The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, Daurendil’s rooms in the Tower, Night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Elfhild and Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once in the upper room, Aewen quickly spun around to face the one who had dragged her away from the chaos in the feasting hall. She gasped when she saw Gimilbeth, then quickly lowered her eyes and curtsied. "My lady Gimilbeth..." she begun.

"You are Aewen, daughter of the Count of Pennmorva, are you not?"

"Uh, yes—"

"Come, let me pour you a goblet of wine... you do not look at all well... you must be distraught after witnessing all the chaos in the hall."

In a state of bewilderment, Aewen watched as Gimilbeth glided over to a wine cabinet in the corner and poured a goblet of wine. They were in a man's room, perhaps belonging to one of the two princes. Aewen gasped slightly as the goblet was placed in her hand, for she was still quite a bit shaken by the madness downstairs.

"Let us sit down and talk." Gimilbeth led Aewen over to a covered bench alongside the wall. When both women were seated, Gimilbeth continued, "Now I have some questions which I want to ask you, and I want you to answer them truthfully..."

Aewen wondered what she meant, but soon enough she found out. She swallowed hard and took a draught from the goblet, trying to calm herself.

"Tell me, child, are you Broggha's mistress? Do not seek to deceive me."

Gimilbeth fixed Aewen with a cold, penetrating stare, and Aewen's heart seemed to freeze within her chest. Then the blood rushed to her cheeks and she dipped her head down, averting her eyes. Her fingers clutched tightly about the goblet stem. "My lady, I am his ward," she said quickly, and then proceeded to tell her story before Gimilbeth could challenge her. "After Pennmorva was attacked by orcs and its people taken as captives, Broggha demanded that that the elders swear their fealty to him and pay tribute. My father, the count, tried to defy him, but the Hillman bested him and left him nigh unto death. When my father died the next day, Broggha turned the manor over to one of his chieftains, and then took me as his ward, for there were no men left to protect me. It is not wise for a woman to live alone, especially in these dark times..." her voice trailed off.

That was not exactly the truth, of course, but Aewen was too ashamed to tell what had actually happened, even though Gimilbeth already guessed at it. She was one of the Hillman's mistresses, but shame stayed her tongue and she could not bear to admit the horrible truth.

Gimilbeth listened to Aewen's pathetic explanations, trying not to let her anger show. At one point, not sure if she was able to maintain the placid smile on her face, she stood and wandered over to a large mirror in a gilded wooden frame hanging on the wall by the dressing table. Daurendil was a vain little fool, very proud of his good looks and fond of expensive clothes. His room was full of trinkets, weapons, heraldic devices and other silly things appealing to a boy of twenty summers.

Her reflection in the mirror left Gimilbeth appalled to a point where she almost forgot about Aewen. Her fine silver cobweb bodice and skirts were torn and hung in shreds around her waist. The red under-dress of heavy silk was hopefully whole, except for a gash in the lower hem. Gimilbeth took a small dagger hanging on the wall and proceeded to cut away all the remnants of the ruined upper garment.

The girl, having finished her lame story, was silent now. Gimilbeth took her time to finish the re-adjustments to her toilet, while thinking about the next question. She decided to come to the most important issue at once, while the girl was totally confused, ashamed and close to tears.

Gimilbeth turned back from the mirror and looked directly into Aewen's tearful eyes.

"Tell me, what happened right before midnight on the seventh of Narbeleth?"

Aewen paled, struck by terror. She opened her mouth, but no words came out of her parched lips. Gimilbeth noticed that the girl's left hand was pressed tightly to her breasts, as if covering a recent wound. The right hand lay lifeless in her lap.

Gimilbeth stood towering over the sitting girl, the dagger still in her hand, and continued in a deliberately ominous voice that echoed faintly in the vaulted roof.

"I will tell you the tale myself, Aewen of Pennmorva, for I know far more than you can imagine. On this night, you tried to slay the Jarl with a knife. You were punished for it, the flesh between your breasts burned by hot iron. Do you want me to rip your high-necked gown to show you the evidence?"

Aewen gulped, closed her eyes and made a weak attempt to crawl away from Gimilbeth along the bench where she was sitting, but the Witch of Cameth Brin gripped her shoulder, long nails biting deeply into the girl's flesh. She shook Aewen back into awareness.

"Why did the Jarl survive? Tell only this!" she hissed.

"The Jarl ... rolled away from the knife as if he sensed it ... somehow..." Aewen muttered in a small, broken voice. She was looking, fascinated, at the gleaming dagger in the witch's hand.

Gimilbeth was puzzled. What had gone wrong with her spell? Was it a mistake on her part, or some other intervention? Did Broggha have a charm against evil magick on his person? She had to know the answers and was ready to use all possible means to learn the truth.

Her grandmother Serinde had possessed mystic knowledge and an intimacy with bodiless spirits of Middle earth. Back in Umbar, Gimilbeth had seen her practice her arts with success. At Serinde's bidding, Gimilbeth used to peer in a magic black mirror and tell her grandmother what passed in array before her eyes.

Gimilbeth's eyes narrowed with determination. Disregarding Aewen's whimpering and pleading, Gimilbeth took her right hand and held it in her own. With the tip of the dagger Gimilbeth scraped a rune upon the palm of the other's quivering hand. The girl was too weak and frightened to resist. The blood oozing from the scratches pooled in the palm of Aewen's hand. Then Gimilbeth cut her own forefinger and added a few drops of her own blood to the red liquid, while she chanted softly in a strange tongue. Suddenly the liquid turned black as ink, forming a small mirror the size of a silver penny.

"All is ready," said Gimilbeth; "now, Aewen, what see you in the mirror?"

"My own face," whimpered the girl.

"Think of Broggha and of that night... when you stabbed him."

For some time nothing happened. Gimilbeth was chanting. Suddenly, as if cut in the middle by a sharp knife, the veil parted.

Aewen saw again the interior of the hated longhouse, back in Morva Torch. She was standing naked, rusty knife in her hand, over the Jarl's sleeping form. She saw herself approach and drive the knife down, aiming at Broggha's unprotected chest.

Gimilbeth's cheek was pressed to Aewen's now, both women looking in the enchanted mirror side by side, their minds linked again by a powerful spell.

Suddenly the vision changed. They saw silent trees over the narrow forest path. An owl hooted. A horseman clad in black was holding a naked blade... He was chanting something... and there was some object shining brightly on his right hand... A ring? Gimilbeth strained her eyes and steeled her will trying to see the face of the black horseman. But the figure was vague, eluding her eyes and concentration, seen as through a thick mist.

Gimilbeth started another spell to clear her vision, but had to stop abruptly. Suddenly she felt an icy hand squeeze her heart. Her blood froze in her veins as pure terror took hold of her mind. With a strident cry of dismay she let go of Aewen's wrist and fell to the bench writhing in pain. Aewen fared not much better. The girl slipped to the floor and moaned pitifully, her bloodied hand pressed to her aching heart.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carn Dum, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"My lord?" In spite of the black ermine-lined robe which she had thrown over her silver nightgown, the tall, dark-haired woman shivered. The king seemed deaf to her words as he looked down into a globe. The murky crystals were dark and filled with strange images which swirled like ink poured into water.

"Come and gaze inside and tell me what you see." His deep voice held a trace of mocking amusement as the woman walked over and looked into the crystal whose visions had now shifted again.

"I see nothing through the portal," she replied nervously as she looked into his face. He picked up the glass and put it into her hands. She winced as she felt a cold harsher than ice on her palms and fingers.

"Press the ball between your breasts and hold it there for a while. Perhaps you will see something soon."

Her eyes darted from the crystal to his face, a look of questioning surprise upon her face. "But it is so cold!"

"Not long... be patient."

Pressing the globe to her chest for a short time, she then extended her arms and held the object at a distance. "No longer is it cold, but seems warm! The mists inside are clearing!" she exclaimed, marveling.

"What do you see?"

"A form... a lovely girl with dark hair and sad face... her brow is wrinkled with worry... No, it is fear!"

"And why does she seem to be frightened?"

"My lord, I do not know. I cannot read the mysteries of the unknown as can you."

"Perhaps someday, my flower, you will be able... but there is more there for you to see. Look again!"

"The girl... I feel that she has experienced great pain... she has been hurt... Oh, how ghastly!" The girl's hands trembled as she held the mystic object. "She has been burnt grievously - there is a horrible scar, the shape of a dagger betwixt her bosom." She looked away from the crystal, which now was filled with creeping mist that danced beneath the surface. Transfixed, she looked again. "I see another woman... older... very beautiful.. her dress is damaged... I sense she is angry about something... the dress perhaps?" Uncertainly, she looked to the king. "I can see no more."

"That is enough. Return it to me, my flower."

"Certainly, my lord," she demurred, her eyelashes lowering as she extended the orb to him.

"I will allow you to see what you will never be able to see." He held the globe in the palm of his right hand, and when the device touched the ring on his hand, blue sparks flamed up around the outer circle of the crystal. In the center fell a single drop of blood which grew until the interior was filled with it. The woman gasped and took several steps back.

"Never have you shown me anything like this before!" she exclaimed, fear and amazement filling her face.

He laughed in cold amusement, then bent his head, placing his other hand on top the arcane object and began a low, melodious chant in that strange language which he sometimes used. "Gaze now and you will see clearly," he commanded as he took his hand away from the top of the globe.

"So strange... the two women look into the first woman's hand.... What are they doing?" she mused. "A pool of reflection has formed in the woman's hand... and I see... I see... a man..." Her gray eyes filled with terror. "And I sense it is you!"

The King laughed and began to chant again... this time the chanting was wild and untamed. In her mind, she could see dark forests and ancient, bizarre, distorted plants that crawled up the sides of the trees. A chill raced up her back, and then somewhere, far, far away, she could hear screams. Blood began to fill the interior of the globe once again as blue sparks raced through it. There was another high, piercing, wailing scream, and then there was darkness.

The woman's mind felt as dark as the globe. Brushing her hand across eyes to clear her vision, she grasped the arm of the king's dark ebony chair to steady herself. She felt weak, her legs trembling. Unable to support her, her legs collapsed and her body began to pitch forward on the table. Before she could fall, she felt a strong arm catch her and lift her up in his arms.

"What do the visions mean?"

"Princess Gimilbeth has become a dabbler in the old arts. She has worked a trifling spell, and by doing this, she has involved a reluctant victim. But what she does not know is that once someone has used the power, it is llike a stone cast into a pool, and the circles are neverending. What has once been done can never be undone. Remember that, Gelireth. You should have remained in bed and resisted the impulse to curiosity. You are only a mortal and not strong enough to bear such sights."

"My lord," she clutched both arms around his neck and looked longingly up into his face, "allow me to remain with you! Teach me these secrets. I want to learn!"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Some secrets you could never learn, no matter how long you study the old texts. Some of the mysteries can be revealed if you study. Some knowledge can come only from me, and then only by the expenditure of blood."

"I will do anything, anything!" she murmured. "But please, never send me away! I love you!"

"Mortals give their love too easily," he chuckled.