CHAPTER XVIII
—The Lost Lieutenant—
In a sea of horses and riders, Rhystórë was suddenly nothing more than a mere speck of dust. The earth shook with the gravity of hooves, the neighs and shouts of horses and men filling the air as brightly, the sun shone down upon them, bidding them a fond and voracious farewell. Dust was a great cloud wafting along the ground, swirling up in a storm.
That had been days ago—perhaps five, since the host of Wainriders and other forces had been recalled to Lúmë-mindon. It was evident that the Princess Hrysívë had expected it; he had been the guard to deliver the message and had seen her face. Rhystórë had a thought that she had even hinted at the idea to Atharys before his departure...no, Lord Mairon would have recalled them anyhow, for he was in dire need after Hestáryn's attack on Eryn Galen. Insangar knew that, and laughed. Khamûl, however, had fallen below Insangar in forces and confidence, and he seemed more a lieutenant than a general.
Now snow was already beginning to fall in the first days of winter. They gathered swiftly and covered the ground in a white blanket, but the wind came and sprayed dirt from the trees upon them staining it. Some children in the village below the mountain would try to pick the dirt from the snow, but they only managed to mess it up even more.
The host prepared to camp a day's ride away from Lúmë-mindon, bracing themselves for the last ride. It was important that Mairon was pleased. Still many could not bring themselves to believe the power of the Maiar, though it was true. Princess Hrysívë had demonstrated for herself.
Rhystórë dismounted along with the other riders for the night's rest. Unsaddling his horse, he led the mare to the mere to the others then retreated back to the camp and propped up his tent, which was now split among four of them. They would not return there until long after evendim, when the last fires had died away.
In time, he found himself sitting around a fire and sharing the day's meat in a circle that included Aratan, the one that incessantly tried to propose to Khalentharia. It was often that he found himself here, he realized, though he still felt uncomfortable with these people. Again Khalentharia seemed to be busy; business with her brother, he supposed. They had a lot to plan about on the return to Lúmë-mindon.
The fire had nearly died by the time Khalentharia came. "Talk to people, for the gods' sake," she said, snatching the chunk of meat out of Rhystórë's hands and ripping a piece off with her teeth. "You look a dumb monkey, waiting for his mother to come back and feed him."
"It seems more like I am feeding you right now," Rhystórë retorted, reaching for it back.
She held it out of his reach while continuing to tear off chunks. When she had finished, she threw the bone in the fire and wiped her mouth on her sleeve then leaned into Rhystórë's ear to whisper, "No matter what you may say in defense of yourself, you will still be a dumb monkey, Númenórean."
Rhystórë smiled. It seemed like how it was when he had first joined the Wainriders, before he and Khalentharia had gone to Adlannaith and witnessed the decimation of the court, before they had seen the Princess of Morinórë slaughter the rebels. He wanted to pretend it had never happened, pretend the past was not there, though it would forever linger.
"Before seaweed, now monkey?" Amongst the Wainriders, he was still known as Ëaruilë.
"You can be both," she said, and he had half a thought that she was telling him that he could be both a Númenórean and a Wainrider. She yawned and leaned back against his shoulder aggressively—Rhystórë had not the slightest clue how it could be aggressive, yet it was, for he was so startled that he lost his balance and toppled off the log.
"Hey!" Khalentharia protested, and slid off with him. Landing with a thump beside him, she smirked and merely leaned back on again. "What?" she demanded at his stiffness, fruitlessly hiding a grin. "Never had a girl before?"
"That is none of your business," Rhystórë hissed, reddening.
She laughed and nestled herself into a more comfortable position. "Your shoulder is bony," she complained.
"It was your choice."
"It was." Khalentharia sighed and continued to try snuggling into a comfortable position. It went on for a long, awkward moment before she finally found herself content. Rhystórë decided to not say anything about that, and instead distracted himself by thinking about the embers of the fire dying behind them.
"What's the sea like?" she asked. "I've never seen it."
"Deep," Rhystórë told her, "and blue."
"Like your eyes?"
He was again taken aback. "Ah—sure. I. . .suppose?"
She laughed again. "I'd like to see the sea. Take me there someday, Númenórean."
—Hrysívë—
"Lady Hrysívë, Princess of Morinórë, pays respect to Lord Mairon, High Lord of Morinórë."
Mairon did not move from where he stood at the doorway overlooking the troops, and nor did he respond. Rising from my bow, I took a few steps forward, the click of my boots audible upon the marble floor.
"Are you satisfied, my lord?" I said.
It was evident he had not expected our armies to be so vast, though his mask of indifferent had scarcely shifted. "You have done surprisingly well."
I smiled. "Indeed. I had the help of my lord husband and the Wainriders. I am certain that rewarding them will only bring benefits."
"Hm." Mairon's eyes seemed to gleam as they surveyed the host once more. "It may."
"It seems you now suspect me for the attack upon Eryn Galen," I said. "Because I, alone of the court, knew of the greatness of our troops, and knew that Morinórë was now powerful enough to contest a bit of power. Yet I can assure you that it is not so. I was struck with just as much shock as you were when I heard that Lord Hestáryn had killed Lord Nínquë, taken the maps, and attacked Amon Lanc. Though I may have foreseen it."
"How so?"
"I saw Hestáryn's imprudence from the beginning. We all saw, but many did not think. I thought of all the outcomes that could occur when you bestowed the task upon Lord Nínquë. And thus this came to mind." A smile played at my lips. "Yes, I know that you tried to hide the orders from me. But still it revealed itself in the end, did it not? Now I wonder, who did you send to map out Eryn Galen's borders?"
"A slave girl," Mairon said, words curt.
"Hm." I paused. "And I expect she was from Eryn Galen, wasn't she, to blend in the city so well? A Sindarin girl?"
"Yes."
"I see," I said. "Knowing your ways, atto, you would have killed her by now."
Mairon pressed his lips together, and I could see that his jaw was clenched, his neck taut. "You know me so well, yendenya."
"To that there is no doubt."
For a while we stood there in silence, watching the host go through their morning drills. Then at length, Mairon spoke again.
"I hope you will not be as poor of a steward as your brother," he said.
I wanted to laugh—again, I had known this would happen. "Evidently not."
"There are things for me to settle in Eregion." Mairon turned to me. "Some complications. I wish for you to maintain strict order. I will be returning periodically, likely during the night."
I inclined my head. "As you command, my lord."
Later there was a blizzard that stormed through the night and covered the trees and the ground in a blanket of white. By morning, the storm had settled and all was still. It was at this time Atharys and I walked through this land, the fog thick over the trees.
"We're back at the old place," I said.
"We are," he agreed.
It was indeed the old place—the place we had met before I had left Lúmë-mindon for a marriage to Insangar, the place where I had last been Hith.
"Mairon has put me in charge of Morinórë's governance, while he finishes business in Eregion," I went on, hiding a small smile. "He says you have done an atrocious job."
Atharys scowled. "It was one mistake."
"Quite a large one." A pile of snow disintegrated under my boot. "What have you called me here for, dear brother?"
"Not a summon, but an invitation."
I waited.
"You told me that Hestáryn's revolt would be to our benefit," Atharys said, "because you knew Mairon would kill him."
"Yes."
"Unfortunately that may not have happened as you intended. Mairon killed someone, but he did not kill Hestáryn."
I halted. "I'm sorry?"
"Someone in the court, perhaps not in the court, but a Maia, most likely, had a slave wear the skin of Hestáryn and go to report to Mairon. As you expected, Mairon was angry and killed that man, but that man was not Hestáryn."
"Does Mairon know about it?" I demanded.
"No."
"Where is he now? Have you tracked his path?"
"I do not know. I have tried, but nothing has been found."
"Son of a bitch," I hissed.
"I have a question to ask you yourself," Atharys continued. "I have heard that your rule greatly models our father's."
"I killed the rebels, that was all. And I do not rule. I am under the control of my lord husband, the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders Insangar." The words were a drone.
"Is that so?" he said. "Under his control?"
"Yes, it is. I am his fucking property and no more. Now if you may excuse me, Your Highness, I must go arrange what I will do with Hestáryn." With no more words I strode off back to Lúmë-mindon although really, I had no plans; I only wanted to be alone.
For a moment I walked in oblivion, wanting only to lay down in the snow and freeze myself into a numb stupor, as if I had drunk too much wine. In oblivion I would stop feeling, stop caring. If there was no such thing as emotion in the world, then logic would be crafted and carried out so much more easily. That was the device Hrysívë, Princess of Morinórë, used. It was not known if she felt anything at all, if that was possible.
Then a clash came to my ears, the sharp, shrill clash of steel against steel—but only once. Atharys. I whipped my head around and summoned my wings forth, a great gust of wind blasting through as they came. It must be a spy they sent from Lindon. I felt the ósanwë to prepare myself against my opponent, then wavered as a sudden doubt swept through me—the fëa was so familiar, so close…
I crashed through the trees, my wings spread wide to steady my fall, then stopped dead in my tracks at what I saw. Atharys was on his knees on the ground, a dark red stain spreading from where a sword pierced him in the chest, the blade wielded by Glorfindel.
Time seemed to still, and intangible thoughts swirled in my mind. A misty covering veiled over my sight and the ground was suddenly miles beneath where I floated, half a ghost myself. Fleeting memories, dreams, visions all drifted by and away, like dandelion seeds in the wind.
Then I sprang forward, flipping my daggers into my hands. Glorfindel turned, his expression startled and in sudden shock. My boot connected with his ribs and he fell to the ground, a shower of snow spraying up, my dagger at his throat.
A long moment passed, and I clenched my jaw, pressing my dagger harder against his throat. A drop of blood materialized—two.
I hefted myself up, jerking my dagger back. "Go."
He did not move.
"Get out of here. Now." I inhaled sharply, my breath forming a silver cloud before my lips. "Before I kill you."
He got to his knees, then his feet. Slowly, he took two steps back. Then, he said, "Hith—"
I spun upon my heel, turning away from him, and threw my dagger. It hit the branch of a tree. I counted the moments. One. Two. Three.
When I turned, he was gone.
I rushed over to Atharys, who had collapsed into the snow, his blood seeping through. The sword had not gone wholly through his body, but it had still gone deep. His breath was laboured and his eyelids heavy with pain and blood loss, fighting to stay open.
"Shit," I muttered, examining the wound.
He gritted his teeth as I turned him flat on his back. "Am I going to bleed out?"
"You're not going to bleed out. The blood of the Maiar is within you." I clenched my jaw. "Lie still. I have to remove the blade."
"Damn it." Atharys drew in a trembling breath, looking as if he would refuse. "Do it quickly."
I planted a foot on his shoulder to steady him and the other on his leg, then grasped the hilt with both hands. With a sharp tug, the sword came free and Atharys stifled a cry as more blood than I would have liked gushed out. I unclasped my cloak and ripped a piece off, pressing it to the wound. Almost immediately the cloth darkened with blood. Cursing, I tore another piece and underwent the same procedure.
"He was trying to kill me," Atharys said, trying to hide his terror.
"You are wasting your breath."
"You don't want to admit it. You knew him." Atharys clenched his hands into fists, the snow melting in them. "He was trying to kill me."
My eyes were menacing. "Say that again."
"He was trying to kill me."
I glowered, but I would do nothing, and he knew. He coughed and spit blood out of his mouth—too much. His head lolled back and he fell unconscious, into oblivion.
"Damn it. No." I made a sound of indignation and slammed a fist on the ground.
Leaving the sword in the snow, I bound more cloths to the wound and hefted him in my burning arms, dragging him back to Lúmë-mindon, a trail of scarlet behind us.
A/n: Please let me know what you think! Any kind of feedback would be great :)
