NOT WORTH MORE THAN RUBIES
*** Chapter the First- In which our Heroine is found by the Riders of Rohan, and makes the Acquaintance of a Marshal of the Riddermark. ***
Her face was filthy and smeared with blood, but the dark girl stood proudly in the middle of the deserted crossroads, waiting. Clad in a long frock of emerald green, with her long black curls whipping in the cold northern wind, she looked- despite her disarray- as if she were some exotic princess awaiting her knight and champion to rescue her. Yet the crossroads were barren and desolate, adorned merely with an empty gallows, and the acrid smoke- and smell of burned flesh- from an orcish attack still lingered like foul sickness in the air.
Yet despite all this, there was no other place in the world that Madiya bat- Laylah- trickster, swindler and rogue- would rather be. For the Rubies of Rohan awaited her. The Rubies for which she had long hungered, and dreamed.
Madiya, bronze-skinned daughter of the burning sands, considered herself quite an accomplished thief, and with her black eyes, full lips, and dashing figure, she was comely- and light-fingered- enough to charm her victims, as well as all the gold pieces out of their purses. Although born and raised in the farthest reaches of Harad, she had lived in the North for some time- mainly swindling, picking pockets and fencing stolen merchandise in Minas Tirith. While relaxing one day from her larcenous activities in one of the libraries of the great city, she chanced to see the most magnificent painting. This painting was a portrait of some long- dead Steward's Lady, gracious and lovely as the fairest swan; but what fascinated Madiya was the lovingly painted ruby necklace about the woman's neck. It was a delicate choker of mithril filigree, set with five rubies, each the size of a large coin, and each cut and polished like an emerald.
It had had utterly entranced her. She had returned to the library, day after day, just to gaze upon it. She loved to imagine that she was the lady in the painting, with her graceful carriage and lofty brow, and her air of dignity, nobility and beauty. The lady wore her rubies with an air of entitlement, and Madiya knew with certainty, that with those jewels about her neck, her life had been charmed indeed. Such a lady never would have had to worry if she could earn her next meal, or if she would be knifed in the back by another thief, or if the city guard would haul her off to the prisons. When she finally asked the librarian about the ruby necklace, she was informed that in ancient times it was known as the Rubies of Mirrian; yet after it was given to a warrior-queen of Rohan for heroic services rendered to Gondor, it was known as the Rubies of Rohan.
"The Rubies of Rohan," she had breathed.
The near-sighted librarian had then looked at her sharply. "You're not from around here, are you? The Rubies are famous throughout all the land!"
She'd quickly made excuses for her ignorance, then left the library before the librarian grew more suspicious. Yet ever since then, Madiya had become obsessed with the necklace she had seen in the ancient portrait. She researched, studied, came up with a strategy, planned a route, and eventually made the journey west from populated Gondor to the plains of Rohan.
She would not rest until the Rubies were hers.
Which was why Madiya bat-Laylah found herself standing out by this dismal crossroads in the middle of nowhere, in one of the best gowns she had ever owned, anxiously watching the approach of a patrol of the Riders of the Riddermark. It was true, she thought, watching the distant cloud of dust grow larger, that the unlikeliest places hid the most valuable treasures. Who in his right mind would dream that a backwards kingdom like this would conceal some of the most beautiful jewels ever known to mortal man? She continued to hold her ground, but her heart was beating fast, and her palms were sweaty. The Riders- the Rohirrim, as these Northern barbarians called themselves- had arrived right on time, as regular as clockwork, or the hot desert winds that ravaged her old home of Bozisha-Dar.
She had been told several times, back in Minas Tirith, that these people of Rohan had grown suspicious of late, due to the constant state of warfare on their borders. Something to do with politics, wizards and whatnot; Madiya found it tedious to remember such things. But- although it was half- hidden under her dress- she nervously fingered the old bronze hamsa amulet that her mother had given her long ago, right before she had died.
Her mother had loved that amulet. It was shaped like the hand of the Goddess, and was supposed to protect one from the evil eye. Some people might say that was a foolish superstition, but she didn't care. She was not a warrior- she was a mere city rat, armed only with a dagger. Not to mention, she thought apprehensively, she was clearly a Southerner, of the Haradrim; and these bloodless Northern folk were suspicious of anyone who didn't look like them.
She calmed herself, and thought of what would probably happen. The warriors in the patrol might scout around, to see if she was tricking them into an ambush; but once they saw that she was not, they would probably take her back to the palace of their king, in their capital city of Edoras. Perhaps they would mumble about her being a spy, but she had talked her way out of such situations before, and she was sure she could do so again. In any case, the horsemen were galloping up to her, the hooves of their mounts trampling the earth, and the pennants and horsehair plumes of their helmets flying in the wind. The metal of their armor glittered even under the dismal overcast skies; and to quell her sudden doubts about this venture, Madiya hurriedly assured herself that they were no doubt chivalrous and steadfast examples of manhood, always ready to help a damsel in distress.
She knew her cue. Without missing a beat, Madiya staggered, kicked aside her soot-streaked sack of clothing, and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. "Oh, alack!" she cried. "Ah, me! Lords, I crave your help- for I am, indeed, in sore need of your succor!"
The captain of the horsemen wheeled his horse towards her. At least, she thought he was the captain. Unlike the other men, who wore scale or chainmail, he wore a fancy leather-and-metal breastplate of an intricate design; his helmet was engraved and chased with gold; and at his side was slung a magnificent sword, the hilt entwined with golden serpents. Madiya thought of how much she could get for that sword at the bazaar back home, and she practically salivated at the thought of all that lovely, lovely money. This tall young man had to be a nobleman; perhaps even a prince, she thought with some pleasure. Atop his white charger, he was fierce and ruddy and hale, with expressive eyes and long hair the color of dirty straw.
"Lady!" he demanded, in the harsh accents of these parts. "What are you doing here? Where is your escort?"
Tears began to course down Madiya's dirt-streaked face. "My escort, Lord, is dead," she sobbed, "slaughtered by the orcs! We were heading along the Great West Road, to Minas Tirith, when we were ambushed by the foul beasts. I was knocked unconscious during the fray- they thought I was dead. Yonder rises the plume of smoke from the wreckage!"
And she pointed further west to the very real remains of an unfortunate caravan that had been ambushed by some of the orcish brigands that had been recently plundering these lands. Even though the men at the village tavern had been completely drunk, they had not steered her wrong when they told her how travelers were attacked near Hangman's Crossroads all the time, and that the Riders were always patrolling this area to lend them arms and protection. Very effective protection, thought Madiya cynically. She imagined the caravan would not mind being claimed by her; as they were all dead to a man, what difference would it make?
"Saruman's doing," the captain said with loathing, glaring at the smoke.
"Those orcs," muttered a heavily bearded companion, "have been growing ever more bold."
The captain turned back to her. "Lady," he said gravely, "I grieve for your loss. I am afraid to say that this tragedy is not without precedent- especially in this country, as of late. But if you will pardon me, I would ask why one of Haradan blood is sojourning across Rohan."
"A fair question, Lord," said Madiya. She straightened her back proudly, as if she really were a high-born maiden, born and raised in silken luxury, and not the mere daughter of a swarthy Southron tavern dancer. "I am indeed of Far Harad, from the city Bozisha-Dar, that is called Harshport in the Westron tongue; my father was of that city, but my mother was of Gondorian blood, and she was born in Minas Tirith." Only a small lie; for it was actually her long-vanished father who was from Gondor, and not her mother. But who was to know, or care? "Due to various changes in fortune, I have come to live with my mother's family; and- whilst I and my cousins were returning from a long visit in Eriador- these monsters attacked us!"
"Where in Eriador?" the captain's bearded companion snapped.
"Tharbad, sir."
"Tharbad, eh? I'm surprised there are still people living in that ruined place! What were you doing in Tharbad?"
"We had gone to a wedding. We have relatives there."
"You seem to have relatives in a great many places, my Lady," the companion said suspiciously.
Madiya's back stiffened. "My mother's father was a merchant, sir. His trade took him to many far-flung lands! And- though I see now that it was wildly foolish to take such a risk traveling- we had thought if we had enough armed men among us-" She sagged, and covered her face with her hands, as if in abject despair.
"Well, that may be so. I know little of the ways of merchants," the bearded soldier growled.
"Enough," the captain barked. "Aldor, the lady has survived a devastating loss; it is not meet to interrogate her in such a fashion!"
At such a reprimand, the soldier bowed his head. "Yes, your Highness," he muttered. "Milady, I crave your pardon. But in such strange times, where the unthinkable often occurs, one must be careful of who one trusts." And he gave the captain a significant look.
"Aldor, it is not necessary to remind me of Wormtongue's cautionings again," the captain replied coldly.
Madiya felt a twinge of alarm at this; but instead, she merely clasped her fingers over her mouth and made her eyes extra wide. "Your Highness?" she gasped.
"Yes," said the blond captain, as regally as one could wish. "I am Éomer Éadig, son of Éomund of Eastfold, Prince of Rohan and Third Marshal of the Riddermark."
So her captain was actually far more than a captain! Madiya was glad she recognized his name; it at least proved that she had done her research. This young man, Éomer, was the younger of the princes of Rohan; the elder was his cousin, the crown prince Théodred, the son of the king himself. She curtseyed deeply. "My Prince. I am Lady Madiya bat-Ahmaadi ibn- al'Azishan- lately of Bozisha-Dar." With meticulous dignity, she wiped the tears from her eyes. "I wish I could say that I was delighted to make your acquaintance, but I am afraid that I wish to the depths of my soul that we could have met under different circumstances."
"I reciprocate your sentiment, my Lady." The prince placed a gauntleted hand over his breast, and bowed his head. "Allow us to take back you to Edoras; there you may rest before your journey back to Minas Tirith."
"Edoras," breathed Madiya. "Oh, thank you, your Majesty. Thank you so much for your great kindness. As the poets themselves say, 'More welcome than a draught of water to the panting gazelle, is a gentle word to the one so weary of life.'" Her voice throbbed with emotion as she pressed a fluttering hand to her throat. "As I am weary- after having witnessed such- such unspeakable horror..."
She then closed her eyes, as if in gratitude. But all she could think of, behind those closed lids, were the rubies that awaited her, the rubies she had dreamed of, for the past six months. The famed Rubies of Rohan; that ancient necklace of blood-red jewels that would soon be hers... All hers.
***Author's Note: Next stop, Edoras!
*** Chapter the First- In which our Heroine is found by the Riders of Rohan, and makes the Acquaintance of a Marshal of the Riddermark. ***
Her face was filthy and smeared with blood, but the dark girl stood proudly in the middle of the deserted crossroads, waiting. Clad in a long frock of emerald green, with her long black curls whipping in the cold northern wind, she looked- despite her disarray- as if she were some exotic princess awaiting her knight and champion to rescue her. Yet the crossroads were barren and desolate, adorned merely with an empty gallows, and the acrid smoke- and smell of burned flesh- from an orcish attack still lingered like foul sickness in the air.
Yet despite all this, there was no other place in the world that Madiya bat- Laylah- trickster, swindler and rogue- would rather be. For the Rubies of Rohan awaited her. The Rubies for which she had long hungered, and dreamed.
Madiya, bronze-skinned daughter of the burning sands, considered herself quite an accomplished thief, and with her black eyes, full lips, and dashing figure, she was comely- and light-fingered- enough to charm her victims, as well as all the gold pieces out of their purses. Although born and raised in the farthest reaches of Harad, she had lived in the North for some time- mainly swindling, picking pockets and fencing stolen merchandise in Minas Tirith. While relaxing one day from her larcenous activities in one of the libraries of the great city, she chanced to see the most magnificent painting. This painting was a portrait of some long- dead Steward's Lady, gracious and lovely as the fairest swan; but what fascinated Madiya was the lovingly painted ruby necklace about the woman's neck. It was a delicate choker of mithril filigree, set with five rubies, each the size of a large coin, and each cut and polished like an emerald.
It had had utterly entranced her. She had returned to the library, day after day, just to gaze upon it. She loved to imagine that she was the lady in the painting, with her graceful carriage and lofty brow, and her air of dignity, nobility and beauty. The lady wore her rubies with an air of entitlement, and Madiya knew with certainty, that with those jewels about her neck, her life had been charmed indeed. Such a lady never would have had to worry if she could earn her next meal, or if she would be knifed in the back by another thief, or if the city guard would haul her off to the prisons. When she finally asked the librarian about the ruby necklace, she was informed that in ancient times it was known as the Rubies of Mirrian; yet after it was given to a warrior-queen of Rohan for heroic services rendered to Gondor, it was known as the Rubies of Rohan.
"The Rubies of Rohan," she had breathed.
The near-sighted librarian had then looked at her sharply. "You're not from around here, are you? The Rubies are famous throughout all the land!"
She'd quickly made excuses for her ignorance, then left the library before the librarian grew more suspicious. Yet ever since then, Madiya had become obsessed with the necklace she had seen in the ancient portrait. She researched, studied, came up with a strategy, planned a route, and eventually made the journey west from populated Gondor to the plains of Rohan.
She would not rest until the Rubies were hers.
Which was why Madiya bat-Laylah found herself standing out by this dismal crossroads in the middle of nowhere, in one of the best gowns she had ever owned, anxiously watching the approach of a patrol of the Riders of the Riddermark. It was true, she thought, watching the distant cloud of dust grow larger, that the unlikeliest places hid the most valuable treasures. Who in his right mind would dream that a backwards kingdom like this would conceal some of the most beautiful jewels ever known to mortal man? She continued to hold her ground, but her heart was beating fast, and her palms were sweaty. The Riders- the Rohirrim, as these Northern barbarians called themselves- had arrived right on time, as regular as clockwork, or the hot desert winds that ravaged her old home of Bozisha-Dar.
She had been told several times, back in Minas Tirith, that these people of Rohan had grown suspicious of late, due to the constant state of warfare on their borders. Something to do with politics, wizards and whatnot; Madiya found it tedious to remember such things. But- although it was half- hidden under her dress- she nervously fingered the old bronze hamsa amulet that her mother had given her long ago, right before she had died.
Her mother had loved that amulet. It was shaped like the hand of the Goddess, and was supposed to protect one from the evil eye. Some people might say that was a foolish superstition, but she didn't care. She was not a warrior- she was a mere city rat, armed only with a dagger. Not to mention, she thought apprehensively, she was clearly a Southerner, of the Haradrim; and these bloodless Northern folk were suspicious of anyone who didn't look like them.
She calmed herself, and thought of what would probably happen. The warriors in the patrol might scout around, to see if she was tricking them into an ambush; but once they saw that she was not, they would probably take her back to the palace of their king, in their capital city of Edoras. Perhaps they would mumble about her being a spy, but she had talked her way out of such situations before, and she was sure she could do so again. In any case, the horsemen were galloping up to her, the hooves of their mounts trampling the earth, and the pennants and horsehair plumes of their helmets flying in the wind. The metal of their armor glittered even under the dismal overcast skies; and to quell her sudden doubts about this venture, Madiya hurriedly assured herself that they were no doubt chivalrous and steadfast examples of manhood, always ready to help a damsel in distress.
She knew her cue. Without missing a beat, Madiya staggered, kicked aside her soot-streaked sack of clothing, and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. "Oh, alack!" she cried. "Ah, me! Lords, I crave your help- for I am, indeed, in sore need of your succor!"
The captain of the horsemen wheeled his horse towards her. At least, she thought he was the captain. Unlike the other men, who wore scale or chainmail, he wore a fancy leather-and-metal breastplate of an intricate design; his helmet was engraved and chased with gold; and at his side was slung a magnificent sword, the hilt entwined with golden serpents. Madiya thought of how much she could get for that sword at the bazaar back home, and she practically salivated at the thought of all that lovely, lovely money. This tall young man had to be a nobleman; perhaps even a prince, she thought with some pleasure. Atop his white charger, he was fierce and ruddy and hale, with expressive eyes and long hair the color of dirty straw.
"Lady!" he demanded, in the harsh accents of these parts. "What are you doing here? Where is your escort?"
Tears began to course down Madiya's dirt-streaked face. "My escort, Lord, is dead," she sobbed, "slaughtered by the orcs! We were heading along the Great West Road, to Minas Tirith, when we were ambushed by the foul beasts. I was knocked unconscious during the fray- they thought I was dead. Yonder rises the plume of smoke from the wreckage!"
And she pointed further west to the very real remains of an unfortunate caravan that had been ambushed by some of the orcish brigands that had been recently plundering these lands. Even though the men at the village tavern had been completely drunk, they had not steered her wrong when they told her how travelers were attacked near Hangman's Crossroads all the time, and that the Riders were always patrolling this area to lend them arms and protection. Very effective protection, thought Madiya cynically. She imagined the caravan would not mind being claimed by her; as they were all dead to a man, what difference would it make?
"Saruman's doing," the captain said with loathing, glaring at the smoke.
"Those orcs," muttered a heavily bearded companion, "have been growing ever more bold."
The captain turned back to her. "Lady," he said gravely, "I grieve for your loss. I am afraid to say that this tragedy is not without precedent- especially in this country, as of late. But if you will pardon me, I would ask why one of Haradan blood is sojourning across Rohan."
"A fair question, Lord," said Madiya. She straightened her back proudly, as if she really were a high-born maiden, born and raised in silken luxury, and not the mere daughter of a swarthy Southron tavern dancer. "I am indeed of Far Harad, from the city Bozisha-Dar, that is called Harshport in the Westron tongue; my father was of that city, but my mother was of Gondorian blood, and she was born in Minas Tirith." Only a small lie; for it was actually her long-vanished father who was from Gondor, and not her mother. But who was to know, or care? "Due to various changes in fortune, I have come to live with my mother's family; and- whilst I and my cousins were returning from a long visit in Eriador- these monsters attacked us!"
"Where in Eriador?" the captain's bearded companion snapped.
"Tharbad, sir."
"Tharbad, eh? I'm surprised there are still people living in that ruined place! What were you doing in Tharbad?"
"We had gone to a wedding. We have relatives there."
"You seem to have relatives in a great many places, my Lady," the companion said suspiciously.
Madiya's back stiffened. "My mother's father was a merchant, sir. His trade took him to many far-flung lands! And- though I see now that it was wildly foolish to take such a risk traveling- we had thought if we had enough armed men among us-" She sagged, and covered her face with her hands, as if in abject despair.
"Well, that may be so. I know little of the ways of merchants," the bearded soldier growled.
"Enough," the captain barked. "Aldor, the lady has survived a devastating loss; it is not meet to interrogate her in such a fashion!"
At such a reprimand, the soldier bowed his head. "Yes, your Highness," he muttered. "Milady, I crave your pardon. But in such strange times, where the unthinkable often occurs, one must be careful of who one trusts." And he gave the captain a significant look.
"Aldor, it is not necessary to remind me of Wormtongue's cautionings again," the captain replied coldly.
Madiya felt a twinge of alarm at this; but instead, she merely clasped her fingers over her mouth and made her eyes extra wide. "Your Highness?" she gasped.
"Yes," said the blond captain, as regally as one could wish. "I am Éomer Éadig, son of Éomund of Eastfold, Prince of Rohan and Third Marshal of the Riddermark."
So her captain was actually far more than a captain! Madiya was glad she recognized his name; it at least proved that she had done her research. This young man, Éomer, was the younger of the princes of Rohan; the elder was his cousin, the crown prince Théodred, the son of the king himself. She curtseyed deeply. "My Prince. I am Lady Madiya bat-Ahmaadi ibn- al'Azishan- lately of Bozisha-Dar." With meticulous dignity, she wiped the tears from her eyes. "I wish I could say that I was delighted to make your acquaintance, but I am afraid that I wish to the depths of my soul that we could have met under different circumstances."
"I reciprocate your sentiment, my Lady." The prince placed a gauntleted hand over his breast, and bowed his head. "Allow us to take back you to Edoras; there you may rest before your journey back to Minas Tirith."
"Edoras," breathed Madiya. "Oh, thank you, your Majesty. Thank you so much for your great kindness. As the poets themselves say, 'More welcome than a draught of water to the panting gazelle, is a gentle word to the one so weary of life.'" Her voice throbbed with emotion as she pressed a fluttering hand to her throat. "As I am weary- after having witnessed such- such unspeakable horror..."
She then closed her eyes, as if in gratitude. But all she could think of, behind those closed lids, were the rubies that awaited her, the rubies she had dreamed of, for the past six months. The famed Rubies of Rohan; that ancient necklace of blood-red jewels that would soon be hers... All hers.
***Author's Note: Next stop, Edoras!