To those who knew Osgiliath, or Minas Tirith, and to people who saw what little remaining splendor the conquered Umbar had to offer, the Palace of Cameth Brin must have seemed a primitive place indeed. But to rustic Rhudaurians, it appeared splendid beyond imagination. The Palace was built only twenty-three years previously, by Gimilbeth's orders, when she came to settle in Cameth Brin. Tarnendur himself, and later his Queen, thought that the old Tower, which harbored the Royal family for centuries, was good enough, but Gimilbeth proved adamant: she lacked the commodities she was used to from early childhood, so the Palace was built.
Now, Gimilbeth occupied the most sheltered and sunny part of it, her windows looking south. She also had a private garden with exotic flowers and plants brought all the way from Gondor, regardless of the exorbitant expenses this arrangement entailed. Three gardeners were assigned to her garden: she was never one to look after the plants herself.
Passing through the Main Hall, Tarnendur turned left to the doors to Gimilbeth's rooms. He was ushered in by Gimilbeth's two pages, who were handsome young men, taken from the best families Rhudaur had to offer. The boys were dressed in bright silks and velvets, their hair combed and perfumed, and their manners fit for the lofty Gondor court. They took the King to a richly decorated sitting room and went to fetch the Lady.
Tarnendur looked around the room: he could have believed himself in Osgiliath again. Dried petals of exotic flowers, contained in exquisite porcelain vases, filled the air with fragrance. The rays of the sun, passing through the diamond-shaped window panes, played on the brightly colored Khandian carpet on the floor.
The King sighed - he himself missed the Southern capital. Youngest son of Tarenion, Heir of Rhudaur, he had spent most of his life in Gondor, never hoping to become King. He served Minalcar, the regent of Gondor, and fought against the Northmen and Easterlings in the Rhovanion army of Gondor. Those were good times - careless and happy, at least as long as Inzilbeth his first wife lived. But then, the news of the slaughter of his brother King Ermegil and his family reached him in 1306. He declared himself King of Rhudaur by right of succession, and came North, to gather forces to reclaim his Kingdom. With the help of Arthedain, Tarnendur finally regained the Kingdom of Rhudaur, but found little peace there. Trouble, always trouble...
Tarnendur sighed again, examining a tiny, almost transparent porcelain vase. Gimilbeth had managed to bring many of the treasures from the southern capital, but she imported the Southern customs as well, much to Tarnendur's chagrin. Many a young man spent sleepless nights beneath Gimilbeth's windows singing lays, accompanied by a harp, or a flute, as was the custom in the South. Many wore Gimilbeth's colors on their sleeves, during the tournaments held in the castle twice a year, proclaiming her openly the fairest lady in the land. There was often dancing and singing in Gimilbeth's rooms all through the night. The folk in the North looked askance at such practices, and called them "debauchery", but Gimilbeth cared little. Several generations of young men sought her attentions, but few got more than a smile and a nod, and nobody got more than a furtive kiss.
Tarnendur thought again of his previous plans to make Gimilbeth the first Ruling Queen of Rhudaur after his death. Gimilbeth would have made a great queen. Has she resigned, when he married, as she had claimed, or did she still feel slighted? With Gimilbeth it was hard to tell: nobody he knew could hide their feelings better.
Tarnendur sighed and shook his head. To be a ruler, one must have some backing, and what backing could Gimilbeth have had? The people disliked her and called her a foreigner and sometimes even a witch. The nobles looked askance at her southern customs. King Malvegil of Arthedain, once Tarnendur was dead with no male heirs, would have undoubtedly laid claim to Rhudaur, as he did to Cardolan, in the similar situation. So, Tarnendur made a right choice when he married Eilinel and started a new family. The only possible choice to make his kingdom last.
Yet, his marriage meant the loss of Arthedain's support, and that proved his undoing...
So was it the right choice?
A slight noise behind and the fragrance of peach in his nostrils, which always accompanied Gimilbeth, made Tarnendur turn, and he felt a lump in his throat, as always, when he looked at his eldest daughter. Gimilbeth, who just drifted into the room and curtsied, was a living image of her mother, his first beloved wife Inzilbeth, with the same dark silvery hair and deep blue eyes, perfect creamy skin, tiny waist and generous breasts and hips.
But Tarnendur knew that, unlike Inzilbeth, beneath this superficial gentleness and meekness Gimilbeth had a core of steel. In character, she resembled her grandmother, the dreaded lady Serinde, who was the public opinion of Umbar, and many a girl's reputation had been ruined at the slightest raising of the lady's delicate dark brows. Tarnendur remembered how Serinde used to look right through her clumsy Northern son-in-law, as if he wasn't there, never good enough for her notion. Feeling the same uncalled-for awkwardness, the King approached his daughter.
"Greetings, Gimilbeth, my darling," said the King, smiling lamely. "I have news for you. There was a Council this morning..."
"A Council?" Gimilbeth frowned slightly, she always kept frowns to a minimum, lest they cause permanent wrinkles on her flawless forehead. "Why was it held without me?"
Gimilbeth was the only lady on the King's private council, remaining there from the times when she was considered Heiress to the throne. All the council members had grown to fear her calm, sarcastic observations and the sharpness of her mind, in their opinion, quite unbecoming for a lady.
Tarnendur shuffled his feet uneasily and replied "There was an urgent matter to discuss. Messengers came with Broggha's demands. And you were away at Tanoth Brin, visiting Yozaneth, I heard. How is she?"
"She is dead," replied Gimilbeth flatly, and waved aside the sympathetic words that were at the King's lips. "Please, be seated, Father."
Moving gracefully, Gimilbeth poured some wine in two silver goblets and offered one to the King. Tarnendur reached absently to take some dried Gondorian dates from a platter with sweetmeats. Gimilbeth sat in a chair on the other side of a low table, sipping her wine slowly and watching him with dark piercing eyes.
"Now, my Lord, could you, please, tell me what the Council decided?"
Tarnendur downed his wine in one swallow and watched Gimilbeth pour him more. The conversation was every bit as difficult as he thought it would be. Finally he blurted out:
"Broggha is too strong for us, strong enough to attack this castle. We had to meet Broggha's demands to pacify him, so he got a castle in Pennmorva to rule and a place on my private Council."
Gimilbeth put the bottle back on the table, her hand shaking slightly. Even her composure slipped sometimes, Tarnendur noted. She didn't raise her voice, though.
"A barbarian on our private council? Broggha here, in Cameth Brin? You are afraid of him, so you open the Castle gates for him? Were you...?" Gimilbeth didn't utter "mad" but the King understood what she was about to say well enough.
"I may regret it, but I have given my word. It is too late, Gimilbeth. It was the only way," Tarnendur replied gravely.
"There must be other ways!" exclaimed Gimilbeth. She held her hands folded demurely in front of her, and appeared calm enough, only fire in her eyes bore witness to her feelings.
"Isn't it time to ask King Romendacil for help, Father? He was a good friend of yours."
Tarnendur shook his head. "No help will come from Gondor. The King has trouble enough with Valacar's stupid marriage to a barbarian princess. All the Southern provinces refuse to accept their son Eldacar as heir. Gondor is in for serious calamities, it is clear."
"What about Arthedain, my Lord?"
"King Malvegil seems much less willing to grant his aid, once he understood that our Kingdom was slipping out of his hands. He wanted to inherit the Crown after my death, but I have got sons now. If only..."
He stopped and sighed, noticing that Gimilbeth's lips were pressed together in a thin line.
Both remembered the attempt to marry Gimilbeth to the heir of Arthedain, Celebrindol, Malvegil's eldest son, back in 1307. Malvegil was enthusiastic at the match, which gave him a real opportunity to reunite Arnor. Gimilbeth was relishing the prospect to become queen of a vast prosperous kingdom. All seemed so well... but for one thing: Celebrindol himself suddenly declared he was in love with another lady. The fool adamantly refused to marry according to his father's wishes.
"Cardolan, then?"
"The old King Dirion had little support himself caring only for his own land and building fortifications along the Great Road and to the South, as far as Tharbad. Since he died, there is no King and likely the land will go to Malvegil."
Tarnendur made his way to the window and looked out onto the sunlit garden.
"Nobody will help us. I know how you hate Barbarians, but we have to deal with Broggha. It is the only way!" he repeated.
There was a long silence. Then Gimilbeth spoke, her voice low and emotionless.
"When a dog barks at you, will you reason with it? Will you try to bribe it with bones? Nay, you will appeal to its master to put his dog on a leash."
"What do you mean?" Tarnendur asked, turning sharply from the window to look suspiciously at his daughter.
But Gimilbeth would not be deterred. She added, her dark eyes glittering coldly.
"Broggha is nothing but a hound. His Master sits in Carn-Dum. The King of Angmar is the only one we should treat with - over Broggha's head."
At his daughter's words, an incredulous look crossed over Tarnendur's face and he coughed nervously. How brilliantly insightful his daughter had always been, perceiving quickly the nature of things. But this time she was wrong in her assumption! Though he had heard the same rumors about Broggha, he would not - he could not - accept them! Broggha was merely a powerful chieftain of the Hillmen and was certainly not in league with that person in Carn Dum!
Yes, it would be considered weakness on his part to name the chieftain to the council and further pacify him with the castle to rule at Pennmorva. The kingdom must be saved, and what other choice had there been? Gimilbeth could see through all of his explanations, though. He would try reasoning upon her.
"My dear daughter," he looked into those cold eyes of her and inwardly flinched, "I am amazed that you would say such words. For me to drum up the excuse to order Broggha's death would incite his people and bring open and bloody war across the whole land. If I would arrange his assassination, the outcome would be the same. His people would immediately know that I was the instigator. Broggha cannot be touched! He has pledged to me that all his people are appeased and satisfied that now one of their own has been suitably honored. Can you not understand, my daughter, that conciliation is the only road to peace?"
Her cold eyes tried him in the balances and found him lacking.
"Father, perhaps you do not understand. Broggha is nothing but a pawn of Angmar. Deal with the lord of that land directly and eliminate this barbarian."
"I understand all too well, daughter. What you are asking me to do is make Rhudaur a tributary fiefdom under this man about whom no one knows anything. Never will I do that! Never will I see Rhudaur fall into the hands of a foreigner!"
"And why, Father, might I ask, why you will not deal with him?"
"Besides the fact that no one even knows his name, I have been given other strange reports about this man."
"Probably nothing more than I have heard, Father," Gimilbeth said coolly. "Perhaps you would care to elaborate."
"He is said to be a sorcerer... and though I do not credit this, some say he is an instrument of the Enemy!" Tarnendur's voice shook at these words. He wondered why Gimilbeth did not seem inordinately distressed at that news.
Gimilbeth smiled, nonplused. "And I am said to be a witch, by our own people, Father. Haven't you heard that?"
Tarnendur lowered his eyes, embarrassed. "People regard you as a foreigner, Gimilbeth, and foreigners are not to be trusted. I told you many times to drop your southern ways and adopt the ways of your people."
"Let us not start this argument again, Father," Gimilbeth pleaded. "I am not complaining, I only wish to point out that it is fairly easy to gain a reputation of a witch. This King of Angmar might also be a foreigner in his land, and I think it is the simple truth, given the accounts I heard of him."
"What accounts?" the King asked suspiciously.
"Why, nothing untoward, really." Gimilbeth smiled. "All the accounts agree that he is surprisingly tall. Some say he has black hair. That makes him either a Numenorean, or a man of the Three Houses, but no Hillman, surely. By all accounts, he has ruled Angmar for about 70 years already, but I haven't heard about him growing old. Our spies reported rumors of numerous "Tarks" in his service. So he is either a Dunadan himself, or a Numenorean from the South."
"A BLACK Numenorean, you want to say!" Tarnendur hissed. "I must tell you, it is even worse than a renegade Dunadan, worse than a Hillman!"
Gimilbeth shrugged her shoulders. "They are Numenoreans still, cultured people, and could be reasoned with, no matter what god they worship."
"I won't have anything to do with the bloody Morgoth-worshippers!" Tarnendur yelled, smashing his goblet on the table. "You are crazy even to suggest that!"
Without another word, the King stormed out of the room. Gimilbeth bit her lip. She had lost again.