Et Eärello by Grundy

Chapter 1

She hurried through the darkening streets, wending her way toward the westward road.

She has never in all her years working in the Royal Archives dared be so direct about it. But the message that had come this evening left no doubt. It was coded, such that none who read it would think anything amiss – at least, nothing more than the obvious words. Your mother is ill, and we fear the worst. Come if the King will give you leave.

That might be questioned, particularly in a woman who had kin in the Westlands, but her position, her obvious adherence to the King should be enough. None but Tar-Mairon would see through it. Publicly, she has ever been what she was required to be: Inzilmin, not particularly learned but loyal, who knew enough written Adûnaic to be useful filing legal decrees in the Archives, but not so erudite as to pry into that which the King had forbidden.

But privately, secretly… that was another matter. She was born to the Faithful and named in the old tongue, then raised and trained for her mission from her cradle. There had still been elf-friends enough with foresight to know what would be needful. And she has performed her role to perfection. Admirably, one might even say. (Though only among known Friends, and only at a safe distance from Ar-Minalêth.)

For the last twenty years, she has smuggled out scroll after scroll, one here, one there, saving the ancient knowledge from the flames. The scrolls in her bag are the last, and she has thrown caution to the wind. At this point, if they burn her with the texts, so be it. These ones are worth dying for. They are among the oldest in the archives, and there is speculation one or two may be in Tar-Minyatur’s own hand.

If she could but get them safely to Andunië, the Faithful will have more than just the Tree to rebuild Elenna with. That will be worth all the stress and risk she’s lived with so long that she’s forgotten what it is to breathe free.

She was questioned only briefly at the West-gate, more because of the late hour than because she was heading westward.

“Yes, I know it late for decent women to be abroad, but I have little choice,” she told the guard captain, brandishing the note he should be able to read. “But my mother is ill, and the news reached me only with the evening post. I set out at once.”

She thought him only somewhat younger than herself, which meant he should be literate if he had any hopes of rising further in the ranks.

“And your bag?” he asked, handing the note back quickly enough that she doubted he had done more than glance at her name if he could read, and pretend to do so if he couldn’t.

“A few clothes, and some curiosities from the city of the kings to show my mother. She has not been in good enough health to travel for some years.”

“On your way,” he shrugged. “But don’t blame me for it if you meet with ruffians on the road!”

She laughed, as much to cover her relief as anything else, and moved briskly before he could change his mind.

She hired a horse at the stables, and blithely promised that she would either return it within a sennight or send word that she was delayed, again pleading her ill mother as reason why that might be necessary.

It’s probably seen as a failing by the King’s Men in these days, that such lies troubled her when the lie she has lived for so long did not. But the stable owner is an honest man who does not give much thought to King’s Men or Faithful so long as he, his family, and his horses are well, and she knew the loss of the horse would grieve him.

That she had reason to suspect he will lose much more than just this one horse made her reluctant to do him even this small harm, but she knew perfectly well there would be none in Andunië who will risk their life to return the animal. She didn’t have the money to buy the horse outright. That would be too much for the woman she pretends to be to carry.  

She rode through the night, but never so hard or so fast as to put the horse in any danger.

The dawn – if it could be called that, with the day so foul and ominous clouds building in the West, did not reassure her. The King’s Fleet must be nearing the forbidden waters by now. If her grandfather hadn’t succeeded in warning the Lords of the West, they would soon realize what Ar-Pharazôn was about.

She knew herself in safe territory by late morning, when she was hailed by one of her brother’s men as ‘Lady Anorië’, and urged to hurry. She almost laughed with relief. She had done it. It was over. She never had to be Inzilmin again!

That didn’t mean she felt any easier though. The day was dark, and the first raindrops beginning to fall by the time she reached her father’s house. She found him waiting at the door. He looked nervous, though he relaxed a bit when he saw her.

“Good, you are here. We feared-”

He broke off, unable to say what exactly it was he had feared, as he embraced her.

To her surprise, he did not lead her into the house, but toward the docks.

“Come, daughter, there is no time. We must get to the ship. Your brothers should be lifting anchor as we speak. My heart tells me we are already on the verge of waiting too long, but I could not bear to leave my firstborn behind.”

She clung to her father, shaken by what his words meant.

“But surely the Valar-”

“The wind from the West carries a warning, child. No one on this island will be spared. It is time to go.”

She nodded, and did not ask for anything from her rooms, or beg for one last sight of the places dear to her. Nor did she look back as they rowed to the ship. The roads were emptying, her brothers’ ships already making for the open sea.

Not until they were safely aboard and setting sail did her father think to ask what she had brought on this last journey from Armenelos.

She showed him the irreplaceable scrolls, and beamed with pride at the look on his face as he took the King’s Scroll with reverent hands.

“The knowledge of kings. Seven stars, seven stones, and one white tree,” he murmured. “Not much to show for so many years.”

“It will be enough,” Anorië said.