"Every inch a king."
– William Shakespeare, King Lear
Chapter 35: Come the Dawn
Aragorn dipped water from the steaming bath and poured it over his head, allowing it to run down his neck and shoulders. The muscles of his back pulled painfully as he raised his arms. He scraped the crusted dirt and blood from an abrasion on his shoulder, hissing under his breath at the sting.
Every square inch of his body ached. He had shouted himself hoarse, but Aelon had taken the guard position outside his door, and his arguments and pleas yielded no response. Evidently the Captain was taking no chances with his King's security. Aragorn thought ruefully that when this was over he would have to reward the man's steadfastness, provided that they survived.
A swift survey of his room told him that he would not be leaving it without help. The walls were solid cut stone and there were no windows, no balcony; not even a latrine hole to the outside. The chamber closet contained a single covered bucket that would presumably be disposed of by a servant in the morning.
With no other recourse left to him, Aragorn gave in to his overtaxed body's demands and availed himself of the hot bath and food provided. He needed to develop a new strategy, and in order to do that he needed nourishment and rest.
For too long he had been on the defensive: reacting to the enemy's attacks instead of anticipating them. In the aftermath of grief and anguish following Legolas' revelations he had acted blindly, with disastrous consequences. It had taken Hasufel's fall to pull him back to sanity, and even now he felt himself skating against the thin edge of panic.
He had never met this Dragaer, but he knew him better than any other. For more than a year he had lived under the man's shadow: feeling his suspicion, his malice, his cruelty and hate. If he could piece together his half-acknowledged suspicions then, his dark intentions, he could discern the Corsair's plan.
Aragorn rose from the bath and pulled on a short robe, wincing as he did so. Pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, he walked over to an armchair next to the fire. He poured himself a glass of watered wine and sat down, staring into the flames, trying to remember.
He had repressed for so long the knowledge of what he was doing, what he was thinking, what it meant for the people he loved, that to think about it now was akin to opening a door near bursting with strain. Images crowded close and thick: fragments of memory, shades of meaning glimpsed and then gone, swift and meaningless but for the feelings they evoked.
He had not thought in words then, or in the rationale of cause and effect. Everything was couched in emotion, and it was that which imprinted upon his memory.
Light flashing upon steel – hurt. What honor remains to the Queen of Gondor?
Soft flesh yielding beneath his hands – fear. Do you love me?
Leather crushed in his fists, muscle taut with strain – rage. You lie.
Silken hair between his fingers; hot, panicked breath – lust. On your knees . . .
It was too much. There was too much pain, too much guilt to be borne. He could not breathe. His muscles were rigid with tension, his chest constricted in agony. He was drowning in the flood of memory, suffocating – and he wished desperately for the clarity, the freedom from pain that came with using the palantír. In the still lassitude that followed his sessions with it thought came slow and gentle, and emotion was distant and unimportant. If he could only use it, for just a moment, he could gain control . . .
No! Aragorn shoved the longing away. It was folly, the peace it offered an illusion. He struggled to open himself to the torrent, though it robbed his breath and ran fire down his nerves. He accepted the shame, the guilt and the pain as his due, nothing more than he deserved. He accepted it, and slowly, ever so slowly, it lessened.
The constriction about his chest eased, and he could breathe again. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, and gradually the cramp left his hands and they relaxed upon the arms of his chair.
His first coherent thought, Arwen!, brought with it a wave of terror so overwhelming that he was nearly lost again. With all his strength he pushed the panic aside, forcing himself to breathe deeply, to ignore the rush of adrenalin that left his muscles trembling.
"One thing at a time," he muttered aloud, remembering the words that Halbarad had once said to him. As a boy learning to hunt with his brothers, and later scouting with Legolas, he had tried to be constantly aware of everything around him: the tracks of his quarry, the pitch of the wind in the branches, the position of the sun, the surrounding birdcalls, the rustlings of the trees and underbrush. It was Halbarad who had pointed out the foolishness of this to him in his typically blunt fashion.
"You're a Man, not an Elf," he'd said one night as Aragorn sat nursing a headache by their campfire. "You'll do naught but fuss yourself, carrying on like this. Unless you've come out with pointy ears and not told anyone, you hunt as we do and let them hunt as they do. Take it one thing at a time. Focus on what you're after and what you know is a sign of danger, and let the forest take care of itself. It most usually does anyway."
As desperate as Aragorn was to reach her, he could do Arwen no good like this. He had to see past the devastation Dragaer intended in order to devise the concrete steps that he would take to accomplish it. Only then could he stop him. He can do nothing until his army is within the gates, Aragorn told himself. Focus.
Focus. Start with what you know. The city – how would Dragaer take the city? He would have to do three things: eliminate the army, overcome the defenses, and prevent Gondor's allies from re-capturing it afterward.
The first task Aragorn had accomplished for him, he acknowledged bitterly. Gondor and Rohan's armies were far from Minas Tirith, and thanks to Aragorn's reckless pace their horses were fatigued. It would be a miracle if they came swiftly enough to save the city. As for the second . . . his first thought was that Dragaer had some ally, a traitor planted within Minas Tirith to sabotage their defenses. Perhaps Aelon . . . who would be better placed than the Captain of the King's Guard?
Aragorn caught himself. That was a lie – he was falling into the old trap that Dragaer had set in his mind, suspecting his loyal men of treachery. If that were true then the Corsair would have attacked the moment his men were within the gates. He would have had no need to wait – indeed he would have had no need to use Legolas as a passkey to get inside.
Aragorn fought down the wave of anguish that threatened to engulf him at the thought of the Elf. Focus. There's no time for that now. Everything had a purpose. Everything he had done, whether he intended it for his own plans or not, somehow served Dragaer's scheme.
He had brought Éowyn and Lothíriel to Minas Tirith. Aragorn had told himself that it was for their safety – perhaps a part of him had even believed it. But his true intention, he had known even then, was to keep them as hostages to ensure the loyalty of Rohan and Dol Amroth. In the same way he had arrested Gimli in order to force Legolas to submit to him.
Aragorn stared unblinking into the fire. Recounting the depth of his sins was painful, but he would sift through every sickening detail if by doing so he could discover a way to stop Dragaer. Those had been his intentions in bringing them under his control. What were the Corsair's?
To stop the counter-attack, he thought. With Imrahil's daughter a hostage and the Queen, sister, and sister-child of Rohan's King under his command, Dragaer was safe from any siege by Rohan or Dol Amroth. As for Ithilien . . . Aragorn had nearly killed Faramir himself. It was not hard to guess that the Corsair would finish what he had begun. With the Steward dead and his wife imprisoned there would be no one to lead the assault. And Legolas' colony of Elves was largely made up of foresters, healers and farmers, not soldiers capable of avenging the death of their Prince.
Aragorn felt close to despair. It seemed that Dragaer had everything in place; everything aligned exactly to his purpose. But he did not, he told himself. He could not; else he would have attacked already. As much as he desired Aragorn to witness his triumph personally – that was easy to read in every corrosive layer of the man's being – he would not have risked the return of Gondor's King while his army was yet outside the city walls.
He waited because he had to. But for what? Memory rose in Aragorn's mind: Arwen seated upon a dais before the King's Throne with Éowyn at her side. It was the image he had seen in the palantír of Gondor's court on the day that the common people traditionally made their petitions to Gondor's ruler. It was the day of the market – the one day that the city gates would be opened wide.
So that was what he intended. He had not the men to take Minas Tirith by siege, so he would take her by stealth. It was diabolically clever – but it was also his weakness, and there Aragorn would have him.
Éomer might be too late – but as long as there was the chance that he would arrive in time, Dragaer was vulnerable, and with that vulnerability came uncertainty, and fear. Aragorn could use that.
Let him have his trial, let Dragaer wallow in triumph for a few hours. Aragorn did not care. Whatever happened to him, whatever Faramir and Arwen and Gimli believed of him did not matter. Dragaer had to keep those gates from closing again once they'd opened.
Aragorn felt his lips stretch in a tight, humorless smile. He knew Dragaer, and he knew that the Corsair believed strength came only with power over others. He thought that to surrender was to forfeit victory and that to be subjugated was to be defeated. He was about to discover how very wrong he was.
*~*~*
Éowyn slept badly that night. She and Faramir had stayed up late talking with Imrahil, and when they finally retired she tossed fitfully on her bed, her thoughts circling with restless worry.
Imrahil had listened intently as Faramir explained how the Corsairs had brought Legolas to Minas Tirith. He said nothing, but his mouth tightened as Faramir described the Elf's injuries and their suspicions, the Council's swearing allegiance to Queen Undómiel, and finally King Elessar's arrest.
When Faramir had finished Imrahil sat staring into the fire for several long minutes. He finally spoke without looking up.
"Have you written to the Elves in Ithilien about this?"
Faramir looked startled. He exchanged a glance with Éowyn.
"No. I – that is, we've all been so focused on the consequences for Gondor, and the Queen – I did not think to do so. I do not believe any of us did."
Imrahil nodded. "Understandable. But I would do so at the first opportunity – and I would send word to the Elvenking of Eryn Lasgalen as well. From what you describe his son is dying. I do not think he will react kindly if Legolas passes before he can say farewell."
"I will send messengers at first light, when the gates open," Faramir said.
Imrahil looked up. "With all that has happened you still intend to hold the market tomorrow?"
Faramir sighed. "I would rather not, but in truth we have little choice. The city merchants have already constructed their stalls, and it is the first barley harvest. The farmers have been traveling here for days. They depend on the market for their livelihood. They would riot if I tried to cancel it now."
"But from what Elessar says the Corsairs are planning to attack the city."
Faramir shook his head. "I have scouts beyond the Rammas Echor, and watchmen on the walls. If there is an attack we will see it coming long before they arrive and we will close the gates. Without some concrete evidence I cannot justify doing more than that. I no longer take Elessar at his word."
And that was the whole trouble, Éowyn thought. They could not trust Aragorn, they could not trust the Corsairs – everything was conflicted and confused, and she could not shake the feeling that there was something that they were missing, some threat that they had not seen.
Faramir had always been patient in contrast to her own quick temper. He was reluctant to judge anyone too harshly, he insisted on evidence before making any decision, and he was determined to find common ground for peace with even the Corsairs and the Haradrim, historic enemies of Gondor. These were traits that he had learned in reaction to his father's rash judgments – judgments that had isolated Gondor from her allies, that had decreed death for any who trespassed in her territories, and that had opened Denethor to the machinations of Sauron through the palantír.
He was wiser than she was, Éowyn thought. His patience and thoroughness made him a good Steward, one of the best that Gondor had ever had. But the fact remained that there were times when he drove her to distraction. She wanted nothing more than to expel them all from Minas Tirith – Aragorn, the Corsairs, the lot of them. Exile Aragorn to Rivendell and let the Elves deal with him if they would. Send the Corsairs back to wherever they came from. And keep Minas Tirith shut fast, and keep her husband and unborn child safe.
But of course Faramir would do nothing of the sort, not without a trial first. Meanwhile they were vulnerable, and there was nothing she could do about it. In her condition she could not even wield a sword to defend herself.
She checked the locks on doors and windows twice before she retired, but it did nothing to ease the tension she felt. She turned restlessly on the featherbed, unable to find a comfortable position, and she kept Faramir awake with her movements. Her back ached.
The hours dragged by until finally, exhausted, she fell into a fitful doze. She awoke at first light feeling ill-rested and badly used. Her bladder was signaling urgently. She kicked the tangled sheets from her legs and rolled to sit up, trying not to disturb Faramir. As she did so a stabbing pain struck her, and she caught her breath, pressing her hands against her lower back until the ache lessened.
When it had eased she clambered to her feet and made her way to the chamber closet. Feeling slightly better afterward she went into the sitting room. She drew back the drapes and looked out over the city. There was a pale light growing above the hills to the south, and a low mist hung over the Pelennor Fields. The lower levels were crowded with the bulky stalls of the merchants, many of whom had slept outside to guard their wares. The city gates were about to open, and she could see a long line of people, farmers with carts of grain and produce, wool, and herds of livestock making their way slowly along the road to Minas Tirith.
It looked to be a beautiful day, Éowyn thought, and went to summon a servant to help her dress for court.
*~*~*
Amdir leaned nonchalantly against the city wall, watching as a weaver and her daughter unrolled samples of their craft and draped them over a series of wooden racks for display. Next to them a wool merchant had set up his open air stall with a wide table and a series of combs for teasing out samples from the sacks that the farmers would bring him, along with a scale for weighing out the coin to pay them. The empty scales hung slightly lower on the right hand side than on the left.
We're none of us more honest than we have to be, Amdir thought, amused, and glanced up. High on the wall above him a guard was standing, looking out over the fields. As Amdir watched a second soldier approached the first. Each of them saluted, and then the first turned sharply and marched away. He went into a guard's hut along the wall and reappeared a few minutes later at the base of the stone spiral stairs. He walked away up the street, his head down, and soon disappeared between the crowded market stalls.
On the opposite side of the street Kerin raised his eyebrows. Amdir shook his head, Not yet. Kerin settled back into the shadow of a tavern doorway.
The new guard was standing very straight upon the wall, his attention focused on the peasants who milled outside the gate. But as the minutes ticked away and the sun's warmth grew his posture gradually relaxed. He walked a few paces along the wall and then came back and stood still, his feet well apart. Finally he rested his crossbow on top of the wall and leaned forward, bracing his elbows against the stone.
Amdir caught Kerin's eye and jerked his head to one side. Kerin nodded. He ambled out from his doorway, apparently interested in the array of belt and shoe buckles that a silversmith was arranging in front of his shop. He picked one up, turning it over in his hand, and spoke a few words to the man. An onlooker would have thought the price was too steep, for Kerin shrugged and put the buckle down again. He wandered over to inspect the blankets that the weaver had laid out, but finding nothing to interest him he moved on, and stepped around the side of her stall and into the staircase entrance.
Amdir counted to twenty, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. Then he walked across the street and joined Kerin at the base of the stairs. They spiraled up to his right, forcing him to climb with his sword hand against the inner post. But that hardly mattered, Amdir thought, because he had no sword. The guards had confiscated it when they entered the city. Valar, he had to get hold of himself. He was shaking.
They emerged into a small, circular room with a single arrow-slit window – the guard station. It was open on each side, and the wall ran straight through it like a road through a tunnel. Amdir could see the guard standing on the open wall not ten feet away.
Amdir positioned himself to one side of the entrance, out of the guard's line of sight. The soldiers of Minas Tirith had rudely taken their weapons when they entered the city, but it so happened that there was a blacksmith's shop on the fourth level, tucked between an ironmonger and a stonemason. The Corsairs were weaponless but well supplied with gold, and the Captain had a knack for diverting their personal guards when necessary. In the past two days that smith had done better business than he had in years.
Amdir bent and drew a long knife from his boot. Kerin slipped back partway down the staircase and then began to climb it again, stumbling against the walls as he did so, and singing loudly.
"Oh the sea is a mistress cold and gray, but ah'll ne'er know another till me dyin' day!"
The guard could not fail to hear him. Amdir held his breath. Sure enough, a voice called, "Who goes there?"
"She'll take you an' break you if you let her, but if yer heart be true then she'll make a man of you!" Kerin hit the high notes shamelessly.
"You're not allowed up here," the guard said. Amdir heard the arrows rattle in his quiver as he approached. Kerin hiccupped.
Kerin braced himself against the wall opposite Amdir. "Who're you to tell me that?" he slurred. "I'll go where I want. You ain't the boss of me."
His legs gave way and he slid down the wall to the floor. The guard hurried forward.
*~*~*
Aragorn stood absolutely still in the hidden alcove, his muscles locked and humming with tension. With all the discipline from his years as a Ranger he hid his emotions, keeping his face blank. He must wait, he must bide his time if his plan was to have any chance at all of success, but oh it was hard.
The hall's high windows were flooded with sunshine. Aragorn's stomach knotted at the sight. How long had the city gates been open? What reinforcements might the Corsair have received; what damage had he and his men done? Aragorn's people were out there, and he could do nothing to protect them. Wait, he told himself for what seemed the hundredth time. Wait.
The throne room was crowded. Tradition had been broken this market day, for the trial of Gondor's King superseded the common people's complaints. But Gondor's Council had determined that the people must see the proceedings for themselves if they were to be satisfied that justice was done – and that the Queen and the Council deserved their allegiance. They would risk no rumors or pockets of discontent that might later foment rebellion.
So the hall was packed ten rows deep on either side with Gondor's upper classes, and those commoners not occupied with the market had filled the entryway and spilled out the open doors onto the courtyard steps. Many of them had waited through the night for the proceedings to begin.
A clerk came first and settled himself at a small desk to the left of the dais, parchment and quills at the ready. Then the master of protocol entered and rapped his long staff three times upon the marble floor. The hall fell silent. "Her Majesty, Arwen Undómiel, Queen of Gondor and Arnor: the Unified Kingdom."
The assembled company bowed as Arwen swept up the aisle to the dais at the head of the room. Aragorn felt a surge of relief at the sight of her safe and whole. She wore the traditional finery of Gondor: a loosely flowing gown of deep lilac surmounted by a white ermine cloak that trailed well past her heels. A net of jewels glinted like stars in her black hair, confining the wild tresses that Aragorn loved into a neat coil at the back of her neck. Over all she wore the great crown of Gondor, its white wings upswept and edged with adamant.
She had never liked that crown, Aragorn remembered. On their wedding day she had whispered to him that it made him look as if he wore a duck upon his head, and he had come very close to bursting into laughter and ruining the entire solemn ceremony. He had heard her complain of the heavy fabrics and high collars traditional among Gondor's nobility, so confining and so foreign to an Elf.
But now she was regal, beautiful and stern as a warrior-queen of Númenor, and he could hear the awed whispers as her people gazed upon her. They would follow her, he thought, and they would count themselves fortunate to do so. He realized then something that he had known for years, though he had not consciously acknowledged it. Arwen was perfectly capable of ruling Gondor alone. Given the power, she would lead the people in security and prosperity – indeed she would do it better than he had this past year. Perhaps she would do it better than he ever could.
The Council members were filing in now to take their places before the twelve chairs arranged in a semi-circle at the base of the King's Throne. The master of protocol called each of their names in turn, and finished, "Faramir son of Denethor, heir of Anarion, Steward of Gondor."
Faramir entered, but did not move to the Steward's Chair. He stood to one side, clad in a soldier's tunic of leather embossed with the emblem of the Tree. Aragorn understood then: he had not retaken the White Rod of the Steward. The men might follow him out of loyalty, but he claimed no official authority. Aragorn glanced over the part of the crowd that he could see from his vantage point and spied Éowyn in the first row. Her eyes were fixed intently upon her husband.
Prince Imrahil entered last of all and walked quietly to the Chair, as was his right in absence of the Steward. Whispering broke out among the crowd. The master of protocol thumped his staff three times again. "Turn now to honor the Guardians of the West. Remember our heritage that was born in grace and was lost in folly, that wisdom might rise in us again."
There was a rustling as the people turned to face west for a long moment in silence. Then the master of protocol rapped his staff once. He walked to stand in front of the dais with its twelve chairs and bowed low. "The Court is open, Your Majesty."
Arwen had climbed to the King's Throne that Aragorn never used if he could avoid it. It was so high above the hall that it made it impossible for him to speak with the people who came to plead before the court. For that reason he had had the low dais built in front of it, at a level where he could see the people face to face. Arwen seemed to hesitate for a moment, or perhaps he imagined it. Then she sat down, her back ramrod straight. "Begin."
Faramir stepped forward. "The Court calls Elessar son of Arathorn, of the House of Telcontar, heir of Isildur, King of Gondor."
Aragorn took a deep breath, and flanked by his guards he stepped out of the hidden alcove. He ignored the murmuring as people craned their necks to see him. He looked up at the distant throne, but Arwen did not meet his gaze. Her face was set and pale.
"Elessar, thee are called before this Court to give answer for thy actions," Faramir said formally. "So it is charged: that thou didst threaten violence against Gondor's Queen. That thou didst attempt to take the life of Gondor's Steward. That thou didst remove Gondor's army from her lands and left her without defense. That thou didst injury to the Lord of Ithilien, one of the Firstborn. How dost thee answer?"
"I accept responsibility for my actions," Aragorn said. A murmur of voices rose from the watching crowd. Aragorn raised his voice over them and continued.
"But the harm that was done was not by my intention, but by the device of an enemy of Gondor, a man who has plotted to hurt Gondor and her people, and who plots against her still. The Corsair captain, Dragaer, has amassed an army. He has gained entrance to sabotage our defenses, and his army is now marching to attack Minas Tirith."
Faramir's eyes narrowed. "What evidence do you give of this?"
"That of the perpetrator himself," Aragorn answered. "I call Captain Dragaer to the floor."
*~*~*
The Corsairs had spent the night traveling from one tavern to the next, their guards in tow, and by the time the Gondorians had been due to go off duty they'd caught the spirit of the evening. By dawn they'd come to a draw in the darts competition, concluded that The White Horse had the best brew but The Troll's Head kept the comeliest maids, and consumed something like twelve pints of bitter to a man.
Not that the Corsairs drank their liquor. Amdir made very sure of that, and most of it went into the straw or spilled down their shirts while their now off-duty guards passed through the stages from friendliness into complete inebriation. But Kerin certainly smelled as if he was intoxicated.
The guard caught a whiff as he bent over Kerin's inert body. "Ugh! Drunk at this hour. Damned pirates. You ought to be –"
The rest of his words were cut off as Amdir stepped behind him and drew the blade of his knife across his throat. The guard gurgled, half-turned, and for an instant his wide grey eyes looked into Amdir's. Then he fell to the floor. A pool of blood began to form around his head.
Amdir pulled off his own ale-spattered shirt and tied it tightly around the guard's throat, trying to keep the blood from soaking everything. Kerin yanked off the dead man's boots and began fumbling with the strap of his hip-quiver.
"Hurry," Amdir hissed, looking over his shoulder at the empty expanse of wall. "They'll notice if the post is empty for long."
"I am hurrying," Kerin snapped back. "I don't see you helping – there!" He jerked the quiver free with a grunt and began undoing the clasp of the guard's belt.
Five minutes later anyone looking at the city wall from a distance would have seen a soldier of Gondor pacing the length of his post, exactly as he should.
*~*~*
The Council members were whispering together. Faramir looked at them, then at Imrahil and finally up at the Queen. Arwen nodded.
Faramir raised his voice. "The Court calls Dragaer son of Seregsul."
A guard opened a side door. A man emerged and walked to the front of the dais, and Aragorn had his first sight of the Corsair captain.
He was a head taller than the guards who escorted him. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, framing a handsome, chiseled face marred by a long scar that ran from the corner of his mouth up to his left temple. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and he carried himself with almost a dancer's grace.
He bowed to the Queen and then turned to face Aragorn. His pose was relaxed, his hands open at his side. His black eyes gleamed as they met Aragorn's, and the faintest of smiles played about his lips.
Aragorn felt a wave of hatred so intense that for a moment he could not get his breath. He had seen this man assault his closest friend, he knew that he planned a similar fate for his wife, and now he stood there only feet away, and in all his life Aragorn had never desired anything more than he now wanted to get his hands around Dragaer's neck and choke the life from his body.
He took a half-step toward the man and stopped. No. That's what he wants. He'll try to goad you into an attack, to show that you are irrational, violent. Aragorn drew a shaking breath and lifted his head, holding Dragaer's gaze. Slowly his hands unclenched.
He turned to the Council. "Six days ago this Corsair marched his army over land to attack Umbar. He then joined his fleet and sailed up the river Anduin. They are there, beyond range of our normal scouts. Send a patrol south along the river and you will find them."
Dragaer raised his eyebrows. "You flatter me, sir. A fleet? I? I have but a small ship, which your scouts have seen, and your people are well acquainted with my humble crew. Send your patrol, if you wish." He shrugged. "They will find nothing."
But Imrahil was leaning forward. "They attacked Umbar, you say. Where was Gondor's army when this happened?"
"In Harad," Aragorn said. "I had believed that the Southrons were massing to attack Gondor. I was deceived. There was no Haradic threat – this Corsair did it all. Éomer King is returning with the army – wait a few hours and he will confirm it for you."
Dragaer snorted. "This has passed the point of amusement, my lords. I came here on your invitation to give testimony about my rescue of the Elf. I entered your city unarmed, against my better judgment, because Gondor promised us peace after the War. And now I am baselessly accused, without any evidence against me – I should have trusted my instincts. I should have left your Elf to die where I found him."
"You murdered him!" Aragorn caught himself. He was shaking with rage, but he looked at Faramir and spoke with forced control. "I do not ask you to believe me. Only close the city gates while you send patrols to investigate my claim. Keep them shut until Éomer arrives. What harm is there in that?"
*~*~*
There were six guard posts spaced around the circumference of the outer wall, and twelve Corsairs. They had started at opposite ends of the city circle, working in pairs toward the central massive gate. Within an hour they had captured every post, and enough Corsairs had taken the guards' places to give the appearance of normalcy, at least from a distance. The rest of them gathered in the two guardhouses on either side of the main gates. These were larger than the others, and more enclosed. They concealed the gates' operating hinges as well as the winding mechanism for the portcullis.
"Suggestions, Torres?" Amdir said, looking up at the doors' huge metal hinges, each one as tall as a man's leg was long.
Torres was a small, wizened man with quick hands, and he was the best ship-builder that Amdir had ever met. He shrugged.
"The gates operate by direct force – it takes six men to move them. Once they're open, keeping them open is not a problem. Wedge a few blocks between the near end of each gate and the gatehouse, top and bottom. By the time they figure out what's keeping the gates from closing it'll be too late."
"All right. There's plenty of wood here for the fireplace, you lot get started with that. Torres, how about the portcullis?"
Torres sucked his teeth. "That's harder. The Dwarf rigged it with a double pulley system on both sides – here and over there. Lifting it takes strength and coordination, but one man can drop it with the pull of a chain."
"Solution?" Amdir said. His nerves were humming, and he cast frequent glances over his shoulder at the empty doorway.
"Get a few long metal poles and wedge them between the gears of the pulleys. You'll have to leave some men here, though, to keep the soldiers from freeing them."
"And who in this rabble is going to stand his ground against a garrison of Minas Tirith?" Amdir snorted. He paused, studying the massive pulleys.
"What if we built a fire underneath them? Could we fuse the chains together?"
Torres looked doubtful. "It would have to be extremely hot, as hot as a blacksmith's forge. You won't get that kind of heat with wood from the guards' fireplace."
"No . . . I suppose not." Amdir hissed in exasperation. "There has to be some way to block this thing!"
"Portcullises are designed to go down, not stay up," Torres said. "Unless . . ." he trailed off, staring into space.
"What?" Amdir said.
Torres smiled. "Unwind a dozen feet or so of chain and tie it between the pulley gears. Stick some metal rods and things in there as well – anything that will make for a complicated knot. Then build your fires underneath each pulley."
"But you said it wouldn't be hot enough –"
"No," Torres said, "but it will be hot enough to make those chains extremely unpleasant to touch, and considerably complicate the job of untying them. It'll buy us time, and that's all we need."
"All right," Amdir said. "You all heard the man, get to work! I'm going over to the other gatehouse to tell them what to do."
He headed for the spiral stair down to the ground level, where the peasants were still streaming through the gates. Torres caught his arm.
"There's still one thing I don't understand," the builder said in a low voice. "How will the others know it's time?"
"Captain said they would – that's all I know." Amdir said. He hesitated, and met Torres' eyes. "Course, if you care to guess . . ."
Torres held his gaze. "The seeing stone? You think the Captain left it with Galemir?"
Amdir shrugged. "He didn't have it when we arrived here – the guards would have found it."
"Yes, but – why him?"
Amdir heard pique in the builder's voice. He'd been wanting a look at that rock ever since they'd first puzzled out that the Captain must have it.
"I wouldn't be too envious, Torres," Amdir said. "Galemir's second-in-command: figures he'd have to get it so the plan will work. But what do you think will happen to him, once the battle's over and he's left as the only person who knows how to use it besides the Captain?"
Torres' eyes widened. He took a step backward.
Amdir nodded. "I wouldn't be too envious, if I were you," he said, and hurried away.
*~*~*
Imrahil leaned forward, his eyes intent. "What proof have you that Captain Dragaer attacked Lord Legolas?"
Aragorn did not answer for a long moment. The hall was hushed with the silence of hundreds of people listening. He could feel them watching him, waiting.
He took a breath. "I ask the Court's indulgence. It may be that when Lord Legolas regains consciousness he will choose to explain to you all that has occurred. It is not my place to do so now."
The head of the Council spoke for the first time. "King Elessar, you have been called here to explain your actions. Our healers tell us that Lord Legolas may never regain consciousness. You stand accused of causing his injuries – if he dies you will answer for the death of a Firstborn. This Court cannot afford to wait. If you have any information to support your claim you must share it now."
Aragorn stood quiet. He could feel Dragaer's mocking gaze upon him.
How much did the people know? Rumors must be flying around the city – but thus far they had spoken in vague terms, of unspecified injury to a dying Elf. Was he then to describe exactly how Legolas came to leave the army's camp? Was he to recount to them every agonizing moment that he had witnessed in Legolas' mind? Even if he told only Faramir it would be a humiliation to the proud Elf, the last betrayal of one who had once called Aragorn his friend.
Aragorn looked up at the King's Throne, and for an instant Arwen met his eyes. Even at this distance he could see the tension in her, and he knew that she understood the magnitude of his choice, if not the nature of it. She will rule well, he thought again, and turned to Lord Gryer.
"I am sorry, my lord," he said. "I cannot."
"You will not, you mean," Dragaer said. His voice carried across the hall as he moved to face Aragorn. "You are one for bold declarations, Elessar. And yet now, when this Court has the evidence of your crimes in hand, you shy away. Well no matter. I rescued Lord Legolas when you had finished with him, and I can tell the Court what occurred."
His gaze swept the packed audience. "We found the Elf wandering along the shoreline," he said. "He was disoriented, babbling, and he could barely walk. When we took him aboard ship to examine him we discovered why. His leggings were stained with blood, and when we cut them off we found that he –"
"Stop!" Aragorn shouted. He shook with the effort of control, his fists clenched and his nails digging into his palms. The hall was in an uproar. Arwen was on her feet, Imrahil had paled and Faramir was glaring at Dragaer. In the audience, Éowyn had risen and was pushing her way to a side exit, visibly distressed.
"Order!" Lord Gryer's voice rose above the noise. "Order! King Elessar, you have interrupted the witness' statement. Are you prepared to give evidence in his stead?"
"No," Aragorn said. "I am prepared to confess."
There was an indrawn breath from the hall, and silence fell. Aragorn swallowed. "The Court is aware of the healer's statement," he said. "I accept full responsibility for Lord Legolas' injuries, and I submit myself to the judgment of the Court, on two conditions."
"This Court is not subject to any –" Gryer began, but Imrahil interrupted him.
"Name your conditions."
"One, the healer's testimony will be stricken from the Court's record," Aragorn said. He glanced at the furiously scribbling clerk. "Let the history show that I did harm one of the Firstborn, even to –" his voice broke, and it was a moment before he could continue, "– even to cause his death. Let that be the end of it.
"Second, close the gates of Minas Tirith and keep them shut until Éomer returns. That is all."
"What of the other charges?"
Aragorn met Faramir's eyes and saw the accusation there. "I regret the harm that I have done to you, and to those whom you love," he said quietly. "If there were any way I could heal that hurt, I would. I am sorry. I would ask forgiveness, if it were possible."
Faramir looked away. The muscles of his jaw tightened. "It is not I but the people you have endangered," he said. "Do you admit that your actions left Gondor more vulnerable than before?"
"I have said that I accept the charges against me, and to that I hold," Aragorn said. His heart was pounding. Faramir had not rejected his conditions – the threat of the gates' closure was imminent. Dragaer saw it, and he could not know if whatever countermeasure he had planned was complete. Aragorn could feel the tension in him, the panic ruthlessly suppressed.
Aragorn kept his eyes on Faramir and spoke clearly and precisely. "But if this Court seeks the full truth then I will say that I acted as I thought best to safeguard our people. I was deceived."
Dragaer scoffed loudly. "Again you resort to accusations without evidence. How am I to have deceived you, O King Elessar? All of Middle-earth knows that you defeated the Dark Lord himself in the palantír – and you claim that a ship's captain could master you? You insult your Court's intelligence!"
Aragorn lifted his head, and turned slowly to look full into the Corsair's eyes. "Who said anything about a palantír?" he said.
Dragaer stared at him, and Aragorn saw the Captain's eyes widen as he realized his mistake. He permitted himself the faintest of smiles for Dragaer's sight alone.
"You must have –" Dragaer began, but Faramir was faster.
"Guards!" he shouted. "Arrest this man! Aelon, get to the city walls. Take every soldier you can muster and close those gates! Now!"
The hall erupted. People were on their feet, milling in confusion, and soldiers were pushing through them to get outside. In moments guards surrounded Aragorn and Dragaer, holding them back from the crowd.
Aragorn did not resist. He looked up and saw Arwen watching him, her brows drawn together in a frown of concentration. But then a new voice broke through the tumult, and she glanced away.
"Lord Faramir!" A page was fighting to be heard. "Lord Faramir, you must come! Lady Éowyn is in labor!"
Faramir broke away from a rapid consultation with Imrahil and started toward the exit. But the next instant he pulled up short as a cry rose from one of the peasants outside the entrance doors.
"The enemy! The enemy is crossing the Pelennor! We're under attack!"