Chapter Thirty-Six

Explanations and Making Music

I found my way down to the second level, remembering the proper password at the gate only with the warden's prompting. After managing this, I began to stroll parallel to the battlements, hoping I would not have to search the entire wall before I found Silmarien. I passed three pairs of guards, spaced perhaps five hundred feet apart, before I spotted a stocky figure walking alone.

As I fell in step beside her, she offered a curt nod of greeting. "How went your bout?"

I debated a moment before deciding that she would appreciate a blunt answer. "Murderously. But I took first blood."

"Truly?" Silmarien turned to me, respect lighting her eyes.

I nodded, still feeling indifferent. "Though Ortaine's tongue is sharper than her spear."

This drew a short laugh, and then her face sank into seriousness. "She spoke to you of Lord Boromir, then?"

I nodded again and did not speak, pretending to concentrate on imitating her policeman's walk, a proceeding step that I knew would allow me to keep going for hours on end.

"You must not blame her," Silmarien said after a moment. "In a time when all lives are hard, hers has been harder than most." Her voice was guff, but whether because of the subject matter or because she was used to speaking in a lower range, I did not know.

"Hard? She is one of three women in the First Company of the Guard." I stared, trying to conceal my skepticism and not succeeding.

"Four, Firiel. One of four." I opened my mouth to ask who the fourth woman was, and then her sea-green gaze met mine. I grinned in spite of Ortaine and her accusations. One of four. . . .

Silmarien, with what I had come to realize was characteristic directness, picked up the conversation where we had left off. "Will you believe me when I say that she has had a hard time of it even in First Company, or must I tell you the tale?"

"I think you must tell me the tale." If I could not explain myself to Ortaine, I would at least have someone explain her to me.

Silmarien waited until we were alone on a stretch of wall to begin. "What I tell you in confidence is to be kept in confidence."

I nodded, pleased that she'd dropped my title and felt comfortable giving me orders. "Understood."

An odd look and a deep breath, and she began. "She was perhaps fifteen, a small, skinny thing with flying black hair, when she began to hang about the barracks, running errands and making a nuisance out of herself pretending to be an esquire. I think the men were glad of her services, though, for she served with all her heart- and body." Silmarien cut her eyes at me to make sure I'd taken her meaning. I had.

"She has never told be where in the City she hailed from, but it is my guess that she escaped or was put out from one of the bawdy-houses on the fourth circle." Again the sidelong glance, I suppose to see if she'd shocked me yet.

I lifted my eyebrows at her, and she resumed her narrative. "In any case, she worked her way up to the First Company through liaisons with various division commanders. By this time she had found herself a uniform, and made some pretense of training with the men, but she had not given up her dreams of being a Lord's wife, or at least mistress. Lord Boromir would have none of her favors, though, and ignored her except to correct her stance or grip on a weapon.

"So she sought to gain his attention through prowess in arms, and in this she succeeded, though he still did not look on her with anything but honest pride. When he set off on his quest, she begged to accompany him, but he would not have her, and little wonder, for he refused even Morwen, who was his adjutant."

Morwen had been Boromir's second-in-command? I stored this information away for future reference, meaning to ask her later.

"So you must not think too harshly of Ortaine," Silmarien concluded. "She loved my lord Boromir as much as it is in her heart to love."

For almost a mile I digested this tale, looking up at the City and down at the Fields and everywhere except at Silmarien. I could forgive Ortaine, with this new context, but I would forget neither her angry words nor her laughter.

We reversed our perambulation around the ramparts, and I suppose I had remained silent for so long that Silmarien felt she needed to attempt to mollify me further. "I will speak to her, my lady, if you truly cannot bear her words. I am her senior in rank and age: she will apologize if I order her."

Shaking my head, I replied, "I would not have that. But I would know if other women in the City feel toward me as she does for, for-" My throat closed up. The words would not come. I struggled against my body's rebellion in vain, finally giving up.

Silmarien put a hand on my shoulder, a gesture that she must have meant to comfort me, but one that I could see that she was not comfortable making. "Perhaps there are. I know not. But none should begrudge Lord Boromir his happiness, nor you yours. So," she finished with a squeeze, "if any fifth circle dilettante tries to beat you over the head with her fan, whistle for the First Company, like this:" The trill descended the scale, with the last note falling into silence.

I tried it, thinking of a tune that I could make it into, and then jumped at a hand on my shoulder. It was Morwen.

She fell into step between us, though there was not room for three to walk abreast on the wall-top without a considerable amount of jostling. I waited to see if she would speak and, when she did not, asked "When does my lord Denethor dine of a night?" since I thought she might know better than Silmarien.

Morwen shrugged. "At perhaps eight of the clock. You are to attend him at sunset, though. So I was sent to tell you."

Looking at the sun's position, I guessed I had perhaps an hour. "Do you know why he requires me, for I had I thought I was only to wait on him at table?"

Again I received that fluid, Parisian shrug. "I do not claim to know my lord's mind. Mayhap he wishes to hear more of Lord Boromir, or simply seeks entertainment. Can you sing?"

Taken aback, I took a moment to answer. "I cannot sing, but I can play the flute," I admitted. "Would that please him, do you think?"

Silmarien nodded and Morwen said, "I think it would. And it would please us if you were to come and play for us of an evening in the barracks. We have little music nowadays."

"I will do that," I promised, feeling pleased.

Catching the cadence of their step, I strode out with them. It seemed longer than an hour that we walked, as they told me of Boromir and his exploits from a perspective I'd not heard before, and I told them about my travels with the Fellowship and after.

All too soon the sun dipped behind the mountains, and I took my leave with a promise to return, if my lord permitted, tomorrow. I had already turned to go when a question I'd meant to asked popped into my head again.

I caught up to the two women again, and they turned, inquiring looks on both their faces. "I must ask, and I had forgotten: is my Lord Faramir within the City?"

Identical headshakes and Morwen answered. "He is still in Ithilien, I believe, my lady. He does not often return to Minas Tirith."

I nodded. "I know. I only wondered. Thank you." With a salute, I left them, my heart sinking with the sun. I returned to my quarters, washed, rebraided my hair, left Celetirmar in favor of shoving my flute into my belt, and trotted up to the Citadel.

The guards admitted me without comment, and I once again took a knee before the lower throne, the Steward's chair. After a moment, Denethor bade me rise, that he might survey me. I tried not to quail under the wolf-gray gaze that seemed to bore through me, mail and all.

"Well, daughter. You look a true soldier of Gondor." Somehow the acknowledgement wasn't a compliment from those lips as it had been from Dorion's.

I gritted my teeth, but managed a polite reply. "Thank you, my lord. In such capacity have I come to serve."

Brushing this lead off, the Steward remarked upon my flute, which I of course offered to play for him. My preliminary twiddles pleased him, and he bade me come and stand by his chair. Nervously, I did so, but when the silver mouthpiece slipped beneath my lips once more, I relaxed. I did not inquire as to what he wished to hear, but played everything: all the music that had been bottled up inside me since Amon Hen.

Tunes spiraled from my head until I once again felt like Firiel, not someone's expectations of me, not daughter-in-law or wife or betrothed or rival, simply me. For a finale, I trolled out Boromir's marching song from the River. I thought it would please his father, if he recognized it.

He did recognize it. His head sunk upon his chest, his hands convulsing around the split Horn that still lay in his lap. But he did not stop me, and he did not speak until I had finished, and even then it was only to summon servants to lay a table for the evening meal.

He did not invite me to eat with him, only motioned me to resume playing. I did not perform any more Gondorian melodies, though, only light airs, and ignored Denethor's consumption-or lack thereof-of lamb and greens and wine. He offered me the same disregard, dismissing me late into the night with no word as to whether or not I had pleased him.

I did not care. Delirious with happiness, I do not recall quite how I found my room, only that when I did, I fell quickly into a deep, sound sleep untroubled by dreams. I had made music, and that was enough to lighten even Minas Tirith's darkness.