When spring arrived in Mithlond, it was little more than an extension of winter, cold and windy with shoals of rain that painted sky and sea in uniform shades of grey. The southern haven looked older and more Telerin than usual to Erestor as he crossed the creaking plank from the ferry, the wind whipping at his clothes and hair. He was dressed for rain and carried a well-wrapped parcel close to his chest, the result of several weeks’ labour for himself and a handful of scribes.
The idea to send a record overseas of events since the War of Wrath was born over dwarf brandy at the Repentant Owl, and much to his and Arvarad’s surprise Gil-galad authorised it without a murmur. To Arvarad’s further amazement, Erestor offered to oversee the work and do his part as a copyist. It was a long time since he had worked as a scribe, but it suited his mood; he needed to keep busy. The collection he carried was only a small part of the consignment that would leave for Tol Eressëa on the first ship of the sailing season. The records would compete for space with the baggage; there was a long waiting list for berths to travel into the West this year, a fact that surprised no one.
He had made several of these trips across the strait in recent weeks. There was the usual activity to be expected when one of the westbound ships was being made ready, but this time there was something far more interesting further along the dock: a tall vessel of foreign design, flying the colours of Númenor. He slowed down to stare, promising himself a closer look when he left. He was surprised he had not heard there were visitors from the island nation, but he had been so busy organising the compilation that there had been little time for palace gossip.
The thought brought a wry smile to his lips. In the old days, before Ost-in-Edhil, few things had been more important than gossip, the source of all manner of intriguing information and opportunities. He considered, not for the first time, that he was in danger of turning into the dedicated scholar he had pretended to be during his years in Eregion, sent there by Gil-galad to gather information about Celebrimbor and his mysterious guest, the smith Annatar
He had come home determined to leave the Eregion mission firmly in the past, especially anything that had to do with Annatar. Only the musician, Lindir, knew even the broadest outline of that experience, purely because their journey across Eriador, carrying two of Celebrimbor’s rings of power to safety, had led to the sharing of some unplanned confidences. Erestor had demanded a promise of silence, both about that and an incident on the road with one of the Avari, which Lindir had given reluctantly, with dire predictions that his secrecy would come back to bite him.
His final report to Gil-galad and his war leaders was preceded by a string of nightmares from which he woke cold and sweating, his heart thudding, After a shatteringly real dream of his first night with Annatar, he had begun to accept that silence, the antithesis of his training and experience, was neither answer nor refuge. And he knew Lindir was right: better that he should explain it in his own way than have to counter someone else’s version of what passed for the truth.
He managed a few hurried words with Arvarad before they began, and at the end he was invited to remain behind when the councillors were dismissed. While three pairs of eyes watched curiously, he took a deep breath and steeled himself to tell Círdan, Arvarad and his king a carefully edited version of his encounter with the Giver of Gifts.
Gil-galad heard him out frowning. “You’re sure you didn’t tell him anything valuable? Military posts in the passes, crossing protocol…?”
“I had nothing to tell,” Erestor reminded him, “not unless you were all asleep here while I was gone. I’d left decades before, and those are things that change regularly, except the main entry points and anyone could have described them.”
“True enough.” Círdan had looked thoughtful, a thumb stroking the dark silver hair along his chin. Erestor in no way found the Shore Lord sexually attractive, but not for the first time he wondered if the hair was soft or rough to the touch. “He asked nothing about the harbour?”
Erestor shook his head. “Nothing specific, my lord, no. And once again, that’s information he could have from anyone who has spent time here. It’s no secret this is the haven from which we sail West… But no, I said nothing. We talked about history, about the laws and customs of Lindon, about my personal impressions of people I knew here. Nothing more.”
Arvarad said nothing, his face bland, and asked no questions later, which suggested to Erestor that his old friend guessed that time spent with Celebrimbor’s guest might have involved more than conversations about the history of the Vanyar. His silence implied this was Erestor’s business and nothing Arvarad had any wish to dabble in. Erestor, still eaten up with guilt at his casual sharing of everyone – especially Gil-galad’s – personal foibles and weak points, had felt almost embarrassingly grateful.
Gil-galad himself gave him a few searching looks but like Arvarad had asked no questions. Unlike Arvarad, with the unconscious arrogance of royalty, he probably assumed Erestor would share whatever he was keeping back when he was ready. For someone who normally liked to have things done ‘now’, Lindon’s king was surprising good at biding his time.
Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, the nightmare about Annatar was the last. He had no more, as though they had served their purpose, but he was left feeling disconnected from the world and strangely hollow. As time passed the feeling of isolation grew rather than receding as might be expected. Daily it became harder to imagine reaching out and confiding in anyone.
About Badger, the dark elf who had died on Erestor’s dagger near the river crossing into Lindon, he said not a word. In his head he knew Lindir’s practical rationality was right; there had been no other choice and getting the harp with the concealed rings to Mithlond was worth the cost of the one life that had threatened it, but until his heart accepted this and the sense of doom that shivered his skin every time he thought of it withdrew, the truth could wait. Anyhow, they exiled Kinslayers.
Coming back to the present, he was startled to find himself half way up the Academy steps. He took the last few briskly as though to shake off the memories, and announced his business, fully expecting to be directed once again to Galdor. Círdan had been absent during his last few visits, which meant he had handed the parcel over, done the paperwork, stopped to say hello to Círdan’s lady, Maeriel, and taken the next ferry home. Instead he was told to go through, the Shipwright was home and expecting him.
Círdan was in his office, a light, airy room with a view of the harbour. After the usual greetings, he took the package without much curiosity except to ascertain, for storage purposes, how much more he should expect before the departure date. Erestor, in the act of filling out a despatch form, rolled his eyes ruefully and shook his head. “Several boxes I imagine, though my aching fingers sincerely hope these were my last contribution. There’s some original items of course, but most is copy work and it’s a long time since my scribing days.”
Círdan nodded absently, putting the parcel aside and sitting back in his chair. “Now that you have the leisure, you’ll join us for dinner tonight, I hope?”
Alarm bells sounded. Erestor had worked as Círdan’s clerk and been part of his household on Balar. He got along well enough with his former lord, but this did not have the sound of a casual dinner invitation. “Is it a special occasion? I was planning an early night, all this dressing up and socialising is more work than I remembered.”
He had taken rooms in the palace where he could avoid the sharp eyes of Círdan’s lady and hide from Gil-galad behind a degree of formality not to be found in the south of Mithlond. The price for this choice involved a good deal of compulsory social interaction, most of which he would have been happy to avoid.
“Special enough. We have guests from Númenor for a few days. They need a ship overhaul before going down the coast to Lond Daer. Ereinion wants a chance to break bread with the captain, and dinner here would be smaller and less formal than at the palace.”
Easier to talk, he meant.
“I saw the ship on my way in. I planned a closer look when I left. There’s damage?”
“Quite a bit, yes though so far he’s shy on the details. They’re proud of their ship building and in no hurry to admit to design flaws. At any rate, Ereinion thought it might be useful to extend the captain some hospitality. We have a mutual aid treaty, something they seem to have forgotten lately.”
“It’s been a while since Aldarion by their reckoning,” Erestor said. “Several generations, at the least.”
Círdan steepled his fingers and looked pensively out the window. “Even so, yes. Too long. They need a reminder. You have firsthand knowledge of what we face here. I thought it might be useful if you came along and exercised your skill for small talk.”
The meeting place was a hillside cave, its secrecy assured by heavy undergrowth and almost enough trees to be called a wood. Elrond brought only Tûriel and Angion, leaving Caedion in charge in his absence. Celeborn had perhaps two dozen warriors with him, or slightly more. Security was good and despite their efforts at stealth, they were picked up long before they reached the cave. His companions were embarrassed to be so easily marked, but the quiet shadows that kept pace with them reminded him of his childhood on the move with Maglor. It made him feel almost secure for the first time since he and the prince had parted company weeks ago.
Celeborn was nowhere to be seen, but they were greeted with courtesy. Tûriel and Angion took charge of the horses and their meagre packs, while Elrond was shown to a heap of furs and invited to wait there. Food was brought to him and he ate, making each mouthful count. Elrond had no idea how they could bake with Sauron’s easterners rampaging across the countryside, but they had bread and it was fresh. They also had fruit and dried, salted meat to chew on, and something that might possibly pass for brandy. After the first mouthful he decided not to ask for details. There was little talking. Around him Celeborn’s men were gathered in quiet tiredness, eating the same carefully measured ration, another thing that reminded him of the past.
The cave was clean and functional, possibly used for storage in happier times. As the light faded lanterns were lit, but there was no fire, nothing that might give away their position. The lamps made the cave a tapestry of light and shadow, sinking some corners into gloom while bringing others into view. For the first time he saw two men lying on pallets in a corner well away from the entrance, clearly wounded. Sipping his brandy, he was wondering if he should offer his services as a healer, and to whom, when Celeborn finally arrived.
Nothing changed outwardly in the cave, but the atmosphere seemed to lift. Men looked less tired, more alert. Celeborn stopped briefly to talk with someone, clasped another’s arm in passing, then came over to join Elrond. “Sorry. Star-rise is my personal time. You’ve had enough to eat?” He sat as he spoke, folding down like a great cat, his silver hair shimmering in the lamplight.
“More than I’m used to, thanks. And the bread’s a luxury. Those two over there – they’re wounded? Do you have a healer? If not I can take a look?”
Celeborn looked amused. “No, we have a healer, a Nandor wise woman skilled in herbs and broken bones who’d be offended to the core if she thought I’d lost faith in her art. Neither of them is seriously hurt, but hard riding is out of the question right now. As for the bread – that was a stroke of luck. They’d burnt out a farm, and the fire was still smouldering when we arrived. They did a bad job of looting, so we found enough grain to grind and bake before we left. Roast mutton would have been good, there were dead sheep everywhere and it’s a while since we saw red meat, but the smell would have brought orcs out in daylight. Your people are all right for food?”
Elrond nodded as someone came over to give Celeborn a thick slice of bread spread with honey and a bowl of berries. “Not as well as this, but we’re surviving. For a while there were only roots and berries and it’s not easy foraging with a tail of refugees, but things are better now.”
“You’re taking them under your wing, yes? People have been scattered all across… Eregion.” He hesitated on the name, and Elrond wondered what this part of the world had been called in his youth. Glorfindel might have known.
“Someone has to. And I’ve found somewhere. A haven of sorts.”
The prince looked up sharply and the lamp caught the starlit glitter of his eyes. “A haven?”
“Yes, by chance more than design. We had to run from one of their patrols – not easy with so many on foot. Anyhow, we reached a place where the land drops away without warning, last thing you’d expect. We could hear a river below, but there was nothing to see, just treetops. Then one of the women went searching for a private place to answer nature’s call and looked down and saw…”
He stopped, recalling his first sight of the land below the trees, hidden between the mountains. Celeborn waited, not interrupting. “All you can see from above is a ravine lined with trees and glimpses of the river. But there’s land set against the cliff, and further down the gorge opens into a valley, a bit like a bowl surrounded by walls of solid rock. It’s safe there, easy to defend. The only entrance we’ve found so far is on the mountain side, a gap through solid rock. It took us days of searching. The Nandor think there was a stream once. There’s deer down there and even a few boar, nuts, berries – and the earth’s good, it could be planted.”
Celeborn was frowning. “You’re thinking of settling it? Now?”
“Not as a first priority, no,” Elrond said hurriedly. “But the goal is to keep the enemy this side of the Ered Luin and give Ereinion time to prepare for war, right? Well, I have refugees whose numbers already run into the hundreds to protect, and I need a safe place to leave them. This is a defensible stronghold, somewhere our wounded could also recuperate without the need for extra warriors to protect them.”
Celeborn, drinking his brandy as though it was no more potent than watered wine, looked interested at this. “So – a healing post and housing for civilians? I’ve heard worse ideas. You say it’s difficult to reach?”
“We found a few places where you could climb down using ropes, but all in plain sight. I left them blocking off everything but the entrance we used. I have men exploring the valley to look for weak points too. The access is steep but it’s possible to get a wounded man down. A horse can manage if dismounted and led, though I’d not try riding, the surface is too loose.”
“You’re taking this seriously,” Celeborn observed. “You see it as a command centre perhaps? Somewhere to plan your operations from?”
“There’s precious little planning involved right now,” Elrond said wryly. “They find us, we fight back. I have what men I can spare divided into small groups, not a single, ponderous armed force, so they can strike and run, take on what they can handle, kill where it’s plausible. Anything that keeps Sauron’s army too busy to regroup and aim for Lindon.”
Celeborn nodded. “Much the same as we’re doing. Their discipline is shaky, and it works to our advantage. All their leaders have in common is an allegiance to their Overlord and distrust for one another. They’ll keep splitting off into groups to pillage and burn while there’s anything left resembling loot. Only those under Sauron’s direct command stand united.”
“Through a common fear, yes,” Elrond agreed. “And that’s why it’d be good to have a central point to launch attacks from. While they’re spread out like this, it’s harder for them to compare notes and track us down.”
“I’m just concerned by how much time and energy you’d invest in making your valley inaccessible,” Celeborn said. “Experience tells me the greatest safety lies in staying on the move. The best protected stronghold can be overcome.”
Doriath, Nargothrond, Gondolin… “Possibly,” Elrond conceded at last, risking a little more of the brandy. “But there’s more to it than a temporary shelter. Think of the numbers Sauron has raised and the risk to Lindon — Ereinion wouldn’t take the sea road if the worst happened, Celeborn. He’s like your wife there, determined. It’s in the blood.”
“That road is closed to Galadriel,” Celeborn replied evenly. “Which makes her even more stubborn. But no, I do not see him sailing should the worst happen. He’s another Fingolfin, he’d die with sword in hand.”
Blinding light behind his eyes, the ice chill of foresight, something calling, keening, from long away…. Elrond shook it off, gritted his teeth against it, not wanting to know. Not here, not now. Maybe not ever. “Or keep fighting from another vantage point, should the mountains not prove enough of a barrier,” he said, and his voice barely shook. He was slowly learning to rein in Melian’s gift. “A fortress at the bottom of a ravine, hidden within the foothills of the Hithaeglir could make an invincible refuge for a king.”
They fell silent, the lamp throwing a golden haze about them. “I should know foresight when I see it by now,” Celeborn said finally. “You don’t think Lindon can hold out indefinitely then?” It was not a question.
Elrond shook his head. “Whatever that was, it came from further down time’s river. Now? No idea, but this will not be over by the turn of the year, Celeborn. That’s why I’d like to be prepared. Come back with me, have a look for yourself. I’d appreciate another experienced eye – Caedion already seems taken with it.”
Celeborn came close to smiling. “Caedion? In that case, there can be no doubt. But yes, we’ll come and see your valley. My wounded are almost fit to move. Perhaps we can put the practicalities of your plan for a healing centre to the test.”
They ate in the Academy’s dining room, a new experience for Erestor who always took his meals there casually in the kitchen, a practice dating back to when he had entered Círdan’s service on Balar and instantly became one of Maeriel’s extended family of strays. Tonight she sat at the foot of the table as the lady of the house and they were waited on by staff sent over from the palace.
The Númenórean captain was a big man with russet hair and a beard to match. The most noticeable thing about him were his eyes, storm-grey and far-seeing, the skin crinkled at the corners. In build and colouring he was as unlike the people he found himself amongst as an elf might be when visiting the halls of the dwarves. He had the place of honour to the king’s right and seemed quite at ease in the company of royalty as he talked about his journey to Mithlond.
“…high seas, yes, but the air carries a hint of spring now.”
“And all was well with your homeland when you left?” Gil-galad, in a simple tunic over dark trousers and shirt, was all tidy informality save for the priceless pearl and ruby diadem said to have been favoured by Fingolfin that glittered on his unbound hair.
The captain smiled blandly, radiating honesty. “Ah, everything is fine at home, and the king-in-waiting aids the queen in her work, leaving her time to pursue her passions.”
He did not mention what these passions were, and Erestor suspected that if he was pressed to it, Captain Gimilkhâd might suddenly lose his grasp of Sindarin.
Twice refined brandy and comfits were to be served after dinner, but first Gil-galad suggested a walk along the quay as far as the Númenórean ship and back, to take the air and give the meal a chance to settle before the refreshments and Maeriel’s promise of a little musical entertainment. A king’s suggestion having the weight of a command, the diners duly followed him down the path from the Academy to the harbour in a cloud of chattering exclamation and bright, social laughter.
The air coming in from beyond the mountains was bracing, and the water was busy. All along the quay timbers creaked and ropes snapped taut, while the ever-present flap of sailcloth echoed the slap of waves against stone. Erestor trailed along a little behind the group immediately around the king, listening to the conversation while he watched the night.
“Not a subject for the dinner table, but of course you’ve heard we’re now at war,” Gil-galad was saying almost casually to Captain Gimilkhâd, placing a hand on his elbow to guide him past loose coils of rope. “I hope there’ve been no – situations – in your people’s settlements down south yet?”
“None that I’ve heard, as I told Lord Círdan,” the captain replied. “On my last visit there was talk of disturbances to the east, and part of my brief is to discover the truth of it. The accounts we had were badly garbled and they will be long out of date, too.” His Sindarin was heavily accented, not unpleasantly so but enough to subtly change the rhythm and phrasing of the words.
“Things move swiftly these days.” Gil-galad slowed to watch a small, sleek craft move off from the side, a member of the coastal patrol. “At winter’s end an army came out of the east into the realm beyond Tharbad that we call Eregion, where Ost-in-Edhil stands. Stood.”
“Stood?”
“Stood, yes. It was destroyed by the same eastern power your Tar-Aldarion once warned me of. Their Emperor has revealed himself as a nemesis from the elder days, darker and deadlier than any man or elf you will ever meet. He holds the power to wipe out your southern settlements and even cross the sea in search of new lands.”
Not strictly true so far as Erestor knew, but a nice touch. No harm in a little exaggeration – if that was what it was.
Gil-galad moved away from the group around him, his hand still on the captain’s arm, drawing him aside. His voice drifted back, softer now, more intimate. Gil was famously persuasive; Erestor knew he was not the only one straining his ears to listen.
“For centuries there’ve been rumours of a power rising in the desert lands to the east, and for a time matters were serious enough that Aldarion and I exchanged promises of mutual aid should the threat gain substance. When the danger receded, Queen Ancalime allowed the treaty to lapse, but it still remains extant. Not five years ago I sent word to the present Queen that…”
A flight of bats wheeled low overhead before swooping back up the hill, and Erestor ducked instinctively, missing the next few words.
“…beyond a thanks for the timely warning. What do you say, will you carry a further message back to your queen from me, to remind her again of our old alliance and our mutual risk?”
“I must stop at Lond Daer first and then go further along the coast,” Captain Gimilkhâd replied, his accent making the words harder to pick up than Gil-galad’s. “Two of our lords’ sons are ready to return home and I’m to collect them. They send the boys, mainly younger sons, out here for a time to teach them discipline and keep them out of trouble. The round-trip should take perhaps a month. I thought to head straight out to sea on the return leg, but I can stop here first and Your Majesty can give me whatever you wish to send our queen. And her nephew, Minastir, who,” he paused before continuing, “who will in all likelihood be the one to deal with this. All I can do is add my own accounting of what I see and hear.”
Gil-galad’s voice dropped lower, and Erestor turned so the wind would bring the words to him. “I thought to send a representative this time. Someone who could answer questions more fully, not just recite a message, and speculate where it’s needed.”
“Ah, well that can be done. I could manage an extra passenger or two. That would carry more weight than the word of a mere ship’s captain.”
A wave leapt, shedding droplets of spray across the quay and masked the next few words, though Erestor was fairly sure Gil had snorted at that. The next he heard was, “…would be inclined to heed the word of one of her Venturers. But yes, always best to hear it from as close to the source as possible – I prefer it myself. That’s why I thought to send someone who can speak for me.” He moved back towards the knot of courtiers and advisors, raising his voice. “Círdan? Captain Gimilkhâd will stop off here before his return voyage. He’s agreed to take a messenger along for me.”
“You can take on fresh water then, and some dried meat and fruit,” Círdan said, all sailor. “That’s the least we can do if you’re to have an extra mouth to feed.”
“That would be fair,” Gimilkhâd said with a nod. “The last river is far up the coast and its water none too sweet.”
They reached his vessel and stopped, standing back for a better look. The masts stood tall against the night sky, the only light coming from a single lantern for the mariner on deck duty. The rest of the crew had lodgings up the hill, organised as soon as their sails became visible on the horizon. This was not the first time a Númenórean ship had docked at Mithlond.
“What in the Pit happened there?” Gil-galad pointed to a section missing from the railing and this led straight into a many-sided discussion in which Captain Gimilkhâd catalogued a huge storm with waves higher than the first row of houses above the harbour, with lingering descriptions of splintered masts and torn sails, the kind of tale beloved of sailors but a closed book to everyone else.
Those not involved gathered in twos and threes, talking quietly. Erestor slanted a look at Glorfindel who was standing alone nearby, staring past Gil-galad at the lights across the bay. He must have sensed eyes on him because he shifted his gaze and their eyes met. Erestor glanced towards the animated conversational knot and raised an eyebrow slightly, and Glorfindel just as slightly shrugged. They shared a smile, their first outside the formalities of greeting. Erestor moved closer.
“It’s a shame to admit it, my lord, when I’ve lived close to the sea for most of my life, but all this is a bit beyond me. The King knows about boats, but I’ve done little more than cross from Balar to the mainland in the old days and take the occasional trip along the coast.”
Glorfindel smiled ruefully. “Gondolin – inland city. Tirion – no boats. This time in Aman I was living near a beach and had close ties to a seafaring family. I was prepared to learn?”
“We’re about even. Well then, what should we talk about. Food? Books?”
“Horses?” Glorfindel sounded wistful.
“Have you explored the hills above the city yet?” Erestor gestured towards the lights on the other shore as he spoke. “It’s a popular choice for a day out of town and there are some good trails to ride. The view’s spectacular – nice to take a meal and stop somewhere along the way.”
“I’ve had no chance so far,” Glorfindel admitted. “I haven’t been on horseback since – well, for a long time now.”
Erestor frowned. “You don’t have a horse? How was that overlooked? I’ll speak to Arvarad. It’s his job to make sure you’re comfortable.”
“I doubt he has time for minor details like that right now, not with all his other duties,” Glorfindel said quickly, dropping his voice to avoid being overheard. “No need to disturb him. Now that I know it should have been arranged, I’m sure I can see to it myself. I’ll mention it to the king…”
“Which would have the same effect as me speaking to Arvarad, only louder,” Erestor pointed out, unable to suppress a grin. “I know the workings of that office, I was responsible for most of it myself in the old days. I’d be happy to organise a horse for you, my lord, and someone to spend a morning guiding you up in the hills – or I could do that myself if you like. It’s within my range at least, unlike anything to do with sailing.”
The offer was out of his mouth before he realised he was about to make it. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “I have no seafaring ambitions, I promise. And I’d enjoy the company some day when you have time.”
He was about to say more but was distracted when Gil-galad, who had been on deck taking a closer look at the second mast, jumped back down onto the quay and they all started back towards the Academy. Glorfindel stayed beside Erestor this time, making light conversation. He moved with easy grace and just a hint that he was holding back to match the pace, his easy stride suggesting the strength and speed coiled within, waiting. Erestor told himself he was being fanciful, easy enough out here in the dark with the sea crashing against the breakwater. After all, the tall, courteous man beside him was one of the few warriors to have killed a Balrog. When one looked at it that way, it became a little like taking a stroll with a temporarily docile mountain lion.
But then, Erestor used to like living dangerously.
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