by Soledad

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

I admit in all honesty that Ivriniel’s encounter with Caliondo was strongly influenced by similar scenes in “Ivanhoe” by Sir Walter Scott. Credit shall be given where credit is due. *g*

My heartfelt thanks to Linda Hoyland for beta reading.

Chapter 06 – First Encounter

Almost complete darkness had fallen over the world when the Sea-Conqueror finally sailed into the harbour of Umbarlond, so that Ivriniel barely caught a glimpse of the ancient, monolithic fortress that stood right at the coast, with the waves breaking against its outer walls. She could not even make out its shape ere both windows of her cabin were shuttered from the outside.

Clearly, they did not want her to gain too detailed knowledge of the place where she was being taken, at least not yet. But she knew for certain that it was Umbarlond. It had to be. Even if her captors intended to mover her even further eastward, to one of the Haradric realms – or Mordor itself – Umbarlond would be the first logical stop. The Umbari might be the enemy but they were no fools. They knew what she was worth as a hostage and treated her accordingly. For now.

As soon as they moored, Captain Atanalcar came to her cabin and – after profuse apologies – had her blindfolded, wrapped into a hooded cloak, and taken from the ship. They did not carry her far, so she assumed that she would be brought into the ancient fortress on the coast. If it would be a short respite on a longer road, she could not tell.

Once inside, she was escorted into a distant and sequestered turret, deep within the castle. There the blindfold and the cloak were removed, and a statuesque middle-aged woman of obvious Dúnadan stock, whose name was apparently Zamîn, showed her into a small chamber that had obviously been fitted up for her temporary convenience. Faded but still beautiful tapestries covered the walls, keeping their coldness at bay, and similar curtains decorated the four-poster bed standing in the middle.

In the window-seat, between the two stone benches, was small, a masterfully-carved table of heavy oak. A wash-stand and a delicate little cabinet for toiletries as well as a large, beautifully-crafted chest meant for clothes completed the meagre furniture in what clearly was supposed to be her prison for the foreseeable future.

The woman Zamîn, with the help of Nithil and an old crone whom they both called Zôri (Although if that was truly her name or she was a nurse indeed, Ivriniel could not figure out just yet) brought a wooden tub into her chamber, filled it with hot water and prepared her a bath. Zôri, who seemed to be an herb mistress of some sort, sprinkled the bath water with dried herbs that, she promised, would bring sweet dreams.

For many a noble lady, such bleak surroundings would have appeared dreadful. But being the firstborn of the Prince of Dol Amroth – and even his heiress for many years – gave her the advantage of having been taught to look beyond little things of no true significance. She could wield the bow and the dagger as well as she could handle the needle, and she had been raised to rule, should the need arise, which meant detailed studies in history, tactical thinking and how to act if captured by the enemy – which seemed to be very much the case.

Apart from a natural strength of Númenórean mind that prepared her to encounter any dangers to which she might be exposed, she was also a strong and observant character… abilities that helped her to asses her present situation with a calm detachment that would have put any Swan Knight to shame.

Ignoring her supper – which consisted of bread, cheese and cold meat anyway, so it could wait – she began inspecting her prison. Soon enough she had to admit that it afforded few hopes, either of escape or of protection. She could find neither a secret passage nor a trap-door, and as she leaned out of the window, she could see in the flickering light of the torches burning on the walls that the turret stood mostly alone, its circular external wall connecting with no other part of the main keep – unless through the door by which she had entered and which she could not see from her vantage point.

The door of her chamber had no inside bolt or bar. The single window opened upon an enclosed space surrounding the turret, but whatever hope she might hope to find there, it was soon dashed – in the moment she realised that it had no direct connection to any other part of the battlement, either. It was some kind of isolated balcony – secured, as usual, by a parapet, with embrasures, at which a few archers might be stationed for defending the turret, and flanking with their shots the wall of the castle on that side.

No, this was definitely not any part of the keep.

There was therefore no hope but in passive fortitude, and in the strong reliance on the weight that her birth and rank carried. That, and Lirillo’s promise that had sent her on this adventurous journey in the first place. A journey that now had reached its first important stop; or perchance its true destination.

She might have been blindfolded while taken from the ship there, but she recognized Númenórean architecture when she saw it – this castle was clearly even more ancient than the King’s House in Pelargir. Consequently, her abduction must have had political reasons, which meant that some great and important lord of Umbar – presumably one or both of the consuls – must have been behind it. No-one else would have the authority to send Atanalcar, the admiral of their fleet, on board of their best ship, to take her.

Perchance they intended to apply pressure on her father or grandfather by holding her hostage. Well, if that had been their intention, they were going to be sorely disappointed. She had been raised with the knowledge that her family would not give in to such demands. She was prepared to accept her fate, whatever it might be.

She ignored the supper still waiting for her on the little cabinet, pushed the wash-stand in front of the door to alert her, should anyone try to enter the chamber during the night and went to bed. She knew she would need all her strength on the next day when she would have to face the true powers behind her abduction.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She woke up at daybreak, after a restless albeit undisturbed night, and used the chance to take another good, hard look at her surroundings by the first light of the day, in the hope that she would find a small chance to escape that she had overlooked in the night. Alas, it was not so. Escape seemed as much beyond her reach as before.

She accepted it with the calmness of one used to long-term planning. Something would be found, sooner or later. And time she had aplenty.

An hour or two later – it was hard to tell, as Anor rose much faster here, so far in the south from Dol Amroth – Zamîn and Nithil returned to wait on her. They clucked disapprovingly when they saw her untouched supper and brought a light breakfast instead; after the opulent meals served at Lord Lorindol’s table, it was almost a relief. Then they brought her water to wash, and clothes in a slightly different fashion than she was used to; more Haradric in cut, but more subdued in colour than the ones she had been given on the ship.

 

They consisted of a knee-length undergown of blue watered silk, with long, tight sleeves and a skirt that flared out to a bell-shape and rolled around the legs with every step she made, like the waves of the Sea. The short-sleeved overgown was made of pale, sea-green brocade, shot with silver mist. It barely reached beneath the knee to allow the flaring underskirts full movement and was laced up in the front. The hem, neckline and the sleeves were embroidered with white pearls. A loosely bound sash of white muslin, seamed with pearls, and soft white leather slippers completed the ensemble.

She combed her raven-black hair, braided it in an elaborate pattern, and pinned the braids to the back of her head, bound in a glittering net of pearls and emeralds. Then they adorned her neck with multiple strings of pearls, promising that she would get her own clothes black, as soon as they had been properly cleaned.

“Now you are ready for your visitor, my lady,” said Zamîn, clearly content with the results.

Unlike Nithil, she did not speak Sindarin, but her Westron was fluent enough, albeit slightly accented. And as Ivriniel understood Adûnaic anyway (even though the servants could not know that), so far they had circled the pitfalls of language successfully.

Ivriniel did not ask who her visitor would be; that would show weakness that she could not afford. She merely inclined her head, signalling that she was, indeed, ready for them, whoever they might be.

Still, she could not deny a frisson of fear and excitement when she could hear advancing steps on the stairs outside her door, even though she gave no visible sign. She stood erect, like a candle, watching with cold, assessing eyes as the door of the turret-chamber slowly opened.

A tall man, dressed in a rich, dark attire decorated mostly in silver and black, entered briskly, as if he owed the place, shutting the door behind him. His hair, shorn above his broad shoulders, was as dark as her own, his ruggedly handsome face bore the typical, angular features of ancient Númenórean families, and his eyes, too, were dark grey like those of pure-blooded Dúnadan nobles.

His manners, just like his clothes, spoke of high birth, even though the strength of his body and the spare economy of his movements revealed him as a trained warrior. A swordsman, most likely, by those heavy shoulders and muscular arms of his, although his slightly rolling gait revealed that he was equally at home aboard a ship.

He bowed politely, but without the exaggerated flourish of a courtier, and gestured with his ungloved hand towards the stone bench of the window seat, signalling Ivriniel to sit.

She, however, declined with a proud gesture of her own and said, retaining her standing posture and with a defiantly raised chin:

“Seeing as I am in the presence of my jailor – circumstances forbid me to think otherwise – it best becomes a prisoner to remain standing ‘til she learns her doom… in order to accept her fate with a raised head.”

She spoke in formal, courtly Westron, still reluctant to reveal her knowledge of Adûnaic. In her father’s court Sindarin was the language used for formal occasions, but she did not believe any-one here would understand it, so she had to compromise.

The man – she could see now that he was a fairly young one in Dúnadan terms – inclined his head in obvious respect.

“I regret the circumstances under which we have come to meet, Lady Ivriniel,” he answered with the same grave formality; his Westron fluent, with barely a hint of a Southron accent. “Believe me, had there been any other way, we would not have brought you here by force and deceit. ‘Tis my hope, though, that one day you may find it in your heart to understand the need to act thusly and to forgive us.”

“I know you not, sir,“ said the Princess, drawing herself up with all the pride and dignity of offended rank and beauty; “Nor do I know where I have been brought and why,” she did have her suspicions, of course, but those mattered little at the moment. She needed answers, and she needed them now.

“What I do know, though, is that no man of noble birth is supposed to intrude himself upon the presence of an unprotected lady,” she continued. “You, sir, have an unfair advantage upon me, as not only are you holding me captive against my will, but you also seem to know who I am, while you have not yet shown the courtesy to introduce yourself.”

“Then that, at least, is a small matter in which I can redeem myself,” he replied, “though I deem my name is not one widely known in Dol Amroth. In any case, ‘tis Caliondo; and I am the son and heir of Lord Herucalmo, the First Consul of Umbar,” he gave her a quick, searching look. “I assume that at least the name or the title of my father must sound familiar to you, if not my own.”

Ivriniel nodded. “Certainly, my lord. I was taught the history of the Third Realm in Exile in as much detail as it is known to us. Which means that I am presently in the ancient fortress of Umbarlond, am I not?”

The man nodded, too. “In the Zadan’n Abrazân, yea; the House of the Faithful. I apologize for the living conditions here; I know you are used to better surroundings. They are only temporary, though… ‘til we can come to an understanding, after which we shall move you to the comfort of our townhouse.”

“What kind of understanding could there be between jailor and prisoner?” asked Ivriniel sharply. “If you believe you can demand any compromises from the Prince of Dol Amroth, be it my father or my grandsire, then you are mistaken. The descendants of Imrazôr and Mithrellas do not go back on their oath of fealty; not even to save the life of their children. We are all ready and willing to die for Gondor and Dol Amroth, one way or another.”

“No-one expects you to die, fair Princess,” said Caliondo of Umbar with a crooked smile. “On the contrary; we all expect you to live for a very long time, for the good of both Umbar and Dol Amroth – as my wife.”

For a moment, Ivriniel was truly speechless with shock… although, after that moment passed, she had to admit that it made sense. Even an enforced marriage between the firstborns of Umbar and Dol Amroth would forge ties of kinship neither side would be able to ignore in the future.

“So that is how it is supposed to be?” she asked bitterly. “Marriage by rape, so that the Prince of Dol Amroth would be honour-bound by the ties of kinship to support Umbar, against his solemn oath and the oaths sworn by all his forefathers, back to Imrazôr the Númenórean? And you truly believe that I would consent to such dishonour brought upon my House by my very person? Then you know nothing about the Swan Princes and their progeny!”

With that, she threw open the stained glass window that led to the balcony, swung herself swiftly onto the windowsill, and within the wink of an eye, she stood on the very verge of the parapet, with nothing between her and the tremendous depth below. The heavy silk of her skirts billowed in the strong wind coming from the Sea like the full sails of a great warship, making her balance even more precarious. A slightly stronger blow and she could have fallen in any moment.

Not prepared for such a reckless act, as she had been standing in calm dignity before, Caliondo had neither the time to intercept nor the means to stop her. As he unconsciously moved towards the window, she warned him sharply.

“Remain where you are, Heir of Umbar, or by Elbereth! – one inch closer and I shall allow myself to fall. I would rather have my body crushed on the stones of that courtyard below ere I would become a pawn in some sinister game to destroy the honour of my House.”

Her eyes were burning in her pale face like green flames, and there could not be the slightest doubt that she would make her threats true. Caliondo hesitated. He was not easily moved as a rule, neither by desperate pleas nor by defiance, yet now he could not help but admire her fortitude. This was a Princess indeed, born to become a great Queen; if not by name, then by strength and power most certainly.

If he had wanted to wed her before, for what she represented – the royal House of Dol Amroth – now he wanted her for herself: as a woman who could truly be his equal in everything that mattered.

“You do me injustice, my lady,” he said. “I swear to you by the time-honoured name which I bear – by the honour of my ancient House that has not faltered since the days of long-lost Númenórë – by the crest of my longfathers do I swear that I never intended to force myself upon you without your consent. I have enough women who serve my needs; you have been chosen by my father and the Second Consul to become the lady on my side: the most powerful woman in Umbar, once I take over my father’s duties.”

“Why did you take me from my home by force, then?” asked Ivriniel accusingly. “Why not send your envoy to my father and ask for my hand properly?”

Caliondo gave a short bark of laughter.

“Do you truly believe that the Prince of Dol Amroth would marry off his eldest daughter to a Black Númenórean, as your people like to call mine, while he could choose suitors from the noblest families of his own country? Even the Steward of Gondor or the King of Rohan would gladly accept you in their family – would your father or grandsire even consider my request?”

“Probably not,” admitted Ivriniel in all fairness. She could not truly imagine her father giving his consent to such a bond, either. “But why me? Why not choose a suitable lady of your own people to take for your wife? Surely, every girl of noble birth would be overjoyed to become the consort of the future First Consul.”

“Two reasons,” said Caliondo. “Firstly, ‘tis not as easy to find a suitable bride among my own kind as you might believe. Most old families have become childless during the last hundred years; their ancient blood has run dry. Daughters of the lesser nobility, even if my father would consider them suitable – which he does not – are either too young or beyond the age of child-bearing; and so are most of the widows. We had to look outside the realm, and where else but in Dol Amroth could we find anyone? Even in Gondor, the line of ancient blood has become too weak, too diluted.”

“My father has married from outside of the Númenórean stock, too,” reminded him Ivriniel.

“Yea; but he was the first in a very long time,” answered Caliondo. “And your family has the blood of the nimîr in their veins as well.”

“I thought you of Umbar hated Elves,” said Ivriniel in surprise. Caliondo shrugged.

“We do. That arrogant bastard of Edhellond above all; he has been a thorn in our side since our first harbour was built. It does not mean, though, that we would deny the possible advantages of their blood mixing with ours.”

That, again, made sense. The Black Númenóreans might have been evil, at least by the measure of Gondor and Dol Amroth, but they were clearly a pragmatic people. That still left one question open, though.

“You spoke of two reasons,” she said. “What is the other one?”

“Until now, we used to have a strong ally in Bakshir, the most powerful of the Haradric realms,” explained Caliondo. “Mostly due to the fact that my sister had been sent to become the ka-khan’s consort, almost fifteen years ago, and he was very fond of her and looked at Umbar with benevolence as a result. Now, however, tidings have come that the ka-khan is dead – which means that my sister has most likely been slain, too – and the new warlord is not friendly towards us.”

“You need a new alliance to strengthen your back!” realised Ivriniel. Caliondo nodded.

“We do. And allied with Dol Amroth, we could keep the entire coastline under control. There would be no trade routes to the West but through us, and that would make us safe.”

Ivriniel shook her head. “It would never work. Dol Amroth would never fight on Umbar’s side against Gondor.”

“I know that,” answered Caliondo patiently. “But would they not fight on our side against Bakshir?”

“Not unless Bakshir attacks Dol Amroth or Gondor directly,” Ivriniel might no longer be her father’s heiress, but she was still part of Prince Angelimir’s private council, as the old Prince valued her insights, and so she had long been familiar with the politics of her grandsire’s demesne.

“We would never take part in a war that is fought outside our borders,” she explained, giving him a searching look. “There is something else you are not telling me. What is it? You must be truthful, if you expect me to even consider your request.”

Caliondo sighed. “Yea, there is. The pull of Agannâlô has been increasing in the recent years. If we do not want to become the mere slaves of the Land of Shadow again, we shall need a way out. A strong ally that can help pull us away from Zigûr’s influence.”

He offered no Westron equivalents to the Adûnaic words, clearly expecting her to understand, which showed that he knew more about her than she would have thought. It was not truly surprising. Umbar had always kept an intricate and highly capable network of spies in both Pelargir and Dol Amroth. Just as Gondor had its own spies in Umbar.

“You truly believe that you could achieve that by marrying me?” asked Ivriniel doubtfully.

Caliondo shook his head. “Not in my lifetime, surely. But if we were to have children, we could found a new dynasty that, in due time, would have the strength to free us from the slavery of Agannâlô. Which is why I need your consent for this to work. Your father would never even accept my envoy if he thought I had forced you in any way.”

“I very much doubt you could make him believe in my consent, no matter what,” said Ivriniel. “After all, you have forced me to come here. I did not follow you willingly.”

“You did not,” allowed Caliondo. “You can choose to stay with me willingly, though. And Prince Adrahil would believe you.”

“Mayhap so,” replied Ivriniel thoughtfully. “Yet I cannot see why I should do so. I owe you nothing; and the good of Umbar is not my concern.”

But the good of Gondor and Dol Amroth still is, is it not?” returned Caliondo. “I was told about your encounter with the wild Ošošai, the Lord of the Waters. You said you had been promised a great destiny that could change the fates of both our realms. Which one of the Powers might have made that promise, “tis likely that they knew about our plans and wanted to help bringing the estranged children of Númenórë together again.”

“I fear ‘tis but wishful thinking on your part, my lord,” said Ivriniel, although she could not entirely deny the logic of his words. “And even if I would be moved to agree with you, your people would have a hard time to accept me on your side.”

“Why would they not?” asked Caliondo with a shrug. “You have declared yourself before Ošošai without fear and moved him to save our best ship on your behalf. We are the children of the Sea and so are you. Why would we not accept the Sea-Flower of Dol Amroth; she who could bend Ošošai himself to her will?”

That was poetic exaggeration, of course. All she had done was to shame Lord Ossë into saving them and frankly, she was still baffled that it had worked. The Lord of Waves had a fearsome reputation and was not known to bend for anyone, save for his spouse… or Lord Ulmo, whom he owed obedience. And even where Lord Ulmo was considered, some ancient songs told tales about Ossë rebelling against the decrees of the Vala.

Ivriniel had the feeling that it had been the mentioning of Lirillo – whoever he might be and whatever connection he might once have had to Lord Ossë – that tipped the scale in their favour. But she was not willing to discuss these things with Caliondo. Not yet.

“What you say does have its merits,” she said instead. “Yet what you ask of me is no small matter. I cannot give you an answer, neither yea or nay, right away. I must think about all this first; and that will take time.”

“Yours it the time you need to make your decision, my lady,” he replied. “I shall not press, for I need you to choose freely, whatever your final choice may be. And if you promise not to make an attempt to escape ere making your choice, I shall have you moved to our family’s townhouse in the morrow, where you will have the chambers of my sister at your disposal. Will you make that promise?”

“That is a trickier question than it sounds,” said Ivriniel. “What if I choose to reject you? Will I be allowed to return home?”

“That I cannot promise,” answered Caliondo with brutal honesty. “You have seen the Sea-Conqueror and doubtlessly learned her strengths and weaknesses. You will be allowed free access to our townhouse, which also makes us vulnerable. You will meet important people of the realm – have, in fact, already met some – which, too, is dangerous knowledge in the hands of a potential adversary. Nay, I fear we cannot allow to let you go.”

Ivriniel nodded, not offended at all. She would do the same, were their situation reversed. Letting her go would have been a tactical error; a dangerous one.

“I thought so,” she said calmly. “Therefore I have but two options left: to stay here as your wife, or to stay here as your prisoner. That does not necessarily make the first option more appealing.”

“Nay, it does not,” he admitted. “I hope, though, that I may find ways to make that option more appealing, if only you give me the chance,” he flashed her an almost predatory smile. “There will be joy in that, my lady, I promise.”

He seemed easily confident in his own virility, but Ivriniel knew better than allow him to entangle her in a banter of innuendo.

“’Tis not the time to discuss such details yet, my lord,” she said in cold disdain. “’Tis the fate of our respective realms we need to consider, not the personal gain we might or might not achieve from it. And since I am clearly in a disadvantage here, I shall not make any promises, the only purpose of which would be to ease your conscience. I can live in this chamber well enough without making allowances for more comfort. Now, I will ask you to leave me alone. I have a great deal to think about.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Caliondo wanted to protest, but then he decided against it.

“As you wish, my lady,” was all he said ere making a respectful bow and leaving her chamber.

Neither of them noticed the sleek black cat leaving its perch on the balcony outside her windows and making its way sure-footed down from the precipice.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Do you believe that she will give her consent, in due time?” Lord Herucalmo asked his visitors in concern.

Lady Avradî nodded, stroking the glossy black fur of the cat purring on her lap – her familiar, through the eyes of which she had watched the encounter of Caliondo with the Princess.

“Oh, I am quite certain that she will,” she answered with a cold, confident smile. “She was born to rule and raised to do so. And, according to Master Falassion’s report, she did not take kindly being pushed aside first for her brother’s and then for her sister’s sake, however blameless the latter was in all this. ‘Tis her chance to regain much of what she thought she had lost forever. She will not let it slip through her fingers.”

“And you truly believe the two of you shall come to an understanding?” asked Lord Herucalmo.

This was a more important issue than anyone not familiar with Umbari tradition might have thought. Although not generally known, the ladies of the two consuls were as vital for the ruling of Umbar as the consuls themselves. Usually more or less well-versed in the forgotten arts, they always kept a close eye on the key people of the realm, had contacts with the households of the Haradric envoys in Umbarlond and could even subtly intervene where their lords’ hands were bound.

Lady Avradî nodded calmly. “Given enough time… yea, I believe so. She will need to overcome her prejudices against the secret arts – our cousins have a ridiculous concept of what we can or would do – but once she understands that it has nothing to do with the cult of the Death Eater, what her people obviously believe, I shall be able to teach her.”

“Would she be willing to accept your teachings, though?” asked her husband doubtfully. “You know that Gondor has even grown suspicious of the Nimîr and their natural powers, even though they are born with those powers and the Nimrizîri have always called them their friends,” the Second Consul paused and smiled mirthlessly. “Is it not odd that their ancestors turned against the King on behalf of the Nimîr and now they fear them almost as much as they fear Zigûr himself?”

“Many of them do; yet not all,” corrected Lady Avradî. “And certainly not the ruling family of Dol Amroth. They have been friends with Gildor Inglorion from the very beginning of their House, and many of the heirs were fostered in Edhellond for years. Upon years.”

“She, too, or just the male heirs?” asked Caliondo with interest.

“She is known to have visited the havens of the Nimîr repeatedly; but she never stayed longer than a season or two,” replied Lady Avradî. “The reason for that is not known, but I assume that as Lord Gildor has no lady on his side, there was no female person of proper rank who could have tutored the Princess. Still, she was taught by the Nimîr and is said to be fluent in several of their languages; including the Noble Tongue that only their lore-masters speak on this side of the Sea.”

“That could be both good and bad,” said her husband. “Knowledge always means power, that much is true. But if she has been raised in reverence towards the Nimîr, you may have too strong a blockade in the way of your influence.

Lady Avradî shook her head. “Nay, I think not. I rather believe that her open-mindedness towards the powers of the Nimîr will help me to open her mind to other powers she might find appealing. Power calls out to power, they say; she will be willing to answer .”

“Not if she believes that you dabble in the Dark Arts,” warned Lord Manwendil.

Her lady raised an elegant eyebrow.

“If I did so, would either of us still wear the names we do? We have been named for the Elder King and his Queen, the Star-kindler, and we kept those names at a time when wassailing the Powers could easily raise Zigûr’s ire. The Swan Princess is not a fool. She will understand the meaning of this.”

“So you hope,” said her husband, still in doubt.

“So I know,” she returned archly. “Do not concern yourself with the working of a woman’s heart, beloved. In this matter I am more knowledgeable than the rest of you counted together.”

“I hope you are right, my lady,” sighed Lord Herucalmo. “My mind would be less troubled if I had my heir wedded and bedded in as short a time as it can be done. I fear, though, it will take us a while to win the trust of the fair Princess; if we ever manage to do so. She appears a strong-willed person; and an opinionated one.”

“If you want to win her trust, you must show trust first,” said Lady Avradî. “We must be frank: we have not proved ourselves very trustworthy, so far. We had her taken from her home and brought here without her consent. Right now she considers herself our prisoner. We must show her that – even though we cannot allow her to leave – we consider her as an honoured guest… and a potential ally.”

“And how, pray tell, are we supposed to do that?” asked Lord Herucalmo in exasperation.”

“By releasing her from that fetid hole you are currently keeping her into my care,” answered Lady Avradî calmly. “She cannot be kept there forever; and besides, so close to the Sea she might find a way to escape. Lord Ošošai has pledged himself to her family, and he is known to be restless and quick to anger. I would hate to see the Zadan’n Abrazân destroyed after all these millennia, should she change her mind and call out for his help. Our home is in a much safer distance from the water.”

“So is our townhouse,” said Caliondo. But the lady shook her head.

“That may be true; but it would be improper for a Princess of Dol Amroth to live under the roof of a suitor without a chaperone. You have no woman in your family who can fit that role. I can.”

Lord Herucalmo remained silent for a while; then he nodded reluctantly.

“Your words are wise, my lady. We shall follow your advice. I will send Nithil with her, to have a familiar face around her; and I will order Nimir to watch her all the time.”

“Nay,” said Lady Avradî sharply. “I shan’t have that Dark Elf of yours haunt my house. My familiars are more than capable of watching her, day and night; and through their eyes, I can watch what she is doing, whenever I want.”

“You ask for a great deal of faith from me, my lady,” said the First Consul slowly, and she nodded.

“I know I do. But if we cannot trust each other, at the very least, we can as well bend our necks under Zigûr’s yoke willingly. Besides,” she asked bitterly, “what could you possibly risk by entrusting her to me? I have no son of my own for whom I could try wooing her away from yours.”

Which was the very sad truth, of course, and one of the reasons why they had decided to look for a suitable bride for Caliondo outside the realm. Therefore – albeit not without considerable reluctance – Lord Herucalmo agreed to send the Princess over to Lord Manwendil’s townhouse on the next day and entrust her to the Lady Avradî’s care.

Were his own wife still alive, he would never consent. But she was dead, and the only woman coming from an ancient House whom he could trust was the Second Consul’s lady. His choices were indeed limited in this.

Once they had come to an agreement, Lady Avradî and her husband left for home. Suddenly, the lady had a lot of work at her hands to have the chambers of their guest prepared. She did not mind, though. She knew the Princess would be a challenge, and Lady Avradî loved challenges. They made her otherwise empty life worth living.

~TBC~