Four sets of eyes looked up from the breakfast table as she stepped through the open door. Her mother frowned. "Wasn't sure we'd see you this morning, Mir."
"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to stay so long." Meal times at Mirloth's table were, as a rule, strictly observed. Her empty stomach growling insistently, Miriel knew some other explanation was needed. "I would have been here earlier, but Mistress Silevren insisted on sparring with me." She directed the explanation to her father, thinking that he might be more sympathetic to such an excuse.
Sirhael, however, narrowed his eyes and asked shrewdly, "And why was that?"
She thought about lying but dismissed it at once. Her father and Silevren were old friends from their Ranger days; she had no doubt they would be talking about her this morning, and the truth would surely come out. Sirhael was calm and restrained as a rule, but falsehood roused in him an anger that Miriel had seen directed at her only once in her life and had no desire to see again. In a subdued voice, she explained what had passed on the practice ground. When she finished, Sirhael was silent for a moment. At last, he said quietly, "Thank you for the truth." Another pause, and then, "Come and eat; you'll need all your strength today."
"I—yes, father."
"Ah, well…" A slight twinkle showed in Sirhael's eyes, though his face remained impassive. "If you show poorly in the trials, it will reflect on me."
Miriel smiled, though she bit back several retorts that came immediately to her tongue, minded not to push her luck. She sat on the bench next to Andreth and scooped herself a bowl of porridge.
Yet hungry as she was, she found she could not eat more than a few bites before her stomach clenched. She choked down one more mouthful then pushed the bowl away, steeling herself as she did so for Mirloth's inevitable rebuke. Yet it did not come, and when she dared to look up, she saw her mother's face blank and closed.
"Take some bread with you," said Mirloth quietly. "In case you're hungry later."
Miriel nodded, and did not question her good fortune, but only wrapped a thick slice of bread in a napkin and shoved it in her belt pouch. She felt suddenly queasy, had an overpowering desire for fresh air. She bowed perfunctorily, spun on her heel and strode toward the door. As she bent to pick up her bow, she heard her father's voice.
"Let her go, Mirloth. It serves nothing to hold her."
Once outside, she leaned heavily against the gatepost, taking great, gasping breaths to steady her racing heart. Stop it, girl. You're not going to fail, and you know it. Since last fall, Arondir had run them through the full trial dozens of times in training. It had been three months since she had last failed the test.
And it will not happen today. He would not put you forward if you were not ready.
True. Yet still failures happen, nearly every year.
So don't be one of them.
Needing activity to drive away thought, she headed for the stables. Though each farming family kept its own cows, the horses, both for draft and riding, were held in common, housed in a long, low building set back from the road toward the far end of the village. The dirt foreyard was empty, but once her eyes had adjusted to the dim light inside, she found, as she had expected, the stablehands already at work. And also as expected, they were glad for help.
"Sure you know the work, Mir," said the oldest cheerfully. Bregol was a stout boy of fourteen, soon to begin training in earnest himself, though he could not take the trials for three more years. All the youths of the village did a turn in the stables, and all learned to ride, whether they desired to become Rangers or not. Miriel had been the lead stablehand when Bregol had first been assigned to the duty, nearly two years ago. He had been small for his age then, and deathly afraid of horses, for he had been kicked by one as a young child and his arm broken. At first, he hardly dared enter the stalls. But she gave him the gentlest animals to start with, and the simplest tasks, and gradually he lost his fear. In time, he developed a genuine talent for handling even the largest, most foul-tempered beasts. He had started working with the Horsemaster, and she had often seen him in the training yard just outside the walls, running a gangly foal around on a lead while its mother watched protectively. He had started to come into his growth and looked fair to make a Ranger in a few years time. But if that isn't to be, he'll always have a place with the horses.
Bregol grinned conspiratorially. "The three at the end there are the ones they'll use today, says Faelon. So if you want to give 'em some apples, just make 'em friendly, you know – "
"As if I needed to," she replied, grinning back.
"Well, suit yourself. We've mucked the first five stalls, but you're welcome to help with the others if you've a mind."
"It'll keep me from thinking of other things."
He nodded sympathetically and then grinned again. "Just don't blame me if you go to the trials smelling like a barn."
"It's better than smelling like a barn all day every day." Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed a shovel and strode off towards the far end of the stable, Bregol's chuckle following her down the passage.
The rhythm of the work and the soothing solidity of the animals took the edge off her anxiety, though she did try not to get too much manure on her boots. With her mind engaged in the work, the warning bell took her by surprise. She froze, and the horse next to her snorted and stamped. She forced herself to relax, patting the broad back and talking softly to the creature for a moment before backing out of the stall. Returning the shovel to the tack room, she waved a farewell to Bregol, who was out in the yard saddling one of the horses that would be used in the trials.
"Good luck, Mir. I'll cheer for you," he called after her.
She strode quickly down the road towards the Hall. A crowd was already gathering in the courtyard; she saw her father talking to Silevren, and Andreth giggling and chattering with the younger children. Her sister Darya, four years older and apprenticed to the healers, had been up all night tending a sick child. She stood now talking quietly with a friend, clearly weary. Miriel caught her eye; Darya nodded, unsmiling, and turned back to her friend.
What did you expect? She shook herself, as if to shake it off, and made her way through the crowd. Yet she peered from side to side, feeling an absence. Where is Mother?
She will come.
Are you sure?
She had heard them talking in soft voices when they thought she was asleep, had seen the looks that passed between them when she came home chattering excitedly about the latest detail of her training.
'I nearly lost you,' said Mirloth, word and glance. 'Must I lose her, too?'
'She will be happy with nothing else. It is the risk we all take.'
A sigh, fond and fearful and grieving all in one. 'I know.'
She took hold of that thought and pushed it firmly to the back of her mind. Many times she had played out the argument in her head, and always she came to the same conclusion. Still, the doubt returned to trouble her. But not today. Today you must have no doubts. She waved to her father and then went over to join the others.
They stood a bit apart from the crowd, most armed with sword and bow, though weapons would be provided to those who did not have their own. She knew most of the dozen youths who stood there – half of them were from Elenost, and several of the others she had met in passing, when they came to visit family or trade in the village. Meren greeted her gladly, introducing her to those she had not met before. The whirl of names and villages passed by her without sinking in, though she smiled in welcome. Several others came up as they talked, but introductions were forestalled as the second bell rang.
All fell quiet then, save the younger children running and laughing behind the crowd. The great carved wooden doors of the hall swung open, and out strode Arahael, he who held rule over the Dunedain in the Chieftain's absence. Brannon taid he was called, "second lord," and with the Chieftain gone in the South six years now, and who knew how much longer, Arahael acted with all the authority of lordship; indeed he was the only lord many of the younger children had ever known. Miriel had vague memories of the Chieftain, a grave young man, very tall, as she remembered him – though perhaps he would not seem so tall to me now. When will he return? Will he return at all? She shook her head slightly, as if to ward off the strange emptiness that came with the thought. Not your concern, girl. Especially not today.
At Arahael's right shoulder walked Faelon, Master of Trainees. She had a passing acquaintance with him, for he was friendly with her father. Yet she had always found him rather forbidding, and never more so than today. The brannon taid might rule the Dunedain and preside over the trials, but the final decision to admit a young man or woman into training, or not, rested with the Master. Behind Arahael and Faelon came the other judges – Arondir, Silevren, and another man Miriel did not recognize; she supposed him to be the Armsmaster of one of the other villages, called to Elenost for the trials. Arondir had told them to expect such, "For some fools, knowing that I trained you all, might think I liked you, and would favor you over the others. I am sure you are under no such illusions." And no one would dare suggest that Silevren might play favorites. The corners of her mouth twitched as she thought of the Silevren's response to any such suggestion. That would be something to watch.
Arahael walked forward until he stood directly in front of the assembled youths. His gaze raked over them, hard and assessing, and she had a sudden feeling of insignificance as she thought of how many trials the brannon taid had seen, how many hundreds of young men and women he had sent to Ranger training. And how many of them he had later seen come home with broken bodies, or not at all. 'It is the risk we all take.' Yet somehow the thought strengthened her, and she almost smiled.
The brannon taid was speaking now, welcoming those from other villages and naming the judges. The stranger he introduced as Astorion, Armsmaster of Gaerferin, a small village two days' ride west of Elenost.
"Now you will name yourselves," he said, his deep voice ringing out across the crowd, "that the judges may know those with whom they are not already acquainted."
One by one they stepped forward, giving name and village with varying degrees of steadiness. Miriel fought down the urge to smile as Meren puffed out his skinny chest, and declared himself in what he must have thought was a booming, manful voice. The effect was somewhat spoiled by a squeaky crack in the middle; Meren flushed bright red but kept his head high as he stepped back into line. You make this too easy, my friend. But suddenly there was no more time for gloating, for the boy next to her stepped forward and back, and then it was her turn.
She felt a sudden hot flush course through her body as all eyes in the crowd turned to her. Sirhael stood in the front row, and there next to him, clasping his hand, grave but steady – Mother. Miriel met her eyes and was rewarded with the smallest of smiles. Her heart leaped, and all fear was forgotten as she stepped forward, eyes firmly on her mother's, and declared, "Miriel, daughter of Sirhael, of Elenost." Sirhael's face broke into a broad grin; the man next to him nudged him and said something in his ear, and he nodded in response. Talking about me. I wish he wouldn't do that. But she too felt a sudden urge to smile as she stepped back into line.
A ripple ran through the onlookers when Calen spoke, steady and calm as if the lack of a father to name did not trouble him in the least, though a certain rigidity in his shoulders hinted otherwise. There were two more after him, and then it was done – fifteen would test this Midsummer Day. And only two girls. Well, some years there are none. Count yourself lucky. The other was a shortish, slender young woman who had introduced herself as Hannas, from Gaerferin. It is her Armsmaster, then, who will be the third judge; I wonder what she could tell me of him. But all such thoughts were driven from her head, for now Arahael stepped forward. Slowly he paced down the line, casting a sharp glance on each in turn.
Miriel had known the brannon taid all her life; indeed, he had for years been something of a surrogate grandfather to the children of Elenost, particularly those who had lost family in the service of the House of Isildur. Both of Miriel's grandfathers had gone that way; her first clear memory was of Arahael riding in through the village gate, the broken body of her mother's father in his arms.
Mirloth did not shriek with grief, as some did. Indeed, in Miriel's memory at least, she hardly even wept. The silence was more terrible than any tears – silence, broken only by a murmur, soft and plaintive as a young girl: "Papa. Papa. Papa." They had taken him to the healers, but there was nothing to be done, and in the end it was Mirloth herself who lifted the mercy draught to her father's lips. She held his hand as he breathed his last, and dry-eyed she stood before the pyre, watching the fire consume his body as the clear notes of the linnaidh, the warrior's farewell, drifted over the crackle of flame. Arahael sang it, for such was the duty of the Chieftain, or in his stead the brannon taid. He had done much to comfort the family then, and more after Sirhael was wounded, a few years later. He arranged for Sirhael to learn the craft of the village bowyer, whose own son had died of an illness the previous winter. Though he was far past the usual age of apprenticeship, Sirhael learned quickly and well, and was soon turning out bows that were the equal of the older man's; many indeed came to prefer his work, though they were for the most part too courteous to say such to the old bowyer's face. Yet he knew it, and when, prematurely aged by grief, his eyes began to cloud and his hands to tremble, he gave his trade willingly into Sirhael's keeping. Arahael kept a watchful eye on the family all the while, and Miriel was so accustomed to his presence that she hardly even thought of him as a lord.
Yet it seemed now that a different man stood before her, no trace of warmth in his hard eyes and stern face as he said with a thin smile, "Faelon, they're all yours."
"Yes, my lord." Faelon gave a sharp nod and then turned to the line of would-be Rangers. "You heard the brannon taid. As of this moment, you are under my orders; if you are strong enough, you will still be so at the end of the day." He paused for a moment, allowing the words to sink in, and then he went on, "You all know the sequence – run, ride, sword, bow. You'll not need your weapons for the first two. Leave them there, against the wall." He gestured to the front of the Hall. When no one moved, he growled, "What are you waiting for? Have you ears or not? Go." As if released from a spell, she scrambled to the wall with the others, laying her sword and bow carefully on the ground before returning to stand rigid in front of the Master. Faelon grinned mirthlessly. "Ears, then. What about legs? We'll soon find out. Follow me." Without a glance behind him, he jogged toward the gate, the crowd parting with laughs and cheers to let him pass. The youths followed in a disorganized gaggle. Miriel found herself next to Hannas. The girl looked scared, her thin face pale and tense. We Elenosters have an advantage, Miriel realized suddenly. We know the course. I'd be scared, too.
"The run isn't bad," she said in a low voice, "except for the last stretch. It looks flat from here, but it's not – just enough uphill to kill your legs if you haven't saved something for it."
Hannas flashed her a look of alarm but said nothing, turning quickly back to face forward.
Well, have it your way then. You've no reason to mistrust me. But then there was no more time for thought, for Faelon stopped suddenly, just outside the gate. They gathered around him, though at a wary distance from his hard eyes.
"I'll say this once," he growled, "so listen well."
Despite the warning, she only feigned attention; she had run the course dozens of times over the years and needed no further guidance. Instead, she glanced surreptitiously around at the other competitors. Not competitors, she chided herself. This is not a race. Then she almost smiled, her conversation with Meren earlier that morning echoing in her head. Of course it is. But remember that the run is only the first part. Save your strength. With an effort, she stilled her suddenly shaky limbs and returned her attention to Faelon.
"You'll start at the stroke of the bell," he said at last. He did not ask for questions, but merely glanced over them all once more. Then he nodded sharply and raised his hand. A single, clear note sounded from the bell above the gate, and the pack surged into motion. The trials had begun.
Note: I'm making up a lot of things about Dunedain traditions, social structure, governance, etc. Tolkien doesn't give us much to go on, and I'm wide open to suggestions if you think I've gotten it wrong.
In my imagination, the Dunedain use Sindarin as the language of ritual, tradition, and formal ceremony, much medieval Europeans used Latin. I am most definitely NOT a scholar of Elvish languages, so if you are, please feel free to correct my translations!
