Chapter twenty-one: Truth

From On the Cusp of Change: the Early Decades of the Fourth Age, by Rínor of Ithilien, F.A. 998

The world was changing. When the Fourth Age dawned, it might have seen to the people of Gondor and Arnor that their world had gone backwards. They had a king again. Elves were seen once more in Gondor. Ruined cities were rebuilt and became fair again. Forgotten knowledge was rediscovered. Crumbling scrolls were brought out of dusty archives, and the library of Rivendell was transcribed and made freely available in Gondor and Annúminas.

But even as it returned to the glory days of the past, the world was changing. As the peoples of Middle Earth became comfortable and confident in peace, they started to innovate. So many fields of endeavour were born in those early decades of the Fourth Age. We see it in our modern books, no longer rare, but found in every home, however humble. We see it in portraiture. We see it in those songs and tunes that sweep through half the world, and are sung from Umbar to the Shire.

We see it, too, in the proliferation of historians such as yours truly. History is no longer the preserve of a few wise loremasters, but all can have a say in it. The first university was founded in the reign of King Elessar, and now there are over a hundred. And every university is full of historians, and every one of us has an opinion on the past, and oh, how we bicker!

Many historians have chosen to study the growing voice of the people: yet another of those things that was born at the start of the Fourth Age. In other, less enlightened kingdoms, it might be thought that the return of a long-lost king would lead to the people become powerless, forbidden from making their voices heard. In Gondor and Arnor, it did not. They had a king, but they also started to believe that they had a voice worth hearing.

In F.A. 12, the agents of Umbar exploited this when they deliberately stirred up the people so they clamoured for war. They roused the people of Minas Tirith in the hope that this would force Elessar to go to war against the shadow enemy that they had created. My fellow historians claim that this was thus the first war shaped by public opinion. To make things happen, the agents of Umbar manipulated not the king, but the people. When the army marched, it did so because the people demanded it.

This argument is not without a germ of truth. However, I will argue that if the world was changing - and it was - the wheels of change turned slowly. The agents of Umbar exploited popular opinion, true, but at home, they expected instant obedience and ignored the mutterings of the people they ruled. Elessar marched north when the people demanded it, true, but as we know now, he did so because he knew that it was necessary. He had a daring plan, a plan that he kept to himself.

And when the time came to turn that army round and march home again, the decision was his alone. Elessar and Samir decided the fate of their armies, and nobody else was party to those debates. Samir had a difficult fight to get his lords to accept his decision. Elessar did not have to fight, but some of the men-at-arms from his army have left us letters and diaries that show us their opinion.

Most were relieved that they did not have to face death so far from home. Some looked back at their last two weeks of sore feet and scant rations, and regretted that it was all for nothing. Most were furious at Umbar, who had tried to trick them into getting embroiled in a futile war against men who had also been tricked. Some were consumed with worry about friends in the southern fiefs, who would be the first to face the might of Umbar.

But all accepted the wisdom of their king. He had marched them out, and now was telling them to march back. Yesterday the "Easterlings" were their enemies; today they were not. They believed utterly in the wisdom of their king. If he commanded it, it was right. If he commanded it, they obeyed.

The world was changing, yes, but in those early years of the Fourth Age, I contend, it was still a world that largely looked back to the past.

Last time he had left in the quiet of the morning, with only Gimli to see him on his way. This time, half the army turned out to watch, and even those who were still busy with their duties paused, if their captains allowed it, as Aragorn and Éomer rode out.

The time for secrets had passed. Aragorn had spent most of his life shrouded in secrets, with his true identity hidden from all but a few. When he had raised the banner of Elendil and come to the aid of Minas Tirith, he had thought that at last he would be free to live in the light of truth. At last he could be open about who he was, and free to proclaim his love for Arwen. But it seemed that even a king must have his secrets. When your enemies came against you with spies and whispers, it was necessary to counter them with whispers of your own.

Besides, he thought, with a wry smile, sometimes he found it hard to leave a life of secrecy behind. Sometimes he craved an anonymous life. Sometimes he longed to don his tattered clothes and walk about unseen. Journeying through the wilds with Mablung had felt, in a way, like coming home.

But now that time had ended. Horns sounded: the joyous horns of the Rohirrim and the more measured trumpets of Gondor mingling into one wild sound. Aragorn raised his hand, saluting the men who had gathered to watch them depart. The trumpets fell silent. The men stood in solemn lines, waiting for him to speak.

This was not the time to move them. This was not the time to rouse them to great feats of arms. This was not the time to strengthen their hearts or inspire them with stirring words. They were not facing battle, just a long march home.

"A cunning enemy has tried to make fools of us all," he said. "They wanted us to become embroiled in a devastating war with people who have been likewise duped. But now the hidden hand behind these lies stands revealed. The people of the clans were never truly our enemies, and are innocent of much of which they have been blamed. Of much," he stressed, "because some matters still lie between us, but they are matters to be settled by words, and not by the sword."

They were listening to him, all of them, their faces intent. They had already heard the tale from their captains, but they seemed to cling to his every word.

"Some may call our journey fruitless," he said. "Maybe some of you have already said as much." Many of them shook their heads, perhaps not meaning to. "But it was not fruitless!" he declared. "When the tale of this summer is written, you will be remembered as men who played your part. When the call came, you answered. Because you were here at my back, Samir of the clans harkened to my words. Because you marched behind me, he gave us peace."

The men cheered. It was a ragged cheer at first, but it swelled to a roar. The captains made little effort to check it. Some of them were cheering along with their men.

"But now I must leave you," Aragorn said, when the men were silent again. "I must leave you and ride south with all haste, for there are other armies there, and battles to be fought. You will follow with all the speed that you can muster, and it may be that we will meet again in triumph on a field in the south."

The men cheered again, and once more the trumpets sounded. Aragorn nodded to Éomer, and then they were away.

There were almost a hundred of them: Éomer's Riders, and over half of the knights of Gondor who had ridden with them from Osgiliath. The rest of the horsemen of Gondor were staying with the army, some as couriers, and some to protect the footmen in case of attack. A party would be sent out to the devastated outposts, to bury and honour the dead. Legolas was coming with Aragorn, but the rest of the elves were staying in the Brown Lands, serving as scouts.

"I thought you weren't giving a speech," said Éomer, shouting to be heard over the pounding hooves. "That, my friend, was a speech."

"Apparently so," Aragorn agreed. No secrets, he thought.

Last time he had slipped out quietly, hoping that the spy in his army would not know that he had gone, and needing Samir's own scouts to remain unaware of it. This time, let the spy know! Let the spy hear his words and know that the lies of Umbar were discovered!

The spy? he thought, because there was no certainty that there was a spy in his ranks; it was just that he could not believe that they would have let him ride without one. So if there was one, what would he do now? One of two things, Aragorn thought. Either he would seek to escape the army as soon as possible, and carry the news to his masters in the south. Either that, or he would make sure that he was travelling alongside Aragorn, either openly in his party or following him unseen. From there, he would attempt to stop Aragorn from ever returning to Gondor.

"He will try to kill you," Éomer had said, when they had talked about it, earlier.

"Perhaps," Aragorn had said. Foresight was a chancy thing, and it came but rarely, and could never be commanded. Insight came more readily, and sometimes he understood something about a person that was hidden from most. But there were times, many times, when he saw no more clearly than any man. Like anyone else, when faced with a threat from an unknown opponent, he had to ask himself what he would do, if he were in that opponent's shoes.

And he had to be prepared for all things, even as he openly rode south. No secrets? Ah, yes, he had his secrets still.

Pippin was breathless by the time he reached the Houses of Healing. "Faramir!" he gasped at the door. He remembered who he was talking to, and tried to collect himself. "Lord Faramir… The Lord Steward… Where is he?"

The warden bowed, and waved him in. Walking inside was like walking into memory. He hadn't been here since the days after the battle on the Pelennor, when Merry had been in the healers' care. The smell was the same, and it made the years melt away. Coming here with Merry, so scared that he would die. Worrying about Faramir, afraid that he hadn't stopped things in time. Afraid for Frodo. Saying that last farewell to Merry, when they had both put on a brave face for each other, but both had been so scared that they would never see each other again.

"Lord Faramir?" he asked. "How…?" He swallowed. "How is he?"

"Alive and awake," they told him, "and doing well," and they pointed him down a hallway to the right.

The scent was the same, but as he walked, he realised that the sounds were different. Then, the Houses of Healing had been dealing with the aftermath of a dreadful battle. They had been full to bursting, and many desperately sick people had been forced to remain in their own homes. Everywhere there had been noise and voices: tears and cries of pain. The tears had surprised him. After travelling with Aragorn for so long, he had come to think that all Big Folk were as stern and composed as him. But even Aragorn wept at times; he knew that now.

But now the Houses were half-empty, and even where there were people, the voices were hushed. It made Pippin glad that his feet made no sound on the smooth wooden floor.

He must have taken a wrong turn, because the hallway ended in an open space, with a colonnade of pillars on the far side, overlooking a fair garden. A woman knelt on the grass, picking sprigs of herbs and adding them to her overflowing basket. "Lord Faramir?" he asked her. "I'm looking for…"

"And you have found him." It was Faramir's voice, spoken with a laugh. He was sitting on a wooden seat beneath an ancient tree, and white blossom speckled his hair.

"Oh." Pippin ran towards him. "I thought… I heard…" He pressed his hands to his face, and lowered them again. "I was with Arwen. I didn't hear… She was telling me stories about the distant past, but it isn't distant to her, because she remembers it. Imagine that! It's easy to forget with these elves, since they look as young as you or me."

"Younger than us, I fear," said Faramir, "because the years are passing fast." It seemed like a sad thing to say, but he smiled as he said it. "And there is no need to worry, Pippin. Thanks to my lady, I will live to see those passing years."

"But you're…" Pippin wanted to touch him, but was scared to touch something that hurt. "They say that an enemy got right into the heart of the Citadel." Umbar. That was where the enemies came from. That was what Arwen had told him, anyway. Umbar, where the ships came from. The Corsairs of Umbar! they had shouted, as if it was the worst thing that could ever happen to them, but Pippin had thought all along that Strider was aboard the dark ships. "They say that he almost killed you."

"Who said that?" Faramir asked. "We will have to stop that tale. It will breed too much fear."

"Guards at the gate." Pippin swallowed. He had seen them carrying the dead man out. It had given him a horrible shock to see it. From a distance, the dead man had looked like Faramir, with that dark hair of his, or even like Strider, shrouded in his grey cloak.

"He tried to kill me, that is true," Faramir said, "but I will live. I've got a knife wound and a sword cut, neither of them serious, but together…" Another wry smile. "Together they caused me to falter. My foot feels worse, though. Broken glass," he explained. "That is what will keep me inside for a while. They are making me a crutch, but for now, I must hobble around like an old man, trembling on somebody's shoulders."

"Oh," said Pippin. "Good. I mean…" He shook his head. "No, I do mean good, because I was afraid…" He felt quite weak himself, relieved to find that things weren't as bad as he feared. "You can try leaning on me, if you like," he said, "but I might be too near the ground for you."

Faramir smiled. "I thank you, Sir Peregrin, but I am content here, waiting for Merry and my lady to return. I believe they have gone to get some food. You are welcome to stay."

"Food!" Pippin clapped his hands together, and did it hard, to stop them shaking. As he did so, he saw Faramir's smile fade. The muscles around his eyes looked very tense, and there was a furrow between his brows. He was in pain, and he had come close to dying just a few hours before, by an attacker who had been hiding in his own bed chamber. Of course true smiles were hard to come by.

He settled down beside Faramir on the chair. "Arwen's brothers told her lots of stories of Aragorn as a young man," he said, "and all his various adventures, and now she's told me. Do you want to hear them? There's nothing embarrassing," he hastened to assure him. "Nothing inappropriate. There was one I particularly liked. It was about a cat…"

"I think he's already told me this one," Faramir said, "but I'd like to hear it again." He smiled again, and several times during the story, he laughed. But long before the story ended, he was asleep, and the furrow between his brows was smoothed out, and the muscles beside his eyes were at rest.

All day long there had been shouting. At least one furious group of horsemen had ridden away, but another, faster group had given chase. The next time Mablung had seen those furious horsemen, their leader was draped dead across his saddle, and his followers, disarmed, were being driven along with whips. Samir was trying to impose his will upon his lords; that much Mablung knew. He was trying to honour his agreement with the king. Mablung thought he was winning, but he couldn't be sure.

"Their voices are clear to me," said Lasdir, the elf, "but I do not speak their tongue."

"I understand it a little," said Mablung, "but I don't have your hearing. I can't hear enough of what they're saying."

"And I hear nothing and understand nothing," said Cenred, the man from Rohan, "but am here because I love my lord."

Mablung laughed; he couldn't help it. They had not been badly treated. Samir, he thought, had something to do with that. They could hardly expect to find a warm welcome here in the camp of a people who, until this morning, had thought of them as enemies, but their welcome was less hostile then he had expected. As long as Samir treated them with honour, his loyal men would treat them the same. There were times when he couldn't believe that he was here, that he had volunteered for this. But already he was beginning to think that this was the only place that he could be.

"I saw a man ride in from the east, not long ago," Lasdir said. "He came in great haste. He looked afraid, I think. He spoke to Samir alone, at first, and then Samir made him speak his news aloud to all his lords."

Tidings from the east. Tidings from their home? Was this their proof that the king had spoken the truth, and an army was marching on them from the east, preparing to attack their undefended homes? Mablung moved as near to them as he could, but the voices remained inaudible. The hostages were not bound, but they had been given to understand that they could not wander from a small compound marked out by pegs. A dozen men guarded them. They had food and shelter, but they were not free.

"What happens?" he asked, saying it was well as he could in their tongue.

"Samir wins," said one of the guards, and, "Samir runs," said another. Then there were knives drawn between the two of them, until a third guard wrestled them both to the ground.

Time passed. Wind stirred the canvas, and it brought voices, too. "True," he heard, then, "Samir! Samir! Samir!" More shouting followed, and a cry of fury. A large group of horsemen rode in from the west, cresting the same hill that Mablung and the king had climbed in the dark.

"They are the other half of the raiding party that you fought three days since," Lasdir told Cenred. "They were roving in the north, and did not see us. Samir must have called them home."

Mablung waited. The wind came in gentle breaths, and each breath brought words that he could not quite hear. After a while, everyone started moving. Tents were struck. Horses were brought out and saddled. "Do they ride west?" he murmured. He clenched his fists. Please, please, don't let them be riding west.

"West?" echoed a young man who stood apart from all the others. He had come to stare at them several times already that day. He looked at them as if they were fascinated by them. He looked at them as if he hated them. He was one of the prisoners who had been handed over the day before, Mablung realised. He had spent two days as a prisoner of Gondor. That explained the hatred, but it didn't explain the fascination. It didn't explain the sorrow that even Mablung could read so clearly on his face.

"Why?" Mablung asked, although he hadn't really intended to speak. "Why sad?"

Because he had been captured, the young man said bitterly. Captured, and his lord was dead. Captured, and Samir had asked him to tell the truth. Truth. Mablung missed the next part, the words coming too fast and too unfamiliar. Then the young man said something about how he'd betrayed them all. He'd told Samir that his enemies were good. "But you won't understand me," he said. "You're just one of them."

"I understand enough," Mablung said quietly. "And why sad? Truth was asked for. Truth was told."

They were riding east, he saw. They were definitely riding east. Already the vanguard was moving. Whatever battle Samir had been fighting with his lords, he had won it. The messenger's news was spreading from mouth to mouth, and setting everyone who heard it on fire. They were moving with haste. They were heading home.

"Truth brings us peace," he said. "Truth saves your home."

And mine, he thought, almost shuddering with the relief of it. And mine.

The problem with going back to bed during the day, Pippin thought, was that you just weren't sleepy in the evening. After Faramir had fallen asleep, he had enjoyed a pleasant bite or two to eat with Merry and Éowyn, but now Merry said that he was tired and wanted to go to bed. It wasn't even properly dark yet! Well, he could understand it, he supposed, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep for a good long while.

"Are you coming?" Merry asked, pausing near the tunnel that led back to the Citadel.

To sit alone in their shared living room, while Merry slept in his bedroom next door. To sit with a book on his lap, perhaps, only to realise that he had been staring at the same page for half an hour, but couldn't remember any of the words. To hear the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside, and wonder there was a second intruder in the Citadel. To lock the door with trembling hands. To want Merry to wake up, to talk to him.

"No," he said. "I'm not tired. I think I want…" He shook his head. "I don't know. I'm just… I'm not tired. I might find somewhere to grab a quick drink. Remember that tavern we went to down near the Great Gate? I liked that one. It reminds me of the Prancing Pony, but maybe that's just because it's full of Men." And talk and bustle and song and laughter. He tried so often to provide laughter for the others, but sometimes you just needed to go to a place where the cheerfulness was provided by everyone else.

"Pippin…" Merry said, taking a step towards him. "Are you…?"

"Fine," Pippin said cheerfully. "I'll be back soon. Just a couple of quick beers."

But not all the way down to the lowest level, he thought, because that was altogether too far to walk. Were there inns on the sixth level? There was that nice little cosy ale-house where Seregon had taken him. Now, where was that again…?

He wandered a little, and then there was Seregon himself, standing at the place where two streets crossed. He looked a little lost, his face almost grey in the gathering twilight. "Seregon!" Pippin called him by name. "I was just thinking about you," he said. "About that ale-house with the terrace on the roof."

Seregon was slow to notice him, and even slower to turn to face him. He blinked as if returning from a dream. But if it was a dream, it was not a good one, because his hands were clenched at his side, and they kept on opening and then closing again into tight fists.

"The ale-house?" Pippin prompted him. "Are you off-duty?" It was a blatant hint, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It looked as if Seregon, too, could do with the comfort of lively chatter after a hard day.

"Yes," Seregon said. "I am." His fists opened and closed again. "Do you want…?"

"That would be lovely," Pippin said.

Seregon began walking, and Pippin trotted along beside him. This was a useful thing for him to do, he reminded himself. He had seen how Faramir had reacted when he had thought that Pippin had heard about the attack through general rumour. Clearly nobody outside the Citadel was supposed to know about the attack on Faramir, although the healers knew that he had been hurt somehow. As they drank, he could subtly probe Seregon to see if the news had spread to the City Watch. He could listen discreetly to the chatter from the other tables, and see if this secret, too, had been deliberately spread throughout the city.

"Are you by yourself again?" Seregon asked, as he led them away from the main street and into a narrow lane. In the broad streets and the squares, it was mid-evening, but here in the back lanes it was almost night. "I thought there were two of you."

"There are," Pippin said, "but Merry was tired. He's gone to bed. We haven't had much sleep lately, you see, what with worrying about…" He stopped himself just in time. "The war," he said. "But I can't sleep, at least not yet."

"Why?" Seregon asked. "Has something happened?"

The lane turned left. People were talking in a room up above, and a dog was barking. Was this the way Seregon had brought him before? Pippin tried to remember, but everywhere looked different in the gloom.

"No," he said. "Yes. It's just…" He sighed. "It's this war. Why do there have to be wars? We're not…" He stopped, and sighed again, shaking his head. "No, let's not talk about wars out here in the dark." He hurried onwards, drawing level with Seregon, and then going ahead of him. Above him, the upper storeys and the rooftops were still in the light, and a woman was leaning on a balcony, looking down at them. Pippin waved at her, although he wasn't sure that she could see him. "Where is this ale-house?" The sooner they were in it, the better. He needed light and laughter and a crowded place

"Not far," said Seregon from behind him. "Not far."

He was the only one left. He had to believe that. He could not take the risk of allowing himself to hope. The ones who had stayed behind in the city must have failed. They were dead now, or prisoners, or fled. One of them had talked under torture, or blundered so badly that their true affiliation had been revealed, and the Steward had sent a messenger to his king. How else could the king of Gondor know about their stratagem? But know about it, he did, and had proclaimed it to the whole army. Umbar was the enemy. Umbar was behind it all. It was against Umbar that they were moving now with all haste.

Umbar! A city more ancient and mighty than any city of upstart Gondor. That's what the loremasters said, anyway, and the firebrands who urged them to hate.

He cared nothing for that. Umbar was his home. His brother had captained a proud ship, and his father had owned a warehouse on the quay. Both were dead now. His grandfather had died in the great ship-burning. His brother had drowned. His father had died of grief and shame. He had almost died, too, as he had stared into a future devoid of hope.

But he lived. He lived. From the ashes a spark had arisen, and the spark had become a flame, and the name of the flame was revenge. He knew of other men of Umbar who had burnt with that same flame, but some of those had set their fires too early. They had come against Gondor in ones and twos, ill-prepared and rash. They had been captured or stopped, their flames quenched.

But he knew how to guard his flame. He had hidden it deep, like a candle in a lantern, protected from the storm. He had taken a false name, and had come to Gondor, just another lordless warrior shattered by the war. For years he had lived in Gondor, first as a mercenary, selling his sword for coin. In time, a lord had taken him into his service. His lips had sworn oaths to false masters. Closer he had come, ever close to the king, waiting for his time to come.

And now it was here. The others were dead or taken. He had ridden with the army to watch the king of Gondor and make sure that he was safely embroiled in war elsewhere. Because of the failings of others, the plan had fallen apart.

But it was not over. The king of Gondor could not be allowed to ride south to gather an army against Umbar. The lords and the captains were fearless, but too many good men had died when the king of Gondor had brought his army of the dead against them. Now the ships and armies of Umbar were full of lesser men, and the lesser men of Umbar were terrified of the king of Gondor and the bright-eyes elves who rode beside him.

No, the king of Gondor could not be allowed to reach the south. As soon as the opportunity arose, he would kill him: tonight, perhaps, or maybe tomorrow. He had more than one weapon in his armoury, and he was prepared to die in the attempt. It was no guarantee of success, but it gave him hope. He had to have hope.

"What are you thinking about, Cúdor?" asked the false comrade at his side. Even after so many years, the false name still felt wrong. "You look lost in thought. I was trying to ask you if you want some stew."

"Sorry." He took the stew: a watery broth made with the scant pickings of this barren land. "I was just thinking about home, and hoping to see it again soon."

Their nets were full. The shoal had taken them far from shore, and Remdir and his crew had been out at sea for six days. But now the wind was fresh from the south, driving them swiftly back to the shore. Daylight lingered longer out on the open sea, but the skies were clear, and he knew that when night came, it would be a glorious one, full of stars.

Remdir was steering, the wind in his hair. The others were singing quietly, busy with their tasks. No storm seemed likely, and they would be home by the morning of the day after tomorrow. His wife and child would be waiting for him, and he would leap onto the quayside, grinning, and hug his wife, and throw his little one up in the air, "because I've got fishes for you, my darling. Lots of lovely fishes for us to sell, and a little one left over, just big enough for baby to eat."

Home was to the north of them, at the southern tip of Belfalas, but they were too far away to see it. West was where they had come from, and he never liked to look east. All fisherfolk felt the same. Sauron had gone, but superstitions were hard to shift, especially when you earned your livelihood from a thing as wild and unpredictable as the sea.

Finally, he looked south, away to the open sea. And it was as he turned that he saw it. In the south-east, just visible against the fading skyline, there were ships. He squinted, shielding his eyes to block out the lanterns from his own deck, and he was sure of it. Ships from the south-east. A fleet. Black sails. It would be black sails. Of course it would be black sails.

"The Corsairs." He said it quietly, little more than a cracked whisper. Then he shouted it, and all singing stopped. "The Corsairs! Umbar comes against us again!"