CHAPTER 22

More than a month has gone by since the end of the Mordorian campaign, and still Éowyn had no message from Aragorn. Well, who knows what the circumstances are… If she had reached any conclusions already, she kept them to herself and her behavior had not changed a bit. The only difference was that she no longer asked Beregond daily for news from Minas Tirith. It also seemed to Faramir that her remarkable gray-green eyes have acquired a new, colder, bluish tint, but that would have been really supernatural. The girl treated the prince with genuine warmth and sympathy, but she had channeled their closeness into nothing but friendship from the very beginning, and he had to accept that.

They were sitting at the dinner table in the Knights Hall of the fort, unwelcoming because of its large size, when a Gondorian lieutenant in a dusty cloak showed up, accompanied by several soldiers. Faramir immediately offered the messenger wine and venison, but the man shook his head. His business is so urgent that he will only change horses and ride back. He has the King’s orders to pick up Éowyn from Emyn Arnen (the girl leaned forward and her shining face seemed to dispel the gloom of the hall) and escort her to Edoras, to the court of King Éomer.

He followed up with some Minas Tirith news of which Faramir had only consciously registered an unfamiliar name: Arwen. Arwen – sounds like the tolling of a gong, he thought fleetingly; I wonder what fight this gong announces… The prince looked up at Éowyn and his heart fell: her face was a bloodless mask of pain, her eyes seeming to take up half of it – a child who had just been cruelly and mercilessly tricked and is now about to be publicly mocked to boot.

But this show of weakness lasted for only a moment. Then the blood of six generations of steppe knights asserted itself: the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan may not behave like a miller’s daughter seduced by the landlord. Smiling charmingly (although the smile held about as much warmth as moonlight upon a snowy White Mountains pass), Éowyn told the lieutenant that his orders were very strange, as she was not the subject of the man who called himself the King of Gondor and Arnor. In any event, they are presently outside the Reunited Kingdom, so if the Prince of Ithilien (a nod towards Faramir) does not object, she would like to avail herself of his hospitality for some more time.

The Prince of Ithilien had no objections, of course, and the only thing that really upset him about the situation was this: he was unarmed, so if Aragorn’s men were under orders to remove the girl forcibly if necessary, he would have to fight with only the dagger he has just used to cut venison. A truly fitting end for the last heir of the ill-fated Anarion dynasty! At least this tragic farce will be concluded in its prevalent style… The prince glanced at Beregond, who stood on the right side of the table, and was startled by an astonishing change that had come over the captain: his gaze was firm as in the old days, and his hand rested familiarly on the hilt of his sword. Neither of them needed any words to understand that the old warrior had made his choice and was ready to die by Faramir’s side.

Whereas the Gondorian officer was obviously perplexed: apparently his orders did not include any violence against royal persons. Éowyn smiled again – with real charm this time– and firmly took the upper hand:

“I’m afraid that you’ll have to stay after all, Lieutenant. Do try the venison, it’s especially good today. Your soldiers must need rest, too.” She addressed the butler: “Gunt! See the King’s men to the kitchen and make sure they’re well fed after their journey. Oh, and arrange for their baths!”

Éowyn had the fortitude to stay until the end of the meal and even keep up the conversation:

“Please pass the salt… Thank you… So what’s the news from Mordor, Lieutenant? We’re quite cut off, here in the boonies…” It was clear, though, that she was holding on with the last of her strength. Looking at her, Faramir remembered some over-tempered glass he once saw: it looked just like a regular piece of glass, but shattered into tiny pieces with a tiny flick.

Of course he did not sleep that night; sitting by the lamp, he kept futilely wracking his brains, trying to think of ways to help. The prince was an expert in philosophy and pretty well versed in military and intelligence crafts, but to be honest, he knew little about the intricacies of the female soul. So when his door opened without a knock and there was transparently pale Éowyn, in a nightshirt and barefoot, he was completely bewildered. She was already inside, though, stepping like a somnambulant; then the nightshirt fell down at her feet, and she ordered, head held high but eyelashes down: “Take me, Prince! Now!”

He picked up her light body – goodness, she’s shivering like crazy, must be nervous shakes!

– carried her to his bed and covered her with two warm cloaks. What else do I have here?

He looked around – aha, Elvish wine, just what she needs.

“Here, drink this, it’ll warm you up.”

“Wouldn’t you rather warm me up in another fashion?” She spoke with her eyes closed; her body, taut as a bowstring, was still shivering.

“Certainly not now. You’d hate me for the rest of your life, and with good reason.”

Then she knew for sure that, finally, it was all right to cry... So she cried, with abandon, like a child, while he was hugging that shivering, sobbing, infinitely dear girl to his chest and whispering something into her ear – he never could remember what he said, nor did it matter; his lips were salty with her tears. And when she was done pouring out her pain and disgust, she crawled back under the cloaks, took his hand and asked quietly: “Please tell me something… nice.” So he recited the best poems he knew, and every time he stopped she would squeeze his hand, as if afraid of being lost in the night, and ask with an inimitable child’s intonation: “More! Please, a little more!..”

She fell asleep in the early morning, still holding his hand, so he waited by the side of the bed until her sleep grew deeper; only then did he kiss her temple gently and removed himself to the armchair. He woke up a couple of hours later from some small noise and immediately heard an angry “Please turn away!” and then a plaintive “Listen, give me something to put on – I can’t walk around like this!” a few seconds later. Then, standing in the door (with his hunting jacket on), she suddenly spoke quietly and very earnestly: “You know, those poems… It’s something amazing, I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’ll come this evening, and you’ll read me some more of that, all right?” To make a long story short, by the time Faramir sent a message to Edoras inquiring whether Éomer had any objections to his sister’s decision to become Princess of Ithilien, evening readings were an indispensable part of their family life.

“…Are you listening?”

Éowyn had long since washed up and dressed, and was now gazing at the prince, upset.

“I’m sorry, baby; I’ve been thinking.”

“About something sad?”

“More like something dangerous. What if His Majesty the King of Gondor and Arnor sends us a wedding gift? Your joke about arsenic and strychnine might just be prophetic.”

By saying this he had broken an unspoken commandment never to mention Aragorn inside these walls. Only once, at the very beginning of their romance, did Éowyn say (abruptly and with no connection to the preceding conversation): “If you want to know what he’s like as a lover,” she was looking out the window and did not see his gesture of protest, “I can utterly honestly say: nothing much. You see, he’s accustomed only to taking, all the time and in everything; a real macho, you know…” Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Of course, most women want nothing else, but I’m not one of them…”

She looked at Faramir questioningly for a while, then nodded and said thoughtfully, as if making some final conclusion: “Yes, he totally could… Do you have a plan for how to avoid such a gift?”

“Yes, I do, but all depends on whether Beregond will be with us.”

“Forgive me if this is not my business, but… this man killed your father. And a father is a father, no matter who he is.”

“I think that Beregond is not at fault. What’s more, I intend to prove it today, first and foremost to himself.”

“Why today?”

“Because it was unwise to do it before. That day in the dining hall he behaved recklessly. I haven’t spoken to him since then precisely to allay any suspicions the White Company guys might have, but now it looks like it’s now or never. In other words, please ask him to come see me for some innocuous reason, and make sure to speak to him in public – we have no secrets! And when you go hunting, try to lose your bodyguard, casual-like, and ask the people about a certain forest hamlet…”

There was a faint glimmer of hope in Beregond’s eyes when he entered – perhaps not all is lost?

“Hail, Your Highness!”

“Hello, Beregond; let’s not be so official. I would like you to help me contact His Majesty.”

The prince rummaged in a cargo box by the wall and carefully placed a large ball of smoky crystal on the table.

“A Seeing Stone!” The captain was amazed.

“Yes, this is a palantír. The other one is in Minas Tirith. For some reason Aragorn doesn’t want me to use it myself and had a spell put on it. So please, look into it…”

“No!” Beregond shook his head in despair; terror was on his face. “Anything but that! I don’t want to see Denethor’s charred hands!”

“So you’ve seen them before?” The prince felt a sudden mortal weariness – did he, in fact, misjudge this man?

“No, but they told me… Anyone who looks into his palantír sees them!”

“Don’t worry, Beregond.” There was relief in Faramir’s voice. “This is not Denethor’s palantír; that one is at Minas Tirith, and no danger to you.”

“Really?” With some trepidation the captain picked up the Seeing Stone and looked into it for some time, then put it down with a sigh. “Forgive me, Prince, but I can see nothing.”

“You have already seen everything you need, Beregond. You are not guilty of Denethor’s death; you can sleep calmly.”

“What?! What did you say?”

“You are not guilty of Denethor’s death,” the prince repeated. “Forgive me, but I had to trick you: this is, indeed, his palantír. It is true that blackened fingers can be seen in it, but only those who were involved in the murder of the King of Gondor see them. You saw nothing, so you’re innocent. On that day your will had been paralyzed by someone’s powerful magic, most likely Elvish.”

“Is this true?” Beregond whispered. “Perhaps you just want to console me, and this is some other palantír…” (Please tell me it’s not so!)

“Think about it – who would give me another palantír? They only gave this one back to me because they believe it to be irretrievably damaged; they can see nothing in it past Denethor’s hands, which block the entire field of vision. Luckily, they don’t even suspect that people innocent of the crime can still use it.”

“So why did you tell me that it was another one?”

“Well, you see… you’re trusting and easily influenced, Beregond, and the Elves and Mithrandir have used that. I was afraid that you’d convince yourself that you could see that picture; self-hypnosis does weirder things sometimes… But now, praise Eru, it’s over.”

“It’s over,” Beregond repeated hoarsely. He kneeled and stared at the prince with such doglike devotion that the latter was embarrassed. “So you will let me serve you, just like before?”

“Yes, I will, but please rise immediately. Now, tell me: am I the sovereign of Ithilien to you?”

“How else, Your Highness?!”

“If so, do I have the right, while remaining a vassal of the Crown of Gondor, to replace the personal guard imposed on me by the King?”

“Certainly, but this is easier said than done. The White Company is only nominally under my command; I’m more of a quartermaster here.”

“Yes, I’ve figured that out. Who are they, by the way – Dúnedain?”

“The soldiers are, but as for officers and sergeants – those are all from the King’s Secret Guard. Nobody knows where they came from to Gondor; there’re rumors –” Beregond shot a glance at the door, “that they’re living dead. Nor can I figure out who their chief is.”

“Well, well… in any case we should get rid of these guys, the sooner the better. So, Captain– will you take the risk by my side?”

“You have saved my honor; therefore, my life is yours with no reservations. But three against forty…”

“I think that we’re way more than three.” Beregond stared at the prince in amazement.

“About a week ago the men from one of the forest hamlets brought a cart of smoked deer meat to the fort and got into an argument with the gate guards – those demanded that they leave their bows outside, as is their procedure. There was a black-haired guy there who made a big racket: how come noblemen can enter the Prince’s residence armed, but the merry men from the Blackbird Hamlet can’t? Do you remember?”

“Yes, I recall something like that; so?”

“So that guy was Baron Grager, lieutenant of the Ithilien regiment and my resident spy in Khand before the war. I’m inclined to think that he’s not alone in that Blackbird Hamlet.

Your task is to establish contact with Grager, then we’ll play it by ear. You and I will only contact each other via a dead drop from now on – if you stand on the sixteenth step of the spiral staircase in the northern wing, there is a small crack on the left wall at elbow height, just right for a note. One can’t be seen using the drop either from the top or the bottom of the stairs, I’ve checked. Now. Once you leave here, pretend to go on a drinking binge for a couple of days, since I’ve asked you to try and contact Aragorn via the palantír, and you saw Denethor’s hands in it. Don’t overdo it, though: the White officers seem very perceptive.”

That same evening the first crime occurred in the Settlement – arson. Some idiot fired – no, not the house of a successful romantic rival, nor the warehouse of an innkeeper who refused to pour him one on credit, nor the hayloft of a haughty neighbor. Rather, someone burned down the pigeon coop belonging to a grim single blacksmith who had moved here from Anfalas and apparently have kept some city habits. The blacksmith loved his pigeons beyond all else, and promised a silver mark to whoever would lead him to the arsonist. The local police, in the persons of two White Company sergeants, turned the neighborhood upside down: knowing the mores of the Anfalasians, it was a safe bet that if the guilty party were not jailed quickly, very soon they would have to investigate a premeditated murder.

Faramir listened to this crazy story with an eyebrow raised high – he was very surprised.

More precisely, he really was surprised. There were only two possibilities: either the foe had made his first major blunder, or, conversely, he has figured out the prince’s entire plan.

Either way the Game has begun; it has begun earlier than he expected and not how he expected, but there was no turning back.