Written by Gordis
The steadily drenching autumn rain came from the North in the morning, turning the narrow streets of the citadel into little rivulets and washing away dirt and horse dung accumulated in the gutters.
Tarnendur gingerly picked his way from the Palace to the Tower. He had ordered the Council to be held this morning, to discuss the last preparations for Broggha's arrival and to make the important announcements before the meddling Hillman became part of the Council.
He noticed Gimilbeth's gilded palanquin, a page walking on the either side, moving to the tower in front of him. It was really ridiculous to ask to be carried the small distance that separated the Palace from the Tower! But Gimilbeth was ever like a cat, disgusted to drench her paws in the rain. Tarnendur scowled. He had not seen his daughter for three days, and was still angry at her impertinence during their last meeting.
Still scowling, he quickened his pace and caught up with Gimilbeth at the doors of the Tower. His daughter was dressed in a closely fitting gray gown, embroidered with silver thread. She looked paler than usual, but she curtsied and greeted him with such a bright warm smile that Tarnendur's anger melted and he beamed back, inwardly relieved. He hated to quarrel with Gimilbeth. When his daughter was happy, life was so much easier for everybody, but when she wasn't, she had her ways of making everyone feel miserable as well.
The Council was held in an old, slightly shabby Council room on the third floor of the Tower. The narrow window slits in the thick walls let little light pass, so candles burned on the oblong wooden table that stood in the middle of the circular room. The counselors bowed to the King who entered, followed by Gimilbeth.
There was the old, balding, portly Curugil, brother of the Lord of Nothwa Rhaglaw, and the Queen's great uncle, General Nimruzir from Fennas Drunin, veteran of many wars, with a scar across his face and an evil temper; Huramir from Dol Aglardin, Belzagar from Dol Duniath, Elured from Brochenridge, and several lesser counselors. Among them was only one young face: Daurendil, the Heir to the throne, stood all flushed and happy to attend his first Council.
The King took his place at the head of the table, Daurendil standing behind his back. All the Council members took their customary places. The King announced, avoiding looking at his daughter:
"My Lords, Lady Gimilbeth, the times are growing darker and darker. The Kingdom is in peril. Daurendil, my son, has not yet come of age, but given the gravity of the situation, I have decided to give him a place on the Council now. For the one who is destined to wear the Crown after me must have time to learn to bear this burden."
The counselors nodded, murmuring in approval. Gimilbeth's brows lifted; that has been unexpected. She eyed her brother coldly and he squirmed under her gaze. Without a word, Gimilbeth rose regally and indicated for Daurendil to take her place on the King's right. Curugil, who usually sat on the left of the King, rose hastily, as swiftly as his great bulk permitted, and ceded his chair to Gimilbeth. A brief confusion followed, as everyone moved one place lower along the line.
"How silly it is!" thought Tarnendur. "In two weeks, they will have to move again, making place for Broggha." The King felt sick at this thought.
After an hour of debates on the relocation of the troops around the capital and on the new levies to be made in the villages, the King came to the next important matter.
"As my daughter so rightly pointed out," he said, nodding to Gimilbeth, "in such troubled times, the alliances with Arthedain and Gondor become of utmost importance. Desiring to strengthen our ties with Arthedain, I have decided to propose my daughter in marriage to the eldest son of the Heir of Arthedain, Malvegil's grandson." Tarnendur consulted a scroll on the table, peering at it with myopic eyes and elaborated. "Beleg, son of Celebrindol."
A stunned silence followed. Everyone was looking at Gimilbeth, and she felt her cheeks burn. Had her father become crazy? This Arthedain pup must be no more than forty! Certainly Gimilbeth's age was a closely guarded secret, known to few in Rhudaur, but her father should know that she was seventy years Beleg's senior! She decided to broach the subject herself.
"And have you considered the age difference, Father?" she asked smoothly.
The King brushed the matter aside. "I know that Tarniel is too young." Tarnendur's voice was harsh. "But we can wait with the actual marriage. Once the betrothal is arranged, we can look forward to Arthedain's aid. And the marriage can be concluded in ten or fifteen years."
Gimilbeth's cheeks burned even brighter. What a fool she had been not to think of her younger sister! She still considered her a baby, but her father was right. In fifteen years, she would be of marriageable age.
Daurendil stifled a giggle, seeing Gimilbeth's embarrassment. The occasion was so rare - a good story to tell his brother when the Council was over. Truth be told, Daurendil hated the witch and feared her. She had such cold, piercing eyes that sort of looked right through you... And all these stories told by the servants...
Meanwhile, the King continued.
"Perhaps, if Malvegil agrees, we can arrange to send Tarniel to Fornost, to complete her education. She will be far safer in Arthedain, away from our Hillmen."
A hot debate followed, Nimruzir bellowing that such an arrangement was unseemly and would show Rhudaur's weakness. Arthedain's champion Curugil was contradicting him in his old strident voice.
Having recovered somewhat, Gimilbeth chimed in. "I think this matter can be discussed later. I believe the King has proposed a very advantageous match for the Princess Tarniel, and even more so for our Kingdom. I volunteer to go to Fornost myself to speak with the King Malvegil on the matter."
Tarnendur beamed in surprise. He was sure Gimilbeth would have objected, but she even proposed her intervention. But was that safe for Gimilbeth?
"Winter is coming, my daughter. It is difficult for your delicate disposition to travel so far in cold weather. Perhaps, we should better send a messenger?"
"The winter is not too close, Father, there would hardly be any snow before the end of Narbeleth," replied Gimilbeth. "Moreover, probably I will have to go only as far as Amon Sul, to speak with the King of Arthedain via the Palantir. No need to travel all the way to Fornost. I will also try to communicate with King Romendacil of Gondor. Perhaps he could send us at least some money to hire more mercenaries. The Hillmen troops are not trustworthy."
After some debate, the matter was decided. Gimilbeth was to travel to Amon Sul as soon as Hurgon, the famous court painter, finished a portrait of Tarniel to be shown to Malvegil and to her future husband.
Cameth Brin, Afternoon of October 10, 1347
Written by Elfhild and Serenoli
It was the afternoon of the next day, and Tarniel and Baineth, one of her maids, sat about in her chamber. Tarniel felt melancholy, sorrowful that soon her life was about to change. At least she had a few days before Wilwarin would shadow her footsteps. Not that she had taken an intense dislike of the woman, but, as royalty, it made her unhappy when there were changes to her blissful existence. She really should be thankful, not complaining, for Wilwarin was there to keep her and Odaragariel safe from any enemies.
Baineth's words broke her concentration. "Did you hear what happened yesterday?" she asked.
The princess shook her head. "No, I did not."
Baineth lowered her voice. "Yesterday morning, Gimilbeth sent her maid to the market to buy a black cockerel. Everyone in the palace is talking about it today."
Tarniel cringed. With all her peculiarities, Gimilbeth was an embarrassment to the family. Everyone thought she was a witch, and Tarniel agreed with them. She was a shame and a mockery to the royal family, for they were good, faithful Arnorians, not Black Numenoreans who practiced the worship of the Dark. Tarniel shivered. She had always suspected that her half-sister dabbled in witchcraft, and the purchase of the black chicken was yet another proof of this.
She wondered what purpose this chicken was to serve - what sort of spell was Gimilbeth casting? Tarniel prayed that it did not concern her or any other members of her family. That would be horrible, to live in fear that her own half-sister was conspiring to curse everyone whom she knew.
"I wonder what Gimilbeth is planning to do with the chicken?" Tarniel mused out loud.
"Maybe she fed it to her scary cats," suggested Baineth.
"Maybe," murmured Tarniel, hopeful that her maid's assumption was correct. If it was not,╜ then Tarniel dreaded to contemplate the evils in which Gimilbeth had involved herself.
At that moment someone knocked on the door and rushed into the room.
"I have news!" Her pale cheeks flushing, and her eyes glinting teasingly, Odaragariel flung herself onto the couch and looked up expectantly at Tarniel.
"Well?"
Leaning forward, she almost whispered, spacing her words out carefully for emphasis, "Your father, and the rest of the Council, have decided to propose you in marriage to - well, guess who?"
Tarniel looked at her in exasperation. "Will you tell me or not?"
"The hillman, Broggha!" Then seeing the alarmed look on Tarniel's face, she broke into peals of laughter, and amended, "I'm just joking, of course its not Broggha! His name is Beleg, son of - well, can't remember who. But he's the heir to Arthedain... or the heir of the heir... well?" she asked, impatient for Tarniel's reaction.
Tarniel opened her mouth, perhaps to express surprise, or maybe pleasure, but suddenly suspicious, she narrowed her eyes, and asked, "And how come you know so much about it? Am I to believe they're letting you in the Council meetings now? Or perhaps you've been -"
"No, I haven't been eavesdropping!" finished Odaragariel angrily. "It wouldn't be ladylike. No, I traded secrets with your brother, he's allowed in. He's not supposed to tell you, though, they're planning on breaking it gently to you, or something. Anyway, he made me promise not to tell, but I had my fingers crossed!" she added hastily as a look of disapproval once again crossed Tarniel's face.
Momentarily diverted, Tarniel asked, "Does crossing fingers really invalidate a promise?"
"Of course!" Odaragariel replied with all the experience of the two-years' head start she had had into this world. Just in case it wasn't true, though, she had her fingers neatly crossed under the folds of her heavily embroidered robe.
One brow cocked, Tarniel skeptically regarded Odaragariel. "Hmm, I am not so sure about that..."
Both girls giggled, and then Tarniel said, "Please keep me informed of all you hear! I wonder when they shall tell me of my betrothal?"
Tarniel contemplated the news which Odaragariel had told her. She was to be wed to this Beleg, prince of Arthedain. Well, at least it was not Broggha! Odaragariel's jest had really given her a scare.
She tried to recall all she had been told about Beleg of Arthedain. Was he not in his forties? A frown came to her pretty face; why could it not have been someone more her own age? Ah, but she was being silly, perhaps. She was not even of marriageable age yet! The marriage would not take place for many years, and all of the negotiations had not even been finalized. It was not something she had to worry about for a long time.
But she wondered... would she love this man? Not that love really had anything to do with arranged marriages, but still, the heart, especially that of a young girl, was filled with hopes and dreams.