Chapter Seven: The Other Pieces of the Board

She rose even before the deep-throated sound of the conch horns blared into the mist to greet the arrival of Inang A'raw [1] – as was required of her. She had to be there the moment the sun rose, to make sure that the she was greeted with the honor that she deserved.

She clothed herself with a dress cut from cloth dyed in a deep shade of bronze, with a leaf pattern carefully painted onto it in forest green and sunshine gold. The dress had no sleeves, and the only things that kept it attached to her body were a series of clasps shaped from clam hinges, and those were lined along the left side of the dress. The dress reached only up to her knees, and had slits on either side running parallel to her legs, cut almost up to her hip. When she moved, the slits revealed the tattoos that were drawn along the outside of her thighs: a geometric yet elegant pattern of flowers and vine-like leaves.

She smoothed down the fabric of her dress, sighing. It is another day, she told herself. There were times before when she could easily smile, looking forward to a new day, but during these past turnings of the moon the tide seemed to have changed. There was tension, both in the north and in the west, and the sea wind seemed to carry with it the smell of war.

War. The word, the idea, made her hand tremble a little as she ran a seashell comb through her long hair, dark as the water on nights when Amang Buwan [2] chose not to walk the skies. She did not know what it was like, though her parents used to tell her stories of the tribal wars that went on before she was born. She knew that her mother and father had worked together to bring peace to all the tribes, unifying the divided factions under her grandfather Apo Lesaka's [3] rule. When he died the year before she was born, her parents took over governance of the tribes.

And now that both her mother and her father were dead, the responsibility of leading was passed on to her. Which was why the troubles of the north and west worried her – she did not have the experience that was necessary to guide her people through a nation in war.

But if I must, then I will, she told herself as she set her lips into a straight, determined line. She carefully placed the comb down on the low table in front of her, reaching for the band of braided leather that she often used to tie her hair back from her face. She looked at her reflection on the smooth, polished surface of the bronze mirror in front of her, and nodded satisfactorily. It was enough for her that her hair was tied away from her face, though if her father had seen her that way he would have insisted on braiding her hair.

A small smile graced her face when she thought of him. When she was young, her father always paid particularly close attention to her hair, weaving it into braids that he would then coil around her head like a chaplet, or making several small ones that would dance through the strands that he had left unbraided. During special feast days, he would weave gold thread, sometimes even pearls, along with her hair when making the braids.

But he was not there to braid her hair anymore. He had disappeared in a storm almost ten years ago, a storm so violent that even the dolphins could not save him. And when everyone realized that he was never coming back, her mother lost the will to live, and died the following year.

From that day on she had had to grow up quickly. She had to learn how to fight; how to make good decisions; how to be strong…how to be a leader of her people. She had to, because she owed it to her parents. This was the legacy they had given her, and she would make them proud.

She gave herself one last look in the mirror, and then stood up, pushing aside the curtain made from strands of small cowry shells strung together on thread that separated her room from the rest of the house. Her bare feet padded along the hardwood floor, her gold anklets producing a soft jingling sound as she walked. She climbed down the stepladder that led from the raised house to the beach.

Inang A'raw had not risen yet, but her radiance was already beginning to make the sky lighten. She looked up, and watched as the bright Viray ng Kalangitan [4] herded the stars back beyond the distant line of the horizon.

That particular star always seemed to exert a faint call to her, a call that she did not understand. Perhaps she was merely attracted to its beauty, to its clear, bluish-white flame that seemed brighter and more enduring than that of the other stars around it. But her father was always sad when he saw it. There was something on this face that seemed like regret, but when she asked about it he always smiled and said that it was not something for little girls to be asking about.

He promised that he would tell her someday, but that day never came.

She inhaled, the scent of the sea breeze tickling her nostrils. Somewhere inside the reef she could hear the dolphins chattering, playing as they greeted the morning in their own fashion. The conch horns raised their voices to the sky, their sound echoing across the water.

Another day, another cycle of life: it began, ended, and began anew, as many things did, whether in the span of a day, a week, another turning of the moon, or in another year. All things begin and end, but come back again, new, changed.

Babaylan Sinag-Tala then raised her arms to the sky, and chanted a welcome to Inang A'raw as a new dawn flamed over Ma'yi, her gray eyes – the only one of their kind amongst a people known for their dark, gold-and-shadow beauty – flaring almost to starshine in the light.

And in that moment, she knew this: there is no end. There are only new beginnings.

Even if that beginning is the beginning of war.

Sunlight filtered in, tempered and muted, through the paper-screened windowpanes of his private chambers. The world outside was warm and bright, but in his chambers, the light was cold. "And he refused to return?"

Wei Ting Kuoh shook her head sadly. "I am sorry, Your Majesty. He refused to come back."

He nodded slowly, carefully hiding his disappointment and regret. He had hoped, with all his heart, that Wei would be able to bring Magtìr Teididh back, but it seemed that there was, indeed, no one who could convince he who was once the greatest of the Imperial Generals to return – even if that person was the woman who was one of the people he cared for most in the world.

He smiled bitterly then. He really does keep to his decisions, he thought. Magtìr Teididh was known for that: he kept his word, even if it meant breaking hearts and hurting those who loved him the most. It was because of that that he had untainted honor.

But was there honor to be gained in hurting others? In breaking hearts? In abandoning those you love?

Deep in his heart, Xin Teni, the young Emperor of Rûmenyen, believed that was not the case – that it should not be the case.

Magtìr only thought of protecting me, he told himself. When Magtìr left five years ago, it had been because he believed that his presence would only cause danger to Xin – who, at twelve, was still quite young for a ruler, even in a country that had a tradition of placing boy-princes on the throne. And, since his Code required him to do anything to ensure the safety of the Emperor – even if it meant giving up his own life – he left Rûmenyen without a word, bidding farewell only to Xin and to Wei.

He reached out then, and laid a hand on Wei's shoulder. When the older woman glanced at him, he smiled at her. "It is alright, Wei. If he does not wish to come back, then it would be best to let him have his way. I have never known Magtìr to do anything without a reason behind it."

He held her gaze for a while, and then turned away. He gazed upon a silk hanging that depicted the Imperial Crest of Rûmenyen: a golden dragon superimposed on a sun disk with nine rays, set against a crimson background – the royal color of Rûmenyen. "Wei," he began, "what is the Creed?" The Creed, as it was called, was a summary of all the virtues the Rûmenyans valued the most. It was one of the most basic things taught to children from the moment they are old enough to remember it. Xin knew it, of course, but to hear it from someone else's mouth was another thing entirely from when one was saying it to oneself.

There was a pause, and then Wei replied: "These are the tenets of the Creed: fight with Courage for Peace and Unity. Strive for Beauty, Discipline and Balance. Treasure Wisdom and Loyalty. Attain these, and you will have Honor."

Xin said nothing, merely continued to stare at the hanging.

"Do you support him then?" Wei asked after another long pause, and a bolt of pain lanced through Xin's heart at the tone of her words. Her voice hitched slightly. "It was right of him, then, to abandon you?"

"There are many ways of putting the Creed into practice," Xin said quietly. "What Magtìr did was one of those."

"But you are the Emperor. You could have ordered him to stay."

"I cannot force my will upon him in such a manner," Xin explained gently as he turned around to look at her once more. "Even if I had ordered him to stay, he would have left, regardless."

"His honor would have impelled him to stay," argued Wei.

Xin shook his head. "His honor would have impelled him to leave. His honor goes beyond that which is bound by the promises of service and guardianship. No, he serves the country and his Emperor in the best way he knows how – even if it means going against all other conventions."

Wei bowed her head. "So you say, Your Majesty. So you say."

"He will come back," Xin said quietly. "I am sure of it. He will return when he believes that it is right for him to – when he is needed again. I trust him that much." He turned to her, and smiled. "And so must you."

But he could tell, from the look in her eyes, that she only partially believed him.

Eldarion stared pensively out the window of his chambers, his gaze focused on the distant south. He smiled slightly to himself. How odd, he thought, that his father had often feared war from the east. Now, in his reign, war came to him from the south.

What would Father have done? He asked himself that question every time he was faced with a decision, whether personal or one that concerned the kingdom. Aragorn Elessar was reputed to be one of the greatest Kings of Men who had ever been born on Arda. He was loved by his people and respected both by his allies and his enemies – though the latter would accept that fact only grudgingly.

Eldarion had realized, even before his father's death, that he had a rather impressive legacy to live up to. Oh, he loved his father, there was no doubt about that, but there were times when he felt a little unsure of himself. He had no desire to overshadow his father's achievements with his own – that, he believed, was an impossible undertaking. But he did feel the need to at least match his father's accomplishments, if not in war, then at least in governing the kingdom.

He sighed, and moved away from the window, heading to the desk that stood not that far away. To run the kingdom the way his father had was, simply put, a task difficult enough by itself, without adding the further complication of impeding war.

His father had tried to prevent it. He remembered that much, at least. Many emissaries had been sent to the warring states of Khemet and Umbar, offering to broker a peace treaty between the two, but the attempt to reconcile the nations failed. And now, with hostilities escalating, he felt that the war would come to Gondor somehow. The ships of Dol Amroth, after all, were very tempting targets for the Umbarians.

There was a letter lying on his desk, and it carried the symbol of Dol Amroth on the wax seal that held the envelope closed. Sensing that this had something to do with his thoughts at the moment, he broke the seal, and unfolded the letter that was contained inside. It read thus:

To My Lord Eldarion,

I bid you hail and greetings, my friend. How fares the White City? I hope that everything is well with you in Minas Tirith.

It has been long since I last sent you a letter, but I am afraid that this one contains no good tidings.

As you may recall, your father once sent emissaries to Khemet and Umbar in an attempt to reconcile the two nations, to no avail. Now, the war escalates to a fever pitch, and, judging from the reports that my spies have sent back to me, they are gathering an immense navy. At present, there are already more than ten warships ready for use in their port, with another twenty being made even as I write this to you. But I doubt that the Umbarians will find such a formidable fleet sufficient.

My Lord, there have been sightings of small Umbarian fishing boats floating too close to the havens of Dol Amroth, and I do not think that these are mere fishing vessels. They drift too close to the ships in the port, and although they are easily sent on their way by the guards and sailors aboard these ships, the following day they have returned.

There is something foul going on in Umbar, and it is not mere preparations for a war against a neighboring country. While I do not wish to alarm you overmuch, there is something in my heart that tells me there is a greater doom that is yet to arrive, and that the war of Umbar against Khemet is merely the beginning. And whatever that doom may be, it will fall upon Gondor as well.

My friend, you may think that I am being silly, but I am merely voicing out what I sense and what I think. Whether you heed my words or not, is entirely your decision, and I hope that, in this instance, you will prove me wrong. But at the moment, I will have to take measures to ensure the safety of the people in the city. When everything has been made secure, I will make the journey to Gondor, and we may speak of these things better.

Until we meet again, my friend.

Your loyal friend and faithful servant,

Adrahil II, Prince of Dol Amroth

Chill was the blood that flowed through Eldarion's veins as he refolded the letter and placed it back in its envelope. So he was not alone in thinking that something was about to happen. While he was partially glad that someone else shared his fears, he was also worried, because it made what could possibly have been imaginings and idle speculations into a real threat.

He lifted his head, and stared out the window once more. All was calm and peaceful in the Reunited Kingdom. But that peace was about to be sorely tried, and he did not know whether he would be able to hold it.

"I wish you were here, Father," he murmured, burying his face in his hands. "You would know what to do."

[1]= This is what the Ma'yen call Arien (the Sun). The Ma'yen believe that all the divinities of the world are like parents, watching over their people, and so address these divinities as Ina ("mother") or Ama ("father"), depending on whether said divinity is masculine or feminine.

[2] = This is what the Ma'yen call Tilion (the Moon).

[3]= The title "Apo" means "old one" or "wise one," and is applied to elders both male and female. Apo Lesaka was the father of Dilag Dayanghirang, and grandfather of Sinag-Tala.

[4]= "Viray" is the Ilocano word for "ship," while "kalangitan" is the Tagalog word for "the heavens." "Ng" is a connecting word, which means "of." Basically, the entire phrase means "Ship of the Heavens," which is a reference to Eärendil, and his ship, Vingilot, as they sailed across the sky in the last hours of darkness just before the dawn.