Chapter One

Eomund shifted in the saddle, tightening his knees as his mount sidestepped.

"I wager Driten is the only one here with energy enough to play," said Railf, his second in command.

"Aye, he's in better shape than me." Eomund glanced over his eored. "And many here."

It was rare for the eored to leave Edoras so near to winter's coming, but last week they had receive word that wolves had attacked the horse herds in the Southern lands. Good mounts were few in these times of famine and war; Rohan could ill afford any more losses.

"There she is."

Eomund glanced up. Warmth rushed through him despite his frozen toes and the biting wind shrieking across the rocky hills and valleys. Edoras.

His men sighted the town, rising above the crest of the hill, and greeted it with a faint cheer. Eomund clicked at Driten and he broke into a gallop, the rest of the eored pounding after him.

Eomund would be chafing for action after a few weeks of winter confinement, but for now their homecoming was blessed relief.


How could a man make horses so dull?

Illian straightened in her seat and took a deep breath to regain her focus.

"…And Hitlaen has promised to supply 30 mounts for wedding guests' use."

Illian blinked and fixed her steward with a stern look.

"Illi—milady, as the sole remaining member of your family you must soon marry to ensure Rohan's future security." Girult gazed at her warily. "Surely you did not expect to rule Rohan by yourself."

"I certainly did not expect my advisors to be planning my wedding."

"Naturally, we will heed your wishes in the matter, my lady, but—"

Illian made a quick motion to still his clucking. "I suppose you have him picked out as well? Out with it, Girult."

"The council did discuss that political alliances with Gonder would allow for quicker transit of supplies from the ports in Dol Amroth. Prince Brecin is a fine young man—"

"Who would never survive a Rohan winter." Illian shook her head. When she met him last autumn he'd seemed cordial enough, a man of good heart but poor health. "And Prince Dinethren will be engaged by the end of the fortnight, though it has not yet been announced. I have considered the matter some, Girult."

"You speak truth, milady." The man leaned back in his chair. "But we had thought that…"

Illian narrowed her eyes at his prolonged silence.

"I'm not going to like him."

"Not that, milady."

"Well?"

Girult sighed. "The leader of milady's Rohirrim is a strong, brave man and a good warrior. He commands the respect of the people."

"Impossible." Illian felt her world tilt and grasped for it. "Eomund is doubtless all you say, but he has been a trusted friend and brother to me since we were children. I cannot marry him."

"Surely it would be more agreeable than wedding a stranger, Illian—"

Illian stood, grabbing her chair as it tipped. Its carved surface bit into her fingers and she loosened her grip.

"I have lost father, mother, sister, and brother in the past year, Girult." Illian swallowed. "Please do not ask my remaining friends of me as well."

The old man stared at her, lost in his own memories, and then lowered his gaze to the polished tabletop.

Illian looked up at hurried footsteps in the corridor. The council room door shuddered under a heavy hand. "Queen Illian."

Asef, the door guard. He should be at his post. "Come in."

The young man pushed the door open and bowed, his shaggy blond hair falling in his face. "The eored has returned, milady. Even now they approach Edoras."

"Thank-you, Asef."

He reddened, nodded and retreated down the hall. Illian glanced back at Girult. "We'll discuss this later."

Girult did not reply.


Eomund forced his weary arms to lift the saddle from Driten's steaming back. He stepped outside the stall and carefully placed the equipment on its rack.

Show me dirty gear and I'll show you a poor rider, his old instructor had said. It was true enough. Old habits died hard.

Eomund picked up the stiff-bristled brushes beside the saddle and slipped back into Driten's stall, being careful to latch the door behind him. He drew the brush over the animal's back and down its legs, flicking his wrist to loosen imbedded dirt.

"Milord Eomund."

He turned, grunting as Driten nudged his shoulder and left a smear of white hair. Railf leaned on the stall's half-door. He handed Eomund a folded sheet of parchment.

"The wind blew it from the grain room knothole."

Eomund's gaze flicked up from the missive to meet his friend's. He frowned and took it, cupping the bridge of Driten's nose with a gloved hand.

"The queen said to get some food and a night's rest before giving your report," Railf said. "If it's not urgent."

Eomund shook his head. "It can wait."

"Is there anything more you require?"

"No, thank-you."

Railf nodded and moved down the row of stalls to check on his own horse before finding his bed. Eomund rubbed Driten's forehead, watching the highlights play in the animal's dark eyes.

It had been near six months since Illian last left him a message in "their" knothole, discovered and claimed as children in their seventh year. They'd seen less of each other of late. She was busy with her duties and he…

Eomund sighed. He'd felt the keen edge of the reality of her status.

He glanced at the parchment and slid it in the saddlebags hung over the stall door. What did Illian need? Maybe she finally could admit the pain of her family's deaths. Eomund grimaced at the prospect of her grief. But perhaps it would give her some ease.

"I'm no better than you with tears," he murmured, patting Driten and gathering his brushes. The horse blew down his neck and turned to follow as Eomund stepped out of the stall.

"Nay, friend." Eomund smiled as he replaced the brushes. "It's time to rest for the both of us."


Illian wrapped her cloak tight over her thick green dress and pulled her fur-lined hood up to cover her ears. The wind tugged at the fabric and blew her hair across her cheeks.

She stepped carefully between the withered plants of the kitchen garden and onto the hard-trod path that curled between clustered houses to the city barricade. Illian slipped through the gate and hurried between the low hills. A creek wound along at their base.

The sun spilled over a hilltop onto Edoras as Illian paused beneath a straggly oak.

"How did you escape your babysitters this time?"

Illian gave Eomund a small smile as he stepped from a cove of trees to her side. "Practice."

His keen, blue eyes probed around the corners of her defenses. "Something goes ill with you?"

Her gaze skittered away, over the awakening countryside. "Nay, I'm in good health."

"For now." Eomund shifted to block the wind and his sword clinked against his armor. "Best tell me quick, before you catch the chills out here."

Illian swallowed, wishing for the eloquence she'd been taught, but it had fled. Cursed be this world, that brought such a trial between dear friends.

"It is bad, then."

She caught his concerned gaze and pain twisted her heart. "I do not know, marhelb. I do not know how to tell you."

"I would help you." Eomund sighed. "If I can."

"The council is—concerned. For my safety."

"Then they should watch their queen more carefully, so she can not evade them." He scowled at her.

"Eomund." Illian shook her head. "They are afraid I will die. Without an heir."

His tall figure stiffened and his eyes flickered. "They wish you to marry."

"Yes."

Eomund stared out over the tawny hills for several long heartbeats, then slowly let out his breath through his teeth. He turned back to her with a gentle smile.

"Do not be afraid, milady. There are many honorable men who can be of great aid to Rohan."

"Yes…" Illian frowned. Why this reaction? His self-control never slipped. "But not many who can bear up under the rigors of our life."

"Then what troubles you?"

She swallowed. "They wish me to marry you, Eomund."

He did not reply and Illian risked a glance upward. He looked stunned, like when Driten had blindsided him during training; his eyes were unfocused and his body tense.

"Please understand, Eomund, I will do what I can. But I fear I have little sway and shall have to bend to their will eventually. I thought I ought to warn you—"

"Milady." Eomund's gaze flicked down and his hand brushed her fingers. "You honor me."

She bit her lip and took a careful breath, her gaze tracing the curving designs on his leather cuirass. "I have lost all those I held dear. Why must our friendship be sacrificed also?"

A bird's low warble drew taut the silence and at the nearest hut a woman called for her child.

"It would be different. Difficult, perhaps."

Illian caught his gaze, the shock of his quiet statement stinging to her toes. Eomund's eyes were calm. Inscrutable.

"You are not troubled."

His features softened. "I would rather you be in my care, than a stranger's."

"I'd sooner suffer a stranger's," Illian said. Better that fate than to lose the friend she cherished.

Eomund straightened and a hardness like a whetted blade slid across his face. She clutched the folds of her cloak, glimpsing the dangerous warrior of the Mark.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean—"

"Milady." Eomund touched her elbow and turned her gently toward the city. "Do not concern yourself with me. Your will is mine."

"Please, do not—" He flung her a glance and the words stuck in her throat.

"You'd best hurry." Eomund pushed open the side gate Illian had left ajar. "They will be searching for you."

"It is early yet." Illian hesitated in the opening, seeking the words to mend her blunder. Could she never heed her father's admonishment and think before she spoke?

Eomund nodded. "If you have need of me, I'm at your service."

She clutched the frame of the gate. "Eomund, I—"

A quick movement and his hand covered her mouth. His fingers were calloused but not ungentle.

"Do not be distressed, milady." He dropped his hand. "You shall be cared for, whether by me or another."

Illian swallowed, afraid her emotions would betray her and she would cry. "You always speak with wisdom, my friend."

He glanced down, his expression unreadable. "Not always."

The morning breeze whistled through the grass. Eomund nodded farewell and stepped away, striding through the waist-high weeds toward the lower city.

Illian rested her forehead on the gatepost, blinking back tears.