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Lie Down in the Darkness, Rise up from the Ash: 13. Perplexities
And while the hobbits slept in Wellinghall, the long hours of the night passed with excruciating slowness for Fangorn's border-land guests. Gimli's eyelids felt like leaden weights, and although it was a struggle to keep them open, fear provided ample inspiration. And when, at intervals, fear failed, the Dwarf would press thumb and forefinger against his eyes until the burning ceased ere he opened them again.
But naught more out of the ordinary occurred, and the birds were now singing sweetly as Gimli blearily watched the first rays of the sun come streaming through the canopy.
If I had a stone, I would throw it to silence these mocking-birds, he thought, casting an uncharitable look at the treetops. Beside him, Aragorn stirred, raising his dark head, and the Dwarf considered the Ranger for a few moments. All through the night, while Gimli squirmed and shifted, Isildur's Heir had sat quite still with his knees drawn up to his chest against the cold, and his arms clasped around them as he watched the darkness. Towards the early hours of the morning, he had bowed his head, and Gimli had thought his friend had succumbed to his weariness at last. That, too, had been cause for the Dwarf to fight to remain awake, for he had not the heart to disturb the other if Aragorn had managed to snatch a few hours' sleep.
Now, though, the Dwarf had his doubts whether he had, for though the Ranger seemed alert enough, his was not the attention of one who has rested soundly. There was determination in the other's eagle-keen glance, but also a certain grim quiescence, as of one who, emerging from long meditation upon some imminent doom, now faces it with the knowledge that there is naught to be done but endure with dignity. After a few moments' silent contemplation of the newborn day, Aragorn turned to Gimli, and the weight of the Ranger's stare was palpable. The other's eyes seemed darkened somehow—as seas beneath a stormy sky, lacking their usual quicksilver glitter, and Gimli shivered, taken aback.
Aragorn saw his reaction, and a slight smile curved his lips ere he released the Dwarf, saying, "Come, my friend, let us finish this business of ours!"
With a grunt of agreement, Gimli hoisted himself to his feet, wincing slightly as blood rushed to numbed, tingling extremities, and he watched with something akin to envy as the Ranger rose smoothly, apparently none the worse for having sat still as a statue all night upon the cold ground.
"Where shall we begin, though?" the Dwarf asked, grateful that the other took the lead naturally so that Aragorn would not see him limping along as circulation returned to his legs. The Ranger strode to the edge of their clearing, which ended in a short drop to the battlefield, and stood there, gazing down over the ruin. "Upon the death grounds?"
"No, for there will be little to read there, unless Éomer is less thorough than he seems," Aragorn replied. "And I think it will be of little use to search the area round here, for see!" The Ranger pushed aside some brush to expose a swath of scored earth. "Whatever hoard of creatures passed us in the night, they have trampled the ground, destroying any marks the hobbits might have left. Or rather," and now Aragorn stooped to run his hand over the earth, scooping up a fistful of loose soil, broken roots, and one wriggling worm, "rubbed away…." He let the topsoil slip through his fingers 'til naught but the worm, the roots, and a few very small pebbles remained, and then he tilted his hand to let them slide off and fall back to their native element.
"Overturned," Gimli corrected, "I would say that an odd sort of plow or shovel had been used to turn the earth, but that the spacing and shallowness do not merit such a conclusion. But trust a Dwarf in matters of excavation: something has dug into the ground and torn up what lay beneath."
"It has indeed," the Ranger murmured, frowning as he considered the marks. Rising, he began to describe a circuit about the edge of the clearing, pausing here and there to examine some mark or other which, to the Dwarf's eyes, seemed all rather similar in nature. Eventually, though, Aragorn hefted a stone rather than a bit of dirt or a few pebbles.
"What think you of this, Gimli?" he called over his shoulder. Coming to stand at the other's side, the Dwarf sucked in a breath and stared at this latest find in bafflement.
"I have worked for many years as an apprentice to my father, who has much skill with gemstones, but also with decorative masonry," Gimli said slowly, reaching out to take the rock from the Man, and he turned it in his hands, scrutinizing it carefully. "But this… never have a I see such a thing before!"
For the stone had runnels on its surface, almost as if chiseled. But the marks were not smooth enough or straight enough for craft, and as Gimli ran a finger along the inside of one of the grooves, he felt the minute, rough-broken edges, and a fine, powdery dust coated his fingertip. "I should say that the rock simply… crumbled... disintegrated, almost, as if exposed to some grinding surface. But that is impossible!"
"Even had mining been my trade, I should bow to your judgment in such matters," Aragorn replied, shaking his head. "But as a hunter, I, too, am at a loss, for I have never before seen such marks. It is unusual for prey to grind away the stone as it goes in any case, but even so, those that have the weight to do such damage have not the… art, I suppose I shall call it, to achieve this." The Ranger stood and stood silent for a moment as he made what survey he could through the underbrush.
"Well," he said at last, "we shall find nothing here, for these marks have covered or buried any that the hobbits might have left. Let us make a survey of the river banks, for that is the likeliest destination of two escaped prisoners."
Man and Dwarf crept then through the tangle of trees and brush, and the mystery of the stones and earth trailed after them, occupying their anxious thoughts. But Fangorn merited close attention if one would go unmolested and unscathed through its trees, and as they wormed through the gnarled trees. And though Gimli wished his friend no ill, he admitted a certain private satisfaction over the fact that Aragorn had always to duck to avoid branches and the like, whereas he, a Dwarf with little love for forests, was easily able to pick his way forward.
Well, not easily, perhaps, Gimli amended, grimacing as he tripped among the roots of a tree and cut his hand on a thorny bush as he tried to steady himself. But I need not crawl to fit through some of these spaces!
But in fact, Aragorn seemed little troubled by the terrain, facing each obstacle with practiced equanimity so that he, at least, acquired no new scrapes or bruises in spite of the clinging plant life. At last, though, the stream appeared before them, and the Ranger halted, glancing up and down the river bank to get his bearings.
"This way," he beckoned, turning to his left to follow the river downstream.
"Why this way, and not the other?"
"Assuming that either Merry or Pippin remember aught of our planning in Imladris, they would know that if they followed the flow of the stream, they would come within sight of Edoras. The Rohirrim have few permanent settlements—all of them are well-fortified and strangers rarely know of them, for they do not put them on maps. Helm's Deep, the stations of the Marshals of the Mark, and Edoras are the only towns that are well known to outsiders, and none of them, save Edoras, lie near enough to the Entwash to be seen from its banks."
"Sound reasoning if one knows so much about Rohan, but I doubt me that the hobbits would recall such details. I rarely saw any of them, save Frodo, spend any length of time in the library at Rivendell."
"True enough, but nothing stops us from searching upstream as well. This is but a place to begin. Carefully!" Aragorn warned, quickly reaching back to steady the Dwarf as the latter slipped on the damp roots of a large, twisted tree.
"Thank you," Gimli said, once he had regained his footing, and he cast a glower at the offending tree. "Well, lead on then! 'Twill be a long search," the Dwarf sighed. A long search, and I hope not a hopeless one! To bear such ill news back with us would be torment indeed...
And as Aragorn and Gimli searched the riverbanks, their companion, now their ransom, swayed along over the plain, clinging to the pommel of the saddle that separated him from his mount, Arod. Darkness heaved and swelled in the field of Legolas's vision, darkening the land, distorting it in a dizzying, sickening flow that was a mockery of the graceful movement of water through a streambed—
"Steadily, Master Elf! I should not wish to answer for you to your friends." Legolas blinked and fastened his eyes on the golden apparition of the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. Beneath a bright morning sky, Éomer frowned at him uncertainly, and though the Elf knew full well that it was simple concern for a guest's safety that prompted that regard, still, he felt it as a measure of his own strangeness.
How must I seem to him? Even as mortals once appeared to me: sickly, weak… damaged. And is that not the truth? Legolas made an effort to sit up straight in the saddle, to focus thoughts stretched out and scattered along the tides of darkness and too many mortal years, conscious still of his dignity before the eyes of a Man at least, but only just. As if to drive the point home, the Marshal kneed his horse closer, so that they rode side by side, and leaned in toward the Prince.
"Should we halt for a time?" he asked in an undertone, which only cut more deeply into the Elf's wounded sense of self.
"No, for you have need of haste," Legolas replied in a low voice, and did not add, For it would humiliate me if you stopped on my behalf!
But the Horse Marshal seemed to hear his thoughts, for a quick flare of uneasy understanding flashed in those blue eyes, and with a cry, he raised his hand and signaled the small escort of ten to quicken the pace. Legolas clung to Arod's reins as the horse darted forward, and he swayed against the saddle peak, ill at ease with such unnecessary things. No Elf needed such gear to control a horse, and Legolas felt the intervening layers of leather and metal as an impediment to the usual bond that sprang instantly between himself and any good beast.
But perversely, he relished it. That awkwardness fit him perfectly at the moment, and so he had not asked his captors to remove either bridle or saddle, feeling that if there was to be any awkwardness, he might as well have a cause for it. One which lies outside of myself,he thought, if only to himself. For he had not needed Aragorn's cautious inquiries yesterday to know that he suffered from more than pain and weariness. That had become plain despite his disorientation and the dimness of his senses—or rather, because of them.
Only at intervals could he rouse himself from that confused state, and after he had made his offer to Aragorn and Gimli (and Éomer as well, naturally), he had slipped back down into the depths of elvish desperation, feeling that strength born of a moment's need fade away even as his companions had been swallowed up by distance. Indeed, it was as if the sense of darkness and disintegration worsened with the miles.
Why that should be, he did not know, and the frustration was incredible. What is wrong with me? This wound is painful, it jars me, it is a distraction and a hindrance, but should that be enough to plunge a prince into so strange and unnatural a night? Legolas had never been severely wounded before, and in that he was fortunate. But that merely frustrated him the more, for why then should he succumb so quickly or easily to the disruption of cuiniant? Such weakness came as a shock to all, he knew, and to him more even than to his companions, for in the hours after Boromir's death, he had thought he had borne up well enough, save for that one bad moment before the makeshift pyre, when something—something had got in him, and he still knew not what had possessed him to remember the horror of Feänor and his sons.
Whatever it was, perhaps it had but lain sleeping. For with the rising of the sun, something had changed in him: perhaps the journey had demanded more of him than he had had to offer, but as noon of their first full day on the hunt had approached, he had felt the first strangling tendrils of darkness curl about him. And since then, it had not released him for a moment, and the Elf felt his most basic faith shaken.
What is this darkness? What is it? Why is it? It lay over him like a smothering drape, and in the moments of his deepest desperation, he could shape but one thought, one plea: Lift this veil, I beg! But it remained, and Aragorn and Gimli were gone, leaving him feeling quite bereft, even if he had insisted upon this course himself.
From the meeting below the downs, that course had taken him south with his captors, who had split into two companies—those accompanying the Third Marshal with their unusual guest, and who had much need of haste; and the others with their wounded, riding more slowly behind. All throughout that journey, Legolas had drifted along the fine border between the waking world and that of dark introspection, held in suspension between those two states by the jarring unfamiliarity of riding a saddled mount. It had taken him some while to realize that Éomer rode at his side, keeping him under careful watch, but he could spare that detail little attention, intent upon keeping his seat and his sanity.
With the help of the horses of the slain, though, the Marshal's small company had ridden all that night and swiftly, so that the moon was riding low in the sky and the night lay deep all about when at last, they came to a fortress town upon a hill above the plains. When at last they had passed its gates, the Third Marshal had ordered most of his men to stable and bed, but a few horsemen he had retained at the ready.
Legolas he had steered firmly into the hall to be seen by his surgeon, a gruff-faced, greying man with thick fingers, who had proved unexpectedly skilled and gentle. Not that Legolas had been in much of a mood to appreciate such seeming paradox, feeling himself lost in alien surroundings. For the surgeon spoke no Westron, only the rolling, slow speech of Rohan, and Éomer had not translated, whether because the Marshal had not the skill or because there was little of import to translate, Legolas had not known.
"I would not ask you to try your strength," Éomer had said when the man was nearly finished. "But I must reach Edoras by the morrow, for Théoden King shall have much to say to me. I fear," and here, the Third Marshal had offered a slight, somewhat bitter smile, "that I, too, may come under the king's judgment. And worse for me, for I shall have a cell, rather than a room, if things go ill!"
Legolas had frowned at that, shaking his head sharply as he ran the words once more through his mind to make sense of them. At length he had asked, "You have one hostage; is that not enough for your king?"
"'Tis not a matter of one or three, but my decision to ride against the Orcs that shall be questioned. That I allowed two strangers to go freely and unescorted about our realm will be a secondary matter," the Man had replied, sinking down onto the stool that the surgeon had just abandoned. Éomer gave the big man a courteous nod of thanks, and the other bowed in reply, then gathering his satchel, left the room silently. Legolas, meanwhile, had shrugged slightly, unused to the sling that the other had fashioned for him. It had helped to ease the burning pain across his shoulders, but done little to ease his mind, and the hall seemed to him populated with strange shadows, which made masks of mens' faces.
"Maldis tells me that your wound is not poisoned, which is glad news. But is there aught else that we can do for you? For though I mean no offense, I must say, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, that you do not seem well to me." The young man had bent clear blue eyes upon the Elf, and there had been a deep concern and puzzlement there, but also a great heart, and a willingness to help— at once strangely comforting but also off-putting.
Perhaps had it been Aragorn sitting across from him in that moment, Legolas might have spoken more freely, for at least the Ranger was not unversed in elvish ways. But Éomer had had no knowledge of what he suffered, and for all that he had seemed—and seemed still—an honorable man, the prince had known too little of him to lay bare what afflicted. And besides—what could any Man do?
"No, there is nothing to be done on my behalf," Legolas had said quietly. The other had stared at him some moments, then given a slight shrug, as if to say 'As you will it!' and then risen, laying a hand on Legolas's arm.
"Come then, for we begin tonight and take our rest in Edoras tomorrow."
So they had left Aldburg. The ride through the night had been swift, almost perilously so for Legolas, given his waxing disorientation, and now, as the sun reached its midmorning station, the courts of Edoras rose high above them, gleaming in the light.
The Elf gazed at them a moment, watching the scintillating effect of sun on golden eaves, and tried to let the play of light dissolve the darkness that seemed to gather so thick about him. But the shadows seemed to mock his efforts, clinging tightly to that hall, tarnishing its brilliance, and the Elf had flinched before that night-in-day, retreating once more to the familiar torment of his daydreams.
Some time later, loud voices crying out in Rohan's strange tongue roused him once more, as did his mount's change of pace. The high-spirited Arod snorted as he slowed to a trot and then (reluctantly, it seemed) came to a halt as guards swirled about them. At his side, Éomer signaled him to dismount, and the Elf dropped heavily to the earth.
Amidst the bustle of men come to take charge of the horses, and the cries of greeting, Legolas found himself distracted almost to the point of pain, yet he could not withdraw as he had earlier. Buffeted on all sides by the Rohirrim and their horses, retreat was impossible, and he cast his glance round, seeking some place of quiet from which to observe, if he could, the proceedings.
And as he looked, his gaze riveted upon the Third Marshal once more, who stood some little distance away, speaking softly and (or so it appeared to the Elf) urgently with the commander of the guard. Legolas drifted his way, drawn to a familiar face at least, and as he approached, the commander glanced up, uneasiness rippling across his bearded face.
Éomer looked over his shoulder and, seeing the Elf, beckoned him over to join them. "Brand, this is Legolas the Elf, Prince of Mirkwood forest. He is my charge and my guest until the king judges me," the Marshal said, using the Common Speech out of courtesy to the Elf. "By his own will has he come hither, and he has suffered injury doing battle against plundering Orcs, and I would not have the hospitality of the Mark put to shame before him."
"I shall take the message up to the high court, my lord," replied Brand. "But if I may warn you, Third Marshal, things have gone ill here since you rode away in haste. Tidings have come from the Fords of Isen and they are not good."
And when he hesitated, then, Éomer shook his head. "Tell me," he demanded bluntly.
Brand looked upon him, and Legolas saw the pity in the other's face, as he announced: "Théodred is fallen, lord. The king's mood is black with grief."
For a moment, Éomer said nothing, but Legolas, watching the Marshal closely, blenched as that hideous, oily darkness cast its pall upon the other. It coiled itself about him, and the Elf felt the terrible sense of loss that gripped Éomer as those words registered their significance.
"Théodred, dead?" he asked, and Brand nodded unwillingly. "How many with him?"
"Too many, as is ever the case," the man paused, and his eyes flicked swiftly to Legolas, ere he said to him quickly, "Your pardon, prince!" And then came a flurry of Rohirric, while Éomer listened grimly. Finally, Brand paused, and the Third Marshal nodded slowly.
"Brave the bearer of bad news," he said softly, and clasped the man's shoulder. "Thank you, Brand. But I must see to our guest, and then go before Théoden King, if he will it. Come with me, please, Legolas," Éomer said then, tersely polite, and the Elf obeyed, following along as the young man went swiftly up into the city. In silence they walked, though all about them came the voices of men and women going about their daily business. But there was a sense of tension, of fear even, in the air, and the Elf marked many warriors stationed at intervals, and many messengers who darted through the streets on their errands.
And everywhere there are shadows! Indeed, they leered in every alleyway, and hugged men tightly, wavering now and again as Men went about their business. And if no one else could see them, everyone, he though, felt them after a fashion, even the iron-eyed guards. What is wrong, that all here lies so deep in the shade? Legolas wondered, shivering.
"This way!" Éomer turned suddenly into a gated inner court, and led the way across the yard to a tall house or inn. The Third Marshal seemed known to the keeper, who merely bowed and gave Legolas but a passing odd look. He said some word, which Éomer acknowledged briefly ere he turned left and led the way up the stairs. At the top of the stairwell lay a comfortably furnished room.
And as Legolas went to stand at the window that looked out over the courtyard, the Third Marshal closed the door behind them and sighed softly.
A moment he remained facing the door, and pain and loss echoed within the confines of his soul. Théodred, gone! Ah, cousin, and the fight yet so hard for us here!
But Éomer had been born to the hard discipline of a warrior, and so he set his grief for Théodred carefully aside, and then he turned toward Legolas. The Third Marshal prided himself on his ability to judge a man's character, and he had never yet erred in such matters. But never before have I faced one of the elvish race... And so he stared at the Elf's back, attempting to order his own impressions.
There was about the other some force or sense of presence that raised the hackles—like a note drawn out upon a taut string, one that slid uneasily into discord—but he felt drawn to Legolas in spite of that disharmony. Curiosity, perhaps, played its part, for whatever his words to the three wanderers the day before, Éomer was not one to reject the novel simply for its strangeness, though he balked at too easy acceptance. Rather, he preferred to study his unfamiliar guest until he learned the key to the other's moody, distracted silence.
Crossing the room quietly, he came to stand at the other's side, and a swift-darted glance out of the corners of his eyes confirmed his suspicion that the Elf, for all that he gazed out the window, saw little or naught of what lay before him. Nevertheless, Éomer decided that what lay before them might be the best place to begin.
"Behold the court of the King! Edoras has ever been the heart of Rohan," he explained, "even in the ancient days of its building. This guest house was made to serve the needs of officers and heralds. Yonder lies the great hall of Meduseld, where the king's household is kept. That king is Théoden in these days of doubt, but before him Thengel, whom my father served ere his death. A pity that you came not hither in former days, for Thengel was accounted a strong king, as was Théoden in his youth."
Legolas was silent a moment, and Éomer wondered whether the Elf had heard aught, but at length, the other spoke in soft reply, "More than a thousand springs have I seen. Some five hundred have passed since Éorl came, and Men call this hall old! A blink of an eye to we who dwell in Mirkwood, and yet those years lie heavy upon us now. Your Théoden is dying, and his son is dead: the children of our children go to the grave before us, and it will grow but worse as the season turns!" The Elf shook his head and drew a deep breath, glanced sideways at Éomer. For his part, Éomer should not have liked to guess the look upon his face; Legolas had not to guess, and something like chagrin played then over his fair features.
"My apologies, Third Marshal," he murmured, then hesitated a bare moment ere seeming to admit: "I fear that my tongue grows wayward as darkness waxes!"
"Do you feel it, too, then?" Éomer asked, his interest piqued by that last remark. "The brooding shadow that lies upon us?"
"It lies upon all this land and colors all things," Legolas sighed, turning from the window as if in disgust, unable to bear the mockery of clear skies. "Even the stars no longer shine so brightly!" Again he paused, and shook his head. "But you speak as if something goes ill here, in this place, beyond the fall of the heir to your throne."
"Much goes ill here," Éomer replied, with grim surety. "You shall see it for yourself, I doubt it not. In truth, that is why I brought you here, rather than present myself immediately to the king, for I would not see one of good faith plunged blindly into the mire that is politics in Rohan of late. I shall have to acquaint you with my sister, if I am able, though perhaps she will take to you of her own accord.
"In any case, Master Elf," he continued, then, "know that we of Rohan have always followed the House of Éorl. Five hundred years may be but little time to one immortal, but to us, it is long indeed, and such loyalty is hard to break with. Thus when the royal house falters, so do we all, for we do not judge our kings lightly or swiftly.
"Théoden was once a man of great wisdom and heart, but it is now more than ten years since the shadow fell upon him. Fools we were, to be so long blind, for now the noose is drawn tight, and who knows but that we approach the last gasp?" Éomer grimaced in scathing self-recrimination. "The king is under the sway of one councilor—do not ask what has happened to the others!—and this councilor is called Gríma, or Wormtongue when his back is turned. Does that not tell you something?"
"'Wormtongue'?" Legolas murmured. "Aye, that is telling."
"Wormtongue has the king's will bent to his every whisper, and he would control all that moves in Rohan. I told you not to ask after other advisors, but should you do so, you will find them quite peacefully asleep among the simbelmyne, tucked beneath the turf of the grave mounds. And I doubt not that one day all of Rohan will lie upon the pyre, for Wormtongue will not wage war even when one is given to him by our enemies, and fights ever to undermine those who perceive the threat to the east.
"Even against Isengard, which lies within our bounds, he was slow to move, and ever he feeds men's fears. 'What can we do against a sorcerer? Against a power so ancient and deep in its treachery? Or is it treachery? Surely one so high must have a purpose!' Such words he speaks, and men listen, for there is that in his voice that is… compelling," Éomer admitted.
And Legolas cocked his head, and for once, his green eyes were as sharp as of old as he asked, "Why do you tell me this, who am a stranger and a hostage in your land?"
"I tell you because Wormtongue will not like your presence here. Ever he speaks against the folk of the Golden Wood, and though I will admit that such suspicion of Elves is native to my people, I like not the hatred and fear that I hear in Wormtongue's voice when he speaks of them. Dwimordene may be a perilous realm, one that a mortal should not dare to approach, but let it lie!" Éomer shook his head. "What use in stirring up fear when there is little basis for it? Truly, until Aragorn's words yesterday, I knew not whether the Elves remained there, for we have seen naught of them since time out of mind."
And like that, as if the mention of the fading years had summoned it, the shadow swelled, and Legolas clenched his teeth, shutting his eyes, as momentary focus slipped away. "This Wormtongue may rest at ease, for I fear that in my present condition, I am little threat!" he admitted, unhappily.
"Are you?" the Third Marshal asked in a soft voice, narrowing his blue eyes. "Are you, indeed, Legolas of Mirkwood? There is some power in you that draws men to you, or else repels them. I can feel it even as we speak! And though Aragorn spoke carefully in a difficult place, still, do I not guess correctly that your errand is more than mere vengeance? That some other, greater matter draws all of you on? What else would bring an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Man who claims to be Isildur's Heir to hunt Orcs in our land?"
The Elf made no answer, only returned the other's gaze impassively, but even silence was an answer, and Éomer nodded.
"Say nothing then, and keep what secrets you can! But I would have you know this: I am loyal to Rohan, and to the bond that it has with Gondor. To those who oppose Mordor's agents, I would offer my aid. At present, it may be little indeed, and doubtless it shall grow less ere the day ends," the young man said with bitter humor. "But such as it is, it is yours to ask. For as I said, I would trust you; I would trust Aragorn, and learn more of him."
Legolas blinked at that, taken somewhat aback by the intensity of those words, and for a moment, he felt the other's desperation akin to his own: it was a brief moment, but it struck something vital in the Elf. Who are you, young one, that you have such faith? The question sprang suddenly to mind, and the prince considered the strange twist of fate that had thrown him together with this brash, eager, sincere young man. It was… refreshing, and though the Elf was almost afraid to hope, his wonder remained with him, refusing to fade away after a few minutes' silence. Minutes! What are minutes to me? And yet, despite a fine elvish disdain for mortal reckoning, they were important nonetheless.
"Your trust is a greater gift than you know," Legolas said at last, searching the other's face with care. "Few are they who would offer the same upon so brief an acquaintance, and," the Elf laughed softly of a sudden, "they walk now in Fangorn, by your leave!"
Éomer gave a short bark of laughter as well, and shook his head. "Then it seems we deserve each other! Fate is a strange mistress indeed, but not without a sense of justice, even if only ironic… or is it poetic? Well, we must still make our appearance before the king, but I am glad that we have spoken. Come! Let us end this waiting." With that, the Third Marshal strode quickly to the door, which he opened and waved Legolas through ere he followed.
Down the stairs went they, and across the courtyard to a small gate in the fence that led onto a small, well-paved path bound for Meduseld. Up a flight of broad stairs they climbed, and came at last to an open yard where stood the entry to the great hall. Legolas would have gone swiftly on to those doors, but Éomer touched his arm, slowing to a halt.
"I would not do you any discourtesy, but I should warn you that weapons are not allowed within the hall, save only to high officers of the realm. And even they are not always immune to such requirements. Háma, who commands the guard here, will see to all such matters, and you may put your trust in him, for he is an honorable man."
"We of Thranduil's realm follow custom where it leads, so long as it leads not into evil," Legolas replied. "Lead on!"
Sure enough, the door warden greeted the two courteously but firmly demanded that they surrender their weapons. Éomer said naught, only unbuckled his sword-belt and handed it over, though it was clear that he was unhappy with the arrangement. Legolas unclipped his quiver from its new position at his side, and gave up his dagger. The commander—Háma?—pursed his lips as he gazed at the Elf, and hard blue eyes wandered over Legolas's person, seeking any suspicious bulges or outlines that might indicate a hidden weapon.
But at length, the man bowed, and he signaled his men to open the doors. Together, Elf and Marshal stepped through, and after the bright morning, the hall seemed dim indeed. Legolas shivered, suddenly gripped with a sharp, insistent sense of dread and uneasiness. The darkness is spun thick as a spider's web here! Glancing at Éomer, he saw that the other, too, suffered from doubt, but there was anger beneath the fear. The Marshal's boot heels clicked upon the flagstones, seeming too loud in the silent hall. As a tomb it is, Legolas thought, and shivered again, pulling his cloak more closely about him as he walked.
Down a hall, to another set of doors, where they were admitted without question, and up to the foot of a dais where sat a Man aged beyond any that Legolas had ever seen before. At his feet sat a second man, and the Elf had but to look at him to realize that he gazed now upon Gríma Wormtongue, for there was an aura of cruelty and malice that clung to him like flies to carrion. This is what controls Rohan? Legolas thought, and felt a flare of disgust and amazement.
"Ferthu Théoden hal!" At his side, Éomer bowed, giving greeting to his lord king. "I come before you as custom and law demand, and I bring to you one who seeks the leave of Théoden King to walk in Rohan: Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood." At which, the Elf bowed as well, as gracefully as he could manage with a sling.
"And what of the others, Éomer?" the king's voice was harsh, rusty with disuse, it seemed—or else feeble with old age, Legolas knew not which was closer to truth. But it was clearly the voice of one quite displeased. "Brand reports that you spoke of this prince as hostage as well as guest. Where now are the others, then, for whom he stands?"
"They are now in Fangorn, and unless aught befalls them, they shall come hither when their errand is done, my king."
"It is not given to you, Third Marshal, to judge who may and may not walk in Rohan!" Wormtongue spoke for the first time, and his tone was sharp, though the Elf discerned the malicious glee that underlay the other's severity. He has waited for this to happen, for Éomer to make a misstep! For how many years has he waited? Legolas wondered, green eyes narrowing as he gazed at the councilor. "Further, it is not given you to abandon your post at your own whim, taking men who are not yours to command. What excuse can you make for your departure from this court, without permission and in time of peril?"
"The Eastfold was breached by Orcs, your majesty," Éomer replied, refusing to dignify Gríma by addressing him. He kept his eyes upon his king, and the councilor hissed softly. "More, there came to me word that Orcs of Mordor were with them, though they split away from the main host early on. If it is true that the one who sits in the Dark Tower colludes with the wizard in Orthanc, then that line must be cut or we are lost. And as the safety of the Eastfold is my charge, I rode against them, seeking to prevent our enemies from learning aught of our movements or from turning aside to plunder our people."
"And you did not think to warn us of this? Nor of the law that binds you to protect your king, when Edoras is vulnerable? How many men did you draw off from the defense of these courts in excess of those allotted you?"
"The law also bids me protect those who are beholden to the king," Éomer shot back, darting a poisonous glance at Wormtongue. "In destroying the Orcs that prey upon our people and raid our herds, I have acted to protect my king and his people, and uphold the law of this land! Had I ridden with fewer men, I would have been remiss, for we would have risked a defeat."
"And then you compounded your error by allowing two strangers to wander free in our realm!" the councilor continued as if the Marshal had not spoken. "Instead, you take hostage one of them—the only one among them to respect Rohan's laws!—and expect us to take no heed of your actions? I fear you demonstrate a woeful lack of judgment! Or is it a lack of loyalty?" Wormtongue demanded, and Legolas caught his breath at that.
"Do not you speak to me of loyalty," Éomer grated. "Théoden is my king and my mother's brother, and I would never betray him!"
"That is for others to decide, not you, dear boy. And I may say that one so willful in matters requiring kingly judgment may find his words have little force where the question of his loyalty is concerned," Wormtongue said silkily, as he raised a hand. "Your willfulness, and the recklessness that it fronts, have led you too far astray this day. That cannot be condoned. My liege, with your permission?"
Théoden sighed heavily, but he nodded, and Wormtongue called out something in his own tongue. Guards appeared, rushing to obey the summons, but Legolas saw the ashen disbelief in their faces as they realized what they were called upon to do. And the Elf, watching through the eyes of one not bound to merely physical sight, nearly choked as the darkness seemed verily to blossom, twining itself about all present, drawing them into the evil that seemed to prevail over all of Arda as the counselor spoke:
"Take him below to the dungeons, and let him learn the price of his folly. I suggest, Éomer, Éomund's son, that you take this time to reflect upon your actions, for you may soon be required to answer for them!"
"I will answer gladly, if only the king judges me," Éomer retorted, and then, shaking off the restraining hands of the guards, he walked proudly away, seeming to drag his captors with him rather than the reverse. A door opened and then closed again behind them with ominous finality, and Legolas turned back to the dais, feeling unfriendly eyes upon him. Wormtongue was staring at him, ill at ease, clearly, and the Elf met that stare dispassionately. For a moment, the two stared, and it gave Legolas some small pleasure to realize the other's frustration as that malicious gaze met the blank wall of elvish inscrutability.
"It is a pity that you had to witness that, Legolas of Mirkwood," Théoden's voice sounded, and Legolas glanced up at the aged monarch, who regarded him now with great weariness. "Rohan once feared no treachery."
"The Age grows dark, o king of the golden hall, and all are beset, from Mirkwood to Gondor," Legolas replied. "Treachery comes in many forms, but rarely does it spring from an honest heart."
"An honest heart? Éomer has not one!" Wormtongue interjected. "My liege, it may perhaps be best to wait upon judgment of this one. Realizing that he is a stranger, he has none the less been complicit, however unwittingly, to the breaking of the laws of the realm by offering himself as hostage. Such a matter needs careful consideration ere any action is taken."
"We shall consider the matter, but he came in good faith, and Rohan keeps its hostages well," Théoden replied. "Besides which, he is a prince and injured as well: courtesy binds us to keep him honorably."
"Assuredly, lord," Wormtongue hastened to agree, though not without a deadly glare in Legolas's direction. "Shall I see to his lodgings?"
"Nay, let Éowyn see to him. 'Twill do her good to keep her mind from her brother," Théoden sighed softly, raising a hand slightly. "Go now! Leave me and I shall send for you later. Éowyn will come soon." Legolas blinked at the dismissal, wondering where he was to go, but a guardsman signaled to him, and the Elf, after bowing once again, followed the man out of the throne room. The doors swung shut in his wake, and they went swiftly out to the courtyard once again.
"Wait here!" the guard said, his Westron accented but understandable, and the Elf nodded. The man hurried away, presumably to find Éowyn, and Legolas felt what vigor the confrontation with Wormtongue had roused drain out of him. The interview was over, and he was now alone in Rohan!
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These albums are quite literally the aesthetic and musical blueprints for a genre that would exert an irresistible worldwide influence on popular music. Our edition features the original (long out of print) classic album in its entirety and original packaging. It includes Joao's historic, first performances of such masterpieces as Samba de uma nota só (One Note Samba), Meditação (Meditation), O pato, Corcovado, Discussão and Outra vez (One More Time)
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In the same week that I saw Confetti Stage's version of Paul Rudnick's play I Hate Hamlet, the playwright had a piece published in The New Yorker. Rudnick wrote a parodic internal memo in response ...
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14. Stitches
"Shall I do that?" Fíriel asked when she came into the sleeping-room. I nodded and she settled down behind me.
"The men will be leaving soon, won't they?" I asked as she combed out my hair with her fingers. There was a hesitant and careful way about her movements and I was reminded of my mother.
"Fairly soon, yes."
"Beren asked me if I would marry him." Her hands stopped, then resumed.
"Oh? When was this?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"And what did you say?"
"No." She was quiet, and I twisted round to look at her. "Was that right?"
"Of course, if you don't want to marry him."
I turned back around and she resumed her plaiting. "What if he dies?" She said nothing. "I should have said yes, shouldn't I?"
"No. You should say what you mean."
"But it wouldn't have mattered, would it? It would have made him happy."
I could hear her draw in her breath, then exhale with a sigh. "He is not one of your patients. You did the right thing and you mustn't worry yourself now."
"Do you lie to them, Fíriel?"
"Do I lie to whom, dear?"
"The men. If they're dying, and they ask you if they are."
"I try not to say one way or the other. It depends upon how much time I think they have, I suppose. Sometimes they need to know."
"I lie all the time, Fíriel. I don't mean to. But it's so easy to lie to them."
She finished off the end of the plait, and then she took me gently by the shoulders and turned me around.
"Why don't we talk about something else, now?"
"All right.." I was quiet for a long time, until it became apparent that she wanted me to suggest the topic. Very well, then, I thought.
"Why did you never marry?"
"I never wanted to, I suppose."
"Not ever?"
"Not really. Of all the things to talk about," she said, sounding amused, as if I had wanted to discuss dragons or talking cats. She shook her head and laughed softly and patted my wrists and my shoulder, and her palms were warm. "Well, once, maybe. Once or twice."
When she did not go on, I said, "You won't tell me about it, then?"
"It didn't work out." She had a way of this, too, at times, of compressing whole ideas and histories into small handfuls of words. It was not an evasion, as it would have been with most other women; it was simply an abbreviation. It was the short version of things.
"You'll not tell me, will you?" It was more statement than question and I almost wanted to smile.
"It's not really my story to tell. Not all of it, at least."
"Oh." I paused. "I suppose I can understand that."
"A wise girl you are, then." She stood up from the mattress and brushed off her skirts. "Shall we go and fetch you your tea?"
I told her that I didn't need it.
"Oh." She paused. "You're sure about that, then?"
I nodded.
"Good," she smiled. "That's very good, indeed."
I nodded again, and then I burst into tears. I suppose it was from relief at first, but at some point when I had my face buried in my palms I realized that this was the only thing I had to be happy about at the moment, and then the crying twisted itself around into something else.
She sat down beside me and put her arms around me. "It's all right," she said, and she held me tightly against her. "You're all right." Poor Fíriel, I thought. What has she done to deserve me?
She spoke quietly to me—about what I can't remember, because I think I was becoming like an animal to which sounds mattered more than words—until I could calm myself. And I did, and then I had to get up and leave her because I knew that I needed to say goodbye to Laeron.
I found him standing in a knot of the other young men from the Houses who were preparing to leave, but I managed to pull him aside for a moment. He was humming and pretending to be unconcerned. All around us people were moving and jostling and making ready, and I had to lean close to him so that he could hear me.
"You're sure this is what you want?" I asked him, and he nodded. For a second I thought the color of his eyes had a new clarity, as if the light grey had been strained and folded in upon itself.
"I think I asked you that, once," he said.
"Did you? When?"
"Before the evacuations. When we all had to decide whether we would go or whether we would remain. And your mother was leaving to look after your little brother and your little cousin, and we were talking about what you should do. I asked you if this was what you wanted, and you straightened up, like this, and you looked me in the eye, and said, 'Of course.'" He smiled. "Of course."
"I wasn't sure of myself. But I thought that if I seemed like I was, then I really would be."
"Did it work?"
"I don't know."
"It must have worked, for you've always seemed so sure of yourself."
"Laeron…" I began. When we were thirteen years old we had drilled one another on the words of the Canon as we padded through corridors and gardens: I swear to, I swear not to, I swear. We were so much lighter then; we brought very little weight to the world as we walked. We made no marks. And now he was still the boy I had walked with, but he was also this young man whom I scarcely knew, and I could not reconcile the two in my mind. For a moment I thought I could tell him this and that I could tell him other things, too, and speak just long enough to keep him rooted to the spot as the armies filtered away and the windows closed, and that then he would be safe.
"Laeron, for the sake of the Valar, look after yourself."
"I will," he blinked. I had raised my voice and he looked surprised. The moment had come and gone.
"I mean it. I'm not just saying it. The others will be able to look after themselves. You have to look out for yourself. Really."
"All right."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
"All right."
"And you need to look after yourself, too," he said.
"I know."
"Promise me you'll be all right?"
I swallowed. "I promise."
"You need to hold everything together while I'm gone. This place will fall apart without me, I just know it." He gave me a wry smile, and the young boy he had been was walking down the corridor, away from me, and I knew then that I had lost him. I put my hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe, kissing him once on the forehead and then once on the nose. He chuckled, and I smiled.
"There's my girl," he said, and he leaned towards me and quickly kissed my cheek.
"I'll be here when you come back."
"Take care," he said.
"And you."
He was thin and warm and he smelled of soap. I held on to his shoulders a moment more, and then I let him go. I drifted through the crowd, saying goodbye to some of the other apprentices and to a few of the last soldiers who were on their way out. When I was finished I stood in a corner of the ward, leaning back into the wall, my arms folded over my chest, and I watched the other women giving their farewells. I saw Fíriel speaking to one of the men, the ranger who had come looking for her before. They were talking quietly and he had his hand on her elbow and his head was bent down towards her. I watched them until it seemed somehow indecent of me and I looked away.
One of the other girls came and stood next to me. We had begun to do this just before the Siege, all of us in the Houses. We would place ourselves next to one another with no expectation of conversation; we were too tired to talk and words seemed silly and flimsy. There was simply the common understanding that sometimes you only wanted another body breathing next to you, and that that was all right.
She wiped her eyes once on her sleeve, but when she finally spoke her voice was clear. "One hour more," she said.
Everyone who was born afterwards or who was too young to remember has always heard these stories from the other side of the arc, from safe and solid ground, and sometimes the rest of us have nearly gotten used to telling things this way, as well. Because the very fact of our existence is the proof of our happy ending, the light that emerged after the storms. Now you can pick out any moment in the story like a grain of sand and point to its loneliness or its despair as simply proof of perseverance and heroism, the depths out of which we had to pull ourselves. But pull ourselves out we did: that's the finish, everyone thinks, there's the moral. But very few people really seem to think about the moments we spent with our feet halfway over the cliff's edge, staring down into the darkness that gave us back nothing. Before we knew how it was all going to end.
"One hour more," I repeated. We stood together until I realized what I wanted to do, and I left her without a word. That sort of thing was all right, too.
The Second Circle was a sea of men and arms and movement, and I held my breath and walked forward. I asked after Beren's company once, then twice, and the third man I spoke to pointed me in the right direction. I weaved my way through the crowd and I swallowed when I saw him leaning against the crumbling battlements, polishing his sword, because I had honestly not expected to find him at all, or really ever to see him again. I placed myself in front of him, not knowing what to say, and watched him until he glanced up and saw me. He opened his mouth.
"Hello," I said.
"Hello." The look in his eyes was mild but guarded. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to apologize."
"For what?" he asked. He sheathed his sword and tucked away the cloth he had been using. He had a soldier's neatness, a soldier's efficiency. "For yesterday? I told you that you had no need to apologize."
"No, for…" I drew in a breath and held it until I realized what it was. I took a step closer to him and held my breath again, because this was also like walking into the sea. He was still slouched against the wall, so that I could reach up and put my palm to his forehead where a brown scar had formed, where he had been marked with red the first time I had seen him. "I'm sorry I didn't give you stitches." I took my hand away, and he blinked, bemused.
Then he gave a short laugh. "That? That's nothing. You mustn't be sorry for that, either." He put his own hand up to his head where my fingers had been, as if I had left something there.
"No, I mean…" In my mind, I fumbled for the right thoughts or words, and I tried to remember the person I had been before all of this. I had only bits and pieces left and I had to push them blindly together and hope that some of them would fit. "Because I would have made you lie down with your head in my lap."
He smiled and lifted his eyebrows. "Is that so, then?" He folded his arms and leaned closer in to me. "And then what would you have done?" he whispered.
"Given you stitches."
"And then what?"
I was silent and he watched me for a few moments. He stopped smiling, perhaps because I was not smiling at all.
"I don't know," I finally said. "Just sit there, I suppose. I like sitting with you."
"And I like sitting with you, as well."
"So I'm sorry. I do a great many things wrong. And I own to that."
He was staring at me intently, as if I had something written over my eyelids. "What are you trying to say to me?"
"I don't know." I shook my head. "But we can talk about it when you come back. I expect we can talk about a lot of things, then. When you come back." My voice broke over the last word.
And then his arms were around me and his chin was resting on top of my head. Panic flared in my chest, but he was holding me lightly so that I would not be crushed against the armor he was wearing. His breath was slow and warm on my forehead. The clanks and shouts of preparation still churned around us, but they were now more distant.
"I don't know what will happen," he murmured.
"No one does."
"I'll not say goodbye," he said. "And neither will you."
"All right."
"You're just going to walk away. And I'll see you soon."
"All right, Beren."
He closed his arms more tightly around me. Someone was calling his name.
"In a moment," he replied.
"Beren?" I said. "Will you please look after Laeron if you can? He's quite brave, but I think he could stand to be looked after."
He laughed softly, and I could feel it more than hear it. "Well, we could all stand to be looked after, couldn't we?"
"Beren, please."
"Of course. I promise to do my best."
"Thank you."
The same voice called for him again, this time more urgently.
"In a moment!" he repeated, and then he sighed and released me. I felt cold; it was like leaving a room.
"All right," he said, looking me in the eye once more. "All right. I'm glad you came here. Thank you."
I could only nod.
"Be well," he said.
"And you."
"Now you need to go."
I nodded again. I looked at him for a long moment and then I drew in my breath and turned around and pushed my way through the crowd without a backwards glance.
I stood on the walls and watched the column of men move out of the city. From this height, the banners they held above them looked like little more than child's ribbons, green and blue and silver and black. The mass stretched out before the walls, and then grew smaller and smaller until it was difficult to think that it was made up of men at all, of bones to be broken and skin to be torn.
There was something, there was a rumor or a movement around the edges of my vision; later I could not remember exactly what it was, but it was there and I knew it. Something snapped in my chest, and then I had the sensation of a vise clamping over my ribs until I had to gasp for breath. I was dizzy and my palms and face were cold with sweat, and my legs lost their strength beneath me. I could not breathe or move. I was down against the wall, aching with panic. My gaze darted from one spot to another, unable to focus: a doorway, a soiled piece of cloth on the ground, a corner of the stonework, and on and on. So this was the end of it, I thought.
Have a deep breath, I heard someone say to me. Open your hands and relax. Have a deep breath; that's good, you're all right.
And then I was breathing again. I looked and saw that it was one of the young soldiers. He sat down beside me and I recognized him.
"Hello," I said.
"Good morning. You're all right. You've just had a bit of an attack. We see it often out in the field."
It's you, I said. I tilted my head so that I could look at him more closely. Well, that's healed nicely, hasn't it?
Yes, it has. All it needed in the end was time. And now I have all the time in the world.
I suppose you do.
He nodded.
You were the only one I remember, you know, I told him. The only one I really remember. All of the others, they only passed through my hands like water. Like blood. And now I can't remember any of their faces. Or very few.
There were a great many of us, weren't there?
Hundreds, maybe.
Thousands, I repeated. And now I can't remember.
Just as well. No one wants to be remembered as you saw us. I don't want you to remember me like that.
That's why my mother always told me to think about the dying patients as they lay there. So that I could remember that they were once alive. That they were once just like all the rest of us. At least that's how it seems to me, now. I think I understand, though I never quite did before.
So now you can remember me like this.
I suppose I can.
Have they gone yet?
Yes. Just now.
He nodded. Good day for a march.
Will they be all right? I asked.
I don't know.
I don't suppose anyone does, do they?
No, he smiled. And he had a lovely smile—probably no one had ever accused him of not meaning it when he smiled. You'll just have to wait and see, he said. That's the nature of the beast.
I nodded and shut my eyes for a long moment. When I opened them, Tarondor was gone.
I stood up, bracing for support against the wall with one hand. The world seemed to tilt sharply for a second, but then it righted itself and I was on my feet, and I walked away. I made my way along the outer walls of the sixth circle, and by that time the men were completely vanished from sight, as if they had never existed in the first place.
I walked back to the edges and the out-buildings and the houses, trailing one hand along the stone of the corridors, checking over my shoulder every few moments as had become my habit. My chest was burning but somehow I was lighter, I was somewhere apart from myself.
I stopped at a door and knocked once, then twice. When it opened I stepped back. Valacar looked me up and down with a quizzical expression on his face.
"Laeron's gone," I began, before he could utter a word. It seemed that I could only manage apologies today. "He's gone and I couldn't stop him. I don't know what will happen. I'm sorry. I might have gone too, if I were him. I couldn't stop him and I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He looked as though he were still trying to blink away his surprise. "He was set on it, and no one could have swayed him otherwise, I think. Boys are like that. You mustn't be sorry." He paused. "Is that the only reason you've come here?"
"I don't know." My right hand had wandered up to my collarbone as easily as I had wandered here. "Will you look at my stitches? They might be ready to come out."
He stared at me a long moment more, and then he nodded. "All right." I held down the collar of my dress with two fingers so that he could see. "No, not yet," he said. "We'll give it another week, perhaps."
"We've not got that long," I said. I took my fingers away from my neck.
"You don't know that."
"Are you sure they can't come out sooner?"
"It needs another week." He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. "Why is it so important to you?"
"I don't know." I stared away and we were both silent. I realized that I had been biting my fingernails.
"Why are you here?" he asked softly.
"May I come in?"
"If you like." He stepped back inside, looking puzzled, and I followed. He offered me a chair and shut the door behind me.
"Can you lock it?" I asked. He nodded. There was a clicking of metal and then he came to stand in front of me.
"What is it?"
"I wanted to tell you about Laeron."
"You did."
"And to ask you about the stitches."
"You did that, too."
"And…" I bit my lip. "He's still here."
"Who is?"
I touched two fingertips to my collarbone where the cut was. "Him. I know he is."
"You saw him?"
I nodded.
"All right." Valacar ran a hand through his hair. "What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know. I just wanted to tell someone."
"And what will you do?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. I'm tired."
There was a long silence, and then I said, "I think I'm more afraid of him than I am of Mordor. That's wrong, isn't it?"
"It seems so."
"I think you ought to tell someone."
"I told you, didn't I? And you told—"
"You know what I mean. Someone else; someone who can help you better than I can."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I don't want to." That was the best I could explain it. A short answer, like Fíriel's . An abbreviation for a number of other things.
He only looked at me and sighed, as if all the preciseness had been worn from him and there were only these inexact gestures. I stared into my lap. "I think I'm dying."
"You're not dying."
"I might be."
"You're not. You're being very difficult." He paused and raked a hand through his hair again. "No, I didn't mean that."
"I might as well be dying. Am I the only one who understands?" I asked, my voice louder than it needed to be.
"Understands what?"
"They're not coming back. Laeron and Beren and Mablung and all the others."
"Who's Beren?" he asked.
"A boy," I said.
"I would have assumed."
"They're only going to die, and then all the rest of us are going to die a little while later. Why does everyone keep pretending?"
"We don't know that," he said. "We mustn't give up. Not now."
"Stop it, Valacar. It's too late for you and me both. We can't help anyone anymore, neither of us." I mopped at my face with my sleeve. "We can't. I'm sorry. I'm so afraid. I'm tired of being afraid."
He was quiet for a long time. He took a breath as if to speak, then hesitated. Then he said, "It's a gallows crime, you know."
I could feel myself flinch, and I looked away from him. "I know that," I whispered sharply. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's the truth."
"Murder is a gallows crime, too, Valacar," I said slowly, looking up to meet his eyes once more. I was not sure what, if anything, I wanted to exact from him, but in that moment the desire was there. "So is adultery." His countenance did not change at that; he only tilted his head slightly to one side, as if waiting for me to go on.
"I—" I hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Maybe you ought to tell me something about yourself. Since you know a great deal about me, now."
He opened his mouth again, but then he only gave a weary sigh, and smiled. "Clever girl," he murmured. "Fair enough. What do you want?"
"What about Aradîr, then, and why he hates you so? What was it all about?"
He stared away for several moments, and then he turned his head to look at me. "Things," he said, "that happened many, many years ago."
"So it's true, then? About you and his wife?"
"No. That never happened."
"But you said," I began. "You said that she was very pretty, and that he did not love her as he should."
"That's true."
"So what is it, then?"
He raised his eyebrows. "You've really no idea, have you?"
"Should I?"
"There was…" he began, then shook his head and gave that weary, rueful smile once more. "Well, yes, but not with his wife."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it."
I thought about it, and then I said, "Oh."
"Oh," he repeated, and there was a brittle sharpness in his voice that I had never heard before. He clapped his hands together and stood up. "Clever girl," he said, and he went to face the window.
"That's even worse," I murmured. His room was the same as it had been when I had spent the night there: furniture lined up neatly against the walls, books on the shelf, brandy-bottle on the table, the simple trappings of a bachelor life. But now it all seemed to slowly take on a different taint. Something sickly and smirking sinking into it all. I wouldn't have guessed, I thought. I felt vaguely ill.
He turned around and folded his arms. "Juvenile, perhaps," he shrugged. His tone was brisk and impersonal, as if he were a tutor delivering a history lecture. "He wouldn't have seen any real trouble, of course. Not with who his family is. But here in the City, when one advances in his career, things like that are bound to become a liability, even if they happened many years ago. Best to eliminate them when the opportunity arises, one could reason. Take the safe route. At least that's what I assume." He smiled mirthlessly. I wouldn't have guessed, not on my own. "I can't blame him, I suppose. Not really."
I contemplated the folds of my apron in my lap, and my lips were pressed together tightly. "That's disgusting, Valacar," I said.
"You wanted to know." He paused, and then added, lightly, "You sound like my father. But as you were saying," he went on, "it doesn't matter anymore, does it? None of it." I wiped my face with my apron and did not look at him. "Oh, I didn't mean that either," he sighed. "I'm sorry."
"For how long?" I asked.
"About a year."
"How old were you?"
"Twenty," I repeated to myself, as if there were something especially significant about the number. I considered him, and it was like that first time I had come here and he had knelt at the grate in his shirtsleeves, and he had looked different. And why not, I thought. The walls were crumbling and at this point nothing was going to be a constant.
"It was a long time ago," he said.
"I suppose."
He asked me when I had last eaten, and I shrugged off the question. I simply wasn't hungry and I hadn't been for some time now. For the time being I had nowhere to go and he certainly didn't, either, so we just sat for several minutes in the half-light behind closed drapes.
"You were always my favorite, you know," I said. "My favorite surgeon."
"Was I?"
I nodded.
The past was becoming its own story, now, part of something that I could recite to myself by rote if I needed to, but that I could no longer be bothered to believe. It was strange to think that I had ever been small and had a father who lifted me into the air, or that I had a brother who had been small and would crawl into my bed on the nights when something had frightened him and he could not sleep, his weight beside mine, and the facts of his slow breath and dirty bare feet next to me were stories of their own. Of course, to my brother our father was only a story and nothing more because he had not been old enough to remember. He loved you very much, I said to my brother when he was old enough to ask questions. You were his young man; he called you his grand young man. And I was his lovely girl.
And now my brother was ten, old enough to have stayed on as a message-lad if he liked, but still not old enough, it had seemed, to receive the full story beyond bits and pieces. But perhaps that was sufficient; he was a clever boy. And now it made me feel ill, remembering that he was only ten and that our cousin was a mere seven. It was not a very long time at all; I had had more time than both of them put together, which seemed at the moment rather greedy of me.
"When did you last sleep?" Valacar was asking. This morning, I replied. But it's been a long day.
"It has," he said.
I let him walk me back to the wards, neither of us saying another word, a wide space between us as we moved. The sixth circle was a hollow shell; echoes of noises were exaggerated and bits of rags and rubbish sat idly on the cobblestones. In a strange way it was almost peaceful and I felt a sort of betrayal at that; as if the City were almost too eager to accommodate its newest and emptiest state.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.


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Awesome Anushika Shares Her Twilight Obsession and Talks About Meeting Ashley Green and Jackson Rathbone! Alice Cullen and Jasper Hale!
You know, I don't understand the whole Twilight craze, I just don't, however I can relate to the passion. I mean I love my vampires, Buffy! Hello! And I totally understand the forbidden love… He's a vampire, she's an awkward human, and the werewolves… It's just too much! Lol… Seriously, though. As any American/Canadian male... read more ->


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Fly direct with British Airways to eclectic Berlin and experience its thriving cultural, arts and nightlife scenes. Use Low Price Finder to search for our cheapest air fares.
Fly with British Airways and enjoy award-winning service, excellent value for money and no hidden charges:
Fly direct with British Airways to eclectic Berlin and experience its thriving cultural, arts and nightlife scenes. Use Low Price Finder to search for our cheapest air fares.
Germany's capital is often underrated, when in fact there is a staggering choice of things to do in Berlin. World-famous landmarks, fascinating history, superb shopping and a thriving nightlife are all on offer in this unique city.
The historic and the ultra-modern collide in Berlin, which is simply bursting with culture and must-see attractions. On Berlin holidays visit Checkpoint Charlie and the remaining Berlin Wall at the East Side Gallery. Soak up the culture on Museum Island. Shop 'til you drop at luxury department stores or quirky flea markets. Sip cocktails at a trendy bar or dance into the small hours.
For stark reminders of Berlin's communist past, visit Checkpoint Charlie and the largest remaining section of the Berlin Wall at the East Side Gallery. Take in breathtaking city views from the Soviet-built TV Tower at Alexanderplatz. The iconic Reichstag also offers wonderful vistas looking towards the world-famous Brandenburg Gate.
Pick up some gourmet goodies at Berlin's famous KaDeWe department store. For designer label shopping, make your way to chic Kurfürstendamm or Friedrichstrasse. Hunt for bargains at a flea market or browse the alternative fashion boutiques in trendy Hackescher Markt and bohemian Prenzlauer Berg.
Soak up the festive atmosphere at a choice of 50 Christmas markets in Berlin. Pick up some gifts while enjoying the sweet sound of carol singing at the popular Schloss Charlottenburg and Kaiser Wilhelm Church markets. Experience the Sony Center's Winter World, complete with ice rink, at buzzing Potsdamer Platz.
Rodeo nightclub and restaurant, housed in a war-era post office building, is a highlight of the lively Oranienburger Strasse. Buzzing bars and thriving cafés are to be found in Prenzlauer Berg and Hackescher Markt. Locals queue for entry into hip nightclub Berghain, in a former power plant in Friedrichshain.
Have your photograph taken at the famous Checkpoint Charlie border crossing and visit its fascinating museum. Immerse yourself in culture on Museum Island and learn about life in the former German Democratic Republic at the DDR Museum. For fans of Berlin's signature dish, there is even a Currywurst Museum.
A Berlin Sightseeing Pass is your key to the German capital. Offering fantastic value and convenience, it provides free entry to more than 50 top Berlin attractions, including the Berliner Dom and Checkpoint Charlie Museum. Immerse yourself in art and culture on Museum Island. Use your pass to discover more of the city on a hop-on-hop-off bus tour or cruise on the Spree river. The Berlin Pass is available for two to three consecutive days and includes free travel on public transport.
Board an open-top double decker bus and tour Berlin with a guided commentary. Or hop on and off at your leisure, taking the time to visit many of the easily-accessible top attractions en route. These include the world-famous Brandenburg Gate and Checkpoint Charlie, impressive Berliner Dom and enchanting Charlottenburg Palace. Add a 1-hour boat trip to your tour and see Berlin from a different perspective as you cruise along the river Spree. Bus tickets are valid for a 48-hour period.
Gain an essential insight into Berlin's Nazi past on this enlightening walking tour of the infamous Third Reich sites. Accompanied by your knowledgeable guide, you'll visit Wilhemplatz, where Joseph Goebbels transformed an 18th-century palace into the sinister Propaganda Ministry. The half-day tour also takes you to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, which Himmler's SS and Gestapo headquarters turned into the most feared address in the Third Reich. It concludes above the site of the bunker where Hitler famously committed suicide.
There's no better or healthier way to see Berlin than by joining a bike tour. Take in the German capital's essential sights and learn about its history while being entertained by your knowledgeable guide. The tour's highlights include Alexanderplatz, Museum Island, Checkpoint Charlie, the Berlin Wall, Potzdamer Platz, the Brandenburg Gate and much more. Along the way you will stop at a beautiful beer garden for a refreshing drink and to enjoy Berlin as the locals do.


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Sights & Attractions in San Diego
San Diego Sights
California's entire coastline enchants, but the state's southernmost region stands apart when it comes to sand, surf, and sea. Step out of the car and onto the beach to immediately savor its allure: smell the fresh salty air, feel the plush sand at your feet, hear waves breaking enticingly from the shore, and take in the breathtaking vistas.
San Diego's sandstone bluffs offer spectacular views
of the Pacific as a palette of blues and greens: there are distant indigo depths, emerald coves closer to shore, and finally, the mint-green swirls of the foamy surf. On land, the beach is silvery brown, etched with wisps of darker, charcoal-color sand and flecked with fool's gold.
San Diego's beaches have a different vibe from their northern counterparts in neighboring Orange County and glitzy Los Angeles farther up the coast. San Diego is more laid-back and less of a scene. Cyclists on cruiser bikes whiz by as surfers saunter toward the waves and sunbathers bronze under the sun, be it July or November.
Whether you're seeking a safe place to take the kids or a hot spot to work on your tan, you'll find a beach that's just right for you. La Jolla Shores and Mission Bay both have gentle waves and shallow waters that provide safer swimming for kids; whereas the high swells at Black's and Tourmaline attract surfers worldwide. If you're looking for dramatic ocean views, Torrey Pines State Beach and Sunset Cliffs provide a desertlike chaparral backdrop, with craggy cliffs overlooking the ocean below. Beaches farther south in Coronado and Silver Strand have longer stretches of sand that are perfect for a contemplative stroll or a brisk jog. Then there are those secluded, sandy enclaves that you may happen upon on a scenic drive down Highway 101.
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Balboa Park and San Diego Zoo 27
Point Loma and Coronado 18
La Jolla 15
Mission Bay, Beaches, and SeaWorld 12
Old Town and Uptown 11
Downtown 9
South Bay 2
Cardiff-by-the-Sea 1
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Amusement Park/ Water Park 2
Arts/ Performance Venue 3
Beach–Sight 19
Bridge/ Tunnel 2
Building/ Architectural Site 1
Canyon 1
Carousel 1
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Fountain 1
Garden/ Arboretum 4
Historic District/ Site 1
Hotel–Sight 1
House/ Mansion/ Villa 2
Island 2
Marina/ Pier/ Dock 1
Market/ Bazaar 1
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Museum/ Gallery 22
Nautical Site/ Lighthouse 2
Neighborhood/ Street 3
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Madbury voting for selectman
Sunday, March 3, 2013
On March 12 the voters here will be replacing Selectman Joan Sundberg, who is not seeking re-election after serving 15 years. Two candidates have filed for the position: Julie McCabe and Bob Sterndale. Bios and personal statements from them follow.
Bob expressed his reasons for running thusly: "I am a candidate for the open selectman's position because I believe the position deserves someone with knowledge of town affairs and experience working in a public forum...I have presided over numerous and sometimes contentious proceedings and public hearings, working to reconcile public interests with private property rights....As a selectman I would strive to maintain Madbury's rural character and to maintain the careful balance between the town's share of the tax burden and its needs for public services."
Absentee ballots are available at the Town Hall, according to Town Clerk Kitty Cornwell.
So Rosa will be at the library tomorrow (March 4) from 3 to 5 p.m. It being a bit late to sign up for this session, children can be registered for next month.
Betsy Cornwell has her first book, "Tides", ready for the reading public. She is the daughter of Gray and Kitty Cornwell and she grew up here. She is working on a sequel to "Tides", which is centered at the Isles of Shoals and includes kelpies, of Irish folklore. The club is looking forward to hearing from the author when she is back home from Ireland.
Thn the club voted to contribute $200 toward the Oyster River Middle School Jazz Band's trip to Disney World.


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If this event requires registration please fill out the information below and click on Complete Registration at the bottom of the page to register for this event.
For group registration please contact this library location at (859) 231-5500
|Learn to use the mouse and keyboard
Event Type: Computer Class
Age Group(s): adults
Date: 9/18/2013
Start Time: 1:30 PM
End Time: 2:30 PM
Learners will experience a tutorial that teaches all the basic mouse movements, along with a brief introduction to ergonomics and touch typing. No computer experience necessary.Library: Central Library
Location: Computer Lab
Registration Ends: 9/18/2013 at 12:00 AM
Status: Closed
|Please Note


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About Armen Living
Since the opening in 1978, Armen Living has been a highly regarded importer of fine Italian home furnishings. The company's enduring philosophy is based on the premise that customers should expect extraordinary merchandise and superior service. The lines cross three main style categories: transitional, traditional and contemporary.
Building upon its legendary 31-year company history, the innovative new Armen Living line is a refreshingly creative collaboration with top designers in the industry. The result is a uniquely modern collection gorgeously enhanced by sophisticated retro aesthetics. Armen Living celebrates bold individuality, vibrant youthfulness, sensual refinement, and expert craftsmanship at fiscally sensible price points. Each piece exudes self-expression and character, perfect for the contemporary chic lifestyle.
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As the new ad for Fahrenheit is unveiled, DiorMag takes a look back at the campaigns for the scent that's celebrating its quarter-century this year.
First came Ridley Scott, then David Lynch, Daniel Askil and Michael Janssen. Renowned directors all, from the school of strong, powerful and fantastical cinematography. Each in turn, they wrote the Fahrenheit story, creating the fragrance's advertising campaigns since it launched in 1988. It's a story in which the man exists solely through his interaction with the elements. Nature acts as his alter-ego, his horizon stretching to infinity. One after another, each director has unraveled the fragrance's story, like a metaphorical French red thread. Red like the paintings "Fahrenheit 1982" and " Brighter Than The Sun" by the pop artist James Rosenquist, both inspirations for the scent; red like the flame-licked bottle; red like an incandescent sky, the backdrop of all the campaigns; finally, red like the passion that drives the Fahrenheit man to find his freedom. Is this world real?
Between sunshine and nighttime, between dreams and reality, the Fahrenheit world is a mythic and enigmatic destination, filled with the promise of eternity. For twenty-five years, by creating a timeless place, the Fahrenheit images have revolutionized the perfume sector, just as the composition itself created such a surprise at the scent's launch, revealing its mysterious notes of wood and leather along with its violet bouquet. A highly unusual way to compose a masculine scent, it allied virility and sensuality. Today, the new campaign takes images from the very first campaign of 1988, mixing them with Michael Janssen's, shot in 2009. Two different decades, two visions of the Fahrenheit man, all for one fragrance, one that's as modern now as when it first appeared.


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Just watched Django Unchained for the first time--So Tarantino!
431 days ago.
"@Josh_Beare: Finally watched Django Unchained... One of the best films I've ever seen!" YES MATE!!
Ok so I just watched Django Unchained... I WANNA CRY ITS SO GOOD
I was skeptical at first. Thought it would be Django Unchained Pt 3 but it's proper shem. A 7. "@KabeloPule: 12 Years A Slave. Gripping."
Finally watched Django Unchained... One of the best films I've ever seen!
Exclusive Cast Interview
Jamie Foxx and Kerry Washington on their favorite costumes, Christoph Waltz on how the story evolved and Walter Goggins on the magic of Tarantino.
Tarantino Talks DiCaprio, How Will Smith Almost got Django Role & Thoughts on Retirement
In advance of the release for his upcoming film, Django Unchained, writer/director Quentin Tarantino sat down to chat about Leonardo DiCaprio as a villain, how Will Smith almost got the Django role and his thoughts on retirement.
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Offers a balance between moisture management and moderate level of warmth. Also provides a barrier against wind and a protection against water
Pick up the pace and stay warm and dry with the Element Tights. The outer microperforated polyurethane membrane is waterproof and windproof to protect against the elements. The Vertexx lining is designed to accommodate motion while insulating and evaporating moisture. Knees are articulated for that perfect fit while skiing. Ankle zip and gripper accommodate boots.
Innovative technology for serious and competitive skiiers looking for speed, performance, and comfort.
© Louis Garneau Sports Inc. 2015


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Rosco1 wrote:Maybe the ''GROUP CAMP'' could be also turned into a buy / sell weekend.......Bring along any of your unwanted / un-needed camping gear.....Some-one may be interesterd in buying it.....
Lin wrote:I love tent camping. But the main reason why I may be persuaded to switch to a camper trailer is the packing. I only have one child and find packing for camping stressful. With a camper trailer you can have your tent, bedding, kitchen gear and some other stuff always packed. All you need to then pack is clothes and food really. Which makes getting ready much easier.
Lin I have those large plastic tubs with all my kitchen stuff ,one fire lighting stuff, one of spare clothes and i keep them packed so it is really only a matter of checking everything is there,i clean it after each trip so it is fairly ready to go. So i really only pack food and pillows and blankets and dog food
John G wrote:Check garage sales. People who camped years ago and gave up often drop camping gear into sales.
Boot sales etc also.
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Results 16 to 30 of 101
August 18th, 2012, 03:26 PM #16
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- Apr 2007
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- Dallas, Tx.
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- 903
August 18th, 2012, 04:10 PM #17
Good list mjolnir! I am sure a mod can move it up to the top post if you want it there (I think it would be a good spot for it as well).
Sullivan - Congrads, 2 books in 2 months? Are they apart of a series, or do they differ from one another?
I also wanted to toss out NOS4A2 by Joe Hill. I believe that is slated for a April 2013 release. I am pretty stoked for it after loving both Heart Shaped Box and Horns.
August 18th, 2012, 04:12 PM #18
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- Sep 2010
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- Los Angeles-ish, CA
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You might want to add Robert V. S. Redick's The Night of the Swarm (Jan), and Paul Cornell's London Falling (Apr).
You may or may not want to add Ilona Andrews' Magic Bites: A Special Edition of the First Kate Daniels Novel [a reprint with new material] (Jan).
Also, I'm not sure if you'd want to include it or not, but some people might be interested to see that Neil Gaiman's Books of Magic graphic novel is finally being re-released in a deluxe edition at the end of January. It's been OOP for awhile, possibly (or not) due to the Harry Potter controversy around it. I just think that it's a great thing that new people will be exposed to this wonderful Gaiman story.
September 6th, 2012, 03:41 AM #19
From Jeff Vandermeer's blog:
"As Ive mentioned here before, Ive been working on a new series of novels: The Southern Reach series. The first one, already completed, is entitled Annihilation and itll be sent around soon to publishers. Heres a very rough draft description of the book: Area X: mysterious, remote, and concealed by the government as an environmental disaster zone for more than 30 years. But strange forces are gathering in this pristine wilderness protected by an invisible, deadly border. The secret agency known as the Southern Reach has sent in eleven expeditions to discover the truth about Area X. Now, the twelfth will attempt to succeed where all others have failed This is the story of that twelfth expedition, narrated by the biologist attached to the mission: a reticent, misanthropic woman who brings her secrets to Area X."
Looking forward to this.
September 14th, 2012, 11:53 AM #20
- Join Date
- Dec 2007
- Posts
- 547
New VanderMeer? Excellent; thanks! Shall look forward to that in a provisional way. Hopefully it finds a publishing home sooner than later.
Thanks for the suggested additions to the list, all. I've been trying to keep it semi-current.
Some news-type stuff:
-- Locus' wonderful forthcoming books feature is reporting that Martin and Dozois' anthology Dangerous Women, which will include Martin's new novella, will be published in May. However, according to Westeros, this date is not final. Apparently it's doable, but the decision is Tor's and has not yet been made.
-- It's sounding like the conclusion to Raymond Feist's long-running Midkemia series, Magician's End, will be published in May. I might not be able to restrain myself from checking this out, even though -- with apologies to any who still keep the faith -- I don't think Feist's written a novel I'd describe as "good" in over a decade.
-- Don't see how we could see the results of this in 2013, but Locus reports that Patrick Rothfuss has sold another three books to Daw, who are publishing The Kingkiller Chronicle. Whether these books are connected to Kvothe's story is very unclear -- some say they definitely are, some say they're definitely not. So it goes on the internet.
-- Richard Morgan's publisher, Gollancz, has announced on Twitter that the very tentative hoped-for release date for The Dark Defiles, the final volume in his series A Land Fit for Heroes, is August 2013. [This does not come with any information as to whether a draft is finished or not; I assume not.] Evidently the book is growing quite long, and Morgan and the publishers are looking into the possibility of splitting it in two if they can find a workable break point in the story, but have not yet decided if this is the best course. [with thanks to The Wertzone for the info]
September 14th, 2012, 01:11 PM #21
- Join Date
- Dec 2005
- Location
- Ada, MI, USA
- Posts
- 2,834
Adjacent by Christopher Priest is slated for August 2013, while Adam Roberts has a new book with a really cool title next July too, Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea (!) in addition to the Adam Robots collection in January.
The ninth Shadows of the Apt book War Master's Gate is also scheduled for August 2013, though Robert Redick's book seems that will still be out in October 2012 in the UK, the 2013 delay is only US so far
Paul McAuley's new book is in January and is titled Evening's Empires
Last edited by suciul; September 14th, 2012 at 01:18 PM.
October 5th, 2012, 07:04 PM #22
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- Sep 2010
- Location
- Los Angeles-ish, CA
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- 863
Information for Unfettered (Grim Oak Press) has been updated and it's now supposed to be out "Early 2013". For those who want a print copy, this will be limited to 500 S&N copies and 5,000-10,000 Trade copies, and considering the authors involved, it would probably be best to order early. ebooks will also be available. Here's the lineup:
The Shade of Allanon by Terry Brooks (a Shannara tale)
Imaginary Friends by Terry Brooks (a precursor to the Word/Void trilogy)
How Old Holly Came To Be by Patrick Rothfuss
River of Souls by Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson (a Wheel of Time tale)
The Old Scale Game by Tad Williams
Martyr of the Roses by Jacqueline Carey (a precursor to the Kushiel series)
Dogs by Daniel Abraham
Mudboy by Peter V. Brett (a Demon Cycle tale)
Nocturne by Robert V. S. Redick
The Sound of Broken Absolutes by Peter Orullian (a Vault of Heaven tale)
Untitled by Geno & R.A. Salvatore
Keeper of Memory by Todd Lockwood (a Summer Dragon tale)
Game of Chance by Carrie Vaughn
The Lasting Doubts of Joaquin Lopez by Blake Charlton
The Chapel Perilous by Kevin Hearne (an Iron Druid tale)
Select Mode by Mark Lawrence (a Broken Empire tale)
All the Girls Love Michael Stein by David Anthony Durham
Strange Rain by Jennifer Bosworth (a Struck epilogue tale)
Unbowed by Eldon Thompson (a Legend of Asahiel tale)
Untitled by Naomi Novik (a Temeraire tale)
The Jester by Michael J. Sullivan (a Riyria Chronicles tale)
The Duel by Lev Grossman (a Magicians tale)
The Unfettered Knight by Shawn Speakman (an Annwn Cycle tale)
More info here: http://grimoakpress.com/2012/08/unfe...hawn-speakman/
October 14th, 2012, 09:03 PM #23
- Join Date
- Dec 2007
- Posts
- 547
Thanks for the continued additions, all. Priest's Adjacent will be an event in the field, of course, and one day I will stop talking about reading him and actually do so. Roberts, too. I very much enjoyed most of McAuley's first Quiet War duology, so am interested to see how he carries on. And Unfettered sounds like a wonderful project. Nice table of contents, too.
Another compilation of stuff from about and around:
Neil Gaiman's new novel for adults is entitled The Ocean at the End of the Lane, and will be released in June next year. It sounds like -- with the marked caveat that I forget where I heard this so can't source it; it may very well have been here -- that he'd been planning a run at the American Gods sequel, but found that this novel took over.
Stephen King's Doctor Sleep, a loose sequel to The Shining, will be published in September 2013. interestingly [based on King's forums], King himself called time on the initial plan to publish the novel earlier, as he was dissatisfied with the state of the manuscript and felt it needed to go back in the oven for additional editing.
James S. A. Cory, or Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck, will evidently be writing a Starwars novel. The book will center on Han Solo and will [I think, can't quite remember] take place during the galactic civil war between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back. Apparently it's one of several standalone books coming out focusing on iconic rebel characters during this period in Starwars' [now meticulously explored / exploited] history. Interesting. I wonder, though, whether this will delay their joint / Abraham's other work. I hope Abraham in particular takes himself a break one of these days.
According to amazon, Orbit has bumped US publication of Miles Cameron's The Red Knight from December of this year to January, making it a 2013 release. A good thing for the novel? A sign of faith? [Isn't the conventional wisdom that only established bestsellers can hack it at Christmas?] The UK edition's still coming this month.
October 15th, 2012, 05:04 AM #24
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- 4
October 15th, 2012, 05:07 AM #25
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- Dec 2009
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October 15th, 2012, 11:50 AM #26
Saw this one over on Justin's Blog:
Promise of Blood by Brian McClellan
Field Marshal Tamas has staged a coup against the king of Adro. His powder mages have slaughtered the king's Privileged cabal of sorcerers and the nobility has been rounded up to face the guillotine with their king. Tamas has brought revolution to his country in one bloody night to save his people and right the wrongs caused by the old regime. Yet his actions have far-reaching consequences of which no reasonable man could have conceived, and the king will prove the easiest obstacle to overcome in his quest to free Adro.
Captain Taniel Two-shot is a powder mage of considerable skill. Gunpowder makes him stronger and faster than other men. He can manipulate its properties to shoot out a man's eye at twice the length of a battlefield. It makes him perfect for killing the old Privileged sorcerers with their destructive magic. One of those Privileged has escaped Tamas' cull. The problem is, she's stronger than any sorcerer Taniel has ever seen, and the mercenaries sent to help him track her are of dubious reliability.
When Adamat is summoned to the palace in the middle of the night, the last thing the veteran investigator expects is to arrive during a regime change. His new employer is none other than the man responsible for overthrowing the current government and he has some unfinished business with the king's sorcerers. The dying Privileged cabal has left the Field Marshal with a riddle. It could be nothing, but Tamas does not like loose ends. Adamat knows from long experience that one doesn't ask questions unless one is willing to learn–and believe–the answers. To add to his problems, the Field Marshal isn't the only one interested in the answer to the dying sorcerers' riddle. As enemies emerge from the shadows and the investigation takes a disturbing turn, Adamat must decide where his loyalties lie.
"Promise of Blood is a hugely promising debut. Guns, swords, and magic together? What more could you want? How about tense action, memorable characters, rising stakes, and cool, cool magic? Not only the finest flintlock fantasy I've read, but also the most fun. Brian McClellan is the real thing."
–Brent Weeks, author of the Night Angel Trilog
October 15th, 2012, 11:53 AM #27
October 15th, 2012, 01:39 PM #28
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very interesting - happy to finally see Cold steel there as i really missed that one in 2012; Promise of Blood sounds interesting but we'll see as Orbit's last (epic fantasy) debut, Seven princes was dull and so un-involving that i have dropped fast out of it; now of course the other sort of hyped series debut Red Knight will come sometime before from them - either late December or January and that is a huge one for me as i give it a shot at being #1 for 2012 (considering that the Gollancz comes out in 10 days and I hope to get a copy even faster)
October 15th, 2012, 01:50 PM #29
did one for the UK too, and I think it's a stronger line up. Tregellis' Coldest War & Necessary Evil, a new Brooks & Moon, final WoT book and Abaddon's Gate seem to be the big ones there. Strangely, Abraham's next Dagger & Coin isn't on there so I assume it'll be July or August?
The Sapkowski book, if it's the same as the Gollancz edition and the same translator, will likely be a bit of a poor read. Sadly.
October 15th, 2012, 02:52 PM #30
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Michael Sullivan led me to this voteable 'most anticipated 2013' list on Goodreads - loadsa good stuff coming up!


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|Lowest Recommended Age:
|4th - 6th Grades
|MPAA Rating:
|Movie Release Date:
|December 11, 2009
|DVD Release Date:
|March 16, 2010
Disney has cooked up a yummy batch of gumbo with this blend of the past and present. "The Princess and the Frog" is a satisfying and thoroughly entertaining return to the hand-drawn animation that built the studio. Although it is […]


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