Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

Rama and Thorn:

The twisted streets of Umbar appeared nearly deserted under the blazing heat of the afternoon sun. Ráma let Kyelek pick his way through the lanes and alleyways at a comfortable gait. She sat astride a silken pad that bore the colors of her house, since Kyelek habitually chaffed against the feel of leather or a tight girth constricting his belly. Since childhood, Ráma had spent most of her waking hours around horses and felt equally comfortable riding with or without a saddle.

As they journied toward the palace, Ráma noted that the streets about her were virtually empty. She could not help but laugh. These citydwellers were a spoiled lot to hide from a little warmth and sunshine! For at least within the gates of the city, there were numerous shady nooks, and a slight breeze blew in from the harbor, lightening even the heaviest of afternoons.

These lazy folk had no idea what it was to ride for hours through burning, shifting sands without benefit of shade or water! Let them remain within their pampered enclaves and leave her clan alone. Hearts bred in cold stone streets would never understand the beauty of a life spent wandering, the varied hues of a pink tinged sunset as the daytime heat gave way to evening chill, or the awe engendered by one of the giant storms racing across the sands from the mysterious lands to the south and east.

How some of the maenwaith could turn their back on such a life, trading in their freedom for cold masonry, was something Ráma would never understand. Not that her own existence had been easy. There were those among her clan who looked askance at a young woman who had not yet shown the slightest evidence of any gift. At times, Ráma had even wondered if it wouldn't be easier to slip away, taking her beloved horses with her, to live among ordinary men and women who possessed no gifts or dreams. But she could not bear to leave her mother who understood her in a special way or ignore the sweet pull of the desert. And never would she give in to Wyrma, that wretched imitation of a leader who understood nothing of the free life. It was better to die a hundred deaths than be dragged off to live in Umbar, a place no better than a fancy prison!

Approaching the broad walkway that led up the hill to the front gate of the palace, Ráma showed her credentials to the guard on duty, explaining that she'd come to check on the stallions Falasmir had purchased and that she would be staying for the reception that evening. The guard grunted his assent and beckoned her inside. Ráma rode Kyelek through a mazelike series of gates and passageways, ones that she remembered from her earlier visits, turning off onto a side lane that led towards the stables and fenced enclosures. She spurred her mount forward at a faster pace as her mind returned to Thorn. She again wondered why he had not shown up at the Cat's Paw as he had promised to do.

Don't let anything happen to him, she whispered a heartfelt plea to the spirits of her clan. In her short life, Ráma had seen too much evil befall those people she cared for, including her own father Liki who had died at the hands of those hating and fearing what they could not understand. Nothing was safe or sure in Harad. She repeated her plea, offering up a bargain just to be safe. ....Anyone else....but not him.

Riding into the stableyard, she dismounted and slipped the bridle off Kyelek's head, turning him into a small field where tender grass grew, carefully cultivated and watered for Falamir's steeds. Ráma walked over to the heavy door and slid it open, peering into the grey recesses of the stables, straining to make out the shadowy figures and forms. She could see the stalls of the three stallions they had recently sold to the palace, the horses' tack tidily arranged against the far wall, but there was no sign of Thorn anywhere she looked. Pushing down an uneasy feeling, she walked slowly and purposefully between the row of stalls, her fingers slipping to the hilt of a dagger she always carried by her side. The heels of her leather boots clicked against the granite pavingstones, resounding ominously through the recesses of the building.

Where was everyone? The stable lads and trainers, the crew responsible for cleaning the stalls, the carters who brought their wagons of supplies into the yard? The entire area looked deserted. She walked forward two more paces and then stopped dead. From the side of the nearest stall came a rustling, as if someone was getting up from behind a hiding place. She heard footsteps coming towards her and turned around to face the sound, standing poised to throw her weapon if there was need.

"Ráma, it's me." A familiar voice called out of the darkness, driving away the chill.

"Thorn?"

The young man stepped out from behind the stall partition and rushed over to Ráma. He was of middling height, with a comely demeanor, and long black hair pulled back into a thong. His eyes beamed out a welcome, but there was no laughter or reassurance in his voice. He placed a finger over his pursed lips in warning and set his other hand on Ráma's shoulder, guiding her towards a small sideroom that served as the smithy's forge.

Once inside, he carefully latched the door. "Ráma, she is here. Wyrma is here in the palace. At this moment, Falasmir's steward is addressing all the servants in the main hall to announce the news. They are ordered to supply her with anything she desires. I stayed here in the stables. I do not think Wyrma would show up at such a meeting, but I could not take a chance."

A thousand thoughts raced through Ráma's mind, all vying for her attention, but she blurted out the one thing that lay closest to her heart, "Thorn, it is too dangerous. You must not stay here. Wyrma knows your face. You stood beside my mother at the last Gathering. She knows Ayar puts her trust in you."

He looked back at her, vigorously shaking his head. "I must stay. I'll be careful. Something's about to happen, and we don't know what. Wyrma says she's come here to be a counselor for Falismar. Perhaps he believes that story, but I do not. If Wyrma's here, she is here for her own purposes. And we must find out what those are."

"Then let me stay in your place," Ráma begged. "Wyrma knows nothing of me, not even that I am one of the maenwith , since I was never given a woman's ceremony to celebrate the coming of my form."

"No, you must return to warn your mother. I will be careful, but even if I was recognized, Wyrma would probably pay little attention to me." He added with a hint of bitterness, "She thinks little of our clan, and believes we pose no threat."

"Still, I do not like it!" the young woman interjected.

"Who likes any of this? But there is another reason you must return to camp. Your sister, Narika...." Thorn's voice dropped as he struggled for the right words. "Ráma, you must promise to watch over her for me."

Ráma turned away hating to hear the message, yet it did not surprise her. Thorn drew a jagged breath and pushed forward again, glad that it had been said. "You should have been a man, Ráma. For you think and act like one. You have the spirit of an Eagle in your body, whether or not you actually wear the form. Narika is different.... She is quiet and dreamy, filled with song and lore, and she relies on you for many practical things. Promise me you will not let her down."

Ráma sighed and nodded yes. She, too, loved her sister. "I will leave soon to do as you say. But I must attend the reception tonight with the emissaries from Gondor. These men mean nothing to us, but I can't afford to draw attention by my absence. When the evening ends, I will return to the Cat's Paw, pack my belongings, and leave early in the morning."

"Good, my little eaglet. And if I hear anything more about why Wyrma is here or what she plans to do, I will let you know. I plan to pay a little visit to Wyrma's and Falasmir's chambers later this afternoon."

"Be careful!" Ráma warned, "I will watch the skies for you and your message." She stepped back a pace or two, being careful not to hug or touch him, and then walked out of the stables, stopping just once to whisper greetings to each of the three stallions standing in their stalls.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:06 PM January 13, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Little rituals learned in childhood are not easily forgotten. Rôg rose from his seat at once at the entrance of the eagle. ‘We are honored, Elder,’ he said, bowing deeply once Surinen had made his brief introduction of her to Aiwendil, ‘to have your presence.’ As he raised himself back up, he noted the perplexed looks on the two men’s faces, and even the eagle had cocked her head at him as if she did not know what to respond. Embarrassed, the color rose from his neck to flood his cheeks, and he stammered out an apology. ‘I’ve misread things again, haven’t I,’ he asked, looking to the old man for some direction. ‘I think I shall leave you to speak among yourselves before my ignorance comes to the fore again.’ Rôg gave a small bow to all three and withdrew, saying to Aiwendil he would see to the preparations for the evening meal.

‘You are such a fool,’ he muttered to himself several times as he trod the distance to the camp’s well. He had picked up a large pot as he passed his and Aiwendil’s tent, intending to get enough water for tea and the making of the flat bread to serve with the stewed desert hen. He was nearly to the well, when he felt a small tug at the hem of his tunic.

‘Did you do something wrong?’ Miri’s worried voice halted him in his tracks, her frowning face looking up expectantly for an answer. He frowned back, about to remind her she was not supposed to visit him, when she stamped her foot, saying, ‘I promised not to let you teach me any more changing tricks . . . I didn’t exactly say I wouldn’t talk to you ever again.’ ‘And besides,’ she went one, looking about at the others who were nearing the well for their evening’s water, ‘there are plenty of nosy eyed grown-ups about to keep me in line, don’t you think.’ Rôg bit his lip to keep from laughing at the fiery spirit of this Eagle child. ‘I suppose you are right, little mistress,’ he concluded with a grin, resuming his walk. ‘Well, then,’ she demanded, ‘what’s wrong?’

Reaching the well, Rôg lowered the bucket with its rope and drew up more than enough for his needs. He passed the rest on to the next in line, and motioned for Miri to walk back with him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Everything I do, apparently. We both come from maenwaith clan, but our customs are so different I seem to stumble all over myself when I try to be helpful or polite.’ He explained his latest misjudgment to her, telling her of the eagle who had come to visit and how he had greeted her in the way he was taught to greet an Elder.

It was now Miri’s turn to be perplexed. ‘You thought the eagle was an Elder of our clan?’ She screwed up her face thinking. ‘Do your Elders come in your clan’s special shape when they come to visit? And if they come to visit, where do they live and where do you live?’ Miri pointed out some of the tents of her clan’s elders as they walked back to his. ‘Ours live right here with us. Don’t yours?’

‘Some do, little one,’ he explained as they reached his firepit. He let her build up the fire as he gathered the foodstuffs and pans needed for the meal preparation. ‘But a number,’ he continued explaining, ‘choose to live a little apart from us, in the big mountain caves on the rim of the northern desert.’ He set the pieces of hen to frying in the big iron pot, along with a handful of pungent herbs, dried onions and peppers from his pack and when the meat was browned, he covered it with the well water and set to cleaning the tubers one of the clanswomen had given him. He cut those into good sized chunks, letting Miri plop them into the pot as he finished.

Miri sat wondering all the while about that other desert and what it was like. She’d not heard tales of a desert up north, and looked askance at him, wondering if he were pulling a little prank on her. ‘And what do they do there in those caves . . . in the north, you said.’

By this time he had measured out a sizeable mound of flour, and making a little well in it, had poured in some oil, a little water, and a sprinkling of salt he’d ground in a mortar. ‘Mostly they talk to each other, I think,’ he went on, mixing the dough together, then dividing it in half so that she could help knead it on the smooth plank laid out for it. ‘They share the old stories, tell jokes, sing the old songs and make up new ones. And often they come in to visit the clan to see how things are going and to help out where they can. And best of all, to share the old tales and songs with us.’ He smiled at her, pinching the kneaded dough into balls to be patted into thin circles and baked on the flat bottom of a large heated pan. ‘Those are special times, exciting to hear the stories of old heroes and villains.’ ‘I like the stories, too,’ she told him. ‘But Narika is the one who tells our stories.’

‘We visit them, too,’ he continued, ‘especially when we are older than you. Fifteen or sixteen summers . . . that’s when the Elders begin to teach us our clan’s shape and the rules that go along with it.’ He smiled again, recalling his time with them. ‘And by the time we are twenty, for the most part, we have learned the change.’

‘You mean if you were Eagles they would teach you to change to an Eagle?’ Miri’s prow was furrowed as she tried to reason this out. ‘Girls and boys?’

‘Yes, both can do this,’ he said firmly. The stew was bubbling by this time; some of the water had boiled off, and the sauce had thickened a bit. Miri sniffed it appreciatively. ‘That smells good!’ she said with grin. ‘But I’ll bet my mami’s still tastes better than yours!’ ‘Probably so!’ laughed Rôg, throwing up his hands in surrender. ‘But,’ he said, winking at her, ‘my mami’s tastes best of all!’ Miri, in answer, simply shook her head at this statement with an impish grin on her face.

The circles of dough were set to cook on the hot surface of the pan. They required little attention save to turn then when they had bubbled up on top. And when they were done, they were stacked in a little basket, covered with a clean cloth, and set near the fire to keep warm. The kettle for tea was then made ready and set near the fire also to steep. Miri was not quite done with her questions and as they relaxed on their cushions she asked him how far away he lived from her.

‘Right now, my clan is south of yours . . . a number of weeks journey . . . at the south end of the mountains here. But soon we will go back to our real home in the north. The Elders have kept it safe for us. And that is very far from here . . . many, many weeks of travel if you were to come for a visit.’ Miri’s little face clouded over with this answer. ‘But you said you were going to visit your clan and see your Elders and you promised you were coming back,’ she grumbled, just on the verge of tears. ‘Now you say you won’t be back for a long, long, long time!’ ‘I won’t be that long,’ he assured her, gathering her close to him. ‘I promised I’d be back and I’ll hold to that. You’ll barely know I’ve been away.’

She looked up at him with one brow raised, a disbelieving look on her face. ‘And just how are you going to do that?’

He was saved from answering by the insistent call of her brother. It was meal time in their tent. Miri hopped up and ran after her sibling, who had already turned and headed for home. She waved to Rôg and called out over her shoulder, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow!’

Rôg waved back at her and turned back to the stewing hens. Spoon in hand he stirred the fragrant medley, awaiting the arrival of Aiwendil and his guests.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil watched as Rôg bowed and hurriedly withdrew from the tent, an expression of discomfort evident on his face. The istar turned away from his companion with a sigh, sensing that he could do little to help the young man, and instead concentrated his attention on Sorona. Aiwendil stared once and then twice at the familiar pattern of brown and grey feathers that covered the Eagle’s powerful wings: he had the distinct feeling that this was a figure from his past he should recognize. Sorona cocked her head and gazed up at him with oddly expectant eyes, half hopeful and half fearful, as if she thought the istar could unearth the central clue that would help her solve a riddle of great import. A stray memory tugged insistently from just outside the old man’s mind, but he could not recall when or where he had first met Sorona.

I cannot be this addled. Perhaps, she went by another name. What sort of Maia forgets such things? Yet, however Aiwendil struggled to discern the truth, he found only grey mists of forgetfulness draped over his mind like an intractable curtain.

The old man felt vaguely embarrassed. Trying to mask his disgruntlement, he stood up straight and formally addressed the bird, “I am afraid we have not met before. Is there something I can do to assist you?”

Sorona’s tail feathers drooped perceptibly. She had never forgotten their first meeting. The woman would not have been surprised if the old man had fussed at her. He was often like that, and she had given him genuine reasons to complain about her behavior. The one thing she had not counted on was that her rescuer had totally forgotten her, like a tiny nameless twig set adrift on a fast-flowing river. But perhaps he had really not forgotten her. Perhaps, her rescuer had been so appalled by who she was and what she had done that he wished to pretend he had never met her. She really could not blame him.

The Eagle replied in an equally formal tone but underlined with nervousness, “Thorondil, sir, I have been having dreams and….”

The old man quickly interrupted, “Please do not address me by that name. A simple ‘Aiwendil’ will do.”

Sorona nodded, “Yes, sir…..Aiwendil, sir. I have been having dreams. I believe these dreams may have something to do with the Eagles and their troubles. In any case, I thought I might speak with someone who could explain what these visions mean. Perhaps to you, or the leader of the clan.”

Aiwendil shook his head. “To me? No, I cannot help you. Ayar may want to hear your story. You might try speaking with her, though I fear she will soon be beyond all our voices, or with her daughter Narika.” The Eagle looked down at the brand on her claw and wondered if she dared speak to either of these women. They were likely to turn her away politely just as Aiwendil had done.

The istar averted his eyes and glanced over to Surinen, hastily adding, “I have guests this evening. Mithadan and Airefalas have promised to come for supper. I am sorry if this inconveniences the folk who have offered to put up the Gondorians. Please give my apologies to their host, but Mithadan is an old friend whom I have not seen for some time. You two are most welcome to join us.”

Surinen shook his head, “Thank you, but I am expected elsewhere.” Sorona nodded her head and mumbled similar apologies as she gracefully escaped out the door of the tent.

“In any case,” added Surinen, “I believe your guests are here.” He gestured towards Mithadan and Airefalas who were just arriving and then left.

Aiwendil added his welcome to the Gondorians, “Ah, I see they have allowed you to come. My companion Rôg has graciously prepared us a fine meal. Please come inside where we may eat and talk.” The two men proceeded to the inner chamber, while Aiwendil went over and drew the tent flap tight. A guard was stationed outside to make sure that Mithadan and his companion did not try to escape. But the canvas walls were quite substantial, and it was unlikely that he would overhear what was being said.

‘Radagast’, ‘Thorondil’… What next? But anything is better than Thorondil! Aiwendil shifted uncomfortably. The last time anyone had used that name was when Olorin had met him near Bombadil’s house to tell him that he would not be going back to Valinor on Cirdan’s ship, at least not yet. He pushed down these unpleasant memories and went inside where his guests were already seated on the pillows on the ground and Rôg had begun to bring in the food.

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time Narika had arrived in camp, most of the maenwaith had already gathered in family circles and were sharing their evening meal. The young woman halted just once, when one of the Elders emerged from a tent and hastily apprised her of some of the happenings and arrivals from earlier that afternoon. After thanking him for the news, she urged her horse forward, dismounted at the entrance to her mother’s tent, and rushed inside after briefly speaking with the guard to make certain that there had been no further mishaps.

Narika fell into her sister’s arms, embracing Ráma with a warmth born of both affection and urgency. Her sister sat near Ayar’s bedside; more ominously, her mother had fallen into a deep sleep from which she showed no signs of waking. Seeing the unspoken query in Narika’s eyes, Ráma responded bluntly, “I fear she is dying. Earlier this afternoon, she spoke with me. She seemed weak but alert. Yet for the past hour, neither Yalisha or I can rouse her.”

Narika glanced at her sister. Unlike Ráma, she had nursed her mother for several days and understood that the poison would ultimately take her life. Her twin had only arrived home and had not had time to accept the situation. “I’m sorry,” she responded softly. “From the first we knew there was little hope. I am only glad you came in time. At least you have spoken with her.”

“Yes, and she had much to say. About what should happen to the Eagles and….”

Narika interrupted. “I will hear your own news and mother’s words later. I think we may need to sit up tonight, to stay with mother. Only now you must go and rest. Eat something, and brush the dust of the road from your clothes.”

Too tired to argue, Ráma mutely nodded her head and turned to leave when Narika’s voice suddenly followed after her, “There is one thing though about these strangers: the men who came with you, and the Eagle… Can they be trusted?”

“Yes, Mithadan and Airefalas have already proven to be honorable men. Mithadan has an errand that concerns a maenwaith friend. And mother knows Sorona the Eagle. She spoke out on her behalf.”

“Sorona, you say?”

“Yes, that is the name she goes by.”

Narika’s face remained impassive but a hint of suspicion showed in her eyes. To her sister, she only said, “This is not a good time. I wish you had left them behind.”

“They are good people, sister. I am sure of it. I will plead their case before the Elders, if it comes to that.”

“You may need to. There are tongues wagging all over camp. And even I would not trust strangers so easily. It is enough that we have extended a hand to Aiwendil and Rôg.”

Ráma started to object but then stopped herself. This was not the time or place for such a discussion. “We will speak of it later then.” She turned and quickly left the tent.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Making way for the Gondorians to pass, Surinen stiffened and putting on a formal air as he returned the first mate’s courteous nod, he saw no malice in the tall man’s glance, and so relaxed a little. But the moment the two had disappeared into the tent, he went up to the armed guards as they approached, grilling them in his good-natured way, on the behavior of the northerners. He was a little surprised as well as relieved to find their conduct described as faultless, the guard even going so far as to say that they took direction well under the circumstances.

“They seek to make a good impression!” Surinen pronounced wagging his finger. But attention swiftly turned from the outrider to the tent opening when to the dismay of all, the thick flap descended and was tightly secured by unseen hands. “Ah, what plans might be hatched in there? Only the unlooked for dinner guest might discover that mystery!” Surinen winked at one guard knowingly "I’ll leave you to your work then, Yemnya,” he said turning to leave and almost running into Sorona who waited behind him.

“No Surinen, they should not be disturbed,” the eagle advised. “Unless much has changed Aiwendil is honorable, and he would neither harm your encampment nor encourage others to do so.”

“This from an eagle I met only today,” Surinen sighed. “But a wise eagle no doubt, and one who seems to share the same trust in Aiwendil as Ayar.” But Sorona was looking around as he spoke, seemingly preoccupied with some other matter. “Perhaps both eagles are right, and we should leave them be,” then addressing Sonora he said, “Come friend, I know where there is ample food for us and a good lady who would be glad to share our company at dinner.”

“Thank you Surinen, but no. I would speak as soon as possible with Narika, if you would take me to her tent,” the bird said looking rather crestfallen.

“I would if I could, but I can not fly, you see…and she is far away just now. She should return soon though, for her mother has sent for her. Meanwhile, humor me by being the guest of my family, for we would welcome you heartily.”

“Then I will wait with your family until she arrives,” Sorona said accepting the invitation.

When they arrived back at Fador’s tent, Latah had finished sweeping the hard ground and had already put down the mats unrollingthe mattresses to preparing beds for her guests. Neither Narayad nor Fador had come back since Surinen had left, and their plates still sat, covered with a brightly embroidered cloth, at the edge of the table in anticipation of their return.

“Surinen it is you! I thought that Narayad had returned.”

“No it is only me, and bringing a guest to share in your feast,” he replied smiling. “That is if we are invited, and you have enough for us.”

Latah grinned and stepping up to the eagle said, “My cousin has told me about you Sorona. Please forgive Surinen for not introducing us properly; he is rude by nature and not design. And I believe him to be quite hungry by now! I am Latah and you both are most welcome to share food in my father’s tent. ”

“As for her introduction, my cousin is too modest. I would present to you Latah, an excellent cook and generous hostess, and more a sister to me than cousin, as you can see. You are now in the tent of the elder that is her father, and the one I have neglected to look for,” he said sheepishly turning back to Latah. “I have not seen him at all today,” he shrugged.

“Thank you Latah, for your kindness. It has been a long time since I have shared food with others." Sorona said.

[Ealasaide]

Mithadan and Airefalas arrived at the tent of the elderly istar just as the eagle, Sorona, and one of the tribal outriders, a lean and wiry fellow they had seen around the camp, were departing. Airefalas stepped out of their way as they passed, exchanging a glance with the outrider, who seemed to regard him with suspicion at best. Airefalas met the outrider's eyes with an even gaze and nodded courteously. The outrider responded in kind, but, even so, Airefalas had the distinct impression that this fellow trusted his and Mithadan's motives about as far as he could spit into a strong headwind, which was not far at all.

He supposed such a reaction should be only expected, considering the timing of his and Mithadan's arrival into the Eagle camp. With the tribal leader lying on the brink of death, the victim of an unknown assassin's strike, and the tribe itself poised on the brink of war, Airefalas knew that they were fortunate to have been granted as much hospitality and freedom as they had. The fact that he and Mithadan had been allowed to keep their weapons and wear them openly was tribute to one of two things: either Ráma's good will and considerable influence within the tribe, or the tribe's underlying desire to see Gondor as an ally, even a distant one, until proven otherwise. Either way, as much as being under constant guard chafed at him, Airefalas understood very well that their reception could have been much worse. He only hoped that it would not take too much time to win the trust of the tribespeople, but he knew better than to be overly optimistic. In difficult times, trust could be very hard won.

Accompanying Mithadan into the istar's tent, he noticed both that the guard that had accompanied him and Mithadan over from their own tent had been left outside, and that the heavy tent flap had been secured tightly behind them once they had gone inside. To Airefalas, this was a good sign. Perhaps some of the questions and secrets that had tantalized them since their arrival would finally be addressed. Following Mithadan's example, he took a seat on one of the many cushions that graced the floor of the tent and waited as the istar and his younger companion joined them. As Mithadan and Aiwendil made the required introductions of himself and Rôg, he bowed politely when appropriate and thanked his hosts for their hospitality. Then, he fell into silence, watching and listening as Aiwendil and Mithadan entered into a friendly conversation about the terms of their prior acquaintance, Mithadan's wife, and so on, while Rôg busied himself with the food.

Finally, catching Rôg's eye, Airefalas leaned forward. "I notice, Rôg, that you and your companion, while not being of the Eagle tribe, are not held under guard either," he said in a friendly tone. "Do you share a long acquaintance with the Eagles?"

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘It is Aiwendil who has no guard, actually,’ returned Rôg, kneeling down near Airefalas, a tray in his hands. With an economy of motion he poured a small cup of fragrant wine for the man and passed it to him, then did the same for Mithadan and the old man. Mithadan nodded at him, then returned to some reminiscence about a certain journal. Aiwendil’s face softened as the captain spoke on, his head nodding thoughtfully.

Taking a cup of wine for himself, Rôg sat down on a cushion near Airefalas. ‘And if you look closely when I’m out and about, I do have a guard. Though a rather lackadaisical one at most. I fear he feels slighted that I have not proven to be more dangerous.’ He picked up a small tray of savories he had brought in earlier and offered them to Airefalas; then placed them on a low table near Aiwendal and Mithadan. ‘In fact, I heard him grumble to one of his friends that he felt like some old Granny herding a grandchild about.’ Rôg laughed and pointed to Airefalas’ blade. ‘Perhaps I should borrow your sword and saunter about a little outside the tent. My guard could then think of himself with the same level of esteem as your guards.’ Rôg sipped at his wine, His eyes sliding every so often to where Aiwendil sat. The old man’s head was inclined near Mithadan’s, his voice pitched low.

Rôg drew his attention back to the younger man sitting near him. ‘It was only by chance that we came to the Eagle camp. We were on our way to the city in Umbar, actually. To get supplies for a birding expedition, actually.’ At the frown on Airefalas’ face he explained they had come south so that he could show the old fellow the different sorts of bird life found here. ‘A set of unfortunate circumstances set the course that ended here . . . with us as “guests” of the Eagles.’ He refilled Airefalas’ cup as well as his. ‘To be honest, I do have some acquaintance with the Eagle Clan, but only in passing, and many years ago when I was only a child. I’ve been away a number of years. Many things have changed . . .’

Rôg colored slightly, realizing he had been the one doing most of the talking.

‘Please, excuse my rudeness,’ he offered as an apology. ‘Here you are, Aiwendil’s guest, and I have let you say little . . . won’t you tell me a little of yourself? How is it that you find yourself in the Eagle camp?’ He raised a brow at Airefalas. ‘It will be interesting to hear the real story.’ He laughed again. ‘You would not believe the tales that I’ve heard at the well early in the mornings . . . colorful rumors - flying thickly among the women . . .’