Chapter 8 – Hall of Feasts

The Hall of Feasts was crowded with dignitaries, military commanders, political advisors and the royalty of the many provinces and outlands of Gondor. Erkenbrand and his riders were present, representing King Éomer and Rohan. Elrohir and Elladan and the Rangers of the North were also among the throng awaiting the arrival of King Elessar and the embassy from Harad. Everyone was dressed in their finest garb, their swords and armor left at home or in the barracks. Still, the sharp glint of fire on metal peeked out here and there from dirks worn tucked under coats. The glow of the hearth fires, wall sconces and hanging candelabras lit the hall brightly, and the buzz of excited chatter bounced off the walls, making private conversation difficult, but not impossible.

Sam leaned in close to Frodo and murmured, “At least it ain’t us on display tonight.”

Frodo nodded his agreement, glad to be momentarily overlooked as they stood between the pillars along the front wall. He breathed deeply in a vein attempt at gulping fresh air and dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief, already wilting with perspiration. He could feel sweat forming around his neck collar and under his arms. One drop broke lose and trickled down his back, making him want to scratch. He settled on his rolling his shoulders forward, pulling the shirt taunt beneath his coat.

‘Why do Men insist on wearing so many layers with fires roaring at all sides?’ he wondered for the tenth time since entering the hall a half-hour earlier.

He glanced up and down the hall. The Feast Hall was a marvel of stone and slab, with marble pillars along either side, a stage at one end and three massive cooking hearths at the other. The tall, vaulted ceilings rose thirty feet above their heads, wooden beams crossing the expansive ceiling from one pillar to the next all the way down the hall. There was a second level: curtained booths protruded from the walls for forty feet from the stage, waiting for a performance to give them an attentive audience.

The Hall was normally cool and silent during the day, making it a favorite retreat from the heat of early summer and the noisy bustling of the city below. At night, it was transformed into an oven, an impression compounded by the hearth fires blazing at the back. The scents of the cooking meat, seasoned with… Frodo sniffed but couldn’t place any of the smells he detected beyond the sharp tang of meat and garlic, the sweet juice of onions and the heady fragrance of parsley and coriander.

Smelling the food so deeply had been a mistake. The heat from the fires, the press of so many people, the fragrance of the food: surely they were slowly being cooked alive, even as they prepared to eat their meal. Was this what a frog felt like?

Frodo swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at this thought and wiped his forehead again.

“You all right, sir?” Sam asked as silently as he could.

“I’m fine,” Frodo lied then turned to Pippin before he could be peppered with questions on his welfare. “I heard you met with the Haradrim king and queen and their son, Pippin. You put on quite the show, by all accounts.” He attempted a teasing smile, succeeding quite well in his ruse.

Pippin grimaced. He too had heard the rumors circulating about his introduction to the embassy. “It was the prince who started all the trouble,” he said. “He seemed to recognize me, or at least to know what I am. I wonder if they have any tales of my Great-Granduncle Isengar. He traveled to the Sunlands, you know.”

“What exactly are they cooking over there?” Merry asked to no one in particular. His eyes and nose were drawn to the hearths. In two of the hearths, they could see what looked to be a rack with several small spits adorned with long strips of meat, each being rotated by a handful of harried cooks over the flames. Liquid fat rained from the strips and into the fires with tantalizing sizzles. In the third hearth, a giant cauldron steamed with smoke, a stew or soup of some sort simmering away. Earthenware bowls sat covered on the floor around all the hearths, steam rising from holes in the lids.

“According to the cooks,” said a man who stood near to them, “there is a beef and lamb stew, some sort of rice dish, something else called a kabob and some sort of vegetable dish. That’s not counting the pudding and desserts.”

Pippin and Sam put their noses to the job of trying to sort out the scents coming from the hearths. “There’s parsley and onions, and those kidney beans,” Pippin assessed. “Coriander, salt, pepper, and… walnuts? I can’t tell what the other smells are.”

“I hope it ain’t spicy like dwarf food is. I have quite enough odd dreams without any help,” Sam said.* “I don’t smell any cumin at least.”

Frodo turned away from this conversation and spotted the master minstrel a few feet away with the other court musicians. Curious, he excused himself and edged towards the minstrels and bards. They usually ate early, so as to be able to perform while everyone else dined. They should be warming up for their performance now, but they were clearly dressed as guests.

“Good evening, Lord Frodo!” they greeted with obvious adoration.

“Good evening, Good Masters,” Frodo replied, bowing and doing his best to ignore the feeling of immediate suffocation increased by their adulation. “I am surprised to see you among the guests tonight. I was looking forward to hearing your prose.”

“You will get to enjoy it still, Lord Frodo,” said the master minstrel, an elderly fellow named Beriso. “We will perform while dessert is served. Our guests of honor are providing the opening entertainment. I am told they have quite the spectacle planned for us.”

His apprentice nodded eagerly. “They have instruments similar to ours, as far as purpose, but they are made of a wood and in a manner as to give them wholly unique and enchanting sounds and qualities,” he said with obvious awe.

“We heard their musicians rehearsing earlier,” said Radigis, a bard. His eyes flashed with excitement though he was better able to control his fascination than the young apprentice. He thought for a moment, determining how best to describe the indescribable; he wasn’t a bard for nothing. “It is primal, but exquisite, though that does it little justice. It seems to pull at you, somehow, to draw you in. You can nearly forget yourself. Have you ever felt that way?”

He asked the question to his fellow artisans, but it was Frodo who answered. “I have,” he said before he was even aware that he was speaking. His voice sounded flat and hollow even to his own ears. He could little blame his companions for their sharp and shocked expressions. Frodo cleared his throat and put on a smile. “You describe it so well, I nearly feel as though I’ve already heard it.”

“It is beyond imagining,” Radigis said, quelled at the explanation. “You shall have to hear it to understand how poor is my description.”

“I shall look forward to both performances,” Frodo said and dabbed at his upper lip and forehead with his kerchief. His was not the only rag saturated beyond usefulness. He tucked it back into his pocket, wishing he had brought more, and tried desperately to remember he was in Minas Tirith, safe and far away from the putrid stink of Mordor. ‘It seems to pull at you, somehow, to draw you in. You can nearly forget yourself.’

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, appearing at his side as if by magic. He touched Frodo’s elbow, a gentle pressure that anchored Frodo firmly back in the present. Sam frowned at Frodo’s expression but only pulled lightly on his elbow, not yet letting go. “It’s time, sir. Mr. Merry found our seats.”

“Of course,” Frodo said. He bid farewell and good luck to his companions and followed Sam to the front of the hall. All over the Merethrond, the press of bodies was shifting as groups separated as everyone sought their seats, which were designated by placards set on empty plates.

The hobbits might not be the guests of honor tonight, but they were still the city’s heroes. They therefore found their seats at the table nearest the stage, just off to the left of it. Legolas and Gimli were also there, as were Elladan, Elrohir, a few of the Riders and the Rangers of the North. In the next table near the center of the hall were the rest of the Riders and Rangers, sitting with some of the Guard of the Tower. Frodo and Sam took their seats at the center of the table near their friends and turned towards the high table on the stage.

“Wait a minute,” Pippin said, noticing for the first time what had escaped nearly everyone else’s attention until just this moment. “Where’s the high table?” The stage was empty.

“Beriso said the Haradrim would be performing,” Frodo said, picking up his placard and fanning himself with it. He was glad to see others doing this also, even Merry.

“Look!” said a lady from the table on their right.

They looked to see where she was pointing then followed her gaze to the booths overhead. The curtains had been drawn back from the first booth on either side of the stage to reveal their first occupants in nearly seventy years. The booth to stage left contained Faramir, Imrahil, Anborn, Dervorin and Duinhir and a handful of Haradrim, including Prince Shahzad. To stage right, directly above the hobbits’ table, sat Aragorn, Gandalf and Erkenbrand in Éomer’s place. Also in their booth were King Ashraf and Queen Farzana and two other Haradrim.

The Gondorians all wore dark and somber suits or bold, colorful dresses with little decoration, while the Haradrim wore the same tan or white vests, kilts and dresses they had worn that morning. Only the royal family had changed their clothes, exchanging their deep blue attire for saffron. The only other difference was that they now also wore necklaces of gold, bracelets of precious stones, and their hair, while still plaited for the men, for the women was hidden beneath lacy and jewel-studded veils.

Gradually, everyone’s attention was drawn to King Elessar, for Elessar he was tonight with the Star of Elendil upon his brow, and the buzz of conversation lowered to a murmur. When Elessar stood and raised a hand, the hall fell silent, as though everyone had collectively taken a breath and held it.

“Good evening my honored guests and blessed friends,” Elessar began.

Behind the visiting king and queen, one of the Haradrim bent forward and whispered translations into their ears and the ears of his other companion beside him. Erkenbrand gave this man an odd look but quickly smoothed his features into mild interest in Elessar’s address. Gandalf merely gazed out over the gathered mass, his eyes settling here and there before moving on. His eyes finally landed on the hobbits; he winked conspiratorially and went on to search out the next point of interest; he shared the hobbits’ dislike for lengthy speeches.

Elessar continued, oblivious to the byplay taking place behind him. “Welcome to the Hall of Feasts. We are joined tonight by our new allies, Sultan Ashraf and Sultana Farzana of the Sultanate of the Moon of Far Harad, and their royal court: their Grand Vizier, Faheem.” The other man behind the king and queen bowed his head at the introduction. “The Amir, Shahzad,” Elessar continued, indicating the prince in the booth across the hall, skipping over the translator entirely. The hobbits noticed then that another translator sat in the booth with the prince and the remaining members of the royal court, who were introduced by their positions and names. Again, Elessar didn’t not name the translator.

“They must be slaves,” Legolas surmised, following the same line of thought as the others at these omissions.

“So they don’t have any names,” Merry said, incredulous.

“They have names,” Sam reasoned, “they just don’t warrant an introduction is all.”

“Shhh,” Gimli said and they quieted to return their attention to their king.

“Our honored guests have been given leave to go as they will within the city. They are eager to see our fair city and to meet its citizens. I trust that we will be gracious hosts and make them welcome.”

Elessar resumed his seat, and Sultana Farzana stood to take his place. She held her head high and looked out over her audience with a sharp, assessing gaze. Evidently pleased with what she saw, she clasped her hands in front of her, her elbows held out at right angles from her body, her fingers of one hand folded around the fingers of the other, so they nestled against the palms. She began to talk, her voice a rich tenor-alto that floated through the air down to those sitting below. She spoke clearly and with passion, the odd words of her language like the music of water trickling in a brook.

The translator kept his seat behind her, hidden in the shadow of her body, but when he spoke in Westron, everyone understood the shocked reaction of Erkenbrand on hearing his speech: the man was a Gondorian. Tanned to a dark brown from constant exposure to the desert sun and marked with the same tattoos as the others, no one had suspected he was anything other than Haradrim. Yet his speech was flawless, with no hint of an accent. Suddenly, the rumors that the Haradrim were hiding their prisoners of war in plain sight seemed not only more plausible but actual reality.

Frodo shook his head at this revelation, turning to quickly assess the other translator in the prince’s booth. Could he be Gondorian also? It was impossible to tell without hearing him speak. But surely these men were not prisoners, nor slaves. Surely, Aragorn would not have allowed such a thing. Would he?

Elessar, noticing the babble of excited whispers at the translator’s speech, stood again and held up his hand for silence. When it was once again given, he took his seat and motioned for the translator to try again. Sultana Farzana narrowed her eyes at her audience, their violet shade looking nearly black in the candlelight illuminating her, giving her the appearance of having no eyes at all when they were slanted so. An involuntary shiver went down Frodo’s spine.

The translator repeated the queen’s greeting. “Good evening, warriors and ladies of Gondor. I am Farzana of the House of the Moon, daughter of Rakhshinda of the House of the Moon, our former Sultana. My House is one of five great Houses of Harad. For many years, since the Great Eye first returned to our land, my House and our allies were forced to live in squalor and were hunted by those who would seek to gain the Great Eye’s favor.”

The queen then continued her speech, stopping now and again to allow for translation. She gave a brief history of her people, one of the three Houses who resisted the tyranny of the Great Eye and dissuaded those who would believe His lies for the truth. Once the most populous of the Houses, they were now little more than scraps left after the devouring dogs fought over their food – Frodo and his friends lifted their eyebrows at this alliteration. Despite this, they strove now to undo the damage of the Great Eye, gathering their strength to deal a final strike on the two Houses still loyal to the teachings of the Great Eye. Civil war was looming on their horizon, but for now, they have peace. For now, they can celebrate and they can breathe.

“We look to you not for help, not for show of force, but in the hope that when the dust settles and all is done and returned to the ways of our ancestors, before the tainting of Sauron, that you will join us in rejoice at our victory, and we can celebrate our freedom together.”

The queen tilted her head as she finished and took her seat. Sultan Ashraf stood next and stepped forward. He placed his hands on the railing in front of him and leaned forward. His gaze was equally as penetrating as that of the queen’s, his deep rumbling bass just as impassioned.

“Good evening, Neighbors of the North. I am Ashraf, Sultan of the House of the Moon, son of Amira Khurshed of the House of the Sun. I come also as ambassador of that House, at the behest of my cousin, Sultana Semira, and her husband, Sultan Amros, and I bear similar sentiments from them as my good Sultana has already stated. So I won’t bore you by repeating them!” He grinned through the Gondorian’s translation, laughing heartily once the man reached the end, surprising everyone in the hall. Sultana Farzana smirked and shook her head while the others laughed in relief of tension partially broken.

“In appreciation of your hospitality,” Sultan Ashraf continued, “and in honor of our most gracious hosts, we have brought gifts. First, our ladies will perform a dance for you, to the accompaniment of the music provided by our men. Then, you will eat the finest delicacies and drink the tastiest beverages of our land, prepared both by our cooks and your own, so that you may enjoy them even once we are gone, yes?”

Ashraf waited until the translation was completed, then grinned and winked, allowing for further laughter. “In Harad, our dances tell a story. The story you will see performed tonight was created especially for you. It is a visual history of the struggles of our people, and our redemption at the defeat of the Great Eye. Please, sit, watch, enjoy!”

He was about to take his seat again when the translator leaned forward out of his seat and asked him something. The king nodded, turned back around to his audience and held out his hand for full attention. Once he had it, he held up one finger and spoke in a jovial tone. “One more thing. Do not touch the women,” the Gondorian translated. The king continued, his voice now severe, his eyes flashing in the candlelight. “It is strictly forbidden, a crime that cannot, will not, go unpunished should any dare to insult our ladies in such a crude fashion.”

As though to illustrate the truth of this fierce statement, the Gondorian reached up and casually scratched at his cheek with his…

“Is that a hook?” Sam asked, aghast.

“It is,” Merry confirmed, gulping. “Pippin. Put your hands in your pockets.”

Pippin opened his mouth, about to argue Merry’s implication, then seemed to think better of it as he promptly closed his mouth and stuffed his hands as far into his pockets as they would go.

The hall was again abuzz with speculation and excitement, fascinated horror at the hook, as well as determined denial.

“It’s a fake hook,” said a Rider, Bealdred, from the table behind them.

“How can you tell?” asked another Rider named Osric.

“The metal didn’t reflect any candlelight,” Bealdred said.

“Perhaps it’s wood,” said Ingold, one of the Rangers.

“What good is a wooden hook?” asked Hammitt, one his companions. “You’d always have to be replacing it, wouldn’t you? Couldn’t get too close to a fire.”

“Perhaps he lost his hand in a fight or to infection, and just has a flare for theatrics,” suggested a Rider named Offa. “Does anyone know who he is? Or the other one?”

There was much head shaking among the Guards of the Tower in answer.

“There’s wooden legs,” said Bealdred, apparently unwilling to give up his argument so soon.

“My cousin had a wooden leg once,” said Wulf woefully. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“What happened to it?” Merry asked obligingly.

“It was eaten by termites,” Wulf answered to groans and guffaws.

“You just had to ask him, didn’t you?” asked Offa.

“He fell asleep one night and in the morning it was gone,” Wulf continued with an air of dismay. “Nothing left but wood dust and sated white ants.”

This earned giggles from Pippin, Frodo and Sam, and more groans and eye-rolling from the other Riders.

“Ask him about his aunt’s carbuncle next,” suggested Penda, who was quickly hushed by his companions.

“We’re about to eat,” Ludeca chided.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Wulf. “It’s about so big.” He held up his left hand, the index finger and thumb forming a circle. “And about so deep.” He turned his hand and held the same two fingers about a half-inch from each other. “All hard and smooth and this deep, dark, blood red color.”

Pippin’s nose crinkled at this description of a festering boil and Frodo reached for his placard, fanning himself fervently.

“It’s the envy of all of Rohan,” Wulf went on, “which is why she only wears the garnet for special occasions.” He winked at the hobbits. It was now their turn to groan.

“Is this what you do while you’re keeping watch?” Merry asked. “Make up puns?”

“There’s a whole routine, Master Holdwine,” said Ceorl. “At least you don’t have to ride next to the man.”

Wulf was about to object to this slight when the same lady from the far right table suddenly hissed, “Look! Someone’s on the stage!” Everyone turned their attention to the stage, where indeed a man sat tailor-fashion in the center.

The brief babbling of speculation that had erupted after the translator’s dramatic demonstration of the king’s warning fell now to a curious hum. A few women gasped appreciatively at the man on stage and all over the hall, fans snapped open to cool their flushed owners. The men snorted or frowned at this, giving the Haradrim man a closer look.

Wearing only a kilt of bleached-white, his milky brown skin glowed bronze in the candlelight, while dim shadows played in the shallows of the large muscles of shoulder, neck and chest. The kilt was nothing more they two square flaps of hide, held in place at the waist with a chord. Sitting as he was, the two flaps separated at the sides, fully exposing the lean muscles of thigh and calf while the front flap pooled in front to cover his most important aspects, which would have been covered in any case by the lute-like instrument he held. He wore a flat disc of cobalt from a chord around his neck and from his ears hung feathers of bright green and brilliant yellow.

“He might as well be naked,” complained one man, glaring down at his entranced wife.

“If the women are clad thus, they’re going to need to bring in buckets of cold water afore everyone passes out,” Sam murmured to Frodo.

“Where does he hide his dirk?” asked Ingold.

Wulf opened his mouth to answer.

“Don’t!” warned Osric with a hiss, which earned many other such warnings from the surrounding tables as the hall fell into silence once more.

The show was beginning.
 
 
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 

GF 02/21/09
Published 4/29/09 
 
 
 
 
 
* - In "With Their Heads Filled With Dreams" the dwarves cook the hobbits a spicy meal, which give them strange dreams that night.