The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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Political Calculus

The realm settles down after the curse has passed.  It is a time for a celebration in the House of the King, but it is also a time for alliances, plots and political maneuvering.

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42) The Bar Aran - Lothron (May) 26^th, 1410

 

Nimhir

It had been a horrifying yet exciting time this past year.  So much happened, so much had changed.  The Regent could not even recognize the realm from a year ago.  One year ago, King Ostoher was preparing to march with his sons and his army to join forces with King Arveleg of Arthedain.  He was glad that Hir Girithlin was marching with the King for the man had been a thorn in his side for years.  Nimhir had been left in charge of the affairs of the King until the army returned, victorious.  Taxes had to be increased to support the hiring of mercenaries and the overall war effort. He and his wife had been trying to have a child.  The King’s youngest child and only daughter was left in his charge.  She was a precocious girl, who loved to read and learn. She knew the history of Arnor and Númenor before she was ten.  She could read and speak Sindarin, Adûnaic, Quenya and Westron by twelve.  She could ride like a knight and was a passable swordsman, necessary training in the Royal Family since the death of King Calimendil.  The Queen had passed a little more than a year ago, a deep sadness coming over the King and the Princess.  She ate little and slept less, becoming dangerously thin.  The King became rash and Nimhir began to doubt his judgement, especially with the coming war.

Yes, the world had much changed. He looked into the mirror and saw that his once, shiny black hair and goatee were streaked with gray.  The stress had been unbearable, and his stomach often churned.  He ran a brush through his hair and then straightened his forest green robe of office. It was of comfortable silk and trimmed with gold thread with a red sash that represented the red dirt of Cardolan’s hills.  He then placed his mithril circlet on his brow, the symbol of the Regent, with a hill and a tree encircled by an eight-pointed star and a diamond.

He mused at the recent events and was glad for a decent outcome.  The royal bureaucracy molded and left by Ostoher was a gift.  Nearly everything functioned the way it should have in a crisis. Signals were passed and areas quarantined rapidly, Minister Eärdil’s agents performing critical tasks that saved time and lives.  The arrival of the elves was huge and would bolster their position against Hir Girithlin.

Was everything political calculus to him? For years, he had juggled opponents and played mental chess against rivals to keep the realm whole.  He wracked his brains daily for solutions and advantages.  The kingdom-wide celebration of the end of the curse was a careful design on his part to show the Hiri that he had the support of the elves and Arthedain, no small thing in the maneuvering to ensure that Nirnadel took the throne when the time was right.

And Nirnadel…she would be the death of him.  She didn’t seem to realize or didn’t seem to care that she was the last hope for Cardolan. If she should pass, the gateway would be open for Girithlin to claim the throne, being partially of royal blood, the way that Tarcil the Mariner was voted to become King.  He would likely be challenged by Duin Tinarë, whose claim was equally strong…civil war.  Nirnadel’s line, though Dúnadain, became even more diluted with King Tarastor, a nephew of Tarcil.  Girithlin could potentially challenge Nirnadel in court.  He would lose but the drama would damage the kingdom.  He could even claim trial by combat, but Baranor would defeat any challenger from Girithlin.  Still, the damage would be done.

He worried constantly about Nirnadel’s forays, and he lost much sleep.  But her work had brought much renown back to the throne.  Tales of her courage at the bridge, the recovery of the mithril panels, her return with healing for the people spread like wildfire through the countryside and she became a sensation in the towns and villages. The breakneck ride to Rivendell and back was being called, ‘Nirnadel’s Mercy Ride.’  It was immense political capital.  Still, he wished that she would govern the realm quietly with him, the way that a good Queen should.  But were his views merely because she would be the Queen?  Prince Braegil went on frequent forays of exploration, into life-threatening danger.  Crown Prince Thôrdaer fancied himself a knight errant after his father, leading numerous cavalry raids into Rhudaur and Angmar, and no one batted an eyelash.  But back then, there were three royal children, not one.  Nimhir couldn’t decide which way he wanted or needed more, a quiet Queen or an impetuous Princess.  He knew that she was rapidly growing beyond his ability or desire to control.

His wife, Teliadis, put his formal coat on his shoulders, also of forest green and gold, and pinned his cloak on with symbol of his station.  He was the representative of the people, and he would always look the part, professional, imposing and impeccably dressed.  He turned back and kissed her.  It was a sad thing that they still had no children this long into the marriage and she would stay in their chambers for she suffered deep anxiety in large social gatherings.

He walked down one of the encircling stairs into the large foyer, where the herald stood with his thick wooden staff. The herald pounded on the floor twice. “Announcing, His Excellency, Chancellor and Regent of Cardolan, Nimhir.”

He loved the pageantry and ostentatious displays of the court as they had been under Ostoher.  It was truly a magical time, a time of long tradition.  He worried that Nirnadel’s ‘woman of the people’ phase would sully the court, but her energy was literally shifting the culture of the realm.  Garish dances and music from Gondor were sweeping the nobility, young ladies now leaping and twirling in the ‘Nirnadel Style.’  Even commoners were beginning to imitate the movements, young daughters of merchants and farmers playing at being ‘The Princess.’  He now saw more daring dress, originating from Minas Anor or Pelargir, cut tight with plunging necklines and shorter skirts.  Simply scandalous, the older generation complained. He had thought to tell Legate Ciramir to ‘put a cap on it,’ but there were far more pressing matters at hand.

He turned back towards the stairs as the herald pounded thrice.  “Announcing, Her Highness, Princess Nirnadel and her royal entourage of the Lady Galadel Tinarë, Lady Éanfled Amrodan, Lady Anariel Calantir and Lady Kaile,” he called, naming the ladies in descending order of nobility, “along with bard and scribe of the Royal House, Sir Haedorial.”

Nirnadel was dressed in an elegant gown of emerald green with red and gold accents and a silver sash.  As Nimhir had suspected, the robe was decidedly in the Pelargir Style, a plunging neckline and form fitting around her chest with a wasp waist and a short, tight skirt that flared out with taffeta pleats. She wore short boots in emerald green leather with silver snaps, surely a product of Ibal’s.  Her raven hair was done up in an imperial braid with elaborate twists, flowing down her back.  She also wore a mithril circlet of a child of the Royal Family, simple but expertly crafted by Lothiriel the Jeweler.  He gave her a double look.  She seemed to be filling out as a woman.  Her maids were similarly dressed but in far less elegant designs and the bard wore a crimson doublet with slashed sleeves in gold along with his red flatcap with a jaunty hawk’s feather.

They stood before Nimhir and performed deep curtseys, backs straight, knees slightly bent outwards with a modest downward tilt of the head, while Haedorial performed a bow and flourish. The Chancellor had to admit that Kaile was truly becoming a lady of the Royal Court, less and less a rough commoner and more and more a noblewoman.  While something like this, commoners being elevated so freely, would never have happened under Ostoher and Queen Lossien, the fact remained that so many of the nobility, the flower of Cardolan, had perished at Tyrn Gorthad.  Bastard children were now Hirs, merchants were now sirs and ladies, and princesses were nurses.

When he tried to discuss this with Nirnadel, her response was that she wanted people for their merit and their hard work, not for their blood.  Hir Girithlin would have had a cow if he had heard that and he would surely raise a vote of the Hiri to have her declared as incompetent.

The herald pounded twice to announce Ciramir, who now seemed smug with his newfound influence over the Court.  The support of Gondor was critical, but it had to be balanced by Cardolan’s interests first.  Then came the Hiri, which included Girithlin.  He would not dare to miss this for fear of losing influence. He was still flush with his legal victory and wore his most ostentatious scarlet robe and a grin to match.  He would have to be shown what real power was, but Nimhir still had to tread a fine line.  A desperate Girithlin would be a dangerous Girithlin.

The Chancellor held his three aces for the finale.  The herald pounded twice.  “Announcing Lady Elanoriel of Lindon and Rivendell, acting head of the Houses of Healing, her daughter, Lady Firiel Halatani and Sir Valandil, lieutenant of the Royal Guard.”  Next, three pounds.  “Announcing Lord Gildor Inglorion of Rivendell and Captain of their Rangers along with Princess Alquanessë of the House of Fingolfin, daughter of Irimë and granddaughter of High King Finwë.”  The crowd went hush, eyes wide and mouths open, staring at the tall, ethereal elves. Nimhir relished Girithlin’s stunned expression.  The elves were dressed in simple but elegant robes, befitting their houses, Elanoriel in light sea blue, Gildor in forest green and Alquanessë in cobalt blue and silver with a mithril pin of a swan on her shoulder.

Next, Nimhir walked over to the Hiri and extended his hand to old Hir Celeph Calantir, whom Elanoriel had healed, a special request that he had made.  His recovery brought the balance of the Hiri back to three-three and Girithlin no longer held the high ground.

He then stepped forward to deliver his final ace.  “Good people! I am also announcing the receipt of a dispatch from the Royal House of Arthedain, announcing the marriage of His Highness, King Araphor to our good Princess, Nirnadel.  Plans for the wedding will soon begin and we delightedly await the ceremony for the New Year of Fourteen Twelve!”  This was the dagger that he would twist in Girithlin.  While he was overjoyed for the Princess’ happiness, the fact that it played a dual role was more than satisfying.  He thought Girithlin would explode for as red of a face that he had.  He had taken the advantage back after Girithlin won the election as emergency Chancellor and Regent, and his recent legal win.  He just hoped that he had not crossed into ‘dangerous Girithlin.’

They moved into the courtyard where many of the town mayors, guildsmen and village headman stood in attendance with their families, the highly esteemed Mayor Eston of Fennas Drúinen amongst them.  The man was another legend in the kingdom, and it was good to have him on their side. Like Captains Tardegil and Guilrod, they would die for Nirnadel with no regrets.

Nimhir made it a point now to mingle with the elves and to be sure that Girithlin saw it.  He had met them only briefly when he asked Firiel’s mother to attend to old Celeph.  Elanoriel was bold and flamboyant while Gildor was professionally polite and Alquanessë reserved and introverted, a deep sadness in her being.  He had met few elves over the years, some envoys from Lindon and some from Rivendell.  The dwarves of Moria and the Blue Mountains were more his specialty.  Dwarves tended to be straightforward, coin for service. Elves were…mysterious.

“Lady Elanoriel, I wish to thank you officially for your aid.  You and your kin have saved this city, and for that, I am eternally grateful,” he said with a curt bow.  He felt a little awkward, not fully knowing elven customs or protocol, so deep was he into the culture of the northern kingdoms.

“Oh, nonsense, dear Chancellor,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.  “My daughter’s life was at stake, but I was glad to help with the rest.”  Her blonde hair was pulled back into a waterfall braid that wrapped tightly around her long, flowing hair.  She was nearly the spitting image of Firiel only with pointed ears and a sterner, matronly demeanor.

Lord Gildor stood with Alquanessë, discussing something in Quenya, a language that he was proficient with but not fluent.  They nodded and switched to Sindarin.  “Good Regent,” Gildor said with a tilt of his head.  “We thank you for your invitation and the friendship of your kingdom. Cardolan is a vital part of the defense of the north.”

“And your arrival in Tyrn Gorthad saved Tharbad for which we are ever grateful.”

Alquanessë made a simple curtsey.  “I learned this from Nirnadel,” she said mischievously.  “Does it adhere to your court standards?”

He nodded, silently awed by the elves. Gildor was tall, noble of bearing, a true Eldar.  He was a being that was so ancient that he had seen the Two Trees of Valinor, and he had an inner light that was undeniable.  Alquanessë was beyond stunning, perfect of face and form, every movement graceful, silky ebony hair tied in an elaborate waterfall braid done by Nirnadel and her ladies.  He had been told that her moniker was, ‘the fairest of Irimë’s children.’  He simply could not believe that she was also a vampire, a demon of the ancient world.

She winked at him, baring sharp fangs that suddenly grew from her teeth and held up a clawed hand with razor talons. He gasped, stepping back.  “Do you believe now?” she asked and he realized that she had read his thoughts.  She pointed to Hir Girithlin.  “Your rival is afraid.  You have done well and now hold the advantage, but be wary, he is dangerous when cornered.” The woman was horrifying and enchanting all at the same time.  If only he could convince her to remain, she would be incredibly valuable.  She shook her head.  “City life is not for me.  You would not want my kind among your people.  However, I will not be too far away.  In fact, Lord Rhudainor has a proposal for you.”  She then looked down, seemingly embarrassed.  “I apologize, Chancellor Nimhir, this ability as a vampire is so natural to me now.  Oddly, only my sister and I have it among the siblings.  Perhaps it is a female thing.  I didn’t bother to ask Thurinwethil.  She was a little busy torturing me.  And that Sauron, he was simply no help at all, rest his evil soul for all time,” she quipped.  “But my brothers gained great physical powers to hunt and kill prey…meaning people,” she added.  “But I shall…let you ask your questions rather than answering your thoughts.”

“I would…appreciate that. It’s…disconcerting,” he said, trying to conceal his mind.

She smiled, a devastating look that was electrifying.  “I shall later tell you of the Dark Mage, Ethacali, who was the Witch-King’s tool for the conquest of Rhudaur.  He bound me with a rune of power, but I eventually…bent him to my will for my freedom.” There was an almost wicked look in her eyes.  “And if you’ll indulge me one final answer to your thoughts to set your mind at ease, yes, what you heard is correct.  I do spend much of my time unclothed.  The blood and the flying just ruins anything that I wear.  There were old fictional novels that I read that spoke of my kind in white, gossamer robes, fluttering about.  Utterly ridiculous.  That would have just…flown off of me past a certain speed,” she added, making a flinging motion with her hand.  “I hope that answers your questions.”

He gulped.  Yes, he had been told that, and it was literally running through his head and he had imagined her as such for a moment.  He shook his head vigorously to dispel the image.  “I…I apologize, Princess Alquanessë,” he said, blushing.  The sensuality surrounding her was magnetic.  It was rare for him to be this embarrassed and put off guard.

She waved her hand.  “Not to worry, my good Chancellor.  You are a man.  I take no offense.  Just know that I was once called a ‘demon of the night’ and a ‘corrupter of men’s souls,’ a succubus.”  She put her thumb to her lips.  “I understand my…allure and I try to temper it, but I do find it…difficult.  It is my apology to make.”

In many ways, the elf seemed so reasonable, so normal, someone you would have tea with at the high-class Sword and Shield Tavern.  Yet, he knew that she was a demon, someone with the power to tear his head off and drink his blood.  This had truly been an interesting and productive night, and he believed that every one of his goals had been achieved.  He smiled at the elves and then glanced at Hir Girithlin who was now staring daggers at him.  Yes, it was a good evening.

Nirnadel

She watched how the elves carried themselves, their gestures, their speech, practicing it in her mind as they spoke to Nimhir.  Then, she walked over there with her ladies, along with Haedorial and Dagar, trying her best to show confidence, which she did not feel.  She did a curtsey to the elves and then rose.  “Good people, thank you so much for your blessed work and for accepting our invitation.  My father so loved to entertain and hosted the most magnificent gatherings.”

Elanorial immediately directed attention to herself and Gildor seemed happy to let her do so.  “Oh dear girl, this is fabulous, simply fabulous.  I do so love a party.  The Festival of Lanterns in Lindon is a sight to behold. You simply have to join us one day. I could help with your décor here though.  It needs more of a touch of elegance,” she said, looking around and pointing at things.

Nimhir looked a little taken aback, but Nirnadel loved the idea.  Exciting and new was her guiding star.  “I would love that, Lady Elanoriel!  You are most welcome to give your ideas.”  She then looked at Nimhir and smiled.  “My new friend, Lord Rhudainor has a proposal for you.  And no, it’s not to wed me.  He is already happily married.”

Dagar performed a bow and flourish, worthy of the Royal Court.  “Good Chancellor Nimhir, Her Highness has told me that you have read my letters to Haedorial and that you know our situation.  I believe that our interests align.  I would propose an alliance with Cardolan.  There is very little left of Rhudaur that is not controlled by Cameth Brin,” he said of the Rhudauran capitol, the puppet kingdom under Angmar.

Nimhir grinned broadly.  “I would be delighted to offer Cardolan’s friendship to you, Lord Rhudainor.  I have heard that you are already friendly with our good Mayor of Fennas Drúinen. We shall meet tomorrow to begin drafting the alliance with good Minister Eärdil.  I will introduce you.”

Dagar tapped his lips, looking a little embarrassed.  “Ummm, I’ve met the good minister.  He…uhhh, let me out of jail here three years ago.”

Haedorial gestured, getting everyone’s attention.  “Well, in the lad’s defense, he was an apprentice in Tharbad and fell afoul of unsavory characters.  I hired him on at the Nightsingers and he has never, ever done me wrong.  I saw him off to Rhudaur that year and he has done incredible things, incredible.”

“So I’ve read,” Nimhir responded. “And I agree.”

Nirnadel smiled.  “Good Dagar has gone from apprentice bard to Lord Rhudainor. This is the kingdom that I envision, one where a person can make their own destiny and rise to the level of their ability and effort.”

“A noble idea, Your Highness,” Nimhir said, “but perhaps unrealistic.”

She scoffed, politely.  “Oh, nonsense, good Regent, Dagar is living proof of that as is Haedorial and Mercatur.”

He nodded slowly.  “Hmmm, perhaps…perhaps.”

Nirnadel heard the musicians setting up and Haedorial excused himself to organize them.  “The dancing will begin shortly,” she gushed and then took Nimhir’s hand.  “We always have the first dance, my dear uncle.”  They, alone went to the floor as the opening dance was always with the Royal Family.

Haedorial glanced over and nodded with a smile as he raised his baton.  With a wave of his hand the musicians played, strings, woodwinds and percussion beginning a slow, measured rhythm.  The Basse Danse, an elegant dance of precision that exemplified royal courts in the north.  Nirnadel had done this many times with Nimhir, but it would always be after the King and Queen had performed.  Now, she was the lead performer.  She gulped and blinked hard, taking a deep breath and then the movements came naturally, smoothly.  Everything was slow and controlled, down to the expressions and glances of the dancers. One, two, three, turn towards, turn away.  One, two, three, dip, look at your partner, then away…

The music came to a close and Nimhir bowed with a flourish and Nirnadel did a deep curtsey.  Then, she ran and hugged him, memories of her childhood flooding back to her, of all of the dances that they did together.  The room thundered with applause.

He beamed down at her.  “I never tire of this, and I will remember this night for all of my days.  Now, I shall yield the floor to you, Your Highness.”  As he walked off, Nirnadel waved to Dagar.

“Lord Rhudainor, I beg a dance of you!”

His mouth fell open, and he held his hands over his heart.  He trotted out to the dance floor and bowed deeply.  “I…Your…Your Highness, this is a dream!  I…I had so wanted just to visit the Bar Aran, but to dance with you?  I…I…don’t know what to say?”

“Say nothing, for the music is about to begin.”  She turned to Haedorial.  “Play the Sogenne, if you please,” she called, asking him to play the new Gondorian music. The musicians leapt into a faster pace, higher highs and lower lows, a horn blowing out a strong beat.  “Follow my lead, good Dagar,” she said with a wide smile and a curtsey.  She began a series of tapping steps, kicking and hopping in place, then she became still, bowing her head and gesturing for Dagar to begin.  As a trained bard, he moved with sureness and precision, performing the moves, then became still and bowed his head, seemingly nervous.

A smaller horn sounded, faster, more intense with a higher pitch, the two began to tap step around each other and then rushed towards the center, leaping and spinning around.  They began alternating again, as strings joined the ensemble.  “Eyes on me, good Dagar, eyes on me,” Nirnadel said, getting him to raise his head.  They moved together and joined arms, circling one way and then the other.  They then joined hands.  “You’re going to throw me into the air and then catch me!” she called over the music. The instruments and the circle accelerated and she nodded, where he lifted her up by her thighs and tossed her upwards.  She spun completely around, and he caught her on the way down to gasps in the room.  They turned in the opposite direction and did it again.

The tempo then relaxed, and they skipped with a stutter step, hand in hand until the music accelerated again and they spun with a throw and again the other way.  They finished as the instruments softened and faded where, still holding hands, Dagar knelt and Nirnadel curtseyed.  The applause was thunderous.  Dagar stood and wiped his eyes.  “Your Highness…Nirnadel, I never dreamed that this would ever be possible for a man like me.  Who could imagine that the son of a merchant and a serving woman…a wastrel…could dance with a princess?  You gave us hope when all seemed lost…hope that a man of my station could become something more than he was.  I thank you,” he said with another bow and flourish and kissed her silk gloved hand. “I wish you a wonderful night and you will always have my support.”

“I thank you, good Dagar.  Your life is an inspiration for our people, and I hold your story dear to my heart.”

He stepped back three paces and then bowed again before returning to the crowd as people flooded the dance floor. It was a modest room for a modest kingdom, unlike those of Arthedain or the grand ballrooms of Minas Anor, Minas Ithil and the capitol of Osgiliath.  People in the courtyard also took up song and dance, toasting with beer, mead and ale.

Nirnadel looked around the crowd and began mingling with people, seeing how Firiel was doing and congratulating Valandil on their engagement.  Under the care of her mother, the Healer had fully recovered, her healthy pallor returning to her skin and her blonde hair done up in a fishtail braid.

“You know,” Firiel said, “I resented my mother for a long time, with her elven superiority.  She always pressured me to marry one of Círdan’s ship captains and choose immortality.  She and my father…they had friction and it didn’t work out.  So, I went with my father who was Hir Tinarë’s younger brother and was raised as a Dúnadan.  I haven’t spoken to her since the turn of the century.  But you don’t know how glad I am to have reconnected,” she said with a nod.

“Other than the ears, I could not distinguish the two of you,” Nirnadel answered.  “I dearly wish that I had more time with my own parents.  We have so much to learn from them, you know.  I struggle, not having a role model anymore for what I am supposed to become.  I beg of you, dear Firiel, to keep that connection.”

“I intend to,” the Healer said with a nod.

“And you know, if you so desire, we will hold our weddings together in Fornost Erain along with Kaile and Jonu.”

“We would like that very much, Your Highness,” Valandil said enthusiastically.

Firiel smirked.  “Mother already has ideas for the décor.  I’m sure King Araphor would absolutely love an overbearing Sindar, instructing him about drapery or carpeting.”

Nirnadel giggled.  “Well, I for one, am happy to entertain her ideas.  We could use some new and fresh thoughts for our land.”  She looked over at a group of people and then turned back.  “There is someone I simply must speak with, if you’ll excuse me.  I shall be back, and I am ever so glad for your recovery, good healer.  You are not just critical to the welfare of the realm…but you are my dear friend and mentor.”  She gave Firiel a tight embrace and then rushed off to the other group.

She scurried up to Mercatur, who was standing with Remodoc, his family and Neldis, the young lady from Artan’s. She took the mercenary by the hands. “Good Captain Mercatur, I am ever so glad that you came!  I was so truly worried about you, good Remodoc and good Neldis,” she said, taking each of their hands and shaking them.  She made an effort to remember the names of everyone that she interacted with. It was something that her father excelled at.

The merchant stood, slack jawed, eyes wide and then bowed.  He had a simple, but neat tunic and breeches with suspenders.  “Your…Your Highness.  I…I cannot…I have no words for your kindness.”

Neldis made an awkward curtsey, bent forward with one knee stiff, skirts of her simple village dress askew. Still, it was a wonderful gesture. She looked positively anxious.  “I…I’m sorry, I don’t belong here.  I don’t deserve to be here.  I’m sorry.”  She turned to flee and Nirnadel grasped her hand tightly.

“Nonsense, my dear Neldis.  You are my people and I am yours.  I praythee, please stay for me.  Consider it…a royal command, if you please.”  She nodded reassuringly and the woman stopped and turned back.  She might have been a year or so older than the Princess.  “I checked on you and the others daily so you mean something to me.”

She put her head down and stifled a sob. “I…I know, Your Highness.  T…th…thank you.”

Nirnadel then grasped Mercatur’s hand. “Come, all of you, dance with me!” She pulled on his hand, but he resisted.

“Errrr, I don’t dance, Highness. Especially that highborn stuff.  I don’t have the feet for it.”

The Princess furrowed her brows. “Well…we will have to do something about that, shall we.  Do one of you have a more…rustic dance?”

Neldis put her hand up.  “Umm, Your Highness.  I know the Nîr a Rûn.  It’s fairly easy…a…peasant dance.  Not fit for this ballroom.”

Nirnadel gave a look of pleasant surprise.  “What? How wonderful.  The Swaying Dance!  You will show us!”  She waved to Haedorial.  “Can you play the Nîr a Rûn?”

The bard looked over.  “Which one?”

“Celeg i Nîr a Rûn,” Neldis said softly and Haedorial nodded and raised his baton.  “It’s a group dance,” she told Nirnadel.  “We perform this at the harvest festivals, the Autumn Faire, the Harvest Home and the Spring Faire.”

The Princess yanked harder on Mercatur’s hand.  “No excuses now.  If you can’t sway, you have no business swinging an axe, good mercenary,” she said as a challenge.

He grunted sourly, but followed.  “Don’t blame me if I fall on you.”

“Not if I fall on your first,” she quipped, sticking her tongue out.  “I might have to crush you with an axe,” she added, laughing and looking back at him.

“Maces crush, axes chop,” he said in exasperation, shaking his head and chuckling.  Remodoc stood opposite his wife and Nirnadel paired off with Mercatur and Neldis.

“Haedorial!  Join us!” she called to him, and he leapt down off of the podium and rushed over.  “It would not be a dance without a lesson from my master musician.”  She beckoned the elves, Nimhir and Dagar.  “Join us!  It’s a group dance!”  People flooded the floor, clothing of all colors blending and mixing.

“We need to hold hands,” Neldis said in a voice full of anxiety.  Nirnadel grasped Mercatur and Haedorial’s hands and Neldis did the same to form a group of four.

Just before the music started, the Princess heard some of the older noblewomen scoffing.  Many of them were widows of the fallen from Tyrn Gorthad, the old guard from when King Ostoher and Queen Lossien held balls in the very traditional style, honoring the culture of lost Númenor.  One woman snorted.  “Just look at that short dress.  Who does she think she is?  Her mother would be ashamed.”

Another responded, “And a peasants’ dance?  What has become of us?  And a prostitute daring to associate with the Princess?  Bah!  Scandalous!”

Neldis began to shake and Mercatur turned a shade redder under his thick beard.

“Do not listen to them,” Nirnadel said. “I refuse to let them spoil our evening.”  She turned back to the crowd.  “Listen everyone, I beg you to listen!  Everyone here are my guests and guests of the Royal House.  We will all be treated with respect!  I shall not have any sour apples spoil the night!”

Haedorial whispered into her ear. “Sour grapes…it’s sour grapes.”

“I meant sour grapes!  No sour grapes tonight!  So, I beg you to join me in this joyous occasion!”  The flood gates opened and young noblewomen poured onto the floor, pointing at Nirnadel’s dress with admiration.  “So, what do we do, Neldis?”

“Ummm, follow me.  It’s very easy.”  The recorders began a high pitched tune that lilted up and down. “It’s supposed to be like a horse.” They began.  Left, two, three, hop.  Right, two, three, hop.  Spin right, clap.  Spin left, clap.  One step left.  Repeat. Then, brushing each foot backwards like a horse’s hooves while moving their hand as if on the reins on a ride. The men spun, clap.  The women spun, clap.  The music got faster and faster as did the steps, skirts and hair whirling around. People laughed joyously, some tripping, some stumbling, but all having a good time.  The music climaxed in a fast beat as all hopped and spun on their toes.

There were murmurs of approval and, still laughing, Nirnadel poked Haedorian and Mercatur in the stomachs.  She took Neldis by the hands.  “Good Neldis, I thank you for showing this dance to us. I will always remember this moment that you shared with me and please know that you are a part of the realm,” she said and then clapped her hands like Elanoriel would.  “Good people!  Hear me please!  I honor my royal parents and the learning and foundation that they instilled in me. But we stand upon new and untrod ground and we…we as a people will forge the future of Cardolan!”  The crowd roared, shaking the ballroom.  The night was intoxicating to Nirnadel.  She felt invincible.  But often, within the wall of invincibility grow the seeds of destruction.

She kissed Haedorial and Mercatur on the cheek and then pulled Neldis away.  “Good Neldis…forgive any offense for I cannot understand your situation, but are you happy? Do you not desire more?  Please, help me to understand.”

The young lady took on a grave expression.  “You cannot offend me but why are you doing this, Your Highness?  I am no one.  And you are…I don’t deserve your attention.”

“You do indeed.  Good Neldis, I held you while you drank the cure…while you coughed up things…I can’t describe and I joyfully cleaned you up.  I care about all of the good people of the realm,” Nirnadel said, trying to soothe her.  “And if I could clean that up, I can care about you.  I visited all of you every day.  What can I do to convince you?”

She nodded, still trembling like a leaf. “I remember.  And I still don’t understand it, Your Highness.  You are…you are the heir to the throne.  You live in this palace.  Your childhood was riding, learning, dancing…royal balls at Yüle. I cannot comprehend such a life.  I don’t belong in your world.”

“I have indeed had many advantages. Still, my entire family is gone as a result of disease and war.  I am the last,” the Princess sad sadly.  “The weight of what they left me threatens to drown me.  I was little more than a girl when this fate became mine.  I cannot comprehend your life either, but I understand loss.  I understand regret.  I understand care and hope too.  That is the gift I wish to impart upon you, care and hope.  You can share with me, everything or nothing and I still wish to give you that.”

Neldis put her hand over her mouth in a heartfelt gesture.  “You don’t know what that means…I am so ashamed,” she said, her voice wavering.  “I had no hope.  Every night, I would smile and delight customers and…do things, and I was dying inside.  I saw my friend, Îuldis, die of the curse and it tore me up.  We spoke about finding a new life together.  Now she’s gone.”  Her hand began to shake.  “You don’t know what this means.”

Nirnadel embraced her and then pulled her over to Firiel and her mother.  “Good Firiel, Lady Elanoriel, would you be willing to apprentice a new healer?”

Firiel smiled, while the elf raised an eyebrow.  “Of course I would,” Firiel said and gently elbowed her mother.  “We are at eighteen and I really need twenty.  The Houses have expanded of late, and we need depth for emergencies such as we had.  I also wish to begin a traveling service where we can go to where we are needed.”

Elanoriel snorted, but nodded. “Yes, yes, I agree.  Welcome, young lady.”

Firiel took her hand.  “Your things are still at the Houses.  If you wish, you may collect them or move them into your room.”

Neldis kissed her hand.  “Thank you…I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll start tomorrow,” Firiel answered.

“And be prepared for some hard, but rewarding work, dear girl,” Elanoriel added.

Nirnadel was flush with the feeling of another victory.  But a tap on the shoulder changed that.  It was Hir Mablung Girithlin.  Her blood ran cold.

“Your Highness,” he said with a bow and elaborate flourish.  “I wish to apologize for my rudeness in the past.  It was unforgivable.  I wish to make amends and help you to grow the kingdom.”  Firiel and Neldis made a curtsey to him while Elanoriel narrowed one eye.

She gave him a skeptical look, her heart full of doubt.  “My lord…I am quite uncertain as to your intentions.”

He made a conciliatory gesture, his palms out with an embarrassed expression.  “All I ask if for the opportunity to show you and to repair the relationship that I so callously damaged.  I would ask for this dance to show my sincerity and to begin to prove to you my good intentions.”  He gestured to the dance floor.

She could not wantonly refuse him without very good cause.  It would also make him look like the good guy and her as the villain.  She was finding respect for Nimhir’s skill and experience at diplomacy.  It was a complex thing.  Nirnadel did not do well dealing with people who had angered her, and she had been known to bear grudges.  She forced a smile with a nod and walked with him to the floor.

Girithlin clapped, getting the minstrels’ attention.  “Good master Haedorial.  I bid you to play the Ilúvë Naid Bain na Melme a Rîw.  You do know that one, I trust?”

The bard raised an eyebrow.  “Of course…my lord.”  His expression was worried, concern floating in the air.  He sighed heavily and then held his baton up.

Girithlin made a shooing motion. “Everyone clear the floor for Her Highness!” he called and the floor emptied except for them, all eyes on them. 

He took her hand and bowed low, and she curtseyed in return.  She fixed him with an untrusting stare.  “My lord…we are dancing, All’s Fair in Love and War?”  It was a song and dance of passion and betrayal, joy and murder.

The music began and he pulled her in tight with a spin.  “It is indeed.  But that is not my intention.”  They walked slowly in rhythm with the recorder, lute and harp.

“What is your intention, then, if I may ask?”

“It is to make amends.  I was wrong about you and the Chancellor,” he said as she spun outwards and they linked arms facing the opposite direction, heads turned towards each other with forced smiles.  “I can freely admit to my fault.”

“That is good to know.  How then, praythee, do you hope to do that?”  They walked slowly in a circle and then he moved in behind her, holding her waist and she looked back at him.

“I will release the grain that I was withholding as well as the amber and silver that I had neglected to pay taxes on after the war.”  He moved her in a slow circle one way and then the other.  “I wish to earn your trust and forgiveness.  Consider that a token of my intentions.”

She turned and faced him again, holding hands in the middle.  “That is a start.  I have been known to hold grudges, but I also wish to mend fences.”

“That is wise, Your Highness.  I applaud you for being such.”

She still remained skeptical but deep down, wanted to believe him.  “I do wish to believe your words, my lord, but let me ask, what would you do in my stead?” She spun in a twirl on her toes and grasped his hand again.

He pulled her in tight once more, standing behind her, holding her waist.  “Well first, if I were you, I would marry Falathar and keep the realm Cardolan.  I fear that your trust of the Arthedanians is misplaced.  You would cede much authority to Araphor and I fear losing our unique cultural identity.  Second, I would honor the traditions of your parents rather than this…youthful display of willfulness.  Your dear father and I…we were close friends and we enjoyed each other’s trust.  We fought in many campaigns against Angmar and Rhudaur and even Arthedain.”  They skipped together in a circle and then reversed.  “I rode often with your brother, Thôrdaer, on his raids into enemy lands.  I daresay that we saved each other’s lives more than once.”

This was not something that she knew beyond her father’s praise for the man.  “I see and I thank you for your service to the Crown.  I will keep your thoughts in mind, my lord but I must do what I feel is right for the future of our land.  Though wise and noble, my family is no longer with us.”  She spun in his arms and caught his hand.  “I must forge my own way now.”

He nodded as they skipped together, hand in hand.  “I understand.  I am saddened, but I must trust to your royal judgement.  I would like to make you an offer though, to show my loyalty to the Crown. It would be my honor to host you and the wedding party at Balost, my great hold.  I wish to show the Crown my good intentions, and this would be a small step forward in our new relationship, Your Highness.”

The music came to a close and, holding her hand, he stepped back and bowed deeply, his eyes lowered in respect.  She dipped, her back straight, head tilted slightly down, her knees bent slightly, feet turned outwards, pulling her short skirt out with her free hand in a move practiced thousands of times under her mother and Anariel.  In another world, it would be her father holding the realm together, negotiating treaties and enforcing the law.  The dance floor and the riding ring would have been her world.  Her mind raced for an answer, but in a gush of youthful impetuosity she nodded.  “I accept, good Hir Girithlin.  Please let me know of the details and I do so hope for your friendship as you had with my father and brother.”

It was indeed a new dawn for the kingdom, but what kind of dawn it would prove to be remained to be seen.

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Chapter End Notes

I haven't decided on whether there will be a "Red Wedding" or Massacre of Glencoe scenario yet.  The swaying dance is based on a French medieval and Renaissance dance, the Branle des Chevaux.