A day later, Pelingildor received a note from Gierolf, and it sent him to find his way to the princess's sitting room.
"Princess?" Pelingildor ducked his head into the airy room, scanning it quickly for her. He nearly missed her, but there, lying on the window seat of a tall window basking in the late afternoon sun, was his quarry. "Princess?" he repeated, to see if she was awake. Lothíriel stirred and sat up, rubbing her eyes.
"Pelingildor. What is it?" she yawned.
"I'm sorry to wake you, my lady, but Gierolf sent word. He's gathered the crew, and they shall await you at the quay until the sun sets. Will you go and select the final members of your crew?"
"Oh, certainly," Lothíriel answered, stretching and standing. She ran a hand over her skirts absently as she followed Pelingildor from the room. She patted her hair as she led the way from the palace to the White Quay once more. Her steps picked up as she shrugged off her drowsiness and found her sense of purpose renewed. Who would be Gierolf's proposed crew, she wondered, waving to the guard at the gate of the White Town. She also had yet to see the Alph Gwathren, since she'd been busy with preparations for her intended voyage the day before. Now, excitement leant her fleetness of foot as she made her way to the quay. But she drew up short as she caught sight of the prettiest sloop she had ever seen. The flowing script glistened on the archboard, bearing the name proudly. Swan Shadow, the name meant in the Common Tongue. And indeed, Lothiriel prayed it would live up to the title. They would need to, for the daring exploits she meant to execute.
"Over here, my lady," Pelingildor said after a moment, touching her elbow. Lothiriel began to move again, unable to tear her eyes from the sight. My ship, she thought with a thrill shuddering through her. Pelingildor led her up the gangway to where Gierolf waited with a grin.
"Captain aboard!" Gierolf bellowed as Lothiriel took his hand. Her eyes feasted on the ship in eager delight. Gierolf moved to her side, still smiling at her pure, unrestrained joy at all she saw. At last Lothiriel dropped her eyes from absorbing the sloop to face the men standing at attention before her. Only one face did she find to be familiar to her; a man she'd seen in Gierolf's company. Now, cheekily, he winked at her and Lothiriel couldn't help but grin at him. Long, dirty blond hair and brown eyes marked his heritage as a Northman and Lothiriel could tell his friendliness was genuine. Beside him stood several Dol Amrothians, tall and tanned and proud, all in all, about a dozen men waiting. But another man stood in the line, skin dark like the roasted beans used to make her father's favorite Westemnet coffee. He stood at the far end of the line, yet Lothiriel found herself making her way to start with him. He flashed a blinding smile at her and touched his knuckle to his brow, before sweeping into a bow at her approach.
"This is Khaatbaam, Cap'n mine, from Pelargir," Gierolf introduced, keeping pace at her side easily. "He's submitted for medic."
"A doctor, sir?" Lothiriel inquired politely.
"Aye, Princess. My grandfather emigrated from his homeland to train as a doctor, and both my father and I have followed in his footsteps," Khaatbaam answered, the Pelargiran accent tinting his voice. Lothiriel glanced to Gierolf.
"Any others for medic, Gierolf?" she asked, but Gierolf was already shaking his head no.
"Nay, Cap'n, he's the only one. And I've seen him in action, he's the best we could have, I'm thinking."
"Then he will be the only medic we shall have," Lothiriel answered with a smile. Khaatbaam swept her a bow after the custom of Pelargir, which derived the style from the Southron peoples who had helped found the port. First he touched his left brow with his left first and second fingers, and then as he brought his arm back out into a right angle, he bent at the waist. Lothíriel touched her right hand to her brow in response. She moved down the line, meeting Gierolf's candidates: Rîlchon and his brother Traston, Baranir, his cousin Barthion, Galon the Swan Knight, Dregnir cousin of Grimbold, Harthor the archer, Therion the helmsman, and Magolon the falconer. The Northman who had winked at her was called Brégdan. All in all, Lothíriel reflected, a stolid and steadfast crew. She drew apart and beckoned Gierolf and Pelingildor to her, gathering her thoughts to speak to them.
"Rîlchon and Traston have sailed with my brothers and I before," Lothíriel began, "And thus I am inclined to have them aboard. Galon is Pelingildor's brother-in-arms, and I know my father would rather I have more Swan Knights than just my personal guard. Therion is the only helmsman of the bunch, and Harthor the only archer. What do we know of Baranir and Barthion?"
"They are prized for their muscle, Cap'n mine," Gierolf answered readily. "Should the wind leave us, and we need manpower, they're the two I want on my oars. Dregnir, too, is a capable and hardy man, if a bit slick fingered. Will you be needing information on Brégdan?"
"No, knowing the two of you are friends is enough for me. I trust he's an experienced sailor?"
Gierolf nodded, as she absorbed the information.
"Tell me about Magolon," she said instead. Pelingildor and Gierolf exchanged a look and her guard nodded to her first mate.
"Cap'n mine," Gierolf said softly into her ear. "He's trained as a spy."
Lothíriel looked at him sharply. "For or against?" she asked, keeping her voice as low as her first mate's.
"For, Cap'n, of course. Your brother sent him to me, saying Magolon had been trained for your use," Gierolf said, and at this news, Lothíriel could not stop her jerking start. Her use?
"Which brother?" she asked, only just managing to keep her voice down. The shocking answer of 'Elphir' came quickly enough, and Lothíriel sucked in a deep breath. She had to finish selecting the crew, and then she could confront her eldest brother. She smiled at Gierolf in thanks and moved back to the men standing at ease.
"Well, that's that, then. I see no reason to cut any man standing before me, and if he will answer to me as captain, he is welcome at my mast," she told the men, and starting with Khaatbaam, each knelt and swore the same oath that Gierolf and Pelingildor had sworn. Lothíriel pledged herself and her sword to them in return. Gierolf sent them off to various tasks as he turned to the princess.
"Who will you have as your second mate, Cap'n mine?" he asked as she turned once more to survey the sloop.
In moments rare and far in between, Lothíriel had experienced a sense she could not explain, which her mother had said came from their elven roots. Her father had affectionately called it superstition, but her mother had called it the Valar's wisdom. The nearest Lothíriel had ever gotten to explaining it was as a nudge. Some unseen hand guiding her to an answer or path. Regardless of its origin, Lothíriel had found that the sense was never wrong.
Now, as she looked over the gleaming deck, that sense spoke to her once more.
"Brégdan," she named at once, obeying the sense. Pelingildor looked at her with raised brows.
"Not Rîlchon or Traston?" he queried in surprise, unable to keep silent. Lothíriel moved aft, toward the captain's cabin underneath the quarter deck.
"No, Pelingildor. Will you go and get me the armament?" Lothíriel asked, wanting to know the array of weapons in the ship's complement and also wishing to explore the ship in peace. Pelingildor saluted and went in search of the report, reading in between the lines of her request.
The captain's cabin, or cuddy, seemed spacious without any furnishings, but Lothíriel knew once her bed and desk were installed, it would seem small indeed. She had a small balcony framed by glass windows, allowing light and fresh air into the space. Lothíriel loved it instantly and clasped her hands together, delighted that this was all hers.
"Cap'n mine?" a deep voice asked from behind her outside her cuddy. Lothíriel turned, the smile still on her face, and found Brégdan with a slight smile curving his lips.
"Aye?" she answered and his smile grew at her use of the nautical term.
"Wanted to thank you for my appointment," he said, his Rohirric brogue making the formal words strange in his mouth.
"Oh, not at all," Lothíriel replied, moving out from the cabin and beginning to head belowdecks. "I wouldn't have had anyone else. Now, will you escort me through the rest of this beauty or will I have to fend for myself?"
Brégdan's smile grew into a blinding grin and he offered his arm to her at once. In such a manner, Lothíriel saw the hold, the forecastle, the barracks, and the galley. The surgery was being set up in the forecastle by Khaatbaam and Traston, both who spared her salutes and smiles. Gierolf was overseeing the loading of cargo into the hold.
"Gierolf, when do you propose to sail?" Lothíriel asked, caught off guard by the crates being loaded in through the hatch in the main deck.
"Well, Cap'n mine, I wasn't sure when your lord father would give us a mission, so I thought it best to be prepared for a moment's notice. The crew and I will be set up in the Prince's Duckling, ready to rise at your command, unless you wish it otherwise," Gierolf answered and Lothíriel hummed in approval.
"I find no holes in your logic, Gierolf. But perhaps we should leave the formal talk safe on land," Lothíriel teased. "I would not have made you my first mate if I didn't trust your judgment. I was merely curious. Carry on. I have to return home now, but I'd like all of the crew to join us for dinner tomorrow night in the palace. It will reassure my brothers to see a solid crew and I'd like to thank the men for swearing to the mast."
"Thanks kindly, Cap'n mine," Brégdan said, accepting on behalf of the crew. "We'll see to it that everyone gets there in one piece." He winked at her again and Lothíriel laughed.
"I have the armament, my lady," Pelingildor interjected, as he strode toward them.
"Excellent, and just in time to accompany me back home. Gierolf, Brégdan, I leave the ship in your command. Til tomorrow, lads." Now Lothíriel raised her voice for the others to hear her. "To the rest of the crew, good work and good night!"
Lothíriel nearly skipped down the gangway and on the way home, she turned and caught one last look at her sloop. The shine of the polished wood in the setting sun, rocking with the flowing and lapping waves, dazzled her.
"Don't forget what she means, even as you fall in love with what she is," Pelingildor admonished softly. Lothíriel broke her eyes away and shot him a long-suffering look.
"Yes, Mother," she said sweetly, before actually skipping off toward the palace.
'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'
After a quick wash and dressing for dinner, Lothíriel enthusiastically regaled her brothers with the story of her afternoon as the siblings met in the anteroom of the dinner hall. Prince Imrahil came as she described her approval of the captain's cabin.
"We'll have to find you something to hang on your walls, to brighten such a dreary space," he teased his daughter as she kissed his cheek. As they filed into the dinner hall, along with the respective ministers and councilors, Lothíriel slipped in next to Elphir and sat beside him.
"I'd like to speak to you after dinner," she told him softly, while reaching for her wine.
"Speak your mind now, little flower," Elphir answered with a brother's good natured annoyance.
"It has to do with your spy," she continued, in the same soft voice, with one raised eyebrow. He choked on his wine and shot her a piercing look. She calmly began to eat her appetizer, blinking placidly at him.
"So, my rooms after dinner?" she finished sweetly, and he nodded quickly. Lothíriel proceeded to steer their conversation away toward what his role during the war was to be, and how his wife Mithien would cope without him, sisterly taunts peppered in. Elphir remained tense, but after a few glasses of wine, seemed to relax enough to talk more easily with the company. But the moment they rose from the table, he took her arm to escort her to her rooms.
Lothíriel laughed as they entered her sitting room and he dismissed her maids.
"Why, dearest brother, one would think you had something to hide, with your haste and suspicion," she teased. Elphir turned on her from locking her door.
"Thíri, this is no laughing matter. I will speak plainly, and quickly. When Mithien and I wed, she opened my eyes to the ways women are confined in their futures." Her brother shoved a hand through his hair and began to pace. "Lothíriel, I am not blind to the very probable likelihood that you will wed a foreign noble and live in a country that is not yours. Magolon was to be my wedding gift to you, but circumstances changed."
"Wedding gift?" Lothíriel interrupted, her smile fleeing.
"Yes, sister. He was to be your friend in a place where you would have many enemies, enemies you didn't know of or know how to handle. And with the outbreak of war, it seemed wiser to send him to you now. All our futures are much less certain now, and his training was for this very reason, so it seemed most sensible to give him to you now," Elphir explained.
"Am I his slave master?" Lothíriel asked, her ire beginning to rise.
"Peace, Thíri, no. He knew full well what he was getting into from the beginning. He chose this," Elphir hastened to placate her, holding his hands out.
"Chose? Did you hold auditions for the role of my spy?" Lothíriel shot back, her mind racing. The nerve-!
"In a manner, yes, I suppose. But what you do not know, Lothíriel, is that I have long since been in charge of Dol Amroth's military intelligence branch. Intelligence is my job. And my marriage awakened me to the fact that you will need some when you leave us. As you are leaving now, I will equip you with all I can offer. Magolon was the best candidate, and he's completed every training and passed every test with flying colors. He uses birds to pass his communiques, hence his alibi as a falconer to hide his true mission."
Elphir paused to let her absorb the information. Lothíriel rubbed a hand to her temple - she'd had no idea of her eldest brother being involved in anything like this, but his explanation made sense. It stood to reason that their military would have an intelligence operations system, and that Elphir would be in charge of it. And knowing Mithien as she did, Lothíriel didn't doubt how she'd "opened his eyes" - her brother's wife was no fainting, soft-spoken woman. A woman strong enough to govern the city in her family's absence. And in truth, Lothíriel felt relieved to know her brother never intended to send her away all alone.
"Shall I tell Magolon to return to me?" Elphir asked quietly, sensing her thoughts had slowed.
"No," Lothíriel answered at last. "I would like to talk to him myself, but he remains. And Elphir, thank you." But she held up her hand before he could accept her gratitude. "However, while I appreciate your thoughtfulness and the gift, do not ever surprise me with something like this again. By the Valar, Elphir, Gierolf and Pelingildor knew his purpose before I did! I should not find out from them something like this."
Elphir inclined his head to her.
"I'm sorry, Thíri. I wanted it to be a surprise for your wedding, but this war has changed everything."
Once more, the Valar-blessed wisdom came to her, and it was with no small sense of premonition that Lothíriel spoke.
"This war will change everything and everyone, more than once, before it ends. And that is why I accept your gift with gratefulness to your foresight. But I still wish to speak to Magolon myself."
'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'
Lothíriel was sifting through her wardrobe, quickly realizing how few sensible frocks she had. She had immediately pulled out her favorite outfit, the handed down trousers of Amrothos and stolen shirt from Erchirion. It had been her sailing clothes for many years, and unfortunately, the clothes were beginning to show their age and rather rough use. She'd need to commission more trousers and shirts and a few tunics, she noted mentally. She pulled the plainest dress she had from the chest and held it up, surveying it critically. It was a deep blue, not quite navy, and hemmed with silver thread.
"It's still far too fine, but it is the simplest gown I have," Lothíriel murmured aloud.
"So bring it. You'll never know when you might have need of nicer things. That's my philosophy," a male voice suggested from behind her.
Lothíriel whipped around, dropping the frock and reaching for her knife tucked in her pocket. Magolon stood behind her, his posture emanating a graceful ease. He nodded approvingly at her knife.
"Excellent reflexes, Princess. I'm sorry for startling you, but I wanted to make sure no ears but our own heard this."
Lothíriel lowered her knife, slowly returning it to her pocket. When she'd begun packing, she'd also been thinking of everything she wanted to say to Magolon. Now, with the wiry man facing her, all thoughts fled her mind.
"So Elphir spoke to you, did he?" she began, electing to just converse naturally.
"He did, Princess, but I was also listening," Magolon admitted, with a tinge of pink in his ears and cheeks. Lothíriel studied him and he met her gaze steadily. She turned back to the wardrobe.
"There's parchment on the chest by my bed, and a quill," she said instead, deciding that since he was around he could write her notes. "I need 3 more pairs of trousers, 3 pairs of leggings, and 3 plain tunics. I think I need 2 simple gowns like what the townswomen wear," Lothíriel decreed, and Magolon dutifully scrawled it down. "That should be plenty," she continued, tapping her chin with her index finger thoughtfully.
"Boots," Magolon suggested, writing it as well. "You will want new ones, like the sailors have."
Lothíriel nodded in approval, and turned to survey the room. "Bedding," she added.
"Do you still have an oilskin?" her spy asked, referring to the sealskin coat sailors wore in heavy rain to keep water off of them.
"Yes, and it's still fairly new. Erchirion got it for me on my last birthday, but we never actually got to use it much," Lothíriel answered, pulling it from the back of her wardrobe to show Magolon. He took it with a low whistle, his impressed face marking his approval.
"This is one of the good ones. Your brother has an eye for quality, I'll grant him that," Magolon commented, turning the oilskin over. He reverently folded it and laid it on the chest by her bed. "What else?"
"Well, that's all I can really think about for clothing. I'll sleep in a shirt and trousers, so maybe a spare set for that, but I don't think there's much more I'll need. I have my kit for my cycles, and if worst came to worst, we've got the bandages from the surgery or that bedding I just said," Lothíriel chewed on her nail as she thought out loud. A thought struck her and she whirled toward Magolon, who raised his eyebrows at her.
"Spymaster, how do you plan to communicate with me?" she asked abruptly. A corner of Magolon's lips quirked up as a slow smile spread over his face.
"I know your brother mentioned my birds, Princess. Please do elaborate on your question." He leaned against her desk, hands crossed over his stomach as he waited.
"Obviously you're going to be much more mobile, off on your various little errands, but what if I need to meet you somewhere? How will I know to find you? If birds aren't anywhere nearby? What if it's raining, and I can't write on paper, or what if I run out?" Lothíriel's head swam with what-ifs rising up within her and clamoring for attention.
"Ah, yes, the what-ifs, my old friends," Magolon said soothingly, his smile turning wry. "I understand. Actually, believe it or not, I have measures in place for such an eventuality. But first, let me say this. You are in a new role with power you have not wielded before. No matter your training, it is not the same as being on open water, all alone, with everyone looking to you. There are going to be what-ifs."
Lothíriel stilled, her hands fisted in cloth, shoulders tense and eyes focused on her spy.
"You need to accept, right now, that there will be what-ifs," Magolon continued quietly. "There will be mistakes. You will make decisions and people's lives will be in the balance. And you will have nights where you can only lie there and cry. You need to accept this and allow this and forgive this. This is war, Princess. It will ruin you like it has ruined so many others. But you will rise, as we all must. You will rise because you have no other choice. You will never stop, never cease fighting against evil, and you will never fear the night."
Either a shaft of light had crossed Magolon's face or an inner grace was lighting it, Lothíriel couldn't tell. But as his words fell like a gentle rain, the tension eased from her shoulders. For a heartbeat, she soaked in the light of the truth he had spoken.
"Who taught you this?" she said, soft and low, reverent of the moment and the trance.
"It is what we spies are all taught, from the moment we set foot on this path. Beyond that, about any other training, I cannot say. You would need to talk to your brother," Magolon answered. A cloud passed over them, dimming the light, and the heaviness in the air lifted.
"Now, for your original question," Magolon continued briskly. "May I see your dagger?"
"Certainly," Lothíriel replied, deftly pulling it from her pocket once more. As she handed it over, she thought about where she had gotten such a beautiful weapon, and groaned aloud as the memory returned. At Magolon's look she rolled her eyes.
"Elphir gave this to me," she confirmed and he flashed a quick grin. "Valar save me from high handed brothers!"
"Valar save them from easily annoyed sisters," Magolon countered, turning over the dagger in his hands briefly before laying it down on her desk. "Come and see how you will always be able to find me or anyone else you search for."
Curiosity overrode annoyance and she moved closer as Magolon lifted a leather necklace from beneath his tunic. A ring with a glass center seemed to gravitate toward the blade on the desk. Magolon next took a scrap of parchment she had lying on her desk and laid it on top of the blade.
"Who do you want to find?" Magolon asked her. Lothíriel's eyebrows shot up and she hummed in thought.
"Mithien," she decided, thinking of how her sister-in-law would also be adept at developing her list of necessities. Magolon nodded once.
"This is the spell you have to memorize, Princess. Listen carefully," he paused, and when she nodded in confirmation, he spoke. "Little lanterns of lucent crystal, palantíri numbered three, mirror of the lady light wistful, show me where my desired be!"
Lothíriel gasped. Words in a curling hand were writing themselves across the paper, indicating the solar as her sister-in-law's current location.
"How?" she demanded, as Magolon pulled the ring from his neck. She seized the paper from the blade, studying it intently before picking up the dagger.
"If time allows once all this is over, Princess, you really should wander your own family's archives," Magolon replied, looping the long leather strap over her head so that she wore the ring. "Elphir found these and records alongside that described this spell. I believe the glass in the ring is the same glass as a palantír, which tells you why it can seek. The blade has something to do with writing, I think. I don't really remember. He said something about 'pen mightier than sword,' but to be honest, when your brother starts lecturing history, it is difficult to stay awake."
"Don't I know it," Lothíriel groaned sympathetically, sheathing the dagger in her pocket and turning the ring in her hand. "What else does it do?"
"If you wish to be found, wearing the ring on your finger is supposed to do something, but wishing to hide means leaving it on the necklace," Magolon continued. "And lastly, the spell itself. Elphir got upset when I called it a spell, but he didn't really have a better word for it, but essentially, the idea of these spells is to call upon things that have a knack for whatever use you're going for, and so you have the power of the blade and the ring, with the focus of the spell, and before you know it, you're left with the effect of the location written."
"Ah, power, focus, effect," Lothíriel nodded. "I've heard Elphir use those words. And the rhyme makes sense too, now that you've explained it that way. Palantír for sight, mirror of the lady light must surely mean the Mirror of Galadriel, and the first part about the lanterns, isn't that the Fëanorian lamps? They illuminated the way and could never be quenched."
"I'll take your word for it, Princess," Magolon shrugged benignly. "As I said, I'm not one for history. Current events usually hold more sway over me."
"I should hope so!" Lothíriel laughed, tucking the ring beneath her dress. Her fingers rubbed the leather strap as the cool metal of the ring touched her skin. "Thank you."
Magolon nodded to her.
"Well, Princess, I believe you've got everything well in hand. I've got a few more errands to run, as you put it, before I can finish my day, and if you haven't any further questions, I'll take my leave now," Magolon said, straightening and slipping his hands in his pockets.
"Ah, yes, of course," Lothíriel nodded to him. "I'll see what Mithien has in mind for me. And Magolon?"
Magolon froze, turning back from where he was slinking into the shadows near her window.
"It is generally considered polite manners to use the front door every once in a while," she teased, figuring she would find a hidden door and passageway if she moved that curtain behind him. He winked at her and touched his knuckle to his brow in a salute.
"I will take that into consideration, Princess. I'll be seeing you," he promised, and disappeared into the curtain. Lothíriel turned back to her list and tapped her finger to her face in thought before simply leaving to speak to her sister-in-law. If Mithien was clever enough to train her brother, surely she'd be of unfathomable help to Lothíriel in her packing endeavors!
'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'
Two weeks later, the Alph Gwathren set sail, with a small ceremony, so as not to raise any suspicions within any enemy who may be watching, to bid her farewell. For the present, Lothíriel and her crew were to monitor the Bay of Tolfalas and resupply small towns along the Anduin as needed. In such a manner, the remainder of the year passed quickly, with Lothíriel getting to know her new crew and a laid-back environment was established. Most missions they were given were simply to deliver messages, a task the sloop was well suited to. She fairly flew over the waves on good weather days and Lothiriel delighted in the feel of the salt spray and wind through her hair. She knew she grew tanner and more callused by the day, to her entertainment as she knew the ladies of Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth would be aghast at such an outcome. Her speech also began to reflect the company she kept, as she picked up Gierolf's and Brégdan's Rohirric mannerisms. Each day, she rose with the sun to train on the main deck with Brégdan in swordwork. Dregnir, a man of talents that suspiciously resembled what a pickpocket might employ, pulled her aside one such morning and began to teach her the art of throwing knives to add to her repertoire. And before too long, Harthor complained of swordwork getting all the fuss and bother, and insisted on adding the bow to Lothíriel's arsenal. Thanks to the muscles she had built up with the sword, it was an easier transition to the bow, but having the power needed to wield the bow did not mean she had the accuracy. Lothíriel enjoyed the training, after she got over the initial pain of working muscles in a different way. Between the men, she learned not only how to defend herself but to swear as soundly as only a sailor can, in both Sindarin and Rohirric. Her aim (or lack thereof) was one such instance where she used her newfound vocabulary with alarming frequency, to Pelingildor's resignation.
Betimes after lunching with the crew, Lothíriel would receive missives from her father and send responses back with the aid of Magolon's falcon. Pelingildor claimed the late afternoon for strategy lessons, which varied from playing chess to planning out attacks, no matter whether they were actually carried out. Lothíriel would then collapse onto her bed, exhausted but content. She knew such a calm would only preclude a great storm, but she knew that her faithful and cheerful crew were making wise use of the time, to grow in strength and bond. Time would tell whether it was enough.