Tha an cuibhle a’ tionndadh — The Wheel Turns

  Celebrian, 5th of June, Year 67 B.A.

  Little by little, life in Rohan had returned to something resembling normality — as far as that was possible with a new heir. And with the Crown Council. My son was not yet three months old, and already those old men were discussing a separate household for him, or even a betrothal. Fortunately, they could decide nothing without my signature. I still wore the fashion of Arnor: heavy undergowns, fine embroidery, long sleeves. And beneath them my corset, which the Rohirrim considered a strange garment. But I was grateful for it. It carried the weight of the clothing, supported my back, and helped me stand upright. Not a cage, but a support. A myth the women here would never understand.

  During my confinement I had read a great deal. Théodred had brought me books — grammar, poetry, old tales of Rohan. My Rohirric was still far from elegant, but I could now hold simple conversations and understood most of the servants’ instructions. The household staff still spoke Rohirric among themselves, fast and melodic, and sometimes I recognized individual words. Still, I knew it was not enough. I was queen of a people whose language I only half mastered. And I still had no ladies-in-waiting from the great families of Rohan. I had already been reminded twice that it was “high time” to invite young women. A queen without a retinue was a bad sign — and a dangerous one.

  Today, however, Théodred and I had taken time for ourselves. Hours together outside our bedchamber were rare. We had grown accustomed to one another by now. Whether we felt “enough love” for each other, as a good marriage should, I did not know. But we tried. And sometimes that was enough.

  “Celebrian?” Théodred’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

  “Tha mi an seo,” I answered.

  He gave a faint smile. “Have you given any thought to Arnor?”

  I blinked. “What kind of question is that. I think about Arnor constantly. What are you getting at?”

  He hesitated. “You are the heir after our son. And Alasdair will, if Eru wills it, be King of Rohan. But he cannot rule in two places at once. Which means Arnor would be governed through Rohan. And a kingdom without a king is vulnerable.”

  I sighed. “Do we really have to talk politics when we finally have a moment alone?”

  He brushed a strand of hair from my face. “I don’t want to see you so worried. But this concerns our future. And who knows when we will next have the chance to speak openly?”

  “Very well. What do you propose?”

  “We have two possibilities, and both depend on luck. Either our next son becomes the heir of Arnor… or your mother makes a good match after the mourning year and bears a child. Then the royal houses would be separated again.”

  I stared at him. “You make it sound so simple. You speak of another son as if one could buy an heir at the marketplace. Have you ever considered how many women die in childbirth?”

  “Yes, I am aware. But you are young and healthy, you should not trouble yourself with such thoughts.”

  I knew he meant to reassure me. It only made me angrier.

  Before I could reply, a messenger entered. “Majesty, Your Highness? Forgive the interruption, but I bring an urgent letter from Arnor. The Regent instructed me to deliver it to you personally.”

  I took the letter, leaned against the cool wall of Meduseld, and broke the seal. My mother’s handwriting was hurried, unusually unsteady.

  I read:

  > My dear daughter, I hope this letter reaches you as swiftly as possible. As you know, I have reliable informants in Gondor. Therefore I will forgo further explanations, for time is running short. The condition of King Eldarion has deteriorated massively in recent weeks. They speak of an accident and an inflamed wound. What truly happened, we do not know.

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  > The fact is that the Crown Council governs the land until the king recovers. Should he not, Eru have mercy on us! Though Eldarion has committed faults, he always strove to preserve the fragile peace between Gondor and Rohan. He witnessed the consequences of the War of the Ring from childhood and wished to cause no further suffering.

  > But if the worst comes to pass, dark years lie ahead. Unless a civil war breaks out between the Crown Council and the royal family, the throne will pass to Princess Sienna. She is young and, according to reports, temperamental. Who can foresee what she will do once she holds power? Unless she has been quietly married off, she is bound to no man. It will therefore be very difficult to set limits for her.

  > Until we know more, I can give you no better advice than to prepare for a storm. Do not lull yourself into false security!

  I let the letter sink and drew a long breath. “Dhia gleidh righ Eldarion…”

  Eru protect King Eldarion.

  Théodred took the parchment from my hand and read it as well. His face grew serious, then hard. “We must summon the council.”

  The council members gathered faster than I would have liked. Théodred read the letter aloud, and a restless murmur swept through the hall. The maidservants at the edges whispered in Rohirric, too quickly for me to understand everything. Only a few words stood out: Gondor… king… danger.

  Hergon, the eldest councillor, cleared his throat. “Majesty… if Gondor stands without a king… and if the heir is young and inexperienced… then Rohan could—”

  “No.” Théodred’s voice was sharp as a blade.

  But Hergon continued: “I merely say that there were times when the realms were united under one banner. If Rohan—”

  “Enough.” I stepped forward. “You speak of a war no one can win.”

  Ceorl, a younger councillor, crossed his arms. “But if the heir is unpredictable… if she makes mistakes… if Gondor grows weak… then Rohan will weaken with it.”

  I lifted my chin. “She is only a year younger than I am.”

  Théodred cast me a brief look, then addressed the council. “But unlike you, she does not drink herself senseless in taverns. Sienna was sent to Dol Amroth only recently because she is apparently unpredictable and barely educated. And we do not have the manpower for such a war.”

  Then Eadgar spoke — the most ambitious of them. “Forgive me, Majesty… but there is another possibility.”

  My stomach tightened. “Which?”

  “If the Regent of Arnor were to remarry,” he said slowly, “and bear a child… a child by a man of one of the old houses of Gondor… then that child could make a claim. A legitimate one.”

  Silence. Icy. Cutting.

  I swallowed. “You speak of my mother.”

  “I speak of stability,” Eadgar replied. “Of a solution without bloodshed.”

  My throat burned. Mother had written to me herself that she would remarry after the mourning year. But to hear it spoken aloud… as if she were a tool… struck me harder than I expected.

  Théodred stepped to my side. “This idea will not be pursued.”

  No one objected. But the thought hung in the air like smoke. And I knew it would not vanish.

  When the councillors had left, I remained standing for a moment. Théodred placed a hand on my back.

  “Tha thusa ceart,” I murmured. You are right.

  “Chan eil thu nad aonar,” he answered. You are not alone.

  I nodded, but words alone were not enough. If Eldarion died, Gondor would falter. And if Gondor faltered, Rohan would be dragged down with it. I could not wait for the storm to reach us. I had to act.

  “Send me Maelwyn and Ealric,” I told the captain. “At once.”

  Maelwyn arrived first. “Majesty?”

  “We will invite ladies-in-waiting. From the great families of Edoras, the Westfold, and the Eastfold. I need a retinue that supports me, and the people must see that I have their daughters at my side.”

  Maelwyn bowed. “I will prepare the lists.”

  Ealric, commander of the messengers, entered. I handed him two sealed parchments.

  “This one goes to Fornost. Directly to the Regent.”

  He nodded.

  “And this one to Tariél… If anyone knows what is happening, it is her.”

  Ealric bowed. “It will be done.”

  When he left, I drew a deep breath. Théodred stepped beside me.

  “You act quickly.”

  “I must. If I wait, others will act in my place.”

  He rested his forehead against mine.

  “Tha an cuibhle a’ tionndadh,” I murmured. The wheel turns.

  “Agus cumaidh sinn oirnn,” he replied. And we turn with it.

  In the evening the hall was empty, yet the councillors’ words still hung in the air like cold smoke. I stood at the window of Meduseld, hands on the sill, gazing out over the dark plains. The wind carried the scent of rain. A storm was coming.

  I had thought long since reading the letter and had reached a decision. Alasdair’s birth was nearly three months past. The healer had impressed upon me after the confinement that I must not allow my husband back into my bed until she gave her approval.

  “How long?” I had asked.

  “That differs for every woman. It takes at least three moons for your body to recover somewhat, but you heal in your own time.”

  I sighed. I felt well, but physically still very vulnerable. Yet in the current situation I could not remain idle.

  Théodred approached. “I wanted to say farewell. I will be away for the next two days.”

  “Théodred?” I hesitated, then forced myself. “Would you come to my chamber later?”

  He looked at me in surprise. “Has the healer permitted it?”

  I nodded and forced a smile. “Yes.”

  Théodred took my right hand and studied it as if he could find answers there. “And you are certain you are ready?”

  The sudden shift to du unsettled me; it felt wrong to lie to him. But it had to be done. So I squeezed his hand encouragingly and nodded.

  “Yes, I am ready.”

  And so it was decided. I received Théodred in my bed that night and prayed silently to Eru. Not only for an heir — but that it would not be painful.