Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Andrahar belongs to Isabeau of Greenlea and is used with her generous consent. His father, Isfhandijár, and the rest of their family are mine, however, as is their entire culture, created after the template of Ancient Persia.

Author’s notes: The history of Umbar and the peculiarities of its society are based on Lalaith’s article “The Third Realm in Exile”… more or less. I added my own twists here, so the end results are quite different. In some places, I consciously chose a point of view opposite to that of Lalaith’s, just because it served the story better.

Agannâlo means Death-Shadow in Adûnaic; I decided that would be the name the Umbari would mention Mordor by. Urîd êphalak is supposed to mean Far-Away Mountain and is a name for Orodruin in Adûnaic, which I have tried to create based on the Ardalambion website’s data… whether it is grammatically correct or not is another question.

The Cult and its supposed leader is based on a rejected idea of the Professor himself, as presented in the last book of the HoMe series.

The people of Gondor liked to declare that Umbar was the oldest and most wicked city of the Realm. A Corsair stronghold full of renegades and Haradrim bandits, they said. A centre of dark cults where Sauron – and before him Morgoth – had been served willingly and most ruthlessly, ever since the Númenórean seafarers had begun establishing landing and trading points along the southern coast of Middle-earth – small settlements that eventually grew into cruel vice-kingdoms.

Those kingdoms and strongholds had left many rumours in the legends of Men of which Elves knew nothing – it was only known among the Wise that at least three of the Nazgûl had been recruited out of them. Only Umbar had, however, acquired a special position in history and made a name for itself – and not a good one, at least as far as Gondor was concerned.

As always with rumours, all this was both very true and utterly false at the same time.

To begin with, Umbar was not part of the South-kingdom; had never truly been, not even at the times when Gondor had managed to besiege it or take it by force. Neither was it merely a city; it was a sovereign realm of its own, the inland boundaries of which had once extended as far as to most of the length of the River Harnen and the Ephel Dúath on the North, as well as the edge of Khand on the East; and they had included the desert inland area of Harondor, once the southernmost province of Gondor, before a great plague would have stripped it from its inhabitants.

In these days, nearing the end of the third millennium of the Third Age of Arda, Umbar had somewhat fallen from its ancient grace. The Realm that had once – successfully – competed the fledgling Gondor for power, had been reoccupied and rebuilt under Haradric sovereignty… which mostly meant that the Consuls of the Realm had to serve the interests of the Southron bound of independent realms, mostly by becoming Corsairs again, in the old, cruel tradition of the Castamirioni, although on a considerably lower level.

Unlike the supreme high-sea galleons of Númenor (or later those of the Ship-Kings of Gondor), their fleet consisted merely of dromunds, and ships of great draught with many oars – one hundred of those in two banks, in fact, which were served by slaves – and with black sails that would belly in the slightest breeze.

However, these were keel-less ships, restricted to coastal drift and unable to cope with the rough waters of Belegaer. Still, Umbar possessed the greatest fleet in Middle-earth, and few other vessels could hope to face their warships – or outrun them – in these days. Only the proud Swanships of Dol Amroth, built with the help of the Nimîr stood a chance; them and those of the Nimîr themselves, mooring in the Elf-haven of Edhellond that lay in the Bay of Belfalas, above Dol Amroth, where the River Morthond reached the Sea.

As the power of Agannâlo had begun to gather strength and influence again, and even the Urîd êphalak had burst into flame anew, Umbar had fallen under the domination of Zigûr’s dark servants. The people of Gondor said that the Corsairs had long ceased to fear the might of the South-kingdom, and they had allied themselves with the Enemy, their lore-masters seeking to gain evil knowledge from the Dark Lord.

Yea, they had allied themselves with the Haradric realms, under whose overlordship they were nominally standing. And there were many dark cults and accursed temples in Umbarlond, the actual city, also known as the Haven of Umbar. From the fire-worshipping of Bakshir to the snake-cult of Khambaluk and the animalistic superstitions of Zipangu, every Haradric belief had taken up residence in the Bazaar and the haven areas. But the true dark cult of Númenor, the one that had led to the Downfall of Westernesse, the one including black sorcery and cruel rituals and even the burning of Men on Zigûr’s altars, was no longer present in the Realm… at least not officially.

‘Twas the unofficial presence that had worried the Consuls of the Realm lately. And that was also the reason that brought them together in the Zadan’n Abrazân, the House of the Steadfast, the ancient fortress of Umbarlond: to discuss the immediate problem, the likely ramifications and how they might find a way out of the trap… if that was at all possible.

‘Twas the year 2968, in the Third Age of Arda, and – save from the occasional Corsair raid along Gondor’s coasts – Umbar had known relative peace for more than eighty years. At least where Gondor was considered. It had been less than fifteen years since the inland areas have been severely raided by the forces of Bakshir. The second-largest Haradric realm had even besieged Umbarlond itself, and it had taken First Consul Herucalmo great personal sacrifices – namely to send his own daughter to the kha-kan’s bed as a concubine – to placate the enraged Haradric warlord and persuade him to take his booty and go home.

That had led to a lasting peace between the two realms… at least until lately. For rumours had reached Lord Herucalmo that kha-kan Isfhandijár had died in the previous year and his legitimate sons had driven out and killed all his concubines and their children. Which meant that Rothinzil was most likely dead, and they no longer had a supporter in the kha-kan’s house – whoever might be filling that particular office right now. That also meant that Umbar as a whole and Lord Herucalmo himself needed another strong ally to better their chances against their Haradric overlords.

He had invited Second Consul Manwendil and his lady to the Zadan’n Abrazân, as there they had no reason to fear spies. While the city was showing a definite Southron flair, due to the long exposure to the various Haradric realms, the Zadan’n Abrazân was an ancient relic. It was a fortress raised in the late Second Age in the characteristically monolithic style of Númenor. It had been hewn into the living rock of the stone coast and stood partially in the water of the Bay. The keep itself was a hundred and thirty-five feet high and had a diameter of almost a hundred feet. The crenellated stone wall encircling it rose as high as eighty feet, and eight round, stocky towers, each of them ninety-feet high and crowned with a steel cap, protected it.

Four millennia had the Zadan’n Abrazân lasted already, and aside from adding a few comforts of more recent times, it had not been changed all that much. Its stone grey and withered with age, it was still the same unconquerable fortress. No enemy could ever set foot beyond its defences, unless by treachery. And no-one would even think of betraying the First Consul, unless they had a death wish.

Like most Umbarian nobles, Lord Herucalmo, too, had a townhouse in the city. Yet he preferred the keep of the Zadan’n Abrazân, not wishing to be constantly reminded of the death of his wife and the loss of his daughter. The townhouse had been their realm; now it was but an empty shell.

Besides, Lord Herucalmo was the one responsible for defences and warfare, while Second Consul Manwendil was supposed to care for trade negotiations and civilian affairs. It had been time-honoured tradition since the days of the Ancient Realm that Umbar would be ruled by a pair of consuls; mostly, yet not exclusively men of high birth and standing, as ancient Númenórean right allowed a female child to follow her father in power if she was the firstborn.

These nobly-born rulers counted back their ancestry to the King’s Men of the Second Age, the ones called the Black Númenóreans by their Gondorian cousins. Never had one of them proclaimed him- or herself as the King or the Queen of Umbar, even though they’d considered themselves the true representatives of the last legal King of Númenor, regarding the Heirs of Nimruzîr (Elendil) as usurpers. Legend even spoke of some surviving relatives of the Line of Elros (or Ar-Gimilzôr, as they preferred to mention their ancestor) among the local nobles who claimed the governship.

Whether that had been true or not, no-one could tell all those millennia later. In any case, the overlords of the Haven had created a system not unlike that of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor, claiming to rule “in the King's absence”. By the King they meant Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, of course, whose rule they glorified, enshrouding the dark events of the past and magnifying the power and greatness of Westernesse in memory. Oddly enough, this attitude had led to the birth of a cult that foretold Ar-Pharazôn’s triumphant return from the West. Followers of that cult expected the King to reclaim the throne of the unified Reams in Exile – all three of them – in some distant future.

The current rulers of the Realm, Lords Herucalmo and Manwendil, did not subscribe to this messianistic cult; nor did they join to that of the Death Eater, the revival of which they had watched with some consternation for quite some time by now. They were warlords and merchants, respectively, and did not want to tighten the leash binding them to Agannâlo – or to the Haradric realms – more than it might seem inevitable. They had to consider their moves very carefully, though, for the number of Zigûr’s spies had been slowly yet steadily increasing in the recent years. They could almost literally feel the iron grip of Zigûr tightening around them. ’Twas high time to seek out alternate routes that would not bind them quite so tightly to the fate of Agannâlo.

A discrete knock on the Great Hall’s door woke Lord Herucalmo from his dark musings. Master Indilzar, his castellan, stepped in and bowed respectfully.

“Lord Manwendil and his lady wife have arrived, my Lord,” he murmured. Herucalmo nodded.

“Let them be escorted here and see that refreshments are brought to the Hall,” he ordered. “Where is my son?”

“Young Master Caliondo is on his way home,” answered the castellan. “The Gimilnitîr has sailed into the Haven less than an hour ago. The young master will be in a presentable state shortly.”

“Good,” said Herucalmo. “We shall need his insight; and that of Captain Atanalcar. Send them in as soon as they arrive. Oh, and find me Nimir; that cursed Elf is getting harder to get hold of with each passing day. I want him here as well.”

A moment later the doors of the Greet Hall were tossed open and the castellan announced the noble visitors.

In came a richly clad couple that would have easily fitted among the noblest courtiers of Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth… both by their appearance and their rich garments. Lord Manwendil, scion of one of the oldest families of the Realm, was easily as tall as his host, albeit a little softer around his midriff, due to a more comfortable life that he led. Yet he could not have denied his Númenórean origins, even if he wanted. In his early seventies, he still barely looked a day older than fifty, his black hair, shorn above his shoulders, not yet touched by grey. His face nobly featured, even though those features had become somewhat slack with age lately, were dominated by a pair of keen grey eyes that saw everything and judged everyone, always looking out for opportunities that he could use to his advantage.

His lady, nearly twenty years his junior, was a classical Dúnadan beauty: tall, raven-haired and grey-eyed like her husband, with pale skin like mother-of-pearl and even, slightly sharp features. Her ancestors had been one of the blackest of the Black Númenóreans – after all, what other family would have had the cheek to give their daughter the name of the Lady of the Stars herself? – and she could count her ancestors back to a Castamirian female line and had family ties in Pelargir, too; close ones.

As much as the nobles of Gondor disliked admitting it, there were still intricate networks of family and business ties between the old families in Pelargir and Umbar, respectively, despite the millennia-long contest of the two cities for maritime and trade supremacy. In his own way, Pelargir was almost as old – and in certain aspects every bit as wicked – as Umbar was said to be, and their old families were blood-conscious enough to intermarry, instead of further diluting the Dúnadan bloodlines by mingling with lesser people. Ever since the Castamirian period, Umbar had been trying to keep the bloodlines as pure as possible, in direct opposition to earlier practices.

Unfortunately, this had led to a great deal of inbreeding, and as a consequence, many ancient families had become childless in recent generations. Lord Manwendil’s House was one of those in which the Númenórean heritage had grown too weak to be handed down to the next generation. Lord Herucalmo’s line was one of the few fortunate ones still capable of producing heirs, which had earned him additional respect in the noblest circles.

This fact, however, did not make him respect his fellow consul and his lady any less. ’Twas not their fault, after all; though it was their great personal tragedy. Thus Lord Herucalmo greeted his guests with the utmost respect and offered them seats at the far end of the Great Hall, where no-one could have eavesdropped on them.

His trusted manservant, Ulbar, came with refreshments. Ulbar was an elderly man who had grown up with his lord and was of Dúnadan heritage himself, although not nobly born. Coming from a lesser line, he showed definite sings of aging, although he was several years younger than his master. Herucalmo had trusted very few people in his long life, but he did trust Ulbar unconditionally; and rightly so.

The elderly servant offered the guests sharp, yellow wine, imported from Belfalas, and some Haradric sweetmeats that had become very fashionable in the recent decades. The Second Consul and his lady accepted the refreshments graciously, and for a while they discussed with Herucalmo trade negotiations, tidings from far-away lands and local gossip; such small matters that were, nonetheless, important for those who ruled the Realm. They needed to know what was going on both within and beyond the borders, so that they would be prepared for everything and could act accordingly.

Finally, when they had nearly run out of topics, Master Indilzar entered again and cleared his throat discretely.

“Captain Atanalcar and Master Caliondo have arrived, khôr nîn,” he said, stepping aside to allow said people to enter.

In came two men who could hardly be more different. Caliondo, Lord Herucalmo’s heir and only son, was in his early thirties – although, in typical Dúnadan fashion, he looked considerably younger. A tall, broad-shouldered, coldly handsome young man, with the thick, raven black hair (shorn above his shoulders in Gondorian fashion to blend in more easily when visiting the ports of the South-kingdom) and the keen, sea-grey eyes of those of Númenórean descent, albeit tinted with just a little green. His long torso sported a sleeveless surcoat of heavy, figured silk brocade, so deep blue in its hue that it almost looked black. Under that he was wearing black breeches and a bag-sleeved shirt of raw, undyed silk. His short locks were held together by a narrow circlet of some white metal that looked like silver but was, in fact, made of mithril – an old family heirloom, war-booty from Gondor and worn by the firstborn of their House all the time.

The other man – the Captain of the Haven of Umbar by title, yet the admiral of their Fleet in truth – was past forty and clearly had some desert blood in his veins. He was thin like a Haradric blade, yet strong, tall and muscular, as if the hardships of a life spent upon the Sea and constant exercise had left none of the softer parts of the human form, reducing his whole body to brawn, bones and sinews. His high features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt into a deep tan, almost to black, by constant exposure to the Southern sun upon the Sea. His keen, piercing obsidian eyes told in every glance a tale of difficulties subdued and dangers dared. A deep, diagonal scar on his brow gave additional sternness to his hawkish face and a sinister expression to one of his eyes, which had been injured on the same occasion. His vision, too, was slightly distorted on that eye; not that such small obstacles would lessen his efficiency in any way. His blue-black hair was braided away from his face; the braids held together on the top of his head by a broad, golden clasp, making him look a bit as people would expect a Corsair captain to look.

Nonetheless, Captain Atanalcar, son of a local nobleman and a Haradric princess, was much more than a mere pirate. He was the third most powerful man in Umbar, outranking even Caliondo, who was, after all, being groomed to take over as First Consul one day. Accordingly, he had the same rich attire as all the lords present, only in sea grey and black, and he even wore a knee-length shirt of the finest – and strongest – chain mail the best Haradric weaponsmiths could produce under his surcoat.

Acknowledging the Captain’s rank and importance, Lord Herucalmo rose from his seat to greet the man – and his own son and heir – properly.

“Welcome, my lords...” he began in High Adûnaic, that differed greatly from the bastardized version spoken by the common folk on the streets, that had been much mixed with Haradric during the recent centuries; then he interrupted himself and looked around in annoyance. “Where is that cursed Elf again?”

“I am here, Master,” a soft, lyrical voice answered, and a black-clad figure stepped forth from a shadowy corner.

It was a male Elf, almost a head shorter than his master, distinguished by the large, slanted eyes and elegantly shaped, pointy ears of his immortal kind. Yet those eyes were not grey as one would have routinely expected from an Elf, but coal black; and while his face was pale and Elven-fair, his features were sharp and angular. He wore his long, raven-black hair in a topknot, which emphasized the leaf-shape of his ears. He did not need to cover them; he could blend with the shadows like no-one else.

“Must you always lurk in the shadow like a ghost?” groused Lord Herucalmo. As much as it had proved advantageous to have an Elf oath-bound to serve his family, it unnerved him sometimes how the creature practically existed in the twilight.

“Is that not what I am?” replied the Elf with a faint, wintry smile that made all Men present shiver. “A ghost of your House’s past, doomed to haunt these halls ’til the end of Arda?”

Indeed, he had served the family for over two hundred years. Which was another advantage of having an Elf in one’s service: they did not die, unless killed, nor did they grow old or lose their strength. And not even death would have freed this particular Elf from eternal servitude. The nature of his oath, reinforced by sorcery, had been such that even his disembodied spirit would be bound to his master’s House, until released from his bond.

This was a truth well known by everyone present, which usually made the noble visitors quite uncomfortable around the Elf; a reaction Lord Herucalmo counted on. It was one of the reasons why he wanted the Elf to be there; it never harmed to remind even one’s closest allies where the true power lay. Now that he had reached the desired effect, he signalled his bondsman to withdraw, and the Elf merged with the shadows noiselessly again.

“Now, perchance we can begin,” said the First Consul. “More than eighty years have passed since the troops of my grandsire failed to permanently annex the desert inlands of Harondor to the Realm. As a result, we have had our relative freedom from Agannâlo; clearly, Zigûr no longer considered us competition for his plans against the West. However, it seems that the Shadow has begun to grow in Agannâlo again, stretching out over the realms of the South – including ours. There have been sightings of Orcs along the southern fences of the Ephel Dúath; and while we do not mind them bothering Gondor – in truth, we encourage it, as it strengthens our own position – we do not want them on our borders. Not even in the deserted lands beyond those borders.”

“But why would Zigûr want to threaten us with his fell servants?” asked Lord Manwendil in confusion. “What possible quarrel could he have with us? We have ever served his purposes; ever since our great city has been rebuilt.”

“Perchance he is not satisfied with our eagerness to serve him,” said the Lady Avradî thoughtfully. “You cannot deny, my lords, that while allying ourselves with Agannâlo, we have first and foremost served our own interests. And as our Realm is the one that once witnessed Zigûr’s defeat and humiliation by our own King, we never worshipped him the way those superstitious Haradric barbarians do.”

“Save from the Cult of the Death Eater,” commented Captain Atanalcar dryly. Lady Avradî nodded.

“True. And I believe the Cult is receiving ever-growing support from Agannâlo itself, as a way to infiltrate the Realm and take over from the inside.”

Lord Herucalmo raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Whatever makes you believe that, my lady?”

Lady Avradî smiled, her smile cold and cruel. “You are not the only one with eyes and ears… and other senses, my lord Consul. You have your Dark Elf, and I… I have my cats. I am certain that you, too, have heard the name that is being whispered when speech turns to the Cult,” she lowered her voice ’til it could scarcely be heard. With hardly more than a breath, she formed it. “The name of Herumor?”

Lord Herucalmo swallowed hard, unable to answer right away. He just stared at her with amazement and more than a little fear. It was not so as if he would lack the courage of his forefathers who had sailed with Ar-Pharazôn the Golden to fight –and defeat – Zigûrun, but the stark terror of the Cult sat deep in his bones. Everyone in their right minds feared the Cult and what it would mean; more so those familiar with the terrible events before the Downfall.

“I see that you have,” said the Lady Avradî with a grim smile. “And you seem astonished that I have heard it also.”

“Quite astonished indeed,” replied Lord Herucalmo, finding his voice after the first shock. “How has this name reached you, my Lady? For I have the keen eyes and ears of my Elf who walks in the shadows like a ghost; and while your cats may be able to walk in dark places as well, they cannot master Man’s speech and could not have, therefore, told you that name.”

“You forget that Queen Berúthiel was not the only daughter of Anadûnê who could bind certain beasts to her will and see through their eyes,” she answered. “True, there are but a few of us left in these lesser days; but those who are still there, we can still use the secret arts to our advantage.”

Lady Avradî shrugged nonchalantly. “You may see them as dark; but they are older than the Realm itself, and they have little to naught to do with the Cult.”

The lady gave him a chilling look that could have frozen the fire chamber of the Urîd êphalak over. “I say so, for that is the truth. Stay quiet in the presence of thine elders, youngling when thou know not whereof thou speaketh.”

Caliondo was about to give an angry – and perchance unwise – answer, but his father stopped him, with a raised hand.

“Very little, alas,” the lady admitted. “Little more than the name itself has reached me; for the matter has been kept as secret as cunning can contrive.”

“Whose cunning?” asked her husband, the Second Consul, quietly, his face deathly pale with fear. The lady shrugged, as if she would not be bothered by the tidings at all; but those who knew her well could see that she was, in truth, afraid.

“Why, those who have heard the call of the name, of, course,” she said. “They are not many yet, to set against the rightful leaders of the Realm, but the number is growing. Not all are content with the last eight decades of relative peace, and fewer now are afraid of the powers of Gondor, now that the strength of he South-kingdom is waning. Tales of our former greatness are re-told, and the wish to reach that greatness again is voiced time and again.”

Lord Manwendil shook his head, dejected. “The fools,” he said. “The inconsiderate fools. They would go to outright war with Gondor, based on a call coming from the Lord of Lies, using up our own Realm to serve the interests of Agannâlo. Do you know any of those who have listened to the call?”

Lord Herucalmo shook his head. “Not I. All I have heard is that certain people – clad in black, hooded cloaks – meet in dark alleys sometimes; and they would go to the ruins of the old Temple of Mbelekôro, where it once had been raised around the end of the Second Age.”

His father nodded. “The Temple itself may be in ruins, but its foundations still stand. They have been forged by dark sorcery, by Zigûr himself, when he usurped leadership over the Ancient Realm; they say that – just like Barad-dûr – the Temple cannot be destroyed. Not as long as Zigûr still dwells in Middle-earth, and now that he is gaining back his strength, the Cult is rearing its ugly head again.”

“Only that this time, ‘tis not Mbelekôro in whose name they perform their dark rites,” added the Lady Avradî, “but Zigûr himself. He is the Death Eater now, whom Herumor feels the need to feed with lives.”

She paused, letting the ramifications sink in. All those present (even the Elf, through his long acquaintance with Lord Herucalmo’s House) knew what the Cult of Mbelekôro had been like, back in Anadûnê before its downfall. They all knew of the mighty temple Zigûrun had caused to be built upon the hill in the midst of the city of the Adûnâim, Armenelos the Golden; and of the altar of fire in its centre, from where a great smoke had gone up all the time, blackening the domed silver roof of the Temple. And of the spilling of blood with torment and great wickedness, with which Men had made sacrifices to Mbelekôro that he should release them from Death.

The same thing had been repeated, albeit on a much smaller scale, in Umbarlond, during the centuries after the Downfall, while the great lords Herumor and Fuinur had ruled not Umbar alone but also the neighbouring Haradric realms, in Zigûr’s name. And the mere fact that the name Herumor had been whispered in dark alleys again was truly black news for all those who wished to keep Umbar an independent sovereignty on its own, instead of the doormat of Zigûr, or simply one of the Haradric realms.

“There has been some small disquiet, down at the Haven,” replied Captain Atanalcar, whose duty it was to know about such things. “A few fishermen have disappeared, and also a small ship of the Fleet. Perchance ’tis just peace making things slack. They might have gone off on some ploy of their own, without leave and without a pilot, and they might have drowned. After all, these coasts are not safe for the unskilled.”

“Yet you believe not that it was so,” said the First Consul. It was not a question.

The Captain of the Haven shook his head grimly. “Nay, I do not. Those men were not unskilled. The fishermen who have gone missing grew up on the Sea, and the vessel was one of my best scouts. Besides, there have been no storms off the coasts for quite a while.”

“You believe then they were taken,” said Lord Herucalmo darkly. “Taken and used to feed the Death Eater.”

Atanalcar nodded. “And to weaken the Fleet at the same time, knowing of their loyalty to us. I fear that further attacks against fishermen and sailors can be expected. The Fleet is our only true strength; without it, we are all but helpless.”

“Then we need a way to strengthen the Fleet,” said Lord Manwendil, “while trying to figure out who is behind the renewal of the Cult.”

“That is not hard to guess,” pointed out Caliondo impatiently. “’Twas Zigûr who has ever forced the Cult upon us.”

“True,” agreed the Lady Avradî, “but he would hardly leave his dark tower to do this personally. This Herumor person, whoever he might be, is the key to the Cult. We must find him and remove him from the game board, ere it is too late.”

“If we can,” corrected Lord Herucalmo. “While he does bear a Man’s name – and one that once belonged to a great lord – he might be something different entirely.”

“You mean a Nazgûl?” asked Lord Manwendil, his smooth, fleshy countenance suddenly sickly white with fear. The First Consul shrugged, his face hard and grim.

“’Twould not be the first time, would it? To find out the truth, we need to infiltrate the Cult, though.”

While the others were thinking the same, they shivered hearing the idea put into words nonetheless. The poor wretch chosen for that task would be doomed from the beginning.

“I cannot,” replied Lord Herucalmo. “They would not tolerate an Elf among them. Not even a Dark Elf. They’d recognize him and slay him; and he is of no use for me as a ghost. Nay, I have a better idea,” he hit the small bronze bell hanging from a window frame. “Send me in Rasheed,” he ordered old Ulbar.

The man following his summons was the captain of his guards; the bastard son of an Umbari nobleman of very old blood and a Haradric slave girl. An unusually tall man with a heavy bone structure, long, muscular arms and an arrogant bearing that revealed that he had not built those arms by doing lowly labour but by extensive weapons training; his stature was that of a swordsman.

His hair, close-cropped like that of a slave, although he was none, had the colour of blackened corn silk and looked even darker around his tanned, hawkish features. His crystalline blue, nearly transparent eyes watched everything at once, seeking out potential dangers that might threaten his master. His mother had been from the desert lands, the ones beyond even Khambaluk, which explained his strange eyes; in everything else, he bore a strong resemblance to his sire who had never acknowledged him. The blood-consciousness, brought to Umbar by the Castamirioni, was still strong in the old families, and bastards were, as a rule, cast out.

On the other hand, the blood of such bastards was still deemed good enough for them to be highly sought after as personal guards and shield-mates for noblemen… usually ones on unfriendly terms with the family that had rejected them. Which was how Rasheed had come to be taken into Lord Herucalmo’s service.

However, his status within the First Consul’s household was an exceptional one, and the fact that he did not bow or prostrate himself in any other way servants would be supposed to, clearly showed that. He simply – though respectfully enough – inclined his head in Lord Herucalmo’s direction, ignoring everyone else in the room… even the Heir of the House.

“My Lord,” he said; his voice was deep and rough as it is often heard among desert people, though not this near the Sea, “how may I serve you?”

“In a way no-one else could, as always,” replied the First Consul. “I am sending you in mortal danger… and expect you to come back unharmed.”

A faint, self-confident smile appeared on that handsome face and was gone almost in the same moment.

Lord Herucalmo nodded. “I do; or else I would not have chosen you for this task. I want you to sneak into the Cult of the Death Eater for me. They are stirring again, in dark corners where Ûrî never shines; and I would know what they are planning, so that we can hit them, and hit them hard, ere they would grow too strong.”

Any other man would have blanched with terror given such a task and begged to be spared. Rasheed, however, simply nodded and turned his attention to the details at once.

“How am I to find them?” he asked. “And how am I to make them believe that I would wish to join them? ’Tis known all across the Realm that you do not look at the Cult fondly, my Lord… and that I am but your extended hand.”

“Nimir will help you to find their gathering place,” answered Lord Herucalmo. “He has been watching the Cult for me for quite some time. As for making them believe… we shall start rumours that you have been unhappy with your status in my household for years; that you despise the ways I run thing here. That you believe me to have grown weak and lazy and over-confidant. Your skills are well-known in the city; people would try to win you over as soon as the rumours begin to spread.”

Rasheed pulled an unhappy face. He did not like his loyalties being questioned, not even if the disguise served his master; and even less did he like to work with the Dark Elf, who, frankly, made his skin crawl. But he could not choose the tasks assigned to him; that was the right of his master, by whom he was owned, body, soul and blood. He might not be a slave by name, but he had sworn an oath every bit as binding as that of the Elf… with the significant difference that he had done so voluntarily. Thus the thought of disobeying or even protesting against the task – against any task given him by his master – had not even occurred to him.

Lord Herucalmo nodded. He had expected nothing less from his chief guard; nor deemed him needful to promise Rasheed any kind of reward.

“That is well,” he said. “Now, be gone, the two of you, and discuss strategies. I shall expect your plan by the hour before sunset. See that you have one by then.”

He dismissed them with an authoritative gesture. Rasheed inclined his head and left, the Elf following him like a shadow – a black and ominous one.

Having dealt with his servants, Lord Herucalmo turned his attention back to his guests and allies.

“That is one thing hopefully dealt with, soon,” he said. “However, it appears to me that we might have a struggle on two fronts at our hands, soon.”

The others looked at him with a confused frown at first. Then Captain Atanalcar realized what their host was talking about and nodded in grim understanding.

“Bakshir indeed. As you know, Kha-kan Isfhandijár died last year; slain in some local battle, protecting the borders of the realm against nomadic raiders from the Eastern Desert. As far as we know, Padisákh Tahamtan has chosen his firstborn, Bakhtijár, to step into his place. As it is custom among the Hiung-nu, the legitimate sons of the dead lord have most likely driven out and slain the concubines and bastards of their sire. I must therefore accept that my beloved daughter is dead, as she was war booty and not a proper wife. That I have not heard of her or of her little son ever since the reports of Isfhandijár’s dead can only mean that they have both been killed.”

“What a terrible loss,” murmured the Lady Avradî. Yearning for children one could not become was bad enough; having had one’s children killed was a hundred times worse.

“And not for our friend only,” added Lord Manwendil grimly. “As Isfhandijár was very fond of the Lady Rothinzil, he favoured Umbar for her sake. He had the padisákh’s ear as well, and he also spoke of Umbar with preference. His sons, young, power-hungry and fired on by their jealous mothers, would do the exact opposite. Umbar’s position against the Haradric realms will suffer if the one holding the overlordship turns against us.”

“That is what I fear, too,” agreed Lord Herucalmo. “And that is why we need to look out for other strong allies.”

“What do you have on your mind, my Lord Consul?” asked Captain Atanalcar. “The second-strongest realm would be Khambaluk; but my mother’s people traditionally look towards Far-Harad when it comes to seeking out alliances.”

“Neither would they be able to hurry to our aid when needs must be,” added Caliondo thoughtfully. “For that, Khambaluk simply lies too far from our borders.”

“That is very true, on both points,” said Lord Herucalmo. “We need an ally that is strong, can move considerable forces when in need, and can be found near at hand.

“I fear the only realm that could match all those criteria would be Gondor,” Lord Manwendil pointed out. “And I doubt very much that we could ally ourselves with our arch-enemy of several millennia.”

“Not with Gondor,” said his lady wife as sudden realization hit her. “But perchance Dol Amroth. That could work. Dor-en-Ernil might be a province of Gondor, but the Prince of Dol Amroth is an independent monarch with a demesne of his own; and they have the strongest fleet, save ours. It would be a good match…”

“… if we could persuade Prince Angelimir to break his oath of fealty to the Steward of Gondor and ally himself with his chief rival,” finished Lord Manwendil. “I do not think that would be possible, though. Prince Angelimir is old; yet he is no fool. And the House of Dol Amroth has no reason to look at us with friendship. After all, several of its Princes have been slain in battle against our people. Angelimir will never agree to such an alliance.”

“Not if we ask him,” said Lord Herucalmo in agreement. “However, I am planning a different approach… one along family lines.”

“Oh,” the eyes of the Lady Avradî began to gleam. “I see what you mean, my Lord Consul.”

“Well, I do not,” groused Lord Manwendil. “Pray speak clearly, Herucalmo. I find that I tire of your games.”

“Prince Angelimir, as you have said yourself, is old,” explained the First Consul. “More than a hundred; and that is a high age, even for his family. He still holds the title in name, yet the real power lies in the hands of his son and heir, Prince Adrahil. A man in his prime, an excellent warlord and diplomat… with two daughters in marriageable age, while I have a son who has not yet taken a wife.”

“And you believe Adrahil would be amendable to marry off any daughter of his to Caliondo?” Lord Manwendil shook his head in disbelief. “I do not think he would willingly do that.”

“Mayhap not,” allowed Lord Herucalmo. “But again, I do not intend to ask him, either,” he glanced at the Captain of the Haven. “Captain Atanalcar, this is something the two of us will have to discuss in great detail.”

A rakish grin split the tanned face of the adventurous Sea lord as he contemplated the possible meaning of that.

Just for reference: Ecthelion II is 82 years old in this story, Denethor is 38, Thorongil is 37, Finduilas is 18, her father Adrahil is 41, Adrahil’s wife, the Lady Olwen is 38, and Imrahil is 13. All these details are canon facts.

It is stated in “HoME 12 – The Peoples of Middle-earth” that Denethor indeed had two older sisters. However, their names – or, in fact, anything about their fates – are not given. I named them Faelivrin (56) and Eledhwen (42), based on the Gondorian custom of recycling First Age names, and made Eledhwen the mother of Húrin of the Keys.

Lady Tirathiel is an OFC of Isabeau’s. Her former relationship (of the purely platonic kind) with Denethor is my doing and has been established in several of my stories.

If Umbar, as people in Gondor liked to say, was the oldest and most wicked city of the Realm, then Pelargir was certainly not far beyond, either in age or in other things. The Garth of Royal Ships had been built in the last millennium of the Second Age, as a haven of the Faithful – great lords of Númenor who opposed the direction the Kings of Westernesse had taken at that time and remained true to the instructions of the Valar and friends to the Elves of Tol Eressëa.

The city lay upon the wedge of land between Anduin the Great and the mouth of the River Sirith. It had been an important beachhead from where the Númenóreans set sail to explore and conquer lesser realms along the coastal line and on the banks of Anduin, and it became an even greater haven in the days of the Ship-Kings of Gondor. King Tarannon Falastur built a great house there, with its roots in the water which he so dearly loved, and even though the capital had always remained Osgiliath, for a long time Pelargir had been the centre of Gondor’s unparalleled power on the Sea. This was where the great fleet of King Eärnil I had been built, with the main purpose to conquer the city’s greatest rival: Umbar, the seat of the Third Realm in Exile.

After the Kin-strife, Pelargir’s military importance had gradually lessened until it became a city of merchants, but it kept its considerable importance both for Gondor and even the supposedly hostile realms of Umbar, Khand and Harad. Its strategic location made it eminently suited to host trade negotiations with such people who would not be welcome in Minas Tirith itself, like the heads of the great Haradric merchant guilds, caravan owners from Khand or independent merchants from Umbar.

It also served as a place where the Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth could meet to discuss urgent issues of the South-kingdom, meeting half-way between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, so that they could meet as equals and both save half the journey. In the late spring of the year 2968 of the Third Age, the city was once again serving this particular purpose.

The great house of Tarannon Falastur was still standing – or rather it had been rebuilt several times and still looked the same, at least if one could believe the ancient records – and served as the meeting place for the most powerful lords of Gondor. It was surrounded by a tall, imposing wall of withered stone, built like an impenetrable fortress; but inside the wall the building itself was elegant and beautiful, its four wings surrounding a large courtyard and a central garden, with porches running all around.

The Dol Amroth party had sailed along the coast of Belfalas and then up the Anduin, sparing themselves the long ride across Dor-en-Ernil. The unit of Swan Knights, clad in their blue surcoats with the white swanship embroidered upon their breasts, offered a magnificent sight as they rode up from the harbour to the King’s House, wherein they would reside, together with Prince Adrahil and his wife the Lady Olwen. They had not had to subject their horses to the hardship of sea travel; the Prince of Dol Amroth had his own townhouse in Pelargir, complete with stables, spare horses and the hostlers and stable boys who took care of the noble beasts in his absence. The Prince and his family only stayed in the King’s House when he visited Pelargir in his official function.

Steward Ecthelion – the second Ruling Steward by that name – arrived a day later, flanked by his son and heir, Denethor, and his younger daughter, the Lady Eledhwen, who also represented her husband, Lord Barahir of the Keys. In the absence of both the Steward and his heir, the Warden of the Keys had to remain behind in Minas Tirith as a guarant for the safety of the White City.

Having paid a visit to Lord Forlyn’s walled town, Carvossonn, where the South Road crossed the River Erui, the Steward and his entourage – with the exception of his wife, the Lady Mairen, who had remained in Lossarnach – had ridden down the samesome Road ‘til Pelargir, laying back nearly one hundred and fifty miles with only a few short breaks. Few other men beyond eighty would have had the strength to do that, but Ecthelion was of the noblest Dúnadan stock, and though his hair had turned silver for quite a while, he still could bear the burdens of the Road like any lesser Man half his age.

As their arrival had been announced well in advance, there was quite a crowd gathered to greet them at the ancient stone bridge that spanned the River Sirith in the same manner the remains of it mangled counterpart connected the ruins of Osgiliath. And all that had come to see them agreed that the sight was well worth the wait.

The Steward and his heir were clad for travel but still managed to look most impressive in their identical, severely plain tunics of the finest black wool, the hem, placket and sleeves of which were embroidered with a leafy pattern in silver. Their plain linen shirts underneath were dyed a light green-grey, ideal for the exhausting journey. Their breeches were of leather, also dyed grey, and they wore knee-high riding boots of supple black leather. Black were their hooded cloaks, too, with the image of the White Tree embroidered on their backs. They rode identical blue roan horses, the bridles of which were seamed with silver tassels.

The Lady Eledhwen was clad in a similar fashion, despite her rank and gender. She rode astride her silver-coated mare in male fashion. Her long black skirt was split in the front and the back to the hip, so that it would not hinder her in riding. Underneath it she wore black leggings and riding boots, just like her father and her brother. Her surcoat was a deep burgundy red, seamed with gold ribbon, and her hooded black coat was held together by an enamelled golden broche in the shape of a rose. Her heavy sheaf of black hair was intricately braided, coiled around her head and covered by a gilded net that was scattered with small white gemstones.

The gathered crowd greeted them with joyous cries – Ecthelion was well-loved by his subjects and so were his children – and some of the younger ones even ran after their party as it rode up the main road of the city to the King’s House, followed by the carriages with their supplies. Those were the wealthiest areas of Pelargir, with the townhouses of ancient, noble families fronting the wide, tree-framed alleys.

There, in front of the King’s House, a different crowd was waiting for their arrival. Nobles and rich merchants, foreign emissaries and guild masters – all the wealthy and the influential of the city had come to see their Steward and be seen by him. Knowing of the importance of their loyalty, Ecthelion held on for a few moments to greet them and thank them for coming.

This was, among other things, a great opportunity to show them that he was still of full strength and more than capable of holding the reins in his own hands; but also that his heir had grown strong enough to take over if necessary. A reassurance for his own subjects as well as a thinly-veiled message for the ever-present eyes and ears of Umbar.

The call of silver trumpets greeted them from the walls, and the heavy doors of the House were tossed open, allowing them to ride into the courtyard, followed by their guards. Within, servants and stable boys came running to take care of their horses and their baggage and to escort them to their chambers – not that they would need help to find them. Tradition demanded that the Steward’s family would occupy the royal suite, seeing that he ruled in the name of the King, and that there had not been a King in Gondor for centuries. But tradition also demanded that they got served properly, and so it was easier to accept the escort than to debate its necessity.

Meanwhile, in the guest wing of the House, the party of Dol Amroth was preparing themselves for the first meeting with the Steward and his family. The party was led by Prince Adrahil, as his father, the current Ruling Prince, no longer left his home if he could avoid it. At the age of a hundred and two, Prince Angelimir of Dol Amroth was still in excellent health and had all his wits about him, thanks to the thin trail of Elven blood trickling in his veins, but the older he got, the more he valued his comfort and his familiar surroundings.

Besides, Adrahil was old and experienced enough to discuss the matters of the Realm with the Steward, despite being only a few years older than Ecthelion’s heir. Not that either of them would show his true age, though. Dúnadan and – on Adrahil’s side – Elven blood ensured that they would look an indeterminate age of roughly thirty for at least half a century yet to come.

The same could not be said of the Lady Olwen. Adrahil’s wife came from the ancient folk of the Enedrim – from the local nobility of Dor-en-Ernil – and while her family had lived in the town of Fortir since the Second Age as the lead clan of the warrior aristocracy, their lives were not as long as those of pure-blooded Dúnedain. Therefore the Lady Olwen, albeit still lovely and youthful in her late thirties, already looked slightly older than her husband, even though they were roughly of the same age.

Of their three children, their young son Imrahil came entirely after his father. Tall and strong for his thirteen years, yet of an almost Elven grace and with enough mischief on his mind for an army of street urchins, he was raven-haired and grey-eyed like all his Númenórean sires. Finduilas, now barely eighteen, had inherited her mother’s dark eyes and gentle features, paired with her father’s strength of will and iron backbone.

As for Ivriniel, their eldest… Lady Olwen suppressed a sigh. Ivriniel was nothing like her siblings. Nothing like any other girl she had ever seen.

Tall and slender like a young tree, with a pale skin like mother-of-pearl, straight, silky hair like black ink and the most striking green eyes one could imagine, Ivriniel looked more like an Elf than a mortal woman. Her stunning beauty was paired with a sharp, inquisitive mind and a hunger for knowledge that surpassed everything else.

Imrahil being born as the first (and only) son almost a decade after her, she had long been considered the heir apparent for the throne of Dol Amroth; more so as Imrahil had been a sickly child and Lady Olwen could no longer hope to carry any other children after having almost died in childbirth with him. So both Ivriniel and Finduilas had been taught everything a son would need to know.

By the time they could be reasonably certain that Imrahil had outgrown his childhood weakness, Ivriniel had become well-versed in ancient lore and had learned to wield a sword like a man, too. And while she had accepted that Dol Amroth would be better served by a male heir, as Númenórean hereditary law was only valid within their demesne in these days, she had also become somewhat resentful that her prowess and wisdom would remain unused.

But perhaps it had not all been in vain, thought Lady Olwen, laying out the dresses for her daughters to wear at the evening meal with the help of her ladies-in-waiting. Perchance, if the plan of Steward Ecthelion and Prince Angelimir went well, Ivriniel could put her wisdom and training to good use – as the wife of Ecthelion’s heir.

“Are you truly certain that it will work?” asked the Master of Pelargir his father-in-law and the future Prince of Dol Amroth doubtfully. They were sitting in what had once been the lesser council chamber of the Kings, having a brief, informal get-together ere the actual discussions would start.

Lorindol son of Bregolas, the Lord of Lebennin, was a proud Dúnadan noble in his prime and husband to Ecthelion’s eldest daughter, the Lady Faelivrin. He was also an officer whose rank was akin to that of a royal admiral and who wore the title of the Ciryatur: a name that reached back in time to the Kings of Númenor.

Given the troubled history of the harbour, Pelargir was treated as a separate fiefdom, independent from the rest of Lebennin, and the Ciryatur had been the most loyal military officer since the times of Mardil Voronwë. Rank and office were not hereditary, although an able and loyal son could inherit his father’s position.

It was unusual – albeit not unheard-of – that the Lord of Lebennin would also bear the office of the Ciryatur. It had happened before. Besides, the Master of Pelargir had unchallenged power only over the great warships stationed in his harbour and their crew. The city itself was ruled by the Town Council: a ruling body consisting of the heads of the major guilds – especially the very influential merchants and shipwrights – and several royal officers from Minas Tirith, as Pelargir, at least on parchment, still counted as royal property. This was an effective way to avoid the most important harbour getting under unwanted influence again, as the various interests balanced out each other fairly well and ensured that the harbour remained loyal to the Sceptre.

Even without the rank and title of the Ciryatur, Lord Lorindol was a very important nobleman, whose voice had a lot of weight. He was the hereditary ruler of Lebennin, after all, and had his traditional seat in Linhir, the second most important town and port of the province, now under the rule of his older son, Gewelon.

Under normal circumstances the Lord of Lebennin would have been the political counterbalance of the Ciryatur. However, in the face of the growing threat from both Umbar and Mordor, Ecthelion had decided some fifteen years previously that Gondor’s forces needed to be more tightly bundled and entrusted Lorindol with the responsibility for the harbour.

So far it had proved a good decision. Lorindol had dealt successfully with all the problems that had emerged in the years in-between, growing in power and respect not only in the eyes of his subjects but also among his fellow nobles. Thanks to the taxes of the Hanse of Lebennin, the most powerful merchant’s guild in Gondor, he also had the coin to keep the harbour in a good shape.

The Steward of Gondor nodded. “I am fairly certain about that, yea. I know that Princess Ivriniel is said to be a strong-willed young lady; stubborn even, and better veiled in the art of ruling than any male heir the Prince of Dol Amroth could ever hope for. But that is good so; for a meek and easily frightened wife would not last long on the side of my son. He needs someone who is his equal, both in the sharpness of her mind and the strength of her will.”

“Would Tirathiel of Belfalas not have filled those requirements?” asked the Lord of Lebennin. “And she is of Dúnadan heritage, too.”

“She would,” said Ecthelion, “and we would have taken her in with open arms. But the two could rarely agree in anything; they were fighting and arguing all the time – and the family of the Steward must show a united front.”

“I would think both Denethor and Tirathiel intelligent enough to understand that,” said Lord Lorindol.

“’Tis not a question if intelligence but of stubborn pride,” explained the Steward. “My son would never give in to Tirathiel. He would, however, respect a Princess of Dol Amroth enough to back off, if needs must be.”

“Are you truly certain about that?” the Lord of Lebennin found it hard to imagine Denethor backing off from anyone.

The Steward nodded grimly. “Oh, yea. Our House has sworn a solemn oath to serve royal blood, regardless of the direction it may come from. And Dol Amroth has intermarried with Anárion’s line repeatedly. ‘Tis not enough to stake a claim for the Winged Crown but still closer than any claim the House of Húrin might stake.”

“And such an alliance would unite the two thin trails of royal blood still present in Gondor,” realised Lord Lorindol. This was a wise plan indeed.

The Steward nodded again. “That would be the idea, yea. Let us hope those two shall find it – and each other – acceptable. For I would not force my only son into a loveless bond, not even for the good of Gondor. The example of Tarannon Falastur and Queen Berúthiel should be a proper enough warning how such things can go terribly wrong.”

“King Tarannon Falastur was an exceptionally strong-willed, harsh and demanding man, or so the Annals tell us,” reminded him Lord Lorindol.

“So is my son,” replied the Steward. “And while Gondor will greatly benefit from his strength and wisdom, or so I hope, he will need a tempering influence while dealing with our people.”

“I am not certain that Princess Ivriniel can be that influence,” said Lord Lorindol thoughtfully. “She is an imperious lady, used to have the deciding word and to be obeyed; softness is not a trait I would think of when speaking of her.”

“’Tis not softness that is needed,” answered Ecthelion. “Strength and endurance are, if one has to soothe Denethor’s tempers.”

“I hope you are right, Adar,” though not young enough – at least not in Númenórean terms – to actually be Ecthelion's son, Lorindol willingly gave his father-in-law that special honorific title. “The future of Gondor may depend on this match.”

Dinner at the King’s House in Pelargir was a festive event whenever the House entertained noble guests. Having the Steward’s family and royalty in the House at the same time inspired the cooks to new heights, producing a menu in which the traditional custom of eating fish and seafood with every meal was combined with the exotic dishes and spices that originated from the Haradri quarter of the Merchant District.

The noble guests gathered in the Feasting Hall were accordingly decked out in their royal splendour. Lady Olwen and her daughters wore beautifully crafted bliauts with wide, trailing sleeves, the cut and delicate embroidery of which spoke of Elven influence. Or they might have been Elven handiwork entirely. Dol Amroth was the only fiefdom in Gondor that still kept regular contact with the Elves of Edhellond, after all, whose lord, Gildor Inglorion, had been the guardian of every Prince of Dol Amroth, since the ancient days of Imrazôr the Númenórean.

In any case, the gowns of the ladies were breath-takingly beautiful, made of the finest silk that could be achieved in the far eastern realm of Khambaluk, brought by Haradri mercers directly to Dol Amroth. They had a similar cut and varied only in colour. While the Lady Olwen wore the usual Dol Amroth blue, the gown of Princess Ivriniel was a deep sea green that matched the colour of her eyes and that of Princess Finduilas pale blue shot with silver, like silver mist above the waves of the Sea in the morning.

Their undergowns of fine linen were pale grey, embroidered with swans in silver and white on the high neckline and the cuffs, which closed with buttons of small white pearls. Their hair was braided with strings of pearl, too, coiled about their heads and covered with veils so fine one could see through them like through cobwebs – a fabric that could only be made by feather-light Elven hands.

Prince Adrahil and his young son wore floor-length tunics of Dol Amroth blue, with sleeveless surcoats of a deeper royal blue colour. The white swanship of Dol Amroth was stiffly embroidered upon their breast, and identical circlets of gold, studded with blue opals, bound their brows.

The Steward’s family was clothed in floor-length tunics and sleeveless surcoats – or, in the Lady Eledhwen’s case, a gown – of sombre black, with the White Tree embroidered in silver on the front and the back. The Lady Eledhwen also had an elaborate headdress of black silk, sewn with white pearls.

Lord Lorindol and his lady both wore clothes in the fashion of Pelargir, which had a decidedly oriental touch in both cut and embroidery. Lorindol’s robe and surcoat were made of heavy sea-blue silk – the colour of the Ciryatur – with the emblem of his office, an argent sea-lion with a golden mane, embroidered on his breast. His belt was made of linked silver circles.

The Lady Faelivrin wore a flamboyant turquoise gown – the colour of Lebennin – with sleeves so wide that they swept the stone floor, embroidered with small images of the province’s symbol, the rampant sea dog in sable and silver, along the hem. She, too, had a headdress of the same fabric as her gown, but it showed a strong Haradri influence: the heavy folds of silk were artfully swaddled around her head and strewn with turquoises and yellow opals.

All guests were escorted into the Feasting Hall by young pages – sons from the lesser nobility who had been sent to the House for proper education and training under the watchful eye of the castellan and the Ciryatur’s weapons master. Once there, the castellan himself greeted them as tradition demanded. The pages then led them to their seats; the Standing Silence was observed, before they would take their seats, and the long line of servants, all wearing black tabards with the White Tree embroidered on them, began with the serving of the dinner.

They started the first course with eyroun in lentyn – false almond cream eggs, coloured with saffron, seasoned with cinnamon, sugar and white wine, filled in real eggshells and roasted in fire. To this, they served false butter, made of almond milk and rosewater. The course continued with trout eggs, prepared in a way that made the guests think they would be eating peas, seasoned with saffron, parsley and mint.

As the traditional cuisine of Pelargir considered more than one meat dish per meal an excessive luxury, the following thick pottage – usually made from the innards of hog or dear in other provinces – was made of boiled and chopped mussels, mixed with almond milk, coloured with saffron, spiced with pepper and decorated with periwinkle flowers. The course closed with gefult pleter aus ayern – omelettes stuffed with fried apples, raisins and figs and arranged so that they looked like roses.

While they were waiting for the second course, a minstrel came in; a brisk young man in a sea green doublet, richly embroidered with gold in a calligraphic pattern that most likely originated from Harad. His rich attire alone would reveal that he was not of the lower ranks of his trade, and so did the silver chain around his neck, from which hung the key for tuning his harp.

The instrument itself, clearly built by a master, was carried after him by a stout, dark-skinned boy not older than perhaps fourteen, whose black hair framed his young face in tight curls – he obviously hailed from Khand or Far-Harad. The minstrel, too, showed some Southron traits, being raven-haired and hawk-faced, with olive skin and the golden eyes of a falcon.

“My Lord Prince, my Lord Steward,” said the castellan with some pride, “may I present Belzagar of Umbar, one of the greatest minstrels of the South? He has brought new songs to Pelargir – and some very old ones few of our people can still remember in these days.”

The minstrel made a sweeping bow in Southron fashion, so that the crown of his head almost touched the stone floor.

“You honour me, good sir,” he said in correct, barely accented Westron. “To express my thanks for that, allow me to begin with an old song, in honour of the Lord Ciryatur and his lady: the Lied of Lebennin.”

He clicked with his fingers, and the Khandian boy – presumably his personal slave, as slavery was still tolerated, if not directly encouraged in Umbar – handed him the harp. While one of the servants hurried to bring him a low, backless chair. For the instrument was a cross-stringed harp and clearly an ancient one, the likes of which no longer were made in Gondor; one that was played in a sitting position, resting on the player’s lap.

After plucking a few accords, the minstrel raised his head, and with eyes half-closed, he began to sing the well-known melody that rose and ebbed like the ever-restless waves of the Sea. He sang the upper voice, clear and melodious like a silver bell.

The Lied was the best-known and probably most popular of all songs in Lebennin, therefore a fairly obvious choice. But the minstrel performed it well, Lady Faelivrin found; no small feat from a foreigner.

Aware of the Southron custom of rewarding the court poets immediately, she took a bracelet from her wrist – it was fine Khandian work, but not so precious that it would have been insulting – and sent it to the minstrel by a page, saying: “On behalf of my lord, the Ciryatur of Pelargir and the Lord of Lebennin, accept this small sign of our appreciation for a song masterfully performed. We are most delighted and looking forward to more samples of your skills.”

The minstrel accepted the gift with just enough pride about his own art as to not appear servile, then sat down at the lower table with the ranking servants of the House to enjoy the meal. In the meantime, the remains of the first course had been removed from the table and the servants carried around small silver bowls and white linen towels for the guests to wash their hands before bringing in the second course.

The second course started with tredure: a good broth thickened with eggs and breadcrumbs. It was followed by a dauce egre: sea fish in sweet and sour sauce, served with blancmange, the traditional rice dish of the coastal area. Then came a dish of roasted peas, with a false hare head made of bread, and finally pears, cooked in wine and honey, again in the spirit of not having more than one meat dish per meal.

When the last remove of the course was finished, the guests were given another break, and Belzagar of Umbar rose again, accepting the harp from his slave.

“For the second turn, I shall sing a lay to honour the Prince of Dol Amroth and his ancestress, whose beauty is mirrored on the face of his daughters,” he announced. “I give you the Lay of Nimrodel’s, as it is sung among the Wandering Company of Lord Gildor Inglorion and was taught me by Master Orgof, their eldest minstrel.”

The choice alone would have been a surprise, almost a shock for the gathered Gondorian nobles. The daring compliment paid to the two Princesses of Dol Amroth was bordering a challenge. But even more surprised was everyone when the minstrel began to play and sang in slightly accented yet otherwise fairly decent Sindarin. No-one would expect an Umbari minstrel – and one with unmistakable Haradri blood in his veins, too – to know Elven lays… and to perform them in the Grey Tongue, at that.

Yet so Belzagar did, and while his voice lacked the unparalleled fluidity of ethereal Elven voices, it was eerily beautiful nonetheless.

And on he went, through all thirteen verses of the lay, and while he sang, his golden eyes rested upon Princess Ivriniel with quiet intensity. As if the lay had solely been sung in her honour. Prince Adrahil clearly understood the message, for his sea-grey eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Ivriniel, though, accepted the thinly veiled compliment as something that would be her due: with a benevolent smile that did not lack a slight haughtiness. When the minstrel finished the long, time-honoured lay, she followed the lead of the Lady Faelivrin. She removed one of the many bracelets from her slender wrist and winked a page closer, asking the boy to give it to the minstrel.

“For though many times have I heard this lay, sung by Elves and Men in different tongues, never has it touched my heart quite the way as during your performance, Master Belzagar,” she said.

“Neither have I ever been so inspired before, my lady,” he replied. “For if I ever had any doubt that the House of Dol Amroth has descended from Elven blood, those doubts would have been dispersed in the very moment I cast my eyes upon your beauty.”

Even from a minstrel, whose trade came with allowances no other people would be granted, this was brave speech… almost too brave. Steward Ecthelion glared at the Umbari with a frown; his son and heir seemed downright furious. Ivriniel, however, accepted the compliment with a simple nod and a satisfied little smirk, and that seemed to anger Denethor even more.

To save the suddenly precarious peace of the evening, Lady Faelivrin hurriedly ordered the tables to be cleared and the musicians of her own household to entertain the guests for a while, so that Master Belzagar, too, could have his fair share of the meal. This was his only official payment, after all.

After the musicians came the tumblers and the fire-breathers, and when they finished their performance, the guests had rested enough to be ready for the third course.

Said third course started with hattes: small, marrow-filled pastries shaped like hats. Then came a roast peacock, filled with herbs and spices, redressed in its own feathers, with camphire put in its mouth to make it breathe fire when served. This came with chycles: roasted chickpeas, boiled with garlic and olive oils. The course closed with caudell: a frothy drink of wine, thickened with eggs.

The fire-breathing peacock was the cause of many Oh!s and Ah!s, as it was, basically, a Haradri dish, unknown in the northern parts of Gondor. Ecthelion and Denethor, whose tastes ran in simpler directions, were both baffled and a bit taken aback by such theatrical cuisine; and they did not appear to like the caudell, either, preferring good wine to remain untampered with. The ladies, however, seemed to enjoy the sweet drink greatly, and young Prince Imrahil was practically enchanted by the ‘feathered dragon’ – a name he gave the fiery peacock.

“My Lord Steward,” he said with a polite bow, “allow me to honour you with an ancient song; one that was sung in the courts of Númenor already and, I am told, has been carefully handed down from one generation to the next ever since, in all third realms in exile.”

With that, he touched the strings. The ancient, sacred melody that rose was shockingly familiar to all. But even more shocking was the fact that the words coming from the lips of the Southron minstrel were sung in Quenya.

After the first shock of hearing the sacred tongue of the West – that they would not been able to speak, although they did understand the words of the hymn, of course, as it was part of their Númenórean heritage, a heritage that they shared with the Umbari – the guests allowed the beauty of music and words wash over them.

The minstrel ended his performance with a series of long, complicated accords that required the use of both his hands; then he bowed again, silently. The noble audience was silent, too, for quite some time. It was the Steward who stirred first.

“I did not know that such precious gems of ancient lore are still kept in Umbar,” he said. “I thought that shrill noise the Haradrim call music had long ago suppressed the nobler arts.”

If the minstrel took offence at the jab against (some of) his ancestors, he gave no sight of it. Instead he bowed to the old man respectfully.

“You must not forget, my Lord Steward, that Umbar, like Pelargir, was founded by the Men of Westernesse in the mists of the previous age,” he said. “A stronghold of the Arûwânai for many hundred years, its treasures were not just gold and precious stones, proud ships and great stoneworks; art and wisdom have always been cultivated among the Old Families, even though, sadly, such things no longer reach the lower circles. My order contributes to that knowledge; my brethren, like me, travel far to rediscover forgotten lays and tales – or to learn new ones.”

“Are all Umbari minstrels so well-versed in the ancient lore of Númenor, then?” asked Denethor, his voice clearly revealing his doubts.

The minstrel shook his head. “Nay, my lord. Each of us has his special task. Some go to Rhûn or Far-Harad or even beyond, to learn. Others travel beyond the Hithaeglir, to what once was the North-kingdom. Again others roam the Wilderland and converse with Elves and Dwarves. I am the only one in these days who studies Númenórean lore; as my father did before me and his father before him.”

“Whom do you serve, though?” asked Prince Adrahil. “All minstrels have a patron.”

“I used to have one,” admitted Belzagar, “when the lady of First Consul Herucalmo was still alive. She generously willed me enough wealth, however, so that I need not to serve anyone but my own art.”

“How odd,” said Lady Eledhwen, “that your travels would bring you to Pelargir at this very time.”

“Odd indeed,” replied the minstrel agreeably, “but the Powers will know why they inspired me to come now and not at any other time.”

That was a very proper answer; also one that successfully blocked any further questions. Admitting defeat, Lord Lorindol signalled his lady wife that the fourth course could be served.

Compared with the first three courses, the fourth one – the actual dessert course – was fairly modest. It consisted of char de crabb, a tart apple pie flavoured with anise, a sweet honey candy called gyngerbrede, and a selection of figs, dates, cantaloupes and various nuts, both from the local and the oriental variety.

The feast then went on, deep into the night, with more wine and more music. The tumblers and fire-breathers retuned to entertain the noble guests, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Only the Lady Olwen begged for excuse after a while, for young Prince Imrahil needed to go to bed. Of her daughters, Finduilas chose to stay with her father, while Ivriniel returned to her chambers to make plans for the following day.

The hymn in English, by Tolkien himself, as it can be found in “The Lost Road”, P 79:

The Father made the World for Elves and Mortals, and he gave it into the hands of the Lords. They are in the West. They are holy, blessed, and beloved: save the dark one. He is fallen. Melko has gone from Earth: it is good. For Elves they made the Moon, but for Men the red Sun: which are beautiful. To all they gave in measure the gifts of Ilúvatar. The World is fair, the sky, the seas, the earth, and that is in them. Lovely is Númenor. But my heart resteth not here for ever; for here is ending, and there will be and end and the Fading, when all is counted, and all numbered at last, but yet it will not be enough. Not enough. What will the Father, o Father, give me in that day beyond the end when my Sun faileth?

The opening and closing lines as given in this chapter have been updated to the Quenya spoken in the Third Age by Fiondil, whom I owe my gratitude.

Author’s notes: Denethor married Finduilas in 2876 T.A, about eight years after the discussion in this chapter.

Ullubôz is the supposed Valarin form of the name Ulmo. I used it here because it is closer to the hypothetical Adûnaic version than the Quenya form – at least visually. Ošošai is, of course, Valarin for Ossë, ad is used for the same reason.

Having left the King’s House, the minstrel Belzagar headed to the nearby Merchant District, where he enjoyed the hospitality of Master Falassion, a rich silk merchant with Umbari roots, for the time of his stay in Pelargir.

That Master Falassion happened to be a maternal uncle of Lady Avradî, Second Consul Manwendil’s wife, was a fact largely unknown in Pelargir. That he also happened to be the focus and centre of the Umbari network of spies operating in Pelargir was, at the very least, suspected by Lord Lorindol’s own spymaster, but there could never be found any proof. His occupation as a merchant of luxury items – he also dealt in rare spices and oils – covered a great deal of activities; and it enabled him to travel across Gondor, from fair to fair, as long as he did not openly break any Gondorian laws.

His townhouse, built in southern fashion around a central garden, showed clearly his wealth and importance. But while it seemed not to differ that much from the other rich merchant houses on the outside, within it was a small fortress, with an impressive number of armed guards, fortifications along the outer walls and secret escape tunnels in the basement that led directly to the harbour, to the great Roofed Market of the town and to his warehouses along the riverside, respectively.

The Master of this fine house was waiting for the return of the minstrel with the patience of a spider sitting in the centre of its web. Not alone, though. He was accompanied by Captain Atanalcar. The admiral of the Umbari fleet was wearing the typical floor-length, widely cut, colourful woollen kafthan of a Haradri merchant that could hide a great many things beneath its heavy folds. In this case, a mail shirt and numerous weapons. The wide hood of the kafthan was tossed back, as there was no need to hide his face in the house of a trusted ally. Underneath, he wore his long, ink-black hair down, instead of the usual barbaric pomp, topped with a masterfully wrapped white turban.

Master Falassion himself was clad in the usual fashion of Pelargir: in a sleeveless blue surcoat over a teal tunic that had reached to mid-calf and was embroidered with a wavy pattern in silver and green. He was a tall man of old Dúnadan stock, more than thrice the Umbari admiral’s age and grown a bit heavy under the weight of his years, but his eyes were still sharp and his wits still keen. Married from his own circles, yet childless like too many Umbari nobles, he saw it as his last important task to help First Consul Herucalmo’s wedding plans for his son and heir to success.

When the minstrel was led in, both men turned to him expectantly. He had been sent to sing on the feast with express orders to gather information, after all.

The minstrel nodded. “Yes, my lord, they both attended. Princess Finduilas, the younger one, even remained with her father, the Steward and the Ciryatur when her mother and sister retired, or so the servants say. ‘Tis said that she has a keen interest in the affairs of the Realm.”

“That sounds promising,” said Master Falassion. “Tis thought that the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth intend to re-forge their alliance by marrying their children to each other; that is why their current meeting was called for. In which case we can assume that the Steward’s Heir will wed Adrahil’s firstborn.”

“That might be the plan,” agreed the minstrel, “but Lord Denethor seemed to be more taken with Princess Finduilas, if the signs at the feast have not deceived me; and he does not strike me as a man who would rethink his choice in such matters.”

“I doubt that you would be mistaken,” said the merchant. “You were sent to the feast because of your excellent judgement of people’s heart; if you say Denethor has taken an interest in the younger princess, then it would be so.”

“Why would we care anyway?” asked Captain Atanalcar with a shrug. “Either princess would do for young Lord Caliondo.”

“True,” allowed Master Falassion. “But if we make the mistake of taking the chosen bride of the Steward’s Heir, we shall have more than just the enraged father to deal with. Nay; we shall wait until Denethor makes his choice and make our move accordingly.”

“That could take a long time,” protested Captain Atanalcar. “I cannot be away from the Fleet indeterminedly.”

“You shall not have,” replied the merchant. “The Steward cannot do so, either. Nay; we shall have our answer before the end of the week, of that I am certain. Until then, we must work out the details of our plan.”

“Very well. I can wait another two days. After that, we must make our move, whether it is convenient or not.”

Less than a day later, the mightiest men and women of Gondor were having a similar discussion in the King’s House.

“This is a plan towards which Prince Angelimir and I have worked for years,” said the Steward with emphasis. “The blood of Westernesse has been diluted in the South; and as we know very little about our northern brethren, connections to what was once Arnor being sparse as they are, the best we can do is to unite our two bloodlines in marriage. We cannot look any higher for a suitable bride for my heir than the House of Dol Amroth. Not even Eorl’s House would suffice. Thengel’s daughters may have the blood of Morwen of Lossarnach in their veins, but they are not of royal stock from their mother’s side”

“And even if they were, people would still see them as the daughters of a barbaric Northman,” added the Lady Eledhwen grimly. “Nay; Denethor needs a bride whose ancestry rivals that of his own. ‘Til the return of the King, ‘tis the House of Húrin that must hold up the standard in everything.”

Prince Adrahil nodded in agreement. “My father discussed this with us in great length, and we concur. I must admit that the age difference worried me at first; but ‘tis said that the blood of Númenor runs true and deep in Lord Denethor. Therefore he and Ivriniel can hope for many long and fertile years together.”

Everyone looked expectantly at the Steward’s heir. There was little doubt that he would give his consent. Denethor son of Ecthelion was a man in his prime, known for his wisdom and devoted to the good of Gondor. Nor did this suggestion come unexpected for him, having served as his father’s chief counsellor for a decade or more already.

“I regret to crush your hopes, Father, my Lord Prince,” he said in his deep, beautiful voice, “but I shall not wed Princess Ivriniel. Not now, not later – not ever.”

The mightiest lords and ladies of the South-kingdom stared at him thunderstruck, shaken to the bone. Ere they could start protesting, though, he raised a long, elegant hand, signalling that he had something else to say yet.

“However, as I am aware of the importance of such a bond between our two lines, I will gladly take Princess Finduilas as my wife,” he continued. “For she is the one who touched my heart on the very day when she was first presented to the court; and I have loved and admired her from afar ever since.”

“Impossible!” cried Lady Olwen of Dol Amroth in great distress. “Finduilas is barely more than a child; she is not ready for married life yet!”

“Then I shall wait until she is ready,” answered Denethor simply. “I have the time and the patience. But it shall be her or no-one else.”

“Why would it be? Remember, beloved, we were not much older when we bound than Finduilas is now; and between her and Ivriniel there are only three years. They would both be child brides, if that is what concerns you; and the age difference would be considerable in any case.”

“True; but Ivriniel has the strength to support the future Steward in ruling the Realm,” said Lady Olwen.

“And you believe Finduilas has not?” asked the Lady Faelivrin in surprise. “Forgive me, but I think you are mistaken. She has shown keen enough interest for the affairs of the Realm just last night; and her gentleness would complement my brother’s stern nature most pleasantly. She might not have Ivriniel’s iron will and whipcord strength; but I believe she can wear out anyone, with the same deceiving mildness as the water washes out the stone.”

Lady Olwen turned to her husband in helpless despair. “Adrahil, you cannot be truly considering this! She is our baby girl, our little mermaid; she would waste away in that city of stone!”

Prince Adrahil sighed. “Beloved, you know as well as I do that we need this alliance. Both our Houses need it; Gondor needs it! And if Lord Denethor as lost his heart to one of our daughters, would that not be better for both of them than spending fifty or more years in a loveless marriage, just for the good of Gondor?”

Lady Olwen shook her head. “But she is young, much too young! She has just reached the age when a maiden of her status begins to learn her place in the world. She is not like Ivriniel who always had it so urgent to grow up.”

“Which is why we shall not have this wedding for years to come yet,” said Prince Adrahil. “Lord Denethor agreed to wait ‘til our little one is ready to shoulder the burden of becoming the Steward’s wife.”

“How can you be certain that she ever will?” demanded Lady Olwen. “Why would she want to do so? ‘Twas always understood that Ivriniel would be the one to enter a dynastic marriage if needs must be. She has been prepared to do so all her life. Finduilas has not.”

“Are you certain about that, my lady?” asked the Steward. “The young princess appeared to me last night as someone who is willing and able to fill such an important role in the White City. Why do we not ask her if that is what she truly wants?”

“You want to blind her with the false glory of power and courtly life!” answered Lady Olwen bitterly. “She is young; she can easily be misled by such things.”

“Nay, I do not think so,” said Lady Eledhwen. “Methinks you do not know your daughter half as well as you believe, Olwen. She is not the guileless child or the fragile glower you seem to want her to be; she has strength and she has wisdom rarely seen in someone this young. I agree that she would need time to prepare herself for such a heavy burden; but I firmly believe that her shoulders will prove strong enough to bear it.”

“My father is right,” said Lady Faelivrin. “We should ask the princess herself. ‘Til she says either aye or nay, this argument is pointless.”

Ecthelion nodded. “With Prince Adrahil’s consent, I believe we should do it right away.”

“That would be the best,” Adrahil agreed, and a page was called in and sent on his way to fetch the younger princess.

A short time later the page returned, accompanied by both princesses, who were wearing identical raiment: pale blue bliauts over soft grey undergowns. Finduilas had her hair braided and coiled and held together by a silver net, while Ivriniel’s was flowing down her back freely, bound only by a thing gold circlet that bound her high brow.

There was very little actual likeness between the two of them, save for their regal bearing, but one could feel how fiercely protective Ivriniel was towards her younger sister. Protective enough to accompany her before the Steward’s presence, even though she had not been invited herself.

They both curtseyed before the Steward as nobly born ladies were taught from a tender age on, and then Finduilas said simply:

Ecthelion nodded. “Yea, I have, daughter. I assume you both know of the reason for our meeting here; in Pelargir, I mean.”

“Indeed we do, my Lord Steward,” said the younger princess, a little surprised. “For three years, negotiations between you and our grandfather have been going on, to have my sister and your heir wedded, for the good of Gondor and Dol Amroth. ‘Tis no secret. But what do I have to do with that?”

“More than you might believe,” replied her father in the Steward’s stead. “It seems that there will have to be a change in our plans. Lord Denethor has just announced that he does not want to wed Ivriniel, after all. He wants you as his future bride.”

To say that the princesses were shocked beyond belief by that would have been the understatement of the Age. Both became stark white, and for a moment it seemed as if they would both faint. However, while Finduilas was clearly frightened by the news, all Ivriniel’s beautiful face mirrored was cold fury.

When the moment of shock passed, she whirled around and glared at Denethor with a look that could have frozen Mount Doom over.

“You miserable spawn of a fatherless Orc,” she hissed, and everyone was startled by the venom in her voice; not to mention by the choice of her words that no-one would have expected from a gently bred lady, even less so from a princess. “How do you dare to take from me the only purpose I had left?”

Ivriniel ignored her, turning the full onslaught of her wrath against the Steward’s heir who, frankly, looked a little pale himself.

“Eighteen years,” she said in a cold, measure voice that was more frightening than if she had been screaming. “Eighteen years have I spent preparing to become the Ruling Princess of Dol Amroth. We still live under Númenóren law, I was told over and over again, which supposedly meant that the firstborn child would follow my father, whether a son or a daughter. I accepted my role and I was ready. Oh, I was more than ready. Then it seemed that my brother would live after all, and Father and Grandfather could not back off quickly enough. We have to adapt to the laws of Gondor, I was told all of a sudden, and ere I knew what was happening, a ten-year-old boy was named as Grandfather’s heir. Your studies shall not be wasted, they told me. They would be a great advantage if – when! – you married the Steward’s heir. You shall be a great help and support for him. And now I am being cast away like some useless tool just because he fell for the pretty eyes of my sister? How is that fair towards me?”

Said pretty eyes, dark like their mother’s, were rapidly filling with tears of distress.

“Sister, I never wished to take your place,” protested Finduilas. Ivriniel kissed her on the brow.

“I know, little one. ‘Tis not your fault, and I blame you not. You are just a piece in this board game like I am. But I do blame you, Father,” she turned to Prince Adrahil, her voice becoming icy again, “for using me and discarding me without a thought when my usefulness for your plans have ended. What am I supposed to do with my life, now that I no longer have any use for Dol Amroth? Do you expect me to shut myself away into the topmost chamber of some remote tower in the Castle and do embroidery until I grow blind from it? Am I a princess of Imrazôr’s House or am I a serving wench?”

She turned to Lady Olwen, without giving her father the chance to give an answer… not that he seemed to have one.

“And you, Mother, you are just sitting there, watching as I am stripped from the purpose of my life again? I have expected better from you.”

“I have tried, Ivriniel,” answered Lady Olwen dejectedly. “Believe me, I have tried. But they were all against me, and I got outvoted.”

“Of course,” said Ivriniel bitterly. “After all, I am but a woman. My purpose is to serve the needs of the men; and once I am no longer needed, I must quietly vanish in the shadows, so that I would not become a nuisance.”

She balled her fists, fighting back her fury with all her might. ‘Twas a truly frightening sight.

“If I were a man, I would break your nose,” she then said to Denethor. “Be grateful that I am but a woman who has no other choice than to accept your despicable acts. But if I were you, I would avoid me like the plague for the rest of our lives. I do not take betrayal kindly.”

“Ivriniel,” Prince Adrahil intervened sternly. “You forget whom you are talking to.”

“Nay, Father, I do not,” returned Ivriniel coldly. “I remember all too well who it was who betrayed me, not only once but twice. That would be you, would it not? You and Grandfather have robbed me of my birthright in favour of Imrahil; and now you are more than willing to discard me on my sister’s behalf. I might have forgiven you for the first betrayal in time, though truly, how does it make you any different from King Ar-Pharazôn who broke the hereditary laws of Númenor, so that he could become King. But I shall never, ever forgive you for your second betrayal. For it has made my entire life meaningless.”

“Ivriniel,” her mother tried to soothe her. “’Twas not your father’s decision. Lord Denethor would not have any-one but Finduilas. And this alliance is needed, on both sides.”

“So why is he entitled to get what – or whom – he desires, why I get thrown onto the dung heap?” demanded Ivriniel. “Because he is a man? Because Gondor has lowered itself to the customs of the lesser people that give men the right to have everything they want and expect women to serve their whims? Where is the difference, then, between the oh-so enlightened ways of Westernesse and the darkness in which the Old Folk has lived since the dawn of Time?”

“That is quite enough now, Ivriniel,” her father intervened again. “You have said your piece; that should suffice. I understand that you are disappointed, but…”

“Nay, you do not understand a thing,” she interrupted. “You have no idea how I feel. You believe I am insulted, just because a man chose my sister over me? You could not be more wrong. I never had any interest in his person. I accepted the necessity of wedding him, so that I can do what I was born and raised for; because as a woman, I had no other way to that purpose. You, Father, ensured that when you made Imrahil your heir. You took me everything I have lived for, and now you are allowing my only other chance to be taken away. What kind of father are you? I am no longer your daughter; and I shall never speak with you again.”

She whirled around and stormed out of the Lesser Hall, without as much as a backward glance at the gathered nobility. Steward Ecthelion looked after her in concern; then at his heir with mild accusation.

“I hope you know what you are doing, ion nîn. For this is not good, and it could lead to great trouble yet.”

“If that is so, I regret it,” answered Denethor simply. “But I shall not take any other woman to my wife than Princess Finduilas. Even if the Lady of the Golden Wood came and offered me the hand of her daughter, I would refuse,” he glanced at Finduilas briefly. “Understand this, Princess: if you refuse me on your sister’s behalf, which I hope you will not, I would still not wed her.”

“Oh, I do understand that; I am no fool,” replied Finduilas coldly. “I am just not certain that I would want to bind myself to a man who treated my sister so cruelly.”

“For the good of Gondor, I beg you to reconsider, daughter,” said the Steward quietly.

“So, both my sister and I are supposed to give up whatever we wanted from our life for the good of the Realm, but the same sacrifice is not expected from Lord Denethor? That hardly sounds fair, my Lord Steward. ‘Tis something I shall have to think about long and hard; for I for myself never intended to leave the shores of the Sea.”

“Then think about it,” said the Steward, “but we shall need an answer, soon. The people of Gondor need the reassurance that the House of Húrin shall continue. We are all they have – until the King may return.”

“I regret that I shall have to make the good people of Gondor wait a little longer,” replied Finduilas icily, “yet that cannot be helped. ‘Tis not something I can decide at a whim; unlike my sister, I have not prepared myself for such a burden all my life. Therefore, you shall have to be patient, my Lord Steward… or find another bride for your heir if you are in such a hurry to finally see him wedded and bedded.”

Her sharp words shocked the great lords and ladies of the Realm, even more so than the bitter accusations of her sister. At least from Ivriniel, the Prince of Dol Amroth and his lady were used to such merciless remarks; the older princess was taught to deal with recalcitrant nobles if needs must be. This coming from their sweet, mild-mannered younger daughter surprised them, though, and shook them to the bone. No-one would have expected Finduilas to side with her strong-willed sister in such a debate.

She did not wait for her parents – or anyone else present – to recover from their shock, either. Instead, she curtseyed before the Steward with icy politeness and left, without as much as a glance backward.

“Interesting,” commented Master Falassion a few hours later, when the report of his spies planted in the King’s House reached him in his own home. “Most interesting indeed. I have not expected any hindrances in the way of this marriage. It seemed that everything had been arranged years ago.”

“Clearly, no-one had expected the Steward’s heir to fall for the wrong princess,” replied his wife. She, too, came from an ancient Adûnai family that hailed from Umbar but had moved to Pelargir several generations earlier, and she, too, had a keen interest in the matters of the Realm.

“At least we know which princess to take. Young Lord Caliondo loves a good challenge; and persuading Princess Ivriniel to become his wife will be a challenge. Perchance the greatest challenge of his life.”

“Mayhap so,” his wife allowed. “But mayhap it will be easier than any of us would believe. Surely, she will be enraged about being taken to Umbar against her will. But by becoming the lady of the First Consul’s heir, she will get the chance to rule, for which she was bred and has been prepared all her life. I wish we had more time; in her current mood, she might even come out of her own free will.”

“Alas, time is something we sorely lack at the moment,” said Captain Atanalcar. “We must make our move within two days, so that I can take the princess to Umbar on my ship. ‘Tis the fastest of all; the fleet of Pelargir has nothing that could catch up with her.”

“What about the ship of Dol Amroth?” asked Master Falassion in concern. “’Tis said that their swanships are Elven-made…”

“That might be so, but the one Prince Adrahil came with is a small one, not built for fighting,’ said Atanalcar. “Nay; once the princess is aboard, we are in the better position. The only question is, where and when can we grab her unnoticed. For if the Ciryatur gives the order to close the harbour, we’d have a hard time to break through the blockade. The ships of the Royal Fleet are manned by doughty warriors.”

“There may be a way,” said the mistress of the house. “’Tis an old custom of the House of Dol Amroth to pay the Well of Ullubôz a visit, whenever they come to Pelargir.”

“That would help us… how exactly?” asked Captain Atanalcar. “That is the most sacred place in Pelargir; they say the Power present there is seconded only by another place high above the White City. My forefathers might have been what the Gondorians call the Black Númenóreans, but not even I am foolish enough to raise the wrath of the Lord of Waters. His mighty vassals could destroy our entire fleet effortlessly.”

Master Falassion smiled thinly. “I never imagined that those of mixed blood would fear the Powers this much.”

Atanalcar shrugged. “Every sailor knows that he lives on the sufferance of Ullubôz and his vassals. We may not speak about it, not in these times when Zigûr’s ears and eyes are everywhere, but yea, we all have a healthy fear of the wild Ošošai and his long-tressed spouse, the Lady of the Sea. Which is why I would never be foolish enough to attack someone in Ullubôz’ own sanctum; least of all a daughter of the family that has always stood under the protection of his chief vassals. She is a sea flower, and we must treat her with respect, if we want the First Consul’s plans to work out.”

“In that case,” said the mistress of the house slowly, “perchance we should employ the help of the minstrel again.”

Author’s notes: The idea of the Well of Ulmo has been borrowed from a role-playing site. Its description, though, is entirely mine.The ballad is actually a Tolkien poem titled "The Last Ship" - or rather a few selected verses of it.

To understand who Lirillo truly was, you should read “The Vault of the Dead”.

The Well of Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, the second most sacred place in Gondor, stood in the oldest part of Pelargir: the very one built back in the Second Age. In fact, it had already been there when the first Númenórean ships landed on the southern shores of Middle-earth – and presumably a long time before. The first settlement had been built around the Well, and it had been a place of wassail and meditation ever since.

Originally a natural well of immeasurable depths – and people had tried to measure those depths and failed, again and again – its surroundings had gone through a number of changes as time had gone by. The current fountain – a truly amazing group of marble fish, seahorses and other maritime creatures surrounding a round basin, in the middle of which one of the long-tressed Wingildi, the female spirits of the Sea and the foam of the ocean, was pouring water from a large, twisted seashell back into the basin – had been built during the reign of King Tarannon Falastur, and miraculously remained in perfect shape, save for a bit of moss near the stone-paved ground.

In a distance of roughly twenty feet, a circle of large white standing stones surrounded the well – a memorial of all the Kings, Queens and Princes who had visited Ulmo’s sanctum during the recent Age. Other than that, the Well stood open for any visitors who wanted to pay their respects to the Lord of the Waters.

Princess Ivriniel let her guards behind, outside the circle of standing stones, and they did not argue with her, firmly believing – like just everyone in Pelargir – that Lord Ulmo would protect those who visited his Well. A late daughter of Imrazôr the Númenórean even more so than anyone else, for had not been the Princes of Dol Amroth under his special protection since the very birth of their House?

She walked through between the standing stones from the western direction, wishing nought but to be left alone. She was bitter and resentful; first and foremost at Denethor, who dared to dismiss her blithely, as if she’d been a mere tool rather than a person. But also at the Steward, who had allowed it to happen, and at her own parents, who would willingly sacrifice her destiny in order to save the alliance between the two Houses.

To her utter shame, she even felt anger and resentment towards her own sister, albeit Finduilas was truly innocent in the unfortunate turn of events. It was not her fault that she had caught Denethor's eye. And still, being dismissed because of her little sister stung.

But that was the truly distasteful part of the whole disaster, was it not? That women, even the daughters of a princely House, were not important. That they could be exchanged for each other, regardless of their talents, strengths and dreams.

Ivriniel went to the basin and sat down perched upon its rim, bathing her hand in the cool water. She was not entirely certain why she had come. The Well was not an oracle to give her visions of the future or to answer her questions in any other way. Still, ‘twas said that Lord Ulmo would hear everything that was said near any source of water, and she needed to speak to someone.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked quietly, playing with the tiny waves caused by the water splashing into the basin. “They took me my very purpose. What should I do with my life now?”

“’Tis entirely up to you, daughter of Adrahil,” a voice, soft and musical like falling and flowing waters, answered.

Startled, she looked up, and her gaze fell upon a stall, slender figure standing nearby. At first she thought him to be a male Elf, as he had a pale, fair face, framed by long, unbraided silver hair and dominated by a pair of large, sea-green eyes. Lord Gildor’s people did sail up from Edhellond to Pelargir sometimes, although they usually did not reveal themselves. His clothes – a flowing turquoise robe worn over a tunic of silver-grey, watered silk – would also match the fashion sense of a Sindarin Elf with strong Teleri roots.

But as she looked into those bottomless eyes, she got the impression that he was older than even the oldest Elf in Middle-earth. Much, much older.

“I am not,” he replied calmly. “Although I have come a long way from the White Mountains to speak to you, Princess Ivriniel.”

“How do you know my name?” she demanded. “And why would you want to speak to me?”

“I might have become a lot less than I once used to be, but I can still recognize the progeny of Mithrellas,” he replied with a faint smile. “And I am here to offer you a choice.”

“You have two choices when you leave this place,” he said. “Go back to the western gate, through which you have come, and you will return to the safety of your home. To a slow, uneventful life at your father’s court. Leave through the eastern gate, and you will be heading towards adventure and mortal danger. That way can lead you to untimely death; but it can also lead you to a new destiny. To a chance to turn the fate of Gondor like few women could before.”

“You do not,” he replied simply. “The future is not yet set ins tone. All it can promise you are possibilities. ‘Tis up to you how you use them. All ways can turn good or evil.”

She did not need to ask about the other one. She knew – and despised – those chances all too well. Spending her life as an embittered spinster in suffocating irrelevance at her father’s court; or being married off to a man below her own status who would resent her for standing above him.

“The choice to become what you were born and bred for,” he replied. “But like all great destinies, ‘tis marked by peril. Your rising would mean the fall of others, and they shall not take it kindly. If you leave to the East, you will go to war: to your very own, private war; and there is a chance that you would fight your battles alone.”

“Nay,” he said gravely. “If you choose the eastern way, you will learn what it means to be truly alone.”

She gave him a wary look. “How would you know that? And who are you anyway? You still have not told me your name.”

“I had many names in my long life,” he answered, “none of which would say you much. But you can call me Lirillo, if you want; fort hat is a name I often used in the past.”

“A strange name that rings like the spring rain on the surface of a still lake,” she said. “Yet one I never heard before, although I know more of the great tales and songs of the past than most. Are you an Elf?”

“Nay,” he answered, smiling, “though I have lived among then longer than Gondor has existed. You cannot have heard of me, lady, for my name has been wiped from the Song of Arda, and now ‘tis nought else but a faint echo, barely perceived throughout the long Ages of the world.”

“Once, when the world was still young, my siblings and I were an entwined melody within the Great Music,” he answered. “Now our theme has faded and we have become less than a memory. You, however, must decide, and soon,” he said, ere Ivriniel could have asked him more. “A little more time and your guards will become restless and come to look for you.”

Lirillo looked at her with those large, strangely luminous grey-green eyes as if he could see directly into her heart.

‘Once you pass the eastern gate, you shall receive a sign,” he replied. “Follow the music and it will lead you to your destiny.”

“I believe not. I have already tarried here too long; I am needed back home. You, though, must leave now, one direction or the other, as long as you still have the choice.”

“That is a question I cannot answer,” admitted Lirillo. “I do not see what will come. All I know is that this is your last chance to take your fate into your own hand… and you do not have the time to waste.”

Ivriniel’s heart was torn in two, between the fear of an uncertain future and the burning desire to become the mistress of her own fate. After a short yet vicious inner struggle, the desire for greatness and adventure won, as Lirillo had thought it would. For she had been made for greatness; and to play a crucial role in the history of Gondor.

“I choose to forge my own destiny then,” she announced with quiet pride and, no longer hesitating, left the sacred Well with long, steady strides – through the eastern entrance.

“May the Lord of the Waters and the Lady of the Seas protect and guide you on your chosen path,” he murmured, ere fading away in the last moment. Projecting his own image across such a great distance had taken its toll.

When the worried guards finally came to look for their princess, the circle of the Well was quiet and empty.

The eastern gate of Ulmo’s sacred place opened to one of the many roads leading to the harbour. This one led directly to the ancient haven, which had once housed the Royal Fleet. Now it was simply one of the places where the merchant ships from the South moored, and Ivriniel wondered how she was supposed to find her destiny here, of all places.

And yet she felt the strong urge to follow that particular road, and she did so, still asking herself what she was doing here.

Until she heard the music, that is. It came from one of the small marketplaces along the road, within earshot of Ulmo’s Well, where only a few spice merchants sold incense for the worshippers. It also served as the meeting place of wandering minstrels, where they could share their songs.

She recognised the melody at once. It was an old, romantic ballad, very popular among young Gondorian ladies¿ the one describing the encounter of Princess Fíriel, daughter and only surviving child of Kind Ondoher, with a shipful of Elves on their way to the Blessed Land.

Thus the minstrel sang, already at the fourth verse of the long ballad. This was a verse Ivriniel always liked very much. Being one of the very few people in these days who ever set foot in Edhellond, the only Elf-haven remaining in the South of Gondor, she happened to know that the description of singing Elves in the ballad was quite accurate.

Could this be the sign Lirillo was talking about? Wondered Ivriniel. A ballad about Elves asking a mortal princess to go with them to the Undying Lands?

She knew, of course, that it was all poetic nonsense. Even if some Elves did choose to bind themselves to a mortal, it was an extremely rare thing, and it never ended well. Her own ancestress had left her mortal family after a while and returned to her kind.

And even if she had not, if she had chosen to Sail, she could never have taken her mortal husband or her children with her. The Olórë Mallë was closed for mortals; and besides, even the desire to walk on that path would have been perilous. After all, had not such desire led to the Downfall of Númenor?

The minstrel’s voice became more distant, as if he had been walking away while singing. Ivriniel quickened her stride involuntarily; she was drawn to that voice, and she wanted to hear the rest of the ballad, quite certain now that it was some sort of sign for her.

The singing came from a shorter distance now: she was catching up with the minstrel. Without truly considering what she was doing, Ivriniel sang with him the next one, Fíriel’s question to the Elves.

And as if he had expected her to join the singing, the minstrel answered for the Elven boatmen:

Barely had he finished the verse when Ivriniel caught up with him on another small square with a fountain in the middle, wrought like a fish standing on its head. She was not truly surprised when she recognised him.

“Princess Ivriniel,” Belzagar of Umbar handed the harp to his young slave and bowed deeply in Southron fashion. “So we meet again.”

“You do not appear surprised, Master Belzagar,” she replied, and he bowed deeply again.

“Now you are going to a long journey, my lady,” he answered, taking her hand to kiss it.

She never noticed the thin needle hidden in his ring prickle. She just swayed into his arm, deeply asleep.

“Quickly!” hissed the minstrel to the two men clad like simple Haradri merchants who came forth from the shadow of the fountain in a great hurry. “Roll her into that rug and off with you to the ship. We must leave as soon as possible, or we can all give up on our lives!”

The two Umbari boatmen, disguised as Haradri merchants, acted quickly and with great skill. Moments later the square was empty again, and Captain Atanalcar’s ship ready to set sail for home.

The news that Princess Ivriniel had vanished from Ulmo’s sanctum caused great uproar in the King’s House, of course. Lady Olwen was beside herself, alternately crying her heart out and accusing everyone for the loss of her daughter, beginning with her own husband through the Steward himself to Lord Lorindol, his wife, Lady Eledhwen and, first and foremost, Denethor. After much fuss, she firmly settled on the thought that Ivriniel had sought death over her bitter disappointment.

“Nay, Mother, you are wrong,” said Finduilas equally firmly. “Ivriniel is stronger than that. She would never throw her life away; she would find something else to live for, even if it were hard. She never backed off from a task, no matter how burdensome.”

“What do you think might have happened to her?” asked Prince Adrahil in concern.

Finduilas shrugged. “I believe she has been taken. For ransom, most likely; everyone knows that you are the wealthiest Lord of Gondor, Father. Albeit there could be other reasons, too.”

“But how could she have been taken from Ulmo’s Well, of all places, without anyone noticing it?” asked Lady Faelivrin. “The place is much frequented by worshippers, and her guards were nearby.”

“Nearby; but not with her,” reminded her Finduilas. “Everyone can be taken without much noise, if the ones doing the taking are fast and skilled. “Tis not always somebody grabbing a screaming, flailing woman and putting her in a sack. There are other methods; and I am fairly certain that the spies of Umbar, who are numerous in this city as we all know – or those of any of the Haradric realms – are familiar with such methods.”

“You believe it was pre-meditated, then?” asked the Steward, and Finduilas nodded.

“Yea, my Lord Steward, I do. Our visit here was long planned; many people knew about it and expected it. Including the spies of the hostile realms, I deem.”

“There is a wealth of truth in your words, Princess Finduilas,” said Lord Lorindol thoughtfully. “I fear, however, that if Umbar is truly behind the abduction of your sister. Then we may already be too late to look for her.”

“I can,” replied the Ciryatur. “In fact, I already have. But by the time my orders reached the harbour master, quite a few ships have already left. Merchant barges, all of them – at least for the naked eye. By some of them, however, it could have been a mere disguise.”

The Ciryatur shrugged. “We can always question Master Falassion, like we always do. Everyone knows that he is the master of all Umbari spies here in Pelargir; we just never could prove anything.”

“Nay; in truth, ‘tis rather convenient. By keeping an eye on him and his house, we can quite well watch the activity of all Umbari spies in the city. According to the latest reports, he was hosting the captain of a Haradri merchant ship in the last couple of days.”

“And that merchant ship just happens to be one of those that left ere the harbour would be closed down,” said Denethor.

“Conveniently, yea. And Master Falassion also happened to be hosting a certain Umbari minstrel during the same couple of days. A minstrel with the impressive knowledge of a lore-master. A minstrel who was last seen near to Ulmo’s Well, at about the same time as Princess Ivriniel went missing.”

“Coincidence?” the Steward asked, doubt clearly written in his noble features.

“Unlikely. All the pieces fit together too well. Nay, this was a carefully planned and well-executed action, and I fear we may never find out what truly happened. Master Falassion is too good at that which he is doing under the disguise of a rich merchant.”

“We may not figure out the how,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth, “yet what about the reason? What can Umbar possibly hope from abducting my daughter? Trying to force an alliance? They must know that neither my father nor I would break our oath of fealty, not even to save a beloved child.”

“They most certainly know that,” said the Steward. “And yet Dol Amroth is the only fiefdom they could consider a potential ally. Your father is an independent monarch; the only Lord of Gondor who is not my subject but my liegeman by choice. They must be desperate if they seek such ways to forge an alliance.”

“But why?“ wondered Prince Adrahil. “Do we know about any major shift of power in Umbar lately?”

“Leadership still seems to be in the same hands it has been for decades. Whatever might have changed, it must be something subtle. Unfortunately, we never succeeded in infiltrating the First Consul’s household. Our best people tried – and were never heard of again. His servants are either loyal to a fault or frightened beyond measure – or both.”

“What shall we do about my daughter, then?” asked Lady Olwen in bitter tears. “I have not heard of a plan yet to get her back.”

“There is little we can do, my lady, save for waiting for a ransom letter,” said the Ciryatur grimly.

“Then, I fear, you must consider your daughter lost,” answered Lord Lorindol. “Oh, we shall search all the ships still in the harbour. We shall search all the streets leading from and to Ulmo’s Well. We shall even question Master Falassion, as always. But my heart tells me that it will be in vain. If the Umbari were the ones who took Princess Ivriniel, then she is already beyond our reach.”

There was heavy silence in the room as everyone – especially the Prince of Dol Amroth and his family – tried to accept the inevitable. After an endless moment, Finduilas turned to Denethor and said bitterly:

“Why would it be?” protested Denethor. “Your sister always visits the Well if in Pelargir; everyone knows that!”

“True,” she answered coldly. “But if not for you, she would not have gone alone.”

On the same day – and in the following days – the Ciryatur indeed had alls hips in the harbour searched. As expected, his men found nothing. The servants of Prince Adrahil went through the streets leading from and to Ulmo’s Well with the fine-toothed comb, looking for any sign for the princess; especially the one leading to the harbour.

There, at least, they found something: one of Princess Ivriniel’s handkerchiefs,- a pale green piece of finest Khandian silk, with her initials stitched in one corner with silver thread – on a small square, near a fish-shaped fountain.

But the other one just shrugged. “Unless the kerchief was stolen and the thief lost it during his flight.”

“Unlikely,” the third one argued. “Why steal a kerchief when the princess was wearing enough jewellery to make any thief rich? Nay; mark my words: our lady was here. Mayhap this is the very place where they grabbed her, ere taking her to a ship.”

“There is no sign for a struggle, though,” said the first one. “She must have been caught by surprise.”

“Unless she went with them – whoever they were – quite willingly,” replied the second one grimly.

“Impossible,” said Prince Adrahil promptly when his servants returned to the King’s House to report what they had found. “My daughter would never go willingly with those who intend to take her; why would she do such thing? It makes no sense.”

“I shan’t be so certain about that, Ada,” said Finduilas. “I believe she would go, if doing so promised her a higher purpose; one she no longer has here. However, I do not think that is what happened.”

“Why not?” asked the Steward, realising that the princess knew her sister much better than anyone else. Even their parents.

‘Twas not truly surprising, of course. They were close age-wise; and apparently close in every other way.

“My sister would not do so without weighing all arguments for and against going carefully first,” explained Finduilas. “Clearly, there was no time for that; therefore she did not go willingly. She was taught – we both were taught – not to act at a whim of the heart. Which means, unless one of the Powers appeared to her at the Well and told her to go, she was taken against her will.”

They knew indeed. The Powers had not meddled directly with the affairs of Middle-earth since the Downfall of Númenor. Finduilas nodded.

“That is, sadly true,” she agreed; then she turned to Denethor. “And thus I give you the chance to redeem yourself, my lord. You want me to become your wife? Very well, I will; on one condition.”

“Bring me my sister back,” replied Finduilas, “and I shall wed you on that very day.”

And while the Steward’s heir was still muted by shock, thirteen-year-old Imrahil chimed in.

Author’s notes: Ósanwë means mind-to-mind communication aka telepathy. Originally only the High Elves were considered to be capable of such thing; I took the poetic licence to allow the ruling family of Dol Amroth to share the ability.

Acknowledgements: My heartfelt thanks to Thorsten Renk and BJ Ward whose diligent work on Adûnaic enabled me to give this story a bit more background – and to Fiondil who helped me to find the right sources and christened Atanalcar’s flagship. My thanks also to my wonderful beta, Linda Hoyland, who wrestled the grammar into a shape bearable by native speakers.

The ship itself was inspired by Roger Garland’s painting, “The Havens of Moriondë”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter 05 – The Journey of the Sea-Conqueror

Ivriniel woke up to the familiar feeling of a ship dancing on the waves that rocked it like a cradle. Being a true daughter of the Sea, she always found the movements of a ship quite soothing and felt pity for those unfortunates who became sea-sick from it. Her happiest memories were of the times she had spent on the Sea with her father, while she had still been considered the heir to the sceptre.

But as soon as she opened her eyes, she knew that she was not on board one of the Dol Amroth swanships… and not only because of the size and the luxurious furnishings of the cabin in which she found herself. It was clearly the stern cabin, as it had three square windows that looked out on the swirling water astern. Low, cushioned benches round along three sides of a table and a silver lamp swung overhead slowly, following the rhythm of their travel.

Silver? No, it was actually mithril, she realised at second sight, and most likely Dwarven work, judged by its exquisite delicacy.

The ships of Dol Amroth – with the exception of the merchant barges – were clinker-built, light and tall; built in Elf-fashion, for speed above everything else, and relied almost entirely on their square-rigged sails for propulsion. They had two masts (the smaller ones just one) and could outrun every other vessel on the Sea, save for the genuine Elven ships of Edhellond.

This ship, however… she could not see much of it through the small, heavily curtained windows of the cabin, but it seemed much larger than the ones she was used to. The oriental flair of the cabin’s furnishings made her think of a Corsair ship; but not one of the clumsy coastal drifters, for certain. No, this vessel had been built by a shipwright whose skills matched those of the Elven boat-makers. She could feel the speed with which it swept across the waves.

She sat up on the flat, unfamiliar bed – it was like those low, broad cots the Haradrim called a diwan – and tried to remember how she had got herself on a ship… and a foreign one at that, apparently. How had she ended up here – and why? Looking for any signs that could explain it, she turned to the right, where a mirror was embedded into the cabin wall to check her appearance, in the hope that she would find some clues that way.

She was still wearing the simple green bliaut and the hooded grey pilgrim’s cloak in which she had visited Ulmo’s Well, although they looked creased and even soiled with dirt and sea water here and there, proving that she had not boarded the ship of her own volition. There were small puffs of dust in her hair and on her cloak, too, as if she had been rolling on the floor of some poorly swept warehouse – which she definitely had not. Not since the age of three anyway.

There was only one explanation for the foreign place and her desolate state: she had been abducted. But who would dare to do that to a Princess of Dol Amroth? Although she was no longer was the heiress apparent, even the most evil – or foolish – men would think twice about risking the wrath of old Prince Angelimir, who had the reputation of dealing with everyone who would threaten his family with a swift and merciless reprisal.

Besides, no longer being her grandsire’s heiress or the intended wife of the future Steward of Gondor, what use would she be for anyone?

Unless… Lirillo, whoever he might have been, promised her a great destiny if she left the Well through the eastern gate, albeit one clouded by mortal peril. And she had left through that gate, seeking out the promised adventure, following the voice of that Umbari minstrel…

Oh, of course! Now she could remember. The singing, the brief conversation with the minstrel who foretold a long journey, then the faint, barely perceivable prick of a needle as he had bowed over her hand to kiss it…

She had been poisoned. That son of a faithless Orc had given her some obscure Southron poison, which caused her to fall asleep instantly, so that they could bring her to this ship. There were always dozens of merchant ships from Umbar and from the Haradric realms in the Haven of Pelargir. No-one would have noticed some Southron boatmen carrying a sack… or a rolled-up rug from the desert realms. That was a scenario that happened all the time in the docks where the traders loaded their wares in and out.

By the time her guards became worried and started looking for her, the ship had most likely left the harbour. By now, they were perchance halfway across the Bay of Belfalas already. Not even the marvellously fast Elven ships of Edhellond could catch up with them anymore, even if she had the means to call on Lord Gildor’s help. Unfortunately, her modest powers of using ósanwë would be useless by that distance.

But did he truly want the coldly handsome Elf-lord, the friend of protector of all her forefathers to come to her rescue? Had she not chosen the way that – according to Lirillo – would lead her through great peril, but also to a great destiny?

The most important question was: where were her abductors planning to take her? Umbar seemed the most logical answer – but not the only one. That treacherous minstrel could have acted on behalf of any stronger Haradric realm. The lords of both Bakshir and Zipangu were powerful enough to arrange something like this. Even more so was Kambaluk, at least in theory; but Kambaluk had no shared border with Gondor and therefore no immediate use of a royal hostage.

Well, sooner or later she would find her answers. They could not keep her in this cabin for the entire length of the journey; not if they wanted her to arrive healthy and alive, wherever they were heading. And once she was allowed to step out onto the deck, one glance at the ship itself would reveal to her where it had been built. She knew her ships and the way around them as well – or probably even better – as her little brother.

As if answering her thoughts, there was a firm yet polite knock on the cabin door. A gesture ridiculous in itself, seeing that she was a prisoner, but it showed respect. Curious.

“Enter,” she said in Westron. No need to reveal that she spoke Adûnaic fluently.

The door opened and in came a tall, wiry man whose ink-black braids were knotted together on top of his head in a manner that was considered the fashion of the Corsairs of Umbar… although the Corsairs were not the only ones wearing it, as it was eminently practical on board of any ship. The garb of the man, though, made of fine linen, revealed him as somebody of considerable rank and wealth. He had a hawkish profile and piercing black eyes; his deeply tanned skin also marked him as a seaman.

“Greetings, Princess Ivriniel,” he said in his deep voice, roughened by the long exposure to the salty air and the winds, and inclined his head in a respectful nod. “I apologise for the means we were forced to bring you aboard my ship. I am Captain Atanalcar. I command this vessel and would like to welcome you on board, despite the unfortunate circumstances.”

He spoke a slightly accented yet flawless Westron, and though his colouring and sharp features spoke of desert blood, there could be no doubt of his Dúnadan heritage; nor of the fact that he was a well-bred and well-educated man. Umbar, then. The only realm where sons of mixed blood could rise in the ranks as far as their personal abilities allowed. His name – and ancient Númenórean one – also clearly showed that he was no mere Corsair.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Captain,” replied Ivriniel politely, as if being abducted from the street had been something she were used to. One did not show fear when facing one’s jailor. “However, I could value it more, had I been invited first.”

“I certainly understand that, my lady,” he said. “I very much doubt that we could have persuaded you to come with us voluntarily, though, and circumstances forced us to act quickly.”

“Oh? And what circumstances, pray tell, would those be?” she asked, fairly sure that she would not get an answer; not yet.

“I fear I am not at liberty to discuss them,” answered the captain apologetically. “Not at this time anyway. Once we reach our destination, however, my lords shall explain everything to you. I can promise you that much.”

“Our destination,” she repeated slowly. “That would be Umbar, would it not? You may have some Haradri blood, by your looks, but you do not appear like a desert chieftain to me.”

Atanalcar nodded. “Quite so, my lady. I am the Captain of the Haven of Umbar and have command over our entire Fleet.”

“You do not mean the merchant fleet, I presume,” she said with a cold little smile.

The Umbari returned the smile with a similar one of his own. “Nay, my lady, I do not.”

The power structure of Umbar’s ruling class was well known in Dol Amroth, of course, as it had not changed much during the Third Age. Therefore, she knew that the man she was currently facing had to be the most powerful person of the realm, next to the two consuls. In wartime, when the fate of Umbar depended on the strength and battle skills of its Fleet, the admiral of the Fleet could even rise to the highest power.

Which could only mean one thing: her abduction must have been pre-meditated and ordered by the consuls themselves. This had to be a far-reaching plan with the potential of changing the fate of both, Umbar and Gondor.

“As I said, my lady, I am not entitled to say more about this. But I wish to assure you: you are an honoured guest on my ship, not a prisoner.”

Atanalcar grinned wolfishly. “I fear I cannot allow it at this time, my lady.”

“In that case I am a prisoner, even if my cage is gilded,” returned Ivriniel calmly. “Do not tell me white lies, Captain. I can endure being a prisoner. I can endure more than you would possibly believe. But I shall not have you lie to me. I was raised to become the heir apparent to the Prince of Dol Amroth; I deserve the truth. If you truly respect me as much as you pretend, you will tell me the truth… or not speak to me at all.”

The captain bowed. “As you wish, my lady. Nonetheless, I do consider you as my honoured guest, and if you give me your word that you will not try to flee or to throw yourself into the Sea in a gesture of defiance, I shall allow you to roam freely aboard my ship.”

Ivriniel considered her options for a moment. Getting to know the ship could be an advantage; one that would do her little immediate good, though, if she promised not to use it during their journey. However, it might prove useful later; and besides, she longed for the salty air of the Sea so much that it hurt. She doubted that she would be able to spend the journey shut into this cabin all the time without becoming ill.

“Very well,” she said. “But my promise is only valid until we reach our destination.”

Atanalcar bowed again. “Of course, my lady. I am relieved that we have come to an understanding. Your maid will be with you shortly.”

The promised maid turned out to be a very young Umbari girl of twelve or thirteen years of age at most and bore the name Nithil, meaning simply girl in Adûnaic. She was clearly of Dúnadan stock, being tall for her age, slender, dark-haired and grey-eyed. She spoke Westron almost accent-free, was fluent in Adûnaic, of course, and even knew a little Sindarin, to Ivriniel’s surprise.

“I have been trained to serve in a noble house since the age of six,” she explained proudly. “The servants of the great families – especially those of the Consuls – are expected to be well-mannered and well-taught.”

She said no more, instead helping Ivriniel to wash and to put on clean clothes. Those were made in Umbari fashion and sent with the ship for that very purpose. They fit well enough and had obviously been made for a lady of high birth, based on the expensive fabric and the fine embroidery. Ivriniel found them more than acceptable.

Afterwards she was finally allowed to step out onto the deck, and she felt her heart and her lungs expand as she filled her senses with the salty air once again. The weather was especially fair, with a strong wind surging them forward and the waves rushed up to the flank of the ship as if it were a rock.

The ship itself… it was a true marvel. Ivriniel had grown up with the proud swanships of Dol Amroth, even travelled on the sleek Elven boats of Edhellond quite a few times, but none of them could compare with the magnificent vessel on the deck of which she was currently standing.

Ancient legends – forbidden ones, told in hushed tones with hands held before the storytellers’ mouth – said that the Númenóreans of old, in their prime the greatest mariners in the world, surpassing even the Elven shipwrights of Tol Eressëa, had been eager to contrive ships that could rise above the waters of the world and hold to the Upper Seas. They had tested their skills on that agenda – and failed.

What they had contrived instead were ships that would sail in the Air of Breath. And these ships, flying, had also come to the western shores of Middle-earth; and to the far East of the old world, within eyesight of the Gates of Morn. And the peoples dwelling on Middle-earth still would look up with fear and wonder seeing the Númenórean ships descend out of the sky with their black sails and scarlet and gold banners floating over the Sea like the wings of some giant sea birds.

Ivriniel knew, of course, that those legends were just that: legends. But she could well understand the fear and wonder of the simple folk, seeing those mighty vessels approach their shores, riding the high waves safely. It had to seem to them as if they had been flying in the air indeed.

And now, standing upon a worthy descendant of those legendary ships, she could understand it even better.

The ship was carvel-built and triple-masted like the great merchant vessels of old that had been called carrack or nau; and like those, presumably capable of sailing the open Sea. It had a high-rounded stern with large aftercastle, forecastle and bowsprit at the stem. The black sails, bearing the scarlet and golden emblem of Umbar, were square-rigged on the foremast and mainmast and lateen-rigged on the mizzenmast, enabling it to sail with just about any wind that might rise over the waves.

The prow of the ship was shaped like the horned head and the long, sinuous body of a sea serpent, covered with scale-like adornments of brass that had gained a greenish hue from the sea water surging against it all the time. The lower wooden parts of the prow were gilded and remained bright and gleaming. The slitted eyes of the serpent glittered deep red, being made of rubies, and the two long, sabre-like teeth that almost touched its curved neck must have been wrought of mithril, for they gleamed a flawless silver, defying wind and water.

Although of a more narrow build than a carrack of old, the ship was large enough to be stable in heavy seas and roomy enough to carry great amounts of cargo. Therefore, it could be mistaken for a merchant ship – apparently even by the Harbour Master of Pelargir… a mistake for which the poor man would pay dearly. Lord Lorindol did not take such mistakes kindly.

However, Ivriniel had no doubt that as a rule this vessel transported one type of cargo and one alone: warriors. As she glanced down along the flanks, she spotted the huge, steel-tipped spur just below the prow, well-suited to scuttle enemy vessels, should they have the misfortune to get too close during battle; and the covered slits behind which the bowmen would stand. One might not think, but a proper Númenórean longbow could be used in sea battles very efficiently, given its range.

“She is more than that,” answered a familiar voice, and the minstrel Belzagar, now wearing the simple garb of Umbari mariners, walked up to her. “You are standing on board of the Azruphazgân, my lady, the Sea-conqueror: the flagship of our Fleet. The only ship Azrubêl the Shipwright could finish ere he died, taking the rediscovered secrets of our ancestors with him in the grave.”

The Sea-conqueror! Ivriniel was stunned. She was a legend among seamen; even the Elven mariners of Edhellond spoke of her in awe and respect. Her origins alone were worth a song; and indeed, more than just one song was sung again and again in harbour inns to tell her tale.

‘Twas said that an Umbari boatmaker ~~had~~ found some forgotten records about the art of Númenórean shipbuilding and spent the rest of his life trying to build a ship using their methods. After numerous setbacks, he finally built the Sea-conqueror, Umbar’s joy and pride – and died on the very day the ship first set sail. The records he had studied during his work were never found again.

Ivriniel, always a great lover of the Sea and everything that sailed on the waves, could hardly believe that she was indeed standing on the deck of that legend.

Her amazement, however, did not make her forget that she was a prisoner on this ship of legends; and who was to blame for that fact.

“Master Belzagar,” she said coldly. “I would keep my distance if I were you. I gave Captain Atanalcar my word that I shall not throw myself in the Sea; I said nought about not throwing anyone else overboard. Dishonest minstrels who poison me and have me abducted from the street in particular. And yet you dare to approach me. You must be very brave… or very foolish indeed. I would wager the latter.”

The minstrel gave her a mocking bow. “You believe you could throw me over board, Princess? I beg to differ.”

“Do not tempt me,” replied Ivriniel darkly. “You might be surprised,” she turned back to her maid. “Let us go back to the cabin, Nithil. Suddenly I do not feel like being outside at all.”

She refused to leave the cabin for the rest of their journey, except for short walks on the upper deck in the evening.

Fortunately, as she knew from her studies, the journey between Pelargir and Umbar was not a long one; even less so travelling on the Sea. All they had to do was to manoeuvre carefully around the treacherous waters surrounding the Isle of Tolfalas, and then they could simply sail southwards along the coastline, passing by the new empty and barren lands of South Gondor… lands that had always been much fought for between Gondor and the Haradric realms.

Even if Captain Atanalcar was wary enough not to come within sight of the coasts, it should have been smooth sailing as soon as they had left Tolfalas behind them.

But the Bay of Belfalas was known of its sudden killer storms that could shatter the fairest, strongest ships within reach of a safe haven. Those storms rose up without warning and descended upon the Bay like some giant black dragon, made of water and air. Woe the ships that they caught on the open water! Not even the swan-ships of Edhellond could always escape their wrath, although the Elven mariners did have the special protection of Lord Ossë and Lady Uinen.

Therefore the heart of Ivriniel was filled with all too justified dread when she saw – standing on the deck after her evening walk and gazing at the dancing waves, lost in thought– a great rack of clouds building up in the West with amazing speed. She had seen something like that before, more than once, and she knew it meant nothing good.

“Go back to our cabin,” she said to the little maid, “and bolt the door behind you. I shall follow your shortly.”

Nithil was clearly concerned by that order – she was young, not stupid – but she did not dare to argue with the Princess and obeyed hurriedly. There was little she could have done anyway; she could not drag her lady to safety by force.

Ivriniel returned her attention to the black roof of clouds that seemed to close above their heads. It reminded her of Morgoth’s evil temple on Númenor, the silver dome of which had swiftly become black from the smoke that had risen from the altar within, where people – mostly those still faithful to the Valar – had been burned with great recklessness and cruelty. The dome now closing above them might lead to a similar fate; to death by water, though, instead of by fire.

A sudden wind rose up from the way in this very moment and tore a gap into the black dome of clouds, allowing the crimson-red sunset to pour through like spilled blood. The sailors exchanged worried looks, muttering about bad omens in Adûnaic; but again, sailors were always superstitious.

It was much more unsettling that the waves kept towering up behind them, their foam-crested peaks leaning forward as if trying to grab the ship. The Sea took on a dark, dirty green hue, like burned glass, and the water kept heaving and dancing more and more violently. The air grew cold, as it was always the case during the storms of the Bay, despite the fact that it lay so far to the south.

The Sea-Conqueror was buckling uneasily, as if she could feel the danger behind her. Perhaps she could indeed. No-one could tell what the Númenórean ships of old had truly been capable of, and she was the last of the line. Her black sails were flat and limp one moment, yet billowed up to full half-circles in the next, as if she would try to lift off, above the stormy Sea and escape to the upper air.

Ivriniel briefly wondered if she might actually be able to do so in the outmost peril. Perchance there was more truth behind the old legends than one would give them credit for.

As she was observing the signs of a truly awful storm racing towards them, noticing the sinister change that came over the howling of the wind, she heard the deep, rough voice of Captain Atanalcar crying out.

In the next moment she spotted the man himself, in the same drab tunic as his sailors, hanging on to the rail. His men ran frantically to batten down the hatches, to put out the galley fire, to reef the sails. What somebody unused to sailing ships might see as hopeless chaos, Ivriniel’s experienced eyes recognised as the tightly organised work of a well-trained crew that knew exactly what they were doing and wasted no time or manpower on unnecessary things.

Nonetheless, the storm struck them ere they were able to finish their tasks. It appeared to Ivriniel as if a deep valley had opened in the angry green water, right before their bow, and if they were rushing down into it… deeper down than she would have believed possible. A gigantic grey-green wave, far higher than any of the masts, rushed up to meet them. For a moment she believed it would swallow them, as the Sea had swallowed Númenor three millennia ago, yet in the next moment they were tossed to the top of it as if by the hand of some terrible sea giant.

The great warship spun around, dancing on the crest of the wave like a nutshell. A cataract of ice-cold water swept over the deck, swallowing everything but poop and forecastle that stood out of the swirling maelstrom like two tiny islands. The sailors were lying out and along the yard, desperately trying to get control of the sails… and failing. The wind was too strong; the sails seemed to have gained a life of their own, flapping and tugging on the masts, threatening to knock them over.

A broken rope stood out sideways in the wind, as straight and stiff as a poker. Captain Atanalcar staggered across the flooded deck with an axe and hewed it down ere it could have skewered any of his men. It was a miracle that he could still remain on his feet, considering how the floor was heaving under him… and that he still had the presence of mind to spot the Princess in the middle of this chaos.

Ivriniel knew all too well that landsmen – and even more so landswomen – were but a nuisance for any crew in a situation as perilous as they were in right now. But she was not a landswoman. She was the Sea-Flower of Dol Amroth, with the blood of the greatest Númenórean mariners in her veins, and she knew the Sea like few others did.

She had her own ship back home – admittedly, a fragile little toy boat compared with the Sea-Conqueror, but it was Elf-made, and she had sailed along the coast of Belfalas aboard her often enough. Therefore, instead of obeying the captain, she looked around her, assessing their situation with the experienced eye of the sea-farer that she had been from her early childhood.

She had to admit that what she saw was not good. The Sea-Conqueror was leaning heavily to starboard, and the deck sloped like the roof of a house. Even if she had wanted to get below, it might no longer be possible. Still, she tried to get to a better position, clambering to the top of the ladder that led to the upper deck, holding to the rail with all her strength. There she had to stand back and let some of the men climb up. ‘Twas fortunate that she was already holding on tight, though, for at the foot of the ladder another wave surged across the deck, up to her shoulders.

She coughed and spat out in disgust the salty water that had got in her mouth. She was already thoroughly wet from the spray and the rain that had begun falling but moments ago; yet this was colder. Much colder. For a moment she wondered if she was about to catch the lung fever, should they survive the storm after all, but she soon realised that getting ill was the least of her concerns right now.

They were rushing into the combined darkness of wind, rain and whipped-up waves with alarming speed. The ship was creaking and groaning and snapping and clappering under the onslaught of the elements, as if it would fall apart beneath their feet any moment now; and there was a very good possibility that it would happen… and soon.

She was racking her brain to find something she could do to help save the ship; but truly, what could she possibly achieve? These were the best mariners of Umbar, a realm depending almost entirely on its fleet; and this was the best ship ever built since the Fall of Númenor. And she was but a woman. A rather capable one, true, but she could not compare herself with these seamen, neither in strength nor in experience. Was there anything she could do?

Well… mayhap there was. She was the progeny of Imrazôr and Mithrellas, a princess of Númenórean blood and an Elf-friend. She could try to appeal to the Powers, could she not? Her ancestors had been among the Elendili and had sailed back to Middle-earth before the Fall, under the tutelage of Lord Ulmo’s vassals.

It was a vague hope and perchance a foolish one, true. But what could she lose by giving it a try? They were about to drown within moments anyway.

Thus she held onto the rail with both hands, raised her voice as she had been taught to make herself heard even in the middle of a sea battle if she had to, and tried out amongst all the booming and roaring of the storm.

“Is this how Lord Ossë honours his allegiance to the House of Imrazôr the Númenórean?”

She shouted her question in Quenya first, then repeated it in Sindarin, then in Westron, and finally in Adûnaic, so that the sailors could understand, too; and they stared at her in stark terror. Challenging the Lord of the Waves who, in their eyes, was something akin a sea god, counted as foolish at best and as suicidal and blasphemous at worst. They clearly feared that they would all be punished with death for her recklessness and sent together to the bottom of the Sea, with their ship going down with them.And indeed, the towering wave before them began to swell up even higher, as if some enormous sea beast were about to emerge. As they watched, petrified with fear, the surface broke like a tearing canvas and Ossë, the Lord of the Waves, came rolling through the tear as if he were a wave himself, and loomed over the ship, while the waves came to a halt, standing like trembling, shimmering curtains all around the ship.

The Maia towered over them, his head, at least forty feet above the masts, seemed to touch the dome of black clouds. His skin, smooth and glistening somewhere between blue and green like turquoise, seemed almost liquid and the outline of his body appeared to be in constant change, like the waves change their shape constantly. His hair, untamed and white like sea-foam, trailed behind him like a wild crest.

His face, as she glared down at the Princess from huge, slightly slanted eyes, made to see in the darkest depths of the Sea, was fair beyond imagination. Fair enough to make the strong men, used to fight his wrath on the open waters, tremble with fear, even without the expression darkening it.

“Who dares to challenge the Lord of the Waves?” he demanded in a deep voice, deep and rumbling like the melodious echo of a far thunder. The Umbari mariners fell to their knees and covered their faces with their hands, shaking with fear.Ivriniel, though, did not back off one step. She turned her face upward and glared back at the enraged Maia fearlessly.

“It is I, Ivriniel of Dol Amroth, of the blood of Imrazôr the Númenórean, whose ship you helped to a safe harbour a long time ago. You swore eternal friendship to Imrazôr’s progeny on that long-gone day and have held it through all those millennia… ‘til today. So why are you going back on your word now, after all that time?”

"Foolish child!” the voice of the Maia was like a hiss, like that of a sea serpent. “I have promised Imrazôr to protect his progeny, and that is the very thing I am doing now, can you not see it?”

“By sending the most wondrous ship built by Men in the Third age to the bottom of the Sea, with the entire crew and myself on board?” asked Ivriniel dryly. “They have worshipped you all their lives – this is how you repay them?”

Ossë shifted a little, and for a moment Ivriniel though that he would surge over them like a huge wave; then she got the strange feeling as if the fearsome Sea Lord were… embarrassed?

“I would never allow you to come to harm,” he rumbled. “The waves would have washed you ashore in Pelargir again, unharmed.”

“And who says that I want to return to Pelargir?” she asked calmly. “When I visited Ulmo’s Well, I was promised a great destiny; mayhap one shrouded in peril, yet one that could change the fate of Middle-earth. I accepted, and that is why I am aboard this ship right now. I may not have come voluntarily, but my chosen way lies before me, not behind me.”

“That cannot be. No-one of us has been sent to the Well to speak with you, child.”

“Then Lirillo must have come on his own volition,” replied Ivriniel with a shrug. She was shivering in her wet clothes, but she forced herself to ignore it. There was more at stake here than her comfort.

“Lirillo?” repeated Ossë in visible shock; she never thought the Powers could ever sound like that. “You met Lirillo? But he… he was lost, Ages ago!”

“Apparently not as lost as the Powers believed,” said Ivriniel dryly. “And he seems to know a great deal about what might or might not happen in the years that lie before us.”

“He always had the gift to see aforehead,” said Ossë thoughtfully. “Only Lord Námo could see the future even better. You understand, though, that the future is not set in stone? All he can offer you – all any of us can offer you – are possibilities.”

“I know. But ‘tis my choice. And I chose the perilous path instead of wilting safely away in my father’s castle, forgotten and without purpose. Can you still this storm and let us go on our way?”

“’Tis not that simple,” answered Ossë. “I have not summoned this storm; the winds are under the order of Lord Manwë and only he can call them back. All I can do is to keep hold on the waves; but I shall have to release them eventually. You know as well as any mariner that such storms belong to the nature of the Bay of Belfalas. And we are not allowed to go against the laws of nature.”

“But if you release the waves again, we shall all die,” cried Ivriniel in dismay.

“That seems very likely,” he admitted. “But if you are truly determined to remain aboard this vessel, I may be able to do something about that.” And with that, he reached down under the ship, taking it in his huge, watery hands and lifted it from the water.

“I cannot stop the storm for the winds would not listen to me,” he added, lifting them to the upper airs and setting the ship down on the waters-above. “But I can set you off on a safe journey above them. The upper waters shall release you into the Bay of Umbar as soon as the storm is over.”

He trailed his fingers over Ivriniel’s face in a lingering caress – perchance a blessing of some sort – and then he closed his eyes and dropped slowly, silently back into the raging waters. As soon as he did, they felt a great surge from behind the ship, and the Sea-Conqueror bounded forward at great speed, south again on the upper waters above the coast.

Captain Atanalcar stood on the upper deck of his ship, his braids undone and as soaked with salty water as his garb; and he looked around himself in awe. The celestial waves kept surging them forward swiftly, without the help of any winds, for the upper air was calm and undisturbed, and it seemed to him that he only needed to extend his arm to touch the firmament above.

“No-one,” he said hoarsely; then he cleared his throat and began again. “No one will ever believe this.”

“And yet the songs about the only ship that had sailed on the upper waters since the rise of the Star Island shall be sung until the last minstrel looses hold of his harp,” replied Master Belzagar quietly.

He, too, was wearing the drab tunic of the sailors; clearly having tried his best to help save the ship. For Black Númenóreans the Umbari might be called by the people of Gondor, but the Sea was in their blood, like in that of their distant ancestors, and they would all fight to their last breath to save a ship as magnificent as the Sea-Conqueror.

And so it happened that a couple of days later the people of Umbarlond got to see the ancient legends come true. For a great ship with black sails, bearing the golden sign of long-gone Kings, came flying in the air of breath like Ancalagon the Black had once flown in the skies, in the Elder Days, at the end of the War of Wrath; and it descended in a curtain of shimmering rain. And when it finally settled upon the waves of the Bay of Umbar, backlit by the red sunset, the people finally recognised the Sea-Conqueror and their hearts were filled with awe and dread. For no-one had ever seen anything like that before, and no-one had truly believed the legends of old… until now.

And while some of the people saw it as a good omen, a sign sent by the Powers that Umbar might return to its old grace in the not-too-distant future, the ones who had pledged their lives to the service of Agannâlo were dismayed and sent urgent messages to their dark Lord to ask for guidance.

Ivriniel, though, hidden away in her luxurious cabin, allowed herself a moment of weakness and wept, mourning her old life ere she would gather her strength to face the challenges that lay before her.

Sea-Flower

by Soledad

I admit in all honesty that Ivriniel’s encounter with Caliondo was strongly influenced by similar scenes in “Ivanhoe” by Sir Walter Scott. Credit shall be given where credit is due. *g*

My heartfelt thanks to Linda Hoyland for beta reading.

Chapter 06 – First Encounter

Almost complete darkness had fallen over the world when the Sea-Conqueror finally sailed into the harbour of Umbarlond, so that Ivriniel barely caught a glimpse of the ancient, monolithic fortress that stood right at the coast, with the waves breaking against its outer walls. She could not even make out its shape ere both windows of her cabin were shuttered from the outside.

Clearly, they did not want her to gain too detailed knowledge of the place where she was being taken, at least not yet. But she knew for certain that it was Umbarlond. It had to be. Even if her captors intended to mover her even further eastward, to one of the Haradric realms – or Mordor itself – Umbarlond would be the first logical stop. The Umbari might be the enemy but they were no fools. They knew what she was worth as a hostage and treated her accordingly. For now.

As soon as they moored, Captain Atanalcar came to her cabin and – after profuse apologies – had her blindfolded, wrapped into a hooded cloak, and taken from the ship. They did not carry her far, so she assumed that she would be brought into the ancient fortress on the coast. If it would be a short respite on a longer road, she could not tell.

Once inside, she was escorted into a distant and sequestered turret, deep within the castle. There the blindfold and the cloak were removed, and a statuesque middle-aged woman of obvious Dúnadan stock, whose name was apparently Zamîn, showed her into a small chamber that had obviously been fitted up for her temporary convenience. Faded but still beautiful tapestries covered the walls, keeping their coldness at bay, and similar curtains decorated the four-poster bed standing in the middle.

In the window-seat, between the two stone benches, was small, a masterfully-carved table of heavy oak. A wash-stand and a delicate little cabinet for toiletries as well as a large, beautifully-crafted chest meant for clothes completed the meagre furniture in what clearly was supposed to be her prison for the foreseeable future.

The woman Zamîn, with the help of Nithil and an old crone whom they both called Zôri (Although if that was truly her name or she was a nurse indeed, Ivriniel could not figure out just yet) brought a wooden tub into her chamber, filled it with hot water and prepared her a bath. Zôri, who seemed to be an herb mistress of some sort, sprinkled the bath water with dried herbs that, she promised, would bring sweet dreams.

For many a noble lady, such bleak surroundings would have appeared dreadful. But being the firstborn of the Prince of Dol Amroth – and even his heiress for many years – gave her the advantage of having been taught to look beyond little things of no true significance. She could wield the bow and the dagger as well as she could handle the needle, and she had been raised to rule, should the need arise, which meant detailed studies in history, tactical thinking and how to act if captured by the enemy – which seemed to be very much the case.

Apart from a natural strength of Númenórean mind that prepared her to encounter any dangers to which she might be exposed, she was also a strong and observant character… abilities that helped her to asses her present situation with a calm detachment that would have put any Swan Knight to shame.

Ignoring her supper – which consisted of bread, cheese and cold meat anyway, so it could wait – she began inspecting her prison. Soon enough she had to admit that it afforded few hopes, either of escape or of protection. She could find neither a secret passage nor a trap-door, and as she leaned out of the window, she could see in the flickering light of the torches burning on the walls that the turret stood mostly alone, its circular external wall connecting with no other part of the main keep – unless through the door by which she had entered and which she could not see from her vantage point.

The door of her chamber had no inside bolt or bar. The single window opened upon an enclosed space surrounding the turret, but whatever hope she might hope to find there, it was soon dashed – in the moment she realised that it had no direct connection to any other part of the battlement, either. It was some kind of isolated balcony – secured, as usual, by a parapet, with embrasures, at which a few archers might be stationed for defending the turret, and flanking with their shots the wall of the castle on that side.

No, this was definitely not any part of the keep.

There was therefore no hope but in passive fortitude, and in the strong reliance on the weight that her birth and rank carried. That, and Lirillo’s promise that had sent her on this adventurous journey in the first place. A journey that now had reached its first important stop; or perchance its true destination.

She might have been blindfolded while taken from the ship there, but she recognized Númenórean architecture when she saw it – this castle was clearly even more ancient than the King’s House in Pelargir. Consequently, her abduction must have had political reasons, which meant that some great and important lord of Umbar – presumably one or both of the consuls – must have been behind it. No-one else would have the authority to send Atanalcar, the admiral of their fleet, on board of their best ship, to take her.

Perchance they intended to apply pressure on her father or grandfather by holding her hostage. Well, if that had been their intention, they were going to be sorely disappointed. She had been raised with the knowledge that her family would not give in to such demands. She was prepared to accept her fate, whatever it might be.

She ignored the supper still waiting for her on the little cabinet, pushed the wash-stand in front of the door to alert her, should anyone try to enter the chamber during the night and went to bed. She knew she would need all her strength on the next day when she would have to face the true powers behind her abduction.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She woke up at daybreak, after a restless albeit undisturbed night, and used the chance to take another good, hard look at her surroundings by the first light of the day, in the hope that she would find a small chance to escape that she had overlooked in the night. Alas, it was not so. Escape seemed as much beyond her reach as before.

She accepted it with the calmness of one used to long-term planning. Something would be found, sooner or later. And time she had aplenty.

An hour or two later – it was hard to tell, as Anor rose much faster here, so far in the south from Dol Amroth – Zamîn and Nithil returned to wait on her. They clucked disapprovingly when they saw her untouched supper and brought a light breakfast instead; after the opulent meals served at Lord Lorindol’s table, it was almost a relief. Then they brought her water to wash, and clothes in a slightly different fashion than she was used to; more Haradric in cut, but more subdued in colour than the ones she had been given on the ship.

They consisted of a knee-length undergown of blue watered silk, with long, tight sleeves and a skirt that flared out to a bell-shape and rolled around the legs with every step she made, like the waves of the Sea. The short-sleeved overgown was made of pale, sea-green brocade, shot with silver mist. It barely reached beneath the knee to allow the flaring underskirts full movement and was laced up in the front. The hem, neckline and the sleeves were embroidered with white pearls. A loosely bound sash of white muslin, seamed with pearls, and soft white leather slippers completed the ensemble.

She combed her raven-black hair, braided it in an elaborate pattern, and pinned the braids to the back of her head, bound in a glittering net of pearls and emeralds. Then they adorned her neck with multiple strings of pearls, promising that she would get her own clothes black, as soon as they had been properly cleaned.

“Now you are ready for your visitor, my lady,” said Zamîn, clearly content with the results.

Unlike Nithil, she did not speak Sindarin, but her Westron was fluent enough, albeit slightly accented. And as Ivriniel understood Adûnaic anyway (even though the servants could not know that), so far they had circled the pitfalls of language successfully.

Ivriniel did not ask who her visitor would be; that would show weakness that she could not afford. She merely inclined her head, signalling that she was, indeed, ready for them, whoever they might be.

Still, she could not deny a frisson of fear and excitement when she could hear advancing steps on the stairs outside her door, even though she gave no visible sign. She stood erect, like a candle, watching with cold, assessing eyes as the door of the turret-chamber slowly opened.

A tall man, dressed in a rich, dark attire decorated mostly in silver and black, entered briskly, as if he owed the place, shutting the door behind him. His hair, shorn above his broad shoulders, was as dark as her own, his ruggedly handsome face bore the typical, angular features of ancient Númenórean families, and his eyes, too, were dark grey like those of pure-blooded Dúnadan nobles.

His manners, just like his clothes, spoke of high birth, even though the strength of his body and the spare economy of his movements revealed him as a trained warrior. A swordsman, most likely, by those heavy shoulders and muscular arms of his, although his slightly rolling gait revealed that he was equally at home aboard a ship.

He bowed politely, but without the exaggerated flourish of a courtier, and gestured with his ungloved hand towards the stone bench of the window seat, signalling Ivriniel to sit.

She, however, declined with a proud gesture of her own and said, retaining her standing posture and with a defiantly raised chin:

“Seeing as I am in the presence of my jailor – circumstances forbid me to think otherwise – it best becomes a prisoner to remain standing ‘til she learns her doom… in order to accept her fate with a raised head.”

She spoke in formal, courtly Westron, still reluctant to reveal her knowledge of Adûnaic. In her father’s court Sindarin was the language used for formal occasions, but she did not believe any-one here would understand it, so she had to compromise.

The man – she could see now that he was a fairly young one in Dúnadan terms – inclined his head in obvious respect.

“I regret the circumstances under which we have come to meet, Lady Ivriniel,” he answered with the same grave formality; his Westron fluent, with barely a hint of a Southron accent. “Believe me, had there been any other way, we would not have brought you here by force and deceit. ‘Tis my hope, though, that one day you may find it in your heart to understand the need to act thusly and to forgive us.”

“I know you not, sir,“ said the Princess, drawing herself up with all the pride and dignity of offended rank and beauty; “Nor do I know where I have been brought and why,” she did have her suspicions, of course, but those mattered little at the moment. She needed answers, and she needed them now.

“What I do know, though, is that no man of noble birth is supposed to intrude himself upon the presence of an unprotected lady,” she continued. “You, sir, have an unfair advantage upon me, as not only are you holding me captive against my will, but you also seem to know who I am, while you have not yet shown the courtesy to introduce yourself.”

“Then that, at least, is a small matter in which I can redeem myself,” he replied, “though I deem my name is not one widely known in Dol Amroth. In any case, ‘tis Caliondo; and I am the son and heir of Lord Herucalmo, the First Consul of Umbar,” he gave her a quick, searching look. “I assume that at least the name or the title of my father must sound familiar to you, if not my own.”

Ivriniel nodded. “Certainly, my lord. I was taught the history of the Third Realm in Exile in as much detail as it is known to us. Which means that I am presently in the ancient fortress of Umbarlond, am I not?”

The man nodded, too. “In the Zadan’n Abrazân, yea; the House of the Faithful. I apologize for the living conditions here; I know you are used to better surroundings. They are only temporary, though… ‘til we can come to an understanding, after which we shall move you to the comfort of our townhouse.”

“What kind of understanding could there be between jailor and prisoner?” asked Ivriniel sharply. “If you believe you can demand any compromises from the Prince of Dol Amroth, be it my father or my grandsire, then you are mistaken. The descendants of Imrazôr and Mithrellas do not go back on their oath of fealty; not even to save the life of their children. We are all ready and willing to die for Gondor and Dol Amroth, one way or another.”

“No-one expects you to die, fair Princess,” said Caliondo of Umbar with a crooked smile. “On the contrary; we all expect you to live for a very long time, for the good of both Umbar and Dol Amroth – as my wife.”

For a moment, Ivriniel was truly speechless with shock… although, after that moment passed, she had to admit that it made sense. Even an enforced marriage between the firstborns of Umbar and Dol Amroth would forge ties of kinship neither side would be able to ignore in the future.

“So that is how it is supposed to be?” she asked bitterly. “Marriage by rape, so that the Prince of Dol Amroth would be honour-bound by the ties of kinship to support Umbar, against his solemn oath and the oaths sworn by all his forefathers, back to Imrazôr the Númenórean? And you truly believe that I would consent to such dishonour brought upon my House by my very person? Then you know nothing about the Swan Princes and their progeny!”

With that, she threw open the stained glass window that led to the balcony, swung herself swiftly onto the windowsill, and within the wink of an eye, she stood on the very verge of the parapet, with nothing between her and the tremendous depth below. The heavy silk of her skirts billowed in the strong wind coming from the Sea like the full sails of a great warship, making her balance even more precarious. A slightly stronger blow and she could have fallen in any moment.

Not prepared for such a reckless act, as she had been standing in calm dignity before, Caliondo had neither the time to intercept nor the means to stop her. As he unconsciously moved towards the window, she warned him sharply.

“Remain where you are, Heir of Umbar, or by Elbereth! – one inch closer and I shall allow myself to fall. I would rather have my body crushed on the stones of that courtyard below ere I would become a pawn in some sinister game to destroy the honour of my House.”

Her eyes were burning in her pale face like green flames, and there could not be the slightest doubt that she would make her threats true. Caliondo hesitated. He was not easily moved as a rule, neither by desperate pleas nor by defiance, yet now he could not help but admire her fortitude. This was a Princess indeed, born to become a great Queen; if not by name, then by strength and power most certainly.

If he had wanted to wed her before, for what she represented – the royal House of Dol Amroth – now he wanted her for herself: as a woman who could truly be his equal in everything that mattered.

“You do me injustice, my lady,” he said. “I swear to you by the time-honoured name which I bear – by the honour of my ancient House that has not faltered since the days of long-lost Númenórë – by the crest of my longfathers do I swear that I never intended to force myself upon you without your consent. I have enough women who serve my needs; you have been chosen by my father and the Second Consul to become the lady on my side: the most powerful woman in Umbar, once I take over my father’s duties.”

“Why did you take me from my home by force, then?” asked Ivriniel accusingly. “Why not send your envoy to my father and ask for my hand properly?”

Caliondo gave a short bark of laughter.

“Do you truly believe that the Prince of Dol Amroth would marry off his eldest daughter to a Black Númenórean, as your people like to call mine, while he could choose suitors from the noblest families of his own country? Even the Steward of Gondor or the King of Rohan would gladly accept you in their family – would your father or grandsire even consider my request?”

“Probably not,” admitted Ivriniel in all fairness. She could not truly imagine her father giving his consent to such a bond, either. “But why me? Why not choose a suitable lady of your own people to take for your wife? Surely, every girl of noble birth would be overjoyed to become the consort of the future First Consul.”

“Two reasons,” said Caliondo. “Firstly, ‘tis not as easy to find a suitable bride among my own kind as you might believe. Most old families have become childless during the last hundred years; their ancient blood has run dry. Daughters of the lesser nobility, even if my father would consider them suitable – which he does not – are either too young or beyond the age of child-bearing; and so are most of the widows. We had to look outside the realm, and where else but in Dol Amroth could we find anyone? Even in Gondor, the line of ancient blood has become too weak, too diluted.”

“My father has married from outside of the Númenórean stock, too,” reminded him Ivriniel.

“Yea; but he was the first in a very long time,” answered Caliondo. “And your family has the blood of the nimîr in their veins as well.”

“I thought you of Umbar hated Elves,” said Ivriniel in surprise. Caliondo shrugged.

“We do. That arrogant bastard of Edhellond above all; he has been a thorn in our side since our first harbour was built. It does not mean, though, that we would deny the possible advantages of their blood mixing with ours.”

That, again, made sense. The Black Númenóreans might have been evil, at least by the measure of Gondor and Dol Amroth, but they were clearly a pragmatic people. That still left one question open, though.

“You spoke of two reasons,” she said. “What is the other one?”

“Until now, we used to have a strong ally in Bakshir, the most powerful of the Haradric realms,” explained Caliondo. “Mostly due to the fact that my sister had been sent to become the ka-khan’s consort, almost fifteen years ago, and he was very fond of her and looked at Umbar with benevolence as a result. Now, however, tidings have come that the ka-khan is dead – which means that my sister has most likely been slain, too – and the new warlord is not friendly towards us.”

“You need a new alliance to strengthen your back!” realised Ivriniel. Caliondo nodded.

“We do. And allied with Dol Amroth, we could keep the entire coastline under control. There would be no trade routes to the West but through us, and that would make us safe.”

Ivriniel shook her head. “It would never work. Dol Amroth would never fight on Umbar’s side against Gondor.”

“I know that,” answered Caliondo patiently. “But would they not fight on our side against Bakshir?”

“Not unless Bakshir attacks Dol Amroth or Gondor directly,” Ivriniel might no longer be her father’s heiress, but she was still part of Prince Angelimir’s private council, as the old Prince valued her insights, and so she had long been familiar with the politics of her grandsire’s demesne.

“We would never take part in a war that is fought outside our borders,” she explained, giving him a searching look. “There is something else you are not telling me. What is it? You must be truthful, if you expect me to even consider your request.”

Caliondo sighed. “Yea, there is. The pull of Agannâlô has been increasing in the recent years. If we do not want to become the mere slaves of the Land of Shadow again, we shall need a way out. A strong ally that can help pull us away from Zigûr’s influence.”

He offered no Westron equivalents to the Adûnaic words, clearly expecting her to understand, which showed that he knew more about her than she would have thought. It was not truly surprising. Umbar had always kept an intricate and highly capable network of spies in both Pelargir and Dol Amroth. Just as Gondor had its own spies in Umbar.

“You truly believe that you could achieve that by marrying me?” asked Ivriniel doubtfully.

Caliondo shook his head. “Not in my lifetime, surely. But if we were to have children, we could found a new dynasty that, in due time, would have the strength to free us from the slavery of Agannâlô. Which is why I need your consent for this to work. Your father would never even accept my envoy if he thought I had forced you in any way.”

“I very much doubt you could make him believe in my consent, no matter what,” said Ivriniel. “After all, you have forced me to come here. I did not follow you willingly.”

“You did not,” allowed Caliondo. “You can choose to stay with me willingly, though. And Prince Adrahil would believe you.”

“Mayhap so,” replied Ivriniel thoughtfully. “Yet I cannot see why I should do so. I owe you nothing; and the good of Umbar is not my concern.”

But the good of Gondor and Dol Amroth still is, is it not?” returned Caliondo. “I was told about your encounter with the wild Ošošai, the Lord of the Waters. You said you had been promised a great destiny that could change the fates of both our realms. Which one of the Powers might have made that promise, “tis likely that they knew about our plans and wanted to help bringing the estranged children of Númenórë together again.”

“I fear ‘tis but wishful thinking on your part, my lord,” said Ivriniel, although she could not entirely deny the logic of his words. “And even if I would be moved to agree with you, your people would have a hard time to accept me on your side.”

“Why would they not?” asked Caliondo with a shrug. “You have declared yourself before Ošošai without fear and moved him to save our best ship on your behalf. We are the children of the Sea and so are you. Why would we not accept the Sea-Flower of Dol Amroth; she who could bend Ošošai himself to her will?”

That was poetic exaggeration, of course. All she had done was to shame Lord Ossë into saving them and frankly, she was still baffled that it had worked. The Lord of Waves had a fearsome reputation and was not known to bend for anyone, save for his spouse… or Lord Ulmo, whom he owed obedience. And even where Lord Ulmo was considered, some ancient songs told tales about Ossë rebelling against the decrees of the Vala.

Ivriniel had the feeling that it had been the mentioning of Lirillo – whoever he might be and whatever connection he might once have had to Lord Ossë – that tipped the scale in their favour. But she was not willing to discuss these things with Caliondo. Not yet.

“What you say does have its merits,” she said instead. “Yet what you ask of me is no small matter. I cannot give you an answer, neither yea or nay, right away. I must think about all this first; and that will take time.”

“Yours it the time you need to make your decision, my lady,” he replied. “I shall not press, for I need you to choose freely, whatever your final choice may be. And if you promise not to make an attempt to escape ere making your choice, I shall have you moved to our family’s townhouse in the morrow, where you will have the chambers of my sister at your disposal. Will you make that promise?”

“That is a trickier question than it sounds,” said Ivriniel. “What if I choose to reject you? Will I be allowed to return home?”

“That I cannot promise,” answered Caliondo with brutal honesty. “You have seen the Sea-Conqueror and doubtlessly learned her strengths and weaknesses. You will be allowed free access to our townhouse, which also makes us vulnerable. You will meet important people of the realm – have, in fact, already met some – which, too, is dangerous knowledge in the hands of a potential adversary. Nay, I fear we cannot allow to let you go.”

Ivriniel nodded, not offended at all. She would do the same, were their situation reversed. Letting her go would have been a tactical error; a dangerous one.

“I thought so,” she said calmly. “Therefore I have but two options left: to stay here as your wife, or to stay here as your prisoner. That does not necessarily make the first option more appealing.”

“Nay, it does not,” he admitted. “I hope, though, that I may find ways to make that option more appealing, if only you give me the chance,” he flashed her an almost predatory smile. “There will be joy in that, my lady, I promise.”

He seemed easily confident in his own virility, but Ivriniel knew better than allow him to entangle her in a banter of innuendo.

“’Tis not the time to discuss such details yet, my lord,” she said in cold disdain. “’Tis the fate of our respective realms we need to consider, not the personal gain we might or might not achieve from it. And since I am clearly in a disadvantage here, I shall not make any promises, the only purpose of which would be to ease your conscience. I can live in this chamber well enough without making allowances for more comfort. Now, I will ask you to leave me alone. I have a great deal to think about.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Caliondo wanted to protest, but then he decided against it.

“As you wish, my lady,” was all he said ere making a respectful bow and leaving her chamber.

Neither of them noticed the sleek black cat leaving its perch on the balcony outside her windows and making its way sure-footed down from the precipice.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Do you believe that she will give her consent, in due time?” Lord Herucalmo asked his visitors in concern.

Lady Avradî nodded, stroking the glossy black fur of the cat purring on her lap – her familiar, through the eyes of which she had watched the encounter of Caliondo with the Princess.

“Oh, I am quite certain that she will,” she answered with a cold, confident smile. “She was born to rule and raised to do so. And, according to Master Falassion’s report, she did not take kindly being pushed aside first for her brother’s and then for her sister’s sake, however blameless the latter was in all this. ‘Tis her chance to regain much of what she thought she had lost forever. She will not let it slip through her fingers.”

“And you truly believe the two of you shall come to an understanding?” asked Lord Herucalmo.

This was a more important issue than anyone not familiar with Umbari tradition might have thought. Although not generally known, the ladies of the two consuls were as vital for the ruling of Umbar as the consuls themselves. Usually more or less well-versed in the forgotten arts, they always kept a close eye on the key people of the realm, had contacts with the households of the Haradric envoys in Umbarlond and could even subtly intervene where their lords’ hands were bound.

Lady Avradî nodded calmly. “Given enough time… yea, I believe so. She will need to overcome her prejudices against the secret arts – our cousins have a ridiculous concept of what we can or would do – but once she understands that it has nothing to do with the cult of the Death Eater, what her people obviously believe, I shall be able to teach her.”

“Would she be willing to accept your teachings, though?” asked her husband doubtfully. “You know that Gondor has even grown suspicious of the Nimîr and their natural powers, even though they are born with those powers and the Nimrizîri have always called them their friends,” the Second Consul paused and smiled mirthlessly. “Is it not odd that their ancestors turned against the King on behalf of the Nimîr and now they fear them almost as much as they fear Zigûr himself?”

“Many of them do; yet not all,” corrected Lady Avradî. “And certainly not the ruling family of Dol Amroth. They have been friends with Gildor Inglorion from the very beginning of their House, and many of the heirs were fostered in Edhellond for years. Upon years.”

“She, too, or just the male heirs?” asked Caliondo with interest.

“She is known to have visited the havens of the Nimîr repeatedly; but she never stayed longer than a season or two,” replied Lady Avradî. “The reason for that is not known, but I assume that as Lord Gildor has no lady on his side, there was no female person of proper rank who could have tutored the Princess. Still, she was taught by the Nimîr and is said to be fluent in several of their languages; including the Noble Tongue that only their lore-masters speak on this side of the Sea.”

“That could be both good and bad,” said her husband. “Knowledge always means power, that much is true. But if she has been raised in reverence towards the Nimîr, you may have too strong a blockade in the way of your influence.

Lady Avradî shook her head. “Nay, I think not. I rather believe that her open-mindedness towards the powers of the Nimîr will help me to open her mind to other powers she might find appealing. Power calls out to power, they say; she will be willing to answer .”

“Not if she believes that you dabble in the Dark Arts,” warned Lord Manwendil.

Her lady raised an elegant eyebrow.

“If I did so, would either of us still wear the names we do? We have been named for the Elder King and his Queen, the Star-kindler, and we kept those names at a time when wassailing the Powers could easily raise Zigûr’s ire. The Swan Princess is not a fool. She will understand the meaning of this.”

“So you hope,” said her husband, still in doubt.

“So I know,” she returned archly. “Do not concern yourself with the working of a woman’s heart, beloved. In this matter I am more knowledgeable than the rest of you counted together.”

“I hope you are right, my lady,” sighed Lord Herucalmo. “My mind would be less troubled if I had my heir wedded and bedded in as short a time as it can be done. I fear, though, it will take us a while to win the trust of the fair Princess; if we ever manage to do so. She appears a strong-willed person; and an opinionated one.”

“If you want to win her trust, you must show trust first,” said Lady Avradî. “We must be frank: we have not proved ourselves very trustworthy, so far. We had her taken from her home and brought here without her consent. Right now she considers herself our prisoner. We must show her that – even though we cannot allow her to leave – we consider her as an honoured guest… and a potential ally.”

“And how, pray tell, are we supposed to do that?” asked Lord Herucalmo in exasperation.”

“By releasing her from that fetid hole you are currently keeping her into my care,” answered Lady Avradî calmly. “She cannot be kept there forever; and besides, so close to the Sea she might find a way to escape. Lord Ošošai has pledged himself to her family, and he is known to be restless and quick to anger. I would hate to see the Zadan’n Abrazân destroyed after all these millennia, should she change her mind and call out for his help. Our home is in a much safer distance from the water.”

“So is our townhouse,” said Caliondo. But the lady shook her head.

“That may be true; but it would be improper for a Princess of Dol Amroth to live under the roof of a suitor without a chaperone. You have no woman in your family who can fit that role. I can.”

Lord Herucalmo remained silent for a while; then he nodded reluctantly.

“Your words are wise, my lady. We shall follow your advice. I will send Nithil with her, to have a familiar face around her; and I will order Nimir to watch her all the time.”

“Nay,” said Lady Avradî sharply. “I shan’t have that Dark Elf of yours haunt my house. My familiars are more than capable of watching her, day and night; and through their eyes, I can watch what she is doing, whenever I want.”

“You ask for a great deal of faith from me, my lady,” said the First Consul slowly, and she nodded.

“I know I do. But if we cannot trust each other, at the very least, we can as well bend our necks under Zigûr’s yoke willingly. Besides,” she asked bitterly, “what could you possibly risk by entrusting her to me? I have no son of my own for whom I could try wooing her away from yours.”

Which was the very sad truth, of course, and one of the reasons why they had decided to look for a suitable bride for Caliondo outside the realm. Therefore – albeit not without considerable reluctance – Lord Herucalmo agreed to send the Princess over to Lord Manwendil’s townhouse on the next day and entrust her to the Lady Avradî’s care.

Were his own wife still alive, he would never consent. But she was dead, and the only woman coming from an ancient House whom he could trust was the Second Consul’s lady. His choices were indeed limited in this.

Once they had come to an agreement, Lady Avradî and her husband left for home. Suddenly, the lady had a lot of work at her hands to have the chambers of their guest prepared. She did not mind, though. She knew the Princess would be a challenge, and Lady Avradî loved challenges. They made her otherwise empty life worth living.

~TBC~

Sea Flower by Soledad