Chapter sixteen: The Wain
From Songs of Crowns and Kings, by Hador Herrison of Annúminas, F.A. 2147
In my travels as a collector of folk song and folklore, I have unearthed many songs about kings. Some were almost forgotten, and were dragged out from the depths of memory by my aged informants. Had I come to their village just a few years later, these songs would have been lost forever. Some were still cherished, and heartily sung in taverns and by the farm hands at their labours.
Many songs are about rural life: harvests and cold winters and the sowing of seed. Many, of course, tell of love, both gained and lost. But a surprisingly large number tell of kings. The realm is vast, and countless millions live within it. Even if the king spent every day of his life on the road, most of his subjects would live their whole life without ever seeing him. So why, then, are so many songs about kings, rather than about squires and sheriffs, and all the other local figures of authority that the labouring man encounters in his life?
This I cannot answer, except to suggest that even in these days of councils and committees, the very word "king" has a strong glamour about it. Some of the greatest heroes of our histories are the kings of old. Facing yet another dismal harvest, it must be very tempting for the struggling farmer to dream of a world in which a mighty king might ride up on his prancing steed, ready to right all wrongs.
There is also an element of wish-fulfilment to it. In many songs, the king disguises himself as a peasant and lives among the common folk. Sometimes he lives among them for many years before he becomes king. Sometimes he does not even know that he is the heir to kings, and believes himself to be just a humble farm boy, until his true destiny is revealed to him.
Sometimes the name of the king is unspecified, but often the songs name him as Elessar, the first and greatest of our kings. There is, of course, a grain of truth in such tales, because it is well known that Elessar wandered through Middle Earth for many years before he became king. However, it is clearly ridiculous to suggest that he did so alone, as the songs claim. Far from being unaware of his destiny, he knew full well who he was, and he would never have risked his valuable life by wandering in the wilds without bodyguards.
And there is no evidence at all that he ever went about in disguise after he became king. Even sober historians have sometimes made this mistake. Some scholars in Gondor still put about the old, tired story that he once went alone on a secret mission behind enemy lines at a time of war. The very suggestion is ridiculous.
Not that it matters, of course. In this work, I discuss folklore, not history. Does it matter if the stories in the songs were never true? No. All that matters is that the people sing them.
All through the night they walked, beneath a moonless sky. Rain came and went, and at times the stars were visible, just patches of them between the ever-moving banks of cloud. The wind came from the east, and that at least was good. It was harder to move silently in the dark, but if they made small sounds, the wind would take them and carry them out into the vast empty space between the two armies.
But not entirely empty, of course. The elves were there, but there were other scouts of Gondor, too. Samir must also have his scouts. How many men were out in there in the darkness, each one of them thinking themselves alone?
Guided by the keen eyes of Legolas, they made good progress. They spoke seldom, only when words were needed. For the most part, Legolas communicated through touch: a gentle tap on Aragorn's arm when he saw a pair of clansmen silently watching the night. It was part of a picket line, several miles out. Aragorn and his companions slowed almost to a crawl to pass them, giving them as wide a berth as they dared. Legolas tapped two fingers on Aragorn's arm, and pointed south. Another pair watched there. There was a strung-out line of them, and doubtless more of them nearer the camp.
Nights were short in the middle of summer, with only a few hours of total darkness. Two hours before sunrise, the sky started to lighten barely perceptibly. Trees were more frequent here, and long before dawn, a few early birds started singing. They were heading east, towards the sunrise, so were safe from the risk of being seen as dark shapes against the approaching dawn, but there was still the risk of their figures being seen against the dark grey sky of the west. The land rose and fell, and Aragorn made them stay in the low places, where their cloak-covered forms would blend into the higher land behind them.
Another pair of sentries. This time Aragorn saw them, too. When they were past them, they saw the land rising up to the east in small, gentle waves. Near the top of the low hill there was a large natural terrace: a broad strip of flat land, with the rounded peak of the hill behind it to the east. Samir's army filled the terrace, but although they were less than two miles away, Aragorn and Mablung would not have seen it, had Legolas not told them that it was there. All their fires were doused, and the hill behind them ensured that they were still wrapped in darkness, despite the coming dawn in the east.
Samir was in the middle, Legolas had told them. A small stream had carved a shallow valley though the undulating ridges below. "If you follow that stream," Legolas said quietly, "you will find him."
Mablung shifted, clearly wanting to say something, but afraid to do so in case he was heard. Aragorn knew what he wanted to say, of course. The stream was an obvious approach, and would be guarded. But less well guarded than Mablung feared, Aragorn thought. They had passed two lines of sentries, with a third line still to face, but surely that was just standard caution. Samir had no reason to believe that he would be under attack. The lords under his command were more likely to be stationing guards to watch their rival lords than they were to look out for enemies approaching from the west. It was possible that Samir himself was more afraid of an attack from his own captains than he was of an attack from Gondor.
They walked another half mile, detouring to the south to avoid the third pair of sentries. Then it was time for Legolas to leave. He lingered, though, his hand on Aragorn's arm, and stayed there for the space of half a dozen breaths, before he finally nodded once, then melted away into the darkness.
They could not risk words now. Another ten steps, and another. Should he send Mablung away, too? What part could Mablung play in this? He had been a guide through terrain that he knew better than Aragorn did. He had killed a man. What could he do now but watch and listen? There was too much danger for him; too much risk that he would get executed casually without a thought. But Aragorn needed a second person, a person to carry the news, if news needed to be carried. It was safer for Mablung to stay with him than to hide himself near to the army - near enough to watch - and hope to stay unseen.
With every step, the sky grew lighter. Anyone who looked out of their window in Minas Tirith would still call it dark, but to a traveller outside, it was clear that the night was hastening towards its end. Trees appeared, black against grey, and on the terrace above, the first fires were being kindled.
They had to trust in their cloaks. More than ever before, they had to trust in the cloaks of Lórien.
They walked as fast as he dared, knowing that for once, true dawn was their enemy. When Aragorn glanced at Mablung, he saw that Mablung was looking at him, his eyes and mouth visible as smears of shadow in the paler grey of his face. Then Mablung tugged at the front of his hood, pulling it down, and his face disappeared. It could have been a spirit that walked beside him, less visible than the Dead who had followed him to the Stone of Erech, and from there to the sea.
Below the hill, the low land was far from smooth. The stream ran through a shallow valley, and there were clusters of trees and rocky outcrops, covered with yellow stonecrop. A guard was stationed where the stream emerged from the hillside, and there were others on the grassy ramparts above. There was too much light in the east now. Aragorn and Mablung were still deeply wrapped in the pre-dawn shadows, but the hill that rose behind the army was now very clear against the pale grey sky.
Aragorn paused for a moment, and closed his eyes. There is still time, he thought. Still time to turn and walk away. They knew where the sentries were, and they had their cloaks. It would be a race against the coming of daylight, but it was a race he thought they would win.
No, he thought. I have come this far. I believe that this is right; that it will work.
He had seen things in the palantír. Others things he had learnt in silent thought, because the heirs of Númenor could read secrets from men's hearts, even from afar. Scouts had brought news. Arwen agreed with him. Time to hazard everything. Time to make his choice.
Throwing back his cloak, he called out to the guard. The guard's head snapped round, and his sword came up.
The king had explained the plan. He had even explained the reasons for it. There was no need for him to do so, of course. Mablung was a soldier of Gondor, and a soldier of Gondor obeyed his captain without question. A captain was under no obligation to explain the reasons for his orders. He commanded, and his men obeyed. And as it was with any captain, how much more was it with a king!
But he had explained. More than that, he had almost seemed to want Mablung to ask questions, but Mablung had limited himself to questions about the practicalities of the enterprise. He had not questioned the reasons. He had not…
Oh, but he had, of course. At night, when on watch, he had wondered what ending lay ahead of them. His king had to live, but Mablung…? No, Mablung had long since resolved that if any dying was going to happen, it would be him. He had faith in his king, but it was best to be prepared. On the eve of battle, every wise soldier had to prepare himself for death. It was a fool who closed his mind to that possibility.
And at night, when asleep, he had dreamed. Dreams in which he let his king down. Dreams of the dead from the outposts, crying for vengeance that did not come. "You betrayed me!" gasped the man who for a short while, had been his captain. "You went into the wilderness and you-"
No. He flexed his hands, opening them wide, fingers splayed, then curling them tight again. He had to keep them far away from his sword. The time for stealth was over, and it was time to reveal himself. He parted his cloak, revealing the travel-stained shirt below. He shook his head slightly, causing the hood to inch back, revealing his face.
"Ho, fellow!" the king was saying, in the language of the Easterlings. His voice was imperious: the voice of a man who had never in his life been disobeyed. Then he said something about news for Samir. He snapped a question: something about the front and the middle. Is Samir in his usual place in front and centre of the camp? Was that it?
The guard nodded. The king was almost on him now, his hands clearly visible, nowhere near his sword. He held something in one hand; something that he showed to the guard. It was the token again, Mablung thought. It was the token that had failed last time.
But this time, it seemed not to be failing. The king sounded so imperious, it was all Mablung could do not to fall to his knees in terrified obedience. In his rightful guise as king of Gondor, he had never sounded like this! Mablung had wanted to kneel before him then, but never in dread.
"Would you hinder me?" he thought the king was saying, and then something about the three lines of sentries having let them pass, and he was tired, tired, of being asked to give his credentials like a common man. What right did the guard have to question him when he hadn't even seen him, not until he had called out and made himself known?
"Yes," the guard stammered. "Yes, lord," and let him pass.
And all Mablung could do was watch. All Mablung could do was follow him.
The guard at the top of the slope did not even question them. He had heard the exchange with the guard below, and waved them past without a word.
So easy, Aragorn thought. Can it be so easy?
There was a weakness at the heart of the clansmen's way of ruling. Their lords ruled by fear. Through loyalty, too, but it was a loyalty won and enforced by physical domination over the people they ruled. The merest hint of disobedience could earn a beating, or worse. Play the imperious lord, and men were too afraid to question. The near darkness helped, of course, and the fact that by deliberately drawing the guard's attention, Aragorn had made it clear that he had nothing to hide.
But are things that different in Gondor? Aragorn thought. He wanted to believe that the loyalty of the people was given freely and not coerced, but perhaps the end result was much the same. Gondor had its own hierarchy of obedience, and an ordinary soldier could well show the same reluctance to disobey a stranger who spoke like a lord and claimed the right to command him.
But it was not the time to question such things. They were on the terrace now, and Samir's compound lay before them. A pair of guards were watching them, hands on their blades.
Walk past them, Aragorn wondered, or hazard another throw of the dice?
Another step. Another.
He raised his empty hands, and spoke quietly to them, knowing that his voice would reach them. As Legolas had reported, Samir slept away from the rest of the army, and there was little sound here. Sunrise was still half an hour away, and thin cloud covered the sky, reducing the light yet further. At midsummer, no army rose with the dawn. Apart from the guards and a few early risers, everyone was still asleep.
"I do not need to explain myself," he said. "The worthless ones down below were satisfied. I must speak with Samir. I will do so openly. If you do not trust me…" He said it with scorn, with disgust. "If you do not trust me, then you have my leave to cover us with your bows. As you can see, I have no blade in my hands."
They let him pass. One drew a bow and nocked an arrow to the string, and the other almost followed them, but faltered after three steps, clearly remembering that he had been commanded not to leave his post. Ah yes, Aragorn thought, there is a lesson here for Gondor, too. A few low tents were scattered across the guarded compound, but at the centre there a great wain, covered with tented cloth. Wooden steps had been set up at its rear, leading to a parting in the cloth. Warriors stood on either side of the steps, and a third man was dimly visible, standing on the edge of the terrace overlooking the lower land to the west.
How many eyes were watching them now?
No matter. It made no difference.
Aragorn began to walk towards the steps, and the skin prickled at the back of his neck: a certain sign that an arrow was trained upon him. Then something else stirred within him: a whisper of knowledge coming to him beyond all doubt.
Instead of walking to the wain, he turned to the left, and headed towards the man who stood alone on the lip of the slope. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but even in the shadows his profile was clear. The palantír had shown him a man with a face like this, riding at the head of his army.
Aragorn approached him; almost stopped, then hazarded two more steps. "Lord Samir," Aragorn said, and the man turned towards him. "I have come to speak with you on a matter of the utmost importance. As you can see, I have no weapons in my hand, just a sword at my side, sheathed. My companion is similarly unarmed. More than a dozen of your men know that I am here. Some of them even now have arrows trained on my back. I ask only this: that before you command them to shoot, you let me speak until I have said all that there is to say."
Samir tilted his head to one side, as if in idle question of a matter of no real importance at all. "And should I listen?"
With the guards in the valley, he had played the lord. Samir might have expected him to play the supplicant, and beg to be heard. Instead, Aragorn merely spoke quietly, stating it as a simple fact.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, you must."
Samir. This was Samir. This was the lord of the Easterlings, who had commanded his men to kill the people of the outposts. Their blood was on his hands, and…
No, Mablung tried to tell himself. Deaths happened in war. Sometimes in the heat of battle, people died who should not have died. Sometimes a distant captain could give a command, and an over-zealous subordinate could exceed his duty. He had seen it in Ithilien. Three times had Captain Faramir had to dismiss a man for being over-cruel to a captive, and revelling too much in slaying. Faramir bore no guilt for that. Samir might not…
Samir. He clenched his fists tightly at his side, and followed his king. He had a cruel face, this lord of the Easterlings, with a sharp nose and deep-set eyes. Then, when he looked again, he had to admit that there was nothing intrinsically cruel about the face; it was just that he expected it to seem that way. He was older than Mablung had expected: about the same age as the king appeared, although Mablung knew that the king was far older. He was not tall, and his long dark hair was threaded with many beads. Only his forearms showed beneath his clothes, and a swordsman's muscles showed through the lean flesh.
Samir, he thought. Enemy. But his king had explained the plan to him, and he had to trust his king. He knew the realities of war. Sometimes you had to listen when all you wanted to do was attack. Sometimes you had to show mercy, because pursuing justice would only lead to further deaths.
But…!
He followed. Of course he followed. Why am I here? he wanted to ask, but the king could not answer him. The king could not even look at him.
But if they killed him, Mablung swore... If they made even the slightest move to kill him, then they would have to kill Mablung first.
Circled with lanterns, they had no place to hide. Aragorn sat where he was told, on a low wooden bench deep inside the covered wain. Mablung was on the floor near his feet, and no matter where either of them turned, the lantern light fell starkly on their faces. Halfway along the wain, Samir sat on a simple stool, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
"You came with just one man?" There was scorn in his voice, thinly veiled.
"I did," Aragorn confirmed, offering no explanation or defence. This was a culture where the worth of a lord was judged by the size of his entourage of warriors, but it was also one that taught its boys to hunt alone. Their songs told of mighty war bands, but also of lone heroes, who braved great odds alone.
"But this is my hall," Samir said, smiling ironically as he gestured to the draped canvas above him, "and so I choose to listen to you with twice your number: four to your two." The others were already in place, silent at the dark end of the wain. There was a sharp-faced woman, wiry and lean. A young warrior crouched in front of Samir, a naked sword in his hand. Behind Samir, almost invisible by the sealed entrance flap, there was an old man whose head was turned slightly away.
There was a risk in replying, but Aragorn thought it was best to take it. "That is your right," he agreed.
"Of course it is my right," Samir said, his voice as cold and sharp as a blade. At his feet, the warrior half-raised his sword.
Aragorn gave no reaction, merely letting Samir hold his gaze. It was a fine line that he had to walk. He could not be too provocative, but neither could he seem meek. He tolerated Samir's gaze for longer than most men would endure, then looked away when the time was right.
"You spoke as a lord when you gave commands to my men," Samir said. His eyes were keen, sparks glinting in his shadowed face. The beads in his hair were shining. "You speak our tongue with the accent of our eastern clans. Until recently, we have been a scattered people, a people ruled by many lords. Few of my men know the faces of lords that are not their own." He paused. Aragorn waited. He knew what was coming. "I do," Samir said.
"I expected nothing less," Aragorn said. "I have made no false claims."
The old man was looking down at his folded hands, but clearly listening, listening to every word. The woman was angry. The warrior twisted his wrist just a fraction, making the sword catch the light.
"Where do you come from?" Samir demanded, quiet and completely still.
"You know that, I think," Aragorn said.
"Yes." Samir spoke this time in the common tongue of the west. "You come from Gondor. You come from my enemies."
Aragorn could sense Mablung reacting, but could see, too, that he kept his reaction from being painted vividly on his face. Samir would have seen it, though. Mablung was at home in the wilderness, and good with the sword and the bow, but this was a very different game. This battle was waged with words, and in the silences between them.
"You don't deny it," Samir said, in his own tongue once more. "You offer no explanation, no defence."
"Why deny the truth when it is known already?" Aragorn said. "Explanation I will give you. Defence, I owe you none." The warrior disliked that, as Aragorn had known he would. He glanced at Samir as if awaiting a command, but Samir remained still, his face giving nothing away. "It is not a crime to be born in another land. It is not a crime to be loyal to the cause of your fathers. War makes enemies of men who might, in another world, be as close as brothers. It is not a crime-"
"It is a crime-!" the woman spat, but Samir silenced her with a raised hand.
"It is not a crime to be loyal to the king of Gondor," Samir said, "when you are within Gondor's bounds. But when you sneak unseen like a spy, like an assassin, into your enemy commander's own camp…"
"No war has been declared between us," Aragorn said, and moved on before the statement could be contradicted. "I issued no threats. I have allowed you to take our swords from us. I announced myself at the door to your hall like a visitor in good faith. No guards stopped me until I declared myself."
Samir reacted: just a barely perceptible tightening of the muscles of his face. It concerned him deeply, Aragorn thought, to discover that two men had been able to approach so closely without being seen. His confidence in his own men had been weakened. He might have to reconsider his tactics; to accept that his enemies had greater skill than he had thought.
"I came to talk," Aragorn said. "Merely that. This was the only way."
"Your king could have asked to talk under the flag of truce," Samir said. "Such things are honoured even in Gondor, I believe. Did he not agree to speak to the emissary of Sauron before the Black Gate, and no blows were exchanged until the talking was at an end?"
"He considered it," Aragorn said, "but he knows that the lords under your command are eager for glory and battle. Such is their love for you that they will do anything to win your praise. They would all wish to strike the first blow and claim the first kill."
The warrior wanted to protest at that, but Samir stopped him. Almost hidden in the shadows, the old man seemed to be smiling. Samir openly chuckled. "Politely said." He did not deny it, though. His command of these warring lords had been hard won and was but tenuously held. He could declare a truce and ride forward to negotiate with Aragorn, but would all the lords under his command adhere to its terms? Aragorn had considered it carefully, and feared that the answer was no. "And so he sent you alone, to treat with me out of sight of the over-eager lords who love me so much." He leant forward, all laughter gone. "Do you have the authority to speak for him?"
"I do," Aragorn said. He would have provided a name for himself if he had been asked: another name to add to the many he had gone by over the long years of his life.
But Samir did not ask. "Why should I trust you?" he demanded. "Why should I talk to you? You men of Gondor hate us. Our words mean nothing to you. Easterlings, you call us. To you, we are of no more worth than the orc scum of Mordor: to be killed without a thought. Many of us fought against you, but you won. You won, and so we are nothing."
"Yes," breathed the woman. "Yes."
"You are not nothing to me," Aragorn said. "I came. I did not have to."
"You came because your king commanded you, surely?" the old man said. It was the first thing he had said.
"He commands willing men," Aragorn said, "and on a mission of such importance, men have the chance to refuse. But he did not have to send me. He did so because he considers you worth listening to. He did not treat with the 'orc scum' of Mordor. And," he said, emphasising it slightly to forestall any interruption, "I learnt your tongue. You cannot dismiss a whole people as worthless when you speak their tongue."
He wondered if Samir would respond in the common tongue of the west, but Samir made no comment. Instead, in his own tongue, he said, "Yet still you give me no reasons why I should believe any word you say. You are here to gain some advantage to your king, that much is plain."
Outside, the sky was lightening, the canvas slowly turning paler. There were distant sounds of the army waking up, but few of the sounds were close. There were guards outside the wain, there had to be, but they were silent and still.
"As to why he wished someone to come," Aragorn said, "this is not yet the time to speak of that. As to why I was the one to come…" He let out a breath, and shook his head slowly. He abandoned all calculation; let honesty be painted upon his face. "I speak your tongue. I speak your tongue because I have known your people. I know that not all your lords followed Sauron. I know that those who did so, did so for their own reasons, and that when he fell, they mourned the loss of the glory they hoped he would bring them, but they did not mourn him."
"We mourned our dead!" spat the woman.
"Yes," Aragorn said, raising a conciliatory hand. "So did we, and ours, too, were very great." He looked at Samir. "I know that your clan swore no oaths to Sauron, and suffered as a result."
"You know too many things," said the old man, leaning forward. "How?"
Then Samir held up a hand, stopping Aragorn before he could reply. "Are you a traitor to your king? Is that what you claim? You come to me with this tale of how much you sympathise with us, with our plight. Is that your game?"
"I am no traitor," Aragorn said. "My life is pledged to Gondor."
"And your death?" said the warrior, raising his sword.
"Of course," Aragorn said calmly. Mablung reacted, unable to stop himself. Aragorn touched his shoulder with his fingertips, steadying him. He returned to the old man's question, although he kept his gaze upon Samir. "Many years ago," he said, "a traveller from the west spent a while amongst your people. He wished to discover if it was true what men were saying: that they were turning to Sauron; that they were evil beyond all hope of redemption."
"Who said that?" the woman demanded.
Once again, Aragorn held up his hand. "It was many years ago: sixty, or nearly so. He found that they were not evil; few men are. He found that some of the lords had indeed pledged their clans to the service of Sauron. He tried to stop that where he could. Afterwards, he liked to think that he might have slowed it, for a few years, at least. But in the end…" He shook his head, smiling: a storyteller recounting a distant tale. "In the end, he was betrayed, or perhaps he betrayed himself by some mistake. He was younger than he would later be, and less wise. He was captured. He escaped, but he was wounded. Another traveller from the west - a chance-met companion - heard of his plight and helped him escape, and together they reached a cave, a narrow cleft between two great rocky outcrops."
The old man was silent, barely breathing. In the growing light from outside, it was clear that he was almost blind. He was trying to look at Aragorn, but was missing him by many inches, seeing only the lantern beside him.
"And there a boy found him," Aragorn said quietly. "A boy from the clan of the Red Sun, busy with his Trial of Manhood. He helped this traveller, although he did not have to. And the traveller never forgot."
"Sixty years ago…" rasped the old man, the old man who had once been a boy so desperate to prove himself as a man. Aragorn had not asked his name at the time, but he had discovered it afterwards, when necessity had forced him to make one more visit to the east. Bedir was his name. Bedir, who had gone on to lead his clan when they were forced into the wilderness as exiles, because they refused to bow to Sauron. Bedir, who, old now, and blind, could no longer lead a warrior people, but who sat at the right hand of the one who did, and gave him counsel.
Aragorn's scouts had found the name for him, and from that tiny seed, this whole wild scheme had been born. Aragorn could often read the hearts of men, but on this, he had no idea how Bedir would react. It was as if the old man's blindness kept him hidden from him, by veiling the truths that most men showed in their eyes. Would Bedir recognise himself in the story? Oh, but he did; his reaction made that plain. It was a story he had told himself, too, for Samir also plainly knew who Aragorn was talking about. But would Bedir admit it? Would he acknowledge the connection, or let it pass without a word?
"Sixty years, or nearly so," Aragorn said, "but never forgotten."
"No," said the old man, whose hair was thin now, but who still wore his golden beads. He brought his hand up to his face: a strangely vulnerable gesture, as if he half expected to find the smooth skin of a boy, and not the wrinkled face of a scarred old man. "I imagine it was not."
"Never forgotten," the man from Gondor had said. Bedir's skin was dry beneath his trembling fingers. Who…? he wanted to ask. Who are you?
He could deny it, of course. Samir knew the truth, but would let him play this any way he wished. He could deny that the story meant anything to him, although he had told it for years, and every man, woman and child in the Red Sun clan had heard him tell it. In the years of their exile, they had cherished all stories. Afterwards… Ah, afterwards…
He chuckled to himself. Did this stranger from Gondor know how the story had ended for Bedir? Did the stranger from Gondor know what had grown out of the seed that the wounded traveller had planted that day in the cave?
No need to tell him, of course. He could say nothing; let the story pass without another word.
But it was too late for that already, of course. This lord from Gondor knew who he was, and had known long before he had started telling his story. As Bedir's sight had failed him, he had grown more skilled at hearing the truths that were revealed by a man's tone of voice. He could still profess ignorance, and see what the man from Gondor chose to do next, when confronted with…
No, he thought, his fingers kneading the scar on his face. No, there has been too much lying in this world of ours.
"You know it was me," Bedir said. "You knew from the start."
He had been near-blind that day, too, he remembered. Evening had been fast approaching, and the man from Gondor had been deep inside the dark cleft between the rocks, his face barely visible in the gloom.
"I did," the man conceded. "Never forgotten, I said. It would a churlish man indeed forgot such kindness."
"What was he to you?" Samir demanded. "Your father?"
But Bedir was already shaking his head. Almost sixty years gone, and he had grown from a boy of fifteen to an old man. He had no memory of the man's voice, and even if he had seen his face, he would have forgotten it by now. He remembered the incident, but only because he had retold it so many times; only because of the lesson he had learnt from it. Who could remember with any clarity a voice once heard so many years ago?
But now… Now… His skill was with voices now. He could read truths; truths that were meant to stay hidden.
"It was you," he breathed. "You." He stood up, and walked forward. He knew how the wain was arranged, and he had heard them all speak, and marked their position. He could no longer see faces, but he could see the lanterns and the shapes of those who sat in the midst of them. Samir made no move to stop him as he made his way to the man from Gondor. The lord sat very still, but his liegeman sucked in a sharp breath, his feet scraping against the wooden floor. Bedir felt the lord's face, feeling no more wrinkles than he would feel on Samir's own face. His hair was limp from the earlier rain, but it was clear that it had not yet started to thin with age.
"How…?" Samir breathed. He hadn't meant to say it. Perhaps he had already thrown away any advantage that Samir might have gained in this encounter, but… He let out a breath; took a faltering step backwards, and then another. Samir stopped him there, a hand on his back. "How…?"
"The men of the west have longer lifespans than other men," said the lord from Gondor. "You must know this."
Yes. Yes. He had heard this; heard it and dismissed it. That was the kings of old: proud lords from beyond the sea, all dead now. If this was true, what else was true? Elf lords who fought for Gondor, with magic at their command? An army of the dead? Their own dead, sent to fight against them? The women feared such a thing, and raged against it. Men with few beads in their hair feared it, but Samir was beyond such fear.
"Was it…?" Oh, but he had lost so much by now, entirely losing his composure. Samir's hand was hard at his back. "The old man? Was he in truth a chance-met companion? When I was older, afterwards, it occurred to me that he might not be."
"I had known him then for some years," said the lord of Gondor, "but neither of us knew that the other was travelling so near. He heard of my plight and came to investigate, but until he got there, he didn't know it was me. So it was the truth, in a way."
"But in another way, a lie." Bedir said it harshly, but softened it with laughing. "And is he still alive, although he looked like an old man then?"
"He has departed," the lord said, as Samir pressed his hand to Bedir's back, telling him that this exchange, whether good or ill, had come to an end. Bedir obeyed, although he did not have to. Samir owed his position as much to Bedir's influence as to his own undoubted gifts.
"Pleasing as this reunion is," Samir said, and his tone showed Bedir that he was more disconcerted by this than he wanted the lord to know, "I have to ask what you hope to gain by it."
"Nothing," said the lord, "beyond an indication that I come in good faith, and I feel a debt of gratitude to Bedir here, and I do not idly betray such debts."
"But I have no debt," Samir said.
But I do, Bedir thought, as he tottered back to his seat. It was harder on the way back, walking away from the light to the shadows by the door. He had to find his seat with his hand before he could let himself sit down. For him, his whole life had started then. Bedir had told the lord of Gondor how their Trial of Manhood worked, and how old friends were set against old friends, and only one of them could win. The stranger had been wounded, of course, and probably only half-listening, but he had asked a stray question: what would happen if they worked together? Bedir had never forgotten that. He had tried it the very next day, and been rejected, but it had also inspired him to forget about fighting with his rivals, and concentrate on his goal. Because of that, he had emerged from the Trial with the golden beads of the victor. Everything had come from that. Everything.
"And I have heard that story before," Samir was saying. "He tells it often, does this old man of mine. You planted a seed in his mind that day. Did you know that? You should work together, you said. You will be ten times stronger if you stopped bickering amongst yourself, and worked together as one."
"Yes," said the lord of Gondor. He knew what was coming; Bedir knew that suddenly beyond doubt. He knew what was coming, but Samir had not realised that. He was astute and gifted, but he was too proud, and at times that made him blinder than Bedir.
"He never forgot that," Samir said, "through all the dark years, when our clan eked out a living in the wilderness in our great wains. I grew up hearing that tale, and while he told it as a story, I decided to make it a reality. And so we have laid aside our differences, we who have always fought amongst ourselves. We have united, and this is the end of it."
"What?" asked the lord of Gondor, and how could Samir not hear it? He was saying what he knew Samir wanted him to say. But not with malice, Bedir thought. No, not that.
"We have united," said Samir, "and what do we do with our newly formed strength? What do we do with the strength that you taught us? We come against Gondor and we will crush her armies like grass beneath our feet."