Chapter Thirty-Two
To Minas Tirith
Somewhere in the middle of my snuffles, I fell asleep. Wrapped in my cloak, my head on Simbelmynë's saddle, right hand clutching my spear, left curled around Éolas' brooch, I slept. And that was how I awoke in the hour before dawn. Dew was in the air, and danger.
The mare sensed it too; she nuzzled against my hand, anxious to be off. Climbing stiffly to my feet, I strapped on the saddle and fastened the bridle by touch, blessing Mme. Alatar, whose knowledge walked me through every step. After settling the saddlebags and scattering the ashes of my fire, I mounted and set off.
The sun rose blazing before us as we left the cover of Firien Wood, but the feeling of dread had not left me. Éowyn's map said I was now passing through Anorien. The land of the Sun, it was beautiful country, but very open. Farmland offered no cover and little shelter.
I let Simbelmynë graze when we paused for lunch. Breakfast had been nonexistent, but I was not particularly hungry. I suppose I'd learned to eat less, on the River and running, or else my body was still working off the abundant food at Edoras. I ate anyway, making a sandwich of a bun and sliced meat, together with some cress from a stream, and then we were off again.
The last of my stiffness disappeared as I galloped through Gondor. I stopped trying to divide my attention between the lush landscape on my left and the majestic mountains on my right in favor of merely concentrating on the road as Simbelmynë's hooves ate it up. I planned to camp on the outskirts of Druadan Forest that night, and ride into Minas Tirith at noon on the morrow.
Éowyn had warned me against straying over the River into Ithilien, as not even a Meara would be safe crossing the thaw-swollen Anduin, but also because that part of Gondor was overrun by Sauron's minions, Orcs and treacherous Men. Boromir had said as much when he told me that the Rangers did not hold the place so much as merely scout it, and that had swayed my decision to strike for Minas Tirith first. Besides, I'd no idea where to even begin searching for Faramir, even in Ithilien, and Lord Denethor was sure to be at the White City.
My heart quivered at the thought of meeting my father-in-law. By Gondorian law, anyway. If Boromir had not exaggerated his father's powers of perception, he would know the truth of my story, but what he did with that truth-and me-was up to him. An oath I had sworn to Gondor, and so I'd be at the mercy of her Steward.
Or her king. What would I do when Aragorn arrived in Gondor, whether he pressed his claim to the throne or not? I did not know what I would say if forced to chose between my love's family and the man who'd comforted and healed me. Though, my feelings toward the Ranger had cooled significantly since his desertion of me at Edoras. I would cross that bridge, I thought, when it came. Now, my surroundings demanded all of my attention.
In the twilight, Druadan Forest looked much like Fangorn, and felt much the same: eerie age and old leaves. Glad that I had only to camp on its outskirts that night, and might travel through it by the light of day, I galloped Simbelmynë through the first patch of gnarled oaks, stopping on the other side, when the forest lurked only to my right.
Even after two days of hard riding, Simbelmynë seemed hardly winded. I, however, fell asleep as soon as I'd cared for her and scoffed down a bit of dinner.
The morning found me damp and grumpy. Strange dreams had haunted my sleep, leaving me bleary-eyed and haggard. Saddling up, I vowed to wash at the first stream I came to, and possibly change my clothes in preparation for my audience with the Steward.
Simbelmynë found me a stream, tiny and clear, so I scrubbed my face in the frigid water and shook my hair out. That the Elves had gifted me with spare clothing in Gondorian colors was not lost on me. Clad in black and silver, I wiped at my boots and donned the Elvish cloak once more, fastening it with Éolas' brooch. Feeling infinitely more presentable, I pulled my hood up and we set off again.
Galloping east, we rounded Druadan Forest, neither of us sorry to leave it behind. As we struck south, I recognized landmarks Boromir had described to me whenever he spoke of his city. The beacon of Amon Dîn set atop a foothill, not lit yet but clearly manned, and a little farther on, the Grey Wood. Past that loomed Mount Mindolluin. I felt like I had come home. Standing in the stirrups, I strained to see Minas Tirith, but the mountain blocked my view.
It did not matter. Much. I had come to the Rammas Echor, and now set about looking for a postern gate in the high patchwork of wood and stone. After a bit of riding, I found one, guided to it by the pop of guttering torches. Dismounting, I knocked, and then craned my neck upwards. "Halloo the wall!" I had to force my tongue around the Westron.
"Halloo the road!" came a bass voice down. "What do you here?"
"I ride from Rohan to bring my Lord Steward news of his son." I'd decided that this was the best introduction, but had a few tricks up my sleeve if it didn't work.
The tactic at least earned me a personal response. The ironclad door creaked open, loosing three burly guardsmen in black livery I had to hold Simbelmynë still as they surrounded us. "Do you bring news of the Lord Faramir?" the tallest wanted to know.
"I bring news of the Lord Boromir, fallen in battle not a fortnight hence. More I will say only to the my Lord Steward." Setting my jaw, I stared him down.
He looked me over. "From Rohan you have come? So your horse bears witness, but your garments have an Elvish cast to them. Where lies your allegiance?"
"With Gondor, and so I swore to her Captain-General." Trying to contain my frustration, I continued, "And when I did, he told to me the passwords of the Seven Gates, that I might enter the White City." I began to recite them, hearing Boromir's warm voice drill the phrases into my head.
As the looks of wonder on the guards' faces grew, I could barely contain a triumphant grin. "Tiding I have for the Steward. May I pass?"
They bowed me in, escorting us through the Fields of the Pelennor, which were rich but sparsely populated for all their verdant growth. As we rounded the mountain, I glimpsed the city, finally. The sight made me want to boot Simbelmynë into a run and leave my vanguard behind, simply to reach the Great Gate.
No matter how many times Boromir had described the White City to me, and however poetic the terms, I'd always pictured it as a seven-layered birthday cake shoved up against a mountain, with the Tower of Ecthelion the crowning candle. This was no cake.
Shining opalescent in the noon-high sun, the Guarded City defied any enemy with sheer beauty and the promise of complete impenetrability. Banners snapped from every battlement, with the highest atop the Tower's spire. To have Boromir beside me at this moment, and to ride home triumphantly as Lord and Lady. . . it did not bear thinking. I passed through the gates alone, save for my escorts.
With the iron doors behind us, Simbelmynë pranced up the long road that hatched back and forth around the city. For my part, I drunk in sites I had waited so long to see, slightly disappointed. The lofty houses were fine, beautifully constructed and ornamented, but I could tell that many had fallen into disuse. What would Minas Tirith look like, thriving and filled with laughter and music? I vowed to see it so, one day, for Boromir.
Higher and higher, through the mountain, each level more silent than the last, though it was nearly noon. My guards allowed me to give the passwords at each gate, until we reached the seventh. As we emerged from the shadow of the mountain passage, the sun shone again on us, though somewhat dampened by my temper at having to give Simbelmynë over to an ostler. She did not want to go, but I knew that horses weren't allowed in the Citadel, so I whispered in her ear, and she trotted off reluctantly.
Not even Boromir's description had prepared me for the majesty of the Citadel-and its guards. Their winged helmets shone to match my blade, as did their silver-embroidered livery. They remained motionless as we traversed the courtyard. The only sound came from the burbling fountain the center of the greensward. I as trying to gather my scattered thought when I caught sight of what stood beside the fountain.
The White Tree. My guards nearly ran into me when I stopped still, wondering what sort of genuflection would be appropriate. Settling for a simple salute, I caught my escorts up, an waited to gain admittance to the great hall that stood at the base of Ecthelion's tower. Our steps echoed down a long corridor, and I once more tried to collect my scattered thoughts for the impending audience.
What had endeared me to Boromir, and him to me, might or might not work with his father. Still, I had no desire to play things by ear with the Steward. Daughter-in-law I might be, but I was still his vassal. A word out of place, and he'd have me in the dungeons- or on the front lines.
Invisible hands opened the great doors, and I strode into the hall. It was impossible to imagine a place less like Meduseld. Carven pillars of black marble rose to the vaulted ceilings, where high windows lit dull golden tracery. Between each pillar stood a somber statue of a long-dead king, like miniature Argonaths. I could have named many of them, if I'd had the desire to, but my attention was on the statuesque, slumped figure in the black chair at the royal dais' foot.
The man bent forward over something folded in his sable robe, salt-and-pepper locks nearly obscuring a craggy profile. I spared a glance behind me for my guards, but they had disappeared, leaving me alone with the Steward.