-16-
Boredom was actually her greatest complaint - aside from being surrounded by people who either couldn't or wouldn't speak to her, not being home, and the uncertain, quivering knot in her stomach of not knowing what would happen to her. Farielle thought her heartbeat lurched every time she thought of Lord Alphros, and her thoughts ran in circles. What would she do if he wanted her? She couldn't marry him! But... what would she do if he didn't?
Sometimes, she felt surges of desperation, and she wanted to bang her hands against the stone walls and scream, or throw herself out of the narrow window. She walked up and down the length of the small room, trying to wear herself out, but the frantic beating of her heart wouldn't calm. At last, she couldn't stand the sight of bed, carpet, or tables one more minute. She jerked open the door and marched between the two guards who stood there, her chin held high.
As she passed them, her mouth dry, her muscles tensed up, expecting to be jerked back, or even hit. But to her surprise, one of the guards fell into place behind her. The other did nothing at all. Hesitating - she hadn't thought what to do; she hadn't truly imagined she'd be let out - Farielle looked both ways along the wide hall. Not far away, a door was partly open. Curiously, she walked towards it and looked inside.
The setting Sun sends a waning spear of light into the library of Seaward Tower, and though one corner is lit by the golden rays, the rest of the room is dark. Save, that is, for one corner in which a candle has been lit, and there at a desk sits one Lojrul of the folk of the Sand.
The desert tribesman has a finger outstretched, the tip tracing beneath a line of writing as he studies a scroll, and were keen ears to listen they might pick up the murmur of his voice as he slowly makes sense of the literature.
The door is pushed open, quietly, and Farielle steps inside, stopping just on the threshold to look around. Behind her, one of the guards at her door pushes past, stopping to light another candle. The girl takes it, walking slowly along the rows of books, looking at them, stopping now and then to squint at a faded title. The guard settles himself in a chair near the door, having lit his own candle, and prepares to wait.
Eyes slip from the parchment before him, and Lojrul looks to the new entrant with interest; a smile curling itself upon his lips to reveal pearly white teeth. Leaning back in his seat, his finger still upon the scroll to mark his place, the man says in his rich voice:
"Fair evening, fair guest. You have been given leave to wander free, I assume?"
Farielle starts. She hadn't noticed the other person, and glances back to see where her guard is. He is watching with an air of boredom; and giving no evidence of giving up his seat.
Looking back at Lojrul, she says politely, cautiously, "Good evening. It is a large library, here."
Books do not interest this particular guard, resting his formidable staff against the arm of his chair - but he is interested even less in the prating of girl-talk about kittens and poetry and ribbons, and so has gladly accompanied the lady away from his everlasting watch at the door.
Lojrul's gaze roams the room a moment or two, ere he shrugs and returns his eyes to Farielle. "If you say so, milkskin woman," he replies. "I have seen few of them, and care little for their usage. A man should learn his lessons from venerable elders, and at the point of a blade; there are few to be learned in the scrawlings of scribes."
As once before, his gaze surveys the Gondorian woman, perusing her figure and garb with interest, ere he chuckles to himself. "Though," says he, "the weaker men in the Stone-land may think otherwise."
The girl stiffens under his wandering gaze, moving her candle to hold it in front of herself with both hands. "There is much that can be learned from the wisdom of the elders," she replies, neutrally. "Whether dead or alive."
A laugh at this, ere Lojrul's gaze narrows ever so slightly. "And what lessons do you suppose the dead have to teach us, milkskin queen? Is that how your folk are in the Stone-land? You listen to the words of the dead, even though their wisdom did not prolong their lives?"
"If your grandfather taught your father to fight, and your father taught you; are you not learning from one who is dead, once he is no more? There is more wisdom than length of life." Farielle doesn't back up under his stare; doesn't look around at her guard again, either. She watches Lojrul over the flickering glow of her candle.
The desert warrior studies Farielle anew for a long moment, ere he chuckles and rises to his feet; hands placed upon his hips as he advances upon the Gondorian woman. "That is a strange way to think of it, guest of Seaward. Surely I learned lessons from my father when he yet lived, but why should I seek his counsel now, in either spirit or scribbles? He cannot aid me, as doubtless he could not aid himself, when the end came. I need no lessons from dead men: I have a greater teacher."
Lojrul arrives before Farielle then, glancing down to the flame held in front of her, and blows a teasing breath as though to quench it. "I say again, woman of the Stone-land; you are a curious choice."
"I would not seek counsel of spirits either," Farielle says. "But that a man is dead does not make the wisdom he had in life foolishness. All men die." She takes a breath in as the man comes and stands in front of her, but lifts her chin against him. The candle's flame bends, gutters, then flares up again, and the girl's fingers tighten about it. And her voice doesn't tremble, though what effort it takes to keep it steady can't be told, when she asks, "Why do you say that?"
The door to the library opens without notice. The tall figure shadowed on the threshold pause, head turning as it takes in the tableau. A moment's study at most and it moves into the candlelight.
Azradi anAzulada's gaze rests upon the Lady. "Your guard said you could be found here," she states simply.
"Because," answers he, and his wide smile endures even as his eyes take a fresh survey of the woman before him. "You are soft, daughter of Gondor."
He begins to circle her, slow, patient, deliberate steps carrying him around her figure as he continues: "You are comely, do not misunderstand me, but comeliness can be found in many women. Your hands bear no callus; your arms no scars. Your legs are lean, but not muscled, and your bearing is proud but not defiant. You are a dainty, milkskin, not a warrior. And that I find curious, when I think of the nature of your future husband's sis-"
Lojrul cuts off as Azradi enters, and stands to face the Farside noble. "Ah, Lady Farside," greets he with a bow of his head-dress. "An unexpected pleasure."
Farielle turns as the man circles her, schooling herself to calm. When she has turned far enough that she can see the guard sitting by the door, she stops, and stares forward, trying to ignore Lojrul's pass behind her. She is concentrating so hard on this that Azradi's entrance is a shock - rather like cold water suddenly dumped down one's back - and she blinks at the other woman a long moment in silence.
In a swish of silk, Azradi crosses the room to stand before the young girl. She smiles graciously at the tribal man beyond Farielle. She takes the girl's arm and slowly, surely but gently turns her around to face the man herself. "My apologies for interrupting your conversation but I could not help but overhearing a bit of it. What in my brother's nature makes you curious?"
She lets loose of Farielle's arm and ever so slightly steps forward, leaving the girl a tidge behind her and to the side.
"Why, Lady," answers the man, "a man of glory and valor such as your brother, and with so mighty a champion of Umbar already at his side, should be pleased with this gift. He will be glad of her company in their bedchambers, but other than that, what use is she to him? Do the Lords of Umbar seek to win over the Northmen by presenting to them a queen of their own skin?"
And again Farielle turns to face the man - or rather, is turned - but this time, he has stopped. She watches him, still holding her candle before her breast - and perhaps she finds the taller presence of the Farside Lady a comfort rather than otherwise just now. His words bring a faint stain to her cheeks, hardly visible in the low light.
"No other use?" echoes Azradi. "I pity your wives, man. For they have an unimaginative husband if he has no other need for them than to satisfy his earthly lusts." A wry grin accompanies these words and a glint of humor, rather than malicious insult shines in her gray-eyes.
"No," she says, continuing more soberly, "The Lords of Umbar do not customarily choose an emeritus lord's bride, regardless of the political gains."
"This is Lord Alphros' choice. He feels a Gondorian bride is the better choice for a Gondorian King. I imagine he hopes to gain what any man hopes to gain from a wife: children and a family."
"Then he has chosen for looks, for certainly she has them," replies Lojrul, continuing as if Farielle were deaf, or even absent. "But if wives are to be useful, then to what use shall they be put? Can a noblewoman of Gondor cook? Can a noblewoman of Gondor fight? Has a noblewoman of Gondor the mind for tactics in battle? You, among others, have taken pains in recent years to impress upon me how suitable the women of Umbar are for these aims, and yet here your own brother chooses a wife to bear his sires only."
He chuckles. "Could it be that even as I have become a man of Umbar, Alphros has become a man of the Sand?"
People have been talking about her as if she were deaf or absent ever since she was brought to a street in Caldur, still bound. Farielle is getting used to it. The candlelight adds a warmth to her skin-tone that isn't there by nature, glints in her eyes, but fails utterly to lighten her hair.
"I suspect women, let alone high-born ladies, with such skills are scarce in Gondor," observes Azradi drily. "Or else he'd prefer one of that ilk."
"If Alphros chooses this woman for his bride, he will do so for his own reasons and fulfill his own needs - much like any man, or indeed woman, does here in Umbar."
"Twice you have shown a rather peculiar interest in the marital status and choices of the anAzulada."
To this Lojrul bows his head anew, and he spreads wide his arms in deferrence to Azradi. "And why should I not, Lady? When your brother sits upon his throne, will he not look south once more to Umbar whence he came? And in Umbar, few are strangers to the marital choices of the Tower Lords."
He sniffs then, and turns his gaze to Farielle once more, grinning widely to himself. "I wonder, Lady, if he would consent to selling her to me? As I said before, Farside and Seaward were not alone in spilling their blood for your holdings. There are folk of Desert and my own tribe who are owed not less than many of the Corsairs who fought for you."
"Would that please you, milkskin queen?" he asks finally of the Gondorian woman.
Farielle's gaze has dropped to the candle's flame, the pale yellow outer aura, the warmer yellow inner sheath, the blue arc burning at the heart. When Lojrul addresses her at last, she lifts her eyes to his - though she can't see him, dazzled by the light as she is. "No," she says. Her voice is even, carrying neither contempt nor fear.
A smile curves Lady Farside's lips when the girl offers her quiet answer and she looks back at Lojrul, arching her brow. "That is a question you must ask my brother," replies Azradi. "Though the lady does not appear amenable to the prospect. Perhaps she prefers the throne of a Queen to a tent in the desert. Women are fickle like that. Would you agree, Farielle?"
Azradi takes a deep breath and continues on the earlier subject. "As for your service yes, I did hear there were men from Desert who came to fight, and you were welcome. But I had not heard it was my brother who called for you. If it is so, then it is he from whom you must seek mercenary's pay."
"For mercenary you must be called if you demand payment for your services. As for the corsairs and my soldiers, the latter are already under my pay. There was no loot to be had, this was not a raid. Seaward and Farside fought to protect Umbar. We stopped the invasion at Seaward's fief ere it could continue to the next fief, which I might remind you are Desert's lands."
"Should I be demanding recompense from your Tower for this?"
This brings a throaty chuckle from the Desert man now, and Lojrul tilts his headress as he once more places his hands upon his hips. "If Seaward and Farside fought to protect Umbar, then why do I hear that the chief aim of the paleskins was to rescue another noblewoman from your clutches, Lady Farside? Desert fought alongside you, with honour, and not for plunder. But if plunder is nonetheless to be received by some and not others, those others can hardly be blamed for muttering about it, no?"
He sniffs then, and his almond eyes narrow. "Or do you seek to insult me, Lady? Is Desert unworthy of your consideration, and the folk of the Sand unfit to be honoured alongside the Corsairs of Umbar?"
This said, Lojrul spares another glance toward Farielle, though if her answer has angered him in any way, he shows no sign of it. "Would one great House of the Stone-land treat another so?"
The Gondorian girl frowns a little as she listens. Another noblewoman? Her gaze goes from one to the other of the Haradrim, meeting Lojrul's for a moment as he glances at her. She says nothing at all, but there is an intent look on her face, as if perhaps she is memorizing some lecture from a long-ago tutor.
A look of honest bewilderment crosses Azradi's features. "What noblewoman? If the Stonelander's true aim was to rescue this noblewoman they failed to even enquire about her."
"And if they failed to ask the Towerlords, then how did you come to know of it?"
She shifts her questioning gaze to Farielle.
"It did not escape the eyes of my soldiers that one at least was spirited away with all haste from Caldur Keep," replies Lojrul then, and his eyes return to meet Azradi's. "It seems strange to me that such a noblewoman would accompany their warriors, if invasion was truly on their minds. There is no need of games with me, Lady Farside. I serve Umbar and the Haradwaith, and need little excuse to drive the milkskins from our lands; though I find this curious."
He sniffs once more. "I would be your ally, and seek only an ally's due. Too long have Farside and Seaward stood alone in your aims, and Black have shrivelled until they are all but worthless. It is time for a new Tower to bolster the ambitions of the City of the Corsairs, would you not agree?"
Farielle's eyes meet Azradi's in equal confusion. She has no idea what woman Lojrul is speaking of; she had heard nothing of it.
Azradi snorts with derision, "You are sun-touched man, your men as well. They saw no such thing at Caldur."
"I have indulged you long enough. You try my forebearance. Another towerlord might have struck you down for such insolence."
"If ever anything was owed you, your arrogance has lost it. Furthermore, your manner here will cause me to consider what Desert does owe me. Not long ago I allowed their merchants to sail under my protection to a lucrative faire in Pelargir. And as I said, it was my army and Seaward's corsairs that prevented Maros from being invaded. Your contribution hardly compensates for that, let alone more."
It is Lojrul's turn to regard Azradi with scorn, and his gaze turns hard; feral. "I shall remember that boast, Lady, when next you have need of mumakil, and skilled handlers for them. It was the faire in Pelarglir that led to this invasion, so I am told, so if Desert's holdings were in jeopardy, then we have you to thank for it."
He straightens his back, and cocks his head to one side. "I have kept my honour before you, and even declared myself an ally, only to be met with derision. I need suffer such scorn no longer, and take my leave of you, Lady."
He bows his head-dress once more, ere he turns finally to Farielle. "One last question, daughter of Gondor: does it please you to wed this man, Alphros?"
Farielle is still listening, though most of what they have to say is beyond her understanding. When Lojrul asks his unexpected question, her eyes dart towards Azradi, then return to the man. And with the same honesty that she had previously said she did not wish to be sold into the desert, does she answer now. "What pleases me matters to no one. It is better than the alternatives I have been given."
"Again, you know the Gondorian's intents and purposes," sneers Azradi, her anger evident but controlled. "Did they explain this connection to Pelargir over tea?"
"Take care the next time you cross my path, fool." She turns away from him and sets her regard on the Gondorian girl. Her answer garners a nod of Lady Farside's head.
Lojrul's gaze lingers upon Farielle for long moments, even as Azradi speaks, and he affords himself a fresh chuckle. "A cautious answer, guest of Seaward. You are wise not to anger the mighty Lady of Farside. Have a care to tread lightly still, for as you can see, such anger springs quickly forth when even her allies dare to question her. I doubt her brother's slave will fare better."
"May the desert wind bring your fortune, Lady," says he then to Azradi, bowing a final time, "until those paths cross anew. I, fool as I am, still wish glory for my fellow folk of Umbar."
This said he turns to stride away, lest there is reason to stop.
The girl meets his gaze, and perhaps he might see there a bit of amazement that he could possibly, in any way, think she was here because she wanted to be. But she makes no response to his words, other than turning her head to watch him as he walks away.
"Arrogant goat," observes Azradi, now shaking her head. "The first time I met him my brother was Lord of Farside and he suggested our father should put me over his knee. Not to mention chided me for not being married as I should have been, in his estimation, at age fourteen."
"I shall have to investigate his usefulness. If I find him lacking, I may kill him to simply relieve myself of an annoyance. As well as to remind people the proper way to address a Towerlord."
All of Lojrul's baiting has Farielle endured without breaking. But Azradi's cool, callous words bring a shiver. She drops her eyes once more, and waits.
Perhaps Azradi can sense some of the turmoil the exchange caused in the Gondorian girl or perhaps she shrewdly guessed. "Umbar is a cruel city, Farielle."
"One must know when to be hard and when to be soft, to survive. One must know when to show respect and when one can offer insult and live. Towerlords rule supreme here and ever are those who seek to topple you. Insolence has earned that man death - but sometimes one such as he can prove to be a useful asset and so his execution is stayed with the potential of being commuted."
A nod. Farielle doesn't look up. "Why," she asks slowly, "Does your brother wish a wife of Gondor. There is nothing in our lands that is in accord. How can one so - so foreign to all that you believe and are be an asset to him?"
Azradi regards the woman for a moment then gestures to a chair, moving to take the other. "Farielle," she begins, "We are not from Umbar, we are from a smaller corsair city far to the south. In Aglarrama one family, my family, rules with the assistance of a council of lords." A look of profound sadness shadows the lady's countenance and she pauses, looking down for a moment ere she continues.
"Alphros came to Umbar to seek a base of power to serve his ambitions. He summoned me when he was on the brink of seizing Farside Tower. I came and under his leadership, Lady Eruphel and myself helped him do great things. He drove the occupying Knights from the Harondor to restore those lands to the northern tribes - who have lived there for centuries. One man had overturned the millennia-long tradition of the Towerlords and their council by declaring himself Emporer. We drove him out and restored the Towerlords. Then he decided he need more support and left his Farside throne to me - he is distancing himself from Umbar for the sake of his stake in Gondor."
"Alphros will enter Gondor as its King, the long-lost heir of Tarannon Falustur. He will rule Gondor and work for the Kingdom's benefit. He is not coming as a conqueror, he is not annexing the country for Umbar. A woman of Umbar has no place there. He needs a woman of Gondor by his side."
Farielle hesitates, then moves to sit opposite the other woman, setting her candle in its holder on a small table nearby. Her eyes are almost lost in shadows as they fix on Azradi's face, trying to take in what she is being told. "But Tarannon had no children," she protests automatically when the lady is done. "His nephew took the throne." And hesitantly, "I - would not have to live here?"
"Tarannon set his wife on a ship and exiled her because he disliked her and so did his people," Azradi explains, "She was strange to his people and a melancholy woman."
"What he did not know was that she carried his child when he exiled her. She returned to her people - a long-since fallen Kingdom far in the interior of Harad, east of Agalarrama - but in time brought her son to my home. It is he, Azulada, who married a woman of an old Numenorean family and started our line."
"And no, you would not have to live here. At least once Gondor is his. Even before then...he has chosen to live in a great manor outside of Umbar. It is a pleasant place some distance from the press and tension of the city."
"Oh." Farielle's fine eyebrows are drawn together again in a frown as she considers this. Then she shrugs it away. It won't be her doing by which Alphros' claim is accepted or not. But outside of Umbar sounds very appealing. "Nothing I know is of any worth here," she says somewhat ruefully. "Yet, I am not unskilled."
"I can scarce imagine what skills would be of no use here," says Azradi, smiling slightly. "But tell me what you can do."
"Well, I can't fight," Farielle says. "And I don't want to. And I can run an estate, but that man was right, I don't know anything of the sort of politics that are here, killing people because you don't like them or they address you wrongly. And I don't want to," she repeats, adamantly. "I know how to speak to the lords on the council - though I have never done it. I know how to make sure the steward isn't cheating us, and I can sing and paint and play the harp, and ride, and hunt with a bow, and keep the accounts, and oversee the stillroom women, and I am - I was learning to be a healer." She falters a little at the end of this recital.
"Few women choose the warrior's path, Farielle," replies Azradi, that slight smile turning to clear amusement. "And somehow those few have lead your countrymen to believe that all Southron women are mannish brutes and yet also, somehow wanton whores. I have never quite figured out how we could be both men and whores, but such is the way of misbelief."
"Your skills will be respected here and will be quite useful. Indeed, what you described is part of my role as Towerlord. It is true, that we demand our lords to be, above all else, talented in the ways of war with proven victories under his or her belt - but after achieving this position, such skills are only needed in situations such the recent invasion."
"Nay, my life is full of reports and requisitions and the complaints of my people who seem petty to me, but are of great importance to them and so must be treated as such. Will I kill those who are disrespectful? Yes. But so do I forgive the taxes of the poorest Farsiders and know the names of most of my soldier's wives."
The younger girl listens, but her mouth retains a stubborn set. Nothing she has seen so far has given her any good opinion about Umbar or its inhabitants. But all she says is, "I don't want to live here."
"Then you had better persuade my brother to look after your interests," replies Azradi, "either as his wife or not."
She allows a silence to fall for a moment. "My brother and I share your interests in the arts. Our parents felt we should have a full education. My brother is a good musician. I can sing well enough but when I touch a harp it sounds like a tortured cat. A vaguely musical tortured cat, mind you, but agonized none-the-less. It has been long since I've heard him play. Perhaps he will for you."
"My creative skill lies in drawing and painting."
Farielle's gaze falls to her hands at this reminder of the precariousness of her life. She doesn't look up again, though she smiles at Azradi's description of her harp-playing. "My brother and I learned together," she says softly. And perhaps oddly, the smile remains, perhaps even deepens; this mention of her family brings no threatening tears. "I am better than he is, but only because he wanted to be doing other things, and never would practice." Her hand makes a vague motion, lifting partway from her lap, before returning.
"How old is your brother?" asks Azradi.
"Twenty." Farielle is still smiling at her hands, though the expression is fading.
"Ah, the elder but close to your age," observes Azradi. "Alphros is fifteen years older than I am. I too was too busy learning other things to practice; but Alphros managed to practice and learn the same things that distracted me."
"He is the most brilliant man I have ever known," she says, her face transformed for a moment by her pure and genuine adoration for her brother. She sighs, "Perhaps you will see your brother again one day. If you become Queen and he is wise, he may see the benefit of being the King's brother-in-law and support him."
Farielle's face is wiped clean of expression, whatever doors of reminiscence and camaraderie that had opened shutting again with an almost audible snap. She might be able to bear memories of her brother, but the future is still too painful to face. "Perhaps," she says colorlessly, and changes the subject. "Where is the tower you live in? Farside?"
"Yes," confirms Azradi. She stands, gesturing to the window. "I will show you."
She approaches the eastern window, speaking as she does so. "It is on the eastern side of the city. You can see the tower rising to the left, it is purplish in hue. The amber-colored tower further on is Desert Tower."
"Farside's gardens are famed and extensive. It hosts a variety of plants and trees from all over the South and even some from the North. Each Tower has a fief from the fertile lands that ring the Bay of Umbar. Caldur is mine."
The timbre of her voice changes with the mention of Caldur, a note of tension creeping into it. "It was a beautiful and prosperous port before your people came."
"You know that Lord Caldur and his family were my kin?"
The Gondorian girl follows, leaving the candle to light the dim corners of the room. The sky without is still light, though the sun has set, and she follows Azradi's description, finding the towers.
"No." The single word is said quietly, as Farielle glances up at the other woman.
As Azradi continues to stare out the window, her eyes now unfocused, it is clear she is trying to hide her feelings. Even so lines of grief can be discerned upon her youthful face. "My father's mother was from House Hassad, the same Lord Caldur was born to. The kinship is close enough that such and act requires my action else my honor be stained. But more than that, I liked the man. He was a good man. All Corsairs follow a code of honor, but the Hassadites live and breathe honor. Theirs is more akin to the Gondorians code than Umbar's. I have heard stories of how my cousins turned on other corsairs during raids to stop them from harming children."
"Karim ben Hassad was no different than they. I suppose I should not be surprised he fell; he would fight to the end to protect his charge and family. But I am puzzled about the deaths of his wife and daughter. They did not choose the way of the Corsair. They chose the traditional life of women. They could not have fallen battle."
Farielle looks away, swallowing. "I am sorry," she says very quietly. She doesn't speak for a long time, staring out the window with a troubled face - they were only rumors. But there must have been some truth to them. In the end, she says, unhappily, "Lord Bragollach must have fallen into madness. It is all that I can think." She shivers, and rubs at her arms.
The mention of Lord Bragollach causes Azradi to turn and look the other woman. A deep fire burns in her eyes, banked but promising a great conflagration when it is finally set loose. "I will have paints and brushes sent to you, and canvases," she says crisply. "It will help keep your mind off your worries."
Farielle's head jerks up in surprise. "Thank you," she says after a moment, gratefully, and tries a small smile. "I am not very good at doing nothing."
"I can commiserate with you on that," replies Azradi. She glances around the dimly lit room. "I should leave." She smiles slightly, "My guards get edgy when they escort me at night. Too many shadows to hide assassins or..." her smile turns to a grin, "...insulted desert rats."
This too is so foreign. Farielle shakes her head a little, returning to the darker corner where she has left her candle. It's not needed for seeing the way, but certainly for reading any of the books. "Good night," she says to Azradi. Her guard is showing signs of impatience - or perhaps hunger, and he stands up as the girl nears. "I hope you do not have trouble."
A curt nod is all Azradi offers the lady. Already the distant, somewhat preoccupied Lady of Umbar is reasserting itself, displacing the woman. Without another word, she departs, closing the library door behind her.