Elrond Half-Elven watched from the shelter of his front hall, standing with arms folded as the Ever Victorious Army passed beneath his view.

It had come, the darkness he had feared for and watched for ever since the days of the Last Alliance; Mordor was again grown strong and Sauron the Enemy stretching forth his hand upon the world. The courage of Gil-galad, and Elendil, and the tragic Isildur—for tragedy it was; he had been so strong in his weakness or perhaps weak in his strength; even after all these years, Elrond was unsure—together had barely been enough last time to drive back the dark, and this time, they had no such heroes. There would never again be an alliance of Men and Elves like that last one. His people's time in Middle-Earth was drawing to a close. All they had now, in place of the heroes of the Second Age, were Aragorn—his brows contracted slightly at the thought—the broken shards of Narsil, a hobbit, a handful of dwarves….and, now, these Seanchan.

He did not know if it would be enough.

He did not quite know what to make of these Seanchan; he had never seen anything like them before in all the days of his long life. They were settling into position at the entrance to Rivendell as he watched, the home that he had spent his life building; the fields were dark with the lacquered and painted armor of the soldiers and officers, the air ringing with the shouts and calls of these mortals to each other. Strange creatures the likes of which he had never seen before flew and hopped among them, and stranger still, women in cages, wearing silver collars around their necks, guarded by other women wearing dresses with inset panels of red and forked lightning. He disliked those women on sight; something about them disturbed him, though he could not say what it was.

He turned now to Mithrandir, standing beside him and watching silently as well. "What are you thinking, old friend?" he asked quietly.

Gandalf said nothing for a time, standing and watching the wave after wave of humanity flow past and eddy around the small hill occupied by the house. Already the Seanchan had begun digging in, fortifying their positions, going to work with shovels and spades to create a ditch around their campsite, erecting tents in neat square blocks…it was unsettling to see the swiftly efficient way they went to work, almost as if some greater intelligence were directing them, the various parts working together in perfect coordination….as if the whole army beneath them were one great beast, perhaps, directed by a single mind. Elrond found that he did not much care for the cavalier way they treated the land and earth which he had spent so much of his life protecting and defending; indeed, it was almost painful to watch the methodical, ruthless way in which they were altering it. He experienced a brief moment of gladness, tempered with the pain that the thought of his wife always brought, that Celebrian was not here to behold this; she would have wept, he knew, to see it. Who were these Seanchan to come and trench and heap the earth like this, molding it and shaping it to their will, surrounding his house like a forest, more and more of them with each successive day? Of course, he reflected, he had nobody but himself to blame; he had accepted the help of this High Lady Suroth and had agreed to allow them to establish a—a—"staging area," she had called it, here.

He simply had not, he thought, fully understood the magnitude of what he was agreeing to.

With a sigh, Elrond turned his attention back to his companion.

At length, Mithrandir spoke, resting his eyes on the cages of women being unloaded. His first words echoed what Elrond had been thinking to himself. "These Seanchan….I find them unsettling, old friend," he admitted slowly. "They—they seem unlike any sort of people I have encountered in my time on this earth, and I do not know exactly how to take them." It was very rare indeed that Mithrandir admitted to any sort of uncertainty, and Elrond could hear the undercurrents of frustration in his tone.

"Do you sense the Shadow in them?" he asked quietly, moving closer to the wizard to ensure that their words would be heard by none but each other—although there was little risk of them carrying; even within the hall, the noise of the Seanchan as they set up their camp was such that they would probably not be heard even if they shouted.

"No….no," Mithrandir said slowly, shaking his head. "Not the Shadow, not as such….although there is something about their leader, the High Lady Suroth—" He fell silent again. "But whatever darkness she carries within her, if darkness it be, it is not like the Shadow we know of. I detect no touch of Sauron on them. All the same, I would advise caution, my friend," he said, shaking his head. "They are unlike to us in the strongest sense of the word, and though they may not mean to play us false…."

"Is it safe to accept their help, do you think?"

Mithrandir gave a grim laugh. "We have little choice. Mordor is strong and we are weak; we can ill afford to turn down any aid which might present itself. And I will say this: I feel that they will not betray us to the Enemy."

Elrond nodded; he had felt the same, that they must take their aid wherever it was offered. Moreover, he trusted the Istari's perceptions implicitly. If Mithrandir said that these strange ones would not betray them, then it was almost certainly the case. "All the same, I find them….unsettling."

"As do I. As do I."

For a moment, the two friends were silent, watching the activity around and in front of them; teams of Seanchan were working almost directly under their eyes, laying a sturdy-looking broad plank bridge with economical speed across a branch of the South Fork of the Bruinen river. The determined, efficient way in which this task was being accomplished brushed Elrond's heart with a chill, though he did not reveal it. At length, Elrond said to Mithrandir, "Do you think it was wise to tell High Lady Suroth about….Isildur's Bane?"

Mithrandir sighed now, lowering his head. "I could see no way to keep it from her. And besides, if these Seanchan are to be our allies, then they must know all that we know. But did you see her reaction when I spoke to her of it?" he asked now, turning and looking at Elrond. The other shook his head.

Mithrandir shrugged. "It was as if she had never heard of it, had never heard of the last War of the Ring; as if she had heard not of Sauron or Morgoth, or the forging of the Rings of Power, of Isildur….As a daughter of Men, of course, she could not have been alive during those events, yet still I had thought the tales of that time had spread through all the races of Men….

Elrond frowned slightly, unaware of it. "Strange."

"Indeed. And furthermore she seemed not at all afraid or worried, either of the Ring or of Sauron; she simply began asking me coolly for information, as if—almost as if diagnosing a—a mistake of some kind that she would correct by-and-by. I don't—"

"There you are."

Mithrandir broke off as the characteristic strangely-slurred speech of the Seanchan fell in their ears; they both turned to see the approach of the High Lady Suroth, surrounded by members of her retinue, her bootheels ringing on the stone floor. When Elrond had first seen her, he had instantly considered her to be one of the strangest-looking humans he had ever seen in his long life, and now saw no reason to change that opinion. She was dressed in armor of overlapping plates, painted black and outlined in gold, her insectile helmet under one arm; at her back were two long blades, the hilts protruding up past her shoulders. Her dark hair was shaved on either side of her head, leaving only a stripe down the middle, and the nails on the first two fingers of her hands were an inch long, and lacquered in blue. She moved with an incredibly calm, incredibly self-possessed air the likes of which he had never beheld in any human, and looked on all she surveyed from behind half-lowered lids, as if there were nothing in the world that could dismay her or disturb that cool detachment. She turned that cool look upon him now, watching him watch her approach and her army. "Behold," she said calmly, gesturing toward the window. "The Ever Victorious Army, at the bidding of the Crystal Throne of Seanchan, has come to your aid, Elrond of the Others. Seventy thousand swords, with six hundred damane and five full flights of raken and to'raken, along with companies of grolm, torm, corlm and lopar. Of course," she added with a smile, "the six hundred damane count at least as another ten thousand soldiers. At least. And more to come, should it be required, should the message be sent to the Empress of Seanchan, may the Light shine upon her and may she live forever. Will it be enough, do you think?"

She said the last with a sort of calm smile, as if she had no doubts that it would be enough—indeed, as if nobody could have any doubts, upon viewing her army. And though this Ever Victorious Army was large indeed, and impressive, and moved with—a coordination, his mind put it—that he had not seen before, Elrond had beheld the last War of the Ring. He said only, "We will see."

High Lady Suroth arched one dark brow at him, as if to say that even to doubt their army was cause enough to question the sanity of the speaker. After a moment, she said, "When will this council meeting be held, about this ring of yours?"

This ring of yours… Carefully keeping his tone level, he replied, "This afternoon."

"I will be there." Without so much as another word, High Lady Suroth turned and walked off, her retinue following behind her.


The sounds of their army drifted in through the windows open to catch the summer breeze, following Elrond as he paced down the hall, then turned to step through an archway into a small interior courtyard. Within the walls of the interior courtyard, they were not absent, but muted to a point where they could be ignored; Elrond spared a moment to enjoy the relief.

Arwen his daughter was seated there on a low stone bench by the fountain, deep in conversation with Aragorn, her betrothed. For a moment Elrond said nothing, remaining silently in the archway and simply watching the two of them. Arwen, Arwen, he thought to himself, you do not know how beautiful you are, how much you mean to me….how will I live when you are gone? And then, underneath that thought, Was it my blood that doomed you to this?

She looked so like her mother, he mused to himself as he watched her, sitting there on the stone, as fair as her mother had been in the days so long ago when he had first taken her to wife. The love of his daughter, the knowledge that she was depending on him and required his protection, had been one of the few things that had enabled him to endure once Celebrian had departed the shores of Middle-Earth to cross the sea five hundred years ago; of course, he knew that one day he would clasp his wife in his arms again, but that was cold comfort on the days when the pain of her absence ached like an amputation. As the time remaining to him in Middle-Earth drew to a close—as the time of his departure drew increasingly imminent—he had anticipated the reunion more and more greatly; the land of Middle-Earth seemed a torment to him and he was impatient to be gone. Then had come this. Was he to gain his wife again after a temporary absence, only to lose his daughter forever? And for what part of this could he be fairly blamed? He gave a small sigh, unheard by the two lovers sitting together.

At least, he mused to himself dimly, if he was to lose his daughter forever, it would be to the king of both Gondor and Arnor. He could do that much for his daughter, though he could do nothing else for her.

Arwen looked up from her speech and rose, going to embrace him. "Father," she said warmly as she put her arms around him. Elrond held her for a moment, wishing vaguely that he could hold her so forever; of course that was impossible. He summoned up a smile for her; one that fell as Aragorn rose too behind her. He had come to terms with his daughter's choice, really he had, or at least so he kept telling himself; however, that did not mean he had to like it. Arwen noticed his suddenly changed expression.

"Are you well, Father?" she inquired earnestly. "I know that you have been dealing with the Seanchan—Elladan and Elrohir have told me how strange these Seanchan are—is there anything I can do to aid you?"

He shook his head, smiling slightly again for her. "No, I assure you that you need not be concerned for me, daughter. The situation is well in hand. I need to speak with your betrothed at this time—" he managed to say that easily enough "—regarding the council later today. If I might impose upon you for a moment of his time…."

"Of course," she said, smiling back at him. With a slight bow to her father and her betrothed, Arwen turned and left the two of them together. The males watched her go.

"I worry about her," Aragorn murmured as if to himself. Elrond turned and looked at him in surprise.

"You do?"

Aragorn glanced at him. "Among these Seanchan? Of course. I have spoken to Arwen and told her that I feel it would be for the best if she would avoid them; I do not know these people and I would not have her be hurt by them if I could avoid it. She promised me she would do so."

"I spoke to her of the same thing," Elrond murmured, looking at the human with a new regard. "I told her to stay away from them as well, and she agreed." Somehow it made him feel better to know that Aragorn had taken thought for his daughter's safety.

"What did you wish to speak to me of?" Aragorn asked now, turning toward him seriously.

"This council, with High Lady Suroth; it is to be this afternoon. It is here that we are to decide what must be done with the ring."

Aragorn nodded seriously, looking back at the tall Elf. "I am, to be honest, of the opinion that it must be destroyed. It is simply too dangerous otherwise."

Elrond nodded; Aragorn saw that the other's pale gaze had turned inward, remembering, perhaps, the far-off days when the ring had first been cut from the hand of the enemy, when Isildur had proven weak. Aragorn sighed to himself. As much as he had hoped otherwise, a strain had come into their relationship, since the day Aragorn had asked for the hand of Arwen; a strain that Aragorn would have done much to alleviate. He knew that whenever the tall Elf looked at him now, he saw among other things, the path leading his daughter away from his care and toward the Doom of Men, and as a result the one who had raised him from childhood, the one whom Aragorn considered almost as a father, had drawn away from him a little. Aragorn guessed that in his heart, Elrond blamed not just Aragorn, but himself as well; not for nothing was he called Half-Elven, and both this love of humans and the choice before Arwen came from his blood.

If only it could be otherwise, he thought to himself, and sighed again; the way of the world was hard, sometimes.

At last, Elrond spoke again, looking back at the Man before him. "That is the opinion of myself and Mithrandir as well. The Ring must not be allowed to survive for the Enemy to lay his hands upon."

"Do you think there will be trouble from the other races?" Aragorn asked him now, in a low voice.

Elrond sighed. "I do not know. Not Mirkwood," he added then. "They are Elves in Mirkwood, and know the peril, for all that they are not equal in power to those of Lothlorien. And the one who leads them—Legolas—is wise though young for one of our kind. Mirkwood should offer no trouble," he finished then, quietly.

Aragorn nodded. "I fear the Dwarves a little," he said next. "The Dwarves can be greedy of wealth and gold, and though they were not brought under the Shadow by the Seven, they were affected by it nonetheless. They might find it difficult to destroy such a treasure."

"That may be, but the Dwarves are also nothing if not reasonable. I do not think it will be difficult to show them the truth."

"In that you are correct," Aragorn conceded. "And their leader Gimli, again, seems intelligent enough to be able to discern the correct path."

"It is the Men of Gondor that I fear most," Elrond said now, his gaze again turning inward. "The Men of Gondor have struggled against the Shadow for many long years; it is in my heart that they have grown desperate with their long trials. In addition," he added with a trace of bitterness so faint that Aragorn was not even sure the Elf was aware of it, "they have the lust for power that is common to all Men, and I fear that their long trial has enhanced this…changed it, perhaps; made it more difficult for them to recognize this for what it is, to separate it from their desire to see victory over the Shadow. And their leader, Boromir…." He did not continue.

"Boromir's heart is conflicted," Aragorn said now quietly. "He struggles with himself and the darkness within. But there is good in him," the human continued strongly. "There is good in him, of this I am sure; and it is my feeling that at the last, that good will triumph."

Elrond lifted his eyes to look at Aragorn now. "I hope that you are right," he said. "For all our sakes, I hope that you are right."

Silence fell between them for a while, each reflecting on his own thoughts; at last Aragorn looked back at Elrond. "What about these Seanchan?" he asked now.

Elrond paused, thinking, then said, "Mithrandir says that they can be trusted."

"And you?"

Now the Elf smiled slightly, grimly. "I am not so sure. They are strong, yes, but their strength is coupled with an arrogance the likes of which I have not seen before…even among Men. They talk so blithely of defeating the Shadow, when they have not beheld any of its works. And they—" He paused again, as if trying to find words to express his thoughts. "They are different," he said at last. "They are very unlike to us—Mithrandir says they are unlike to those of Middle-Earth in the strongest sense of the word. This difference is troubling to me, more so since it seems as if they bring their difference with them, and that it spreads to everything they touch. Yet Mithrandir says that they will not betray us, and if he says such a thing, then it is as good as true."

Aragorn nodded, dropping his eyes for a moment. "They seem to think that to defeat Sauron will be no difficult task for their army."

"Their army is indeed strong," Elrond repeated only.

"Do you think they can do this?"

The Elf lowered his eyes to the floor as he pondered. "It is in my heart that numbers alone will not suffice. Not for this task," he said at last. "There is only one hope to us." And he sighed bitterly.

"And that is?" Aragorn asked, though he knew the answer; knew, and indeed, it filled him with a great fatigue.

Elrond lifted his eyes now and seemed tall and imposing as he looked upon the Man, holding him with his pale gaze. "You are that hope, Estel," he said quietly. Then, leaving that statement hanging in the air, he turned and left, moving noiselessly over the stone floor.


Aragorn remained in that courtyard for a long time, staring at the walls without seeing them, at the delicate flowers and the stone fountain. You are that hope, Estel. He had known it, of course; he had known that the weight of Middle-Earth hung upon his shoulders. Hearing it from Elrond, however, somehow made the burden seem twice as heavy.

He was still staring at the walls when he heard footsteps approach. "Boromir," he said without turning, recognizing the sound of the tread.

"It is I." Boromir came through the archway to stand beside him.

"How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough to hear about the Seanchan," Boromir responded easily enough. Aragorn was slightly relieved that he had not heard Elrond's doubts about him.

"What do you think of them?" Aragorn asked now, looking at him sidelong.

"I think Peredhil is right," Boromir said darkly. "I think that numbers alone will not suffice for this task. I have spent my life fighting the Shadow and I know."

Aragorn only nodded and bowed his head.

"No," Boromir continued bitterly, "the power of the Shadow is too great. These Seanchan—yes, their army is larger than any I have seen in my lifetime, but numbers are not enough. How often have I seen the Men of Gondor hurl vast hosts against the foe, only to have them cut down like wheat before the scythe? I think there is only one way that the Shadow might be defeated." And here he stopped and looked at Aragorn intently.

Aragorn winced under that regard. "And what way might that be?" he asked warily, though he knew what Boromir would say; Boromir had dropped hints of this many times before. He did not want to hear it, yet perhaps it was good that he did so.

Boromir did not answer right away. He went on looking at Aragorn intently, then said, slowly, cautiously, "Why do you not take up the Ring, Heir of Isildur? Take the Ring and use it against the Shadow?"

"Boromir," Aragorn said sternly.

"I speak in truth," Boromir went on intently, his gaze sharpening with the passion of his conviction. "Take up the Ring! Use it as a weapon against Mordor. For all our sakes. I think—I know—that this is the only way that Mordor can be defeated. You must—"

"Boromir!" Aragorn interrupted him sharply. Then he continued, looking down, "I dare not. It is not fitting for me—"

"Who if not you?" the other man demanded sternly. Seeing Aragorn falter, he continued. "Who if not you? You are Isildur's Heir, Aragorn," he said, holding him with his eyes. "If the Ring is anyone's by right then it is yours. You need not be corrupted by it—you need not hold it long enough! Destroy the Enemy, then destroy the Ring. You must do it. For all our sakes, you must. You must—"

"Stop!" Aragorn insisted desperately, raising his hands to his ears. Boromir broke off, staring at him, brows drawn together, but Aragorn hardly saw. What Boromir was saying sounded so sensible to him—it sounded so rational, so right, so logical—that he did not dare listen to the other man's words a moment longer. After a long struggle to master himself, he spoke again, looking at Boromir with troubled eyes, "Don't you see, Boromir? It is just because I have the right that I dare not do so." Boromir started to speak again but Aragorn overrode him. "Everything you say to me," he continued urgently, "do you think I have not already said it to myself in the recesses of my mind? Yes, I have the right, I am Isildur's Heir, this is the only power strong enough to stand against the Enemy, I could save all of Middle-Earth from the Shadow—but do you not see, how can I tell this voice from the voice of the Ring itself, calling out to me? And the fact that I cannot tell," he continued, "is enough to tell me by itself that such talk is dangerous."

Boromir sighed sharply and stalked away from him a few paces, glaring unseeing at the wall in frustration. After a moment he said, looking back over his shoulder, "I heard what Elrond said to you."

"And that was?" Aragorn asked, keeping his face expressionless.

"About how you are the only hope." He snorted in disgust, his shoulders tight with some unnamed emotion. Aragorn remained silent, watching the other man carefully.

Presently, Boromir spoke again, his voice bitter and self-mocking at once. "It is hard, Dunedain," he said. "I have spent my life fighting the Shadow. All I desire is to defeat it. I would give anything to be the one to pull Mordor down, for what it has done to my lands if nothing else. I have fought, and yet as I have, I have been weakened by the knowledge that I do not suffice, I—I am not enough for this task. This knowledge has been bitter indeed. And now I hear Elrond saying that all my struggle and work is for naught, that it signifies less than nothing—"

"That is not precisely what he said," Aragorn murmured softly, struck by the other man's pain.

Boromir dismissed this attempt at comfort with a rough shrug. "It comes to the same. He says that you are our only hope, and I—"

Aragorn remained silent.

"So it is hard," he resumed sharply, looking back at Aragorn almost with anger. "You are Isildur's Heir. You have a right to the Ring, though you will not use it. You are the hope of the Dunedain. You are the one who will destroy the Shadow. You have won the heart of Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar who rivals Luthien Tinuviel; it is for you that she will sacrifice her immortality. No, no—" he continued, as Aragorn would have spoken. "Do not misunderstand me; I bear you no ill will, indeed, I wish the both of you nothing but happiness together," he said, looking at Aragorn levelly so that the other man could see he spoke the truth. "But still—It is hard, Dunedain," he repeated mirthlessly, and turned away again.

Aragorn sighed, watching the man of Minas Tirith. After a moment, he said quietly, "Do not envy me, Boromir. The weight of Middle-Earth does not rest easily on my shoulders. So far it has brought, will bring me, precious little but suffering and grief. Even my love for Lady Arwen is tinged with sorrow, for it costs her that which is rightfully hers, her immortality, and beyond that it has estranged me from my foster-father Lord Elrond. There is no life that is free of grief, Boromir," he said now, looking at the other man. "Mine may be different from yours, but it is still grief nonetheless."

Boromir said nothing, but looked on him darkly, then turned and left the courtyard. Aragorn watched him go, troubled in his heart.


Arwen turned down the passageway from the courtyard, heading toward another interior garden in which she sometimes liked to spend her idle moments. She was troubled in her heart. She knew that both her father and her beloved were troubled by these strange Seanchan people, and wished that there was something she could do to help, but she did not know how to aid them.

She looked up to see her brother Elladan step through an arch ahead of her, then stop and lean against the wall behind him, closing his eyes briefly; the fatigue and strain she saw in his face twisted her heart. Quickly she stepped closer to him, and spoke to him gently. "Are you well, my brother?"

Elladan opened his eyes and looked down at her, a smile touching his face as he saw her. "Yes, I am well, sister," he told her warmly.

"You looked fatigued…."

He shrugged slightly. "I have been dealing with these Seanchan all morning. Father instructed Elrohir and me to help them settle in and become organized, and I have been directing them all day. There are so many of them," he sighed and rubbed at his temples briefly. "And they all have so many strange requests and demands…" He straightened and looked at her. "Are you well?" he inquired. "These Seanchan have not given you any trouble, have they?"

Arwen bit her lip and looked down. "No," she admitted honestly, "but they—they frighten me a little," she added reluctantly. "I have never seen anything like these people before and I scarcely know how to take them."

Elladan sighed now, looking strained again. After a moment he put a hand on her shoulder. "I am sorry they frighten you," he told her quietly. "I want you to stay away from them, sister," he said seriously. "I don't think they would try to harm you, but….Will you do that for me?"

Arwen lowered her eyes. "I will," she promised softly. "Aragorn and Father have already asked that of me, and I have agreed." Not for all the world would she have admitted to the strange feelings in her heart when she saw the Seanchan—they frightened her, yes, for she had never seen anything like them before, but at the same time she—

They were so different, she thought to herself, so strange….She had never seen so many women among an army before, either human or elven. Some of them were the strange and disturbing women chained by the necks—those women troubled her a great deal—but others wore light armor, and carried weaponry, and walked among the soldiers laughing and talking freely….

Elladan embraced her briefly. "Good. It will be one less thing for me to worry about if I know that you are safe." Just then a loud crash and raised alarmed Seanchan voices were heard shouting from outside. Elladan winced and released her, stepping back.

"I must go," he told her as he turned back toward the door. "I cannot leave Elrohir to deal with these Seanchan all by himself. Go to your garden," he told her over his shoulder. "The Seanchan should not disturb you there."

Elladan stepped through the door and outside, leaving Arwen alone within the confines of the hall. She peered briefly through the door, catching a glimpse of people, carts, and a strange, frog-like creature as large as a bear—with three eyes—before it swung shut. That recalled her to herself; Elladan had suggested that she retire to her garden, and of course she did not want to run afoul of the Seanchan….

Quickly she turned and continued down the hall.


High Lady Suroth had retired to her pavilion, reclining on luxurious silk cushions and warming her hands around a cup of kaf, served by one of the da'covale who knelt in sheer white silks against the far wall of her tent, when her Supreme Der'Morat'Raken came to her.

Suroth watched her as she brushed aside the silken hangings, then dropped gracefully into a bow—not as deep as it might have been; this der'morat'raken had been raised to the Blood quite some time ago, and was entitled to shave her head and lacquer her nails. She did not do so; she was Other, and Others and Ogier would sometimes bend rules that men and women did not. The der'morat remained, kneeling, her eyes on the floor, until Suroth said calmly, "Rise and be sei'taer in my sight, Supreme Der'Morat'Raken Briande."

Briande did so, removing her insectile helmet and tucking it under her arm. "You requested my presence, High Lady Suroth?" she asked respectfully, her eyes raised, but not so far that Suroth might take it as insolence.

Suroth studied Briande for a moment. With her helmet removed, her Otherness became more apparent; her features had the characteristic look of sharp balance that Suroth knew was common among the Others; her hair, though cut short to allow it to be more easily tucked under the helmet, was golden blonde, her eyes a pale blue, and her ears came to delicate points on either side of her face. She waited patiently; of course, Suroth thought to herself, knowing how old the Others were reputed to be; a wait of a moment or two would mean nothing to her.

"I did," Suroth said at last. "Sit, Supreme Der'Morat'Raken, and be at ease." She gestured to the low table that occupied the middle of the outer room of the pavilion.

Moving with the delicate grace characteristic of the Others, Briande moved to kneel at the table. Suroth raised an eyebrow. "Kaf?" she asked.

"Yes, please," Briande indicated. Suroth gestured to the da'covale against the walls. One of them, a man, rose to his feet and, moving with the silent precision of long practice, came to the table. He took the pot and poured without spilling a drop into a cuendillar cup—High Lady Suroth actually had a set of cuendillar cups, culled carefully from far-flung lands of Seanchan—then retreated. Briande took the cup in her hands carefully and sipped, the steam from the black liquid wreathing her sharp, pointed features.

"I have asked you here," Suroth said now, watching her calmly, "to inquire of you about this strange land. You are originally from this…Middle-Earth, are you not?"

"Yes, High Lady," the der'morat'raken acknowledged. "Many, many years ago."

Suroth raised one brow, looking at her calmly. "Of which land are you now, my Supreme Der'Morat'Raken?"

"High Lady?"

"Of which land are you now?" Suroth repeated. "Seanchan or this Middle-Earth? This is your homeland, is it not? I know that the pull of one's homeland can be strong, at least, for us humans; perhaps more so for one of you Others. Whom do you serve? This land, or the land of the Empress of the Nine Moons, She who sits on the Crystal Throne?" Seeing Briande's frozen expression, Suroth modified her tone a trace. "You know what is to come after we have finished here, Briande," she said, almost gently. "On to the Westlands, the lands of Artur Hawkwing Paendrag, from whence his son Luthair came over a thousand years ago to conquer the Armies of the Night and found the Empire. The Corenne. If all goes well…." She did not need to say what came next. There was not a person in the Ever Victorious Army that did not know it.

One thousand years ago Luthair Paendrag had taken ship from the storied Westlands with an army numbering in the tens of thousands, charged by his father the great Artur Hawking Paendrag with a mission—to find if there were any lands that lay across the Aryth Ocean, and if so, to bring them under the sway of Hawkwing's throne. In the years that followed their first landfall on the shores of Seanchan—at the docks of Shon Kifar itself, so the histories had it-Paendrag's army had lost contact with the Westlands, but had remained true to their charge. For the last thousand years, those armies, their descendants, and their descendants' descendants had been fighting, struggling, to subdue and tame the entire continent of Seanchan and to bring it to kneel before the name of Hawkwing. Finally, over a hundred years ago, the Consolidation had at last been completed. It was now time, the Empress of the Nine Moons had decreed, for the Corenne, for the descendants of Luthair's armies to take the word back to Hawkwing's home. If Hawkwing's name was still honored, if his blood still held sway, then that was well; they would simply present the message that Hawkwing's command had been fulfilled. If on the other hand, and as all but a tiny handful thought likely, Hawkwing's empire had fallen…..

The Corenne—the Return—had been in the planning for over a hundred years; the Empresses and the Blood had been amassing not only ships and soldiers and damane, but also peasants, crafters, tradesmen and serfs, all the things that would be needed to help the Seanchan to begin this newest Consolidation. If all went well, it was common knowledge, High Lady Suroth hoped—devoutly hoped—to be one of the Hailene, the Forerunners of the Return.

After a moment, Suroth continued, "The names of those who acquit themselves well here will be sung in Seandar, before the ears of the Empress herself, may she live forever, and they will be remembered when the time comes to choose the leaders of the Hailene. And when the leaders of the Hailene choose those to go with them." She eyed Briande over the rim of her cuendillar cup and continued delicately, "Those of divided loyalties most likely will not be taken."

Briande faced her now, meeting her eyes squarely; those delicate Other features hardened as Briande drew on every drop of the prestige that accorded to her. "I am of Seanchan, my lady," she said, her voice as hard as the cuendillar cup she held, firm enough to be on the edge of rudeness; Suroth did not call her down for it though, pleased as she was to see this assertion of faith. "I live for the Empress. I die for the Empress. If it should come to pass—if the Wheel should weave that pattern—that I, unworthy as I am, should be one of those chosen to accompany the Hailene, I would go at once, with nothing but devotion in my heart. I am hers to command, to employ as the Empire sees fit." Pure sincerity blazed in those pale eyes, as she gazed directly at Suroth. She meant it, Suroth could see. She meant every word she was saying, with all the conviction she possessed. In truth, Suroth would have expected nothing else. She had studied this der'morat's three-hundred-year long career path with the raken, from stable da'covale with the to'raken to morat'raken to der'morat to Supreme Der'Morat, and at every turn it had been marked by nothing but total devotion, both to the Empire and to her career.

"Excellent," Suroth said, nodding for she was well-pleased. She continued in a somewhat gentler vein, "I ask because it would be a great detriment to the Empire to lose the skills of a der'morat'raken of your caliber." At Briande's startled, pleased look, Suroth smiled. "Middle-Earth is to be a proving-ground of the Ever Victorious Army, Supreme Der'Morat, of the officers as well as the soldiers. Those who do well will be rewarded; those who do poorly will be weeded out. For you, however, as for the rest of the Others in the army, this proving ground may pose another challenge—the challenge of the call to your homeland. I asked you this not to offend you, or to imply that your loyalty was in doubt, but simply because I must know where you stand, with the Empress or your homeland."

"I stand with Seanchan," Briande replied in a voice that left no room for doubt. "My homeland is Seanchan. My home city is Seandar. My home ground is the ground that was given to me by the Empress Malaina, on the edge of the Sen T'jore, where the leopards skulk through the tangled forest vines. And my destiny," she continued strongly, her voice almost shaking with the force of her emotions, "should the Wheel weave it and the Empress will it, lies across the Aryth Ocean in the Westlands, at the forefront of the Hailene—" She broke off then, as if realizing that she went too far, and dropped her eyes. "If one so unworthy can presume that far," she murmured, staring down at the thin, bitter kaf within her cup.

Suroth smiled again, looking at the pale, thin, serious Other before her. "Very well, der'morat," she said calmly. "Then I may ask you about this realm, this Middle-Earth?"

"Ask me anything," Briande replied at once. "I will answer as I know best. Seanchan has done well by me, and I am anxious to be of service to it in any way I know how."

Suroth nodded. "These Others," she said after a time, looking at Briande. "Can they be trusted?"

Briande frowned. "Trusted, my lady?" she asked, seemingly puzzled.

"Trusted. On the heights, the paths are paved with daggers. Surely you have heard that saying before?" Suroth asked, raising an eyebrow. "I gained this assignment after I foiled a coup against the Empress. You yourself were assigned to this expeditionary force after outstanding performance in crushing the rebellion in the southern provinces. You know that in times of turmoil, all do not think alike. And I will tell you now." She leaned forward from her cushions now, reaching to set her own cup of kaf down on the table, holding Briande with her eyes. "Nothing must be allowed to stand in the way of our success here. If there is infighting or division among these Others, division that might become detrimental to the success of our Ever Victorious Army, I must know it. I must know it, so that I can be prepared to crush it if need be. And I will crush it. Because I will not allow our success—" and her chance to command the Hailene, she did not say, and did not have to "—to be jeopardized by discord and scheming on behalf of the very ones we came to aid. And I certainly will not allow it to be backstabbed by Others working on behalf of this Enemy. So I ask you now, Supreme Der'Morat'Raken, and the highest ranking Other in the Ever Victorious Army if these Others can be trusted to work on our side, and to aid our success."

Briande hesitated for a long moment, her frown growing deeper as she pondered Suroth's question. She started to speak, then stopped, started and paused again. Finally, chewing her lip, she said slowly, "That is…a difficult question, High Lady. You must understand," she said, speaking slowly, as if she were remembering, perhaps, things long past, "these Others are not like us. They are not like the Seanchan in many respects—"

"How are they different?"

"They aren't…they don't…" She paused here for a long time, evidently thinking hard, then said at last, "They don't scheme in the same way that we do….You know that it is said in Seandar that if there are not a dozen plots against the Empress going on at once, at the Court of the Nine Moons, then either the Empress has just indulged in a purge, or else she is so weak that she is not worth plotting against. These Others do not plot in that fashion, and when they do plot, if I remember correctly, it is so obvious, so easy to see through, compared to the tangled, woven skeins of conspiracies spun in the Court of the Nine Moons, that a child could unravel them to their source. These Others—and humans, for there are some humans among them—do not scheme in the same way. However," she continued, holding up a hand, "that does not mean that they are not dangerous. In Seanchan, the time when a plot against the Crystal Throne is hatched to the time it comes to fruition may take years, if not decades, and occasionally centuries," she said with a grim smile, recalling the Plot of the Golden Sun that had been exposed and crushed not twenty years ago. "Here, when the Others or humans think a plot, they act almost at once. And they are almost incapable of deception," she added, "compared to those of Seanchan, who may tell you the truth straight out and yet still be lying. You must be careful, High Lady Suroth, when dealing with them not to read more than is said into their words. Most often, when they speak they are telling the truth, and all of it, and nothing but."

Suroth frowned, tapping her lacquered nails against the cuendillar surface of her cup. "They sound….almost simple," she said at last, her brows drawing together slightly.

"Not simple, High Lady," Briande corrected at once. "Just different. Different things are important here. They are more concerned with matters of…oh, honor, and truthfulness, and plain dealing….trustworthiness, and valor…performing what you have promised…." The der'morat'raken trailed off, her brows drawing together. Suroth might have taken offense at what the der'morat said—it might have been construed to imply that those of the Empire were not honest and trustworthy and valorous—but she had always prided herself on the ability to recognize truth as truth when she saw it, and whatever the unpleasant implications of the words the Other was speaking, at the bottom they did indeed have the ring of truth.

After a pause, in which both of them considered their thoughts, High Lady Suroth said musingly, only half-aware she spoke, "If I acted in that fashion in Seanchan, I would be dead within a month. A week. Dead, or so sei'mosiev that there would be no return."

Briande's frown deepened and she said only, again, "I suppose this is a world in which….such things are possible."

Silence for a moment more, and then Suroth spoke briskly. "This afternoon there is to be a council on the use of…something…that Other Elrond called it the One Ring; I gather it is some form of ter'angreal. I wish you to attend this council; I need someone who knows of the habits of these Others to give me her opinion."

Briande looked up sharply, and Suroth caught the traces of alarm that crossed her face. "High Lady Suroth," she began, but Suroth continued over her.

"You will be part of my retinue of body-guards, in full ceremonial armor. Keep your helmet on at all times," she added, smiling. "I do not wish to tip the hand of these Others yet to the fact that we have Others within our ranks."

Briande looked visibly relieved. "Yes, High Lady. You order and I obey."

"That is all. You may go."

Briande bowed deeply to the High Lady, then rose. As she brushed the hangings aside on her way out, Suroth looked after her, frowning and lost in thought.