“Are you really quite sure that you never even heard his name?”
The Lady of the Pillar had asked her secretary this twice before. Sarmëtecil lowered her head and confronted the hopeful gaze of her mistress.
“Lady, you must remember – not only were my brother and I mere children when… it all happened, but Ost-in-Edhil was no small city. And not all of us who lived there had, or wanted, aught to do with the mírdain. Our father was a city guard, our mother a chef of repute. It was a good life, until – well, you know.”
Manadhlaer tilted her head. “Was not Ondoringë older than you?”
“No, Lady.” Sarmëtecil’s eyes widened in surprise. “You knew not that we are twins?”
“But your brother is so much bigger than you!” Manadhlaer regretted the remark the instant she blurted it out, but it was true: Sarmë’s brother was a fine, fit specimen of the Noldor, both tall and broad, where the secretary was slightly built and narrow of wrist.
“Indeed, Lady.” Sarmë’s tone darkened somewhat, and she turned away from the polished desk. “Ada made frequent jests about my brother, saying he had taken up all the room when we were growing in Ama. Can such a thing really happen?”
“My expertise is not in twins, I am afraid, although Lord Elrond’s family would make a fine case-study. But have you not asked Ondoringë whether he knew the mysterious lord?”
“Well, we are the same age,” Sarmë said, with her priceless way of stating the obvious. “But I have asked him, and he remembers no one – or many – answering the description. The place was filled with Noldor of raven hair and chiseled features. That describes Lord Veryacáno, and it describes – described…” Sarmë fumbled about, realizing she had blundered into the sensitive subject of Lady Manadhlaer’s husband-brother.
“Truly, Sarmë, as he sits in Mandos repenting of everything, Daegond will retain his raven hair and chiseled features.” The Lady’s tone was somehow icy and dry at once.
“Forgive me, Lady. It is only that many might have met those criteria, both then and now.”
“Your point is taken. Any place that is full of Noldor might have many such. Well, I had to ask.”
“Do you really think it is he who took Elloen’s painting, and left the… thing… as either trap or recompense?” Sarmë lowered her voice, although the two were alone in the Hall of the Pillar – save for the hall’s cat, hopefully asleep somewhere.
“I do not, because I do not have enough information to suggest so. Yet I have been over this a thousand times. Who would want a still life that coincidentally depicted a legible name on a party invitation, except the one named on the painting?”
Sarmë braced herself. “Lady, you have asked me to remind you that when you start asking rhetorical questions concerning this, you are thinking in circles and ought to stop.”
Manadhlaer humphed and looked off to the side, yet she had given an order – couched in a polite request, but still an order – and her secretary was obeying. “So I am. And so I ought. But… your brother is a puzzle to me, of a less dangerous sort. In truth, Ondoringë is a marvel to me – perhaps the least dangerous ellon I have encountered in this vale. He flies kites. That is almost all of what he does. He delights in flowers, and sometimes keeps small animals in his robe. Yet he has the physique…”
“Of a warrior? Lady, part of being a twin is keeping confidences. He is not the only survivor of our city who desires never to grasp the hilt of a sword again.”
Manadhlaer nodded. She felt something of this kinship, having not a sister of blood but one born of a different mother, foredoomed to walk through life together. “I will not pry. Many there are who desire a peaceful life. He reminds me of Elloen in that respect.”
Sarmëtecil spread her hands. “If it were possible to help in the slightest, we would do so. But we simply do not remember this smith.”
Again, Manadhlaer nodded, this time with resignation evident on her face. She ran her long fingers through her silver hair and looked straight at Sarmë. “Then others of us must go to a far-off land indeed, the land of memories, dreams, reflections.”
