made her feel a certain connection, even kinship with it. She often wondered whether her own gift of foresight was due to the effect of living so long in the shadow of the palantir-tower.

Narian, who vehemently disliked the idea that people could effortlessly and unseen spy in her kitchen or bedroom, suppressed a shudder and changed the subject.

“Especially drinks will be a problem," she said. There’s not much to do in winter here, and many of the delegations have turned to wine and beer. I hear the tavern is restocking like mad as well. There hasn’t been as much drinking in Weathertop since… well, ever, I suppose.”

“Yes, that painter seemed to have drunk up most of it single-handedly.”

“He was quite a sight,” Narian conceded with a smile, “Friendly enough fellow. But I was kind of wondering whether he’d burst after his sixth goblet. He drank wine like it was water. He would even finished off the mead supply if you’d let him.”

“Considering the bees won’t wake until spring, the mead we have will have to last us through winter, so it was best indeed that I chased him from the kitchen at that time,” Kirael said drily. “But he’ll be back, no doubt, once he’s in need for a warm spot with a drink, far away from his beloved princess.”

Narian chuckled as she remembered Hurgon’s rather unflattering muttering about Princess Gimilbeth of Rhudaur.

“Now, back to business,” Kirael said. “We’ve checked what supplies we have, and they will last us for a while, but not through winter. Do you think we can make it if we take some supplies off the nearest towns? I know I’ve got a few favours left to pull from the miller and a few others. Or do you reckon we should get supplies from further?”

Narian scratched her head with the writing pin. “I prefer to stock my storage rooms to the roof and end up having to give left-overs to the pigs, than have to explain to the noble lords and ladies that I can’t feed them one day. I’ll have a talk with the steward.”

Kirael nodded.

[scribe]

Posted by Beleg


November 15, 1347, late evening - Amon Sul

Aramacil was bored. He had not been included in the state dinner this evening, and had to eat with his sister and her friend instead, along with his aunts and young cousins of Amon Sul. It was now getting late and he knew he might as well get to bed, but he was listless. He ascended to the open central courtyard at the fifth level. Just to the inside here was the entrance to the tower proper, and the long winding stairs that rose to the High Chamber. But Aramacil stayed outside, letting the cold air strike his face. It felt good to be a bit revived – though it seemed futile on a night like this.

He wandered along the parapet of the west wing. All was still about him, until he neared the crossing with the outer ring of the tower courts. There, he heard a sound that made him start, and he paused to listen.

There it was again, now constant, the unmistakable sound of metal-on-metal. There were men crossing swords just below him. He darted into the passageway before him, and down the stairs, loosening his sword and then drawing it just as he reached the floor below.

There he saw a sight that froze his heart. Along the edges of the fourth level crossing stood several guardsmen; most were from Arthedain, three or four from Cardolan, even a couple from Rhudaur. All watched the action before them complacently – or else in amusement. In the center of the crossing stood Beleg and a young noble from the Cardolan delegation – what was his name again, Heruphant? – engaged in a sword duel.

Aramacil sprang into action. He jumped into the midst of the combatants, striking down the Cardolani’s sword with his own, then interposing himself between the two opponents, backing up against his brother Beleg to shield him from any further blows.

“Stand back you knave! How dare you come to this place under pretext of peaceful assembly, then set-to upon my brother? Stand firm Beleg, for I shall not spare myself for you, though these miscreant guards would gladly do so.”

The Cardolani looked startled, and then puzzled. He stood still in silence and lowered his weapon. Aramacil felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw that it was his brother, but Beleg was looking past him.

“Let us take back our own swords, Herunarth, for yours has proven its worth. From the look of it, I swore it would break under strong blows from mine, but it has held its own.”

Beleg walked by Aramacil, holding out his sword by the hilts, point down. Herunarth turned his sword around as well and they exchanged them, and Aramacil recognized the sword that Herunarth held out to Beleg as Beleg’s own. Aramacil felt a good deal of embarrassment. There was a little chuckling and tittering among the guards, but they then quickly dispersed into the shadowed corridors beyond, rather than be identifiable and caught laughing at a son of Arthedain’s Heir.

“So, what now?” Herunarth asked Beleg, after they had sheathed their swords.

“If you still would like to see them, I believe the Ladies’ Yule Choir is at practice.”

“Yes – that I would like to see indeed! And yet…” he paused and looked quizzically at Beleg. “I thought none would be permitted to observe.”

Beleg smiled. “You forget that I am the Heir’s… eldest… son,” he said, with a sidelong glance at Aramacil. “That has a few privileges after all.” After another moment he added, “most especially here at my grandfather’s domain.”

The two laughed warmly and walked away, down the straight corridor toward the tower base.

Aramacil, looking after them, called out, “Wait! Can I come too?” Getting no answer he dashed off after them anyway.

- - - - - - -

They had sat watching wordlessly for some while – through at least three or four songs. At last Herunarth leaned over and whispered to Beleg, “I must commend you for the view from these seats.” Beleg smiled in return.

The choir was practicing on a stage at the first floor level just inside the southwest terraces. Beleg had discretely led Herunarth and Aramacil to a second level gallery. As far as they could tell they were the only ones present, beside the director, the musicians who played on harp, flutes, bells and drum, and the 30 young ladies of the choir, all in dresses of deep blue. The view from above was advantageous for the young men, and flattering for the young women, though they seemed unaware of their admirers.

“Yes – it is a good view,” replied Beleg in a low voice. “One can surely see the whole stage from here. And even better… the young ladies all stay on the second level. They will most assuredly ascend the stairway just beyond that door,” he added, indicating a door to their right.

“Those two in the middle of the front row… who are they?” asked Herunarth, after a few more lines had been sung.

Aramacil rolled his eyes and answered for Beleg, “the one on the left is our sister, Estelien. To her right is her friend, Calafornien, who came here with us from Fornost.”

“Ah… I see,” replied Herunarth. Then after another moment, “and the girl just behind and left of Estelien, who is that one?”

Beleg shifted slightly in his seat. “The other girls are all local. That one is my aunt, youngest sister of my mother. Younger even than me, though I hope to not betray her too severely in confessing to you that she is older than my brother here.”

“These songs,” began Beleg, wishing to turn the talk from his own relations, “do they sing them at the Yule in Cardolan?”

“Some I have heard,” replied Herunarth, “though these are mostly out of fashion. Our Yule songs are more of good cheer, and of Father Yule.”

Beleg pondered this. Even to a few generations ago, Father Yule was purportedly a central part of Yule celebrations in Arthedain. But once it was learned that the Black Arts were worshipped in neighboring Dunedain realms, ‘Father Yule’ was de-emphasized in Fornost, thought to be representative of Hillmanish confusion of Manwe and Orome, and corrupting of true worship of Eru and veneration of the Powers.

“I suppose Father Yule has fallen out of fashion in Arthedain,” he answered diplomatically.

- - - - - - -

They managed to ‘just happen to be standing by’ on the other side of the aforementioned door, when the young ladies filed past after their practice. Most of them were talking and laughing together as they drew near, then broke off into an embarrassed silence. Most giggled briefly, blushed brightly or averted their eyes as the three young men varyingly nodded, or bowed, or complimented them on how fine they looked. Once sufficiently advanced down the passage, they broke out into giggles and chatter once more, only this time with occasional glances back over their shoulders.

Beleg sighed, “Well, that seems to be all of them.”

“Oh?” asked Herunarth. “I didn’t see your aunt or your sister. Or Calafornien.”

“They all stay at the fourth level” said Aramacil, “in the Warden’s wing.”

“So Herunarth,” began Beleg with a slight smile, “If you do not find the food of Arthedain to your liking, what do you think of our young women?”

Herunarth bowed. “You mistake me, my friend. First of all, the food of Arthedain is not bad…”

“You called it ‘bland’” retorted Beleg, in mock accusation, as a smile crept along his face.

“Only in a manner of speaking,” responded Herunath. “Please understand, we do have a bit more variety on the table in Cardolan, and most of the dishes have more seasoning… maybe some spices… and a bit of imaginative preparation. Still… I confess the victuals of Arthedain to be good, stout food.”

“And our women,” continued Beleg, his smile grown into a grin. “Are they also good and stout?” And then more seriously, “At least nothing like the girls of Cardolan, as I’m led to suppose.”

This time Herunarth sighed. “Yes, the women of Cardolan are noted for their charms, and there are some true beauties among them. I thought to come here though and find that the girls of one place were much like those of another. But instead… well… there’s something different about the young ladies I have seen here. Maybe something… wholesome, and innocent… maybe a decent amount of modesty and moderation that is somewhat lacking in the courts of my homeland. Or, if present, is at least not as esteemed as it should be there… as it seems to be here.”

Beleg’s smile came back, somewhat warmed as he looked into the eyes of his newfound friend. Somehow he had found reassurance about his own land through the words of a foreigner. Beleg and Aramacil escorted Herunarth back to his own quarters and parted with good wishes and an appointment to meet together again for breakfast.

As they made their way back toward their own quarters, Aramacil suddenly asked Beleg, “What did he mean by that?”

Beleg stopped to look at his brother for a few moments, then smiled and roughed Aramacil’s hair. “Never mind,” he said, “let’s turn in for the night.”

- - - - - - - - -

[scribe]

And another one

[Orogost]

"Amdír, address the next letter to the Lord Cirion, Warden of the Port of Tharbad.

"'My dear friend, I was surprised to learn of the poor intake of customs revenues for the third quarter of the year. As I am sure you are aware, they are 7 percent lower than the comparable intake in the third quarter of last year, but all reports are that business has been booming.

"'I cannot help but fear that there is some corruption among your subordinates in the customs house, and that revenue is being misused for some purpose. I strongly urge you to conduct a thorough investigation into this subject, and to punish any found responsible. Tell me in your next letter of the success of your investigations. Should you be unable to come to any conclusions on your own, I am happy to send an outside investigator to your aid in this matter - indeed, I should have little choice but to do so.

"'I remain, humbly, your devoted servant, etc. etc.' I am certain, Amdír, that he will do nothing, though. There has been a cancer at the customs house for some time now. I fear I shall have to send you or some other young man to Tharbad to straighten it out. Cirion is old, and does not have the command over matters that he once did. I fear that it may be his own sons who are responsible for the failures there."

"Indeed, father. I have heard no good of those men, and much ill. But, before we begin the next letter, may I speak to you on another matter, one of great importance."

"Of course, of course. You may speak, and I will listen?"

"Father, have you given any thought to what shall become of the kingdom should the line of Caryontar be indeed extinct, as we all fear?"

"Indeed, the case does not look good. If that horrid woman's words are to be trusted, Galendur, at least, left no heirs. She is a shame to the line of Isildur, with her Black Númenorean ways and casual slanders. To think of a descendant of Elendil known by a name in the Adûnaic - it is an outrage!"

"I imagine you speak of the Lady Gimilbeth. I have heard interesting things of her last night - the Rhudaurian captain I dined with last night seems quite besotted with her. But father, I think it is time to begin considering possibilities - the time is not far off when we must decide what to do."

"I take it, then, that you have your own ideas? I will admit, I have delayed thinking on this out of distaste for either of the obvious options. I would not like to see Cardolan's independence gone, and it become a mere province of distant, haughty kings in Fornost."

"Indeed, father, and what should become of our family in that event? I cannot see Malvegil and his son showing us any particular favor. He has little reason to love us.

"And Galphant seems just as bad. He would put all his own men in power, and he is unpopular in the south and at Tharbad. And could we even enthrone him without risking invasion from the north and civil war?"

"Amdír, you have said little that I do not already know. Have you any way out of this dilemma, or are you wasting my time? There are letters to be written, and meetings to be had with the Warden. We cannot afford to dilly dally."

"Indeed, father, I have some thoughts. Would not the ideal solution be to find a young prince of the line of Isildur from outside the Kingdom, with few friends within the kingdom, neither hated nor loved by anyone here?"

"Indeed, but this is also something I have considered. That I am old and talk too much does not make your father a fool, Amdír. I have long thought that making young Lord Aramacil our King would be the ideal solution. But there is no chance that Malvegil will cede his own rights on behalf of his grandson, and without Malvegil's support, such a thing is out of the question."

"Ah, but father - there is another young prince we might consider. The King of Rhudaur has two sons, does he not? And, fortunately for us, we have his sister here with us at Amon Sûl. Might we not approach her, sound her out as to her brother's candidacy? Tarnendur knows that he has no chance at the kingship on his own - would he not jump at the chance for two of his sons to be kings? And if Galphant sees that he himself stands little chance, he would surely support the Rhudaurian over Malvegil."

"A Rhudaurian king? I fear, son, that this is too advanced for the people. There are many of us still living who remember the treachery of Tarondacil."

"But Tarnendur and his line were innocent of those crimes. And, besides, who said that the Rhudaurian would come out as king? If Malvegil sees the possibility of the throne slipping from his grasp, he may come around and give us Aramacil after all. Either way, we have a young, inexperienced king who would have to lean on the crown's loyal servants for his authority. Malvegil and Galphant both put in their places, and peace and prosperity preserved!"

Orogost thought for a moment, then looked at his son, now grinning triumphantly. "Well, you have thought of an idea that I have not. I will have to think on it. I will need to consult the appropriate legal texts to see if such a candidacy has a basis in the laws and constitutions of our kingdom, of course. But perhaps you might sound out the Rhudaurian captain about the possibility of a meeting with that awful woman - but no whisper of this to the others, and no action to be taken until we've learned more about the fate of Caryontar's line in Gondor. And, of course, do not mention my name in your discussions - you are speaking for yourself only.

"Now, the next letter is to be written to the Deputy Steward Vardamir at Harnost..."

[Galphant]

Morning, November 16, 1347

"There seems little need to sneak into the tower, as yet. It seems likely we will be allowed in, at some point soon, to see it for ourselves." Hador said.

"No need for a distraction, then?" Thurisind asked. "I enjoy creating distractions. Duilin and I had a good one worked out."

"Save it for later, when we really need it." Galphant said. "What you and Duilin should be doing is watching the tower and making friends with the guards and other servants, if possible - learn anything you can."

"Sounds simple enough," Duilin said. "We'll get right on it.

Galphant had set up a make do council in his quarters. Things appeared to be moving forwards. "You may go now," he said to Thurisind and Duilin, who quickly left the room, leaving only Galphant, his son, Hador, and Aegnor. "Hador, you were speaking to Orogost and the Warden at dinner last night. Did you get any sense of the timetable for the Council's mission here? How long do we have?"

"The Warden was most unclear on that subject, unfortunately. He was quite astonished that we all wished to use the stone at once to make our communications - it seems that is difficult to arrange. He is to meed with Orogost, Belecthor, and myself later today to discuss this all further. It sounds as though it may be several weeks before all is ready."

"I suppose that is for the best for our plans, given that we need time. But it is all most tiresome." Once again, Galphant was becoming doubtful of the whole enterprise. And with his father on his deathbed! Surely his place was by his father's side...then he remembered his last meeting with his father before he left for Amon Sûl. The old man wheezing weakly before him was hardly the vigorous, commanding master of men Galphant remembered from his childhood, but his eyes were still piercing and strong. He had seized Galphant's hand. "My son, I know that we shall never see each other again in this world. Promise me that you will do what you must to preserve this Kingdom, and to set yourself on the rightful throne of your ancestors."

Galphant shrank from the memory. No, filial duty would not serve as an excuse to shrink from what must be done, for filial duty impelled it. The old Prince would never forgive his son if he failed at this task. Still, the prospect of the coming weeks was hardly promising. "But what are we to do with all this time, Hador? Nothing productive, it seems. Wasting time drinking with Belecthor until we're finally ready? Awkward dinner table conversations with the heir of Arthedain?"

"I did have one thought as to a way you might usefully spend your time." Hador's eye glinted dangerously.

"Do not be coy with me, Hador. Out with it."

"Have you considered that perhaps there is a kingdom besides Gondor which might be able to aid us in our goals? Hear me out on this before you refuse. Rhudaur, it is true, has frequently been our enemy. But all speak highly of the justice and wisdom of King Tarnendur. And it seems that he may have resolved his longstanding problems with the men of the hills. It is not clear that Rhudaur has the strength or the will to aid us, but it is worth exploring, certainly."

"Rhudaur? Do you really think so? I do not believe the lady of Rhudaur thought much of me in our conversation last night, even if there was the ability to help us. And why should they wish to? What stands Rhudaur to gain should I ascend to the throne of Cardolan?"

"Nothing, indeed, as it stands. But there is one incentive you might offer, I think. The Lady Gimilbeth, despite her great beauty, has never married. Rumor says that she was betrothed first to the heir of Gondor and then to Lord Celebrindol, but that both broke off the engagement and married lower women. Surely a woman such as her, at her age, longs for a husband, and for motherhood."

Galphant nearly laughed. "You think that woman is longing for children? And I really don't see what I could do about..." his words trailed off. "Oh, I see. " he lapsed into silence.

"Indeed, precisely. And if it's not children she wants, then she certainly seems ambitious. Don't you think she would like to be a queen, rather than to be for the rest of her life the awkward spinster princess, unregarded and unloved, while her half brother rules? Whatever you may think of her, I cannot think she would look ill on your suit. And she is very beautiful."

"This is outrageous, Hador!" Herunarth leapt up at the old counselor. "You cannot be telling my father to marry that witch."

"Witch? You call the King of Rhudaur's eldest daughter a witch, Herunarth? I know that you still grieve for your mother, but this is purely politics. There is no need to bring such emotion into it."

"I call her a witch with evidence. While we came over Duilin was regaling me with tales of his carousing last night, and of a drunken old painter from Rhudaur who swore that she is a witch and that he had seen her raise the dead!"

"Herunarth, really," Galphant said. "You take at third hand the story of some drunken servant as sufficient evidence to slander a lady of royal blood? I admit, though, that there was something about the lady which gave me pause. I do not much like this idea of Hador's, either." Although he dismissed the idea, he decided that he would like to ask Duilin for more details on this painter and his story.

"But surely you can see the advantages of the course I propose? And there is no harm in exploring the possibility, is there? Perhaps if you come to know the lady better, you will find that you tolerate her?"

Aegnor chimed in, "the Rhudaurian captain was certainly firm in her praises last night. I would say that he is infatuated with her, but to say that he worships her might be more accurate. She certainly sounds a remarkable woman."

"Very well. Hador, I will make an effort to seek the lady out and converse with her. It will, at least, give me something to do. But I make absolutely no promises that I will go any further than that. If I dislike the lady, I will pursue it no further - it is dishonorable to court a woman one does not even like."

Hador nodded, satisfied. He had gotten his way, as he usually did. Herunarth looked at his father in some disbelief, and at Hador with scathing anger, and stormed out of the room. "He will get over it," Hador said, as he prepared to make his own way out of the room. "and you both will see the wisdom of this course, I am certain of it."

When they were alone in the room, Aegnor smiled at Galphant. "Well, I shall not keep you from it. Do not look as if you are on your way to a funeral, I'm told women don't care for that. I've got business to take care of, at any rate."

After he left the room, Galphant was sure he heard the younger man laughing to himself as he walked away.

[scribe]

Beleg:

- - - - - - - -

November 16, 1347 – morning

Herunarth had met Beleg at the hall just outside the kitchen, where the nobles at Amon Sul, dwelling there or visiting, typically gathered for breakfast at tables arrayed for this purpose. The fare was last night’s bread smothered with hot gravy, also eggs, bacon and potatoes, along with a bowl of boiled oats. Herunarth complimented Beleg on the soundness of the meal (though he owned it could have been seasoned a bit more according to his tastes), and tried to explain to him the delights of ‘Harnost Toast’ – covered with butter and the boiled sweet sap from the maple tree.

While they sat back, sipping their hot tea (Herunarth promising to send some coffee beans to his new friend), the ladies of the choir came in all together. They spotted the two friends and clearly began to whisper among themselves, gesturing in their direction. Just after this began, three of them came striding over to where Beleg and Herunarth sat. Leading the way was Beleg’s young aunt, Rangwaien, next Estelien, and tagging along behind was Calafornien. Rangwaien in particular seemed to have built up a good head of steam.

Beleg and Herunarth rose. “We’ve finished most of our breakfast, ladies, but would be happy to sit with you for yours, if you would be pleased to join us,” offered Herunarth, indicating a few empty chairs at the table.

“Hmmph! I suppose not,” answered Rangwaien, indignantly. Then turning from Herunarth she addressed her elder nephew, “I understand you enjoyed your ‘view’ last evening?”

Beleg wasn’t sure what to say at first. ‘Aramacil’ he thought, and rolled his eyes at Herunarth.

“Why, of course we did,” said Beleg, trying to salvage the situation. “This year’s choir is just filled with beautiful young ladies. And the three most lovely now stand in our presence.”

“And the voices in song were so lovely as well,” added Herunarth. “Offerings fit for Aman, and too wondrous for the ears of mortals. Though we dare to listen in on them as we may.”

Estelien looked in amusement from her brother, to her aunt, to this fine-speaking man of Cardolan. It was a thing of wonder to her that her eldest brother would have been watching their choir from the upper gallery last night. Calafornien seemed embarrassed about the whole thing – either the sudden knowledge of last night’s audience, or else this morning’s confrontation.

“Hmmph!” said Rangwaien sharply, after an awkward silence. “Come on, girls!”

She turned sharply and stormed off to join the rest of the choir at their breakfast and didn’t look back. Calafornien seized the opportunity and scuttled off right behind her, though she stole a rapid glance back over her shoulder.

Estelien stood transfixed for a moment longer, still wondering at the circumstances. But then her eyes twinkling at them both, and remembering her manners a bit better than the other two, she curtseyed and bid them good day before turning to go. And when halfway to the rest, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at them.

And that night, when they resumed their places in the gallery, there was no small amount of whispering and gesturing among the choir’s young ladies, as they could fit in at pauses, between songs, or just without drawing the notice of the choir director. And the two friends didn’t mind when Aramacil crept in to join them. It was also interesting to see the glances stolen up their way, and the way the various ladies treated the upper portions of their dresses; some seeking modestly to draw them up a little higher, others feeling a bit constrained as though they had been too high already, and pulling them just a little bit lower to correct the matter. The resultant effect was that Beleg and Herunarth thought the view of the 'kir-age' was even better than the night before.

[Thurisind]

November 16, 1347, late morning

"What on earth do you people find to do here when you're not on duty?" Thurisind asked the guards who stood, somewhat laxly, on duty outside the tower. "I've only been here for a day and I'm already bored. You people have taken charge of all the horses, so there's that duty taken care of, and I've virtually nothing else to do all day."

"Tell me about it," said the taller of the two guards. "Quiet and dull, and everyone works for the same person you do. You lot are the most interesting thing that's happened here in weeks, and you're not all that interesting."

"I bet it's not so boring for the wardens, though," said the shorter guard. "They can use that stone to look at anything. I bet they spend all their time looking into ladies' bedchambers, and such. Must be a good life for them."

"Aye, I know what I'd do if I was up there. I'd be looking straight into that Rhudaurian lady's chamber. I hear she's a witch, but she can cast whatever black magic she likes on me," replied the taller one.

"That's not how it works, I don't think. You can't use it to look straight down. Only out and away."

"How would you know? You've not seen it any more than I have."

"Well, that's what they say, anyway. Maybe they just say that to keep all the scullery maids and such from getting nervous they're being spied on."

"Maybe. I still wish I could spy on that pretty little blond one in the kitchens." he paused and looked up at the sun. "Still another two hours before our watch is done. Northman, do you have time to tell us anything that might amuse us and pass the time?"

"As I said, I seem to be at ends here. I have all the time in the world." Thurisind tried to think of a story that might amuse the men. An adventure with the pretty young wife of an elderly merchant in Osgiliath seemed about the right sort for these men. "Alright, I have one for you, but you will each have to buy me a tankard this evening to repay me for my service."

Seeing the two men nod in agreement, Thurisind launched into the story.