Edweniel
As always, I pause as I cross the doorway. Each morning I see the same sight, yet I find new aspects to delight in each time. Elbereth's stars, the eternal watchers, more precious than any Silmaril; the individual crumbs of pollen inside the blossoms of hanging geraniums adorning the neighbouring house; the way that my breath mists the cool air. Our beloved Gondolin deserves its name Lothengriol; it truly is the lily of our valley.
Mother tugs at the length of my cloak, smoothing the folds, ensuring I am enveloped in the warmest possible manner. She presses a paper bag into my willing hand; by experience, I know it to contain sweetmeats. Mother likes to gift us all with little sweet treats in the mornings; it is a wonder we are not all four feet wide!
"I hope you have a pleasant day, dear," she says, tucking an errant curl behind my ear.
"I will, Mother darling," I promise, embracing her firmly before starting on my way. I am early this morning: the morning traffic has not yet started. The world almost seems to stand still around me; the sound of silence is soothing; the air has the clarity of crystal.
The low hum of conversation interrupts my musings: I am not the only early riser.
Approaching are two of the great lords of the city, Lord Rog and Lord Penlod, engaged in discussion. Their presence at such an early hour - Lord Penlod is well known for his attachment to his lovely wife - suggests the council is assembling early this morn.
For a while I walk silently behind them, soaking in the strangest tidings I have ever heard.
"Nevertheless, the King's two guests seemed glad to feast last night." Lord Rog references individuals I have yet to meet. Odd guests they must be, though, not to return to their own homes within the city...
"They should have been, after such a journey!" replies Lord Penlod. "Chased by Orcs, borne by Eagles- from the way you tell it, Rog, they had more than worked up an appetite."
They come from outside the city?It takes every ounce of self-restraint I possess not to pose the question aloud. But- but this is unheard of. The last time outsiders entered Gondolin, they were Lord Maeglin and his father; their only excuse for entry was Lady Aredhel, and that barely got Eöl by, from the tales I have heard. Eagles, though: that must be a sign!
Patience, patience...My mind turns the mantra over and over. Certainly Lady Idril will have the answers to everything I could ask when I arrive at the palace; the only difficulty, though, will be keeping myself from bursting with curiosity until I get there.
Though I appear to have joined in late to overhear all of the Lords' conversation, from my path among the lingering shadows on the right side of the street more information is to be had.
"I'll be interested," continues Lord Rog, "to see how the council elects to view two of the Edain.It is one thing to hear their story as the topic of table conversation, but another entirely to analyze what should be done about it."
Lord Penlod must give some eloquent response, but his words are nothing to me but an inane backdrop for my thoughts. Edain.In Gondolin? I struggle to comprehend all that entails? Signifies? Forebodes? Growing up within the city's confines, I have never expected to meet such a creature.
Like the glamhothand the Uruloki, the Shepherds of the Trees and the Avari, mortal Men are naught to the Hidden People but clever devices on a storyboard of true legends. In fact, none within the city have beheld one; our only knowledge of the race comes from the Eagles' words. We never expected, though, that the Windlords would one day bring us a specimen for examination.
All this has but heightened my anticipation, and for the first time, I am truly relieved to see my workplace's lofty, white columns rising up before me. Though I am early this morn, the palace is its usual hive of activity. Servants walk the long corridors beside me: they hurry laundry to the huge wash rooms and clean linens to storage and personal chambers; they swerve to miss the messenger boys who dash sweet notes between lovers and emissaries between lords; they carry wood and firelighters to chambers to banish the morning chill.
I know their names and faces well: it is hard to find one you do not recognise in this walled city. The sisters Eriolthêl and Taduithêl - the daughters of the woman whose cousin's husband frequents my mother's sweetmeat store - pass on one side, their smiles of greeting identical, while on the other the steward Bôrthenin - a close friend of my neighbour - passes in a flurry of official robes and trailing lengths of parchment.
My feet walk their well known path to the Lady Idril's presence chamber. Along with perhaps twenty other women, I am a member of the Lady Idril's court. Our job is to offer her companionship; entertain her with music and merry-making; sew and read in cold weather; dance and walk the gardens in the warmth. It is a task envied by many, and for good reason: Lady Idril is kind and generous, and her friendship is true. Inside the Lady's rooms, the formality of King Turgon's court is set aside. She is Idril, I am Edweniel, and we are friends.
I am the first to arrive this morning: the low hum of conversation is absent. I must indeed be early. The chamber is deserted save for Lady Idril's personal guards, who stand before the door to her private office. I cross the room, not needing to announce myself: they would have heard my passage through the echoing hallway. As I reach the doorway, I offer each a sweetmeat before knocking, and walk into the room upon Idril's calm "Enter, please."
The Lady is seated behind her desk, writing steadily in an elegant script. Her golden hair is pulled back into one long, simple plait - decades of experience have taught that no matter how beautiful long, flowing hair is, it becomes rather exasperating for it to be continuously dangling into the ink well - whilst her sleeves have been rolled back to her elbows. She glances up as I close the door behind me and she smiles.
"Edweniel."
"Idril," I reply, moving to meet her as she rises from her desk. We embrace, share smiles, and seat ourselves on either side of the desk. She seems different this morning, as if a weight has been taken from her shoulders.
"Are you well?" I ask, offering her a sweetmeat, which she accepts. I take one for myself, and together we enjoy the sugary flavour as it blooms across our taste-buds.
"Very well, thank you," she answers, helping herself to another. "Though," she states, "you are not. Something bothers you, dear. Ask whatever question plagues you." Idril has always had a gift for reading the faces of others.
"I overheard a conversation as I walked to the palace," I admit, flushing slightly. Eavesdropping is not an admirable trait, and Idril's expression tightens at my confession. "Though not intentionally. The pair were scarcely ten feet from myself and their voices were not hushed."
"Who were the unlucky pair?" she asks, leaning forward to rest her chin on her interlaced fingers. It is difficult to meet her eyes. Though in colour her eyes are alike to her mother, the late Lady Elenwë, they share her father, King Turgon's, intensity.
"Lord Rog and Lord Penlod," I answer, and I watch as her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. She does not need to ask about the content of their conversation; she knows.
"It's true," I breathe in astonishment. To hear is one matter; to have confirmation is another. There are edain in the city.
Idril gives a simple nod to affirm me; her next words are nonchalant. "I suppose Rog and Penlod mentioned the...singular... pleasure we had of dining with the guests last night?"
"And that this morning the Lord King is officially assembling the council to determine what should be done," I answer her, twisting a muddy-brown strand of hair around my finger.
"What should be done?" my friend the Lady inquires, masterful eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity. Even as long as I have been in her employ, I have yet to be comfortable under this paradox of a gaze.
"You know better than I do, I am sure- but," I venture, "will not the King's law hold true? It seems they should never again leave Gondolin."
"Unless my father has a sudden change in policy..." Idril trails off into a chuckle like raindrops on glass.
I smile in return; we both know such a thing is beyond unlikely. "But what did you think of the two mortals?" I probe, acquiescing to the questions that pound the fore of my mind. "What are they like?"
My friend purses her lips and disentangles her fingers from one another, smoothing her skirt several times. "They are... they are interesting," she begins, pausing, I suppose, to assemble her thoughts into careful words. "The elder is very courteous, very proper. He says what he ought to say, but I perceive that is heart is in none of it. He looks on us as captors."
"Captors?" I reply. "But even from what I heard of the Lords' discussion, it seems we are a refuge for them.""
"So one would think." Idril's tone is quiet, pensive. She offers no further information; after a few moments' silence, curiosity again demands me ask.
"And the younger?" I attempt. "Was he like the other?"
"In appearance, yes; they are brothers, princes of the House of Hador." She stops briefly, adding as a half-murmured afterthought. "Perhaps that is why..."
"Why what, my lady?"
"Why he and his name seemed so significant to me. My father has long known that Men of that house are to be regarded with honour, but this is the first chance he has had to act accordingly. I wonder, do all the edain carry such an air of fate about them? But no, Húrin did not..."
"My lady?"
"He is little more than a child," she continues, still chiefly addressing herself, "a mere child! Why then does it seem I should know him?" Emotion rises, unforeseen, in her voice. "Perhaps I will..."
"Idril, are you quite all right?" What can be the matter?Minutes ago, she was well, yet the mere recollection of this young mortal has unsettled her greatly. What can be said?I cannot but respond to her last remark reasonably. "I'm sure you will know him, if he stays here the rest of his days."
"No, no, I know something about him..." She inhales sharply and glances over the sheet of parchment on her desk, tucking a stray wisp of hair into her braid. "Never mind." She smiles now, having recovered herself. "I can only say he will become someone great."
"Certainly, Idril." I nod uncomfortably. An apparent measure of foresight is a two-edged sword; I can only hope it wounds her no further. The gift - or curse - of foresight rarely bothers Idril; usually, it limits itself to little more than uncanny intuition: easy enough to jest over in the light of day. However, rare occasions present her with visions, emotions and a sure knowledge of events to come, phenomena not so easy to laugh over.
Idril sighs; the silence is broken. With some effort, she arranges her features into a politely interested expression - one perfected over years of political negotiations and council meetings - and stands, unrolling her sleeves and unleashing her hair, which tumbles lose around her shoulders and down her back. She is one of the few who do not ornament their hair with braids or clasps: with such fine locks she hardly needs decoration.
Together we exit her office; the guards bow deeply as we pass. The presence chamber now contains perhaps half of Idril's court, gathered around the dais. As we move to join them, several other ladies enter the chamber. Our arrival is welcomed by several calls of greeting and enquiries of health and happiness from the congregated ladies, to which we respond in turn. For several moments, we lose ourselves in conversation, discussing anything and everything that comes to mind. It is only the voices of a gathering crowd of petitioners that pulls us from our morning chit-chat.
"Ladies," Idril begins, silencing all conversation. "There is to be a change of routine. The council must meet this morning; the discussions are likely to last for several hours. This, of course, means that my usual court shall not proceed. I require of you all to manage the petitioners in my stead. How many are there, Nithiril?" She aims the question at one of the ladies who has only entered the chamber in recent minutes.
Nithiril, one of the senior members of the court, replies, "Thirty, perhaps forty, Idril. There are the usual mix of petitions."
Idril sighs. "Then they must return tomorrow. Ladies, you must talk with the petitioners: any whose issue is worthy of the King's attention should be advised to visit his court tomorrow. All others should be appeased as well as you can. I shall inform the people of this development, of course."
Several ladies sigh quietly. The more pleasurable activities of courtly life cannot begin until the petitioners have been addressed. The usual hours of work - augmented by Idril's desire to live up to her reputation as the fair and just princess of the city, with open ears to even the smallest of worries and disputes - involve providing support and counsel to Idril, entertainment, refreshments, and seating to waiting petitioners, and reporting to Idril any petitions believed to be more appropriate for the King's court. The work is often difficult and emotional, but worthwhile. Without Idril's presence, however, the petitioners are likely to become irritable, and the unknown length of the council's meeting will prevent any long-lasting activity.
"Invite them in, Nithiril, please," Idril says, seating herself upon her throne. Some ladies arrange themselves around her throne; others move to line the walls; several more begin pouring beverages and organizing fruits on the buffet table brought in by servants as part of their morning duties. I busy myself with them.
Nithiril crosses the room to the double doors, pulling them open in an easy motion. Gathered outside is the usual mixture of people: farmers and merchants, nobles and commoners, men and women. They cross the threshold with little hesitation: Idril has made it well known that all are welcome in her court. Among them is Lord Rog, who alone pauses on the threshold, sending Idril a significant look.
"Is it time, then, Rog?" She rises slowly, gracefully, but with sagging shoulders that betray a hint of unwillingness. Many a time she has bemoaned to me and the rest of the court her obligation to attend meetings of Ondolinde's "gentleman's club." In the event of a meeting later in the day, some of us might indeed have to endure it with her, but today's early hour-Thank Elbereth!-requires us remain with the petitioners.
"It is, my lady," answers the Lord. He remains in the doorway, scarred features overshadowed by the morning sun behind him. "We can only hope it will be brief." I can hear the twitch of his lips.
"Nithiril," says Idril, "with luck I'll return soon. You know you are to act in my stead."
"Yes, lady," answers the other, and moves from her place beside me toward the throne. I imagine she'll stand, though; one can only imagine the uproar her taking a seat would cause...
I position some more apples inside a golden bowl, admiring their crimson sheen against the metal. Sunlight pours in through the doors' wide glass panes and the windows that line the sides of Idril's receiving room; it sends rainbows dancing off crystal vessels and sets the metal ones ablaze.
"Idril's court, including myself, is distributed throughout the room-" Nithiril raises her voice to address the crowd. "-find any of us, and we will be pleased to hear your petitions."
I bend my head back toward the table, focusing intently now on a tray of pastries. "I imagine the refreshments will keep us rather busy, yes?" I remark to Celebriel, the lady to my left.
She emits a dry chuckle and repositions a tall flagon of water. "Hopefully we can make it hold out." She has a wisp of a voice and a ready smile that lifts the corners of her thin mouth. "I am no more interested in taking petitions than you."
"Shirking our duties, are we?" The low voice of Nimelen resounds from the other end of the table as she leans in, eyes sparkling somewhat mischievously. She has taken on the burden of arranging plate of berries and cheeses into the shapes of flowers.
"Nonsense!" I reply, with a broad grin. "This is every bit a duty required of us."
"And what a difficult one it is, too..." Nimelen shakes her head in mock chagrin and takes a bite of a particularly vibrant strawberry.
"Well, someone has got to sample the food before it's served..." I return, taking a cream puff and proffering another to Celebriel.
"And it might as well be us, right?" Celebriel titters and all but inhales the pastry.
"Do they meet the royal standard?" inquires Nimelen.
"See for yourself!" I say, beckoning her to my end of the table, where a taste soon merits her approval. "Shall we open up for business?"
Nimelen nods and the three of us clear to the table's sides, gesturing for petitioners to come and take their fill. The position indeed keeps us busy enough for the morning. We three stand sentinel over it, filling plates and glasses, arranging the dwindling supply of provender, and cleaning up the occasional spill.
The more outgoing members of the court answer the petitioners with alacrity, and all the while we await Idril's return.
-o0o-
Salgant
The meeting of the council is far too short for my liking. My fellow Lords - and Lady, of course - are too trusting, I believe. Here are two outsiders, tainted by the influence of Morgoth's shadow, let loose in the streets of our beloved city! Was not the point of our seclusion to protect those we love? To preserve the almost unsoiled beauty of the Eldar; the remnants of the purity of Aman? And yet I fear those who have sworn to protect our city will be the cause of its downfall.
Lords Penlod; Egalmoth; Duilin: all content to allow these unknowns access to Gondolin. Lord Rog, too, raised no issue: perhaps he has seen kinship between the scars already spattered across these mortal faces and the ones carried by his own ghastly features. Even Lords Ecthelion and Glorfindel - renowned for their intense training of the Guard in the name of the City's protection - men who I had been sure would share my fears, have welcomed these edainwith open arms.
Few among the council seem to have even considered the dangers of admitting these mortals. Maeglin of the Mole, Galdor of the Tree, Fairion of the White Wing: my allies in the defence of our Gondolin. It is towards these faithful few my feet now take me; we will come together in our own council.
The three have congregated upon the mezzanine of the entrance hall, conversing quietly together to the left of the main stairs. All look displeased. Their conversation pauses as my footsteps reach their ears; Maeglin breaks off mid-sentence, Galdor unfolds his arms.
"Lord Salgant," Fairion greets. Maeglin and Galdor incline their heads.
"Lords," I reply.
"Was it Glorfindel that caused your lateness, Salgant?" Galdor asks. "I saw him approach you once the council had dispersed..."
"Indeed. He wished to relieve me from the 'deep-set misery' upon my 'weary - yet still pleasant - visage' caused by the morning's 'difficult, though nonetheless satisfying council meet' by introducing me to a 'promising drinking establishment'."
"Why Glorfindel believes it is acceptable to drink before twelve o'clock in the afternoon is beyond me," Maeglin murmurs in exasperation.
"Why Glorfindel believes it is acceptable to allow two mortals to roam loose within the city limits is beyond me," Fairion exclaims. "How these mortals have managed to snake their way into the hearts and minds of the council is beyond suspicious. Morgoth managed to deceive the Valar themselves: is it too difficult to believe that the Eldar can be fooled also? Especially as we have been proved susceptible before? These mortals are more than they appear; I do not trust them."
"I agree. They are children compared to us - as blind as newborn pups to the deceptions of the darkness. Morgoth has eyes everywhere: these twain would not be aware of being tracked by bird or beast. Our city might already be compromised! They must be questioned once more." Galdor solemnly glances at each member of our congregation, his eyes speaking the words his mouth dares not. 'If not with the backing of the council, we must question these intruders ourselves.'
I purse my lips and nod, silent for the moment, as is seldom my wont. After brief reflection, I speak, voice low, almost conspiratorial in its inflection. "Seeing as the council was apparently satisfied by their yarn, it is hardly likely that a second interrogation will be viewed as necessary. Eight votes in their favour, and only we four shrewd enough to doubt."
"Yet what is to keep our loyal remnant from privately assuaging our concerns?" Maeglin's rhetoric is as soft as a serpent's underbelly. "Surely there is no harm in... conversing with our guests. Indeed, my uncle, the King would be glad to see our protests satisfied."
"As he should be," affirms Galdor, idly stroking the leaf-shaped emerald pendant dangling from his neck. "And hopefully our own session of inquiry will be much more efficient than the council's."
"That would be no great difficulty," I snort, and my companions laugh knowingly. The morning's dull, nigh-three-hour session lingers fresh in our minds. I understand, of course, wanting to fully educate the Lords on the matter before any decisions were made-but when most of those present had already heard all there was to know, the longevity became quite unnecessary. Whose opinion did Turgon think he would change, anyway?
"Yet," I continue, keeping my voice low with some effort, "all the same, I should hope to make it brief. I would prefer to limit my time spent engaging our humble guests."
Fairion nods his argent head in agreement, but his words present a slightly different perspective. "If only we may avoid them so easily for the remainder of their days..."
"Personally, I would much rather let them live out their season's span beneath our watch," Maeglin puts in. "That's the worst of it: Now that they have found their way in, we would be fools to wish them gone. If it is but likely Morgoth's dark gaze has followed them here, betrayal is certain if ever they depart."
"A bind, a bind," muses Galdor, "and death their only escape."
A fleeting shadow crosses Maeglin's face; he purses his thin, pale lips. Galdor speaks of his own dilemma, years upon years past, and I, for a moment, pity him. Clearly I remember the day Fairion, Galdor, and I held this same discussion in reference to him, the newcomer. Ironic, fate's untiring wheel.We have admitted the very object of our suspicions into this, our innermost council... Yet I know these mortals will never earn the trust that Maeglin has. Even if they still live six decades of the Sun from now, and come, grey with age, begging my favour, I will not grant it- not to Men, treacherous Men.
Fairion replies to Galdor; Maeglin and I are each in silent thought. "Then 'tis a burden for us all. The mortals must think themselves prisoners, while we think them a risk and a taint; all would be pleased if they went free, yet such is exactly the impossibility."
"Would they had never come," I agree darkly. "In the end, none shall be pleased."
"Such is the way of things, and we can no more change this unfortunate situation through wishful thinking than unmake the Silmarils. Come, let us go converse with our guests! There is no time like the present for bringing plans in to fruition," Galdor advises, suddenly cheery at the prospect of a quick beginning to the matter of espionage to which we must conduct ourselves for the near future.
"Do you intend to question them, Galdor, enthusiastic as you are?" Fairion asks, then elaborates as he catches sight of the expression on Maeglin's face. "We cannot question the pair as a group: our aim is to interrogate, not intimidate."
"You speak truthfully, Fairion. It may well be that these mortals are indeed innocent of our accusations; we would not want to alienate the pair entirely," Maeglin says, clearly reminded of the similar interrogations he himself faced, not yet six decades previously. Our questions then were clumsier, our intent more obvious, and once our fears were allayed we found it difficult to gain Maeglin's trust.
"We take turns, then," I propose, "Each striking up conversation when the opportunity arises."
As one, we nod in confirmation, and depart. Maeglin turns on his heel in a swirl of sable and stalks off into the depths of the palace, to whatever destination his heart leads him: lately, I have begun to believe Maeglin is developing feelings for one of Idril's maids. Certainly, he has been in the company of the ladies on an almost daily basis.
Fairion murmurs something about his captains before striding away in the direction of his office, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous spaces that form the insides of the palace. Galdor and I together head for the grand staircase, our footsteps echoing distantly off stone walls.
"Have you much work today, Salgant?" Galdor asks, as we descend from the mezzanine into the more populous entrance hall.
"The usual paperwork and - most unfortunately - the night watch with the Guard."
Galdor's sympathetic glance is not unexpected: everyone loathes the night watch. The darkness inspires heightened fear and paranoia, leading to days of night terrors and shattered nerves.
"I must admit I pity you, my friend," he remarks as we emerge into the vivacious swarm of people in the entrance hall. "How long has it been since your last appointment to night-duty?"
"Nigh two months," I confess, glancing about the bright hall, "but it seems far too short a time."
Galdor frowns sympathetically. "If it is any comfort to you, my own last shift passed far better than others. With the right group of men, it is difficult to maintain much solemnity... Which is exactly what one needs two hours past midnight!" For a change he smiles wryly. "Too much solemnity will either unnerve one or put him to sleep."
"And the King approves of neither of those options," I return. Galdor merely nods in reply, and a moment of silence falls between us.
It is broken, however, by his sudden query: "Do you plan to speak with the mortal guests today? If not then I will see to the first set of inquiries."
"Then do as you see fit," I affirm him. "I have much to do in my office before tonight."Make certain, though, to inform me of your findings today."
"I plan to, Salgant; you and all our small council. I am sure there will be much to tell!" Galdor's green eyes shine with curiosity, rather than malice.
"Excellent," I return, making to turn and weave my way through the throng of petitioners and into a nearby corridor. "I will see you later."
"Of course! Best of luck tonight, Salgant."
I nod Galdor my thanks as he melts into the crowd behind me; by the tilt of his retreating head, his sharp gaze already probes the throng for potential informants. The cacophony of peasant voices begins to chafe at my ears even as I make to exit the hall. Setting off down the cool, dim hallway leading to my own study, sweet silence is welcome.
And silence reigns as I enter my office, the quiet broken only by the scratching of my quill against an ivory leaf of paper. I keep the brown curtains drawn, the door tightly shut. For now, I care little what passes outside my study. Not to say that the letter recommending some faceless youth of my house for apprenticeship under Pengolodh the loremaster is particularly enrapturing, but at very least it demands my full attention, distracting me (for a while) from the horror facing me tonight.
All too soon, the letter is finished. I absentmindedly study the tengwar runes that signify my name and titles, pretty swirls of indigo against the crisp parchment. That such fair symbols can join together to form anything from the sweetest of love notes to the cruellest of punishments is a concept strangely beyond me, for all the ease with which I understand musical notation.
The scent of lavender slowly spreads as I heat wax, which clears my head and calms my heart. With careful, practiced movements, I drip the wax onto the rolled parchment and press my signet ring into the hot puddle before it cools. The wax sets with the imprint of my House, and I deposit the letter - alongside other paperwork I have completed in the most recent hours - upon my assistant's desk in the antechamber of my office. I am to spend the next three evenings on the Night Watch, then spend the remainder of the week on light duties; I shall deal with the less important, administrative tasks at my leisure on those four days.
I cannot delay longer. I have developed a routine for the hours before the Watch to calm and prepare me for the night's trial: a dinner of my particular favourite dishes; a scented bath of lavender and rose; a slow polish of my armour. To start the Watch feeling anxious is as ill-advised as attempting to tune a harp with a rock.
The short journey between work and home passes through the Lesser Markets; on a whim, I visit a favourite pastry stall to purchase some sweet treat. I am a regular customer here, and the baker's apprentice - a short, rounded man who attends the stall - gives me a friendly smile alongside his more formal bow.
"Greetings, Lord."
"Greetings, Baker! One of your delicious cherry pies, please," I say, scooping coins from my money bag as the beaming baker busies himself with wrapping my purchase for the remainder of my journey. Before handing the package to me, however, he glances around, if afraid of some secret observer.
"My Lord?" The baker's voice has dropped, his expression uneasy. This sudden juxtaposition of mood unnerves me: I automatically stand straighter, a hand drifting to a hidden blade. The baker glances around, before leaning across the stall towards me. "My Lord, might I ask you a question?"
"Of course," I say, almost unconsciously moving closer, torn between feelings of extreme unease and curiosity. What might he wish to ask? Perhaps he is in debt, or in need of some form of recommendation; for the father of a woman has fancy for? A promotion within the bakery?
"There are rumours abroad, Lord Salgant. Rumours that Manwë's eagles have been spotted. Rumours of mortals, my Lord; mortals in the city."
I feel the blood drain from my face. How can this matter already be gossip on the streets? There is, I deem, little secrecy to be had within the confines of a city such as our Ondolinde, but do royal secrets truly travel this quickly? I bite my lip; Turgon's mistake is apparent. Unrest is the last thing he seeks to arouse in the city- yet our two young guests have apparently done just that.
My thoughts trip and fall over one another in a matter of seconds in a quick decision that soon tumbles out of my lips. "From whom did you hear such a thing?" As yet, I will offer him no sure answer.
"One of my customers, my lord," replies the baker, "a blacksmith whose wife's sister works in the palace. But he is not the only one; the tale runs rampant through the streets."
I swallow. I suppose the public would have eventually found out somehow- though keeping the King's guests entirely secret might have been better for his reputation (and, of course, that of his Council).
"Unfortunately," I begin, and the young man across from me looks on with suddenly downcast eyes, "that tale is true." Wisely, I offer him no further information.
The baker's expression brightens... as I finish my sentence? "What is unfortunate in that, my lord?" He grins and flushes burgundy. "I mean, many my own age have never set foot outside the city walls, my lord, and none here have seen the fabled Secondborn. Most whom I have spoken to are curious, not dismayed."
Curious?I had assumed most of the populace would share my own sentiment: suspicion, fear, disgust. Surely our people are not so foolish as that. I probe the baker further. "Is there then no concern for our security? Does no one fear that these guests are a breach in our safety?"
"Some have expressed that," he confesses, "but few in my generation. My lord, if I may be so bold, what harm could only two mortals do once they are within the city?"
"Much harm," I reply, with intentional haughtiness. "But that is not for me to divulge. I have contributed enough to the gossip supply for one day." Belatedly, I attempt to soften the words with a wink as I take the pie from him. "I thank you, liege. Good day to you."
And with that I am walking again, weaving the rest of my way home through the market's bustle. Greeting more and more of my House as I pass into my own district, I soon turn onto a quieter lane and find myself striding across my small emerald lawn over polished stepping stones.
Like many of Gondolin's buildings, my home is an elaborate white structure of three floors, somewhat forbidding on the outside, but airy and well-lit within. I cross the threshold and greet my butler curtly.
"Tell Caranion to run a bath," I instruct him, "a lavender bath, and without too many bubbles. He knows what that does to my skin."
"Yes, Lord Salgant," is the man's docile reply, and my directions are soon obeyed.
One aromatic soak, four hours, three rejected visitors, half an arrhythmatic lay, and one particularly savoury cherry pie later, I find that it is time already for me to leave. Unbidden, a knot forms in my stomach. I am no coward,I tell myself as I walk out the door. My imagination is simply rather wild.