The Winter of Discontent. Shadow over Rhudaur V

[Udûnabâl]

Carm Dum, morning of December 5, 1347.


The High Priest Udunabal rose late this morning: he had been unable to sleep for most of the night. At dawn he sank into an uneasy dream, almost a nightmare, full of blood and fire. After the interview with the Steward the previous day, the Priest was still nervous, as he was sure that the King would be angry at his demands. Yet, he was not going to surrender! The grace of the Almighty God meant more than the whims of a mortal King! Udunabal felt he had acted rightly, and although he might have lost the King's favor, the Gods were smiling upon him in approval.

He ordered a servant to bring along a black sheep – the morning offering to Melkor the Potent – and stalked across the fortress courtyard towards the entrance to the Cave temple - the huge wooden doors set into the face of the north cliff wall.

The Cave Temple had formerly been the main hall of the dwarven town of Caran Dûm Khazad, the “Red Home of the Dwarves," that was sacked by the King of Angmar’s army about 70 years previously. The stone arch above the doors still showed the ineffaceable emblem of the House of Durin: an anvil and a hammer surmounted by a crown with seven stars. The oaken doors were Men-made however, as the original stone door that had sealed the entrance to the city and mines was blasted by the assailing army.

The guards at the entrance bowed to the High Priest and ushered him in. Udunabal ascended a flight of wide stone steps and followed a vaulted corridor dimly lit by light shafts set high in the walls. To his right and left there were many doors leading to a maze of underground passages, but the Priest paid them no heed; he went on and on, straight to the Temple. Beyond an intricately carved stone arch there was a huge magnificent hall. The high gilded roof was upheld by stone pillars shaped as boles of mighty oaks. The polished red granite was smooth as glass, flashing and glittering in the light of the crystal lamps set on the pillars and walls. The elaborate ceiling lamps hanging on huge copper chains remained unlit. On one side of the hall, high above the floor, the great windows opening on the mountain-side let in the weak winter daylight.

The splendor of the dwarven hall was lost on the Priest. Udunabal wrinkled his nose: somehow this Temple didn’t smell right, and after his ten years in Carn-Dum he still couldn’t get used to it. The old temple in Umbar, where Udunabal had officiated all his life, used to smell of stale smoke, blood and candle wax: it was a heady intoxicating smell, dear to the priest. Here in the former dwarven hall, despite the regular sacrifices, the air remained cool and fresh due to cunningly crafted air shafts leading outside. Oh, how he longed for a new Temple!

Udunabal approached the altar set in the middle of the hall, at the exact spot where a dwarven fireplace used to be. There stood a circle of nine crystal lamps, burning day and night in tribute to the Nine Dark Angels. Set in the middle of the circle was a huge stab of midnight-black stone, the Black Altar that Udunabal had endeavored to bring all the way from the Temple of Umbar. And it was worth the effort, for legends told that in the Second Age this very stone, blessed by the Almighty Zigur himself, had been brought to Umbar from Numenor. It was an item of great holiness and Udunabal prostrated by it in reverence, muttering prayers to the two Lords of Darkness.

After a time he rose and looked around. The Temple seemed empty - only the priest Uldor stood by the far wall, holding Udunabal's black sheep and waiting for the call of his superior to bring it to the altar. The High Priest sighed - there were so few people who came to pray regularly these days, most were overmuch concerned with worldly achievements - gaining positions and gold, struggling for power - to think much about the Eternal. Unlike in Umbar, in Angmar comely maidens never sought the privilege to be chosen as Brides of Almighty Melkor to be reunited with Him amidst the Holy Flames on the Black Altar. Even the offerings were becoming meager, even those given during the great Holidays, such as the approaching Winter Solstice: a slave girl, sometimes, or a prisoner, but mostly animals. Something had to be done to encourage the religious zeal in Carn Dum - and what could be better than the erection of a new Temple?

A slight movement to the right startled the High priest. Ahh.. so the Temple was not totally deserted... He saw a swarthy black-haired man, clad in military clothes, who was getting up from his kneeling position in front of the altar in order to greet the High Priest. Udunabal nodded in return scrutinizing the man - an officer of the army by the look of him, but totally unknown to the Priest, which was strange. "Are you from Harad, my son?" he asked the man pleasantly. "What is your name?"

The other kept his eyes down in reverence while replying. "My name is Hyarion, Lieutenant Hyarion, Your Grace. I came from Umbar, not Harad, my noble father was a Harbor-master there."

"Are you then one of the Captain Balakuzir's sons? Hmm.. but I see your mother came from the South."

"Indeed, your Eminence." Hyarion felt slightly ashamed, as always when his mixed blood was mentioned.

"Your father is a good man, a stout follower of the Almighty Melkor and the defender of the True Religion. I see you are a devoted man yourself. Are you new to Carn-Dum?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I was recently transferred here from the Shedun fortress, and although I was promised a better position, yet no post has been given to me." Hyarion lowered his voice and confided to the High priest. "I am anxious that I had the misfortune to bring the King's displeasure upon myself - not out of carelessness on my part, but on the contrary because of excessive diligence." Hyarion told the priest how he had mistakenly captured the King's nephew, Silmadan.
Udunabal listened with much interest.

"You see, my son," the priest said when Hyarion finished telling his story, "you should pray to the Two Gods for the King's wrath to dissipate. A generous offering for the Temple and a worthy sacrifice for the Solstice Festival would help you immensely. How about this Lossoth girl you brought with you, as I heard?"

Hyarion paled. "Your Eminence, she was taken from me shortly after we had arrived here and I haven't seen her since. Likely she is dead now - as she has been very ill when last I saw her."

"But surely, being one of the Haradrim, you have other slave women. Would you not spare one to the Gods?"

"I shall have to send someone to Shedun for them," Hyarion replied. "But I doubt any of them would be acceptable. Neither of them is pure, you see," he added lamely.

The High priest sighed. "Here in the wastes of the North we have to allow impure women to become brides of Melkor. I am ashamed to admit that, but here we have other realities than in the populous South. Slave girls are hard to come by - most often they have to be imported all the way from Harad or Rhun. So, any of your girls would be acceptable, provided she is young and pleasant to look upon. Please, sent for her immediately and when she arrives, come to see me. Meanwhile I will do my best to appease the anger of the King towards you and I will pray the Almighty God to help you."

'It shall be done, Eminence." Hyarion kissed the Priest's hand and left.

The smiling priest nodded to Uldor to bring the black sheep to the altar. "O Almighty Melkor, O Zigur the Holy, let the matter of the Temple be solved as easily!" he prayed while plunging his bright blade into the sheep's heart.

[Lord Alassar]

Carn Dum, night of December 5, 1347.

A servant from the High Priest Udunabal had just delivered a message to the Steward of Carn Dum, Lord Alassar, and now awaited his reply. Blotting the wet parchment with sand, Alassar rolled up the letter, slid it in a parchment tube and gave it to the boy. The lad, a bored expression on his face, stirred to attention, took the letter, and gave a perfunctory bow. "There, that is done," the Steward thought to himself as he watched the boy leave. He was surprised to find that his palms were sweating.

Earlier that morning, Lord Alassar had written to the High Priest, requesting an audience with him before noon. All day he had awaited a reply but it was not until late afternoon before the answer came. The priest's missive had begun with a polite, though thinly veiled, snub, explaining that his duties that day had been so heavy that he had not been able to answer the letter until then.

"Bah!" Alassar thought. "There are so few worshipers at his temple these days that he has little to do save perform the sacrifices and hope that someone will come by to listen to another one of his tedious dissertations on his own importance." However, the priest had gone on to state that he could see him that evening right after supper.

Arising from his desk, Alassar called for Galon to come serve him. The boy was closeted away in his room, a small antechamber to the side. There he was eagerly devouring an ancient text on poisons and their antidotes, which the steward had lent him. The boy would have a special privilege that night - he would attend him when he went to see the priest. But now, Alassar wanted a bath and then his supper. Everything must be done in all good order, and he should look his best for this occasion. The potion had already been prepared.

At the High Priest's apartments that night, the guards at the door offered him no challenge. Alassar knew that his appearance was imposing enough to impress even the High Priest. He had had instructed Galon to lay out one of his best formal robes, jetty black with tiny silver ravens amid branches of trees embroidered along the neck, wrists and hem. Adding to the impression was a silver diadem which rested over his long, straight black hair which lay down his back to end between his shoulder blades. Upon the middle finger of his left hand was the gift from His Majesty - a large emerald ring on a band of gold. Beneath the stone was a hidden compartment which contained a deadly poison in powdered form, fast acting, its effects impossible to trace in the body. Death would come easily to those who consumed a draught mixed with this deadly poison.

He looked down admiringly at the silver ring which he wore upon his right forefinger, a black onyx caught between the feet of a raven. The gemstone, though not one of the most expensive, had its own importance, for it had a strong esoteric value in warding off negative energy from others.

A servant led the Steward and his servant past the priest's receiving salon, down a hall lit by torches, and into the old man's bed-chamber. There, Udunabal, already dressed in his bed gown, sat in a high-backed chair by the fire. "Take a seat over there," the old man pointed to a low stool near the fire. Finding himself beginning to bristle at being treated as though he were some underling, Alassar checked the emotion and masked his face in a cool smile.

"Your Eminence, please do not take it as an offense, but I find that this weather chills me to the bones. I would prefer warming my back by the fire. My servant may sit at the stool."

"Oh, yes, the boy," the old priest muttered. "How goes it with you, my son?" He looked to Galon, who had just taken his seat and was gawking about the room at the ornate tapestries.

"Quite well, Your Excellency. It is an honor for me to be here tonight." Galon beamed a bright smile at the old man.

"Well, see that you be quiet. Too much noise disturbs the ethers. Hold your tongue and perhaps you will learn something tonight," the priest riveted him with a stern glance.

"Yes, Your Eminence," the boy nodded respectfully and looked down at his hands upon his lap.

"Now, Lord Alassar, you have some matter which you wish to take up with me?" The old man looked at him eagerly, anticipation his eyes. The old devil sensed the purpose of the Steward's mission. In the hearth, a large log burnt through, its pieces falling down into the greedy fire, which welcomed it, crackling and popping as the flames licked and nuzzled the wood.

"Aye, Your Eminence, and 'tis good news indeed for you and all true believers! I have met with His Majesty, and he has agreed with the wisdom of your plans. As you have requested, the keystone of the new temple will be laid during this year's winter solstice celebration by the king himself."

"Praise Melkor!" The priest bowed his head, intoning a few words in the sacred language. He looked up, trembling in his excitement. "What about the outlawing of the pagan cults? What did the king say to that?"

"They will either convert or meet death!" Alassar replied, his fists clenched, his eyes bright with zeal.

"This is a great triumph for those who worship the holy God Melkor! How long I have awaited this day, and now it has come!" The old man's shoulders began to shake as he mumbled and chanted to himself.

"The old fool is weeping," Alassar thought with disgust. He waited until the old man looked up at him, the firelight reflecting on the tears on his face.

"Forgive me, Lord Alassar. I was caught up in the glory of this announcement. Taking a handkerchief from his left sleeve, the priest wiped his rheumy eyes.

"Great men weep sometimes at auspicious occasions. There is no shame in revealing your heart," Alassar said soothingly, bowing his head to hide the smirk that he feared might show in his cruel eyes. "This is an occasion for celebration. I propose the sharing of a goblet of wine and a toast to herald the glory and wonder of this event."

The old man sank back in his chair, sighing. "Lord Alassar, I am too overcome with emotion at this moment, but, aye, a goblet of wine would be most welcome. I will call my servant to fetch--"

"Nay," Alassar interjected. "It would be my honor to pour the wine. I see it over there on the counter."

"Bless you, my son," the old priest murmured gratefully.

As the steward poured out two goblets of wine, no one, not even the sharp-eyed Galon, would have ever noticed the deft movements of his hand as he released the hidden opening under the emerald. He noted with satisfaction that by the time he walked across the room and gave the goblet to the high priest, the one tiny bubble in the draught had disappeared.

"A toast!" The steward raised his glass high. "A toast to the country, to His Majesty, to the construction of the new temple, to the eradication of the vermin cults which infest our lands, and to His Immense's health and long life!"

"The taste of triumph is sweet," the priest thought to himself as he took the goblet. "I shall sleep contented this night, and perhaps the Great Lord Melkor will send me a dream, a vision of the future - the temple already constructed!"

A short time was spent in trivialities and small talk with the old priest before Alassar excused himself and his servant. As he began to walk towards the door, he looked back over his shoulder and saw Udunabal looking into the fire and smiling.

A few hours after midnight, an excited, flushed servant arrived with the news. The High Priest Udunabal, the "Protector of the Faith," had died peacefully in his sleep in his chair before the fire. "His heart stopped, my lord. Very sad. His Eminence will be greatly missed by all." The lad bowed his head in remembrance and then was excused to make his departure.

An innocent smile upon his handsome young face, Galon looked over at the Steward from his position by the window. "My Lord Alassar, I suppose that the wine did not agree with the High Priest's stomach."

Alassar chuckled dryly. "No, Galon, it appears that it did not."

[Caelen]

December 8th, Eryndil's house in Cameth Brin

Caelen slammed the door to her room shut and threw herself on her bed with an exclamation of frustration. Another boring meal listening to Eryndil's family talk about their concerns, while Caelen toyed with her food and heartily wished them back at their home; another chaste good-bye kiss on the forehead from Eryndil as he bade her and his family good-bye and left for the palace or wherever it was he went to. Wherever it was, it wasn't with her, and she was starting to get angry about it.

She had been betrothed for almost a month now, but being betrothed was not turning out to be as nice as she had thought it would be.

No one had perfect parents, and Caelen was no exception. Her parents, despite the best of intentions, had rather spoiled and petted their bright, charming little daughter, and the ill effects of this were coming out now in spades once the newness of the engagement had worn off and Eryndil's family had returned to discussing their own concerns and cares. Even Hendegil seemed distant from her now.

Pouting, Caelen crossed her arms on her chest and then bit her lip in frustration. Where had the passionate man that had begged for her hand in marriage gone? She thumped her feet on the bed in anger, and then sighed. The fire in Eryndil's eyes had been replaced with restraint; the ardor in Eryndil's voice had been replaced with the polite, diplomatic tone that he used with the rest of his family. The few embraces that they had been able to share were now with his arms, not with his body, and the even fewer kisses they were able to steal were cool, hasty and only half attentive (or so it seemed to her at least).

She flipped over on her stomach and wrapped her arms around her pillow, burying her face into its cool softness and wishing she could feel the warm hardness of Eryndil's muscular chest instead. And his scent, that wonderful scent that she had first smelled when he had carried her in his arms up to her bedroom that day ... She pushed her face further into her pillow, imagining that it was his chest, and that he had been kissing her like he did the morning that he proposed, and that his hands were on her body again, causing those strange sensations that had been so intoxicating. The physical pleasures between a man and a woman in love had been a revelation to her, and as a very physical person in the first place, she had been deeply affected by them. And now she wanted to feel those sensations again - but Eryndil wasn't cooperating.

Why had he stopped all of these pleasant things? Was he regretting his proposal now? Was she disappointing him? She had never kissed a man before - was she not pleasing to him in that way? She lifted up her head and looked critically at her pillow, then tried kissing the pillow in different ways, but the lint she got in her mouth was too distracting, and she gave up.

She put her head back down on the pillow again and recalled his proposal. The part where he mentioned her homeless state immediately came into her restless, anxious head. Maybe he just had to marry someone for his inheritance or something, and she was available, and he thought she would say yes because she had no other home. She sighed and curled up into a forlorn little ball. "Callon," she whispered, and then even more softly, "Mother... Father ... what should I do?"

A picture of her home came into her head - Mother, Father, Callon, and ... horses. She slowly sat up and looked out the window. The day was cool, but clear. Perhaps the plain, inexpensive riding outfit that she had ordered with Callon's pay was finished by now. She got off of the bed and quietly slipped out of the house, and headed with eager feet towards the dressmaker's shop.

[Daurendil]

December 8th, Cameth Brin market place

"My, it is chilly today! Isn't it time to go to the old Piglet?" Rhaglas proposed, burying his nose in the ample collar of his velvet cape and stomping his feet to warm them.

Daurendil nodded absently and let out another of his long sighs - a recently acquired habit of his, which his friends started to find exasperating. Behind Daurendil's back Celemir and Rhaglas exchanged long-suffering glances. The Prince and his two friends were in the middle of the market place. The rows of stalls, that used to be so busy in autumn, were far fewer now and only a handful of customers braved the cold wind that was sweeping the square to admire various goods on display.

"Cheer up, my Prince," offered the ever-practical Celemir. "'Tis not as bad as it seems! Erendyl or no Eryndil, we can always go and drown our sorrows in mulled wine."

Daurendil grimaced in reply. The last month had been difficult, indeed. Each morning started with training - hours of practice with swords, maces, bows and lances, but the worst of all was the tracking. Eryndil took to leading his charges, the Prince and his company, out upon the plateau outside the Gates to make them follow and decipher tracks on the ground left by men and beasts. He also taught them how to confuse and cover their own tracks, if followed by enemies. Daurendil excelled in arms, but why in Angband should he learn tracking? He would be King, by Eru's sake, not a lowly ranger or tracker! His rightful place was astride a white horse at the head of an army, a sword on his belt and a crown on his head - and not his nose down on a dirty track!

Of course, the Prince had complained - both about the training and about the teacher - but the King was adamant to keep Eryndil in charge of the training. Most likely, all this silly business was just a humiliating punishment for his follies with Caelen and for the breaking of his engagement with Odaragariel. His father was so damn cruel to set the very man who had stolen his love lording it over him! Caelen… oh, Caelen, where art thou?

As if his mental plea had somehow conjured her image, he suddenly spotted a modestly clad young lady by one of the stalls. He couldn't see her face, but her rose-blond hair was flying loose in the wind, and as it caught the watery winter sun it shone and shimmered, sending Daurendil's heart racing.

Daurendil motioned to his friends to stay where there were, and cautiously, step by step, edged nearer to the lady, all the while praying to the Valar that he was not mistaken. The lady turned and made her way to the next stall, that of a jewellery merchant. She stood there sifting absently through the ornamental daggers on the cart, her lovely face plain to see. Daurendil's heart skipped a beat when he saw how sad she was - sad and forlorn. She smiled tenderly once, as if remembering something - some happier times maybe - but then she hanged her head, tears in her eyes.

This sight of a pearly tear on Caelen's cheek made Daurendil forget all precautions and leap forward. Taken at unawares, Caelen dropped a dagger she was holding, and cried out when Daurendil gripped her hands in his. The jeweler's servant, a stout pockmarked fellow armed with a club, waddled from behind the stall to defend the lady, but stopped short recognizing the Prince. All around people were staring at them.

"Caelen!" whispered the Prince. He looked upon her lovely face, transfixed, oblivious to the general attention. She battled her eyelids as if waking from a dream, then blushed and tried to pull her hands away. After a moment, remembering his manners, he let her hands go and bowed. "Greetings, lady Caelen." He didn't dare to call her "Caelen" anymore.

Caelen popped a shaky curtsy and muttered a greeting, very much aware of the curious stares directed at them. Daurendil offered her a hand - in the most polite, courtly way. "I beg you, walk with me for a while, lady Caelen, I have much to say to you."

After a moment of hesitation, her face drawn and worried, she took the proffered hand and followed Daurendil towards the side of the square, away from the stalls. He knew they had little time - any moment they could be interrupted or she could get frightened and bolt. Moreover, he was never much of a diplomat, so he rushed directly to the core of the matter.

"You know, Caelen, an engagement is not the same as marriage. If you are unhappy - and I see you are unhappy! - you can still reconsider your decision. It is your right. I have broken my betrothal - and the world hadn't come to an end. And so can you. Do not be afraid. Just tell me what you wish, and I will do everything and more to help you. I swear it by the Valar! .... I love you, Caelen."

[Dínen]

Dol Mithlad, Northern Rhudaur, December 8, 1347.

It was the hour before sunset. A cold breeze sprang up, blowing in its path the red-and-white banners that were hung out over the walls of the castle in Dol Mithlad. It was more like a fort than a dwelling, heavily fortified, and an uncomfortable place to live in - today, it looked almost festive - for two days, there had been no other business in the castle except in scrubbing and polishing, and decorating, and preparing rooms such that they would not be ashamed to show it off to the distinguished visitors that were expected daily. Of course, an army of tired, hungry men would not pause to admire their surroundings as long as they had shelter and food and comfort - but Dínen, the Seneschal of Mitheithel, was a man who valued appearance, and who besides, wanted all the weapons that he could get in the battle he foresaw between himself and Broggha.

He was deeply troubled over the whole matter - that the king should send such an army to defend a fort that fell in the area under his command, without so much as consulting him, or even giving him much of a forewarning; that in itself worried him. He knew Tarnendur had picked him to be Seneschal more because he had been loyal to the Prince of Mitheithel, and because he was popular with the people of this region, than because Tarnendur himself had any particular faith in him. Still, he liked to think that over the years, they had developed a rapport with each other; so when something like this had happened, he was shocked... but more so when he heard who was leading this advancing army.

He had heard much of Broggha, for he liked to keep track of all the news of what went on in the kingdom, but it seemed he was slightly behind. He had not thought the King the man to trust a Hillman so. Uncertain of his own position, he determined at the outset to meet Broggha with swords out - he would not take any nonsense from him, and he would find out what the actual truth of the matter was.

When he had determined this for the hundredth time, a horn rang out, its note clear and pure. He got up at once, pulling his furs closer around his wiry frame as he approached the window. Far below on the winding road that led up to the town from the southwest, he could see columns of soldiers marching in the near dark, and standards raised. They were come.

He padded over to a mirror of beaten metal that rested beside a trunk of clothes. His beard and hair were combed, his thin dark face looked distinguished, and beneath his furs, he was wearing clothes in his favourite colour of dark blue. He spared a second's worry - would Broggha think him a weak, contemptible man for being so well-dressed? He did not wish to be thought a dandy. Well, well, he reasoned, if he does, I will just think of him as a rough, uncivilised, contemptible barbarian! And, thus comforted and strengthened, he sat down again, waiting for someone to come and tell him that they had arrived. He would have the satisfaction - at least while in his own castle - he decided, of letting them wait in his hall for a few minutes before he himself appeared. It would never do to stand and wait, while Broggha came at his own slow pace - like a servant awaiting a master. No, it would not do. So, he waited, counting the beats of the steady footsteps, and the clippety-clops as the horses galloped up, feeling more and more unsure of himself every second...

***

Dínen's first view of Broggha confirmed all his fears. It was a hearty, jovial, cruel face, with an expression of self-satisfaction. The few rays of the dying sun that filtered through into the dark hall only emphasised the craggy features of his face.

"Jarl Broggha," his voice sounded creaky, as if from disuse, and he coughed it clear, "welcome to Dol Mithlad. I trust your journey was not too tiring?"

"Seneschal, I thank you; it was not." Broggha replied in impatient tones - he seemed eager to get the formalities over, and go inside where warmth and food and drink beckoned. Belzagar then came forward - he and Dínen had previous acquaintance, and he was much more voluble than Broggha, introducing General Nimruzir to him. By the time all of them had exchanged greetings, Broggha's boot could be heard clearly, tapping on the stones below. Dínen hastened to call them in, giving orders to his steward, meanwhile, to look to the arrangements of the rest of the army. The numbers were slightly greater than he had expected - but he hoped that with minor inconvenience, everything could be managed.

Dinner followed soon after sunset, and Dínen finally got a chance to speak at length with the Jarl.

"I hope, Lord Dínen, that you have readied your men - I really can not afford to waste time now, and must only stop here for a day, or two at the most," Broggha had said coldly to him.

"I have been able to rally a hundred-and-twenty men, the best of my soldiers, in fact - as I have been instructed by the King. I will not be going with them myself, but you will find their commander, Roushan, a very good sort of man. You can trust him to lead them well, and to follow your orders promptly." He paused a while before saying, "I understand, the plan is to lay seige to the fortress of Dol Hithaer, until they are forced to surrender. Simple and easy?"

"Aye. I shall need you to send some supplies for us - every week, or every fortnight, will be adequate," was the curt reply.

"That is not an entirely unexpected request, and I shall do my best to honour it." Broggha only nodded his head at him. Dínen felt himself scowl. Well, if he had not begun stocking up in anticipation of just such a demand the day he had heard of the imminent approach of the army, all the soldiers might have gone hungry soon enough. And this the thanks he was getting for his foresight! And such curt, small replies! The man was being very wary around him - he had heard of him being a boisterous, noisy kind of man, but certainly he was not so with Dínen. Annoyed, he turned to the more civilised conversation of General Nimruzir - but the old man seemed nervous and silent, his eyes roving the hall. Only once did he venture something on his own - towards the end of the feast, he leaned over and whispered, "Seneschal, may I request a private - a secret - audience with you later tonight?"

Puzzled, he tried questioning him, but Nimruzir refused to answer, looking obliquely at Broggha the while. Dínen understood this to mean that Nimruzir meant to tell him, in secret, something about the Jarl, and he himself was not averse to a meeting with a man known to be very loyal to the King - some of the questions that had pestered him the last few days might finally be answered. Feeling secretive himself, he only nodded - and then launched into a long, and meandering tale of his youth in a loud voice to distract anyone who might be wondering why the two men were whispering together.

[Eryndil]

December 8, 1347 – afternoon – Eryndil’s home in Cameth Brin

“Wait now, you’ve been here… five… weeks! And you drank HOW much?”

Vilyandur rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then straightened and assumed a dignified air. “How preposterous! I did not drink that much myself. But I am the son of a Thane, elder brother to a noted official in the King’s Court. And as such… I have certain obligations… to be open-handed.”

“With MY money?” asked Eryndil, aghast. “TEN gold crowns in just five weeks?” shaking the paper he held in his hands.

“Well…” answered Vilyandur, at last beginning to fidget a little, “ten at the ‘Merry Messenger’, anyway.”

Eryndil looked from his brother to the barkeep, and back again, suppressing further outrage at the hint that there was more bad news to come from another quarter. Outside the library, in the foyer and extending into the cold outside, stood a line of creditors; merchants who sold fine cloth or housewares, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, sellers of fruits and vegetables, those who made loans of money, and probably another barkeep or two. And Eru alone knew what else!

Eryndil had thought his twelve gold crowns per month would give him all he would need to support his household – and more besides. But this would eat all he had managed to save, and keep him from setting aside any more – or even spending on himself – for some months to come. He had not realized the impact an extended family visit would have – at least so soon after coming to town – before he’d had time to get himself established. But Vilyandur was something else!

He turned to face the barkeep. “You sir, have given credit to someone who claimed it, not of themselves, but in my name – without my permission. If you have extended credit where it was not due, it would be just for you to take the loss.”

The barkeep looked rather alarmed.

“But…” continued Eryndil, “I am not without compassion. The profits you shall lose, but I will ease your load from the loss of your ale. I shall give you six crowns.”

The barkeep brightened visibly, looking rather hopeful.

“However…” Eryndil went on, and the man’s brows knit together, “I shall not give you six today. Two shall you have now, two more at the Yule, and two on the First of Ninui (February). Now take these,” drawing two gold coins from the bag before him, he dropped them in the man’s extended hand, “and spread the word to the other barkeeps in this town that credit is not to be given in my name, without either my presence or my permission!”

The man left wordlessly, somewhat downcast, but relieved that there was more to come. And so the afternoon continued for Eryndil; a steady stream of those to whom money was arguably owed, and probably a few to whom it was not. He bargained and bartered, paying what he could, objecting to as much as was reasonably possible, and deferring the rest. But it left him owing money to others. He had never owed money before, and he didn’t like the feeling.

But – he knew that his mother was now enjoying her stay in town – circulating among the other noble familes, being introduced around, and introducing her children around in turn, always keeping her eyes out for potential matches for her unattached offspring, and finding the pickings slimmer than expected. His father joined her at times, but oddly – seemed more inclined to spend time with the blacksmith, Harda, and his manservant, Harma – among whom he must have felt at ease, maybe insulated from the demands of constantly parading himself before those with higher social aspirations.

Eryndil thought too of Caelen. She was rather reluctant to join Rildorien on these ventures, but had gone a few times. Hendegil was unable to escape them, so the two had spent less time together. Even HE had less time for Caelen of late – between morning training sessions with the Prince and his pals, sometimes late sessions with the King and the other advisors, which never seemed to go anywhere, and the demands of running a household to top it off – a household which had blossomed into a small village. And even when he HAD seen Caelen, he had been reserved. He hoped she wouldn’t misunderstand. But he had quickly seen, from the day they were betrothed to one another, how things could progress and how easy it was for them to lose control with one another. So he made the effort to always exert complete self-control with her.

After all – the Yule was nearing at last. Just three weeks and two days now… and then they would be joined, at last!

His heart leaped at that, just as Naneth pushed the last creditor, somewhat grumbling, out the front door.

“Soromo,” called Eryndil, “are there any more?” He was suddenly in light spirits, for he had managed to hold onto two gold crowns and seven silver pennies. Of course – those would have to last the month. But then he asked, puzzled at the quiet around them, “Where is my family?”

“Gone to market,” Naneth answered brightly. “Leastwise, your mother and sisters – and your niece.”

“To market?!” asked Eryndil in shock. “Don’t they know that costs… money!?”

“Of course,” laughed Naneth, as if she were teaching him the most natural thing on earth, “but this is your family! ‘Nothing but the best’, you know!”

Fighting off the rage rising within him, Eryndil sprang to his feet, grabbed up his cloak and hood and called for two of his men to accompany him – Norumar and Narwaith came forth directly, and off they all went into the fading light, as a light snow began to blow in the growing wind.

- - - - - - - -

That same afternoon - 'To Market, To Market'

The outside air did little to cool Eryndil’s rising temperature. He stomped on through the darkening town, marked with lights springing forth from windows – some already festively decorated to mark the upcoming season. ‘Yule,’ he thought. ‘I love it, but it seems to come earlier every year!’

At last they reached the market and his eyes began to search this way and that. At least it shouldn’t be too hard to spot anyone, there were few enough out and about. He set Norumar and Narwaith to looking into the enclosed shops. But there before him… a little knot of people. Something of interest must be going on. Suddenly, two people emerged from the crowd, slipping off into the opposite direction, hand-in-hand.

It wasn’t the cold bitter air of December that froze his heart, for he realized that his eyes beheld none other than Daurendil and Caelen.

[Caelen]

Afternoon of December 8th, Cameth Brin market place

The crowd followed along at a discrete distance as Daurendil lead Caelen to a slightly less public area of the marketplace. Entertainment was hard to come by in these dark winter days, and this looked interesting - wasn't that the red-haired girl who was married and pregnant, and then not married and not pregnant, and left the palace to live in the house of the King's new (and single, and attractive) advisor? This looked promising.

Caelen looked at Daurendil in confusion. She had always found it a bit hard to follow the quick-speaking, quick-acting prince, and he spoke in such a low, hurried voice, and said so many things all at once ... Unhappy? Yes, she was, but she wished he hadn't seen it - she wasn't aware that it showed so much on her face ... Reconsider? Just what she had been thinking about ... but she had given her word ... And he had broken his betrothal? But that wasn't right! But he wanted to help her, and that appealed to her tired, aching heart ... and the passion in his eyes - oh, why couldn't Eryndil look at her like that again, like he had on their betrothal day? Emotions chased each other across her face as Daurendil eagerly watched her.

And then came those last 3 words - "I love you!" At those words, there came such an intense expression of longing into her eyes that Daurendil, always ready to interpret things in his favor, moved eagerly towards her, reaching out his other hand towards her shoulder to pull her to him. But he had misunderstood Caelen's look - the longing was not for him; it was for Eryndil to speak to her again in the passionate way that Daurendil was speaking to her now.

Caelen pulled back in alarm. Daurendil cursed (in his mind) the reticence of his love, and then cursed (under his breath) as he heard the last thing that he wanted to hear at this moment - Eryndil's voice.

Eryndil had been watching the two of them, unsure of what to do and unclear as to what it meant. Was it just Daurendil pushing himself on Caelen again, or was it something else - was she changing her mind about him? She didn't look very displeased as the prince lead her away with him, and she had seemed so strange and restless and unhappy the last few weeks. He had decided to just quietly watch and try to find out more, but with Caelen's sudden movement away from the prince, it was clearly time to interrupt before things got so out of hand that he might be forced to challenge the prince to a fight.

"Greetings, your Highness, Caelen," he said as he strode towards them as if he had just noticed them, giving a brief bow to the former and a smile to the latter. "Am I interrupting anything? You ... "

But he was unable to finish the diplomatic sentence that he had planned, for Caelen flew into his arms so hard that it knocked the wind out of him.

"Oh, you're NEVER an interruption!" she said with a smile on her upturned face that made the cold day suddenly feel rather warm. He smiled back at her, and then stared, for her face had assumed an extraordinary expression - one eyebrow was raised, her lips were pursed together and her eyes kept going to one side. Suddenly he understood - she was asking him to kiss her in front of the prince so Daurendil would stop bothering her!

He smiled down at her again, answered, "Well, that's good!", and then leaned down and gave her a polite little kiss - one that he deemed suitable for the public square, and one, at least in Caelen's mind, that was FAR more appropriate for a sister than one's betrothed.

Caelen's eyes opened wide in disbelief - what was WITH this clueless man? She re-puckered her lips emphatically and furrowed her brow for emphasis. Then she let her lips soften and part, and she closed her eyes and leaned her body in closer to his.

Eryndil's heart skipped a beat. Perhaps the prince DID need a stronger message ...

"That's VERY good," he amended, and then, his own mouth parting to match hers (perhaps a little earlier than strictly necessary, but he wanted Daurendil to see), he kissed her again - briefly, so as to not be impolite to the third party, but decidedly NOT a kiss for a sister. He let one of his hands slide ever so casually just a little south of her waistline for a moment, sending a very clear message to the jealously-watching Daurendil that Caelen had granted Eryndil special privileges that she had NOT granted to him.

They pulled apart, and Caelen turned around to face the frustrated prince as she leaned against Eryndil's side. Eryndil slid a protective arm under her cloak and around her waist as Caelen attempted to explain the situation that Eryndil had found them in.

"Prince Daurendil saw that I looked sad - I miss my brother so much! - and he very kindly took me aside and asked if there was anything that he could do," she explained to Eryndil while looking at Daurendil with a smile.

Daurendil was furious - thwarted again! But wait - was she just putting Eryndil off? She was only telling him part of the story ... surely she couldn't prefer this self-contained ranger to the prince of the land! His ever-sanguine temper rose from the depths yet again. "And I hope you remember what I said, my lady, and let me know your answer soon," he said as smoothly as his ruffled temper allowed.

Eryndil smiled, guessing shrewdly that there was a double meaning in the Prince's words, and pulled Caelen in tighter to his side for a little hug, his hand under her cloak moving up her side in a casual manner until it just barely brushed the side of her breast for a moment. The touch was invisible to any onlooker who was not directly across from Caelen and within a foot or two of her, but it was quite visible to Daurendil, who was watching him intently, and it hit him hard, as Eryndil knew it would. Caelen's eyes widened just a bit, but she kept the smile on her face.

"Well, that is certainly very kind of you, your Highness," said Eryndil. "Caelen misses her brother very much." He kissed her on the top of her head in a protective and possessive manner.

Daurendil had had enough. This hateful man was flaunting his relationship with Caelen right in his face! Eryndil was doing things with Caelen that Daurendil had only dreamed about doing ... and he would soon be doing even more, for it was only a few more weeks to their wedding ...

But what else could Caelen do, Daurendil asked himself. She couldn't refuse Eryndil right there in the public marketplace. No, he had seen the look in her eyes, but he had just been over-eager and frightened her. She had his offer - now he would just have to wait for her to dump this country yokel and come running to him, as any girl in her senses would do. He would make his exit now and wait for another opportunity. But first, he would hit Eryndil back.

"You have heard my offer," he said smoothly to Caelen, with meaning in his eyes that he knew she could read. "I eagerly await your answer!" He took her hand (she could hardly refuse it) and kissed it as seductively as was possible in the circumstances, and then with a slight nod of the head to Eryndil, who was now smiling through clenched teeth, he turned and headed back to his friends.

The crowd, hoping for a good fight, was disappointed, and started to disperse.

Eryndil let his arm drop from Caelen's side and turned to face her, confident that his girl would be grateful for his saving her from the persistent Prince once again.

"Well, I hope that will finally convince him to leave you alone!" he said with a confident smile, prepared to receive Caelen's thanks and admiration. But Eryndil was in for a surprise.

"Well, at least he wants to be with me!" hissed Eryndil's love in an angry undertone, with a stamp of her foot and a shake of her lovely head.

Eryndil was too surprised to answer right away, and Caelen, like a true woman, lost no time speaking again.

"And he looks like he wanted to kiss me, too - not like you anymore! You treat me like ... like ... something you've won and can show off to others, but you don't really want!"

"Cae ..." began Eryndil, but he was cut off as the flood of pent-up words and emotions continued to burst forth.

"As soon as he left, you don't want to keep your arm around me any more, do you? You don't want to kiss me anymore either - REALLY kiss me, not those polite little kisses like I'm your sister! I had to BEG you to kiss me in front of him! Why did you even ask me to marry you?" Her lower lip started to tremble. "You were so different on our betrothal day, like you actually WANTED to be with me and kiss me and ... and things, and now it's like I'm just a piece of furniture or something!"

Eryndil looked at his lady love, overwhelmed by the torrent of emotions and words. What in the world was she talking about? Of COURSE he wanted to kiss her! Kiss her? He wanted far more than kisses from her! But he had to wait until their marriage, and after his lapse of control on their betrothal day, it was far easier just to keep his distance from her and wait.

Finally it occurred to him that he hadn't told her this, and that his actions, done with the best of intentions, could easily be misconstrued, as she had obviously done. He tried to stop the flow of words with his explanations, but Caelen had the bit between her teeth and wouldn't listen to him.

"Forget words!" thought Eryndil.

Eryndil was a man of action.

The crowd re-gathered.

"Mother, look at that crowd over there!" said Hendegil, tapping her mother's shoulder to get her attention away from the wares that she was examining. "What could be happening?"

"Perhaps there's a good sale going on," replied Rildorien, putting down the basket she was examining and turning to see what Hendegil was indicating. "Let's go look!"

They pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and found that Hendegil's sister, Gildurien, and niece, Glambeth, were there ahead of them.

"Oh my!" gasped Rildorien in shock, as Hendegil grinned and Glambeth giggled. She turned away in a huff, dragging Glambeth with her.

"Your father and I would NEVER have done anything like THAT in public!" she said huffily to her daughters. But Hendegil merely smiled, as did Caelen when her mouth was finally free.

[General Nimruzir]

Dol Mithlad, Northern Rhudaur, night of December 8, 1347.

As he climbed the steps to the room on the second floor which had been assigned to him, General Nimruzir could hear the singing of late revelers coming from the great hall. "Hillmen by the sound of them," he thought. "Always noisy and brash, delighting in singing songs of blood and battle, fighting for the pure love of fighting!"

Though he was not a young man anymore, the general had not given in to living a life of ease. He prided himself on his skills as a horseman, and his considerable ability with the sword, which he had retrained even now that he was no longer in his prime. Though his hair was shot with gray, the old general was surprisingly strong and wiry, and he did not even breathe hard as he followed Dínen's page - a boy by the name of Brannon - up the long, narrow flight of stairs. Beside him walked Captain Gellamon, one of Nimruzir's private escort, a young man who had served with him for a number of years. One of the fortress' servants followed along behind, carrying the general's saddle bags, which contained the few possessions which the general had brought with him.

They came to the landing, and the page halted, the torch in his hand illuminating Nimruzir's face and casting the shadows behind them into monstrous proportions. "General, sir," the lad said respectfully, "right down this hall." The general nodded and he and Gellamon followed the boy as he led them down the long corridor to the general's room.

After placing the torch in a sconce outside the room, the boy opened the door for them, and the two men walked into the small, well-lit room. The general was pleased to see that the fire had been kindled in the hearth. "Sir, you can put your things right over there," Brannon pointed to an aumbrey against the wall. "And there," the boy gestured towards a curtained off section of the room, "is where Captain Gellamon will sleep. If you wish, sir, I will be happy to unpack your saddle bags and put your things in the cabinet.

"Thank you, lad," the general smiled at the boy and watched as he and the servant took the general's extra clothing, folded it and put it in the aumbrey. The servant, who was no longer needed, was excused, quickly making his way to the door and closing it behind him.

Captain Gellamon waited a few minutes, then went to the door, opened it and looked down the hall. Chuckling softly, he explained, "Never can be too careful."

"Now, sirs, we must hurry. Lord Dínen even now awaits you," the page explained.

"Then lead us to him, lad."

Outside the room, Brannon retrieved the torch and led them down the hall to another set of stairs. Following the boy up the stairs, they turned to a hallway which led them to still another stairway. At the top of these stairs, they turned down a long corridor and entered a small private meeting room in the northern tower.

"We will await you out here," Captain Gellamon told him.

The seneschal was alone, and after exchanging polite greetings, the two men seated themselves at a small table.

"General Nimruzir, I find myself puzzled about why so much secrecy was requested for this meeting, unless," here the seneschal lowered his voice, "it is something about Broggha."

"Broggha," the general laughed. "You can be sure that that scoundrel is the only one who stands to gain anything from this Northern campaign."

"Just as I thought!" Dínen agreed eagerly. "What I cannot understand is what possessed King Taurendur to place a hillman in charge of a campaign to retake Dol Hithlaer? Such a thing is simply unheard of!"

General Nimruzir took a drink from his tankard of ale. "After the Princess Gimilbeth's near disastrous journey, the king's council was thrown into an uproar with first one member and then another offering suggestions on how the problem of the orcs could be handled. The council members concluded that these attacks were being instigated by the orcish commander of Dol Hithlaer. Broggha, as usual avowing his great love and loyalty to Rhudaur, boasted that he and his hillmen were the ones to handle the orc problem. The king - no doubt wishing to silence the man - took him up on his boasts. Now Broggha the Hillman and his knaves ride under the flag of the king."

The seneschal nodded his head gravely. "That has long been my feeling. Here of late, beginning with last summer, the fiends have grown increasingly bold, and it has been reported to me that they have even looted and burned some small villages, either killing the people or taking them back with them into slavery. Though some local lords, including myself, have sent parties of cavalry troops chasing after them, none of the villains were ever captured. There are simply too few of us this far north. When I first received word that a military force might be sent to retake the fortress, brief hope swelled up in my heart, but when I learned that it was Broggha in charge, I felt only a sense of dread." The Seneschal bowed his head, looking down into the depths of his tankard.

"My lord, I wish that I could offer you hope, but I find that I have none myself to give. I see this whole Northern campaign as a great folly for the king and country, but a triumph for Broggha. I foresee that many will die on this march, either from attrition along the journey, or by arrow and sword after the siege is laid. But let us hope that I am wrong, good Seneschal." The two men were silent, each one with his own thoughts. At last, the general resumed speaking. "I did not ask for a private audience to discuss Broggha. I think you and I share the same regard for him. It is another matter which is of concern to me and to you."

Dínen raised his head from his silent reverie and looked into the General's calm, gray eyes. "What is it, General? I am perplexed."

"Shortly before the army left for the north, King Taurendur spoke to me in private. It seems that Princess Odaragariel was about to end her engagement to Prince Daurendil," the General chuckled. "Some sort of lover's quarrel - you know how young people are." Lord Dínen smiled, his first since the discussion with Nimruzir had begun. "Well, anyway," the general resumed, "the young princess wished to get away for a while - I suppose she wanted a bit of adventure, too. The king asked me to watch about her and allow her to travel in my retinue as a page boy attendant upon me. Against my better judgment, I allowed this."

"General," the Seneschal shook his head in amazement, "has her subterfuge been discovered?"

"No, my lord, quite the contrary. She has disguised herself so well that if a person did not know it, he would swear that she was a boy! She has comported herself quite admirably as befits a noble young page and so far has escaped detection. Now, though, with so many troops being housed in this fortress, there is a woeful lack of privacy. A young lady of her rank should not have to sleep on the floor with the rest of my retinue." General Nimruzir paused as he took a drink from his tankard.

"A most amazing young woman," the Seneschal said with admiration.

"The Princess is quite amazing, my lord, but still she is the only female among hundreds of troops, most of them Broggha's hillmen, a wild, crude, most uncivilized lot if there ever was one! No matter how careful she is to conceal her gender, I fear that sooner or later she will make a mistake and be found out. Even if that never happens, a military expedition is no place for a woman. A campaign such as this is difficult enough for seasoned troopers, how much more so for a noble young woman brought up in a palace! So many evil things could happen to her; she could fall ill and die from exposure to the elements. There could be an orcish ambush. Then there is Dol Hithlaer itself." The general studied his tankard and shook his head. "Nay, she has no business being with the army, and I will not allow her to continue with us any farther!"

His expression grave, the seneschal nodded his head in agreement. "Nay, General, this campaign is no place for a lady of the calibre of the princess."

"Now, my lord, I am faced with two choices: I must either send her back to Cameth Brin under armed escort or leave her here under your protection. I prefer the latter. What say you, my lord seneschal?"

[scribe]

Dinen



Dinen did not hesitate very long before answering. He had found himself alternately amazed and admiring at the story he had heard - and having often worried that he himself was too stodgy, too quiet, perhaps, the account of Odaragariel's brashness was very interesting to him. And of course, he could never refuse the Princess from staying as long as she wanted in Dol Mithlad - in his mind, it all still belonged to the Princes of Mitheithel.

This, and more about the honour of helping her out etc. he told Nimruzir, who seemed pleased, he supposed at having the responsibility shifted from his shoulders to another's, but who also soon interrupted Dinen's eloquent outpourings to discuss a few practical arrangements - such as the necessity of maintaining Odare's disguise for a few more days - until the army had moved on, at least.

"Well," said, Dinen, pondering. "There are rooms in this place, reserved for the ladies of the noble families - they have lain unused for many days, I'm afraid, but they can easily be prepared for the princess. However," he went on, as Nimruzir looked about to interrupt him impatiently, "until the army leaves, that had better not be attempted. It will be impossible to hide from the servants if those quarters were to be opened. But - would the princess be very averse to being, so to speak, isolated for the next few days? I have a suite of rooms at the top of one of the towers, set aside as my private study, and which my servants are strictly instructed to stay out of. I think we can install the princess there in relative comfort and secrecy - provided she does not leave them until it is safe."

"I think that will do very well, Seneschal. I thank you, for your co-operation, and your hospitality. I do not think there will be much opposition to staying strictly in those rooms from the Princess - she knows that secrecy is of paramount importance, as you seem to have grasped so quickly. I will acquaint her with what we have discussed, and bring her to you."

"No, no, I can come to her. She is the princess, after all, and well, it is fitting I should go to her." interposed Dinen.

Nimruzir could not forbear from giving him a look that said plainly, 'What a fool!'. Out loud, he only said dryly, "I am sure the Princess understands that if you visit her, a lowly page, for no apparent reasons, unnecessary attention will be drawn to her, which will make her subsequent disappearance when she moves to the tower, all the more conspicuous. I am certain she will overlook any slight you perceive in making her come to you." And with that remark, and a very polite bow, General Nimruzir left the room.

[scribe]

General Nimruzir



Dol Mithlad, Northern Rhudaur, night of December 8, 1347.

After leaving the Seneschal's private meeting chamber, General Nimruzir was joined by Captain Gellamon and the page, Brannon, who had been waiting for him outside in the hall. While they had been waiting, Brannon had bombarded the officer with questions about the army. There had been nothing in Brannon's short life to compare with all the stir and hubbub which had been caused by the army's visit to the fortress. Even the sight of the fierce hillmen filled him with a sense of awe. How he wished he were old enough to be a soldier, but it would be some years yet before he would advance to be a squire. "Nothing exciting ever happens to me," he thought glumly.

"General, sir," the boy said, "I will escort you back to your chambers, and if there is anything else you might need tonight, you have but to ask."

"Lad," the General replied, "I have only a small errand for you which will not take long."

"What is it, sir?" the boy asked.

"I expect my page, Dolenmir (?), at any moment. He will have a message that I wish him to take to the Seneschal. I would appreciate it if you would take him to the Seneschal's meeting room a little later."

"Certainly, sir," the boy smiled.

When they returned to the General's chambers, Brannon was asked to wait outside in the hall. Sitting down wearily in a chair at the table, the General watched as the Captain poured them both goblets of wine. The officer's brow knitted as he noticed that the old General looked more worn and haggard that night than he usually did. Undoubtedly the strain of the march was wearing on him, Gellamon thought. "I worry about him. He is far too old and frail to be on such a strenuous campaign."

"General, are you feeling quite well?" the Captain asked solicitously, genuinely concerned for his superior's health.

Massaging his temples with his fingers, General Nimruzir sat staring at his wine goblet. At first he did not seem to hear the other man's question.

"General?" Captain Gellamon asked, alarmed.

"I heard you, Captain. My hearing is in perfect working order," he replied crisply. "Just a little weary tonight. My encounter with the Seneschal was somewhat trying."

"Sir, perhaps you should call it an early night tonight." Even before the words were out of his mouth, General Gellamon knew that he should not have said them.

"I am not some invalid!" the General exclaimed defensively. "I am not so old yet that I am senile and need someone to lead me around! I will go to bed exactly when I want and no sooner."

"Sorry, sir," the Captain bowed his head in embarrassment, and an uncomfortable silence came between the two.

At that moment, there was a soft rapping at the door. The visitor was bidden to enter, and Princess Odaragariel, clad in her disguise as page, walked into the room and closed the door behind her. Rising to their feet, the two men bowed and welcomed her. Hastening to the door, Captain Gellamon escorted her to the table. Once she was seated, Captain Gellamon was quick to fetch her a goblet.

"Princess," the old General exclaimed warmly, "I am delighted to see you! You look quite well after the rough ardors of the trail. You appear to be in the perfect picture of health." He smiled benevolently. "I have good news for you.

"Please, General Nimruzir, I have asked you more than once never to refer to me as 'princess' even when it is safe to do so," she replied, slightly irritated.

"My apologies, dear lady. It is sometimes difficult to break old habits, but I promise faithfully to refrain from committing this error in the future." He gave her a tight-lipped smile, slightly perturbed at her criticism.

"You are forgiven, sir," she replied softly. "Now what is this news that you have for me?"

The General took a sip from his goblet. "I have just returned from a meeting with the Seneschal and have explained everything to him. Though Lord Dinen was more than a little surprised to hear your tale, he has welcomed you to the fortress."

The Princess looked relieved. "And where am I to stay?"

"The Seneschal has a set of rooms that will be suitable for you. You should be quite comfortable there," the General explained. "These rooms are rather remote from the rest of the fortress, and you should be able to stay here in perfect secrecy."

"Thank you, General," she replied. "You have been most kind. When will I be shown my quarters?"

The General rose to his feet. "Now would be a good time. The page Brannon awaits now in the hall to escort you."

After the Princess had departed, the old General sat down wearily in the chair. "With the Princess safely ensconced here at the fortress, I should be able to sleep a lot more easily tonight."