The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

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Cameth Brin, October 19-20, 1347.
Written by Serenoli
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The first person to scold Odaragariel was Amantir. Tarniel was much too frightened and concerned to start on her yet; she was quietly holding Odare's hand, watching as the healer tore off Odare's sleeve and examined the wound. It looked ugly, and was still bleeding copiously, but it wasn’t too deep.

The healer began to swipe it clean with a thick paste of his own concoction, and at the same time, Amantir started berating her.

"What were you thinking? Didn't I ask you to come with me? Who asked you to act the hero?"

Mulishly, Odare replied, "I was looking out for Tarniel."

"Thats all very well, but once you got her why couldn't you do the sensible thing and run for it?"

"We were trying!" Odare said half-rising. Her arm stinged painfully, and with a muffled cry, she sank back onto the pillows again. The healer looked annoyed, but didn't dare interrupt the prince. "But the bear was about to attack us!"

"And so you attacked it first - How very sensible, I don't think! Look at you now! And you were endangering Tarniel as well!"

Odare felt close to tears. Wouldn't anyone tell her how brave she had been to attack a vicious bear for the sake of friendship? Instead, she was being told off! She sullenly turned her face to the wall, and Tarniel, still very quiet, turned to Amantir and said sharply, "Leave her alone. Can't you see she's in pain?"

Amantir opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, and stalked out. Meanwhile, Odare was still pouting, not at all mollified by Tarniel defending her by evoking pity for her. Who asked her to butt her head in? But she said nothing to Tarniel about it, and silently sat through as the healer bound her arm up. When he was done, he told her strictly to stay in bed for a week, and after some more instructions to Tarniel, he left. He had plenty of other injuries to deal with. Tarniel stayed long enough to help Odare change out of her torn dress into something simpler... and then, she left, too, anxious about Daurendil's fate.

Odare, now in a thorough temper at having to stay in bed for a week, growled a little at the maid left with her, ordering her about for trivial things... and only stopped when she started feeling weak and tired. She leant back, and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.

It was only the next day, alone in her room, after the King and Queen had seperately come to visit her, that she remembered the necklace. She had been distracted all morning... for although no one shouted at her like Amantir, they had all signified, by word and gesture, how disappointed they were in her. The King actually seemed rather impatient at her for unnecessarily lying in bed like an invalid for a simple scratch on the arm, while Gimilbeth and Daurendil were so seriously injured, and while he didn't say so directly, it was clear by his manner. It was all she could do to shout at him that it wasn't her fault that others were injured - she still deserved the same amount of sympathy!!

While she was thus angrily ruminating, her mind turned once again to the dread events of yesterday, and she remembered the emerald necklace. She sat bolt upright in bed, almost getting up to search the Hall right away. Then she realized how ill-advised it would be, especially as the night-gown she had on was probably the simplest, least expensive one she had.

So she rang the bell, and immediately sent a guard to look for, and enquire after the necklace, and report immediately should it be found.

***

The burly guard that had caught up Hurgon did not relinquish his hold on him, as they jostled their way to the front of the crowd. In fact, the man was so intent on ramming through that he scarcely noticed it when Hurgon banged his head off the stone wall as they turned a corner. And when he finally broke through the crowd and noticed Hurgon's unconcious form, he only dashed even faster to the kitchens.

Why to the kitchens? Well, he may have been silly enough to try and rescue a perfectly healthy Hurgon, and he may have been insensitive enough to crush the said Hurgon's skull against stone walls and cause him to lose his health, but he had sense enough to know that the official healers would never have time for Hurgon... not while a prince and a princess and other nobles lay bleeding. And Hurgon, it seemed to him, needed help immediately. His hands were now stained with the blood off Hurgon's clothes. He broke into a slight run.

In the kitchens, complacently stirring a cauldron, was his old, slightly stooped aunt, and she was famous, at least in the lower ranks of the castle, for her herbs and expert remedies. He took Hurgon straight to her; she did not even ask him what the matter was, but putting a fresh betel leaf in her mouth, she beckoned him towards the back of the kitchen where there was a small room. He laid him on the floor, fetched all her herbs and instruments, and hovered anxiously as she, chewing slowly on the betel, examined the prostate Hurgon carefully for his wounds.

Time and again she looked, she felt, she searched, and no wound did she find. Her nephew joined her, and both their faces registered bafflement as no wound, except for the slightest protusion on his head, appeared.

Then, suddenly, she bent forwards, and sniffed. Even through the distinctive smell of the crushed betel leaf in her mouth, she could make out the smell of the wine. She laughed, and then after scolding her nephew soundly, she sent him back, instructing him to leave the artist in his room, and leave him strictly alone.

It is perhaps not surprising that the first thing Hurgon thought, when he woke up the next day - with a swollen head, his best robes splattered with red wine-stains, and a completely empty stomach - it is no wonder that he vowed firmly to himself to never, ever go to a feast again. Ever.



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Cameth Brin, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Earniel
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It took quite while before the activity in the Palace finally subsided and gave way to the peaceful quiet of slumber. Well, Wilwarin thought wryly, if this day is any indication for what’s to come, I’ll have my hands full for many a season to come.

She had missed much of the excitement. While bear, hounds and people had been fighting one another randomly, Wilwarin had been moving her belongings to the small bedroom she now would occupy in the princesses’ wing. Sure, she had heard some commotion and screams, but she had not thought much of it. After all, a dancing bear was not something that came everyday, not even in the Royal court of Rhudaur, and the presence of the Hillmen would be cause of noise enough.

It was only when Odaragariel was carried in, wounded by the bear, that Wilwarin learned what had happened. When the princess of Mitheithel had finally fallen asleep, her maid had excitedly informed Wilwarin of how the bear act had gone awry. Now Wilwarin was quite relieved she had not been responsible for the safety of the two girls at the feast; she wouldn’t have been prepared for a full-grown bear. Here, in the princesses’ wing, she had taken every precaution she could think of. For the umpteenth time, she ran along the list again.

There were only two doors in: the door to the rest of the palace, and the door to the gardens. Both had been securely locked and bolted and Wilwarin had been allowed to keep a key of them. And because Wilwarin knew even the strongest lock could eventually be picked, she had drawn a thin silk thread across them which she would remove every morning, and restring every evening. On the end of the thread hung small bronze bells which, while not very loud, she should be able to hear. Entrance would not go without notice.

The next barrier was, of course, herself.

She carefully checked her own equipment. She wore a riding tunic and leggings for optimal movement. Over the tunic came a leather vest for protection, and a cloak for when the evenings turned colder. On her feet she wore leather shoes with flexible soles. Her father had come by them on one of his foreign travels and recognized their usefulness. They were said to be enduring and comfortable, while allowing for stealth.

She had not owned a sword when she had arrived in Cameth Brin; she had not dreamed about needing one in the capital of Rhudaur. But she had been given access to the weapon room and there had chosen a gladius to her liking. The sword was short, but well made, sharp and light, and also similar to the ones she handled before; it now hung at her side. In her vest, she had also hidden a small dagger.

Realising that even the best sword could not hold against a majority, she had discussed it with Tarniel’s bodyguard, and on his advice carried also a small horn that would alert the guards in the entrance hall nearby.

Satisfied her precautions were all in place, Wilwarin continued to watch during the remainder of the night.


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Carn Dum, Morning of October 20, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Alassar stood upon a high balcony, which he thought of as little more than an extension of his room. The air was chill, coming from the North, and in his excitement, he had forgotten to drape the fur mantle around his shoulders when he left his bedroom. The wind ruffled the bird's iridescent feathers as he sat on the railing of the balcony.

"Pretty, pretty bird," Alassar cooed as his fingers stroked the bird's head.

"Pretty, pretty," the bird mimicked back. Alassar had always greeted the bird in the same way, and with the constant familiarity of the expression, the bird had learned to repeat it.

"What have you brought me from Lord Belzagar today, my fine Lord Âmbal, my friend?"

"Brought Lord Âmbal," the bird's voice grated out.

Alassar had such a close kinship with his "pets," as he called them, that he always expected the bird to reply in comprehensible speech. The bird was unable to do such a thing, however, for it was only a mimicker, a repeater of expressions that it had learned. Alassar bent down and unfastened the strap that held the silver cylinder to the bird's right leg. Unfastening the stopper, Alassar pulled out a parchment and read the words that it contained. The script would be incomprehensible to anyone except those versed in reading the code.

Alassar's eyes skimmed over the message and, smiling, he rerolled the parchment, placed it back in its cylinder, and fastened the cap. He knew he should never have read the message, for it was meant only for the king's eyes. If His Majesty wished to make its contents known to any others, he would do so. Alassar had become overcome with curiosity this morning, though. He knew that such a tendency could be his undoing, but that was only a small fault, was it not? Things had become too interesting in Cameth Brin to wait until the king decided if he wanted to divulge the information to him.

He had selected the perfect treat to reward Ambal, three large mice, just freshly killed. He was certain that Ambal must have smiled at him in appreciation in his own way as the raven tore into the tender meat.

"Satisfied with my gift, my pretty pet?" Alassar asked hopefully.

"Cur-ruk tok," the bird croaked in a metallic voice, its black eyes gleaming.

"Rest now, my gleaming treasure. Another will be called upon to do the lord's bidding. Ukh and away with you!" The messenger spread his wings and flew away. Alassar smiled, knowing that the bird would return in his own time, for he was quite tame. He looked to another raven tethered by a silver chain to the balcony.

"Are you pouting, my lovely Lord Honalnût? You should not be jealous of Ambal. He is your brother in this work, and I love you both."

Alassar took a silver tube from his cloak and buckled the strap around the bird's leg. He picked the bird up and looked deeply into its black eyes. "What do you see that I cannot? Can you perceive things unknown to me? You can travel quickly to places that would take me hours. Oh, that I had the gift that so many others have to speak with the birds! It is to my constant misery that not all has been revealed to me." Alassar closed his eyes and peered into the blackness beyond his lids, seeking meaning in the darkness.

"Go now, messenger of the skies, Lord Honalnût." He intoned a chant of protection to ward against any mischief that might befall the bird on its journey south, and then turned him loose to mount upon his ebony wings into the skies. Alassar watched him as he disappeared and then turned and walked into his room, closing the balcony door behind him.

"Now to take the message to His Majesty," Alassar thought with an unpleasant guilty feeling, suddenly realizing the silver cylinder held in his moist palm had grown strangely cold.

***
NOTE
Ambal - "Handsome" in Shadowlandian Black Speech
Honalnût - "Sky Watcher" in Shadowlandian Black Speech
"Ukh" - "Go" in Shadowlandian Black Speech