The Last Ringbearer

making some final conclusion: “Yes, he totally could… Do you have a plan for how to avoid such a gift?”

“Yes, I do, but all depends on whether Beregond will be with us.”

“Forgive me if this is not my business, but… this man killed your father. And a father is a father, no matter who he is.”

“I think that Beregond is not at fault. What’s more, I intend to prove it today, first and foremost to himself.”

“Why today?”

“Because it was unwise to do it before. That day in the dining hall he behaved recklessly. I haven’t spoken to him since then precisely to allay any suspicions the White Company guys might have, but now it looks like it’s now or never. In other words, please ask him to come see me for some innocuous reason, and make sure to speak to him in public – we have no secrets! And when you go hunting, try to lose your bodyguard, casual-like, and ask the people about a certain forest hamlet…”

There was a faint glimmer of hope in Beregond’s eyes when he entered – perhaps not all is lost?

“Hail, Your Highness!”

“Hello, Beregond; let’s not be so official. I would like you to help me contact His Majesty.” The prince rummaged in a cargo box by the wall and carefully placed a large ball of smoky crystal on the table.

“A Seeing Stone!” The captain was amazed.

“Yes, this is a palantir. The other one is in Minas Tirith. For some reason Aragorn doesn’t want me to use it myself and had a spell put on it. So please, look into it…”

“No!” Beregond shook his head in despair; terror was on his face. “Anything but that! I don’t want to see Denethor’s charred hands!”

“So you’ve seen them before?” The prince felt a sudden mortal weariness – did he, in fact, misjudge this man?

“No, but they told me… Anyone who looks into his palantir sees them!”

“Don’t worry, Beregond.” There was relief in Faramir’s voice. “This is not Denethor’s palantir; that one is at Minas Tirith, and no danger to you.”

“Really?” With some trepidation the captain picked up the Seeing Stone and looked into it for some time, then put it down with a sigh. “Forgive me, Prince, but I can see nothing.”

“You have already seen everything you need, Beregond. You are not guilty of Denethor’s death; you can sleep calmly.”

“What?! What did you say?”

“You are not guilty of Denethor’s death,” the prince repeated. “Forgive me, but I had to trick you: this is, indeed, his palantir. It is true that blackened fingers can be seen in it, but only those who were involved in the murder of the King of Gondor see them. You saw nothing, so you’re innocent. On that day your will had been paralyzed by someone’s powerful magic, most likely Elvish.”

“Is this true?” Beregond whispered. “Perhaps you just want to console me, and this is some other palantir…” (Please tell me it’s not so!)

“Think about it – who would give me another palantir? They only gave this one back to me because they believe it to be irretrievably damaged; they can see nothing in it past Denethor’s hands, which block the entire field of vision. Luckily, they don’t even suspect that people innocent of the crime can still use it.”

“So why did you tell me that it was another one?”

“Well, you see… you’re trusting and easily influenced, Beregond, and the Elves and Mithrandir have used that. I was afraid that you’d convince yourself that you could see that picture; self-hypnosis does weirder things sometimes… But now, praise Eru, it’s over.”

“It’s over,” Beregond repeated hoarsely. He kneeled and stared at the prince with such doglike devotion that the latter was embarrassed. “So you will let me serve you, just like before?”

“Yes, I will, but please rise immediately. Now, tell me: am I the sovereign of Ithilien to you?”

“How else, Your Highness?!”

“If so, do I have the right, while remaining a vassal of the Crown of Gondor, to replace the personal guard imposed on me by the King?”

“Certainly, but this is easier said than done. The White Company is only nominally under my command; I’m more of a quartermaster here.”

“Yes, I’ve figured that out. Who are they, by the way – Dunedain?”

“The soldiers are, but as for officers and sergeants – those are all from the King’s Secret Guard. Nobody knows where they came from to Gondor; there’re rumors –” Beregond shot a glance at the door, “that they’re living dead. Nor can I figure out who their chief is.”

“Well, well… in any case we should get rid of these guys, the sooner the better. So, Captain – will you take the risk by my side?”

“You have saved my honor; therefore, my life is yours with no reservations. But three against forty…”

“I think that we’re way more than three.” Beregond stared at the prince in amazement. “About a week ago the men from one of the forest hamlets brought a cart of smoked deer meat to the fort and got into an argument with the gate guards – those demanded that they leave their bows outside, as is their procedure. There was a black-haired guy there who made a big racket: how come noblemen can enter the Prince’s residence armed, but the merry men from the Blackbird Hamlet can’t? Do you remember?”

“Yes, I recall something like that; so?”

“So that guy was Baron Grager, lieutenant of the Ithilien regiment and my resident spy in Khand before the war. I’m inclined to think that he’s not alone in that Blackbird Hamlet. Your task is to establish contact with Grager, then we’ll play it by ear. You and I will only contact each other via a dead drop from now on – if you stand on the sixteenth step of the spiral staircase in the northern wing, there is a small crack on the left wall at elbow height, just right for a note. One can’t be seen using the drop either from the top or the bottom of the stairs, I’ve checked. Now. Once you leave here, pretend to go on a drinking binge for a couple of days, since I’ve asked you to try and contact Aragorn via the palantir, and you saw Denethor’s hands in it. Don’t overdo it, though: the White officers seem very perceptive.”

That same evening the first crime occurred in the Settlement – arson. Some idiot fired – no, not the house of a successful romantic rival, nor the warehouse of an innkeeper who refused to pour him one on credit, nor the hayloft of a haughty neighbor. Rather, someone burned down the pigeon coop belonging to a grim single blacksmith who had moved here from Anfalas and apparently have kept some city habits. The blacksmith loved his pigeons beyond all else, and promised a silver mark to whoever would lead him to the arsonist. The local police, in the persons of two White Company sergeants, turned the neighborhood