Romenstar hadn’t even touched the meat offered to him. As a matter of fact he had discreetly pushed aside the heavy Lebethron trencher as soon as he thought he could do it politely. The meat felt like an insult to him, brownish on the edges, the pink middle barely warm, red and dripping with blood, stained by meat juice and wine sauce. Romenstar felt nauseated and ashamed, but there was no way he could explain his feelings to the healer sitting at the table opposite him. The table was too large, it suffocated all conversation and allowed Romenstar to suffer in silence. Finally the kitchen door opened and the Stewardess of the Hall approached the table. She took the trencher without a word. She means well, Romenstar thought, they all mean well.
For days he had slept and dreamed as his skinny body had been fighting the infections with fevers, chills and sudden tremors shaking him to the core. Once, when he had woken up one afternoon in a high fever he had been sure he would die. The certainty of death had assured him of that. During his many, many years in the East he had faced death several times and now he had thought he had found a way to accept it with a humble Easterling bow, embracing the inevitable with dignity. He had mistook his certainty of death that afternoon as acceptance, until he had realized it was nothing more than frozen fear waiting for an end to his pains and memories.
This morning he had felt healthy enough to get up from his sickbed. His first steps had been tentative and the effort had made him dizzy. He had asked the Chief Healer Maegon for his blue robe. For some reason Maegon had seemed ashamed when he had handed the ragged clothes to him.
”Are you all right?” Maegon asked him now, as he was staring at the empty table in front of him.
”I am all right. Thank you.”
Chief Healer Maegon’s face was pink, cherubic and clean as a newly-bathed baby. His voice was like a human pipe organ, always ready to roar or laugh. The only thing in his appearance that betrayed the image of his good-natured joviality were his eyes; his cold, wicked, calculating eyes, watching each reaction borne of his words and gestures, measuring each moment of the atmosphere he was creating.
”You don’t need to thank me”, Maegon suddenly boomed. ”Not after everything you have been through. I can only imagine how it can steal your appetite. And besides… Brunil is a great healer, but she is not a great cook. There was a time we used to have a proper cook in this house, but she died two years ago, just fell asleep one night and never woke up. A good death. But let me tell you, she was a cook. And I miss her more than anyone else here.”
At that moment the object of Maegon’s disdain walked back into the room, carrying new plates, laden with apple muse.
”Except”, Maegon boomed again, ”when it comes to Brunil's skill in making desserts.” He picked up a clean spoon, examined it in the candle-light for a moment before dipping it into the apple muse. ”I assure you, nobody else makes apple muse like Brunil. It must be a very long time since you’ve eaten anything like this, eh?”
Romenstar was not listening to the actual words but the raising and falling voice that was interrupted each time Maegon slurped the apple muse into his mouth. Romenstar had submitted himself to every new way Maegon had thought to treat him with. All afternoon he had listened to his monologue, listening to his voice and not the words, and said nothing.
”Don’t you care for the apple muse?” Maegon asked now, seeing as Romenstar was not eating.
”No. I’m sorry, I’m just… not used to so much food.”
”But you’ve hardly eaten anything!” Maegon objected.
”There was a time once, I think, when we survived a whole month on barks and leaves”, Romenstar remarked dryly.
Maegon did not know what to say to that, so he did not say anything.
”Are you all right?” he asked again, after a long pause.
Romenstar lifted his eyes from the table. ”I am fine.” He pushed the bowl of apple muse aside. ”Would it be possible for me to have a mug of ale?”
Maegon stared. It was the last thing he had expected Romenstar to ask. He fetched the ale himself.
In all the time Romenstar had been under the custody of the Rangers he had told them nothing but what they wanted to hear. He had wanted them to think he was a madman or a simpleton. He did not want any part in their secrets or their thoughts of war.
”There, that got some color on your cheeks”, Maegon disturbed his inner thoughts. ”Now, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but I must tell you that you have become something of a celebrity around here. A word of your presence has circled.”
Romenstar listened, but could not hear the words, just the voice. It had happened before, when the Rangers had talked to him. He had become detached from the present moment and the words had distorted and lost their meaning.
”Just the other day a scholar came here asking for you. I think you must remember her from Minas Tirith? A woman with a very long hair, which she had dyed”, Maegon said. ”Red”, he continued, in a condemning voice. "I turned her away."
I must be careful now, Romenstar thought.
”I would like a diary”, he suddenly said.
”A diary?” Maegon asked. His cherubic face, still smiling, was set on Romenstar, his eyes intent. ”Where have you been all these years?”
Maegon saw the small body on the other side of the table shrink smaller. ”Forget that I asked”, he corrected quickly. ”We have just what you need. A blank leather book, a bottle of ink and a feather pen. Would that be all right?”
”Yes. I thank you.”
”No need to thank me. And later, if you want to see around the Hall and participate in what we do here…”
”The scholar”, Romenstar interrupted. ”Did they hurt her?”
Maegon seemed confused for a moment. ”Oh, you mean… the scholar who asked for you? The red-haired one? A stubborn one, she is. She’s the reason you’re here now, you know…?”
”I don’t know. Nobody tells me anything.”
”Ah”, said Maegon. ”Well, that must be confusing.”
”It is”, Romenstar agreed.
After a while Maegon took Romenstar to the darkened office with a blank leather book, a bottle of ink and three feather pens. He looked at the frail old man for a moment, then turned around and left him alone in the half-dark room. He walked past the fountain into the main lobby of the Hall.
Brunil was waiting for him there.
”What is it?” Maegon asked.
”A man from Isengaard is here to see you.”
When Maegon went to the reception room where Brunil had shown the visitor he was not surprised by the youth of the visitor, nor the ordinary quality of his robes. The man in the room was tall and lean and muscular, and the expression on his face was flat.
”I have come to see Romenstar”, the man said.
”I am Maegon, the Chief Healer of the Hall of the Gentle Hand”, Maegon introduced himself. ”And who are you?”
”Martun”, said the visitor. ”From Isengaard. I think you are are aware of what it means.”
”Yes”, Maegon admitted. ”Romenstar is resting now.”
”Then I will wait for him”, said the visitor, smiling thinly.
”Of course”, Maegon agreed meekly. ”I suppose I should have expected someone from…”
”Isengaard? But of course you should have. It was inevitable.”
