When Tarnendur's heavy footfalls died in the distance, Gimilbeth sat for some time immobile, thinking furiously. The King was making a big mistake, and there was no way out of it that she could see.
Gimilbeth wouldn't have hesitated to start clandestine diplomatic relations with Angmar behind her father's back, but much as she tried, she couldn't pinpoint any Angmarian spies in Cameth Brin. She didn't believe that there were none, of course, but it seemed they were too clever to be detected. Not like the old Curugil, the head of the King's Private council: not only was he appointed Seneschal of Rhudaur on Malvegil's bequest, but everyone knew that he was sending reports to Malvegil almost every month. Any of the others, who were so keen on alliance with Broggha, could have been on Angmar's payroll.
"Which one?" thought Gimilbeth. "Turamir? Belzagar? Or all of them?" The last idea was far too disconcerting, but not impossible. She decided to have a cup of Khandian coffee with each suspect in turn, probing them gently. Then she could try to send a message North...
But it was for the future. Now she had a more immediate task on her hands: to stop Broggha from entering Cameth Brin. The man should be removed as soon as possible. No time to bargain with Carn Dum, proposing Rhudaur's allegiance in exchange for Broggha's head. Gimilbeth thought of poison, or an assassination. But how to get to Broggha in his camp, amidst thousands of loyal Hillmen?
There was only one answer to this problem: magic. As little time as she had to leaf through the black book, she knew already that it mostly contained various spells, including malicious magic devised to ruin and cause to perish men and women, cattle and flocks and herds and animals of every kind, meadows, pastures, harvests, grains and other fruits of the earth, to afflict and torture with dire pains and anguish these men, women, cattle, flocks, herds, and animals, and hinder men from begetting and women from conceiving.
There was one particular spell that could suit her quite well, the one sending a knife to seek the blood of the chosen person. If cast properly, this spell would find Broggha in his secure camp - anyone of his men might be compelled to kill him.
Gimilbeth berated herself bitterly for her cowardice: she had the book for ninety years, but only opened it this morning. Now she had to act almost blindly, an inexperienced amateur trying to cast a powerful spell that might prove too difficult for her. Gimilbeth refused to think what would happen if the spell went wrong and rebounded on her. Regardless of the danger, she decided to try this very night.
Her decision made, Gimilbeth rose and stretched like a big lazy cat. She was bone-tired after a night spent down in Tanoth Brin. She couldn't afford two sleepless nights in a row, lest her creamy skin becomes sallow, and dark circles appear around her eyes.
Gimilbeth went upstairs to her bedroom and ordered Nimraen, a Gondorian maid, to prepare her herbal face mask. Soon Gimilbeth was sleeping peacefully in her feather bed, a big fluffy cat at her feet and the green herbal mask on her face.
Once, long ago, a new maid came unexpectedly into Gimilbeth's room, saw her green face, dropped the tray with coffee and ran screaming all the way to Tanoth Brin. Hillmen were simple folk and firmly believed in magic, witches and fairies. Now the fact that Gimilbeth turned into a frog every night had been firmly established, and gossip carried it far and wide through the land. Old matrons at the castle and down in Tanoth Brin shook their heads, pitying Gimilbeth's future husband. And the fact that in 20 years no one was forthcoming was another proof of Gimilbeth's weirdness.
On the road leaving Morva Torch, evening of October 6, 1347 Written by Rian
Callon sighed again. What had those men done to his sister while he was examining the wounded mare? Terrible pictures rushed into his brain. He shook his head in frustration and rage, but only allowed himself a slight movement - he didn't want to disturb his sister, leaning stiffly and silently against him as they rode double on her mare. The man walking next to them shook his head in silent sympathy; he, too, had a sister...
In the general bustle of leaving, Callon had managed to grab the arm of the leader, Eryndil, and take him aside for a quick whispered conference. "How was my sister? What did they ... what had they done to her?" he had asked the man urgently.
"I don't know," Eryndil had answered, concern showing in his eyes. "When I found them, they were arguing over things that a young lady such as your sister (so she was his sister!) should never have to hear. Brutish barbarians!" He lowered his voice. "I'll be frank, so you'll know what you have to deal with - they were discussing raping her and then murdering both of you. She was bound and gagged and could hear everything they said. And - I'm sorry, but by the look of her clothing, I think they had already taken some liberties with her."
Callon bit his lip hard; he felt sick. His sister, whom he had taken on this trip to protect ... Eryndil put his hand on Callon's shoulder. "She was brave, your sister - there was no fear in her eyes. But there was something perhaps worse - an emptiness... If they are too strong to give in to fear, perhaps that is all that's left to them - to leave, as the elves do ... "
At that point, one of Eryndil's men had come over to him to confer about some detail of the next part of their journey, and Eryndil released his hold on Callon's shoulder, saying, "We can talk more later - right now, the sooner we leave, the better for us all."
Callon nodded and joined his sister, who was standing by her mare, Hwesta. Caelen's eyes were fixed on the horse's soft muzzle as she stroked it gently over and over, her hand shaking.
"Come Caelie, we have to get away from here. Eryndil is waiting."
Caelen nodded absently and mounted the mare in front of Callon.
---
Caelen leaned against her brother out of sheer exhaustion, but was unable to relax. She had to keep alert and strong; she had to keep ahead of the memories before they overtook her in a dark, terrifying wave.
"It wasn't me they ... it wasn't me ... they didn't really touch ME," she thought wildly, her mind racing frantically around, trying to not alight anywhere too long.
Callon shifted slightly in the saddle, and she felt his hard, toned leg muscles against her body - the muscles of a strong, expert rider. She recoiled in fear and felt a stark panic rising within her that she couldn't understand. "My brother! My brother! He would never hurt me!" she told the fear in her head, and then dimly realized that it was the mere presence of strength that had frightened her. The strength of men, that had so recently ... but that hadn't happened to her, really, not really to her ...
"Shhh, shhh, Caelie, I'm here," soothed Callon, stroking her hair, and then realized with a sick feeling that his being there hadn't been much good so far.
October 7, noon - on the march north from the rescue. Written by Valandil
"We can rest here," said Eryndil, indicating a small clearing - really no more than a break in the trees of about 6 ranger each way - with a fallen tree trunk across it, which could make for convenient seating.
"No fire," he added, stepping aside to let the party pass him. He watched the eyes of each one as they trooped past. Some of his men exchanged with him a nod. But they all went past and selected a spot, where they dropped their burdens and stretched out to rest, even while they opened their bags for a small repast.
When Callon and Caelen at last came, still mounted, Eryndil reached out his hand to take the bridle from Narbeth.
"My apologies that we cannot provide you with more comfort here, milady. Unfortunately, our circumstances will not allow it."
But then he turned and gestured for two of his men to vacate what appeared to be the better places to rest, and motioned for Callon and Caelen to dismount and seat themselves there. They had brought much provision of their own, so Eryndil took one of their bags and handed it to Callon, that he might share some of its contents with his sister. They seemed grateful, but also awkward in their response.
"Why do I make so much over them?" he thought to himself. Each of his few attempts to speak with Caelen had felt awkward. He had noted the sidelong glances of his men (though none had dared to say a word) - so he had thenceforth directed his speech only to Callon. What was it about Caelen that set him at a loss?
Perhaps she was like his younger sister? Well... both like and unlike. She did not look too much the same. Yet perhaps there was something alike in their hearts. He was quite fond of his sister - and hoped to somehow spare her the fate that seemed in store for this land.
Caelen... it would be worthwhile to spare her too.
October 7, noon - on the march north from the rescue Written by Rian
Caelen leaned against the tree trunk wearily, her brother's cloak wrapped around her. Her mare munched some goodies in her nose bag close by. Men moved quietly but purposefully around the camp. She huddled deeper into Callon's cloak; the scent of horses, mixed in with her brother's scent, comforted her a little. Eryndil's men were careful to keep their distance from her, as per his orders.
She watched Eryndil and her brother as they spoke together quietly, heads bent together, and wondered briefly what they were talking about before she sank back into the kind of stunned wariness that she had retreated into since those men had mistreated her. Before today, men were either nice or neutral or bad, but the few bad ones were kept off by the nice ones. But when bad men had power, too, and were more in number, then even nice men apparently weren't enough to keep them off ...
Yet these men she was with now had saved her and her brother. What were they like? Why were they with the king, and not the bandits? Were they power-seekers, too, or was it possible that they actually wanted to use their strength for good, as her father and brother had? But she had heard of deserters from the King - they were probably just there for now until a better opportunity arose. Eryndil's men had treated her with respect, though, even though they had opportunity to do otherwise.
She was glad that they were leaving her alone - she realized with a shock that even the maleness of her brother was starting to disgust her a little bit. "That's not fair!" she told herself firmly. "He can't help being a man! And he's always cared for me!" She shifted uneasily, trying to find a more comfortable spot, and some more comfortable thoughts, but the difficult thoughts kept intruding. Why did Eru make women weaker than men? Or if he chose to do that, why did he make men with ugly passions towards women who were too weak to fight them off, and were at the mercy of the nice men showing up ... or not showing up?
She remembered a time just a few months ago, when she had caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror that had made her stop and look in surprise. Her mother had just finished putting up her hair and she was wearing one of her nicer dresses - they were heading over to a friend's house to celebrate an anniversary. Her mother came up behind her laid her head next to Caelen's, smiling in that soft, lovely way she had that started with her lips and ended in her sparkling eyes. Her father came up behind them and wrapped his arms around them from behind, his strong, handsome face reflected in the mirror above theirs. "My lovely ladies," he said, with a kiss for them both, before he headed off down the hall.
Caelen, who was rarely out of riding habit, couldn't get the image of herself out of her mind, and the blush it brought to her cheeks was noticed by more than one young man that night. She had wondered about this new side she had just seen of herself - it seemed fragile and beautiful, like her mother, but like her mother it had a strength, too. Her mother, whom most people would call quite beautiful, was not a weak beauty - she had no problem controlling her strong husband and sons, although Caelen wasn't quite sure how she did it. However she did it, though, it was obvious that her men liked it.
But those men on the road had a different kind of strength, and had taken the fragile, beautiful thing she had seen in herself, and grabbed at it, and fouled it, and torn it, and laughed over it, and it was crying inside of her now, seeking only to hide.
Callon finished his talk with Eryndil and headed towards her. She huddled further into his cloak.
October 8, before dawn - the Royal Palace at Fornost Written by Valandil
Beleg rose to the tapping on the door before the servant came inside to verify that he had been awakened. "It's alright, I'm ready."
He threw off his covers and pulled aside the curtain of his sleeping booth. His room was cramped, so it was but a couple short steps to see if the embers of the fire still gave off any heat - not much. He stretched and took up the bundle he had gathered last night. For one who would someday be King, he owned little enough of the Kingdom now, he thought - but it made for easier packing. There would be a warm fire in the kitchen, and breakfast besides. And then they would depart - for Amon Sul.
His mother had chastised him last night for appealing to his grandfather Malvegil, but Beleg was disappointed. It had been their long tradition to spend every second winter - and Yule season - at Amon Sul, the home of his mother's parents. But each time before, he had been allowed to take some of his closest friends. "Not this year," had replied his grandfather, "for I have other errand for them."
So his only company this year would be his father, mother, brother and sister. Not even his cousin could go. They would be joined by a few servants and a strong bodyguard - including 30 horsemen - as his father, Celebrindol, strove to build a cavalry for Arthedain.
If this year was like the others, the travel would be leisurely enough. And with a day's stop at Bree, they would likely arrive at the tower in 12 to 14 days. It would be a pleasant enough trip - enhanced by the bright colors of an Arthedain autumn.
Beleg sighed; the Eryhantale had passed a week before, and last night had concluded the feasting of the Harvest Festival Week. Now the fare would be harder until the Yule Feast, as everyone kept aside what they could for the long winter to come. Meanwhile, it was time to descend from his third story cell - and see what the kitchen far below might have to offer one about to set forth on a journey. Maybe something good not taken in the feasting.