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Her feet were still marked with calluses from the road, her heart still graven with the hardships of the past year, when she was ushered into this household. Inzilbêth hoped the courtiers looked at her still-hollow cheeks and felt the shadow of hunger pass over them. She hoped they listened to reports of the razing of the Andustar, still ongoing, unlikely to be completed for several years, unless the prince threw caution to the winds and began ordering burnings instead of demolishment, and thought of their estates. She made sure they saw her regularly, so they could not forget.
But there was little beyond that that Inzilbêth, lately niece of the Lord of Andúnië, now Princess Inzilbêth, could do. Ar-Zimrathôn was bedridden and seen by no one, save for his physicians and his son, daughter-in-law and grandson (Queen Gimilinzil having long since removed from the capital to one of the royal estates in the Hyarrostar); Inzilbêth had never met him, not even on the day she was married. With the King bedridden and his heir, Prince Sakalthôr ever concerned with maintaining order in the colonies, his grandson, Gimilzôr, was King in all but name, and he brooked no rivals to his power, not even (especially not) his new wife.
Though Inzilbêth was loath to admit it, there were many details of her life in Armenelos that were no different than the life she had lived in Andúnië. She kept large, lavishly appointed apartments, was waited upon by three handmaidens and a young page who spent the better part of his time running errands for her, and she spent much of her own time out among the members of the royal court.
This was not Andúnië, though. Adûnaic was the favored tongue here, not Sindarin, and anyone caught speaking the latter suffered punishments ranging from fines to whippings to confiscation of property. Gimilzôr had made it quite clear to her that her position would not protect her from the consequences of being caught speaking the ‘enemy’s’ language. Her handmaidens bore Adûnaic names, and Inzilbêth was not entirely convinced that they didn’t bear tales of her behavior back to her husband. There was no one in the royal court whom Inzilbêth was at this point prepared to call her friend. Her family was shut up in Rómenna, and Inzilbêth forbidden to have any contact with them.
I was never a hostage in Andúnië. Inzilbêth looked out one of her windows on the city, her lips twisting bitterly. That must inevitably color everything.
The Andustar had risen in revolt against the crown. However short-lived that revolt might have been, it could not be forgotten or excused. The ailing king had given his grandson the power to punish the rebels however he saw fit, and Gimilzôr had been quite… thorough in his chastisements.
Of course, there was no proof that the Lord of Andúnië or any of his family had played any part in fomenting the revolt. If there was, the offenders would surely have found their way to the gallows, with the other leaders of the revolt. But the prince was not a man willing to trust to lack of evidence. So Inzilbêth was taken from them, more a hostage than a bride, and now, the hostage wondered what exactly she could do to show her husband that, even caged, she still had teeth.
-0-0-0-
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Not at all,” Princess Nilûphel murmured, smiling that nervous, twitching smile of hers. Her hands fluttered in the empty air between them. "We are kin through marriage and through blood. You should not have to come to me as a supplicant.”
Her mother-in-law, queen in all but name with Gimilinzil gone, had first come to Inzilbêth’s attention at the latter’s wedding, as a small, pale woman who seemed distinctly ill at ease with her surroundings and her company. In fact, despite the richness of her clothing and the jewels at her throat and fingers, Inzilbêth had not thought her the queen (queen-in-waiting, but still) at all. She didn’t expect a queen, even a queen consort, to be such a shadow of a woman.
And yet, she was, and Inzilbêth found herself meeting with Nilûphel here, in apartments rather more grand and rather less like a cage than her own. One of Nilûphel’s handmaidens, a silent girl clad in robes of blue and gray, with a black scarf dangling from her arms, brought in a plate loaded down with dried fruit and cheese, while another, identically dressed, came bearing a tray containing a blue-and-red painted decanter, and two glass cups. The two girls nodded to the queen and left. Neither of them looked at Inzilbêth.
Nilûphel took the decanter in her hands and poured what turned out to be wine into the two cups provided. Inzilbêth’s eyebrows shot up, in spite of herself; she had rarely known noblewomen to serve guests wine when they came to visit, especially not so early in the morning.
Nilûphel let out a stream of high, tinkling laughter. “Pardon me, Inzilbêth, but I find a glass of wine calms my nerves. I can have Zôrnitîr bring you rosewater or coffee instead, if you’d prefer it.”
“I don’t mind,” Inzilbêth assured her. Then she asked, with a slight frown, “If I may, Madam, what is it that troubles you?”
“Nothing in particular,” Nilûphel answered her, rather too quickly, Inzilbêth thought. “I simply find myself unsettled at odd times. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Inzilbêth wasn’t certain that she believed Nilûphel on that score. Such a woman had many reasons to be anxious, and few to confide them in anyone. However, it was not for her to press, and if at all possible, Inzilbêth would rather avoid making enemies unnecessarily. “Well, I was curious about you.”
“Oh?” Nilûphel murmured over the rim of her cup. “Is that all?”
“Is that insufficient?”
Another high-pitched laugh rang in the air. “I have found that very few people are curious about me simply because they can be. There is usually some deeper reason behind it.”
That was as good an invitation as any. Inzilbêth curled her hand around her cup, keeping her eyes slightly downcast. “While I hope that the day that I assume such a title is still far off, I had wondered what you could tell me about the… responsibilities that come with being the queen.”
At this, Nilûphel froze, her blue-gray eyes snapping to Inzilbêth’s face. Inzilbêth drew back slightly in her chair. Have I gone too far? I can’t imagine what it is about the question that could provoke such a response. After a long moment, she seemed to recover. “I can remember, even now, when my daughter asked me such things. I will tell you what I told her. A queen patronizes artists and musicians, though none the king would disapprove of. She sets the example for all the women of the court in matters of dress and decorum, and in these areas she must never fail. At times, she takes young girls from noble families into her household and educates them, and if they behave poorly, their ill behavior reflects poorly upon the queen. And like all women, the queen may move her husband to mercy in certain matters.” She smiled, a brief twitching of muscles, trying too hard to appear untroubled. “That is what a queen does.”
Princess Nilûphêr had likely meant that question rather differently from how her mother had interpreted it, but Princess Nilûphêr did not reside in Armenelos anymore. She had refused to give up her rights to the Scepter when ordered to by her father and grandfather, but had quit Armenelos not long afterwards. Inzilbêth wasn’t sure what had happened, if Nilûphêr had fallen ill, been threatened, both or neither. She’d found no one who was willing to speak of it, and didn’t dare asking Nilûphel or especially Gimilzôr. All Inzilbêth knew was that Nilûphêr had defiantly refused to give up her rights, only to make a sudden reversal not long afterwards, and quit the royal court and Armenelos itself. That choice had probably been the wisest she could make. Gimilinzil had made it as well. It was a road Inzilbêth wished she could take, but being shut to her, she would have to find others.
Inzilbêth reached forward and pressed her fingertips to the back of Nilûphel’s pale, slightly bony hand. “But that’s not how it always was,” she pointed out in a soft voice. “In the past, the queen, even a consort, had more power than that.”
“That is the past,” Nilûphel said sharply, frowning intently at Inzilbêth. “Today, things are as I told you, and if you are wise…” Her mouth twisted in a grimace, her eyes shining over-bright “…if you are wise, you will heed my words, and reach no higher.”
This was a woman who’d likely had ample experience watching what became of those who reached too high. Inzilbêth looked Nilûphel over, resisting the urge to worry at her lip. Was this her future? She could easily imagine it—she and Nilûphel already looked a fair bit alike, both pale, narrow-faced, black-haired women, though Inzilbêth was much taller than Nilûphel, and her eyes dark gray rather than pale bluish-gray. If they became alike in character…
“I understand,” Inzilbêth said contritely. “I’ve upset you; I’ll leave.”
Nilûphel made no attempt to stop her, but nevertheless smiled weakly when Inzilbêth sketched a shallow bow.
Out in the corridor, Inzilbêth pressed her hand over her mouth, brow furrowed.
-0-0-0-
One of Inzilbêth’s favorite spring pastimes had been had been to tour the Nísimaldar just as the trees were coming to full bloom. She’d go with her friends and her cousins (numerous as they were), and there were some years when they would stay for days at a time, in one of the lodges by the banks of the Nísinen, or in the house a Lord of Andúnië had built there long ago for their pleasure, and the pleasure of their family. Inzilbêth had loved to swim in the lake, the air around her thick with the sweet scent of millions of flowers.
Well, many of the trees of the Nísimaldar grew only in the west of Númenor, and never again would Inzilbêth swim in the Nísinen, or visit any of her old haunts in the Andustar. Armenelos was a great city with few trees, and most of the Orrostar and Hyarrostar all but completely deforested for the great Númenorean fleet. But Armenelos was at least a city with many flower gardens, especially around the royal palace.
Absent her friends and family, Inzilbêth would have preferred to roam the royal gardens alone. She could at least have solitude in quasi-imprisonment, couldn’t she? But it was not befitting her station to be seen outside unattended. One of her handmaidens, Lômibêl, accompanied her outside today, though the girl at least had the decency to keep silent and walk a few paces behind her.
The sky was a faint blue, marred by a haze of smoke rising from the southeast. The air was hot and still, without even the slightest breeze. The flowers were in full bloom, red and yellow and white, with some blue and pink interspersed between, but Inzilbêth thought they already looked a little wilted.
Inzilbêth turned her gaze northwest to the neglected Meneltarma. Its eastern slope was black, the vestige of a fire Inzilbêth was told had broken out there nearly a year ago. ‘The tombs of the Kings were unharmed,’ she had been told, as though that was the only thing that mattered. But then, to the people of Armenelos, it might well really be the only thing that mattered.
What else can I do with my time? Inzilbêth mused, sighing heavily. I can’t write letters to my family, and any letter I write to anyone else would be screened. I can’t travel; that tyrant seems to think that if I quit Armenelos, I’ll vanish in a puff of smoke. Any books or scrolls I request from the library will be screened for ‘offensive’ content. Inzilbêth rolled her eyes. I’d be very surprised if there was anything left in the royal library possessing ‘offensive’ content. I could always request painting supplies. Even he can’t find anything objectionable about painting, can he?
Just then, Inzilbêth heard a low buzz of voices from beyond the garden walls. She looked toward the gate, frowning. That’s odd. The garden doesn’t usually see large groups of people until later in the afternoon. She took a few steps towards the gate, but what she heard next stopped her cold.
A sharp crack rang through the air; with a jolt, Inzilbêth recognized it as being the crack of a whip. A moment later there came a dull thud and another bout of low whispers. Then, there came a hard voice that rose above all the rest. “This is the one?”
Inzilbêth knew that voice.
She strode towards the wrought-iron gate, her pace quickening with every step. As she neared the gate, Lômibêl caught up to her and put a quivering hand on her shoulder. “Your Highness, we should go back inside,” she hissed, but Inzilbêth glared at her, undeterred, and Lômibêl quailed and fell silent.
Inzilbêth passed through the gate, Lômibêl close behind her. Here was an open lawn with a few trees and a small crowd of tense, whispering spectators forming a half-circle around Gimilzôr, two guards, and a young boy who knelt on his knees in the grass.
No one took notice of the princess or her handmaiden as they drew nearer, their attention thoroughly fixated on the sight before them. Inzilbêth first turned her attention to Gimilzôr, and nearly recoiled at the look on his face. His steel gray eyes had the cool, considering look of a cat contemplating a mouse, his full mouth twisted in a sneer. “So here is our latest miscreant,” he remarked, folding his arms about his chest.
The boy tried to stand, but one of the guards planted his hand between the boy’s shoulders and shoved him back to the ground. “I’m not a miscreant!” he protested.
“Silence!” the other guard snarled, clouting the boy about the back of his head. “Prince Gimilzôr didn’t say you could speak!”
I recognize that voice. Inzilbêth peered more closely at the being, and when recognition dawned, it was as though the cold of winter had come and burrowed deep into her bones.
She recognized the boy as Elendur, the twelve-year-old son of two minor nobles from the north of the Andustar. Evidence had been found linking his parents to the revolt, which had seen the two of them hanged and their children disinherited. As far as Inzilbêth knew, Elendur and his siblings were living under the protection of their maternal uncle. What on earth was he doing here, in Armenelos?
Drawing a deep breath, Inzilbêth crossed the lawn to where her husband stood with his would-be victim before him, and called out, “My Lord, has this child offended you?”
At once, all eyes were on Inzilbêth. The crowd’s were speculative; the guards’ impatient. Elendur’s eyes sparked with hope unlooked-for. Gimilzôr’s flashed with surprise, but he recovered quickly, and said evenly, “The boy has done more than offend me, Inzilbêth. He is a criminal.”
Inzilbêth summoned what she hope was a reasonable smile to her face. “I confess myself uncertain as to how this child could be a criminal, my Lord. He is of but tender years.” She gestured to Elendur, who thankfully had found the sense to stay silent. “Surely there must be some misunderstanding…”
Gimilzôr scoffed. “No misunderstanding. He was caught crossing the border of the Andustar a week ago. The boy is an exile who seems to think that exile is something he can flout as he pleases.”
Inzilbêth froze. She could think of many ways to reply to that, but none that would not cause things to go ill for her later.
Apparently Gimilzôr had taken her silence as assent, for he turned his full attention back to Elendur—and, Inzilbêth noticed, to the crowd standing behind him. “I hardly find it surprising that the child of traitors reveals himself a traitor as well. In spite of his… tender years,” he said slowly, nodding to Inzilbêth with an odd smile on his face, “there is no doubt that he is a traitor to my grandfather, my father, and to myself.” Inzilbêth’s blood roared in her ears. “I—“
Before he could say any more, Inzilbêth threw herself on the ground at his feet, her blood-red robes tangling around her legs. She clasped her hands together and stared beseechingly up into Gimilzôr’s face. For his part, Gimilzôr took a step back from her, but Inzilbêth still cried out, “My Lord, please reconsider! If he has been taught ill by his parents, surely he can be taught better, if only he is given into the care of someone able to do so! He is not a robber, or a rapist or a murderer; I am certain he could improve, if given the opportunity. Please, show leniency.”
Gimilzôr gawked at her, his eyes round with shock. After all, Inzilbêth had been so quiet when he ripped her from the arms of her family, and so quiet through everything else he had done to her. Who would have expected her to raise her voice now?
He looked past her to the crowd, and Inzilbêth watched with sudden trepidation as he clenched his hands into fists. Perhaps it was not a good idea to come so close to him. “Take him back to the cells,” Gimilzôr told the guards shortly. “I will reserve judgment until a later time.”
Inzilbêth resisted the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. I hope that worked. If he has Elendur hanged anyways…
“Inzilbêth.” Gimilzôr uncurled one of his hands and held it out to her. His face was mostly expressionless, though Inzilbêth thought something about it looked… stretched. “I would speak with you.”
Reluctantly, Inzilbêth took her husband’s hand and allowed him to lead her away from the dispersing crowd, back into the garden. Lômibêl followed them at a distance, and for once, Inzilbêth wished she would follow more closely. Gimilzôr was silent, and Inzilbêth did nothing to break the silence. Her heart began to pound painfully in her chest.
It’s easy to think of finding ways to oppose him when I’m not actually in his company.
“The boy, Gimilbên, will be transferred to your household, and put to work as your page,” Gimilzôr said suddenly.
Inzilbêth nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Gimilzôr stopped walking, and placed his hands heavily on Inzilbêth’s shoulders. “You said that the boy could improve if taught better ways. That is now your responsibility,” he said sternly, frowning deeply. “I will be watching him closely. Any further sign of misbehavior will be attributed to… negligence on your part. Do you understand, Inzilbêth?” he asked silkily.
“I do,” Inzilbêth said coolly, meeting his gaze squarely.
“Good. Then we have nothing further to discuss.”
The wind finally picked up, blowing through Inzilbêth’s robes, as she watched Gimilzôr stalk off towards the palace. She bit her lip.
Before she was taken to Armenelos, her mother had come to her. Lindórië had counseled Inzilbêth to try to persuade her husband to relent in his persecution of the Faithful, to try to turn him away from the King’s Men and back to the Valar. Back then, Inzilbêth had sworn that she would never expend such effort on the man, and now, she thought that if Lady Lindórië had asked her to pluck the Moon down from the sky, she could not have asked her to do something more impossible.
Her mother had counseled her to keep the teachings of the Faithful in her heart. That was rather more easily accomplished, but now, she was to take Elendur and do… what, exactly?
Inzilbêth sighed, and wondered if this was how it would always be—to bare her teeth, only to be bitten in return.