The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

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

The doors to Daurendil’s room were violently pushed open and King Tarnendur entered, carrying his wounded eldest son in his arms. The crying Queen and a small crowd of attendants followed.

"What is this devilry here?" roared the King in anger and bewilderment. The sight of a bloodstained Gimilbeth lying pale and lifeless on a bench made Tarnendur stop dead in his tracks.

The Queen, her face wet with tears, tugged at his sleeve urgently. "My Lord, I beg you, think about our son! Daurendil is dying!" she cried. "Put him on the bed there. Where is the healer?"

The King obeyed. The surge of energy he had suddenly felt when Daurendil had been wounded was passing, leaving in its wake weariness and frustration. Tarnendur approached the bed, covered with rich furs, and gently placed his son onto it. Eilinel rushed to Daurendil’s side and started wiping her son’s face with a wet towel.

"My Lord, the healer will be here shortly. He only stopped to get his herbs," announced a servant.

Tarnendur nodded and wandered over to his daughter. He touched her cold, clammy cheek, then pried the bloodstained dagger out of her hand and took her hands in his.

"Gimilbeth…" he called. There was no reaction. The King frowned and called his daughter again by the Sindarin name she was given at birth. "Menelien, come back!"

Still there was no reply. Gimilbeth floated in a swirling gray mist, a nameless shadow among other shadows. She knew not who she was and what was this strange and frightening place, full of stifled moans and hushed whisperings. The only thing that seemed real was bitter cold and pain that radiated from her head and filled all her being to the tips of her fingers and toes.

Tarnendur looked from his grievously wounded son to his unconscious daughter and cursed aloud. Then his eyes riveted to the third figure – a moaning girl on the floor. He gasped in recognition and his hands balled into fists.

"What is your business here, you Broggha’s trollop? What have you done to my daughter?"

Through a murky haze of darkness and pain, Aewen heard the booming condemnation of the king. A distant voice in her mind, the tongue of her own conscience, told her that this was quite an incriminating situation and that she should be attempting to defend herself, but at the moment all she could do was weather the storms of agony which clutched her body. Clenching her pounding head with the hand that had not been cut, she writhed on the floor, moaning, as spasm after spasm of supernatural pain reverberated through her being.

She heard the king speak again, but could not clearly make out what he had said. With a sense of detachment, she vaguely fretted what would become of her if the king should become wroth at her. But yet the power which was currently punishing her was far greater than mortal rulers who are feared by the common folk, even those in whose veins flowed the blood of Dunedain.

The pain began to subside, like a deluge which eventually diminishes into a pattering shower, and Aewen's tongue found speech. "I... have done nothing... to... the lady," she gasped. She was aware, through blurred vision speckled with rainbow dots, of a young man lying on the bed, an older woman fretting over him... her vision cleared somewhat, and she realized that the woman was none other than Queen Eilinel, and the wounded man one of the royal princes.

The king was stooped over Gimilbeth, attempting to rouse her back into the world of the waking. "Then why does she lie here, unspeaking and unhearing?" The king's eyes were drawn to the dagger which Gimilbeth had been holding, and then to Aewen, whose dress was smeared with blood. "Did you try to harm her?" he demanded, accusation in his voice, his fists clenching threateningly.

"No, no!" Aewen cried in desperation, shrinking away from the ruler.

At that moment, the door creaked open and Sarador the Royal Healer entered the room. He was very tall, bony old man, somewhat stooped with age, with beaky nose, long scrawny neck and a completely bald, gleaming head. No wonder everybody called him "the Vulture" behind his back. But, unfortunately, he owed this unsavory nickname not so much to his physical appearance, but to his way of treating patients.

It was widely known that Sarador, once a field surgeon in King Romendacil's army, preferred amputation to all other methods of healing. And he was good at it, brilliant even. Indeed, most of his amputees recovered, which was a feat in itself. The problem was that he often used his saw on those who could have fared better without this radical intervention. The soldiers at the barracks feared Sarador worse than the Enemy and praised Eru to have their own, not so skilled, but at least more compassionate physician, the one occupied with Odare at the moment.

King Tarnendur, however, held Sarador in high esteem, ever since years ago the young surgeon saved the young Rhudaurian prince from certain death, after a spear wielded by a savage golden-haired Northman pierced his chest, leaving the barbed head inside.

Now called to attend to the King's Heir, Sarador proudly carried his gleaming saw under one arm, a bag of other frightening instruments in his right hand and a satchel of herbs in his left.

"Oh, Sarador! Here you are at last!" exclaimed the king with obvious relief. "Daurendil is hurt. Why have you tarried for so long?"

Unperturbed, Sarador stalked to the bed and started probing Daurendil's scalp with his white spidery fingers. He replied in an old, strident voice, unpleasant to ears.

"I was tending to this cockerel... don't remember his name, one of the Prince's friends. He was knifed in the back and bleeding to death. I had to staunch the blood first. I think he might survive."

"That must be that fool Nauremir!" snapped the King angrily. "Accursed hothead! It was he who started the fight in the first place. He only got what he deserved. Ever he tries to lead Daurendil astray toward the path of peril!"

Eilinel turned her tear-stained face to the King and pleaded, "Pray, think about our son, my Lord. Nauremir's crime could be judged later!"

The Kind approached the bed and asked softly, "Tell me the truth, Sarador. How badly is he hurt? Will my son live?"

The King and Queen watched in apprehension as the Vulture pinched his long beak.
The surgeon cleared his throat and announced gravely, "I am afraid I can do nothing." The healer sighed, his eyes wandering longingly to his unnecessary saw. "There is a concussion, and a cut in the scalp, but the skull is intact. Wash the wound with athelas and put a bandage over it. Then call him back. Master Daurendil will have to stay in bed for a week, but that is all."

The Queen was caught in another bout of crying out of sheer relief, but the King tugged at Sarador's sleeve urgently. "Now take a look at my daughter. She is wounded."

Sarador stooped over the prone form on the bench. Squinting, he examined Gimilbeth's dress, then shook his head.

"I don't see the wound. Though with this red gown it is hard to see the blood...Perhaps she was hit on the head...Do you know what happened?"

"I heard Gimilbeth's anguished cries while I was coming up the stairs. Broggha's wench here stabbed her, most likely! There was no one else in the room!" The King turned to point an accusing finger at Aewen, but she was gone.


***

Aewen ran down the stairs, her racing feet thudding down hard upon each one. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath came painfully fast. Her mind reeled with all that had happened and all that she had seen that night. She had been forced to become the unwilling participant in some dark ritual and accused of attempted murder. Oh, why was all this happening to her?

She would have time later to dwell upon these matters, but right now she had to concentrate upon escaping unhindered. Exiting the stairwell, she ran through the hall, which was now considerably less crowded, for most of the people had fled from the tower. Finding a door, she dashed out into the cold night, the cool air giving her welcome relief from the stifling chambers inside the tower.

There were groups of people clustered together on the grounds, talking anxiously about the calamity which the feast had become. Aewen darted in a meandering path among them, trying to avoid colliding with anyone. However, the night was dark, and she gave a shrill cry when someone seized her and pulled her to him.

"Aewen! Where have you been?" Griss demanded harshly. "You have kept us waiting for over a half an hour!"

Oh, where had she been? Should she dare tell the truth? Would anyone believe her if she told it?

"I – I... got separated in the chaos and became lost in the crowd," she mumbled weakly, too dazed really to even speak.

Griss muttered a curse and shook his head in disgust. "The others wait at the stables. Hurry up – try not to make them wait any longer!"

Soon they were standing before the long, rectangular building which housed the royal horses. Broggha was there, leaning against the side of the structure, surrounded by his men. As Aewen neared, she saw that his chest was bare and a wide bandage was wrapped around it. Malaneth was beside him, fastening his fur cloak about his bare shoulders.

Broggha glowered at Aewen and she cringed, lowering her gaze. The look in his eyes assured a confrontation later, and she almost quaked in dread. She wondered what lie she would tell to rescue herself – if she told the truth, she risked incurring the wrath of the royal family. Already, the king might issue a warrant for her arrest, for he thought that she had tried to murder Gimilbeth. What would Gimilbeth tell him when – if? - she awoke? Would it be the truth, or perhaps a lie? Everyone said that she was a witch, and now Aewen knew the rumors were indeed true. Would Gimilbeth decide that Aewen knew too much and wish her dead?

Broggha's anger no longer seemed as threatening as the anger of the whole royal family.

These thoughts occupied Aewen's mind as she rode down the hill with the rest of Broggha's folk to the Hillman chieftain's estate. When they arrived at the manor, Broggha's men helped the jarl dismount from his horse and walk into his house. After changing into fresh clothing, Broggha retired to his great hall and sat down in a chair by the fire in brooding silence. Servants quickly prepared the meal, and soon Broggha and his men were seated at the table, eating and drinking. Malaneth sat at Broggha's side, but Aewen was dismissed to her own chambers to wait in nervous anticipation her master's ire, her only company the jumble of her confused, tormented thoughts.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, Gimilbeth's rooms in the Palace, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where is my lady's nightdress, I ask ye?" Nimraen hissed dangerously, scaring a group of lowly maids assembled in the room. The Gondorian maid, Gimilbeth's favorite, was quick to anger, and at such times her southern accent, which usually caused many a laugh in the kitchens, became even more pronounced.

"We did nothing wrong! We weren't in here since the morning!" pleaded a small, white-faced Hillmen girl. The others nodded in approval.

"You better look at this open window," said another maid, pointing an accusing finger. "Anyone could have sneaked in!"

Nimraen shrugged, and shut the window with a bang. In doing so, she noticed a large, dirty footprint on the spotless windowsill. The geraniums in a flowerbed below the window looked trampled, even in the feeble light falling down from the lighted room.

Frantic now, Nimraen dismissed the maids and searched the room. Everything was in place... except... yes, the golden jar with a lid studded with gems, heirloom of the House of Dauremir, was unfortunately missing. About two hours ago, Nimraen prepared Gimilbeth's green herbal mask in this jar and left it on the dressing table as usual. Close to tears, Nimraen cowered silently in a corner, anticipating the inevitable reprimand from her lady.

Gimilbeth, however, was in no position to reprimand anybody when she was finally brought back to her room, battered and hardly conscious. Nimraen helped her lady out of the wreck of her once elegant dress and into her bed. The old surgeon who followed Gimilbeth looked concerned, especially when a thorough examination revealed no wound, either on the head or the body. Nimraen spent all night by Gimilbeth's bed, bathing her forehead and chest in athelas infusion.

At dawn, King Tarnendur himself came. He took Gimilbeth's hands and called his daughter's name repeatedly, trying to bring her back into the world of the living. This time, in the clear morning light, he was far more successful than the previous evening. Gimilbeth sighed and focused her eyes.

"Father... what happened?" she asked.

"I thought you would answer this question, Gimilbeth," replied the King. "Who has hurt you? Was it this Broggha's 'ward' we found by your body?"

Gimilbeth remained silent for a long time. She felt weak and her brain refused to work with its usual speed and accuracy. Broggha's "ward"? Ah, Aewen, yes... Broggha's mistress... it would be easy to accuse her... but no... she needed Aewen... her accomplice... her spy at Broggha's side...

"Gimilbeth?" prompted the King.

She looked away and said slowly "I hardly remember...Several hillmen surrounded me, Gwindor tried to help, they fought. Another one hit me on the head...hard. This girl, Broggha's ward, dragged me away upstairs, to safety. She is our relative, you know, from the Pennmorva branch. I think she was wounded too - I saw blood on her hands. I was in great pain... then all went dark."

Tarnendur bit his lip. He could have sworn Gimilbeth lied. The King was able to read the hearts of Men - to an extent. He shook his head and said in a suddenly old, grating voice, "I see, my daughter. It seems I accused this young lady unjustly. Sleep now, I shall come to see you later."

The King climbed the stairs to his own rooms, thinking again and again about Sarador's words. The old surgeon told him last night, "Never before have I met such an affliction. Her body is deadly cold and her soul wanders on the paths of the Shadow world. Such an illness was unheard of for many lives of Men - since the Downfall of the Great Enemy in the Dark Land. It was called the 'Black Shadow'. "

How on Arda could Gimilbeth catch such an illness in the present time in Rhudaur? And why had she lied about it?