26: At the Golden Spinning Wheel

In the end, Finwë decided that Fëanáro should remain behind as well, putting him in charge of the entire cleanup process with Intarion and Valandur acting as his lieutenants.

“Perhaps this time you will listen to what others have to say and not dismiss their words simply because of who they are,” Finwë said to his son, casting a brief glance at Valandur standing off to one side as he and Intarion saw the royal party off.

Fëanáro glowered at nothing in particular but did not dispute his atar. Valandur was not happy with the arrangement, and, from Intarion’s expression, he guessed that his fellow Vanya was also less than pleased, but as there was no help for it, Valandur accepted what could not be changed and only hoped that he would have little congress with the Noldorin prince. He concentrated on Findis instead, helping her to horse, ignoring the disapproving looks of Finwë, Fëanáro and Ingoldo.

“I hate to leave you behind,” she said to him as she settled herself.

“But it’s better this way,” Valandur said with a sly smile.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing.

“Well, just think. It will be hot and messy work cleaning up and we’ll most likely be covered with ashes and while we ellyn won’t mind, you’ll be upset because there probably isn’t enough hot water in all of Aman to keep you clean when you’re covered with ashes. This way, you are saved from dying of frustration and we are saved from headaches listening to you complain.”

For the briefest moment, Findis just stared down at him in disbelief, but when he gave her a surreptitious wink, she threw back her head and laughed. “I’ll get you for that, Loremaster,” was all she said once she calmed down.

Valandur acknowledged her with a bow, taking her hand and kissing it. As he stepped back away from the horse, he caught Finwë’s eye and was surprised to see a look of approval on the king’s face. Fëanáro, standing beside his atar, continued to glower. Finwë then mounted and the royal party set off. Findis looked back, giving them a wave. Valandur and Intarion waved back.

Once the king’s party was gone, Fëanáro turned to the two Vanyar and said, “You will follow my orders or you will regret it.”

“Back off, Fëanáro,” Intarion retorted hotly.

“Atar left me in charge and…”

“Fine. You’re in charge. So what would you like us to do first?” Intarion demanded.

For a moment, the prince did not answer and Valandur could see the doubt in his eyes at the easy capitulation on Intarion’s part. Before he could say anything, Valandur spoke up with a question of his own. “How many people are now left homeless and what has been done for them?”

Fëanáro blinked. “Atar sent people among the refugees to take a count but I do not know if the tally has been completed.”

“Why don’t Intarion and I deal with that while you oversee the actual cleanup, Your Highness?” Valandur suggested smoothly. “We’ll need to relocate those who have lost their homes until they can return to their villages and rebuild.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Valandur,” Intarion said. “Fëanáro, what do you think?”

The Noldorin prince hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yes, that will work. I know Atar ordered all who had been evacuated to remain in the vicinity of Orvamas.”

“Then we will head there,” Intarion said.

“Were all the villages to the south destroyed, do you know?” Valandur asked.

Fëanáro shook his head. “Probably not. We ordered evacuations as a precaution for we did not know to what extent or in which direction the fire would go. We hoped to contain it as far south as possible but the wind kept shifting and frustrating our efforts.”

Valandur nodded. “Yes, that’s how Findis and I ended up where we did. The winds shifted at the wrong moment as we were attempting to rescue a child and forced us into the stream.”

“Lady Findis to you, Loremaster,” Fëanáro snarled.

“Enough, Fëanáro,” Intarion commanded. “Once we have the refugees organized, we’ll head south and get an idea of which villages are still standing. The more people who can return to their homes, the better for us all.”

Fëanáro nodded. “Very well. See to it. I will remain here for now and organize these villagers to help with the cleanup. I will come to Orvamas in a day or two to check on your progress.”

“Come on, Val,” Intarion said. “Let’s get going. I wish we had horses.”

Fëanáro smirked but otherwise did not comment. Valandur shrugged. “I walked across the breadth of Endórë. I’m sure I will have no problem walking to the next village.”

Intarion chuckled and calling to those who had remained behind to help he asked for volunteers to accompany them. “We need to succor those who have lost their homes,” he explained and several people stepped forward. Among them were Calandil, Aldarion and Cemendur. Ferenion, Amandil and Simpandil had returned to Tirion earlier with others once the fires were out. Minalcar and Eldacáno had also returned but Nambarauto had remained. He was still in Orvamas, according to Calandil when Valandur had asked.

Once everyone was organized, they set off with Intarion in the lead. Valandur walked with Calandil and his friends, who insisted that Valandur tell them what had happened with Findis.

“For we can see that there is something between you two,” Calandil said with a smirk.

“Setting your sights a bit high, are we?” Aldarion added.

“And do you think me unworthy of her?” Valandur enquired, giving them a frown.

“Nay, we do not, but certainly others do,” Cemendur replied.

“Meaning Fëanáro,” Valandur said.

“Meaning Finwë,” Calandil countered. “It is his approval you need, his and the queen’s, not the prince’s.”

“Well, at the moment, there is naught that I can do about it,” Valandur pointed out. “The king has neatly separated us for now.”

“For now, but not necessarily forever,” Aldarion said.

“I’m sure he will find other ways of keeping us apart once we return to Tirion,” Valandur retorted sourly.

“If you believe that, Loremaster, you don’t know my cousin as well as you should,” Intarion said, where he was walking a few feet away, apparently having heard their conversation. “Uncle Finwë may think he’s in charge, but where Findis is concerned, that is not necessarily the case. She will do as she pleases, mark my words, and no edict from on high will prevent her from coming to you, if that is what she and you desire.”

“Well, at the moment, we should concentrate on our mission,” Valandur retorted. “Time enough to worry about other things later. I am thinking that once we get to Orvamas we should organize the refugees by villages, find out which ones definitely got burned down and which ones may still be standing.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Intarion said.

They lapsed into silence for a moment until Calandil reminded Valandur that he still had not told them about his adventures, so Valandur obliged them with his tale as they walked along the road. Eventually they reached the outskirts of the village, encountering large numbers of people apparently camping out on the fields surrounding Orvamas, many of them sporting the golden tresses that marked them as Vanyar. As they neared, they saw several people milling about and there appeared to be a heated discussion.

“… canna be roosting on me field!” they heard an ellon shouting, a Noldo by his looks.

“We be here by the king’s command,” another ellon retorted, this one a Vanya.

“But not on me field,” the first ellon shot back. “Ye be ruinin’ the crops an’ they be for the king. If’n I don’t deliver, he’ll be takin’ it from me own field an’ I need that field to feed me family.”

“At least you be havin’ a field at all,” someone else shouted. “We be left with nothing. We be homeless.” And then several ellith in the crowd began weeping.

Into this argument Intarion and Valandur strode after first ordering everyone else to remain on the road and not to interfere. The villagers all looked up at their approach and Valandur was faintly amused to see the arguers closing ranks against the two of them as outsiders and clearly ‘Tirion-folk’ as he had heard more than one villager refer to those who came from the city.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Intarion asked softly.

“And who be wantin’ t’know?” one of the Noldor demanded and there was a great deal of muttering among the villagers, their expressions ranging from open distrust to open hostility.

“I am Intarion Ingoldion, nephew to the Noldóran… and the Ingaran,” Intarion replied, still speaking softly.

The villagers now looked on Intarion with no little awe. Valandur looked on in approval, for Intarion had wisely mentioned his relationship with Finwë first before mentioning Ingwë. These villagers, even those who were Vanyar or Teleri, were more likely to respect anyone who came from Finwë; Ingwë was too distant and therefor too unimportant a figure in their imaginations. At the same time, Intarion, in proclaiming his relationship with Ingwë, was letting his Vanyarin listeners know that their own king had not forgotten them.

“Mine uncle hath given me the task of succoring those who have lost their homesteads, determining which villages may yet stand and which must needs be rebuilt,” Intarion continued, speaking formally, and Valandur noticed that Intarion had not specified which uncle, thereby allowing each group to come to their own conclusions. “Wouldst thou give me thy name, Master?” he said to the Noldo who apparently worked the field they were all standing in.

Valandur watched in surprise at the way in which the villagers now responded to the prince. The ellon whom Intarion had addressed actually straightened, announcing proudly, “I be Varnion, haran of Orvamas.”

Intarion gave the ellon a brief bow of his head, then turned to the other ellon who appeared to be the leader of the refugees in this particular camp. “And thou, Master?”

The ellon straightened as well and with equal pride announced. “I be Poldormo, haran of Aipiomas.” Then he hesitated, looking less certain. “At least, I was,” he amended softly.

“And thou wilt be again, I promise thee, Haran Poldormo,” Intarion said firmly. “Dost thou know for certain that thy village lies in ruins?”

“Aye,” the ellon said, “for was it not the first village to be threatened by flames? We had little time to be savin’ what we could. Most of us have naught but the clothes on our backs.”

“I promise thee, all will be restored and thou and thy people will return to thy village if you wish, or ye may relocate elsewhere if that be your desire,” Intarion said, his voice full of compassion. Then he became more business-like. “In the meantime, I must needs know how many people have been displaced and from which villages they hail, as well as determine which villages still stand. To that end, I and Loremaster Valandur shall call together all the village headmen and massániër to council. Is there some place in the village where we may meet?” he asked Varnion.

“Aye. There be the Golden Spinning Wheel. It be the only tavern in the town and the tavernkeeper be me brother, Morion.”

Intarion nodded and turned to speak to those who had followed him. “I need people to move among the refugees and determine who are the harni and massánier and let them know that we will meet with them at the Golden Spinning Wheel at the next First Mingling.”

Valandur then spoke, addressing Poldormo. “Do you know where the other refugees are encamped?”

“Aye. There be three main camps, this one, another to the north and the third further east.”

Valandur nodded, then turned to the others waiting. “Calandil, you, Aldarion and Cemendur stay here and speak with Haran Poldormo, identify from which villages these people came and what their numbers are. The rest of you split up. Half of you head north and the rest continue eastward. Prince Intarion and I will be in the village making arrangements for the meeting. Come to the tavern and report to us as soon as you may.”

With that, he gestured dismissal and the group began splitting up. Calandil, Aldarion and Cemendur stayed where they were, the three giving Valandur strange looks which he ignored. Instead, he turned to Intarion. “Shall we go to the village, then?”

“Yes,” Intarion answered with a nod, then turned to Poldormo. “If thou wouldst be so kind as to help these ellyn identify the different villages represented in this encampment, I would appreciate it.”

Poldormo simply nodded. Intarion then turned to Varnion. “Of thy courtesy, Haran, please go quickly to thy brother and warn him of our arrival. Perhaps he can provide us with a repast when we come.”

“Aye, I had best warn him of thine invasion,” Varnion said with a grin, giving Intarion a slight bow before heading away.

“You’re rather full of yourself aren’t you, Quisero, ordering your ortornor about,” Calandil said as Valandur was about to join Intarion. His tone was somewhat sarcastic.

Valandur felt himself growing angry all of a sudden. “I am on the Noldóran’s business, as well as the Ingaran’s, no less than Prince Intarion. Do not ever presume on our friendship where duty is concerned. And the name is Valandur.”

Without giving anyone else a chance to respond he stalked away and Intarion had to practically run to catch up with him.

“Slow down, Val,” he admonished the loremaster. “Why did that ellon call you Quisero? What a strange name.”

“It was the name given to me by my parents when we still lived in Cuiviénen,” Valandur replied, slowing down a bit, but still feeling angry and hurt.

“Why…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Valandur interrupted abruptly. “What does matter is that you need to tread carefully around these people. You need to be very respectful of them.”

“But of course. Why would I not be?” Intarion gave him a puzzled look.

“No. You do not understand. Varnion. Poldormo. Do those names mean nothing to you?”

“Well, they sound rather… um… primitive or, perhaps, uncouth would be a better term.”

“Uncouth to your ears and sensibility, yes, but you are correct that they are primitive-sounding and for a very good reason. I have no doubt those two made the Great Journey and I would not be surprised if every headman in the Southern Fiefdoms can claim the same.”

“And you think this is significant?”

“It is a clue as to how these people see things and how you must address them. You may be the nephew of Finwë and Ingwë, but you are Amanian-born. You are not of the First Generation, as I am.”

“So you’re saying that you should take over this mission simply because you’re older than I am?”

Valandur cast the younger ellon a wry look. “No. I have no intention of taking over. I will act as your advisor and I am advising you to be very careful how you order these people about. They are very conservative and traditional and they have a great deal of self-pride. They abandoned the only home they knew and crossed a wilderness fraught with dangers you can never appreciate living here as you do under the benevolence of the Valar. You speaking to them as formally as you did was inspired. Ah, I believe that must be the tavern.”

He pointed to a low building set on one side of the village square. It was made of grey field stone and thatched, as were all of the village buildings. Apple trees, presently in flower, lined the square, providing shade. The two Vanyar entered the tavern, standing in the cool darkness, allowing their eyes to adapt. The tavern was typical of its kind with the bar to their right and the common room spread before them. There was no second story, so this was merely a drinking and eating establishment.

“We’ll need to make arrangements for beds,” Valandur whispered to Intarion, who nodded, and then stepped further into the room, smiling at Varnion, who had entered from the kitchen located behind the bar.

“Ah, Haran Varnion. This should do nicely. I would fain meet with thy brother.”

“He be in the kitchen orderin’ the cooks,”Varnion replied. “He’ll be out presently. Can I be offerin’ you somethin’ to drink, Masters?”

“Wine would be acceptable,” Intarion said and Valandur nodded. Varnion was pouring some red wine into goblets when an ellon came from the kitchen. He was aptly named, Valandur saw, for his hair was indeed black, a rarity among the Eldar, his eyes grey. He gave the two Vanyar a considering look.

“Welcome to my tavern, lords,” he said, giving them a respectful bow. “I am Morion, proprietor of the Golden Spinning Wheel. I understand you have been sent by King Finwë to ascertain the extent of the damage done by the fire?”

“Yes,” Intarion said. “By the next First Mingling, representatives of the refugees will be here so I may coordinate with them in succoring their people and determining which villages still stand and which need to be rebuilt. Food, I deem, will be an issue. I believe King Finwë is arranging for the granaries to be opened and any extra produce from the estate farms will be sent down as well.”

“We need t’be riddin’ ourselves of these refugees soonest, Brother,” Varnion said with a scowl. “The fields are all trampled and naught will grow now. There not be grain enough in the silos for all.”

“I suspect we will all be rationing our supplies for the foreseeable future,” Morion replied with a resigned shrug.

“No one will starve,” Intarion insisted. “The Valar will see to that.”

“The Valar did naught to stem the fire afore it destroyed half the Fiefdoms,” Varnion retorted.

“Peace, Brother,” Morion said calmly, laying a hand on the ellon’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “What the Valar did or did not do is of no import at the moment. What is important is how we respond to this crisis, how we treat one another. Perhaps the Valar are curious to know what we are made of.” He gave another shrug, then said, “I had better get back to the kitchen and see how things are coming along.”

He gave them a brief bow and started to leave but Valandur stayed him. “Perhaps you could show me where the privies are. I assume they are out back?”

Morion nodded. “Come. I will show you.”

Valandur gave Intarion a significant look before following the tavernkeeper into the kitchen where he saw several ellith and ellyn busily preparing food. Morion pointed to a door.

“To your left as you exit,” he said.

Valandur nodded but did not move. “You do not speak as the others do,” he said.

Morion gave him a considering look. “You mean, I dinna be soundin’ like an ignorant rustic.” His tone became almost bitter.

Valandur shook his head. “I mean you don’t use the same speech patterns as the other villagers. The cadence is more clipped and does not have the same musicality and rhythm of the village dialect.”

Morion’s eyes widened a bit. “I lived in Tirion for a long time. I was part-owner of an inn, the Crown and Rose. But when the children were all grown and flown my wife desired to move closer to her own family, who own a farm not far from here and as my own brother and his family also were here I was willing to relocate. Sold my half of the inn to my partner and bought this place.”

“So I thought,” Valandur said. “To the left, you say?”

“What? Oh, yes, just past the elm.”

“Thank you.” Valandur exited and as promised found the privies just beyond the elm. A few minutes later he rejoined Intarion in the common room, retrieving his goblet of wine as he sat down.

“How do you think we should handle the distribution of grain and whatever other produce my uncle sends us?” Intarion asked without preamble.

Valandur took a sip or two before answering. “It would be unwise to simply give it away. It would be better all around if the refugees have to pay for it, even if it’s merely a token amount. Find out what the prevailing price for bread is…”

“Three coppers.”

Intarion and Valandur looked up to see Varnion behind the bar cleaning. “Three coppers for a loaf of bread,” the ellon repeated.

Valandur nodded, then turned to Intarion. “Most of these villagers will probably have a few coppers on them, but probably not enough to buy bread for their families. I suggest that each village pool their resources and buy in bulk, then distribute the bread fairly among all. If there are those who have no coin or too little of it, let them pay with labor. Varnion, here, was complaining that the fields are being destroyed, and that can’t be helped, but not all the fields are being used to house the refugees. I noticed some that appeared to be fallow. Perhaps those fields can be planted for now and we’ll have the displaced villagers do the planting. Hopefully we’ll be able to send most of them home soon.”

“So how much should we charge?” Intarion asked.

“Half. Let three coppers buy two loaves. Do something similar to any other produce that is sent to us.”

“It be a good idea,” Varnion said from behind the bar. “Now I be seein’ ellyn and ellith approachin’.” He nodded at the window beside the front door. “I be guessing they be looking for you.”

“I will record people’s names and where they are from and how many are from each village,” Valandur suggested, “so we have an accurate account.”

Intarion nodded. “Varnion, of thy courtesy, canst thou find writing materials for the loremaster?”

“Aye, I be doin’ that,” Varnion said. “Me brother has some. I be tellin’ him company’s acomin’.”

He sidled out from behind the bar and headed for the kitchen while Intarion and Valandur both rose, ready to greet those who were entering the tavern.

****

Ingaran: High King, Ingwë’s title. This is attested.

Haran: Chief (in the political sense), equivalent to such terms as headman or mayor; the plural is harni.

Aipiomas: Cherry Tree Town.

Massánier: Plural of massánië: Bread-giver (see chapter 21 for an explanation).