Garreth stretched his legs a bit and scratched his ear while listening to Bethberry’s tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly. He looked away from her and then down into his tankard. What he saw made him gulp, involuntarily. It was empty and his throat was dry. Or at least his wits were parched, which amounted to the same thing. Boredom tasted far less flavourful than the ale he was suddenly missing. He wondered if he could interrupt the story.
“Well, Miz Bet’bree, that’s a mighty fine tale you are regaling us with. I never paid much mind to this here Ring story that people round about here talk of. And I must say, you are increasing my admiration for this hafling fellow, our Falco.”
Falco bore this public attention with a certain amount of modest composure, but he did feel his ears ringing and was afraid that their tips would soon become red if this continued. But he felt no modest pride in hearing Miss Bethberry tell of his small role in paving the way for the famous Halflings to mount the assault in Bywater. He opened his mouth to intone his fine sense of the occasion when he persuaded Bill Ferny to leave Bywater just when the Cottons were arriving when up spoke Garreth again.
“In fact, beggin’ yer pardon, Miz Innkeeper, but I thinks we would be remiss if we didn’t here compliment the actions of young Falco. A toast to the Halfling Who Hoodwinked Ferny!” With that cry, he raised his tankard aloft and Harreld joined him with a “By Helm and by Hildeson, by Brego and Folca, on Falco!” Others around the table joined in, Eodwine with an impish grin and Ruthven with a glowing wink. Bethberry herself could not resist a gleeful laugh at this heroic invocation and replied softly with a “So be it!”
Amid the fussing and rushing of kitchen help, the clashing of tankards, the gurgling of pitchers, the voices crying “Arise, Arise, Hobbit of Hobbiton, fell deeds slaking and The Shire remaking”, no one noticed a slight person of sallow complexion enter the White Horse Inn. He stood calmly at the entrance to the Great Hall, observing the jocularity, recalling the cacophony of voice which had faded away upon
his entrance to The Seventh Star. People were people everywhere, Sôông thought to himself, while wondering if silence would meet his arrival here as it had in The White City. He shifted his gaze around the crowded Great Hall, and found himself suddenly matching eyes with the Innkeeper. A fleeting smile crossed over her face as she acknowledge him but in respect of his courtesy and decorum she assumed a calm and sombre mein. She excused herself from the table, where, truth be told, others had now moved on from The Tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly. Ruthven looked up at her, a saddened frown suddenly creasing her forehead.
Bethberry and Sôông the Easterner sought out the smaller fireplace in the wordhoard, the small room to the back of the Great Hall and conferred. Deep in conversation they seemed, their heads at times coming together, then at times sitting pensively each in his or her own thought. Eodwine at last noticed Bethberry’s absence and spied the two. He rose, halting slightly at the entrance and politely waited to be invited in.
“Well might you join us, Eodwine of the Gap,” said Bethberry, “for there is a tale here to interest you.”
“Me?” he asked. “I might as well inquire what the daughter of the Old Forest is doing with an Easterling.” Sôông’s shoulders tightened but he made no move to acknowledge this statement.
“Sôông has been my messenger, and more,” answered Bethberry. “He has come from the halfling Fordim with instructions for the banner for his game.” Eodwine’s eyes widened in understanding and he looked back at the banners waving high from the beams of the Great Hall. They wafted in the smoky breeze of the hall, brilliant colours framed by the dark oak timbers of the ceiling struts and glinting like the jewels encrusted on the regal objects he himself had seen in the Golden Hall.
We could make glass like that, he thought to himself,
and set it in windows. And then he thought about the colours that would dance on the floor of the Inn.
“And what is to be the banner of
Shadow of the West?” As Eodwine asked this question, he looked the Easterling in the eye—and one eye is was, for Sôông was of course blinded in the one eye—and saw not exotic difference nor anything fearful but some indescribable mystery. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the man spoke.
“something with a hooded figure upon it, with the device of a single Ring above, while below him, alleviating the darkness that the figure casts, nine glittering stars, one for each of the gamers who made the tale worth the telling.”
Bethberry nodded. “Well chosen, it is. And it shall be made, ere I leave.”
“Leave?” inquired Eodwine. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean, Eodwine of the Gap, that it is past time I continued on my way throughout Middle earth in search of she who I once set out to find.” The man stood there stupefied and then understood why Sôông had so set his senses tingling.
“You will leave with him? You will journey to the eastern lands? You will leave The Horse?”
“I shall, indeed, for there is much for Bethberry to learn of the lands of the East and there is much need among the people of my healing arts, which have grown stale here amid the beer and ale and smoke.”
“But, but, The Horse! Who shall be our Innkeeper! Who shall finish The Tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly? Who shall help us mind our Ps and Qs?” sputtered, for all his eloquence, Eodwine.
“Who? Why who indeed, Eodwine, Once But Now No Longer Messenger of the Golden Hall. Would it not be a position worthy of you and one that you can shine at? A messenger is as good a wordsmith as any, if not more. Will you take over The White Horse Inn Eodwine? Methinks the name Innkeeper Eodwine becomes you.”