Blood, red and black, had given way to legions of wildflowers over Pelannor Fields. Purple and blue, gold and white, they rushed across the land through the divots and over the rises in land that Edwyn had once flown his horse over, on a mad charge towards the triumph of heroic death. The Orcs had braced their spears and pikes, not realizing that Rohan no longer cared, that the first line of Riders were eager to break themselves on a bristling wall of Orcflesh so long as it meant cracking that wall just enough for the rest of the Riders to maul their way through. Edwyn closed his eyes, able to conjure it still: the pounding of hooves, the unearthly screeching of his comrades as they rode down, the ringing of his sword as it severed Orcish mail and boiled leather plate, then flesh and bone. Beneath him, his horse fussed and pranced, sensing the tension that suddenly gripped through Edwyn's thighs, as if Edwyn's own ghost was still on the field and had seeped into Edwyn's living flesh, and the ghost's sword arm still swung, the ghost's tongue still caught iron-salt sprays of blood on its tip, the ghost's heart still shuddered for the joy of death and slaughter.
Yet in all the rush and blur of battle, the ghost never forgot to glance to the right, where Finnan was throwing himself into the melee, eyes glowing rage-blue behind his tasseled helm—
Edwyn aborted the ghost's thought immediately. "You never knew him!" he declared aloud, and the horse whickered and stamped the earth. "Do you want to?" he teased, running a gloved hand over the animal's thickly muscled neck. It wasn't just flowers in the fields. Men were everywhere, now that Edwyn no longer saw warrior ghosts, everywhere building like in Birchleigh, a cacophony of hammering and yelling, sawing and singing spreading out from the brilliant white City of Minas Tirith, the World of Men expanding upon itself, life giving way to more life. The open field was encroached, its boundaries defiled, its wildness giving way to the piling of lumber and the hustle of boots.
The horse whinnied and stomped and tossed its proud head. A warm summer wind buffeted Edwyn's face, and slowly, he smiled his languid, careless smile and told the animal, "Ah, well, they'll get out of our way I suppose!" and without so much as touching spur to flesh, the horse charged into a gallop, putting terror to the ground as men shouted curses and jumped from the nobleman's furious assault towards the city walls. He was met not with a forest of carnage and spikes to break this charge, but an ignoble clumping line of impatient denizens, melting in the warm sun as they piled at the city gates, waiting with carts of felted wool and baskets of eggs, goose girls and flirting tradesmen, and all manner of Mannish travelers, even a brace of dwarves come out of their mountain mines. "Ho!" Edwyn cried, reining in the frothing horse, who, perhaps to protest the interruption or just to taunt the crowd, reared back on its hind legs and cried out its outrage.
Edwyn laughed at his horse, slapping its neck affectionately as the beast tossed its head and snorted. Impatient now, he gave an unwelcoming eye to the line of commons, but then at his back, a man cried out, "This way, m'lord of Rohan! This way into the city!"
"Ah," Edwyn sighed in relief, wheeling his mount about. A much smaller gate swung open for him, and the constable's man stepped forward with a curt bow.
"Welcome, m'lord, to Minas Tirath. You're not the first to arrive, but you're a bit early still, the muster's not for some weeks yet. You may find lodging in any number of fine establishments on the Fourth Level. Do your men wait without?"
"Sir? I've no men with me, I've come to see the King. I've a message to give him."
"See the King, m'lord? We do not expect the King for another two weeks, he's gone to seek counsel with Lord Elrond…"
Of course, Edwyn thought, frustrated. He set a hand on his hip, a pretty scowl on his face as he thought. "Who reigns in his place? I bring urgent news of activities in Dunland, which will be of great import to His Majesty."
"That'd be the Queen, m'lord. Court is opened to the public in the afternoons, but noblemen without the proper letters of introduction may bring petitions or concerns to the council in the morning, and if they deem proper, audience will be granted at Her Majesty's pleasure."
"That suffices," Edwyn said, looking down on the man from his horse. "Thank you for your assistance, sir."
"M'lord," the constable said, bowing and stepping back as Edwyn rode in. "You'll find some of your countrymen at the Dragonstooth Inn, I believe. Those awaiting the muster, and those still in the city after Commander Adanaer's return from the Ash Mountains."
Edwyn halted his horse. He drew a breath, hoping to evict his heart from its sudden, unauthorized tenancy in his throat. Once in satisfactory command of himself, he glanced over his shoulder. "Returned, you say? From the scourging of Orcs?"
"Aye, only about a week past."
"Is that the entirety of the Southern Command?"
"It is, my lord. A successful mission, when considered in the whole-part."
Carefully, Edwyn gave a bob of his head, then he turned about again, and nudged his horse into a trot, wondering how he could help himself from galloping the whole way through the city.
The Dragonstooth was a larger establishment of white stone, jutting out at an angle from the mountainside at the end of a road, rising high enough for two stories of guestrooms above the main tavern hall. Near two dozen horses stood placidly out front, but Edwyn didn't recognize any of them. He might not be here, Edwyn thought. He might be on the road for home, he might be in another establishment, and what should I say to him besides?
The mission's most important, he reminded himself; if he met him, he'd speak to Finnan just as he'd speak to the Queen, about this chief, Cormick, the better to discern the Dunlending's intentions. The rest… well, there was nothing else to say, and more likely than not, Finnan would not, perhaps could not, say anything in return even if Edwyn tried to put his feelings into words.
He tied his horse and entered the establishment, taking a room and sending the boy out to retrieve his saddlebags, bring them to his room. And then he looked about, seeing faces plenty, but not the one he longed for and dreaded at once.
"Kinsman!" came the deep-voiced call from a corner of the tavern.
Edwyn raised his eyes to the giant who hailed him, his long beard braided into a red-gold rope hanging over an oxhide jerkin. He had a half-dozen Rohirrim with him, none overly strange nor preciously, fearfully familiar. After making a cursory glance about the tavern, Edwyn joined their company.
"I know that crest," the big man said, nodding at the gold sigil clasping Edwyn's cloak as he pulled a chair out, "You're the Lord of Eaglecrest Mountain?"
"You describe my father, friend," Edwyn said, taking a seat, nodding up to the tavern girl who was on him in a moment. "Sausage, bread, ale," Edwyn told her.
"Edric the Tall lives, eh?" another said, laughing with pleasure, "What's he, one hundred and eighty now, if he's a day?"
Edwyn laughed. "Must be seventy, but don't ever tell him. I hold half of his villages now, but you'd never know it, he still orders it all as he pleases, to the horror of my steward. My name is Edwyn."
"I'm Aethelwulf, Lord of Smokeridge, this is my brother Alfred. This big bastard is Caedda, fat man is Harold—"
"Fat man, he says!"
"Fat man," Alfred confirmed.
Aethelwulf grinned, then introduced the lords Wigmund and Eormond. All of them weather-worn and hard eyed, all of them from the southern and western edges of Rohan, all of them ruling lands battered and burned by Saruman's treachery.
"Would you be interested in riding north, Lord Edwyn?" Alfred asked. "I think the heir of Eaglecrest Mountain could have his pick of assignments, if you've a mind for adventure."
"North? Do you mean with the Osgiliath Command?"
"No," Alfred said, grinning, leaning forward in conspiracy. "Far, far north. It's all very hush-hush with these Gondor Men, but my cousin serves in our good King Eomer's train, and he tells me King Eomer's had word from King Elessar's council about some great to-do with an Uruk-hai who's claimed the Angmar region for himself and his legion of Orcs. Word is, he's possessed of the fire that breaks stone, and he ran a raid on Osgiliath some months back, though it shamed the Gondor folk and they've tried to keep it quiet. As I hear it, King Elessar's gone to take council of the Elven Lord in Rivendale, on how best to defeat this upstart Uruk-hai who works magic and fancies himself a King of the Orcs!"
"This bastard's letter was read in a closed court proceeding last winter," Aethelwulf added. "Told the King of Men to keep to his own damn side of the world!"
They fell silent as the tavern maid set down Edwyn's meal. Once she was gone, Edwyn asked, "What does he want?"
"Same as they all want," Aethelwulf grunted. "What matter, that? We'll go north and do murder to him and his band of Orc swine, and that'll be the end of it. Can't be any tougher than that Ash mountain rabble!"
"This one's Uruk-hai," Ceadda said, scowling. "Got military discipline, Mannish blood, and if the reports are true, sorcery. Big brass balls into the mix, speaking to the King of Men as he did."
"Big stallions bleed more when gelded," chuckled Harold.
"Quiet, the solicitors are coming," Alfred said, and after a great deal of conspicuous throat-clearing and chair shuffling, the group sat as tall and still and innocent as trees.
Edwyn held his churning tongue, and glanced discretely aside to see a pack of pale men in clerkish black, leather folios in arms, taking a seat at a nearby table.
"King Eomer's not best pleased with that," Alfred told Edwyn. "Seems King Elessar's tasked them with reworking the law. Something about bringing the entire realm into uniformity. That's no good for any of us, how else is a lord to rule but with his judgment, and the precedent of his ancestors?"
"How else should it be?" Edwyn asked.
"If it were up to them," Alfred said, tossing his chin towards the solicitors, "This abstraction called 'The Law' would be King, and all lords bound to serve and obey. They think we don't know, but down at the Red Door Inn on the second level, they've arguments into the night on whether or not men should be able to hold land in socage, without being bonded in service to he whose ancestors paid the novel fee, and whether or not the Law should hold the same for a peasant woman as a great lord!"
"In socage," Edwyn murmured, turning more fully to openly regard the men who even now, gesticulated and whispered furiously at each other, animated by some hidden passion. But it was not the manners of landholding that bit and held in Edwyn's mind, but the concept of one law, which might apply to any person… or perhaps, to anyone at all? They'd never, he thought. Never accept it. A Man who struck down Maukurz, if encountering Maukurz while he hunted or set his traps, would never be charged with murder, but hailed a hero. Edwyn pushed it aside, then turned back to the other thing eating at him. "You had service in the Ash Mountains, my lords. Was Lord Birchleigh with you? I'm presently handling his matters of estate, and I've news and messages for him."
"Birchleigh…" Alfred mused.
"You know him," Ceadda returned, "Wasn't The Birchleigh yet, when he won honor at Helm's Deep, that quiet one who never joined in the roistering at night, but was always first into the charge in the morning."
"That'd be him," Edwyn said, forcing obedience from his heart, from his constricting throat.
"Youngish fellow, newly made his lordship, that's it," Alfred agreed. "No, haven't seen him since we were encamped on the lava flats. Most of them with us headed straight home with their tenants, like as not to beat the heat before the harvest."
Edwyn nodded. "Pity," he murmured absently. Inwardly, he tried to retrace his gallop down from Birchleigh, a fair long enough journey, but not one where he'd encountered many travelers. The thundering heart checked; froze. Seized. "You had an easy time of it, then. Many casualties?"
"Eh, not so many. They've casualty rolls coming soon, Commander Adanaer's the one you'd want to see. Are you well, my lord? You've gone pale."
"Perfectly well," Edwyn said, giving a smile fit for court. "Ale's not strong enough for me, let's have another."
"Madame," Edwyn said, not daring to raise his eyes, "I do not know the use for these items, but the Dunlending's industry with them is great. And while their custom has always been to quarrel and raid… this was extermination. This man, this Cormick, he has designs. I've not been able to penetrate his mind—how could I?—but my instincts tell me he means some evil. Many of our Riders have gone off to scourge Orcs, and if I understand matters correctly, more still will join this mission. I fear there will be insufficient aid, should I require it… in Birchleigh."
There was a moment of silence, of potential, as if the Queen had parted her lips to speak, but found the words untimely formed.
"You are gravely burdened, Lord Edwyn," she finally said, her voice a deep and rich melody that wrapped around his body. "You do right to come to me."
Edwyn sighed. Nodded. "I should have gone first to my king, for the protection of… the land within my care… and yet this Man has Osgiliath as a client for provision. I hoped King Elessar might turn his eyes to the matter… and I feared that perhaps, such a confusing presentation might suggest a larger concern, beyond the bounds of Birchleigh."
"Let me see your face, my lord."
Slowly, Edwyn looked up. She was magnificent. Hair of the blackest ink, half up, half down in careful ringlets to frame skin softer and whiter than milk. Her eyes held all of the glory of the star-studded night. There was no more perfect creature in the world, Edwyn thought, but her power was beyond mere beauty. A soft smile touched her rose-petal mouth, and the sense spread through him that all would be well. Alive, dead, no matter, all was peace beyond the murky veil of Man's perception.
And yet… I let him go. I could not throw the line. I watched him drown.
"And what does your heart tell you, dear Edwyn?"
"It is… a foolish, selfish, fallible heart, Madame. I dare not consult it, not for this grave matter, nor any other."
"And I say it is a true heart…" she breathed, sudden tears in her eyes, as if their conversation had gone a thousand miles from Birchleigh, as if his pain was her own.
He had to break away from her. Look down to the marble bench upon which he sat, to the indigo flowers on vines, curling around the legs of the marble, curling at his feet. He shook his head slowly. Desperate, he forced his mind to Cormick's camp. To the wagons piled high with yellow cakes torn from the earth, to mountains of charcoal beneath thick clouds of black smoke. "I say that whatever this Cormick is about, it is grand in scale."
Edwyn fell silent. For some reason, his mind traced back to the Dragonstooth Inn. Why, he wondered. Why?
"My Queen… May I ask you something?"
"You may."
"I heard talk of an Uruk-hai, who's claimed territory for his own. It's said he possesses the fire that breaks stone. How is that known?"
"He employed it in an attack."
"On Osgiliath," Edwyn said, still staring at his feet, although he no longer saw the tapestry of green and white and blue. "How did he enter Osgiliath? He must have had some aid? Was it this Cormick fellow?"
In her silence, there was knowledge, knowledge she would not share with him. But when he looked up at Queen Arwen, her endless blue eyes were wide with connection, and understanding.
"I must send a messenger," she said, and she rose. It was dismissal, and Edwyn stood as well, before performing a deep bow.
"My Queen," he murmured.
"Rise, Lord Edwyn," she said, and her voice was like a song. "You must rise now. You must learn to trust your heart, and be fearless in taking its instruction."
"Madame," Edwyn whispered, bowing again.
The next morning, Commander Adanaer's list was produced, and Finnan, Lord Birchleigh, was listed as missing in action, presumed killed.