A Matter of Trust
Kaleidopy
Chapter Two
Minas Tirith
Darkness of night covered the land. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, used the late hour to conceal his destination. His guards, posted outside his private chambers, believed him asleep and would not disturb him until morning. He grabbed a torch from the closest holder, manipulated the catches to a hidden door, and pushed it opened. Carefully closing the door behind him, he started the long climb up the Tower of Ecthelion.
Messages had arrived, confirming each province lord would attend or be represented for the scheduled council meeting midday tomorrow. Several of the lords had arrived a day early, making deals amongst themselves while Denethor concentrated on a more urgent matter—the Plantar. Though politics, taxes, strained province budgets and the constant threat of Mordor kept him occupied, something else concerned him more. Mithrandir.
The Istari had arrived, unexpectedly, requesting permission to access the archives. Though Denethor never pressed Mithrandir for an explanation, he knew the Istari wanted to dethrone him as head of Gondor's sitting power. Apparently, Mithrandir believed something existed in the archives that would gain him evidence to attempt such a feat.
Denethor laughed to himself. He had played ignorant to Mithrandir's schemes, granting the old fool access to the ancient achieves whenever he visited Minas Tirith. The act pacified the Istari and silenced those who believed him jealous of Mithrandir.
Jealous? No. The only thing he felt towards the pessimist was antipathy. Since the Istari first crossed his path, Mithrandir had done nothing but meddle in his affairs. He had thought the Istari's endless pursuits to supplant him had been the worst of Mithrandir's deceit, but that belief had been foolishly flawed. No, Mithrandir's treachery ran deeper, and struck closer to Denethor's heart. The Istari's true quest was to steal his youngest son's loyalty.
Though it had been six years past, Denethor recalled the incident as if it had happened this dawn.
That morning, he entered the library, expecting to find Mithrandir in the lower levels sitting behind a large table reading the ancient scrolls. The fresh scent of pipe-weed in the air confirmed his belief. He started down the stairs leading to the lower levels to speak with the Istari, stopping when he heard voice. It seemed that Mithrandir had requested a scribe to assist him in gathering Gondor's historical information. The proud Steward of Gondor decided to have the conversation later in a more private setting.
He never intended to eavesdrop until he heard Faramir's voice. Curious, Denethor listened as his youngest son's eager voice explained the Battle of Dagorlad to a very appreciative audience. What the boy revealed did not risk Gondor's security and if it kept Mithrandir entertained, Denethor was that much happier. Satisfied, he started back up the stairs, planning to return to his study. When Faramir mentioned Rivendell, Denethor's head shot up, and a cold shiver swept through his body. Finally, he realized the Istari's true plan.
Mithrandir had carefully sought out the one person who would provide him with the information he required in exchange for tales of elves, creatures and lands of Middle Earth. Denethor didn't know which of the two upset him the most. Mithrandir for using his son for political gain, or Faramir, for being too naïve to realize he was being exploited.
He had thought long and hard how to handle the situation. Banning his son from Mithrandir's company would have been counterproductive. As much as he hated the association between his son and the Istari, Denethor permitted it, if only to monitor the Istari's activities in Minas Tirith.
He stared up the winding staircase as his thoughts returned to the present. The stairway never seemed as long and dark as it did this night, or perhaps his thoughts of Mithrandir made it appear as such. He waited a moment, giving himself a chance to catch his breath before continuing his climb. Moments later, he reached his destination, and closed the door behind him, guaranteeing the room remained his greatest secret.
He moved to a far corner, using the torch to guide his path. He found an empty bracket, stuffed the torch inside, and then moved to the center of the room. The torch illuminated the small room, giving Denethor the freedom he needed to use both hands for the task ahead.
The steward squeezed his hands into fists, closed his eyes and prepared himself. His mind clear, and his thoughts focused on the object in front of him, Denethor removed the soft textured, dark blue material covering the Palantir.
He picked up the dark ball, feeling the familiar tingling enter his body. The sensation lasted briefly and Denethor felt a renewed power surge through his hands. Whispered words spoken long ago touched the edge of his consciousness. Mithrandir would never overshadow him as long as he commanded the Palantír.
As if reading his thoughts, the Palantir showed him an isolated table deep inside the bowels of the library. Behind it, Mithrandir was seated, studying an old parchment, and frowning at what he was reading. Several scrolls and opened books were tossed in disarray about the table. Obviously, the Istari wasn't having any success in his research. "Foolish doomsayer," Denethor laughed, "You believe yourself wise, and yet your plots against me, flourish not."
With Mithrandir occupied inside the archives, Denethor turned his thoughts to others he had monitored over the years. Several of the fiefdom lords and nobles appeared within the Palantir. Lords Angbor and Golasgil laughed heartily, each holding a mug of ale inside one of the taverns. Their reputation of drinking anyone under the table remained unbroken.
The Palantir showed a married noble visiting a brothel on the fourth level, and Denethor quickly filed that information away for future reference. When dealing with politicians, one used any means possible to gain an upper hand.
Over the years, the Palantir had provided him with candid information that not only captivated, but kept the staff council, nobles, and anyone else under his control. None openly questioned his abilities, believing he possessed the gift of reading minds. Denethor never encouraged such rumors, but he never denied them either, which only added to his fame.
As the Palantir's focus returned to the library, he laughed, watching as an agitated Mithrandir slammed a dusty book down on the table. The humor vanished when he heard his adversary's words. "When is Lord Faramir expected in the city?" the Istari asked no one in particular. "I could use his help."
"No! You will not use my son against me," Denethor gasped, icy fingers clinched at his heart and squeezed his greatest fear from his soul. As if prompted, the Palantir revealed an island, he easily recognized as Cair Andros. Two rangers emerged, leading their horses from the woods.
"We are at an disadvantage without daylight to guide our path," Mablung said, shifting his bulk to steady himself on the animal. Never comfortable riding a horse, especially at night, he made his feelings known. "Osgiliath is thirty miles south, and we have yet to…."
"Fear not, we will reach the white city before dawn," Faramir stated, reaching inside his tunic to retrieve two small apples. His horse whinnied, excited to have the delicious treat. The captain obliged, giving an apple to each horse. "We have a long journey, my friends," he said, softly speaking to the horses as they ate. "Minas Tirith awaits us. Can we arrive in six hours?"
Mablung smiled, watching the horses nod at the captain's question. Long ago, he had given up being amazed by Faramir's ability to communicate with animals. Of course, he had a few surprises of his own. He turned his head, whistled, and several men on horseback rode out of the woods.
Confused at the new arrivals, Faramir glanced at his lieutenant. "I gave no order for additional riders. Madril will…."
"With all due respect, Captain, Madril suggested the extra men." Mablung hid the humor in his voice when Faramir's mouth dropped open. At Henneth Annûn, Faramir and Madril had briefly disagreed over an appropriate number to escort the captain to Minas Tirith. "Believe this not to be a betrayal, Captain," he said, explaining Madril's reasoning behind challenging Faramir's order. "With the recent killings, orc sightings, and our numbers dwindling, he felt your journey to Minas Tirith was too dangerous to risk without proper escort."
"Mablung, I refuse to be given special treatment because…."
"Hear my words, Faramir," Mablung said, addressing the younger man by his name instead of his military title. "Madril's decision was not his alone." He placed his hand on the captain's shoulder. "Everyone agreed with him. Accept this for the meaning it carries; we protect our own."
Faramir's eyes misted, and he turned his head to conceal his emotions. "We ride to Osgiliath," he shouted, regaining his composure to lead the men across the island.
Denethor ran his hand over his mouth, amazed at the loyalty the rangers had for his son. As he watched the riders leave Cair Andros, a deep menacing thought crept into the back of his mind. Such loyalty could be used to overthrow… No, he quickly dismissed the thought. Faramir was loyal to him, completely loyal. His son obeying the harsh and undignified summons only proved that fact. He knew the summons had disrupted his son's strategic planning for the Ithilien Rangers, but if it kept Faramir from Mithrandir's clutches, then Denethor was satisfied. Inconvenience never hurt anyone.
When he looked into the Palantir again, the Istari was walking across the courtyard towards the citadel gate, Denethor couldn't contain his happiness. The Istari was leaving the city without the information he desired or his usual ally to assist him. A crooked smile formed across his lips, thrilled his plan had worked so well.
Confident that things had been righted, he replaced the Palantir on the pedestal and walked to the western window. The thick burlap material covering the window prevented anyone from noticing the room whenever he used the stone. He checked the torch's intensity; satisfied it had diminished to a safe level where its light would not detected if he opened the window.
He removed the bulky material, nonchalantly dropped it by his feet and looked out. A gentle breeze caressed his face, circulating the room with fragrances from the herbs and flowers sold in the market on the second level of the city.
Small campfires, too many to count, flickered with glowing reassurance in Osgiliath. The mighty stone bridge, rebuilt, and spanning across the river, buzzed with activity, and sentries stationed inside the towers, provided the necessary advantage to alert the eastern garrison of an enemies' approach. Osgiliath, fortified, and maintained, gave a sense of security for Minas Tirith's population.
Denethor glanced further into the distance, trying to distinguish the Ithilien forest in the darkness. It had been a few weeks since the last killings had been reported, but that did nothing to ease his mind. Somewhere in Ithilien, lurked a being that gratified in the brutal murders of his victims, and never had he felt more powerless than he did now. Perhaps he should seek answers elsewhere, but not tonight.
He returned to the black seeing stone, ready to leave the room and return to his private chambers to get a few hours sleep before his son's arrival. He grabbed the blue brocade fabric intending to cover the Palantir, however, the River Anduin flowed within the globe, and Denethor found himself drawn, yet again to the glass.
For several long seconds, Denethor watched the River Anduin run tranquilly, undisturbed with no indication of danger. Never had the sphere misled or tricked him with its power. His curiosity peaked, speculating what was amiss when two small poorly constructed rafts floated into view.
Both rafts, heavily crowded were in jeopardy of sinking. Its passengers, using whatever items they could gather, made a desperate attempt to keep it afloat while steering it eastward towards Ithilien.
Ithilien? What insanity was this? Why would people risk their lives to enter the dangerous woods of Ithilien? Concerned, he stared deeper into the Palantir, searching for answers to his people's discontent.
Another image formed, angry people chanting his name vilely, shook their fists in the air. The crowd turned into a mob, rebelling in a small village he could not identify. They chanted his name in antipathy, while burning and destroying anything that resembled Gondorian authority.
Images flashed, taunting him with faces of nobles, lords, and family members. Was this the future? Did those closest to him intend to rebel against his reign? No, it was not possible. The Palantir did not have the capability to predict the future, or did it? Unable to withstand the truth, Denethor covered the stone and stepped back, surprised how drained and tired he had suddenly become.
"Gondor is mine," he shouted at the Palantir. "I alone keep Mordor at bay. I am the one who protects Middle Earth from Sauron." He stumbled a step backwards, and regained his balance before he turned to leave the room. "No Istari, pretend king, or rebel will take what is rightfully mine."