Tharbad – The Bar Aran – Ninui 1st
The journey back to Tharbad took three days in the wintery landscape even with the fast pace of urgency. In the Bar Aran, the house of the King, Mercatur stood at the back of the luxurious bedchamber of the Chancellor, staring out the window from the grand mansion. A thick blanket of snow covered the courtyard outside while tiny, crystalline flakes floated down from above. In this area of the North, winter would last another month.
"Snow, ice…ice, snow," he said in a voice full of gruff. He blew on a glass pane, letting condensation form on it. He grunted and wiped it off with his sleeve.
The Rhudauran mercenary looked about the room, wondering how he had come from being a simple sell-sword to joining the inner circle of Cardolan royalty. It left a conflicted, bittersweet taste in his mouth. For most of his life, all he had known were wars, skirmishes, and the feel of gold in his hands. The expensive trinkets that adorned the chamber were entirely alien to him; a roof over his head and a mug of ale were normally all he required. Even his ties to the Rhudainor Family were tenuous at best. He only fought for them at the Tirthon because they paid more than the Cultirith Rangers who fought for the Witch-King. He blew out a sigh as he realized that he made the right choice.
He thought briefly about the home he had left behind – a stark, austere land of rocky hills and primeval forests, mostly untouched by man or elf…or orc. It had once been the province of the exiled Dúnedain from Númenor – the tall men from tall ships. It was the land of Elendil and Isildur, great kings of old, but through guile and treachery, it fell into ruin and was now the home of dark things and abominations.
Mercatur shuddered, but not from the chilly air. He could still picture her, floating through the Yfelwood forest, white wings spread out, a face of impossible beauty except for a mouth with rows of razor-sharp fangs. He closed his eyes and shook his head violently to banish the image. He walked over to a luxurious green chair and plopped down on it with a grunt. He took a deep breath. Things weren't so bad now. He was a long way from bad. Something felt right about being here in this place of nobility and he even felt some concern for the wounded Chancellor as he lay sleeping in his bed, covered in bandages across his chest as healers attended to him.
The big man looked over to Firiel Halatani and asked quietly, "How is he?"
The blonde woman looked over from a steaming bowl of herbs and glanced up at Mercatur. "He'll recover. It will take time and rest." The healer then gazed into his eyes, finding something. "Mercatur…you…look different somehow - softer, more intelligent."
The Rhudauran pulled his chin back and curled one side of his mouth up. "Angmar's bones, woman, how insulting. I've been spending too much time among civilized folk."
"I'll take that as a compliment," answered Firiel with a faint smile. She then returned to administer a dose of medicine to the Chancellor, who drank with groggy gulps, letting the liquid sooth his parched throat. She then rubbed a salve on his lips.
The mercenary went back to the window and turned his brown eyes out to the snowy landscape once again. He thought about how some semblance of order had returned to the great city as he noticed how the streets were carefully swept free of ice and foot traffic flowed along the sidewalks of King's Row. Shops were brightly lit with kiosks serving food to patrons.
His attention was then drawn to a magnificent, covered sled that was departing the Bar Aran, drawn by four powerful horses. Mercatur immediately noticed the raven-haired princess seated in the maroon and gold vehicle, accompanied by Baranor, Cedhron and four Royal Guards. Valandil trotted beside them astride a large warhorse.
As they rode out of sight, Mercatur returned to his musings on how much his life had changed. For better or worse, Cardolan was now his home.
Along the Menetar Road
The great sled drew southward along the grand avenue, known as the Menetar. The ancient way was paved during the reign of Tar-Aldarion, the great mariner of Númenor, some 3000 years ago. With the technology of the ancients and the magic of the elves, the road had endured nearly intact for all of the long centuries of Dúnedain rule. The knight, Valandil rode ahead of the royal entourage, yelling at people to clear the street. The procession crossed over the southern bridge, known as the Iant Harnen and under the great Ryncaras Tharbad, the southern gatehouse.
As the sled came to pass the southern docks, Valandil could see vessels under construction. He was then surprised to see Cardolani sailors turned out in their uniforms to salute the Princess. Captain Asgon, Lord of the small fleet, bowed low with his gloved hand over his heart as the sled drove by. The knight was also surprised to see two tall, blond men there – elves.
What could elves be doing here? I wonder….
The procession turned a street corner to cross the Cherant Aran Canal and came to a stop in front of the Gondorian Embassy.
A vote was to be held on neutral ground.
Baranor, his face set tightly in obvious displeasure, opened the door to the sled to allow Anariel, Galadel and Kaile to step out. The three women assisted the Princess down from the cabin while Gondorian knights lay a rich, red carpet before the sled.
Nirnadel walked down the steps and looked up at the large embassy, her breath streaming from her nostrils. Appearing impassive, she held her hand over her stomach and winced. "Still feeling nauseous, Your Highness?" Kaile asked, her voice full of concern. She started digging through her healer's bag, but Nirnadel waved her off.
"It churns, good nurse. However, I am determined to see these proceedings through. We must show the world that we are a realm of laws. We do not do things because they are merely convenient. This will be my first…official act. We…I am scared."
Baranor approached and bowed. "Your Highness, we should go inside. Soon, Hir Girithlin, Hir Tinare, and Hir Calantir will arrive, along with the proxies of the other four Hirdoms."
"Do you know how those four will be?" she asked, her face hopeful.
The captain shook his head. "No, I do not. It remains to be seen."
Valandil held the reins of the horses, watching the Princess walk toward the embassy doors. How would this affect the fate of the Kingdom, he wondered? Most of all, how would this affect him and Firiel? He inhaled the crisp, cold air, holding the horses in place.
When would this long winter end?
The Gondorian Embassy
Princess Nirnadel was led by Baranor and his men into the squat, dominating structure that was the Gondorian Embassy. Like many things Gondor, it projected power while maintaining a sense of elegance with door arches painted in gold leaf and stained glass windows depicting the great events of that kingdom. She thought longingly about her recent visit to Arthedain and how King Araphor was so much like herself. She thought about how she had bid him farewell, promising to correspond. He seemed to be a man that she could respect, a man that she could love. However, her idle musings were interrupted by more pressing matters – the life of her kingdom.
Ten Gondorian captains saluted with swords as she passed by the foyer, which held grand tributes to Gondor's martial prowess. Tall statues with plaques of Gondor's Kings flanked the massive room – Tarannon Falastur, Eärnil, Ciryandil, and Hyarmendacil, the great conquerors, all the way to Valacar, the current ruler of the Stone Land. These were designed to awe the visitor, and it was working. The young woman looked up at the proud statues of the men, mighty as the Argonath, and she quailed. Although the blood of Isildur flowed in her veins, she was no mighty conqueror.
"They are designed to have such an effect on the viewer," a man said.
Nirnadel caught her breath and focused her eyes on a gentlemanly fellow, dressed in the livery of Gondor, a black surcoat with the silver image of the White Tree over gray robes that were accented in crimson and gold. His black hair was slicked back and slightly graying at the temples and he was clean shaven. He was a handsome man with soft features, full cheeks and a slight double chin. Life as a Gondorian was good.
"Your Highness, I am Ciramir, Legate of Gondor," he added diplomatically with a sweep of his hand and a low bow. "We have met before, but in a different time."
Nirnadel nodded, her eyes full of recognition. "Yes, good Ciramir, We remember your arrival three years ago and that you are well traveled. We thank you for your shipments of food and supplies. You and your King Valacar are most generous, and We will not forget that."
"Indeed, and thank you, Your Highness. Yes, I have been from Far Harad to Annúminas in the North to Círdan's havens in Lindon and everywhere in between. I have not seen you since before the war and I wish to express my condolences to your family. Their loss is felt even in Osgiliath."
"We thank you, good sir. I much enjoyed your telling of your survival of the siege of Umbar last we met," said the Princess. "Come, we shall talk further afterwards. We wish to begin these proceedings to name the Chancellor's successor."
Ciramir bowed again and ushered the Royal entourage into the inner sanctum of the embassy. "Your Higness, I will be mediating these proceedings. We also have an observer from Pelargir as a representative of Gondor's nobility. He is the master of ship, my Lord Castamir." As they walked through the massive doors, flanked by proud Gondorian soldiers, the Legate narrowed his eyes. "I will admit to you, Your Highness, that one of my main concerns is whether the critical trade lines will remain open with Cardolan and Arthedain. I sincerely hope that you are up to the task to ensure that. With all due respect, Your Highness. Come, your table has been prepared."
The Princess was given a royal seat in the chamber. The table was full of platters and pitchers of various refreshments from the south: exotic fruit, pastries and candies from far off lands. The Lord of Ships sat next to her, wearing a silk blue doublet, woven by the finest clothier with mithril buttons and images of the sea, crafted with silver thread. He was the image of power, rippling muscles beneath the sleeves of his doublet, clean shaven with black hair styled in the most expensive of salons. He reminded the Princess of the paintings and sculptures of Isildur.
He looked her up and down and then leaned over to her and nodded. "Lord Castamir, at your service. Your bloodline is pure, Your Highness. You are a true Dúnadan. We have many things to discuss afterwards. I control the fleets and the shipping. All sea trade with Gondor is my purview."
Nirnadel bowed her head just enough to show that she was of higher rank. "It is our pleasure to meet you, my Lord Castamir. We look forward to discussions of trade to ensure the prosperity of both of our realms."
The grand doors opened again to let in the diplomats and the Hiri of the Kingdom. All seven seats of the Hiri were filled, but only three by actual nobles. Mablung Girithlin was all smiles as the aged Celeph Calantir was carried to his seat.
As people milled about and the murmur of voices grew, Ciramir stood and raised his hands. "Good nobles of the Kingdom of Cardolan, we gather here to discuss a matter of great import – the election of a successor to the Chancellery. As we all know, there was an attempt on the Chancellor's life and the culprit and the people behind him have yet to be identified. To avoid the possibility of internal strife, there needs to be continuity in this government. Let it come to a vote here."
Girithlin immediately spoke, "Legate Ciramir, first off, you have no business facilitating the internal affairs of Cardolan. Second, the Princess has not yet reached the age in which she can manage these affairs. Third, I am descended from the great Eldanar Family, and, by blood, it is my right to be selected."
Nirnadel chafed, but she was stopped from speaking by Ciramir's rebuttal. "Lord Girithlin, Chancellor Nimhir selected me personally for this assignment and has granted the Princess provisional authority to conduct this specific duty. I assure you; it is perfectly legal and correct under Cardolani law. We have researched this."
Mablung sucked his teeth. "Pah, this is another attempt by Nimhir to manipulate and rig the system to his favor. This is nothing but interference. I see right through this farce."
The Princess could stand it no more and her face flushed red. She stood up and raised her hand. "Gentlemen, to avoid the appearance of impropriety, We have concluded that a fair vote will decide the issue."
Girithlin sat back with a grin as if he knew something no one else did. "We have no objection to that. Let the vote proceed."
Baranor grimaced and glanced at Cedhron. "He folded on all of this too easily."
The Gondorian Embassy – One Hour Later
Hir Girithlin smiled broadly as Ciramir read the results. "I hereby declare Mablung Girithlin as the successor to the Chancellery, should Nimhir pass in untimely death or incapacity. The vote is final."
Girithlin lifted his massive frame from his seat and gave a nod to his cousin, Barahir, the soon to be designated Hir of Feotar and to Minastan, the Mayor of Tharbad. Faint smiles of satisfaction covered both men's lips. He pointed to one of his heralds. "Go, ride now. Tell Falathar that things have changed."
Nirnadel had just cut her own throat, and ambition was often its own reward.