5.  Using Weapons

Two days later, Eilian leaned idly against a tree chatting with Ithilden and watching Legolas training with a pair of long knives.  The training fields were busy this morning. Off to Eilian’s right, Penntalion, the archery master, was leading a class that was shooting at moving targets being loosed by an archer behind a shield at the far end of the fields.  On his left, younger elves were working in pairs under the watchful eye of a sword master.  Directly in front of him, a weapons master was pushing Legolas as hard as he could in his use of the long knives.

Thranduil had given Legolas a set of knives on his last begetting day. Like most Elven objects, those knives were things of beauty with white bone handles and blades that were etched with curving tree shapes.  These sharp instruments were deemed too dangerous for the kind of training that was now taking place, however, and Legolas was using a set of blunted practice blades while the weapons master came at him with a training sword.  Additionally, both of them were wearing light leather armor and helmets with face and neck guards. Life in Mirkwood was dangerous enough without courting careless injury during weapons training.

As Eilian watched, the trainer charged Legolas, swinging his sword in from the right. Legolas came in close underneath the sword with the knives crossed before him, their curved edges skimming along the leather at the trainer’s throat as Legolas drew his arms outward. The trainer was shoved backward, and Legolas whirled completely around, brought the knives up over his head, and used the momentum from his spin to drive them downward into the sides of his opponent’s neck.

“You were right,” Eilian marveled to Ithilden.  “He is really remarkably good, especially given the short time that he has been working with them.”

Ithilden nodded absently, although he was actually watching the sword training to their left with the appraising eye of one who was responsible for Mirkwood’s preparedness for battle.  Evidently satisfied by Legolas’s actions, the weapons master declared a short rest at the same time that the archery class to their right also broke for a brief respite.  Legolas’s friend Annael, who had been in the archery class, trotted over to talk to him.  Legolas listened to his first few words, then glanced over at Eilian and Ithilden, grasped Annael’s arm, and turned him away so that both of their backs were to his older brothers.

Eilan groaned.  “I hope that that does not mean what I think it does,” he complained to Ithilden, who now looked at the whispering pair.  “Legolas needs to walk a straight and narrow path for a while until Adar cools down.  He is lucky he is only confined to his chamber for a week and gets let out for lessons.”

Ithilden shook his head.  “I would not bet on good sense winning the day there.”

“He is so serious on the training field,” Eilian lamented. “You would never believe that he could act like such an idiot off it.”

Ithilden turned and grinned at him. “It is the age,” he offered. “You were much the same when you were forty.”

“And you? What were you like at forty?”

“Since you were not there to observe, I will tell you that I was a paragon of wise behavior.”

Eilian laughed.  He could not deny the justice of Ithilden’s claim about his own youthful folly. He had passed the years just before he came of age growing increasingly restless in the protective walls of his father’s fortress.  He had spent hours daily training for battle but restricted from ever putting the training to use.  The resulting disjuncture had left him endlessly wishing to engage in actions that were forbidden to him.  It was a sure recipe for trouble, and he could see its effect in Legolas now. But in Legolas, there also seemed to be something else at work, some need to be perfect in a battle that he was always awaiting.  Eilian secretly believed that in some inexplicable way, Legolas was making up for failing to protect his mother from the Orcs who killed her.  It made no sense, but that did not mean it was not true.

Turning from watching Legolas, he found Ithilden staring at a spot behind Eilian’s left shoulder.  He glanced back to see Alfirin, the healer’s daughter, talking to her brother who had been in the archery class and to the archery master, who was listening to her with every sign of rapt attention.  Eilian tried to remember what he knew about the girl and recalled that she was a weaver of some skill.  Her work was highly valued and hung on the walls of many Mirkwood homes, including that of the king. “Are you courting her, Ithilden?” he asked, frankly curious.

Ithilden snapped out of his reverie.  “Of course not,” he huffed.

“Why not? She is of good family and seems sensible. Adar would probably rejoice if you exchanged silver rings with her.”

“Look at her,” Ithilden said exasperatedly.  “She is plainly interested in Penntalion.” That the supremely self-confident Ithilden doubted his power to attract the maiden spoke volumes about the seriousness of his feelings.

Eilian looked at the maiden again. “I do not know,” he said, encouragingly.  “Perhaps she is just being polite. And at any rate, you surely are not going to allow yourself to be bested by Penntalion.”

Ithilden waved his hand in dismissal of the topic. At that moment, one of their father’s messengers approached them in breathless haste. “My lords, the king wishes to see you both immediately in his study.” The brothers glanced at one another. Ithilden shrugged and then they began to walk briskly toward the palace where Thranduil waited for them in evident impatience. He scarcely waited for Eilian to close the door before he began.

“One of the scouts that we sent west returned this morning,” he told them.  “A large party of Orcs is concealed there, waiting in ambush.”  He smiled savagely.  “I sent warriors to deal with them, but their appearance is welcome as I never thought that the appearance of Orcs would be. One of our stories has produced results.”  He turned to Eilian. “That story is one you were charged with, Eilian. To whom did you tell it?”

“To Carondo, who dispenses wine in the glade. He works unloading the barges on the river.”

Ithilden moved immediately to the door and Eilian could hear him giving orders that the Elf should be arrested and brought to the king. They waited. Carondo could be heard protesting loudly well before the guards flung the door open and dragged him into the room. They forced him to his knees before Thranduil, although Eilian did not believe much force was necessary. Carondo’s knees seemed to be refusing to hold him upright. Eilian did not blame him for being afraid. The sight of Thranduil Oropherion at his most wrathful was a terrifying one.

“I will ask you a question once, worm, and it would be best for you to answer it truthfully.  If you do, I may allow you an easy death.”

Carondo’s terror was transparent. “My lord, if you are merciful to me, I swear to you that I will not do it again.”

Thranduil stalked to where the trembling Carondo knelt.  He pulled a jeweled dagger from a sheath on his belt, placed the dagger’s tip under Carondo’s chin, and raised it so that the Elf was forced to look into his hard gray eyes.  Almost casually, Thranduil asked his question: “To whom did you pass the information?”

Carondo seemed frozen, locked in Thranduil’s gaze. Deliberately, Thranduil prodded him under the chin with the dagger. A drop of blood trickled down Carondo’s outstretched throat and disappeared into the top of his tunic.  Carondo squealed faintly.

“Information?”  he asked.

Thranduil’s voice was tight with fury at this defiance. “Yes.  Two nights ago, Lord Eilian told you that he and his men would be scouting to the west. To whom did you pass this information?” 

“I passed it to no one,” Carondo croaked. “I forgot it the moment after he told me and did not recall it until just now when you spoke of it.”

“Do you take me for a fool?  If you did not pass the information to the enemy, then what is it that you are swearing that you will never do again?” Thranduil snapped.

“The wine,” squeaked Carondo.  “I took the wine.  I swear to you that it was unfit for your table.  I never would have taken it else.”

Thranduil stared at him.  “So you are the cause of the disappearing wine barrels.  I very much doubt the truth of what you say about the wine, but at the moment, it is not my concern.” To an uneasy Eilian, Carondo now looked puzzled. In a flash of unwelcome intuition, he believed that the wretched fool knew nothing of the spy they sought. Before he could consider, he had stepped forward and laid his hand on Thranduil’s wrist.

“We should speak of this, my lord,” he said evenly.

Thranduil caught Eilian in his fierce gaze. For a moment, they stood locked in silent disagreement. Then, to Eilian’s relief and somewhat to his surprise, Thranduil removed his dagger from Carondo’s chin.  “Lock him in the dungeon,” he instructed the guards, and they dragged Carondo away, almost unconscious in his relief.

With an oath, Thranduil flung his dagger onto the desk and turned again to Eilian. “Well?” he demanded.

Eilian took a deep breath. “I believe him when he says that he never thought about what I told him,” he said simply.

“On what basis?” Thranduil frowned.

Eilian shrugged helplessly. “His speech felt truthful to me.” Thranduil scanned his face with narrowed eyes and then turned abruptly away.

“I cannot risk Mirkwood’s safety on the basis of feelings, Eilian.”  He paused and then grudgingly said, “We will hold him in the dungeon for a day or two and see what results.  People will believe that we have arrested him for stealing wine.  If he is innocent,” continued Thranduil, “then the ambushes will continue. If he is guilty, then they will cease.  And,” he added grimly, “if that happens, I will know how to deal with him.”

He waved his hand in dismissal and the two brothers left promptly.  Neither had any desire to stay with their father in his present savage mood.  “It is fortunate that you were here, Eilian,” said Ithilden, as they exited the palace.  “Adar listens to you as he does not to me when judgments of people are involved.”

Eilian looked at him astonished.  Before he could respond, Ithilden had departed to the practice fields to finish supervising the day’s training. Eilian found himself at loose ends and decided to seek out Gelmir, whom he had not seen since they parted in the glade.  He paused to consider how best to locate him.  Ordinarily, he would have expected him to be at the practice fields, but he was not there today or at least had not been there earlier when Eilian had been watching Legolas. After a moment’s thought, he grinned and then set off down a path that threaded its way through the near part of the woods to end in a meadow where the wild flowers were unusually plentiful throughout the warm months.  As he approached the meadow, he deliberately made his step heavier so that any Elf in the area would hear him approaching.  When they were younger, both he and Gelmir had brought maidens here to while away some pleasant afternoons in flirting and soft kisses.  It was this shared past that had led him to suspect that Gelmir might be here now, and he did not wish to surprise his friend and any companion too thoroughly.

When he emerged from the trees, he found Gelmir sitting innocently next to Arramiel, Galenadiual’s maid servant.  “Good afternoon,” he greeted them. He had seen Arramiel in the palace in the last few days, but this was the first time he had spoken to her.  She was young and outstandingly pretty, with curly brown hair and a saucy smile.

They returned his greeting pleasantly enough, but Arramiel rose and brushed bits of grass off the back of her skirt. “I fear I must leave you,” she said politely.  “I’ve been away from the palace for long enough and my mistress will be looking for me.” She looked at Gelmir. “And I will see you later, unless Lord Eilian has come to take you away?”  She shifted her glance questioningly to Eilian.

Eilian shook his head. “We will be here at ease for a while yet.” Arramiel curtsied to him and then slipped back off along the path by which Eilian had come.

“I am sorry if I interrupted anything interesting,” Eilian told Gelmir.

“That is quite all right,” Gelmir returned. “Actually, I find her a little frightening.  She is so forward that my mother has taken against her completely, even though my mother has been after me for years to bond and produce grandchildren.”

Eilian laughed. “Come ride with me,” he invited. “Our horses could use the exercise, and I need to be doing something away from my father’s hall.”

“Problems?” Gelmir asked sympathetically. Eilian knew that his friend was deeply grateful to be the son of Thranduil’s warriors and not the king himself.

Eilian clapped him on the shoulder. “Nothing serious. It is just that I am always sobered when I remember how fierce my father can be.”

“Me too,” said Gelmir fervently, and they were off to the stables.

The next afternoon, a group of foresters who were checking for the spread of spiders through the trees in a nearby grove were set upon by wargs who surprised them entirely.  One of the foresters was killed and two others were seriously injured before they managed to drive the beasts away long enough to retreat to safer territory.  Ithilden was beside himself with fury that the wargs had gotten past his guards to approach so near to the palace.

Eilian was appalled by the loss but grateful that his intuition about Carondo seemed to be holding true.  “Who knew about the foresters’ plans?” he asked.

“No one,” Ithilden was adamant. “Adar and I discussed it early yesterday, and I carried the orders to them myself before I went to the training fields.”

Eilian was looking at the papers on Thranduil’s desk. An unpleasant prickle was stirring in his brain. “Adar,” he asked, “when you write those orders, do you keep a copy?”

Thranduil pointed to the papers. “I keep a record. I send too many dispatches to keep track of everything otherwise.”

“And the arrangement of the guards, Ithilden,” Eilian prodded, “is that written down?”

“You know it is,” said Ithilden irritably.  “You have heard me complain about the paperwork often enough.”

Thranduil was looking at Eilian with comprehension dawning on his face. “You suspect that someone has been in here, looking through the papers on my desk.” The three of them stared at one another.

“That would explain much,” said Ithilden doubtfully, “but it would mean that we are being betrayed by someone in the household.  No one else could get into the king’s study.”

“There are guards,” Eilian pointed out, “and servants.”

“I do not see how it could be done,” said Ithilden, shaking his head. “Whoever it is would have to leave the palace to pass the information on.  When we first thought of the possibility of a spy, I checked the guards’ records to see if anyone was regularly out of the palace when the information was probably sent, and I could see no one.”

Eilian thought of what Legolas had told him. “Legolas says that the guards only record the comings and goings of outsiders.  He said that was how he could go in and out at night without your knowing, Adar.  When you were waiting in his room the other night, I thought that meant he was wrong,” he added apologetically. He should have said something.

“He is wrong,” Ithilden insisted.  “The guards record the movements of everyone who lives in the palace except those of us in the family wing.  Naneth stopped them doing that because she felt that it invaded our privacy.”

In their efforts to find the traitor among them, the three seemed to have reached a dead end. Eilian could only hope that the impasse was temporary.  He remembered the words of the song that had been sung the night of his homecoming: “Those I love are choking in the darkness.”  He shuddered.