33: A Meeting with Royals

“Be sure to wear your finest tunic,” Valandur admonished Calandil as the ellon and his other otornor were leaving the inn, “and meet me here.”

“I’ll be here, never fear,” Calandil promised and then he and the others departed, leaving Valandur alone with Morion and Neldoron.

“I’ll lend you my festival tunic,” the innkeeper said to Morion. “I doubt you brought yours.”

Morion chuckled. “No. I was in a hurry to pack and be on my way.” He turned to Valandur. “Do you need me for anything? Otherwise, I will give Neldoron a hand until it’s time to leave.”

“No, by all means, don’t let me stop you from having fun,” Valandur replied with a grin and the two ellyn laughed as they sauntered off, leaving Valandur to his own devices. After a moment or two of thought, he decided to take a walk, this time through the city, contemplating the conversation he had had with his friends, trying to organize his thoughts for the upcoming meeting. He paid little attention to where he was going and it was only when he wandered into a particular square that he became more aware of his surroundings, for he suddenly realized that he had unconsciously come to the very square where he and his parents and sisters had lived once upon a time. Yes, there was the name carved into the sides of the two buildings fronting the entrance: Willow Square.

It was a typical residential square with townhouses on four sides around a green. The houses were three floors high. Each house, he knew, had a central hallway with rooms on either side and a kitchen in the back with bedrooms on the top two floors. In the back of each house was a small garden, consisting mostly of herbs for the kitchen with some ornamental flowers. Small plots in the front were also devoted to gardening, the residents filling every available space with bright flowers.

Valandur glanced around, curious to see if the square had changed all that much since he had left Tirion. The green was as he remembered it, graced with a willow, hence the square’s name, but he noted sadly that one or two of the houses appeared deserted, their front gardens neglected and he recalled the names of the Vanyar who had lived in them. He wondered if his house also stood empty and was tempted to simply leave, not wishing to know, but curiosity drove him and he ambled along the stone path that circled the green. Yes, there was his house, the fourth one along as one turned right. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the front garden was in full bloom and the house had a lived-in look to it. He wondered who had taken over the house and thought briefly of knocking on the front door and introducing himself, but in the end, he turned and headed back to the inn.

Second Mingling came and went and Valandur carefully dressed in another tunic given to him by Lindarion. This one was more elaborate than what he had worn to his trial: a teal green with silver thread embroidery and emeralds. As usual, he donned his loremaster’s robe and carefully plaited his hair in a single braid. Once dressed, he went down to the common room and was pleased to see Calandil already there, dressed in shades of gold and brown. As the two greeted one another, Morion came in from the kitchen, his borrowed tunic a bright scarlet. He blushed as Valandur and Calandil both raised eyebrows in surprise.

“Neldoron always had poor taste in clothes,” he offered as an apology.

“You look fine,” Valandur assured him. “Shall we go?”

They made their way up Hwarin Mallë, ignoring the curious looks of passers-by, or trying to. Calandil and Morion appeared uneasy and Valandur took the time to quietly reassure them. “There is naught to be nervous about.”

“Easy for you to say,” Calandil rejoined. “You’re used to speaking to the High King.”

“And the last time I did, I pretty much insulted him, though I did not know it,” Morion added, looking more embarrassed than nervous.

“I am sure Ingwë took no offense,” Valandur said. “The few times I’ve spoken with him, I got the impression that he values honesty, however painful. I imagine he has enough sycophants always telling him what they think he wants to hear rather than what he needs to hear, so when someone tells him the unvarnished truth as they see it, he probably rejoices.”

They reached the palace gates where Valandur identified himself. One of the guards checked his name against a list. “Your name is here, Loremaster, but these two ellyn’s names are not.”

“I know,” Valandur said smoothly, “but at the time the High King issued his invitation he was unaware of the fact that Masters Calandil and Morion had information which he needs to hear. I assure you that His Majesty will want to speak with them.”

The guard gave him a dubious look and Valandur could see that his request would be denied. He was prepared to have Calandil and Morion wait for him while he spoke with Ingwë, hoping to convince him to allow them entrance, when an ellon, a Vanya, approached. It was Intarion.

“Ah, there you are, Loremaster,” the young prince said with a smile. “We wondered if you had forgotten the time. And who are these? Ah, friends of yours, are they? Yes, yes. Come along. We mustn’t keep His Majesty waiting. No, Captain. I take full responsibility for the good behavior of these fellows. Thank you for your concern.”

The guards saluted, apparently recognizing Intarion, looking less than pleased, but having no authority to gainsay the prince.

“Thank you,” Valandur said quietly.

Intarion just nodded. “All in a day’s work. How are you, Morion? And Calandil, is it?”

The two ellyn muttered greetings, more interested in looking about at the grandeur surrounding them as they came into the central foyer, where one of the ubiquitous pages was waiting for them. Intarion waved the elleth over. “Silmerossiën will see you to Ingwë.”

“Are you not coming?” Valandur asked in surprise.

“Never fear. I will be there. Off you go now.” Intarion made a shooing gesture and the three ellyn followed the elleth up the stairs.

When Valandur happened to glance back, Intarion was no longer there though he was not sure how the ellon could have disappeared so quickly. He stopped on the stair, looking about.

“This way, Master,” the page said and Valandur reluctantly resumed climbing the stairs, joining the others. In a few minutes, they were being ushered into a small receiving room and found it already occupied.

“Intarion! How did you get here so quickly?” Valandur exclaimed in shock.

The Vanyarin prince gave them a puzzled look. “What do you mean, Valandur? I’ve been here for some time waiting for you. Oh! Greetings, Master Morion. I did not know you had been summoned by my uncle as well. And you’re Calandil, right? We’ve never really met, but I did meet your look-alike and….”

“But you came to the gate,” Valandur protested. “You were able to convince the guards to let Morion and Calandil in even though the guards were ready to refuse them entrance.”

Intarion blinked in confusion. “Val, I swear, I’ve been here for perhaps the last half hour. I never met you at the gate. I didn’t even know you had arrived yet.”

“Well, if you didn’t meet us, who did?” Morion asked.

Valandur felt faint and before he knew it, Intarion was urging him to sit and thrusting a goblet of something into his hands, insisting he drink, which he did. It was wine, a Tirion white. He took a few more sips, feeling steadier, and looked up at the concerned faces of the other three ellyn.

“It was a Maia, then,” he said.

“Again?” Intarion exclaimed. “Last time one impersonated Calandil. You’re saying a Maia impersonated me?”

Valandur nodded. “And very convincing he was, too.”

“He would have to be, wouldn’t he?” Calandil said. “I mean, otherwise, those who know the person well would realize that something is wrong.”

“Which is how I knew that it wasn’t really you at the end,” Valandur said. “You were not acting as you would have. You, or rather the Maia impersonating you, was too authoritative and not respectful enough toward Ingoldo. However much you might dislike a person, you’ve never been rude to them.”

“Well, thanks, I think,” Calandil said with a quirk of a smile on his lips and the others chuckled.

Before anyone else could speak, the door opened and Ingwë was entering with Finwë and Olwë behind him. Valandur hastily scrambled to his feet to give the kings his obeisance along with everyone else.

Ingwë’s response at seeing Morion and Calandil, both of whom had fallen to their knees, while Valandur merely bowed, was to raise an eyebrow. “Reinforcements?” he asked, directing his question at Valandur.

“No, Sire,” Valandur said soberly. “My otorno, Calandil Elesserion, and Master Morion of Orvamas have information I felt you needed to hear, so I asked them to join me.”

“And how did you convince my guards to let these two through the gates?” Finwë asked with a frown.

“I didn’t,” Valandur said with a quirk of a smile. “Intarion did.”

“But I told you I was never there!” Intarion protested turning to Ingwë. “Uncle, I swear, I was never at the gates. I came here directly from my rooms.”

“Yet, the gate guards, if you were to ask them, will swear that Prince Intarion came and ushered me and my friends inside,” Valandur said and then raised a hand to stem whatever words of protest Intarion was planning to spout. “But, in truth, it was not Prince Intarion, but a Maia pretending to be him, or so we have concluded.”

“Indeed?” Ingwë said, casting a brief, unreadable look at Olwë and Finwë. Then he turned to where Calandil and Morion were still kneeling. “Oh for the love of the Valar, get off your knees, the both of you,” he commanded in exasperation. Calandil and Morion reluctantly rose, neither of them able to look up. Valandur watched in amusement as Morion turned almost as red as the tunic he was wearing. Ingwë seemed to realize that all three ellyn were wearing elaborate garb, more elaborate even than what the kings themselves were wearing.

He gave them all an amused look. “You needn’t have dressed up on our account. This is an informal meeting, not court. But come, let us be at ease. Intarion, of your courtesy, perhaps you could pour the wine for us. I see Loremaster Valandur already has some.”

“I was feeling suddenly faint when I realized who had actually met us at the gate,” Valandur admitted, feeling embarrassed to admit to such weakness before the kings.

“Hmm… yes, I can see how that would be disconcerting,” Ingwë opined. “Well, no matter. Come, all of you sit and take your ease.” He motioned for them to take seats, claiming one for himself and directing the other two kings to flank him, with Finwë on his left and Olwë on his right. Valandur took note of the shocked look on Olwë’s face and Finwë’s grimace and realized that the Noldóran was still in bad odour with the High King. Ingwë ignored them both, concentrating his attention on Calandil and Morion.

“So you’re Valandur’s otorno, are you?” he said to Calandil. “I was unaware that he had any friends among the Noldor.”

“We grew up together in Cuiviénen, Valandur, me and a few others,” Calandil explained, then paused, giving Valandur a puzzled look. “I just realized that you did not have friends among your own clan. All your friends were Noldor.”

Valandur shrugged, not really caring. It was long ago and he had Vanyarin friends now, though admittedly, none did he consider otornor. He noticed Ingwë giving him a shrewd look and occupied himself with drinking his wine, not really ready to face the implications of what Calandil had said. Ingwë seemed content to leave it alone for he turned to Morion, his expression one of glee.

“Arrogant gits and worthless to boot, are we?” he said with a laugh. “Nolondur was especially amused by ‘have their heads up where the Light of the Trees doesn’t shine’. A rather colorful, not to mention a very explicit, phrase.”

“Nolondur?” Valandur asked, sure that he had heard the name before but not recalling where. He cast a sympathetic look toward Morion who sat there looking as if he were wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. Finwë’s expression was pained, while Olwë’s only reaction was a raised eyebrow and a nod, as if agreeing with the tavernkeeper’s assessment.

“Lord Nolondur,” Ingwë replied. “You met his daughter, I believe, the Lady Lirulin. Nolondur was already on his way to the Fiefdoms to check on his estate and assure himself that all was well there when I decided to join him.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” Morion said, falling to his knees. “I didn’t….”

“You didn’t know who I was,” Ingwë said solemnly, “and if you had, you would have kept silent but you would still have been thinking it, wouldn’t you?”

Morion nodded, looking miserable. “Well, it’s just as well you didn’t know who I was,” Ingwë continued, “else you would never have spoken as you had and I would be ignorant of many things. Now, get up. I assure you I have no intention of punishing you for your honesty. It was actually refreshing. Nolondur and I laughed ourselves silly repeating your insults to one another as we wandered about the Fiefdoms.”

Morion got up, smiling shyly. Ingwë turned to Valandur. “Perhaps you can explain why you felt you needed to bring these two ellyn with you. What information do they have that I do not?”

“Calandil was with me when we checked on the villages to see which ones had been destroyed. He was forced to travel around Orvamas when Prince Fëanáro cordoned it off. He spoke to some of the refugees in the eastern encampment and they had some rather disturbing news.”

“Nolondur and I did not get there,” Ingwë said. “We visited the western encampment on our way to his estate. So what did you find in the eastern encampment, Elesserion?”

Calandil licked his lips. “I traveled with several others who had accompanied Valandur on his fact-finding expedition and I can give you their names if you wish for corroboration, but when we arrived in the encampment there was much unrest and anger among the refugees….”

The three kings sat attentively as Calandil told them of what he had learned from the refugees. When he finished speaking, silence descended, covering them like a thick blanket. Finally, Ingwë nodded to Calandil. “Thank you,” he said quietly before turning his attention to Morion. “And you? What information do you have to impart?”

Morion stole a glance at Valandur, who nodded in encouragement, before addressing the High King. “Loremaster Valandur told us about Prince Intarion pleading guilty to the charges laid upon him by Prince Fëanáro. I do not understand how anyone could accuse him of stealing from anyone. You never saw him sitting in the common room of my tavern for hours on end struggling over the logistics of assuring that everyone was fed and sheltered. You weren’t there when he wondered aloud if he might be able to withdraw monies from his own account to help pay for the food because he knew that even at discount prices, many of the refugees would not be able to afford to buy much. He was composing a letter — I don’t know if it was ever sent — to someone in Tirion who he said was authorized to withdraw funds for him when word came of rioting in the western encampment and he went out to see for himself. When he returned with Prince Fëanáro, looking bruised, his clothes torn and his hands bound, I was never so shocked in my life.”

All the while that Morion was speaking, Intarion, seated on Valandur’s right, became paler and paler and Valandur actually thought the ellon would either faint or sick up. He squeezed Intarion’s arm in sympathy as Morion continued speaking. Intarion just sat there, never acknowledging Valandur’s attempt to comfort him. When Morion finished speaking, the silence that followed was even more palpable than the first silence. Valandur held his breath, wondering what Ingwë’s reaction would be, for the High King’s expression had become shuttered while the tavernkeeper spoke and nothing in his mien gave any indication of his thoughts.

Finally, though, after several long minutes but before the silence became too unbearable, Ingwë stirred from his contemplation and stood, gesturing for everyone else to remain seated as they automatically started to rise as well. However, he took Intarion by the shoulders and made him stand and then wrapped his arms around his nephew and hugged him tightly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said quietly. “Why did you remain silent?”

Intarion, however, did not explain, only muttering ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again as he wept.

Ingwë shushed him as he continued to hold him tightly. “It’s all right, child. Shh… all is well.” But it was several minutes before Intarion calmed enough for Ingwë to release him, giving him a gentle smile, before returning to his own seat.

“Well, this has been very interesting,” the High King said. He looked at Valandur. “I examined the notes you entered into evidence. Very thorough and very damning.”

“Damning?” Valandur echoed.

“Yes, for you would not know that I was given information from other sources that would appear to contradict what is written in your notes,” Ingwë replied, holding up a hand to stem the questions that Valandur wanted to ask. “I assure you, I do not believe you falsified anything as some have suggested.” He stole a glance at Finwë, before continuing. “For one thing, you have no motive to do so. For another, what I was told by others was inconsistent with what I knew of the matter firsthand.”

“You gave no indication of that,” Olwë interjected. “All the while you pretended that you were ignorant of the truth.”

Ingwë flashed him a smile. “It helps to let others pay out the rope to hang themselves by. It saves you from having to do it yourself.”

“Then you knew Fëanáro was lying all along?” Finwë demanded.

“And Ingoldo,” Ingwë replied, glancing at Intarion, giving him a sympathetic look. Intarion kept his gaze on his lap, refusing to look up.

Valandur blinked. “I don’t think I understand. How is Prince Ingoldo involved? He returned to Tirion with the Noldóran to resume the trade negotiations.”

“Hmm… well, that would take a bit of telling and it is actually not germane to the purpose for this meeting,” Ingwë said.

“Which is what exactly, Sire?” Valandur asked. “I assumed you wanted to discuss the situation in the Fiefdoms after looking over my notes.”

Ingwë shook his head. “That situation is well in hand now that I have heard from Master Morion and Master Calandil.  They provided me with the final pieces of the puzzle and I can now act on it, but that is my concern, not yours. We are here to discuss your future.”

“My future?” Valandur exclaimed. “I already told you that I intend to return to Vanyamar and resume my duties at the Academy. That’s all I want.”

“And Findis?” Ingwë asked, giving him a shrewd look.

Valandur felt the blood rush from his head and then he felt nothing but anger. “What is that to you?” he snarled, jumping to his feet. “To any of you?” He pointed to Finwë while looking at Olwë. “He will have her married to one of your sons and you would be a fool to refuse his offer.”

Finwë bristled at his tone, while Olwë’s expression was unreadable. Valandur ignored them both, directing his next words to Ingwë. “My future is not your concern, Ingwë. You will have my report when we return to Vanyamar. After that, I want nothing to do with you… with any of you.”

He stalked over to the door, flinging it open, not caring if Calandil and Morion followed him or not, not caring that Ingwë had not given his permission for him to leave, not caring…

He stumbled down the hallway, tears blinding him, feeling heart-sore and weary of it all. He accepted that he and Findis had no future together. It was absurd to think otherwise. He wasn’t even a noble, just a commoner, a fairly new loremaster teaching first-year students. He hoped someday to be able to teach the more advanced students and do some original research, but that was for the future to decide. And while such a life appealed to him, he knew that Findis could never be comfortable with it. She was born to greater things than being the spouse of a loremaster, however respected he might be among his peers.

He brushed away the tears, trying to remember how the page had brought them to the audience chamber, but realized he was thoroughly lost in the labyrinth of corridors. He continued on, though, knowing that eventually he would find someone who could direct him to the entrance. He came upon stairs, though not those that graced the central foyer, but he needed to go down anyway and so he took them, thinking it odd that he had yet to meet anyone. Where were the guards and servants that always seemed to be about? It was as if the palace were deserted. Reaching the ground floor he hesitated over the direction he should take, finally deciding to go left.

The hallway was narrow and unadorned with tapestries or statues and he suspected that he might have stumbled upon one of the back corridors used by servants to go from one part of the palace to another without being seen by their betters. He hoped he would meet someone but there was no one and eventually the corridor came to an end, meeting up with another corridor. Again he turned left, not really knowing why, but this time, he found himself passing under an archway and now he was in a garden. It was small, barely twenty feet across and enclosed by blank walls. This place was completely secluded. Apparently one could only reach it from the corridor behind him and none could look upon it from above. He wondered if anyone even knew it was here, for it seemed overgrown and untended to his eyes, as he wandered along the narrow path between the beds, automatically cataloguing the different plants.

Well, as interesting as the mystery of the garden was, he still needed to find his way out of the palace. He turned to retrace his steps, stopping in confusion when he could not immediately see the archway. Walking back the way he had come he found the entrance was not where he thought it should be. Perhaps he had gotten turned around while walking the path. He glanced about. The garden was not so large that he could not see it in its entirety.

There was no archway. All the walls were innocent of any opening. Panic began to rise within him and he began beating on the wall, shouting for someone to hear him. He started running along the perimeter of the garden examining the walls, sure that some trick of the light was preventing him from seeing the entrance, but there was none.

He found himself back where he was sure the archway had to be and began beating on the stone, screaming in terror at the thought that he was trapped inside this garden and no one would ever know that he was there.

****

Note: In ancient times, to be seated at the right hand of a king was to be accorded great honor and it carried with it an implication of equality with the king. Thus, in Christian Christology, to speak of Jesus as ‘seated at the right hand of God’ is to acknowledge His equality with the Father. For Ingwë to place Finwë on his left, when under the rules of precedence, the Noldóran would normally sit on Ingwë’s right, was the High King’s subtle way of informing the others that he was not pleased with Finwë’s recent behavior and was ‘putting him in his place’, so to speak, hence, Olwë’s look of shock (he would normally expect to sit on Ingwë’s left), and Finwë’s grimace.