The sunset over the lake that evening left even Meren speechless, and in the clear air above the hills the stars seemed to hang nearer than they did in more gentle lands. But the wind brought a change in weather, and when they awoke, the gray dawn was cloudy and cold. In the dim light the ruins seemed forlorn, unutterably lonely. They ate hurriedly and packed up their camp, and no one asked to go back among the faded stones.
Guided by Faelon, they found a path that followed the river. He said it was the remains of an ancient way, all that was left of one of the great roads of the kings, running east along the northern skirts of the hills and then out into empty lands between the Hills of Evendim and the North Downs that had once been the heart of Arnor. There were ruins, sometimes, along the way, tumbled stones overgrown with grass and bracken, and the way was rough and little trodden. But still it went on, fifty leagues and more, he said, until it met the old north-south road at the ruins of Fornost. That way ran south for hundreds of miles, through lands whose names were only legends in Miriel's mind, though it was said that the young Chieftain had gone that way, down at last to Gondor. That was too far out of her reckoning, and so she did not trouble with it. But still the great way was in her, exhilarating and slightly terrifying, whispering that it could, if she wanted, lead her anywhere in the known world, and she felt very small under the open sky.
Late in the day they came to a place where a smaller river ran into the Baranduin, in a flat water-mead that was marshy with melting snow. Its water was a cloudy green, as were many streams that came down from the rocky hills, and Faelon said its name was Calen, that was green in the old speech. They laughed at that, and said Calen ought to bathe in it, that he stank to the skies after a fortnight in the Wild, and he replied that they all did likewise, and he would bring any who wished to bathe with him, but he would not go alone. To the surprise of no one, his offer went unanswered, and they splashed their hands in the churning water, grinning and shivering.
A path branched off from the main way and followed the valley of the River Calen, west into the hills. Faelon said it led through them, and down to the Havens of Lindon. "Elves still dwell there, maybe, by the shores of the Sea." He shook his head. "We do not go that way."
Instead they followed the road east, river on their left, hills on their right slowly sinking into the plains of Arnor. They were footsore and their packs had begun to feel light as their food supplies dwindled. They laid it all out that night and divided it again, equaling out a distribution that had become uneven. This was one of the first things he had taught them: spread the supplies out as much as might be, whether food or tools or cooking gear, so if one lost his pack, the patrol did not lose all of whatever he carried. They reckoned they had enough to get home. It would be close, Hannas said tentatively, but she did not go so far as to suggest cutting the daily ration, for they were all hungry, unused as their growing bodies were to walking all day, for days on end, with a full load and only the food they brought with them. They had managed to shoot three deer and a few rabbits over the course of the patrol, but game was scarce in this harsh country, and even more so at the end of winter.
They made good time for two days after that, but on the third a storm swept in halfway through the morning. They could see it coming over the bare country to the east, but there was nowhere to shelter, and so they huddled in the lee of some scrubby bushes at the bottom of a draw while rain and then sleet hissed down on them. Faelon took pains to point out that they could have kept walking, had their task been urgent, and would perhaps have been warmer as long as they were moving. But their clothes and gear would have become soaked, and that was a thing to be avoided if at all possible. Rangers did not often die from storms, but they did die from cold, or illness that followed from it. "It is thus wisdom," he told them, "and not cowardice or lack of fortitude, to keep yourself dry when you can. There will be enough times when you cannot."
When the storm had passed by they continued on, but now the road was soft and muddy, and they went more slowly. The next day they came down out of the hills, and saw before them wide plains, and far ahead the faint green-brown of a forest at the edge of spring. They passed through the outlying trees, the river swift now beside them, carefully crossed a stream swollen by the rain to a small torrent, and camped for the first time in that journey beneath something that felt like shelter. The road through the forest was muddy but clear, and in the morning they went forward cheerfully amid birdsong under boughs beginning to show their first green.
But they faced another check that afternoon, and a worse one. The Baranduin, that had until now been a steady companion as they walked east, at last turned south, and the road crossed it by a steep ford. But now the river was swollen with snowmelt, and even more with the recent rain, and when they came to the ford they found it entirely impassible. They turned to Faelon in consternation, and he smiled grimly. "At this time of year, you could normally wade or swim, though you would certainly get wet. But anyone who entered the water now would be swept away. We'll have to wait."
"Could we not use a rope?" asked Tarag.
"And who would tie it on the far bank?" countered Lain.
Miriel and Calen both eyed the water, and smiled a little at each other when they realized they were thinking the same thing. "When it slacks off a bit, I'll swim over," said Calen, but quietly, as if testing out the idea.
"Not alone, you won't," she replied, and a grin flashed across his face and was gone.
In the end they had to wait two days before the river had gentled enough to cross. Then Calen and Miriel tied ropes to their waists, and together they swam across. The water was icy and the current still strong, and it was well that there were two of them, for he caught his trouser leg on a submerged log and was nearly dragged under before she could pull him free, and when they reached the far side her numbed limbs could not manage the rocky shore, and he had to drag her up. They sat in the dirt, gasping and shaking with cold. At last they crawled up the rest of the way up to where the trees were, above a sharply eroded bank. With clumsy, chilled fingers, they tied their ropes, and then they waited.
One rope was for people, the other for gear. The packs were tied up and drawn carefully above the churning water, and then hand over hand the trainees pulled themselves across. Some of them got wet, but Miriel was recovered enough to watch with pride as Hannas managed it smoothly. Even Tarag, fearful of the water as he was, clung tight and did not look down, and though his face was white and rigid when at last he released the rope and dragged himself up the bank, he managed the bare ghost of a smile as he collapsed in the dirt by Miriel.
When Calen had recovered a little, he made a fire of winter deadfall, plentiful beneath the trees, and they crouched gratefully around it. Miriel stayed by the bank, though, watching narrowly and shivering in her wet clothes, a rope still around her waist. But in the end it was not any of the trainees but Faelon himself who faltered.
He had waited until all the others had crossed, untied the spare rope and let it be hauled back, and then tied the other rope around himself and waded into the river. He started strongly, but perhaps halfway across his strokes began to slow. Perhaps he is only resting…but still she called out to the others, and they began hauling on the rope. Faelon felt it, tried to swim, but now it was clear he could not. The current was beginning to carry him downstream.
"Meren, hold me," she called, meaning the rope. And without waiting to see if he did, she scrambled stiffly down the bank and into the water.
The shock of cold was not so sharp this time, for now her body expected it, though she was shivering violently even before her feet left the bank. But she could swim, and that was all that mattered. She saw Faelon, managing to keep his face above water but floundering, and the only forward progress came when he was hauled by the rope. It was not enough. His strength was failing, sapped by the cold, and long before they could pull him to safety across the current, he would go under.
She was not afraid. She felt a detached surprise at the lightness in her mind, but she could not spare a thought for it, and focused everything in her on swimming. The cold current tugged at her, and a clawing branch, perhaps the same that had caught Calen, nearly snared her foot, but she kicked free and breathed deep and kept her arms moving, and at last she was within a few feet of Faelon. She called out to him, and she could tell that he heard, for he tried to turn his head. But there was no strength left in him, and he only just managed to clamp his mouth shut before water washed over his face. She reached him, grasped at his clothes, managed to reach her arm around his back and push him up. He was taller than Meren, broader than Calen, and she found herself sinking under his weight as she tried to pull him to her. But she realized she did not need to swim, or not much, needed only to keep his face above water, and the trainees hauling on the ropes would eventually bring them to shore. And so she held him, arm behind his back, and let his head rest on her shoulder. She managed to keep herself mostly upright in the water, and though twice waves splashed over them both, and her hands were soon numb, she did not lose her grip, and at last she felt her feet scrape against rock.
"We're here," she gasped, and her voice shook with cold. "The bank. Can you stand?"
He tried. He twisted his body, struggled to get his legs beneath him, but they would not obey, and he sank back into the water. But then Meren was there, wading out to them. He said nothing, but took one of Faelon's arms over his shoulders, and she took the other, and together they got him to land. Others took him from them then, and the weight was gone. She collapsed onto the dirt.
She remembered little after that. Meren's arms around her, feet bumping over rocks as he half-carried, half-dragged her up the bank. Hands fumbling with her wet clothes, and his voice gentle in her ear: "You're all right now, Mir, just cold, but we'll get you dry, get you by the fire, and then you'll be fine, don't worry…." And so he went on. Even in her slowed mind she realized he said it more for himself than for her, and so she said nothing. She tried to help, but her numbed fingers would not obey, and so she let it be, and let him do for her what she could not do for herself.
At last she was in dry clothes, huddled by the fire, overwhelming sleepiness pulling her down as she leaned against Meren's shoulder. She felt him shift a little, and then Calen's voice above her. "Here's tea, Mir. You really should drink it…." Her hands shook, with weariness and cold both, and so Meren took the mug and set it to her lips, and sip by sip she drank. It was gone too soon, but it warmed her just enough, and she slid at last irresistibly into sleep.
She woke in the gray light, not exactly warm but not too cold. She opened her eyes, shifted a little, groaned as her aching body protested the movement. But the pain forced her more awake, and she rolled up onto her elbow and looked around. Blanket-wrapped bodies huddled around her; the gray remains of a fire smoked gently in their midst, and damp clothes hung on all the branches like so many limp scarecrows. Carefully she sat up, head aching but clear, and the movement drew the attention of a dark figure seated on a rock at the edge of the bank. It was Calen, awake but clearly tired, his face pale and drawn. Moving slowly, so as not to disturb those still sleeping around her, she rose and came over to squat beside him.
"I thought you'd be off guard, at least for one night," she murmured.
He smiled, and shook his head. "I'm fine. Aside from you and the Master, we all were, once we'd put on dry clothes and eaten a bit."
"Glad of the extra weight now, eh?" She chuckled, and his smile widened to a rueful grin. He had wondered aloud when they were packing for this patrol at Faelon's requirement that they each bring a full spare set of clothes, not simply stockings and a shirt, as was usual in warm weather. "It may be warm here," the Master had said, for indeed the grass was green around them, and the day felt more like summer than spring. "But it won't be warm in the mountains, and the rain and the rivers are still cold." Calen had accepted the rebuke without protest and packed along with the rest, and now indeed they were glad, for it meant the difference between a night of rest and one of miserable cold, and perhaps worse.
"How is the Master?" she asked.
"Well enough, I think. He ate a little, and he's slept solidly through the night, or so I was told." A pause, and then, "That was brave, Mir."
She shrugged, and flushed, and hoped he did not see it in the dim light. "Not really. You had me on a rope. I wouldn't have drowned even if I couldn't swim."
"You might have," he said quietly, "if we hadn't pulled you back fast enough. And the Master too."
"Well, I didn't think about that," she returned, a bit defensively. "I just….went."
"Of course you did," said Calen, smiling a little now.
She did not know what to say to that, so she looked away from him and said nothing, and her flush was warm in the cold morning air.
Others began to stir, coughing and groaning, and gradually the camp came to life. They were slower than usual, and for once Faelon did not harangue them, but only sat by the fire sipping a mug of tea.
"Miriel." His deep voice was quiet, and she turned in surprise from where she had been crouching, tying wet clothes to the outside of her pack so they would dry. He gestured her over, and she sat beside him, stiff limbs awkward, and conscious of eyes on them, though she would not let herself look round.
He glanced at her, and a faint smile flitted across his rough, lined face. Then he handed her his nearly-full mug of tea, and said softly, so that only she could hear, "Ani luciel nin cuil."
She knew what it meant now. They all did, for Faelon had told them after they returned from Ladrengil in the autumn. It was sacred, almost, in the ways of the Rangers. I owe you my life. But she remembered it in Tarag's voice, and it seemed strange to hear it in Faelon's, so gentle it was almost a caress.
It could not be refused, and it required no reply. And so she said nothing, but sat beside him and drank the tea, and while all others bustled around them, these two were still.
