Chapter 49
Pelennor Fields, Gondor
15 March TA 3019
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, at last allowed his sword tip to drop. In every direction, bodies littered the fields.
Men had fought. By all the Valar, they had fought. And they had died. Rohirrim. Swan Knights from Dol Amroth. Rangers of Ithilien, and the men of Gondor.
His own kin, too. Halbarad had fallen along with too many of the Gray Company. Most of the Gray Company.
Their sacrifice shall not be in vain.
Aragorn's gaze lifted to the burning peak towering in the distance. From there, Mordor's lord watched, and somewhere within that dark land, one hobbit carried the fate of them all in his small hands. Did Frodo live? Was Sam still with him?
His gaze traveled farther south. There was no word from the Black Company, nor did he expect it. Fear for his kinsmen touched him, along with hope. He knew Barhador well. If there was any way to delay or undermine the Black Númenóreans, Barhador would see to it no matter the cost to himself or his companions.
So much sacrifice. May it be enough.
"Aragorn!"
At Elrohir's call, the rightful king of Gondor twisted around.
"You are needed at the Halls of Healing. It's Lady Eowyn…and Merry."
Banks of the Anduin, Southern Ithilien
Dori mounted his horse, eyes scanning the darkened land around him. He'd seen no sign of Bofur and Bifur's captors—nor, indeed, his friends—but then, he was no scout. The passage of an army of orcs, he'd read, aye. But a small band of Corsairs with two prisoners? In this grass?
No question where they're headed. That, he dared hope, would suffice. But by Mahal, he hoped he reached them before they ventured past the ghoulish Dead City. 'Twas said some fell thing guarded that path, and Dori didn't dare hope he'd be reclaiming his friends if they passed beyond it.
Dori had taken to sleeping by day and traveling by night. Aye, some of this land possessed rolling hills, but vast swaths of it were flat as metal after the hammering. Riding openly during daylight was an invitation to be discovered.
Dori would not risk it. Some rescue that would be.
Nay, instead he used the cover of darkness, and hoped and fretted over each of his loved ones. Bofur and Bifur, aye, and he had plenty of reasons to fear for them. But also Nori. Had his brother's rashness gotten him into trouble? Who would pull him out if Dori was not present?
Dori tugged upon his beard, debating his path. Stay near the Anduin or head east until he found the Harad Road?
The Harad Road. He was no expert on their enemy, but 'twas unlikely to his mind they'd follow the Anduin all the way north to Osgiliath and the men of Gondor. If the men had survived with what Chieftain Aragorn had told him. There was a distinct chance Minas Tirith was no more, nor Osgiliath.
But would that wretch, Valkthor, know that?
Bah. He nudged his horse into a canter, hoping he'd reasoned it aright. This dwarf was betting on the Harad Road. In little time at all, he left the Anduin's mighty roar behind.
Harad Road, Far Harad
Ib-Lhorzor and his Weapons kept to the Harad Road, stopping for little more than to water their emala, eat and tend to themselves and their prisoners. Sleep was had in the saddle.
He could not shake the feeling that the world changed around him, that tremendous events were reforming the future until nothing was certain. Intuition? A fleeting flare of vision? Whichever, it prodded him onward with urgency. He had to get these prisoners to Ar-Cavendor and the Master.
The hair at the nape of this neck prickled. The road behind him remained empty, so why did he feel as if he was being hunted?
Thannor meticulously scoured the outskirts of Caeldor until he found the tracks he needed.
Then, he didn't stop.
The Harad Road. Ib-Lohrzor's tracks led straight to the ancient byway, and based upon what Thannor could read, the man raced as if all the wargs of Mordor were on his tail. Almost as if the man knew Caeldor had collapsed less than a day after his departure.
Surely that wasn't possible. Or had word somehow been sent? Something the Dunedain had missed? He rubbed his jaw, then he swore in both Quenyan and Sindaran.
Thannor was suddenly and eternally grateful he'd thought to bring not just one mount, but two. He'd need them both, and all the speed the animals could give him.
He reclaimed his saddle with a leap lacking in agility due to the injuries he'd sustained in Caeldor. Then with a click of the tongue and gentle pressure around the animal's body, he urged it into a run, its compatriot pulled in its wake by a long lead.
Nothing would stop him. He would return with his son…or not at all.
Calobi Hills, Far Harad
Time slipped through Saldís's fingers like sand. Urkhas kûd, but ten days was grossly insufficient for her task. Absurdly so. Yet it was all she had, and no complaining to the ever-silent Valar would alter that truth.
Each day, she rose earlier from her pallet, a growing sense of doom and the fear of failure disallowing more than brief snatches of rest. She took to walking among her Novices during the night. Studying them. Eru scorch it, even praying for them. (Not that she was convinced that did much good. Saldís remained conflicted where Eru and his Valar were concerned. Aye, they'd given her Adâd, but they'd also given her Caeldor.)
There was progress. Aye, glimpses that fueled hope. The pairs she'd assigned acquired depth and surety. The Novices began to extend fragile trust to one another.
By Bifur's spear, she'd almost teared up at the first evidence of it. There she'd stood, throat tight as she watched an older Novice from House Mordhalor coach his younger partner, a girl from Fuinir, demonstrating a solid defense and then aiding her to rectify the gaps in her own. Saldís had left the two alone, not willing to disturb the momentous event.
But then came the fourth day of their journey.
With six days left, it all threatened to capsize.
Silence. The world itself seemed hushed. Eyes burned into her, too many and too deeply. Saldís stood tall, face wiped of all expression.
The morning had started promising, her Novices progressing so well with their partners that she considered moving them into quartets. But then a cruel turn: two from House Herumor ambushed a Novice from Berúthiel in search of revenge for some past slight. One of the ambushers was none other than Mazir's partner, assigned by Saldís herself.
A dry wind ruffled Saldís's unbound hair and teased the scarf hanging loosely around her neck. Her gaze left the single girl-Novice standing at attention before her—the other Saldís would deal with as well, but this one had betrayed her partner—and studied the sea of faces lined up in ranks beyond.
The whole of the troop stood witness. All watched to learn the fate of one Ilhia of House Herumor.
Lost among the many Novices, she knew Yahzin stood, the girl she'd saved in Caeldor, and the only soul present to know of Saldís's tattoo or actions before "returning" officially. I came to save you, replayed through her mind in her own voice.
Saldís felt the hypocrite.
You claimed you wished to save them, came Akhora's bored voice. No matter the cost. Now you quibble? If you do not keep your word to these Novices, you will lose them permanently. Are you truly going to permit that to happen? Over one Novice?
Saldís's lips flattened. Her nostrils flared. Little did she need the harpy lecturing her. She recognized the wall she was backed up against. How not? 'Twas of her own fool making, and by Durin's famed beard, she should have anticipated this.
Her Novices were as used to games and deceit as a fish its water. They were angry and jaded. Of course some would break Saldís's rules. Whether the violation was the product of habit—two silly Novices reverting to a life's worth of conditioning—or a testing of Saldís's resolve, the outcome was the same. The two girls had challenged her, and now all watched to see what Saldís would do.
There is no choice, Akhora snapped with rising disdain. Even you know that. Sacrifice one to save the others, or spare the one and lose them all. It is not a difficult decision.
Said she of no soul.
The girl not partnered to Mazir, Saldís could perhaps punish less severely. That one had not betrayed a partner. But Ilhia…
Akhora spoke an abhorrent truth, but a truth nonetheless. By Mahal, what grudge could the Novice possibly bear? Mazir was a year younger. He was not Ilhia's equal with the scimitar, at least not yet. Should the boy continue to improve at the rate he was, however, that could soon change. Would soon change if Saldís had aught to say about it.
Mazir had successfully fended off his attackers until Hilliz arrived to separate the three, and all of them had been dragged before Saldís for judgment. Now, every Novice from Berúthiel House waited to see if Saldís would make good on her word. Waited to see if she was any different from the Six Lords and Hands who had never bothered to intervene in such matters.
The Novices of House Herumor, too, remained conspicuously silent, and to Saldís, it seemed they looked upon the two girls with displeasure. That, too, was cause for Saldís to act, for before this journey, they would not have cared.
To do as she'd said, to stake out this child in the desert for the serpents and sun to slay… Mahal.
You must do it, she told herself, feeling every bit the monster. This crime would add to the tally of every wretched thing Saldís had done. It should have felt a drop in a deep, deep well, but instead it felt heavier than all the rest put together.
All but the original Gondorians.
Just get it done. If she didn't see this Novice punished, the rest would never believe her again. 'Twas her word on the line, their trust of her, and if that was lost, she may as well abandon her efforts with these Novices altogether.
Saldís's focus at last returned to Ilhia. The fourteen year old looked painfully thin and vulnerable with her weapons stripped from her. The malicious superiority that had dominated her features when she'd ridiculed Mazir was gone as if it'd never been. Only now did she begin to question the wisdom of her actions.
"Novice Ilhia. You heard my rules. And you have broken them."
The girl darted a nervous look over her shoulder. Nay, a pleading look.
"You will be stripped to your tunic and staked out beneath the sun." Saldís forced the words from her lips, her gut clenching. As the franticly pleading face turned Saldís's way, Saldís hated herself all the more.
No choice, Akhora whispered.
No, there wasn't.
"Novice Mazir…" A disturbance. A reprieve. Saldís's head whipped up, and her hand to command silence while Mahris sprinted to the top of the nearest squat hill.
The fey smile of delight that beamed back at Saldís sent chills down her spine. "Why look. One of the little dwarves managed to escape again!"
Saldís reached the top of the small hill without touching ground, her heart slamming against her breastbone. She scanned the southern vista, ignoring Mahris's giggles. It cannot be. It can't.
It was.
She was going to kill him.
What in Durin's name was Finnin thinking? Or had he? Given the sight drawing nearer with each pound of the vein in her temple, the idea of her dwarf possessing any wits whatsoever was seriously in question.
The two travelers grew larger as the distance closed. Saldís's fury acquired fangs and barbed tail as she noted more details. Either her dwarf had pummeled himself black and blue—aye, even giving himself a split lip!—or he'd had his escort do it for him, and did that do wonders for her frothing temper.
Finnin's golden hair was a right mess, littered with twigs and weeds, his ragged clothes were filthy with dirt, and when he tripped in Anuon's emala's wake, she discovered why. The fool dwarf was dragged a good dozen paces before he managed to right himself once more and resume an exhausted, staggering run.
Just how long had the two played this game? And all for show! Finnin had hurt himself, let himself be dragged, just so that he had a viable story to enable him to rejoin her. She didn't know whether she more wished to throw her arms around the idiot and kiss him senseless or tear the beard from his face by painful fistfuls.
Not that either was currently an option.
"Make a path," she snapped, and the Novices scrambled to do just that. To Hilliz, who marched by her side through the Novice ranks, she permitted herself to express her anger, albeit in deceitful terms. "Whatever lack-wit was left in charge of my dwarves will wish himself never born by the time I am through with him. After all the effort I went through capturing them," she bit out, "one would think someone would ensure they remained captured."
Hilliz grunted in agreement.
Anuon slowed his emala, reaching the back of the Novice ranks the same time as Saldís and Hilliz. The Ranger permitted the animal to walk the final steps to her.
Before Anuon could utter a word, Saldís demanded, "What is the meaning of this, Ne-Anin?" And by Mahal, the Ranger had best give her clues as to how he intended to play this or she would drag him from his mount and punch him. "That dwarf is valuable property of the Duumvirate. Your actions do not reflect well upon House Vinuir."
Anuon didn't bat an eye. "Ib-Akhora. I'd been told by Ar-Aemazia of your return. How…fortuitous for House Sangahyando."
She bared her teeth at him, not yet willing to let go of her anger no matter how impressed she again found herself with the Rangers. Apprised of her return? All would assume Anuon one of the Weapons assigned to Mordor. Few would question if they did not recognize him. Prior to Caeldor's troops marching north, the city had been full to bursting with faces, too many for any to keep track of.
"House Vinuir?" Hilliz murmured.
"Served with me during a raid into Agar," she informed him, her focus never leaving the Ranger.
"Lately of Mordor," Anuon added. "At Ar-Cavendor's wish, I brought missives to Ar-Aemazia. Mordor had not heard of Tagan's death. Clearly, Cavendor was correct to question Caeldor's silence."
Well played again. Now all ears would suspect Tagan of hoarding information before his death. That might be of use at some point.
"I was returning to Mordor when my path crossed that of some missing property of yours," Anuon continued, yanking Finnin's lead rope for emphasis. Saldís knew the reason, yet by Durin a part of her longed to lash out as Finnin wavered on his feet. Ruse or not, Finnin was near to dropping where he stood, and Saldís's protective hackles rose.
By Mahal, her warrior looked wretched. One of his Tane-blue eyes was black and puffy, almost completely sealed shut. Blood, sweat and dirt matted his bruised jaw and hands, and his bare chest…
His bare chest. A chest utterly free of one important feature.
Where was the scar?
The oddity threw her, for she remembered clearly tracing fingers across the mark in the vision, wondering that he'd survived its gifting. Where was the thrice-accursed scar? How could it not be there? It had to be there. The vision had been so clear…
She stared too long, for Hilliz shifted closer. "Ib-Akhora?"
Finnin's body tensed, she had no idea why, but his hale eye narrowed on the Weapon.
Saldís tore her attention from her dwarf and his glaringly absent scar and placed it back on Anuon. "Take him back to Caeldor." She didn't glance towards Finnin as she partially turned, intending to walk back to the head of her troops. "Tell Ar-Aemazia I want the head of the fool who permitted his escape."
"No."
"No?" She jerked back around. Did Anuon not understand how unbelievably reckless he was being? He and Finnin both?
Anuon smirked, true amusement lurking in his brown eyes. "I am commanded back to Mordor. My duties do not permit me time to retrace my steps, and to be quite frank, Caeldor has failed to guard our dwarf resources twice now. Lord Cavendor would not take well to hearing I escorted one of them back to the land that keeps losing them when I could have brought the dwarf where he could be best utilized."
Mahal. They were mad. Infernally, stubbornly mad, the both of them.
"You overstep yourself, Ne-Anin," Hilliz interjected with quiet threat.
Anuon, to his credit, did not flinch. With a smile lacking any amusement, he sallied, "I endeavor to save my own skin, Weapons-Master. If you wish to explain matters to the Dark Lord, be my guest."
And that, Saldís thought, ended that. None would do aught differently in "Ne-Anin's" shoes.
Confound it.
With little grace, she directed to Hilliz, "Tie up the dwarf with the other prisoner. And Hilliz? Don't damage him."
A short nod, and the man collected Finnin's lead. He marched off without a backward glance, Finnin perforce stumbling behind, and when the dwarf passed her, his fingers moved. *Bâhzundushuh.*
Their eyes locked in a stolen and (Mahal) tangible caress. As soon as it happened, it was over, and she was returned to the present.
Shaken. Grateful. 'Twas as if that meeting of the eyes was akin to the sinking of a iron stake deep into a mountainside, and a world she hadn't even realized had been teetering wildly stabilized beneath her feet.
She stepped to Anuon's emala. With one finger pointed downward, she ordered him from his saddle. "Start talking," she whispered when he complied, carefully maintaining the illusion of a quiet dressing-down.
"Berenor and Calenor were given to Ib-Lohrzor. He takes them to Mordor by another route."
Of all the words she'd expected to emerge from his lips, those ranked last.
"Caeldor is no more. We succeeded, Saldís. Nori has the slaves, Breeders, and young Novices holed up in Dol Hamoth."
She blinked, shook her head. How…?
It didn't matter. The magnitude of their victory staggered her, and she breathed it in deeply. 'Twas exquisite news, and it felt a lodestone slid off her shoulders, leaving her almost giddy. "Losses?"
"Himon. Medlinor won't be fighting anytime soon, nor will Kai."
Mahal. Sorrow tainted the victory, turning it bittersweet, indeed. "Is that why Barhador permitted you to do this?"
A pause, and she knew, just knew, she would not like what next was said. "Barhador is dead, Saldís. I am sorry," he added when her eyes closed.
Durin's beard, she'd scarce had the chance to get to know the man. The loss burned her throat, and she fought the sensation back. 'Twas not the place or time. "Adâd? Has there been word?"
"Nothing." Then with gentleness, "Barhador died to save Novice Yahzin from Tagan."
"Barhador killed them?" she whispered, eyes flying to Anuon's.
"With help. Yahzin finished Tagan." Somber brown eyes met hers. "Thannor has adopted Yahzin into his family. He pursues Berenor, trusting you with his new daughter."
Orc spit. Aye, and she would not fail him. After a short shake, she asked, "Do you stay with us? Or are you finished, having delivered Finnin here?" It would not surprise her should he decide to head out and join Thannor. Berenor was his nephew.
He eyed her steadily. "I go with you."
She had the feeling the Ranger knew exactly how relieved she was to hear it. Six days left.
The moment she again stood before her Novices, the instant she stared into their faces, Saldís's voice left her. The responsibility of these young lives punched home anew, and the bizarre sense of shifting ground beneath her feet returned.
A thought: these Novices had no home to go back to. Either she won them, or Mordor would have them.
Among all the dozens of young faces, it was Yahzin's she found. Yahzin, with the single dent between her eyebrows, her green eyes conveying both a fierce hope and deep despair. 'Twas like looking upon her younger self.
I came to save you, Saldís's own voice repeated in her mind. Save all of you. A flick, and Ilhia's diminutive form filled her vision.
'Twas then the veil was ripped from her eyes, sending alternating hot and cold flashes through her body. Clearer eyes suddenly beheld what jaded past had obscured, and by Durin, it laid waste to her soul. A flash of insight, like lighting arcing across the skies: Saldís had been manipulated.
Masterfully.
Imperceptibly.
So subtly, she hadn't even recognized it.
Oh, well played, she whispered to her inner nemesis. Very well played. Unable to topple Saldís from control by force, her dark side had opted for a new route, one Saldís hadn't even considered being too busy with other pressing matters.
Matter such as Caeldor. Novices. Mordor. Aye, Saldís had been much distracted—rightfully so—and Akhora had capitalized upon it. Now she well understood that sense of calculation she'd pick up on, but at the time, she'd dismissed it, too consumed with other worries.
A mistake, and a big one.
Mahal. If not for the proof before her, it would be tempting to dismiss the entire notion as an overactive imagination. She little wanted to believe herself so susceptible to such meddling.
But there stood Ilhia. Before Finnin and Anuon's arrival, Akhora's sly insults and oh-so-pragmatic comments—so akin to how she…they (by Mahal 'twas confusing)…had operated for decades—had seemed right. Sacrifice one Novice to save the others. What could be more reasonable?
As if that one life had no value.
A burst of self-directed condemnation, a spear of grief. Was not Saldís the guiltier party betwixt the twain of them? Ilhia might have intended to take a life; Saldís had succeeded too often in her miserable past. Who then was the more deserving of death?
Where are you, Adâd? I need you to be here.
Uncaring of the eyes upon her, Saldís pinched the bridge of her nose. I came to save you, she'd professed. Then what about Ilhia? Could any good flow out of an act of evil? Executing a child?
Berúthiel's wretched cats. A sly nudge here, a dry comment there, and Saldís had returned to old habits as if she'd never left them. A duck returning to water.
If Finnin had not come for her, she would have done it. She'd have hated it and herself—had she not been warding herself for this new burden of guilt?—but she'd have done it. She'd have taken that first step that doubtless Akhora intended to to be one of many, each inching her closer to becoming again the commander she'd once been.
She distantly wondered how that might have unfolded. Would those compromises have resulted in Saldís becoming so much like Akhora that the two of them merged into one, only this time without a Saldís-self buried deep to preserve her conscience?
"Ib-Akhora?" Hilliz, his voice quiet, cautious.
"Aw, are we breaking under the strain? The great Akhora?" Mahris's high-pitched cackles skittered down her spine like hordes of fire ants.
Saldís dropped her hand and faced her Novices. She firmed her resolve. Wallowing in self-disgust helped no one but Akhora.
So. Her inner enemy had a new game to play. 'Twas better Saldís recognized it now than after she'd been convinced to make more compromises in the name of "right". She was not so foolish not to realize Akhora would have a wealth of opportunities to present her with such compromises once they set foot—if they set foot—in Mordor.
'Twas a peril she could not afford to underestimate. In it, Akhora had struck gold, for Saldís's own fierce desire to see the Black Númenóreans fall—aye, and Mordor—would betray her. Tempt her.
But with another flick of the eye to Finnin, then Anuon, she thought, But I don't stand alone, do I? What was it her adâd had said? About being stronger together? Of sharing the burdens? Adâd might not be there, but Finnin and Anuon were.
Her spine straightened. Her shoulders drew back. You underestimate them, she told her dark side. Saldís need only alert the two males to this new assault, and they would aid her. If she could not trust the thoughts in her head, she would listen instead to theirs.
Akhora was conspicuous in her silence. No threats. No insults. A sure sign the harpy was not defeated. There would be more assaults to come. Saldís was sure of it.
She dismissed the matter. At present, she had a more urgent quandary to address.
Starting slowly, testing her way, she spoke to her Novices. "When we began, I told you my rules. I assigned each of you a partner, and I shared with you why we must change."
From yards away, 'twas evident Anuon listened by the tilt of his head as he cared for his emala. When she finished her statement, he turned to face her in full.
"I told you that betraying confidences between partners would no longer be tolerated. That what happened to one had better happen to the other, or the Novice failing his partner would face my wrath. I swore to leave the Novice to fail me to the serpents. I was wrong."
Ripples of shock worked their way through the ranks. Aye, and understandably so. Saldís doubted any had ever apologized to these children before.
She again found Yahzin and decided her course. "In essence," she said directly to the girl, "I was offering you, each of you, my sword. If you fought for me, then by my soul, I'd do right by you in return. I would do my utmost to protect you."
The crease between the girl's eyebrows disappeared. She nodded slowly.
Good. Message received. Whatever doubts Saldís's earlier words had planted, they were assuaged.
As the last time she'd addressed them, Saldís walked among the Novices, gaze touching each, seeing them and letting them know it. She abruptly stopped near their center. "My companions," she said, and many startled at the term she'd chosen, "I have a dilemma. Since the time you were taken from the nursery and a sword thrust in your hand, you were taught one thing alone: advancement. You learned that to survive, you must betray before you were betrayed. There was none you could trust, for each vied for the same prize—the illusive advancement that would mean your security. Safety from the older Arcanists and Weapons who would humiliate or harm you for their amusement. Safety from the altars and the Breeders' Den."
A few shallow nods, nods she returned gravely. "I know it, too. I've lived it."
She walked, zig-zagging through their lines towards the rear. A pivot, a sideways glance that permitted her to see her dwarf in full—why the dwarf wore a wee smile, she intended to one day ask—and she retraced her steps. "What I have asked must seem impossible to some of you. No," she corrected, "utter insanity."
A lifted arm to gesture. "Ilhia, for one. What should I do, my companions, to teach you a better way? To show you that the real strength lies not in the quiet knife in the back but in numbers. If a foe takes you down, and you have no true companions, who is there to aid you back to your feet?"
"No one."
All startled at Yahzin's bold answer. Saldís smiled at her, likely the first genuine smile the children had ever seen, one devoid of cruelty or malice. (The realization wilted it right quickly, too.)
"No one," she agreed. A deep inhalation, and Saldís pressed onward. "I cannot teach you a new way by violence. Loyalty and trust cannot be forced. It is a gift, given or withheld, and it lies entirely in your control. You can grant it to me or not. You can extend it to your partner or not. But without it, you stand alone. And one day, you will fall alone."
She dragged fingers through her hair, again surprising them by showing emotion so freely. "So I ask you. Do you learn how to become a unit by me staking out this Novice as I'd threatened? Or do I simply underscore all the hard lessons you've learned? By doing so, you would believe me no different from the Hands, the Six Lords or every cowardly wretch bearing more earrings than you." A pause. "And you'd be right."
By Mahal, they looked big-eyed. 'Twas actually rather endearing. And amusing. When her gaze crossed Anuon's the Ranger winked.
"If I execute a child—I care not how talented she believes herself—then I am no different, and you are right not to trust me."
Such silence descended. One could hear the hollow song of the wind as it rushed in spurts between the hills and spindly bushes, the caw of the large blackbirds that reigned these skies.
"But I cannot waste time, for we do not have any to spare. You may decide the mercy I am about to offer worse than the alternative." More briskly. "Novices Ilhia and Sverra made their choice when they broke faith with Mazir. They prefer games and backstabbing, so they have no place among my troops."
Finding each of the girls, she said, "Gather your gear. All of it. You will load up your emala and wait behind Ne-Hilliz. Mahris? You, too."
Mahris's head whipped around, eyes narrowed.
Hilliz eased closer. "Is that wise, Ib-Akhora?" he asked in a tight voice.
Saldís considered the man, assessing his frame of mind. What she'd just said to the Novice could well have turned him against her. At last, she said, "They will disrupt all Ar-Aemazia wished me to do. They must leave. Tell me, Ne-Hilliz, who should I send with them? Who will the Novices more respect and heed? Mahris? Or Ne-Anin, whom they do not know?"
"Point." He subsided, arms behind his back. Mahris, in a lightning-quick switch of moods, nodded briskly, pivoted on one foot, and marched off, her stride purposeful and…sane.
When the girls departed to do as commanded, Saldís spoke to the others. "I offer one last chance. Any more of you who do not like what I am doing and wish to leave, gather your gear. If you cannot trust and prefer not to, it will not be held against you, but you cannot stay."
"Where are they going?" The boy speaking, distinct for his long fall of sleek black hair such as many a maid would envy, crossed his arms before his chest. 'Twas not anger she read on his face but wariness.
"The same place as we, Gylmal: Mordor. They will merely be traveling separately," Saldís said.
That seemed to mollify him. Truly, a number looked happier, but as she waited for the Novices to choose their destiny, one, then two peeled away to collect his—or her—belongings. With each, she felt a pang, for she knew the dark future before them. Where they went, there would be no Saldís attempting to redeem them so that they would never set foot in Mordor.
Nay, these would end up in that dark land with none to trust. None to care when it was no longer just Weapons and Arcanists likely out for them, but orcs and wargs. Orcs, she knew, had a taste for man-flesh, and if Sauron's armies were anything like she imagined, the small group defecting her ranks before her eyes would soon discover a new kind of horror.
The Houses had not protected them from one another. She didn't believe they'd do a thing against Sauron's other creatures.
In the end, eighteen departed, and Saldís let them go. One hundred and eight remained, one hundred and eight who dared to think different thoughts, consider different ways.
So be it.
