CHAPTER 26

Ithilien, Emyn Arnen

Night of May 14, 3019

“Listen, so you say that Princess Allandale didn’t really exist, that this Alrufin dreamed her up…” Éowyn was sitting in the armchair with her feet up, her slender fingers intertwined over her knees and a funny frown on her face. The prince smiled and, perching on the arm, tried and failed to smooth out the frown with his lips.

“No, Far, wait, I do mean it. She’s alive, you see – really alive! When she dies to save her friend, I want to cry, as if I had lost a friend for real… See, those sagas about ancient heroes are also great, but they’re different, very different. All those Gil-galads and Isildurs, they’re like… like stone statues, you understand? One can worship them, but that’s it, while the Princess – she’s weak, she’s warm, you can love her… Am I making sense?”

“Plenty, honey. I think that Alrufin would have loved to hear you say this.”

“Allandale must’ve lived in the beginning of the Third Age. No one but a few chroniclers even knows the names of the konungs who ruled Rohan back then; so who’s more real –they, or this girl? Hadn’t Alrufin – scary to say! – exceeded the might of the Valar?”

“Yes, in a way he has.”

“You know, I just thought… what if someone as mighty as Alrufin writes a book about the two of us – this can happen, right? Then which Éowyn will be the real one – I or the other?”

Faramir smiled. “I remember when you asked to explain, on a ‘stupid woman level’, what philosophy is. Well, your thoughts are just that – philosophy, albeit a tad naïve. You see, lots of people have thought about these things, and not all of the answers they’ve come up with are worthless stupidity. For example… Yes, come in!” he called out to a knock on the door, and glanced at Éowyn in puzzlement: it’s night already, who might want something?

The man who entered wore the black parade uniform of the Gondorian Guards of the Citadel (this had always intrigued the prince: White Company wearing black uniforms), and Faramir felt trepidation: they must have made some serious mistake. He told Éowyn to go into the next room, but the guest politely requested that she stay: what they will be discussing directly involves Her Highness.

“First, allow me to introduce myself, albeit a little late. I don’t have a name, but you can call me Cheetah. I’m a captain of the Secret Guard, rather than a sergeant – here’s my badge – and I’m in charge of counter-intelligence here. A few minutes ago I have arrested the Commandant of Emyn Arnen on charges of conspiracy and treason. However, it’s possible that Beregond had merely followed your orders without thinking about them too much, which would lessen his guilt. This is what I would like to establish.”

“Could you please express yourself clearer, Captain?” Not a muscle twitched in Faramir’s face when he fearlessly met Cheetah’s gaze – empty and terrifying, like that of all White Company officers; whereas if one discounted the matter of the eyes, the captain’s face was quite likeable – manly and a little sad.

“Prince, it appears to me that you understand my responsibilities incorrectly. On the one hand, I must protect your life at all costs – I repeat, at all costs. Not because I like you, but because such are my King’s orders. Rumor will ascribe any misfortune that befalls you to His Majesty; why should he have to pay someone else’s bills? On the other hand, I must avert all attempts to persuade you to break your vassal’s oath. Imagine that a band of fools attacks the fort and ‘frees’ you in order to turn you into the banner of Restoration. Should even one of the King’s men die when that happens – and some will most certainly die – His Majesty would be unable to ignore such an event for all his wishing otherwise. The Royal Army will enter Ithilien, which will most likely plunge the Reunited Kingdom into a bloody civil war. So please consider my task here to be guarding you from possible folly.”

Strangely, something in Cheetah’s manner of speaking (the tone? No, more likely phrasing…) made Faramir feel that he was once again talking to Aragorn.

“I greatly appreciate your concern, Captain, but I fail to see what this has to do with Beregond’s arrest.”

“You see, some time ago at the Red Deer he met a tall slender man with a long scar on his left temple and one shoulder noticeably higher than the other. Perhaps you know who I mean? That’s a distinctive look.”

“Frankly, no, I can’t remember,” the prince smiled, trying to keep the smile open and straight. “Perhaps it’s easier to ask Beregond himself?”

“Oh, Beregond will have to answer a whole host of questions. However, Prince, your forgetfulness is truly surprising. I can understand that Faramir, Captain of the Ithilien regiment, may not remember all his soldiers, but the officers and sergeants? I repeat – this man has a distinctive look.”

“What does the Ithilien regiment have to do with this?”

“What do you mean: ‘what’? You see, after the war many of those who had fought in the ranks of that remarkable unit didn’t come home to Gondor. Especially remarkable is the total absence of returned officers and sergeants, about fifty in all. Some must have been killed in the war, but surely not all! Where do you think they all could’ve gone, Prince –perhaps here, to Ithilien?”

“Perhaps,” the prince shrugged. “But I have no idea.”

“Exactly, Prince, exactly – you have no idea! Please note that it’d be completely normal and natural for those people to come to Ithilien, where they had started their service and where their beloved Captain is now Prince; it’s no secret that you were truly beloved in that regiment. But somehow not one of them showed up in Emyn Arnen officially to introduce himself and ask to join your service. Surely you agree that this is beyond unnatural, but rather suspicious! It’s logical to suppose that the regiment is still a well-regulated fighting unit that has gone underground, and now these people are planning your ‘liberation’. I think we’ve already established what would happen then.”

“These thoughts of yours are very interesting, Captain, and have their own logic, but if those are the only proofs of Beregond’s guilt that you have…”

“Please, Prince,” Cheetah frowned, “we’re not at a jury trial! The thing that concerns me now is the real guilt of this amateur conspirator, rather than the legal niceties. Immediately a question arises: how could the Commandant, who had only served in Minas Tirith, contact Sergeant Runcorn, the free shaft who had spent the entire war in Ithilien’s forests? Someone must’ve introduced them, even if indirectly, and you’re the prime suspect, Prince… Now: did Beregond act on his own or did he, as seems more likely, carry out your orders?”

It’s over, Faramir realized. Why did they have to send Runcorn to make contact? He is indeed easy to identify from a description. Sergeants’ descriptions – these guys are really digging deep… The Red Deer, too, is apparently covered better than I thought. We lost completely, but the price we pay will be different: I will go on being an honored prisoner, while the Captain will die a tortuous death. The worst thing is that I really can do nothing for him; I have to abandon Beregond to his fate and live with the knowledge of this betrayal.

It’s a stupid illusion that there can be any negotiations with the victorious enemy. One can gain nothing in such negotiations, either for himself or others; they’re always conducted under the principle of ‘what I have is mine and what’s yours is also mine.’ Which is why there’s a cast-in-stone rule of clandestine warfare: in all circumstances, either be silent or deny everything, including your own existence. Should I admit any role in these contacts, I will not save Beregond and only speed up the destruction of Grager and his men.

All of these thoughts went through the prince’s mind like a whirlwind, and then he raised his gaze to meet Cheetah’s and said firmly: “I have not the slightest idea of the Commandant’s contacts with the members of the Ithilien regiment, had those indeed taken place. You very well know that we have not exchanged more than a dozen words during this time; after all, this man killed my father.”

“In other words,” the counter-spy summed up drily, “you do not wish to spare your man the torture, if not death?”

He knew what he was risking, Faramir thought, and responded: “If, indeed, there is treason involved – of which you have not yet convinced me! – then Captain Beregond must be punished severely.” Then, choosing his words carefully, he finished: “As for myself, I am ready to swear by the thrones of the Valar that I have never considered breaking my word, nor will ever consider doing so: duties to the suzerain are indissoluble.”

“All right,” Cheetah drawled thoughtfully. “What about you, Éowyn? Are you ready to betray for the sake of your goal and toss your man to the wolves? Actually,” he sneered, “what am I saying here? So a mere officer, a commoner, will go to the rack; big deal for someone of royal blood, who in any event is safe!”

An ability to control her facial expressions was not one of Éowyn’s many fine qualities –she paled and looked helplessly at Faramir. Cheetah had zeroed in on the chink in their armor: the girl was physically incapable of pretending indifference when a friend was in danger. Faramir tried to warn her with his gaze, but it was too late.

“Now listen to me, both of you! I’m not interested in confessions – I’m a counter-spy, not a judge. All I need is information about the locations of the Ithilien regiment fighters. I do not intend to kill these people; I really am trying to avoid bloodshed. You’ll have to take my word for it, since you’ve lost and have no other options. I will get this information out of you, whatever it costs. Certainly no one can interrogate in the third degree the sister of the King of Rohan, but you can be sure that I will make her watch the torture of Beregond, whom you betrayed, from the beginning to the bitter end, by the silence of Mandos!”

In the meantime the prince was absent-mindedly playing with his quill atop an incomplete manuscript, as if not noticing that his left elbow had nudged an unfinished cup of wine to the very edge of the table. In another moment the cup will crash to the floor, Cheetah will involuntarily glance at it – then he’ll vault over the table and go for the counter-spy’s throat, and devil may care… Suddenly the door opened without a knock and a White Company lieutenant strode quickly into the room; two soldiers appeared in the gloom just beyond the threshold. Late again, Faramir thought with a sense of doom, but the lieutenant paid him no heed, instead whispering something apparently very surprising into Cheetah’s ear. “We’ll continue our conversation in ten minutes or so, Prince,” the captain said, heading to the door. The lock clanged, the sound of marching boots faded quickly into the distance, and quiet fell – a kind of uneasy, confused quiet, as though it realized its fleeting quality.

“What’re you looking for?” She was surprisingly calm, even serene.

“Anything that can serve as a weapon.”

“Yes, that’s good. Find anything for me?”

“See, baby, I got you into this and couldn’t save…”

“Nonsense, you did everything right, Far; it’s just that luck was on their side this time.”

“Shall we say goodbye?”

“Yes, let’s. Whatever happens, we’ve had this month… You know, it must be Valar envy: we had too much happiness.”

“Are you ready, darling?” Now, after those few seconds, he was a totally different man.

“Yes. What should I do?’

“Look carefully. The door opens inward, the doorposts are inside, too…”