The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

The Council of the Sceptre

In the aftermath of the disaster of the Barrow Downs, Chancellor Nimhir, regent of Cardolan, tries desperately to hold the kingdom together.

Tharbad – Ivanneth (September) 6^th, 1409

Chancellor Nimhir

It had been two days since the rider had brought news of the death of King Ostoher.  Initially, panic had gripped the ancient Council of the Sceptre, the administrative body that aided the King in his rule.  Chancellor Nimhir, head of the Council, decided that immediate action needed to be taken.  He convened an emergency meeting to determine the fate of the Kingdom.  Nimhir, though not a warrior, had advanced rapidly in the service of the King through dedicated, competent service.  He succeeded his father, Vinyarion, as the Steward of the Royal Estate of Thalion followed by a post as an advisor to the King in 1398.  In 1403 he became a full member of the Council and became its leader just prior to the war.  His rise had not been without cost as he earned the enmity of many jealous rivals.

A fortnight later, the Council convened at the Bar Aran, or the King’s House in Tharbad, upon the central island.  In the grand hall, the Master at Arms pounded his staff on the dark wooden floor.  “Hear ye, hear ye!  The Council of the Scepter is now in session!  Presiding is Chancellor Nimhir.  Attending are Mayor Minastan of Tharbad.  Representing the military are Captain Tardegil, Captain Guilrod of the Garrison, Captain Asgon of the Navy.   Representing the nobles are Hir Duin Tinare, Hir Celeph Calantir, and Hir Mablung Girithlin.”

The men were seated at the king’s grand table, carved of dark wood with slots for candles to illuminate the paper that made the kingdom’s bureaucracy run.  Overhead in the vaulted ceiling hung bright lanterns of shiny brass, gifts from the lords of Lindon in happier days.  Aged Captain Tardegil glanced around the room, stroking his white beard.  He was mostly bald now, his short white hair in a ring around his head.  He was a force to be reckoned with, a veteran of a dozen battles and was a survivor of the horror of 1356.

Nimhir rose from his seat and gestured to the men at the table.  “Gentlemen and nobles of Cardolan, after long thought and consultation with the seers, I have decided to ask your support in declaring myself Regent of Cardolan, acting in the name of the sole heir to the Royal House until she reaches majority,” stated the tall, dignified Nimhir, dressed regally in green and yellow.  His fine black hair was streaked with gray as was his finely waxed goatee.  He slowly surveyed the room, looking for responses. 

The scarred, grizzled Tardegil sleepily rubbed his eyes while Hir Girithlin glowered.  The nobleman wore a velvet tunic of green and red that matched his flatcap.  His clothing spoke of wealth and finery.

Nimhir continued, stroking his greying goatee, “I know our esteemed council members: Hir Ethir Gwathlo, Hir Eredoriath, Hir Feotar, and Hir Tyrn Gorthad have all been laid to rest, but we must go on without them and do what is right for all seven Hirdoms.  Before the transfer of power can be complete the decision must go to a vote.  You gentlemen must decide.  I beseech you however, to understand that this is for the good of the Kingdom. Failure to elect a unified government will only invite yet another civil war...or worse.”

Hir Girithlin, a burly middle‑aged warrior with dark hair, graying at the temples, rose and said, “Aye, we do need to be united... however, what we need is one with great battle experience.  No offense Nimhir, but Cardolan needs a leader not a bureaucrat,” he said with a sarcastic edge.  “As a direct descendent of the great noble house of Eldanar and closest relative to the Royal Family, it is I who should become regent.  Besides, I am the only one of us who was at Tyrn Gorthad when Rogrog slew the King.  My expertise with battling Angmar makes me the natural choice.” He swung his ermine cloak back over his massive shoulders as he returned to his seat.  Girithlin’s lands were large and wealthy and he had an ambition to match them.  His chubby face and thick neck attached to his barrel chest spoke of his physical strength.  Quietly, Nimhir fumed at Girithlin’s disrespect.  There had been bad blood between them for years.

Watching the duel of wills, the handsome, raven-haired Hir Tinarë leaned over to the ancient Hir Calantir and whispered, “So this is Mablung’s bid for the throne...  I hear he’s also thinking of having his pimply‑faced son, Falathar court the Princess. What a scoundrel.”

The gnarled Calantir smiled and nodded, his rheumy eyes focused and full of intelligence beneath thin whisps of white hair.

Suddenly, breaking eye contact with Hir Girithlin, Chancellor Nimhir turned to the Council and spoke, “Well, it is agreed that we need a Regent.  Just who will be the Regent is the question.  We will write our secret ballots to determine the vote.” The men quickly scrawled their choices with quill pens and folded the ballots.  A scribe was summoned to count them.

After a minute, the scribe stood at the podium.  The Master at Arms pounded his staff, getting everyone’s attention.  Dressed in green robes of the King’s Record Keepers, the scribe stated loudly, “Chancellor Nimhir is elected the Regent of Cardolan.” Upon hearing the result, Hir Girithlin struck the table and stormed out of the Hall, a sneer etched on his lips.

Hir Tinarë patted Calantir on the back, “Good job Celeph, I knew I could count on you.  I won’t forget this.”

The ancient Calantir smiled blankly in return, his wispy white hair barely covering his head.  He steepled his gnarled, weathered hands in front of his chin, quietly watching everyone around him.

Though exultant in his recent victory, Chancellor Nimhir was still very worried over Hir Girithlin, whose battle experience and seasoned troops could prove a formidable foe.  Given Cardolan’s long history of civil wars, the Hir’s every action needed to be scrutinized for the moment.  “Thank you.  Thank you gentlemen and nobles of the council.  I will do my utmost to serve the Kingdom of Cardolan.  We are adjourned for now.  I will be working on policies to return stability to the realm. My scribes will be reaching out to each of you for input.  Let us return in three days time to enact these.  We are in a state of emergency, and we must move with all haste.”  The Council rose and departed, Calantir’s servants helping him up and to his carriage.

As Nimhir was returning to his chambers, his attention was diverted by the presence of the skinny old nursemaid, Anariel, standing in the hall.  Her graying hair was up in a bun beneath a gable hood, that rose up to a point like the roof of a chapel.  “Your Grace, please come.  The Princess is refusing to leave her room again.  She needs to eat.  She’s just wasting away in there!” she pleaded, beckoning him to come to the door of the Royal Chamber.

Nimhir furrowed his brow.  “How long has this been going on?” he asked, both irritated that he was just learning of this and deeply concerned for the welfare of the Princess. The young girl was the future of the realm.

Anariel clasped her hands together and shook them up at the heavens.  “Ever since the news of her father and brothers’ deaths, she had gone into a deep depression. She refuses to eat or socialize. I fear that she is spiraling since her mother, Queen Lossien passed!”  The loss of her entire family in half a year had a terrible effect on the Princess.

The Chancellor strode in front of the maid, stopping before the rich mahogany doors.  Tapping gently, he called, “Your Highness, please come out for ‘Uncle’ Nimhir.  How will you ever rule if you do not eat? Besides, I have wonderful news for you.”

The door swung open revealing a grave young woman with gray eyes and raven hair that hung limp and disheveled.  Her gown was black as night, which heightened her pale features. Her beauty was something to which few could rival.  Her large gray eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips could capture many a brave knight. Slowly, Princess Nirnadel managed a forced smile for her favorite ‘Uncle’ and then stepped forward to give him a hug.  With teary eyes, she looked up at him and asked, “So, Uncle, what is the wonderful news?” she asked, sniffling, her eyes and nose red.

The Chancellor, observant and caring as usual toward the Princess decided to set aside his victory, “It is not that important.  What is important is that we spend some time together now.  Come, let us walk in the garden.”  So, the two, with the nursemaid in tow, walked to the Royal Gardens to talk about philosophy and science, one of Nirnadel’s favorite activities in happier times.  He genuinely adored her.  The King and his sons were often away and Queen Lossien was not known for her warmth.

The magnificent Royal Gardens had become slightly overgrown as they had not been tended since the death of Ostoher.  Some of the flowers had wilted and weeds now poked up through the fine grass.  Still, they provided the comforting familiarity that Nirnadel had grown up with. After several hours of intense conversation, the Princess smoothly changed the subject, “Uncle, the Kingdom is in ruins.  What can We do to help?”

Nimhir was taken aback; the Princess would never be expected to assist in any way until she took the throne.  “Your Highness, the best thing you could do for the Kingdom is to keep yourself healthy.  I will have a feast sent to your room and I expect that it will be entirely eaten. Do I make myself clear young lady?” He had often been much like a surrogate parent to her much like Anariel.  Such was the upbringing of royalty.

Nirnadel pondered a moment in silence.  She then recalled something that was important to her and her eyes lit up.  “Of course, dear uncle.  The plate will be clean, this We promise you.”  With a grin, she kissed Nimhir on the cheek and ran off.  The Chancellor mused with satisfaction that his charm had dispelled the Princess’ sadness.  He resolved to commission a tiara for the day in which she would be coronated.