Chapter 23: Choosing Another
Two men stood before a cold fireplace, the light that a fire would have provided – had the evening been chill enough to warrant one be built – instead supplied by several ornately-wrought candelabra. The tapers were newly lit, the wax barely beginning to overflow the craters about the wick. The servant was only now withdrawing from the room, the candles ablaze and the platter of food positioned beside a wine flagon, his tasks performed with discreet speed.
“Some wine?” one asked as soon as the door closed.
“An honor to share it with you, Lord Steward.”
A sound of benign pleasure came from Denethor’s throat, a supple note that seemed at odds with his perpetually steely visage. “There’s been little opportunity for us to speak as I’m certain we both wish.” Denethor filled the ambassador’s goblet with the rich wine and held it out to him. “I think you’d agree?”
Elfléda took the heavy silver cup from the Steward and sniffed its contents. What could be described as a smile on his narrow lips crooked even more acutely, amused. “No obvious poison,” he observed.
Denethor took a long draught from his own goblet, his eyes hard as iron as they watched Elfléda from over the rim. The Rohirrim followed suit, drank deeply, and smacked his lips softly.
“Not obvious,” the Steward said, “but very agreeable, I should hope.”
“My compliments on a fine vintage. Rohan doesn’t lack for spirits, but only southern Gondor’s wines can fan the blood so marvelously.”
Denethor drained his goblet and was silent, nodding slowly as though considering his words. “It is war which has lately spurred the men of Gondor,” he finally said, “not anything as harmless as this.” He set his goblet down with a thump.
“I was unaware a state of war existed,” Elfléda replied blandly.
“Play word games all you like,” Denethor retorted, tone crisp, “but you know it matters little. These…formalities we as civilized people would observe in our own company are utterly foreign to the Enemy, who simply attacks when and in the manner It chooses, with nary a warning or interest in formal declaration.” Denethor left the table and gestured for Elfléda to follow him to the two large chairs before the hearth. “Weeks, sometimes months, pass with no sign of the Enemy, then days on end are filled with terror, only to give way to another period of inactivity. That is not war – not as we know it or have been schooled to expect, but we must call it that for lack of a better term.”
“And this we have experienced as well,” Elfléda said with some impatience. “’Tis nothing I don’t already know.”
“Just so,” Denethor replied mildly, “which is why I’ve come to expect the unexpected. Truthfully, it’s a rare thing that surprises me. My ability to discern from a distance is not inclined to fail me.”
“You knowledge is considerable,” Elfléda allowed, “and we in Rohan regard it as such.”
“Too kind, but the complimentary language doesn’t seem to be as palatable in such a setting as this.” He gestured at the very modest chamber. “It begs for stark honesty, I think, but that is a humble lore-master’s opinion.”
Elfléda smiled. “Very well, if the Steward can suffer to speak brutally, then I’ll not shirk from it.”
Denethor settled into his chair and leaned back, an elbow propped on one of the carved arms. He clasped his chin in a scrutinizing manner. “Proceed,” he said, as Elfléda took a seat. “I’m eager to see what your unleashed tongue is capable of.”
Elfléda paused in his attempts to situate himself comfortably in the close-fitting chair – the smaller of the two, he noticed, and the one Denethor had left to him. The challenge in the Steward’s words, tone, and posture was unmistakable.
“You’re not pleased with how your forces will be deployed,” Elfléda said smoothly, crossing one leg over the other and lacing his fingers before his chest. “Yet that was a term you agreed to. To this I can only say, Rohan sympathizes, but doesn’t weep.”
“You seem confident that attacks will come from the northeast.” Denethor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your confidence may have persuaded some of my advisors, but I would prefer to know how you received this information. My Rangers tell a different story.”
“Such as?” Elfléda continued, unperturbed. “Do they lack any useful information?”
“Faramir’s attention to his duties is well nigh impeccable,” Denethor said tightly, “as are those of his lieutenants. There is little of Ithilien he has not trod, and what he doesn’t see, there are a score more who do.”
“I never meant to impugn your son’s abilities, and there are few Gondorians held in higher esteem than your eldest son, but I only insist that there is danger lurking to the north. Unchecked, it would sweep up the West Road to Edoras’s very doorstep.”
“And if the Enemy should instead launch a frontal assault on Minas Tirith itself, straight from the East? Or roll up southern Gondor first? With forces spread so thin, any fight would cost more blood than can be spared.” Denethor leaned forward on one arm. “I’ve signed nothing, Ambassador. Therefore I’m bound to nothing, and all is still open to negotiation.”
Elfléda considered this and spread his hands in silent assent. “Then there is little point on hammering the subject for the moment,” he said. “It’s a matter that demands re-visitation, however. And as long as you wish to negotiate, then we shall continue to partake of your fine hospitality.”
“My gratitude for the warning in advance. I’ll be sure to keep the cellars stocked.” Denethor leaned back in his chair again. “Well, this is no ordinary siege, is it? Both sides locked within the city, rather than a wall separating them?”
Elfléda laughed softly. “If we can’t come to an agreement on that, then perhaps we can move onto another matter.”
“Oh?” Denethor’s brows arched in interest. “Which is?”
“The kinswoman who wishes to return to Rohan.”
“If you’re having doubts about allowing Laenilas to travel with you, or even permitting her entry into Rohan, best put them out of your mind immediately.”
Elfléda’s lips twitched. “So eager to be rid of her?” he asked gently.
“Not eager, but she is presently a drain on my same fine hospitality you enjoy. She wishes to go to Rohan, and I would see that she gets this desire.”
“I have inquired about her,” Elfléda said, “after receiving word from my aide that one of your citizens had a petition to come to meet my King.” He smiled apologetically. “Forgive me if I had any suspicions about one from Gondor, but you understand…”
Denethor nodded curtly, but he waved his hand in dismissal. “She’ll be of no trouble to you. She is not a schemer or prone to intrigue. She is far, far too straightforward to connive at anything. If she has anything to say or do, she’ll do it directly. If you find blunt speech to your liking, Rohan can as for no better practitioner of that art than she.”
Elfléda laughed easily. “It seems you have some knowledge of the lady’s character!”
The Steward’s expression was impassive. “I knew her as a young woman when her family came to Minas Tirith for a few short years. She hasn’t changed much since then, I can assure you. More wrinkled, perhaps, but she’s remarkably well-preserved.”
“Your assurance is enough. I wasn’t overly concerned about her since she is startlingly like our women, even from a distance. But there is someone else, a daughter…”
“Yes.”
“She has a habit of being in the middle of frays, I hear?” When Denethor didn’t immediately respond, Elfléda continued. “It has been three days since my soldiers’ ill-fated hunt, and after discovering that this young woman had attached herself to the hunting party, I made inquiries as well.”
“It was my understanding that one of your men agreed to bring her with him,” Denethor countered dryly, “but still, idleness certainly isn’t one of your failings. Your curiosity appears boundless.”
“That it is,” Elfléda agreed, “especially when the safety and well-being of my King and his country are concerned.”
A sharp, brief burst of incredulous laughter erupted from the Steward. “You think she might be a danger?” he asked, then added shrewdly, “Or merely a bad example?”
“Come, Lord Steward,” Elfléda replied, his tone indicating that he would not be insulted, “our women aren’t as easily led as that. I’m only asking if tavern brawls and orc attacks are a nasty sort of baggage she brings with her.”
“Faramir has informed me of the tavern brawl and the girl was merely unfortunate enough to be in a room teeming with irate men spoiling for a fight in the heat. Your suspect is guilty of nothing dastardly,” he finished with a tolerant smile.
“Very well,” Elfléda replied slowly, “but I’ll still reserve for myself the right to rethink any decision I make regarding them. I cannot simply let anyone enter Rohan and bring them to Edoras to inconvenience the King. Their purpose must be plain, clear, and devoid of any threat.”
“Caution is admirable, Ambassador, but it can make fools of even the wisest of men if danger is seen in everything.”
Elfléda sighed. “That’s true, but not everyone has the fortune to be gifted with your peculiar sight. Let us untalented men make our way as best we can.”
Only small matters prolonged the conversation, subjects of even lesser importance than one girl’s scrap in an unremarkable tavern fight. Compliments were exchanged when appropriate; veiled insults and swift jabs made brief appearances, and then Elfléda begged leave with the excuse that if he indulged in one more goblet of wine his head would regret it the next morning.
Elfléda left the chamber and paused as the door closed behind him. Denethor had chosen to remain behind, accepting Elfléda’s assurance that he did not need to summon a servant to guide him back to his quarters.
As Elfléda stood there in the semi-darkness of the corridor, he turned his head at a familiar footfall. A silhouette appeared and lengthened slowly along the illuminated flagstones as it approached.
Falvöd. Never far away, always ready for his next order. From the day Théoden had bestowed upon him the enormous charge of representing Rohan beyond its borders, Elfléda had kept Falvöd near at hand, should stealth and swift action be necessary. There was none other Elfléda trusted more than his éoredstalwart for more than twenty years. The man bore numerous scars from leading small patrols into hostile and dangerous regions – the Dunlending borderlands, among others – and the unpredictable nature of diplomacy, to Falvöd, seemed to be only one more frontier to subdue and navigate.
“My lord,” Falvöd began.
Elfléda held up a hand and closed the distance between them in three long and effortlessly silent strides. The narrow confines of the corridor had long ago become overheated from the wall sconces, despite the moderate spacing between them, and Elfléda flipped his cloak over his shoulders with an undisguised sigh of relief that one more display of formality with the Steward could now be done away with. For all Falvöd’s subordinate position, they observed few formalities of the sort often maintained between servant and lord. It was welcome to abandon them for the moment.
As Elfléda passed, Falvöd swirled into his wake like foam in a current and let himself be guided through the corridors, though he no doubt knew the way himself as one blind knows their own home. Falvöd had been given the task of learning Minas Tirith – streets, buildings, people – with the proficiency of a native son. Never before had this dutiful man ever disappointed. It was inconceivable he should start now.
Elfléda reached his chambers and paused briefly at the soft scrape from further down the hall.
“Guard,” came Falvöd’s whisper.
Elfléda nodded and opened his door, moving with speed but not so quickly that any noise he might cause would arouse suspicion in the nearby guard. Without needing to usher Falvöd inside, the other man entered the chamber first and darted around the door with his hand on the hilt of a dagger he kept nestled in his leather belt. When no intruder was revealed, Elfléda stepped into the chamber and saw that a servant had preceded him. A small fire crackled in the hearth, a gesture towards hospitality rather than any need for heat since his room was no less warm than the chamber he had just left.
As Elfléda removed his cloak and tossed it onto the bed – the covers turned down by the same diligent servant, no doubt – Falvöd went through the chamber, looking behind the curtains and tapestries, searching the shadows for sign of face, figure, or blade.
“I think you’re even more distrustful than I,” Elfléda remarked.
Falvöd let the heavy velvet drape fall closed, his final inspection over. He didn’t reply, this wry jab spoken so often it warranted no answer after so many years. As the soldier’s hand left his dagger, Elfléda knew it was safe to proceed, and he did so without delay.
“You have made contact with them?”
Falvöd nodded. “It wasn’t easy. One had fled the city entirely. The other two have been living like rats in a hole to avoid being seen or rousing suspicion.”
“It’s my understanding that they were never properly identified in that brawl, that only suspicious behavior, not identification, could incriminate them. So what do they have to fear?” Elfléda sank into a chair by the hearth.
“They’re bloody cowards,” Falvöd stated flatly. “They can connive at raids fair enough in the expanses of the countryside, but they quail at close quarters. Anything requiring caution and subtlety.”
“You lacked those skills once, if I’m not mistaken,” Elfléda reminded his old friend gently.
Falvöd’s reply was harshly dismissive. “I learned, and that’s something these oafs steadfastly refuse to do.”
“They must have had some information, once you finally found them. What did they tell you?”
Falvöd snorted. “One was particularly preoccupied with the girl in the tavern, the mannish daughter of that petitioning kinswoman. He believes she saw him fully and could identify him if she saw him again.” His tone indicated he was skeptical of these fears. “His friend that night fled,” he continued, “but he was unable to leave the city before the girl alerted that youngest boy, Faramir, to her suspicions and he began the gate watch. Which is still kept,” he added, when Elfléda moved to ask him about that very same thing.
“It’s horribly unfortunate they chose that farm and herd, of all possible targets, to attack.”
“The orcs wanted horses and you wished for a diversion in the south that was frighteningly deep within the borders. It couldn’t have been a more perfect target,” Falvöd asserted, “apart from the kinship of the inhabitants.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t bother myself with seeing these cretins face-to-face,” Elfléda scowled. “I’d throttle them with my own hands for not uncovering that fact. It has complicated matters. I can always step lightly, but it expends more effort and discipline.” He leaned on the arm of the chair and tapped his fingers against the polished wood. He was silent and stared at the flames thoughtfully. “What of the other man? This other coward hiding with the rats?”
“He arrived several days ago,” Falvöd reported. “He still moves about with some daring, not as cowed as the other. He’s come from Pelargir where he’d spent the last eight months or more – more, I think – carving a niche for himself in one of the taverns. He said there’s still some work to do there. However, a network has been established with the tavern as its center.”
“And that wasn’t too troublesome, I warrant?”
Falvöd shrugged. “He mentioned the previous owner refused to sell, but I didn’t press for the gruesome details. His manner suggested that the man was eventually persuaded.”
Elfléda made a face. “Just as well I never know those sorts of facts. They serve little purpose, as long as the ends are met.” He continued to tap the arm of the chair until he noticed that Falvöd had remained standing. “Sit,” he said. “You look weary.”
Sinking into another chair with muted gratitude, Falvöd leaned back and stretched his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles and settling clasped hands over his stomach.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Elfléda said. “I may have an errand for you, as soon as I hear your opinion.”
Falvöd’s head righted curiously from its slouched position. “Oh?”
“It’s imperative we not have too many within our ranks lest betrayal come easily, but I sense that we shall need more aid before long. His ambition is growing and the call will come to force our hand. I want the strength to be there when that happens.”
“You anticipate difficulties?”
Elfléda spread his hands in a silent admission of uncertainty. “Théoden is still strong, though he has weakened some in the two years since the Queen’s sudden death.” He paused to glance at Falvöd, but the other man was staring at the fire, his features unmarked by any discernable emotion at what he had just said.
That is the sort of man I need more of, Elfléda thought. One who obeys commands, no matter how heinous, and betrays nothing. Little of his deeds ever passed Falvöd’s lips. He carried one out, then it was done and onward to the next. Though the matter of the Queen ranked as one of his greater accomplishments, the sardonic soldier from the Westemnet had no desire or freedom to boast. He asked for no reward other than to remain in Elfléda’s service, a price the ambassador was willing to pay to keep the sole survivor of his first command under his strict control. Better that his mind and Falvöd’s weapons work towards the same end rather than at cross-purposes.
“So what is this matter that urgently needs my opinion?” the other man asked quietly.
Elfléda’s lips twitched in the barest ghost of a smile, and he settled back further in his chair in anticipation of his friend’s reaction. “Do you think Gríma Gálmódsson possesses suitable mettle?”
“Gríma?!” Falvöd repeated, the word infused with caustic disbelief. Had the man been eating, Elfléda was certain he’d have choked fatally on the name. Falvöd was silent as he looked at Elfléda with what seemed to be complete bewilderment. “What has Gríma done to make you think him an apt choice for this or—or anything that you plan?”
“I counted on your reaction, my friend,” Elfléda replied, laughing softly. “I knew it would take some persuading on my part for you to even lend my proposal half an ear. So, here it is.
“You overlook Gríma’s qualities, I fear,” Elfléda began. “What is seen first by all is his obvious foreignness to many things the Rohirrim believe make up ‘one of us.’ He will only ride when forced. He doesn’t spend hours mastering arms. His appearance – so dark and frail! – leads one to think that he has not a drop of Rohirrim blood in his body.”
“I don’t believe he does,” Falvöd replied quickly. “I know his father and mother were from our land, but I look at him…and I cannot bring myself to believe it.”
“Your suspicions are unfounded,” Elfléda said amicably. “I knew of Gálmód Gúrundsson – and his wife – and both were of good Rohirrim blood. He was dark, but Tildath was among the fairest of our folk. She died many years ago and I presume that you never knew her, being from the far Westemnet while I and Gálmód lived in the Eastemnet near the Entwash.”
“I knew of little outside the éored,” Falvöd replied. “I trained and prepared for it until I was accepted, then never cared to look beyond it once I was inside.”
“And that is the mentality which I see in young Gríma.” Elfléda smiled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t demean him so but speaking of him like an untried lad, but I recall him when he was but a mere child and saw little of him until he returned to Edoras from his extended sojourn here to study. But his mind is of singular acuity, and that is what I have been searching for for quite some time. He lives to sharpen it on something – anything – that challenges him.
“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?” he continued. “Even when given a menial task such as copying coarse notes of the rambling of politicians, he devotes every measure of himself to it. When faced with a problem, he ponders and puzzles it into perfect solution. When Théoden’s niece was seized with the fever last Yule, he shadowed the healer and, through observation, determined the cause of her sickness and the cure.”
“I wasn’t aware of that, but wanting to cure the sick, to do well by someone, isn’t exactly what will be required of him should he fall in with us,” Falvöd pointed out. “He’s liable to balk at the first suggestion of anything his overstuffed brain perceives to be less than honorable.”
Elfléda smiled. “If he has even a share of his brother’s blood in his veins, I’ll not worry.”
“Is that the inspiration of this idea? To replace one brother with the other? The Belaród boy becoming a part of this was completely accidental. The man in Pelargir searched about for someone to use in that raid, and he happened to be the one hired for it.” He waved his hands in a rare show of anxiety. “I don’t think we should have the two of them involved. If Gríma discovers— He came to you, asking permission to bring his brother’s body back to Rohan. I would leave the two of them at that and have nothing more to do with either of them. I’m certain that as far as he knows, his brother was simply part of a rogue band, not anything as complex as this.”
“Belaród wasn’t even aware of the complexity. No one is aware of the complexities, Falvöd. The only ones privileged to that information are you and I, my friend. And Him.”
Falvöd brought his hands to his face and rubbed at his eyes, but not in weariness.
“You’re not feeling overwhelmed, are you?” Elfléda asked. He was concerned for his old comrade, and he let a small degree of that concern color his voice; but foremost was his demand that Falvöd maintain the strength and loyalty he had always exhibited. It was this sharp tone that came across clearer than his concern.
“No, no,” Falvöd replied, removing his hands. “Continue.”
Elfléda nodded in reassured satisfaction. “If I’m correct about my impressions of the man, then any desire to do right and follow some honorable code will soon be overcome by pride in the recognition of his skills and worth. He’ll be flattered that someone has seen what he, deep down, has known all along. What is languishing in disuse apart from his own attempts to exercise it. I will be offering him an opportunity to apply it to something greater than what he had ever expected.”
Falvöd moved to protest, but Elfléda silenced him with a quick gesture of his hand. “We shall start the process tonight, my friend. It may require a bit more subtlety than you think yourself capable, but it must be done. I know He is waiting for his next step to be accomplished. We have little time to lose. Are you ready?”
Though Falvöd’s eyes held less eagerness than in the days of old, he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”