Knights and Knaves
Gilwen picked up the miniature marble horse and set it down four squares away.
"Checkmate."
From the other side of the chessboard, Idril furrowed her brows and scanned each of the few pieces still standing. Then she sighed.
"Indeed! You have bested me, Gilwen of Nan Elmoth."
Gilwen began to return the pieces to their original configuration.
"You should have won that round. You could have sacrificed your knight for my queen."
"Ah! I could never do such a thing to my poor knight. I hate to sacrifice the little pieces, Gilwen. What good is a king without his subjects?"
"And that is why you shall never master chess. Your heart is too good for it."
Idril only smiled and helped Gilwen reset the board. Each piece made a clinking noise as it took its rightful place among its fellows.
There was a knock on the door of Idril's bedroom. Idril sprung to her feet and pulled it wide open. Behind the door stood redhaired Narfin, accompanied by a second woman: their friend Kemelin, who up until now has escaped mention.
Kemelin's hair was the color of river silt, tinted gold and brown like the forest floor. There was a wonderful fullness to her lips, a warmth to the beige of her skin. Like Narfin, she numbered among Idril's many friends, and had been the blue gown in the circle of gowns that had surrounded Idril during the Nost-na-Lothion ball when Tuor had held his hand out to her. Idril prized in her friends kindness, honesty, and slowness to anger over petty things- qualities Kemelin lacked none of.
Kemelin and Narfin had just come in from the cold, still wearing their long woolen coats. Their cheeks were flushed red.
"Narfin, Kemelin!" said Idril happily, "Well met! Join us, please, before Gilwen can demolish me at chess once again."
The two newcomers walked in, shed their coats, and sat upon satin cushions on the ground. It was almost five o'clock.
"What news?" said Gilwen. She poured them each a cup of mulled wine.
"Freezing outside," said Kemelin, "Is it Spring now, or not?"
She gratefully accepted the cup Gilwen held out and wrapped her hands around, warming them.
"The community council went well, though," said Narfin, "We shall convert three of the Nirnaeth orphanages into schools, and one into a medical clinic."
"Excellent!" cried Gilwen.
The Nirnaeth orphans had grown up, and emptied the orphanage buildings as they did. She herself had pushed for a community infirmary for those living in the Northwest quarter of Gondolin.
"I knew you would be pleased, Gilwen."
"Tiromer and I shall make arrangements to staff it as soon as it is ready."
"Lovely," said Kemelin, "Narfin and I will procure the necessary furnishings. A woman's work is never done. But enough talk of business- shall we play Knights and Knaves?"
There were enthusiastic murmurs from all around and Idril rummaged around for a deck of cards.
"I don't know the rules to-" began Gilwen, but Idril interrupted.
"We'll teach you!" she said at once, "It is an easy enough game to learn. You see, two of us shall be 'knaves' and two shall be 'knights'. But none shall know the role of any of the others. The objective of each player is to deduce who is an enemy, and who is an ally. It requires the sharpest of logic, but is impossible to win without charisma and a keen judgement of character. Let us begin."
She dealt the cards, four each, and they began to go around.
Idril let Gilwen and Kemelin win the first round, but thereafter, she trounced them all, over and over again. Gilwen was astonished at Idril's utter mercilessness, her suddenly unveiled knack for subtle deception. During the fifth round, she executed a spectacular, devastating betrayal of Narfin which left the latter sobbing into Gilwen's shoulder. She was horrified with remorse.
"Oh Narfin, I did not mean it, Narfin, I am sorry. I was absorbed in the game. Please stop crying- perhaps we should stop playing."
"It's all right," sniffed Narfin, "All is fair in Knights and Knaves. I'm just being a baby."
She wiped her eyes resolutely and dealt the cards for another round.
Halfway through the game, Gilwen noticed Kemelin smirking behind her fanned cards.
"What are you grinning about?" asked Gilwen. Kemelin's smirk only broadened.
"Oh, nothing at all," said she, "I was just recalling how prettily our little Narfin danced with Lord Ecthelion the night of the Nost-na-Lothion ball."
Narfin blushed until her face was the same color as her hair.
"Hold your tongue, Kemelin," she mumbled.
The other three exchanged delighted looks. They set the cards on the table, Knights and Knaves forgotten.
Idril put her hands to her mouth and giggled like a young girl.
"It is a smart match," she said, "He is quite handsome."
"The two of you, you left together!" said Gilwen with glee, "I remember looking for you and noticing the both of you gone."
Kemelin squealed as Narfin buried her face in her arms.
"Did the two of you-"
"No! No, of course not, I- well, he-"
They stared her down like hawks. Narfin sighed.
"He- Lord Ecthelion had offered to escort me home. He walked with me into the courtyard, and saw I was shivering. He lent me his cloak. And we stopped by the fountain. He- he played his lute for me."
Gilwen's eyes widened.
"He played his lute?"
"Yes, he took his lute from beneath his cloak and-
Narfin flushed scarlet once again as she realized Gilwen's meaning.
"Oh, you scoundrel!"
She flung a cushion at Gilwen's head, which she barely ducked, as Idril and Kemelin collapsed in laughter.
"Tell us, what song did he play for you, fair Narfin?"
Narfin's blush had receded down to a rosy glow, and in spite of herself she smiled as she remembered that night.
"A melody of his own creation. It was 'Song with No Name', he told me when I asked, for he had not yet thought of a name. A most beautiful tune. I replied that it suited the night, that it was an honor to hear a 'Song with No Name,' and I would cherish it forever. Then he gave me the most curious look. He said perhaps, then, it was time to name the song after all: 'With Narfin on the First of Spring.'"
Her eyes misted over as she leaned back into the memory. Idril, Gilwen and Kemelin looked around at one another, sharing in their bewilderment at the change in their friend.
"Poor dear Narfin, you've fallen in love."
"All right, and perhaps I have. But enough of this-"
And here she seemed to drop her reverie, staring pointedly at Idril.
"You are a hypocrite!"
"What? I?" said Idril.
"Yourself and Tuor! Why, we all saw you that night, making him the envy of every man in Gondolin."
It was Idril's turn to blush as her friends turned on her.
"A mortal man, Idril!"
"The son of Huor!"
"What does your father think?"
"What did he say to you that night as you were dancing?"
"Has he sent you word?"
At this last question, a shy, happy smile crept onto Idril's beautiful face.
"He has! A short letter, thanking me for the dance, and a white rose, by way of his hunting-falcon. I shall see him soon. What of it? Tomorrow evening."
Kemelin mocked swooning into Gilwen's arms, and it was Narfin's turn to burst out laughing.
"Idril Celebrindal, the diamond of Gondolin, the High Princess of the Noldor, in the arms of an Atani vagabond."
"All of you are terrible. Terrible. I will say nothing more of it!"
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Later that night, after Kemelin and Narfin had retired home, Idril and Gilwen donned gray cloaks. They slipped out of the palace through the side door into the gathering dark. The stars hung upon the vast dome of sky over the rooftops. Idril's silver hair glowed, seemingly with a light of its own. She held out her arm.
Together, the two women walked across the palace courtyard.
"Is all well, Idril?" asked Gilwen.
Idril exhaled. A small trail of vapor left her lips.
"I am well," she replied, "But my spirit is restless. Something stirs in the heart of Gondolin. I can feel it."
"What can it be?"
"I know not. Tuor claims to bring a prophecy from Ulmo. From the rumors, it is not a happy one."
Gilwen raised her eyebrows.
"A prophecy? Has such a thing ever happened? Do you trust this mortal, Idril?"
"I trust him completely, Gilwen. Ecthelion says he spoke in the tongue of the Ainur at the Seven Gates. And I spoke with him for a long while, as you know. His heart is as true as any I have seen."
Gilwen fell silent, pondering. Was terrible harm to befall Gondolin? She could not imagine so, not after so many years of inviolate security. But kingdoms fell in time, she knew, and calamity befell those who least expected it. It would be folly to ignore such a warning.
"What is to be done?"
"I know not," said Idril again, "In a fortnight, Papa will hold a Council, with the heads of the Twelve Houses, Tuor and myself. We shall discuss what must be done now, and in the future."
"And what do you think, Idril?"
Idril did not look at Gilwen although she knew she had heard. She appeared to be arranging her thoughts carefully. Their soft footfalls echoed on the paving stones.
"We cannot win against the forces of Morgoth," said Idril, "Ever since the Siege of Angband broke, his power has been insurmountable. If we are to save our kind, our best hope shall be to flee the city."
"Leave Gondolin!"
"Indeed. The thought of leaving my home pains me as well. Yet we have seen the combined might of elves and men crumple at his feet. You should know better than I that this is chess, Gilwen. It would be folly to stand complacent as Morgoth discovers our weaknesses, our secrets, all in a matter of time. Above all, we must survive."
Gilwen nodded grimly. It was chess, after all. If the castle must fall to save the king, then fall it would.
Idril went on, "But what ultimately we shall do, my father, and the lords of Gondolin, must decide."
Gilwen folded her arms and sent Idril an incredulous stare.
"The lords!" she snorted, "Are you not the King's daughter? You must make your position known, and defend it if you believe it to be true!"
"Peace, Gilwen," said Idril, with a shake of her silver head, "A woman's power is bounded by what men will permit her to do. Such has it ever been."
"This is true," replied Gilwen, "But should not be. Ilúvatar put us in the world as their equals, and not their servants."
But Idril only smiled, and turned her face skyward.
"What would you have me do? I cannot change the world, Gilwen. Perhaps a day will come when all of us walk side by side in Arda, and the word of a woman is heeded even if it be against a man's. But we do what we must, what we can, for the time being."
"If anyone can change the world, Idril," said Gilwen softly, "It is you."
They walked on, all the way to the far end of the courtyard, where the gurgling of the fountains played harmony to the crickets. From far away, a nightingale crooned.
"Gilwen," said Idril, "I heard the most curious story the other day."
"What story was this?"
"In fact, a story about you. Of your heroics with Oromen's young son. Is it true?"
"Ah! I know of what you speak. Yes, it was very lucky."
"So it is true!" exclaimed Idril, "They say the child was near death: found weak and raving in a garden. That he would have perished, despite the efforts of every healer in the palace, including Khildur, and Tiromer, and Oromen, the boy's own father. And they say you appeared out of nowhere, tipped a vial into his mouth, and he opened his eyes, completely cured. A miracle!"
"It was no miracle," said Gilwen, "The child's pupils were the size of marbles, and he was vomiting. I saw in an instant he had eaten yellow oleander from the garden, whose flower we call foxglove. So I ran to gather nightshade, and gave him just the right amount to reverse the effects of the oleander."
"Nightshade!" said Idril, "Deadly nightshade, a poison!"
"A poison," agreed Gilwen, "But an antidote for oleander. Such is the way of poisons. I gave this to him, and a little sugared water. He awoke, and opened his fist, and sure enough, there lay the offending flower in his palm."
"Incredible," said Idril, "How on earth could you have known?"
Gilwen hesitated. She had been afraid of this very question.
"An old tome I read," she lied. But Idril knew her too well. As though it were another game of Knights and Knaves, she sniffed out Gilwen's falsehood.
"Tell me the truth, Gilwen!"
Gilwen looked away.
"Some years ago," said Gilwen, "Maeglin brought me a wounded mole. He had found it in the mountains, ravaged by an eagle. He wrapped up the animal and took it into the city, and laid it on my study table. A pregnant female, very near death. Her babies were almost full grown."
"I told him I could not save it, and so he left. Sure enough, the animal died. Carefully, I slit open belly and womb, and freed the little moles from the amnions. In secret, I raised them on goat's milk and honey."
"It was then I became engaged in a conversation with Khildur, Oromen and Tiromer, the healers. They said if only they had subjects, they could deduce the nature of all the poisons and antidotes in all of Arda, and no elf should ever die as Lady Aredhel did, of some unknown substance on the tip of a blade."
"The subjects need not be human, I realized. In the next few months, I crossed the grown moles with each other, brother with sister, father with daughter, until I had dozens of them in my study to work with. I fed them plants until they sickened, and when they did, I noted whether they seized, or frothed at the mouth, or if their pupils bloomed. If they died, then I burned them and noted this too. If two poisons were opposites, then I tried one as the antidote for the other."
"It was thus I discovered the relationship between yellow oleander and nightshade. And several more, and herbs for healing wounds, and curing other ailments as well. Just last week, it saved the life of Oromen's son."
She spoke more and more slowly as she finished these last sentences, noticing uncomfortably the growing horror on Idril's face. Gilwen felt like she was justifying herself, defending her case. She swallowed and braced herself for Idril's wrath.
She was not disappointed. Idril stood still on the path, her mouth quivering.
"That is detestable, Gilwen. How could you do such a thing?!"
Gilwen shrank back like a beaten dog. She felt exactly as she did that day years ago in the tearoom, an insignificant handmaiden preparing for punishment.
"There are so many I can save, Idril," she pleaded, "So many I could free from death with the knowledge I have found."
"At what cost, Gilwen?" shouted Idril, "Not all can be saved!"
"But I can try!" Gilwen cried, just as emphatically.
The two stood face to face, glaring at one another.
"It's monstrous, this thing," spat Idril, "No better than what Morgoth does in Angband."
"You're spoiled!" snapped Gilwen, "You think you can stand over people with a crown and scepter, and judge all things as good or evil? You think there are villains and heroes in our world like there are in one of your children's tales? You've lived in a damned palace your entire life, you've never wanted for anything. You didn't see them die after the Nirnaeth. You didn't see them festering with their infections, bleeding to death, crying out in pain. There is nothing I would not have done to save them. Nothing!"
"You seek to play the role of the Valar," said Idril, "We elves must never seek to do so. Remember the Lord Fëanor and his ruin: the terrible oath he swore with his sons, the cause of all the strife in our age."
"And why should we not play Valar?" asked Gilwen, "They have left us with suffering and death, for they blundered in the making of the world. Why should we not play the Valar, if there are lives to be saved?"
"You will stop these experiments," hissed Idril. The frigid power in her voice could have rivalled Turgon's.
"You will free the poor creatures in your study. And you will never repeat them again. This I order on your life."
Gilwen felt vile. Idril's words had made her insides feel suddenly filthy, deplorable. How very different she and Idril were. How many times had she wished to live her friend's life? To be a thing of beauty, a beacon of goodness, beloved far and wide by the Noldor?
But she was only Gilwen of Nan Elmoth. Idril had her loveliness, her charisma, her inexorable greatness. And what did she, Gilwen, have? The most precious thing she owned was her cleverness, her hard-won knowledge. For some reason, Aredhel's words from long ago came to her now: Alas, we do not truly own a thing unless it cannot be taken away.
Despite her fine clothes and company, she was nothing more than a handmaiden who had overstepped her station. A wretched knave who would be nothing without Idril.
Yet she loved Idril as a sister, felt no greater honor than to be her confidante and her friend. And now, this very friend's words knifed into her chest.
What good was her precious wit if Idril detested her? What was she if Idril did not believe in her? She could feel hot tears welling up in her eyes.
"Forgive me," she said, "I never meant to hurt you, never wanted to do anything you found detestable. I only ever wanted to cure disease, to end suffering."
"Gilwen, you fed your own pride, your own lust for knowledge, with the blood of defenseless animals."
"Never again will I harm a living being for the sake of knowledge, Lady. I swear it by Ilúvatar."
Idril turned her back on Gilwen.
"I told you long ago to call me by my name and not by titles. I speak now as your friend, Gilwen, not your master. I forgive you, but it is too high a cost. No innocent being should suffer for the sake of the greater good."
They had arrived at the steps of the library. Idril tarried, and turned to Gilwen once more as she pushed the door open. Night had fallen completely now.
"I've just been thinking," she said, "In a way you're right, I suppose. I believe in good, and I believe in wickedness. And a person must either be good, or wicked. Ilúvatar is good, and Morgoth wicked. Aredhel was good, and Eöl wicked. Though all of us are flawed, it is our decisions that decide which we are. Do not cry any more. Your intentions were good, but your means were wicked. And that is no better than having wicked intentions. But you see the error in your ways now, and you will amend them."
"If it is your wish, Idril, then I shall follow it for ever."
"Then you are good in my eyes, my friend."
She held out her arms. Gilwen leaned into them, laid her head against Idril's chest. Her straight black hair disappeared into the dark fabric of her companion's cloak. Through it she felt the rise and fall of breath, heard the steady beating of Idril's heart.
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They read their books together, in the library lit softly by eggshell lamps. Idril put her beautiful head on Gilwen's shoulder, her legs curled up beneath her.
"Gilwen," said Idril, "I meant to ask you: what do you think of Tuor?"
Gilwen looked up.
"He is a mortal man-"
Idril closed her book and gently slapped Gilwen on the thigh with it.
"Out of everyone in Gondolin, you should be the last to chide me for breaking tradition-"
"Let me finish. I would have said, he is a mortal man, but a good one. A man who has seen all the world. If you believe him to be noble of character, then so he must be, for there is no greater auger of goodness than you, Celebrindal. Trust what your heart tells you, for I always will."
Author's note: Please, please don't actually try nightshade as an antidote for foxglove at home.
Next chapter: The Council of Turgon