Sea-Flower

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

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.

Chapter 02 – Pelargir

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.

If they could persuade those two of the advantage of such an alliance, that is.

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

“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.”

Ecthelion nodded. “True. But I trust my son to choose wisely.”

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

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.

Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui

in the green fields of Lebennin!

Tall grows the grass here.

In the wind from the Sea

the white lilies sway.

And the golden bells are shaken

of mallos and alfirin

in the green fields of Lebennin,

in the wind from the Sea.

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.

An Elven-maid there was of old,

A shining star by day:

Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,

Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows,

A light was on her hair

As sun upon the golden boughs

In Lórien the fair.

Her hair was long, her limbs were white,

And fair was she and free;

And in the wind she went as light

As leaf of linden-tree.

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.

The minstrel bowed deeply in southern fashion.

“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.

When the course came to its end the minstrel rose again and was give his harp.

“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.

Ilu Ilúvatar en cárë Eldain a Firímoin

ar antaróta mannar Valion númenyaron...

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.

Man tárë antuva nin Ilúvatar, Ilúvatar,

en yárë tar i-tyel írë Anarinya queluva?

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.

~TBC~

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

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.