The Great City
The final push to Minas Tirith was uneventful and relaxing. The three friends rode along the broad and ancient highway which was here well kept and well travelled, for they were now in the heartland of the oldest surviving realm of mortal men.
Towering mountains slid precipitously downward to the valley where Anduin swept unseen toward the great ocean. They made their last camp on the slopes of Amon Din and the next night they partook of a well appointed inn where each had their own small room and they shared a rich meal which they took with the rich, dark ale favored in Anorien. Here, Rhavanielle went bare headed, for elves were not looked on with suspicion in Gondor. Scholars and minstrels from Imladris and the elf havens of the Falas travelled from time to time to Minas Tirith to trade and learn the news of the wider world. The trio made the acquaintance of several young students and together made merry late into the night.
They slept late the next day and, after sharing a much belated breakfast with their Gondorian friends, they set out for Minas Tirith, reaching the great gate just before nightfall.
The dwarves looked up in wonder at the great promontory of rock rising to dizzying heights above them as they entered into the gate plaza. Gulls winged in wide circles above them, crying plaintively as though mocking their inability to see the true majesty of the city from the ground. Rhavanielle had seen many wonders but though she was among the First, she had never seen the cities of Aman. Or even of Beleriand. They all lived only in her imagination and were every bit the fable that they were to her traveling companions.
“I have not been to this city in many years. But it seems little changed to me,” she told them. “I think we can find lodgings more sumptuous than any we've had together!” They boarded their mounts and went northeastward through the city's lowest circle. She stepped off with a bounce and the dwarves tagged along, gawking here and there.
Rhavanielle led them surely but at a leisurely pace to a well appointed townhouse which, unlike so many of the others was nearly freshly whitewashed with a bright orange trim. The elf rapped upon the door with her staff and it opened slightly. A sturdy, beardless young man with jet hair tied behind looked them over curiously. “Yes?”
“I am Rhavanielle and these two sturdy fellows are my friends, Sfeithi and Gorm. I am seeking the house of Martinus Cortana. This should be it.”
The youth's eyes widened in the way a guileless youth's will as he studied her face. “Yes..you have found it indeed, madam. Enter and be welcome,” he said, bowing before the tall elf maid in her homespun Rohirric gown. He nodded to the dwarves, taking them for bodyguards, for they still wore mail coats and had their weapons tucked into their belts. He led them into a parlor equipped with the heavy but artfully decorated furniture then in fashion in Gondor.
The boy explained, “I am Hadiron, son of Martinus and Alianora. I will fetch father. Please take your ease.” Hadiron disappeared and within a few moments, the squeaking of old steps heralded the appearance of the patriarch of the house.
Martinus Cortana stood half a head taller than the elf, his height and his black hair and beard shot through with silver and his flinty blue eyes showed his pure Numenorean ancestry. His features showed the lines of age, but his eyes twinkled to see a friend from his youth appear so unexpectedly. He grinned broadly as Rhavanielle embraced him. “Ma le ndathollant, mellon iaur?” he boomed.
The elf gestured to her friends. “Nad gollas...and I have need of your hospitality again. We need to stay a few nights if I may be so presumptuous . May I introduce Sfeithi and Gorm, my friends and guardians.” The dwarves and the master of the house exchanged brief pleasantries and bows.
“It is rare dwarves visit the city anymore. They all live too far off it seems. Word has come to us from the deep north that an heir to Thrain has overthrown the dragon that had seized his city.”
Gorm smiled beneath his voluminous beard. “Something along those lines. They had the help of many friends. Still, it would seem that for the dwarves, fortunes are taking a turn for the better. Maybe it is a reminder that we must all look to our neighbors and old friends long estranged for help in these times.”
Martinus led them to a balcony overlooking an internal courtyard filled with delicate birch trees decorated with merrily chirping swallows. Bright orange awnings billowed in the light breeze above them and the day seemed perfect as a maidservant brought them glittering silver cups and poured wine from a decanter of blown glass in the shape of a swan. Rhavanielle and Sfeithi related the tale of their adventures as the wine was refilled again and again as the sun passed behind the great rocky promontory above them.
“And so you will now stay in our city again for a time?” Martinus gently inquired. He had caught hints from her part of the tale that she had some great errand beyond simply seeking random bits of old lore about the rings of Eregion.
The elf raised her head, feeling the wine now deeply. She realized that in this sanctuary from care, and in company of an old friend she had said more than she had meant. She sighed.
“There is little I can learn here, I think. The city was not even founded before Eregion was wrecked by Sauron. The elves come here to study the lore of men as they need. There is little indeed to be found here regarding my people. Once, I found something Isildur had written in his own hand regarding the ring of Sauron, which is lost. It was interesting, but he only reported what I would have expected. No. What I have come to find are maps of the Cirith Ungol.”
Martinus blanched and a silence fell between them, though the soft breeze still snapped the awnings and penants and the birds still gaily sang.
“I see.” He looked at his wine cup and lapsed again into a distressed quiet until Rhavanielle spoke once more.
“Your forefathers were captains of the tower of Minas Ithil long ago...”
“That was a thousand years ago!” Martinus croaked. “Fifteen generations gone to dust!”
Rhavanielle was quietly insistent. The wine bolstering her determination. “I remember. I was here when the city was taken. I told them no mere warlord could command such power, but they wouldn't listen then. And while I would be more than welcome to grub around in the records, I know that the charts I require will be found only amongst the archives of the Kings. Your lord Denethor would not allow a vagrant scholar into that repository of lore, elf or no. Perhaps if I came at the bidding of Elrond himself, but I bear no such token or letter. I'm afraid I must prevail upon your good graces to get me in.”
The old Gondorian noble's consternation was replaced with his old studied good humor. “I have not been into those stuffy warrens for forty years or more now. They shall surely look upon a visit with suspicion. I shall have to think of an excuse.”
It was at this moment that Rhavanielle noticed Hadiron leaning on a doorframe in the courtyard below. She leaned out casually over the railing of the balcony and smiled, offering a brisk wave of the hand. Martinus' son blushed and stood straight, bowing stiffly in response. The elder Cortana stood to see who his guest was waving at, brows knitted. “Come up here and join us,” he said with a leathery firmness.
Hadiron made his way up the stairs and bowed once more. “Father?”
“Did you make out everything we were discussing? Or are there details which you could care to have repeated to satisfy your curiosity?” Martinus growled. Hadiron's face was troubled, yet he retained his composure.
“Father, I was but enjoying a moment of repose before my..”
“Your archery practice does not begin for another hour, son. Idleness is the downfall of lesser peoples. I won't tolerate it in my own children, do you hear me?” he barked.
Rhavanielle suddenly sat upright and held up her hand. “Wait...that's it.” she said firmly.
The Gondorians each looked at her, suddenly puzzled.
“What's it?” Martinus asked, his fatherly wrath gone in an eyeblink.
“Hadiron has never seen the tokens of his ancestors, has he?” she asked.
“No...but then he is not yet commissioned in the Cavalry.”
“And how long till he is?” Rhavanielle continued, looking the young man up and down with an interest that had been entirely missing at their first meeting.
“Next spring,” Hadiron himself answered.
Martinus at once took up Rhavanielle's meaning. “I see. Reason enough. There are many relics held there he would do well to see. And you can rummage through the old parchments as you will. But we won't have long,” he said.
Rhavanielle shrugged. “I'm used to having all the time in the world, but yet no time at all,” she answered.
