Dragonfly: Once again, thank you so much for serving as beta reader.
SilentBanshee, Joee, and Dragonfly: Glad you liked the Tathar reunion. I'm planning to keep Tathar in the story from now on. He will be one more character with whom Legolas can get into mischief, which will be especially helpful to the narrative when none of the younger Lórien or Rivendell Elves are present.
Someguy, Joee, and Kelly Kragen: O.K. Here's the scoop. Saruman was behind the plot. Other than Sauron, he's the only one who could have devised the rings, thanks to several centuries of intense study of ring-lore. As to Saruman's motive: First, he and Legolas have a history. In previous stories, Saruman has been rejected and thwarted by Legolas, and Saruman has grown to hate him. Second, Saruman wants control. He knows he can't control Legolas, and he hopes he may have better luck with Tawarmaenas.
Azure Dragoness: As always, thank you for your kind words, which encourage me to keep writing.
Chapter 24: Thrust and Parry
Gandalf stood before Meduseld, the Golden Hall of the King of Rohan. The wind whipped his beard as he gazed into the distance watching for the approach of his friends. He had only been up and about for a day, and he was already restless. Strange it was that, though the Valar had given him the form of a Man, it was not with Men that he took his ease most readily. No, it was Elves and Hobbits that he was most drawn to. Sadly, he knew that neither the Fair Folk nor the Little Folk were destined to inherit Middle Earth. It was his task to help pave the way for the ascendancy of the race for which he had the least affinity.
No, he thought, that wasn't quite true. He could not deny that he was drawn to the Dúnedain in the selfsame manner that he was attracted to the Elves and the Hobbits. Indeed, for the Dúnedain he felt a respect similar to the one that he harbored for the Eldar themselves. Of course, in the Dúnedain the blood of Westernesse ran true, and it could not be forgotten that Estel and his forefathers shared kinship with Elrond himself, descended as they were from Elros, Elrond's departed brother.
"Master Mithrandir," said a smooth voice, "you will catch your death of chill standing exposed here. Pray, come inside and let me see to your comfort."
Gandalf grimaced at these words, but nevertheless turned and politely addressed the speaker.
"Thank you, Master Gríma, but wrapped as I am in this cloak, I am quite comfortable."
"If you will not come inside, Master Mithrandir, at least partake of this mulled wine. Its warmth will do you good."
"Thank you for your trouble, Master Gríma," Gandalf said firmly, "but I am not thirsty." Since Gríma's late-night visit to his chamber, he had been very careful to drink only from bottles whose seals had been broken in his presence.
"No trouble for me, Master Mithrandir, but the cook will be disappointed. He took great care in preparing this and will be sorry if it comes back untouched."
"Then you must pour it out and say nothing to him."
"But if he asks how it was received?"
"Tell him it was much appreciated, for the ground is parched, as it has not rained in several weeks. Any moisture would be welcome."
"You are of course correct, Master Mithrandir. We have gone quite some time without rain. In fact, I was just speaking with a group of Riders who were reckoning the number of days since rain has fallen. They recollect that nary a cloud has been seen in Rohan since your arrival at the Golden Hall. 'You would think', said one, 'that the conjurer brought this drought with him'. Rude and unlettered as they are, they are quite superstitious, I am afraid. Pity, as I should not like to see them turn against you."
Gandalf glanced sharply at Gríma, who stared back at him impassively save for the glitter in his hooded eyes.
"Will you come in now, Master Mithrandir, away from this spot where you stand so prominently exposed to the wind and—other things?"
Gandalf considered. Perhaps it would be best to play Gríma's game. If he did not, Gríma would go to greater and greater lengths in order to ensnare him. Seeming to acquiesce might in fact be a good way to fend him off.
"Very well, Master Gríma. I will be ruled by you in this matter."
"Excellent," gloated Gríma. "Just the sort of wise judgment one would expect from a wizard."
"Thank you," said Gandalf dryly, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Gríma overlooked that, however, and slipped his arm through Gandalf's as if the wizard were a feeble old Man in need of support. There were few who would have had the temerity to do so, Legolas among them, and Gandalf had to suppress the impulse to rap Gríma on the head with his newly repaired staff.
Gríma 'helped' Gandalf back to his chamber, and the wizard made a show of turning in for the night. He even took a small sip from the goblet that Gríma still proffered, afterward instantly turning his face from the Man and drawing the blankets up over his head.
"Rest well, Master Mithrandir," said Gríma.
"Mmmph," came the muffled reply.
"If you should require anything, do not hesitate to request it of me."
"Mmmph mmph," answered Gandalf.
Receiving no other reply, Gríma departed. As soon as he had left the room, Gandalf threw aside the covers and leaped from the bed. Drawing the chamber pot out from under the bed, the wizard spat the mulled wine into it. For good measure, he took into his mouth some water from the jug that stood in the dry sink, swished it about, and spat it out as well. As this water was intended for bathing, he doubted it would have been tampered with. Still, he was careful not to swallow any of it.
Having done that, Gandalf hastened to the door. To his dismay, he found that the bolt had been removed. He looked about the room, and his eye fell upon a chair. "Lucky the door swings inward," he thought to himself, "else I could not block it." He braced the chair against the door and then gave the handle a tug. The door could not be budged.
It was now Gandalf's turn to gloat.
"Sorry for your trouble, Gríma," he chortled. "Now you had best put your mind to coming up with a story to tell your master—Sauron, no doubt—to explain your repeated failures."
Gandalf returned to his bed, as usual placing his staff beside himself and wrapping one arm about it. He fell at once into a peaceful rest.
Hours later he was roused by a slight noise. He looked toward the door. Someone was trying to force it. The chair creaked as pressure built up in its legs, but it held, and after awhile the would-be intruder abandoned the attempt.
Gandalf yawned and stretched luxuriantly, reveling in the comfort of the feather bed, and then allowed himself to drift back to sleep. Tomorrow, he said to himself as he dozed off, he was going to have a bit of a chat with King Fengel.
The next morning it was an anxious King Fengel whom Gandalf found sitting in the Great Hall. The King was listening to the reports of Riders who had come in from the outlying Marches. To a Man, they brought the same message. The crops were like to fail for lack of rain, and the stock were beginning to suffer from the paucity and poor quality of the grass. Moreover, if rain did not fall soon, it was likely that they would be unable to gather enough hay to sustain their herds over the winter, when the cold wind would sweep down from the north.
"If I may, my Lord," said Gríma, his words sounding smooth as they arose amongst the rough voices of the Riders, "if I may, my Lord, perhaps I could offer counsel on this matter."
Fengel gestured for him to continue.
"When last I carried a message to Isengard, I observed a great ingathering of grain and hay, an abundance superfluous to the needs of the dwellers in that place. Saruman has ever been our friend. If we applied to him for assistance, no doubt he would be generous."
The King shook his head.
"We have longstanding trade ties with Gondor. I should not like to offend their Steward by turning elsewhere to purchase grain and hay."
"Ah, but my Lord, I have no doubt that Saruman would give us grain and fodder at no cost to ourselves, asking only for our friendship in return."
"You can't beat that price," laughed one of the Riders.
Fengel, however, flushed angrily.
"We are not beggars! We can pay for whatever we require to sustain ourselves and our herds!"
"Of course, of course," Gríma soothed him. "Saruman would have no wish to humiliate us by making it appear as if we were the recipients of his charity. If you wish to exchange goods or coin for provisions, he will gladly enter into a bargain with you. But be sure that his price will be fair, for unlike the Men of Gondor, he is no haggling merchant."
"This counsel seems wise," said an eager young Rider. "Particularly as the Lord Saruman is a mighty wizard. If we establish closer ties with him, mayhap he can be prevailed upon to counter the spell that has kept the wind blowing the wrong way." As he said that, he looked hard at Gandalf, and the other Riders muttered angrily.
Fengel observed the glance and turned deliberately to Gandalf.
"What say you, my old friend?" he said loudly.
"Over the centuries you have experienced many such droughts, have you not?" said Gandalf.
"Aye, for weather is changeable. And has ever been so," added the King, staring at the young Rider until the youth dropped his eyes.
"And in the past," Gandalf continued, "Gondor has always responded to your appeals for aid, is that not so?"
"Aye, and most generously."
"Is there not a saying amongst men that 'if it is not broken, do not mend it'?"
Fengel smiled.
"You have heard me say that, my old friend, and I have heard my father say it before me, and he his father."
"Your forefathers were wise," said Gandalf.
"I thank you, Mithrandir."
The King turned to address the assembled Riders.
"Mithrandir has said that my forefathers were wise."
"Oh, most assuredly," Gríma said hastily. "If they had not been, Rohan would never have achieved the preeminence that it has so long enjoyed and which you in your wisdom maintain."
"And my wisdom it is that we will follow in the steps of my forefathers, who looked to our alliance with Gondor when evil or ill-fortune befell the kingdom. Thengel," he continued, turning to his son, "I charge you to lead a company of Riders to Minas Tirith, there to arrange the purchase of such grain and fodder as will be needful for the coming months."
Thengel bowed respectfully and departed, followed by his band of picked Riders. Fengel then dismissed all the other Rohirrim, not excepting Gríma. Only Gandalf he asked to remain.
"You look much better than you did when first you came here," he said to the wizard.
"I am sure I could not have looked worse!" said Gandalf jokingly.
"True! True! You were then very pale and emaciated. You have got your color back and are now merely skinny rather than emaciated."
"I thank you for the compliment—I think," replied Gandalf wryly.
Fengel laughed but then sobered.
"Seriously, my friend, is all well with you? Have you been provided with everything you need? I would have you lack for nothing."
"I lack for nothing but a bolt upon my door."
"A bolt upon your door?"
"Aye, there was a bolt upon my door, but it has now vanished."
"And do you feel that you have need of such a bolt?"
"Your hospitality is unquestionable, Fengel, but there are those among your people who are not as welcoming as you."
"I fear that you are right, Mithrandir. There are several who blame you for the drought. Some say that you were fated to die and that we angered the gods by carrying you to Edoras when your dust should now be mingled with the earth. They mutter that only when your blood has soaked into the soil will it rain anew. Others say that you yourself have cast a spell upon the wind so that it drives away the clouds and that only your death will break that spell."
"Does this mean," deadpanned Gandalf, "that you wouldn't mind if I had a bolt?"
Fengel shook his head in mock despair and chuckled. Then he called for a servant.
"Let Gríma be summoned," he ordered. "Gríma," he said to Gandalf, "looks after this sort of thing."
"I wonder at your keeping Gríma in your employ, Fengel."
Fengel waved his hand dismissively.
"I know that Gríma has an unfortunate appearance and manner, but he has served me well, as his father did my father, and his grandfather my grandfather. No doubt his son will serve Thengel well, and his son Theoden."
This conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the current Gríma.
"Gríma," said Fengel briskly, "Mithrandir's chamber had a bolt upon its door, but it has disappeared. Know you aught of this?"
"Yes, my Lord. I noticed that the bolt could not be shot easily, and I had it removed so that it might be filed smooth."
"Ah, I see. And it will be replaced?"
"Shortly, my Lord."
"Shortly? Ah, yes. No doubt, as Mithrandir is a most honored guest, you have made certain that it will be replaced this very day."
"Indeed, you are correct, my Lord, as always. The smith is filing it even as we speak."
"Excellent, Gríma, excellent."
"Is there anything else, my Lord?"
"No, Gríma. That will be all."
Gríma bowed and hastened away. No doubt, Gandalf thought to himself, it was only now that the retainer would hurry to the smith to order that the bolt be at once mended and replaced. He did not, however, voice his suspicions to Fengel.
"It is enough," he said to himself, "that I have raised the matter with Fengel. These things take time."
Indeed, Gandalf did not know how very true his words would turn out to be. It would be many years before a King of Rohan would be persuaded to doubt the faith of a counselor named Gríma.