Poison in the Citadel by Kathryn Ramage
Summary: A Frodo Investigates! Mystery. Frodo is requested by the King to return to Minas Tirith to help investigate a series of poisonings.
Categories: FPS, FPS > Frodo/Merry, FPS > Frodo/Sam, FPS > Merry/Frodo, FPS > Sam/Frodo Characters: Frodo, Merry, Sam
Type: Mystery
Warning: None
Challenges: None
Series: Frodo Investigates!
Chapters: 47 Completed: Yes Word count: 76612 Read: 166954 Published: March 23, 2008 Updated: March 23, 2008
Story Notes:
This story takes place three years after the fall of Mordor, in 1422 (S.R.), or in 3022 of the Third Age.

Special Thanks: To Karen, for saying about a year ago, "Hey, you could set a story in Minas Tirith," and starting me off on this idea. Also for giving me feedback on this story while I was writing it.

June 2006

The Frodo Investigates! series

1. Chapter 1 by Kathryn Ramage

2. Chapter 2 by Kathryn Ramage

3. Chapter 3 by Kathryn Ramage

4. Chapter 4 by Kathryn Ramage

5. Chapter 5 by Kathryn Ramage

6. Chapter 6 by Kathryn Ramage

7. Chapter 7 by Kathryn Ramage

8. Chapter 8 by Kathryn Ramage

9. Chapter 9 by Kathryn Ramage

10. Chapter 10 by Kathryn Ramage

11. Chapter 11 by Kathryn Ramage

12. Chapter 12 by Kathryn Ramage

13. Chapter 13 by Kathryn Ramage

14. Chapter 14 by Kathryn Ramage

15. Chapter 15 by Kathryn Ramage

16. Chapter 16 by Kathryn Ramage

17. Chapter 17 by Kathryn Ramage

18. Chapter 18 by Kathryn Ramage

19. Chapter 19 by Kathryn Ramage

20. Chapter 20 by Kathryn Ramage

21. Chapter 21 by Kathryn Ramage

22. Chapter 22 by Kathryn Ramage

23. Chapter 23 by Kathryn Ramage

24. Chapter 24 by Kathryn Ramage

25. Chapter 25 by Kathryn Ramage

26. Chapter 26 by Kathryn Ramage

27. Chapter 27 by Kathryn Ramage

28. Chapter 28 by Kathryn Ramage

29. Chapter 29 by Kathryn Ramage

30. Chapter 30 by Kathryn Ramage

31. Chapter 31 by Kathryn Ramage

32. Chapter 32 by Kathryn Ramage

33. Chapter 33 by Kathryn Ramage

34. Chapter 34 by Kathryn Ramage

35. Chapter 35 by Kathryn Ramage

36. Chapter 36 by Kathryn Ramage

37. Chapter 37 by Kathryn Ramage

38. Chapter 38 by Kathryn Ramage

39. Chapter 39 by Kathryn Ramage

40. Chapter 40 by Kathryn Ramage

41. Chapter 41 by Kathryn Ramage

42. Chapter 42 by Kathryn Ramage

43. Chapter 43 by Kathryn Ramage

44. Chapter 44 by Kathryn Ramage

45. Chapter 45 by Kathryn Ramage

46. Chapter 46 by Kathryn Ramage

47. Chapter 47 - Epilogue by Kathryn Ramage

Chapter 1 by Kathryn Ramage
Prologue

Minas Tirith had seen murders before. With so many people living in such close quarters in the enormous, seven-leveled city, tensions could run high, tempers flair, and passions boil over. A drunken brawl in a tavern. A quarrel between a husband and wife. An attempted robbery gone wrong. A knife drawn, hands around a neck, or a blow struck too hard in anger. Such incidents were not unfamiliar. Fortunately, they did not happen very often, and the murderer was usually obvious to determine and easy to apprehend within the city walls. Justice was swiftly seen.

But these murders were different. A councilor found dead in his bed-chambers. A citadel guard fallen after a night's carousing with his fellows. These murders were not committed in the heat of anger, but through cool and deliberate poisoning. The killer struck unseen and the dead body was found afterwards with no sign of who could have done it.

King Aragorn was deeply distressed. This was not what he had envisioned, so early in his reign. This was meant to be a new and glorious Age, with all evil banished. How could his own people be killing each other in this insidious way within his own city, in the very heart of the citadel? These deaths were alarming to all his subjects--and, worst of all, disturbing to his councilors, courtiers, and the citadel Guard, who knew the two dead men best. He was beginning to see doubt and mistrust rising among them.

He was alone in his council chambers, contemplating this disquieting question, when a page ventured in and said. "I pray I do not disturb you, my lord. The halfling asks to see you."

At this news, Aragorn's expression brightened; the distraction was welcome. "Show him in, by all means."

The page went out, leaving the door open, and returned a minute later with Merry at his side.

Aragorn rose from his seat at the head of the council table and came forward to welcome his visitor. "What may I do for you, Merry? You have a petition to make?" Since Merry had arrived in Minas Tirith last autumn, he had become a sort of ambassador for the Shire; they'd had a number of discussions about suitable ways for the King to aid his hobbit subjects.

"No, Strider," Merry answered, leaving the page wide-eyed at his informality. "I've no requests today. I have a proposal. I've heard the news about these deaths in the citadel. Gandalf's told me that you have no idea who could be doing this?"

"The murderer has left no sign of whom he might be. The captain of the Guard is in charge of the investigation, but he confesses he is lost."

"What you need is an expert investigator. I'd like to recommend one I know, who lives in the Shire." Merry plunged on: "He's quite good at this sort of thing. He's had a great success with investigating mysteries, even some murders. You know he's very clever and resourceful. The only difficulty is his health, which might not allow him to come all the way to Minas Tirith again."

Aragorn followed this stream of fast-flowing, enthusiastic words; when Merry paused to catch his breath, he smiled in understanding. "Again? You mean Frodo?"

"Of course!" Merry grinned. "Do you think we could send for him? If Frodo was here, he'd solve your murders in a trice!"
Chapter 2 by Kathryn Ramage
It was a cold and dreary February afternoon in the Shire. Though it had not snowed nor rained, the sky had been overcast all day and the gray light was already beginning to fade. In spite of the weather, Sam was out in the garden. Although spring was still weeks away, the first daffodils were coming up and needed careful tending, he said, but he'd been so restless shut up in the house lately that both Frodo and Rosie suspected this was mainly an excuse for Sam to go outdoors and keep himself busy.

At dusk, Frodo came out, wearing a woolen shawl thrown over his shoulders. He found Sam on his hands and knees in the flower bed beneath the study window. "Will you come into the house?" he requested. "Rosie-"

"Rosie-?" Sam looked up from his work in alarm. "It's not her time?"

Frodo laughed. "No, not yet. Rosie's fine." As the anticipated date for the baby's birth drew nearer, Sam grew more anxious with every day. "She's just put the kettle on, and tea will be ready in a few minutes. She says to come in if you want yours. Aren't you freezing out here?" Sam was, in fact, working with his coat off and his shirt sleeves rolled up, while Frodo was shivering under his shawl.

"I'll be in just as soon as I finish this bit," Sam answered. "But you'd better go back inside now, Frodo, have your tea and not wait for me. You'll catch your death if you stand out here much longer, and we can't have you getting sick now, can we?"

"No, we can't," Frodo agreed, pleased at Sam's fussing over his health. Most of Sam's fussing these days was focused on Rosie and the about-to-be-born baby. He turned to go in, when a glimmer of white moving through the thickening mists in the valley below the Hill caught his attention. "What's that?"

Sam looked up. Both of them could now hear the oddly muted sound of hooves echoing from the lane. In another moment, they saw that a rider was indeed heading toward Bag End on a white horse; the rider wore a gray cloak, but beneath it, he was clad in white.

Frodo burst into a smile. "Gandalf!" he cried. Instead of going into the house, he ran down the front steps to the gate. Sam left the last of his spring bulbs to follow. "Hullo!" Frodo called out and, as the wizard came closer, "I must say, this is a delightful surprise. What brings you back to the Shire?"

Gandalf dismounted from Shadowfax and let the unsaddled and unbridled horse trot away. "I've come directly from Minas Tirith in all haste, with a special message for you, Frodo. The King requests your assistance."

"Assistance?" echoed Frodo, stunned by this remarkable announcement. "Wh- What do you mean?"

"There have been two baffling murders in the city," the wizard explained. "A councilor and his son have been poisoned, and the citadel Guard are unable to find a culprit, or indeed any reason why these two should be killed. Aragorn has heard of your investigations here, and hopes that your experience will allow you to find an answer where others cannot. If you agree to return with me to Minas Tirith without delay, you will be appointed the King's Special Investigator, and any aid you require will be placed at your disposal."

Frodo was alarmed at how far his reputation had carried, and at what he was being asked to do. "But, Gandalf, I couldn't possibly..."

Before he could say more, Sam spoke up, "Begging your pardon, Mr. Gandalf, but Frodo oughtn't be out in this cold so long--he's fair turning blue. Whyn't you talk this over over a nice fire and a cup o' tea instead?"

Gandalf nodded solemnly, but there was a twinkle of understanding in his eye. "Of course, Sam. My errand is not so urgent that we must discuss it in the road on such a day." With the skirt of the wizard's cloak cast around Frodo's shoulders to keep him warm, they went into the house. Rosie, who'd been watching Gandalf's arrival from the window, had put out another teacup for this unexpected and notable visitor and quickly raided the pantry for extra seedcakes. Sam made Frodo comfortable before the parlor fire, brought him his tea, then left him to speak to Gandalf alone, although he looked anxious as he shut the door behind himself.

"Was it you who told Aragorn about my work, Gandalf?" Frodo asked between sips of tea.

"No, it was Merry who recommended you."

"Merry? So he did find his way to Minas Tirith." Frodo was relieved to know this; he'd been worried about his cousin for months. "How is he? We haven't heard a word from him since he left Buckland last summer. To think that he made it all that way by himself!"

"Not alone," Gandalf told him. "He arrived in the city last autumn with a traveling troupe of conjurers and jounglers, managed by a strange, small Man."

Frodo smiled. "Mr. Grimmold's circus?"

"They're gone from the city now, but their performances were very popular while they were there. Merry has stayed on. He's looked after my house for me, since business with the Elves kept me in Lothlorien for most of the winter."

"I hope he's happy," said Frodo. "He wasn't very happy in the Shire, you know. It was a quarrel with his father that sent him off..." Frodo didn't know how much he could tell Gandalf about Merry's problems with his father. Wizards were unimaginably old and had seen a great deal, and no doubt knew a great many things beyond even the brightest hobbit's comprehension, but they never married nor had love-affairs as far as Frodo knew. Would Gandalf understand about the love between Merry and Pippin, or between Sam and himself? He only said, "But he was restless to be away before that."

"I guessed that something of the sort must have prompted him to come so far," Gandalf said. "He's never explained his reasons. I wouldn't call him unhappy, but I believe he's lonely. I suspect he suggested your services as much to bring you to the city as to assist in finding the poisoner." Gandalf returned to the reason for his journey. "Will you come, Frodo? Speed is of the essence. I will ride for Minas Tirith in the morning; Shadowfax's swiftest pace can convey us there in ten days."

"But, Gandalf, I can't do it!" Frodo protested. "It's not that I don't wish to help, but surely there must be better investigators in Minas Tirith, Men who know more about the city and its people than I do. I wouldn't have the first idea of where to begin. I may pass for a great detective in the Shire, but that's because I know the people here so well. I understand hobbits. I don't know a thing about investigating Big Folk!"

"You undervalue your abilities, Frodo," the wizard answered. "I think I have an idea of their true worth. I've seen you at your work. You made your way into the heart of a secret that had not been touched in thousands of years, and dwelt upon the minds of Elves--which are much less fathomable to hobbits than the minds of Men! The 'Big Folk,' you'll find, are not so different from hobbits in their motivations. They have the same loves and hates, ambitions, greeds, fears, desires. Their reasons for committing murder are much the same. The captain of the citadel Guard may know the ways of the city better than you do, but as a soldier and keeper of the peace. This type of crime is beyond his scope. Poisoning is a subtle crime, and requires an investigation of equal subtlety."

"You're very subtle yourself," Frodo responded with an affectionate smile. "I daresay you could discover who has committed these murders more quickly than I could. You were there when they happened, weren't you?"

Gandalf shook his head. "I returned to Minas Tirith only after the first murder had been committed. I know little of the matter, but I will aid you all I can, Frodo."

Frodo was not convinced that he could do this, but the summons was difficult to refuse. More than one friend was calling upon him for help. "I suppose I must go, if I am needed." He lifted his eyes to the wizard's. "Very well, Gandalf. If you believe I can solve these murders, I will try my best to."

The wizard smiled. "You have never disappointed me yet."
Chapter 3 by Kathryn Ramage
The rest of that evening was spent in hasty preparations. Rosie made up one of the spare rooms--the one with the longest bed--for Gandalf, while Sam searched Frodo's wardrobe for the clothing he had bought and worn in Minas Tirith. Frodo was busy in his study, putting his affairs into order to see that the household ran smoothly during his absence; he also wrapped up the Red Book and a small case of writing materials to take with him.

Frodo went to bed immediately after dinner, but was too nervous and excited at the prospect of the journey he was about to embark upon to sleep. How odd to return to Minas Tirith! He never imagined he'd see the city again after he'd left it nearly three years ago. In fact, he'd never expected to leave the Shire once he'd come home.

After Bag End was darkened and quiet, Sam came in. It was Frodo's night, according to the rules established between the three of them when Sam and Rosie had married. Although Sam didn't dare leave Rosie alone all night, now that her baby was expected at any time, he always spent an hour or two with Frodo before returning to sleep in his wife's bedroom.

Frodo sat up with his arms around his knees and smiled at his friend in the firelight. "Everything's packed, Sam, and ready to go?"

"Your bag's sitting by the front door, and your book 'n' all's within it," Sam replied. "I've got a few things left to put into mine, but that's only a moment's work. We'll be ready to leave with Mr. Gandalf first thing in the morning."

"You're coming with me?" Frodo was surprised. They hadn't discussed this. Under normal circumstances, he would've taken it for granted that Sam would accompany him on an investigation--but he'd never expected Sam to want to go with him now.

"Of course," said Sam, as if he were surprised Frodo should ask. "If you're bound to go, then I'm coming with you. D'you think I'd let you go without me?"

"What about Rosie?"

"I've had a word with Rosie. She's going to send for her mother to come 'n' stay with her while I'm away."

"But this investigation may take us away from the Shire for weeks, even months," Frodo responded, incredulous that Sam should propose such a plan. "You'd never be able to leave Rosie for so long, not now. You can't even bear to be out of her call!"

"She'll be all right. Don't you fret about it. Her mum'll look after her, and I'll look after you like I always do," Sam insisted, but in that bold, bluff way that told Frodo he was quashing some doubts in his own mind. Frodo brought them out into the open.

"I couldn't ask that of you, Sam. I know you mean well, but you'll worry about her every day we're away. Besides, if you went with me, you couldn't possibly return in time to see your child born. You'd never forgive yourself if you missed that."

Tears welled in Sam's eyes at the mention of the baby. "But I couldn't let you go alone, Frodo. I'm that torn in two over it!"

Frodo held out both hands and, in an instant, Sam was in his arms.

"Who'll look after you if I don't?" he sobbed. "I didn't like to say so afore Mr. Gandalf, but you're hardly fit for such a long trip. And what about your worst day? You know it's coming up soon. What if this next bad turn is even worse'n last year's?"

"Gandalf will be there, and Strider--he's a skilled healer," Frodo answered in reassuring tones as he patted Sam's back and tangled fingers in his curls. "They have Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, full of people who are accustomed to attend to illness. They'll take the best care of me on that day, or if I have any other troubles with my health."

In Sam's opinion, no one could ever give Frodo the best care except himself, but he had to concede that these people would tend to Frodo adequately. "I wish you'd said No."

"I did try to, Sam, but the King has asked for me 'specially. Strider needs my help, and Gandalf seems to think I'm the hobbit for the job. I couldn't refuse."

Although he didn't say so to Sam, Frodo also thought that it was for the best that he take this opportunity to leave Bag End and the Gamgees for awhile. As he had let Sam and Rosie spend time alone together during their courtship and on their honeymoon, he ought to let them establish their own family without him in their midst. A new baby would be disruption enough to the household, and would not be more than a few weeks old when he had his dark day at the end of March. From his previous bad spells, Frodo knew he would need a great deal of care on that day, and for many days afterwards. Last year, he'd been bedridden for more than a week and had remained in fragile health through most of April. How could he ask Sam to care for him when there were others who needed Sam's care and attention more?

"I'll return as soon as I can," he promised, and raised Sam's face to kiss him lightly. "Will you stay with me awhile tonight, Sam? I know I ought to sleep, since I must be up at daybreak, but this will be our last night together for some time..." He'd been speaking playfully, to try and console Sam, but as he spoke, Frodo felt the full impact of his own words; he and Sam would be parted for a long time. Tears welled in his own eyes.

"Oh, Sam!" he cried. "I'll miss you terribly." They both were sobbing as they clung to each other, exchanging wet kisses on their tear-dampened faces.

Sam was still in his clothes, and Frodo began to tug at them, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. He wanted to touch him all over, bare skin to bare skin. Once he had gotten Sam out of his upper clothes, helped as Sam tried to pull his nightshirt off over his head. He entwined with Sam and brought him in, as deeply as he could. He savored every stroke, every sensation. Their lovemaking must be special tonight, the very best, for it would have to last a long time in his and Sam's memories... until they were together again. Who knew how far in the future that would be?




At daybreak, Frodo rose and dressed. He and Gandalf took a hasty breakfast while Rosie, who was used to early hours, packed some food for their journey. She did not say so aloud, but Frodo could see she was relieved that Sam would not be going with them, and grateful to Frodo for talking him out of it; she gave Frodo a peck on the cheek as she saw him off at the front door, and promised that she would take care of his house for him awhile he was away.

Sam, on the other hand, was red-eyed with weeping and a sleepless night as he carried Frodo's bag to the gate. Frodo kept a hand on his friend's arm as they went down the steps.

"There's one bright light in all this, Sam," he said. "Even if I can't help Strider with these murders, I'll see Merry again. Perhaps I can convince him to come home with me when this business is finished. At least, I can bring news of him back to Pippin and the family. Oh--I hadn't thought of it, and there isn't time to write them now! Will you do it for me, Sam? Write to Pippin and to my Aunt Esme, tell them where Merry is, and that we've heard he's well and happy."

"Her ladyship won't think it presumptuous of me?" asked Sam.

"The Lady of Brandy Hall will be delighted to hear from you," Frodo assured him. "She's fond of you, you know, and she'll be relieved to have news of her son."

Gandalf, who was already standing in the lane, gave a piercing whistle; there was a whinneying cry in response, and Shadowfax appeared from the lingering morning mists, the first glints of the rising sun making his white coat gleam.

When Shadowfax trotted up to the gate, Gandalf lifted Frodo up onto the horse's back, and put the strapped baggage over his hindquarters. "We'll ride south, down the Greenway, to reach the city as quickly as possible," he said as he mounted behind the hobbit.

Frodo looked down to find Sam standing below. "G'bye, Sam."

Sam climbed up onto the garden gate and grabbed his toes--all he could reach of Frodo on horseback--and gave them a farewell squeeze. There were fresh tears on his face as he gazed upwards. "I'll think of you every day you're gone," he said in a choked voice, then let go.

And they were off. Frodo's last sight of Sam was his friend hanging on the gate of Bag End, waving farewell.
Chapter 4 by Kathryn Ramage
They passed through the Southfarthing in a dash, and crossed the unfamiliar lands beyond the Shire's southernmost borders with amazing speed. As they traveled southward, the weather improved and the world around them grew more green with every mile, as if they were riding into spring. On the third day, Frodo was warm enough to take off his winter coat and tuck it into his pack.

When they reached Isengard, Gandalf stopped "to let Shadowfax catch his breath." The horse was fine, and hardly out of breath, but Frodo was weary at the long and astonishingly swift journey; he was grateful for a few hours' rest and the chance to stretch his legs and look around.

He had only seen Isengard once before, briefly, when he'd traveled to the Gap of Rohan on his way home after the quest. Then, the black tower had risen in the midst of a wasteland of muddy and torn earth, with filthy water filling the vast pits. Since the Men of the Riddermark had taken charge of it, the water had been drained off and the pits filled with earth. Grass was growing again and young trees had been planted around the tower.

"It will take a hundred years for this place to be what it was before Saruman made it into a pit for his machines and tools of war," said Gandalf as he walked beside Frodo, exploring the new parkland, "but it will recover from the evil that has touched it. This Middle-earth of ours always does. Mortal beings are not so fortunate." He regarded Frodo with some concern as the hobbit sank down onto the grass. "Are you well, Frodo? Sam makes much of your health, but I've wondered if he is prone to exaggeration."

"He does fuss, a bit," Frodo said with a wistful pang of yearning; already, Sam was hundreds of miles away, "but he means well. He worries for me. I do tend to tire easily." He glanced up at the wizard. "You're right, Gandalf: I never fully recovered after I returned from Mordor and the Ring was destroyed. The quest took all my strength, and I'll never get it back. If I rest, I'm well... most of the time. I have nightmares if I am distressed, and I have my bad spells, you know. Dark days, as if I'm lost in one of my nightmares and can't get out. The next is expected at the end of March. You were here last year when I was still abed after the last one."

"I remember that you'd been ill, but I didn't realize the cause of it. These dark spells recur every year-?"

"Yes. On the- ah- day," Frodo confirmed, and tried not to glance down at his hand with the missing finger. "And in October too, on the anniversary of the day I took my wound at Weathertop, although those aren't as bad, and pass more quickly. The day in March is the worst."

Gandalf's concern grew deeper at this information. "I wouldn't have insisted you come if I'd known of this, Frodo. Are you quite sure you're well enough to undertake this journey?"

"I wouldn't have agreed to come if I didn't! Gandalf, I'm fine." When he saw that the wizard still looked doubtful, Frodo added, "I will be abed on that day, and some days afterwards, but that time is weeks away. I may have your poisoner in hand before then, and it will only be a matter of resting until I feel well enough for the journey home."

They spent the afternoon at Isengard and took dinner with the garrison guard. At nightfall, they rode on again. After four more days of swift riding, with only a few brief stops, the towers of the white city rose before them.

They passed through the great gates, which were open, and rode up the winding streets between the close-set and overhanging houses, through the tunnels cut into the outcropping rock. Up and up, level upon level, until they came to the very top and at last, Shadowfax stood in the vast courtyard before the White Tower of Ecthelion and the great hall of the citadel.

A watch must have been kept for their arrival, for several people were coming out of the great hall to meet them--Big Folk all, and many were old friends. And there was one smaller figure, breaking away from the others and running down the steps toward them as Gandalf lifted him down from Shadowfax's back. Frodo was hugged hard as soon as his feet touched the courtyard's paving stones, and he clung to Merry in return.

"How wonderful to see you, Frodo!" his cousin said near his ear. "I knew you'd come."

They were immediately surrounded by others. When Merry let go of Frodo, King Aragorn knelt to take him by the shoulders and say ceremonially, "We welcome you to Minas Tirith, Frodo." And before Frodo could make a polite and formal reply, Aragorn hugged him too.

Queen Arwen bent to kiss his brow and offer her welcome as well, and then Faramir and his lady Eowyn had their greetings. It soon seemed to Frodo as if everyone was talking at once and making an enormous fuss over him. It was all rather overwhelming, and some of his bewilderment must have shown in his face, for Gandalf spoke a soft word to Aragorn and the King said, "You must be weary after such a long and swift journey, Frodo, and would no doubt like to rest."

"Well... yes," Frodo admitted.

"We can discuss these murders this evening. Will you come to dine with us at the citadel tonight?"

"Yes, of course! I would honored."

Merry took his hand. "You're staying with us at Gandalf's house." A few more brief words were exchanged, and Gandalf took Frodo's bag down from the horse's back; the hobbits went together to the sixth level of the city. "You'll have the same room you stayed in before," Merry said as they walked down through the street. "I've had it made ready for you. I'll be right next door, in the same room I shared with Pippin. It's almost like old times." He turned to Frodo. "I wish it were under better circumstances, but it is good to have you here, Frodo."

"It's good to see you too," said Frodo. "Everyone's been worried for you--we didn't know if you'd made your way here. Gandalf told me you arrived with Mr. Grimmold's troupe." He smiled. "You always predicted that one of the Tooks would run off to join the circus, Merry. I was surprised to hear that you'd done it."

Merry laughed. "I didn't join them, exactly. I met them on this side of the Misty Mountains. They were planning to return to Bree for the winter, and I told them I knew of a better place. They gave me companions to travel with, and I gave them a new audience in the city. I expect they'll come back again next winter."

They reached the house, and Frodo was shown to the room he'd never thought to see again when he'd left Minas Tirith three years ago. He felt a small shiver run down his spine when he looked out the windows to see the dark line of mountains to the east; Mordor lay beyond.

As Merry helped him unpack, Frodo reported all the news of their family, mostly births and marriages. Sam's and Rosie's baby was not the only one about to be born; Melilot and Everard were expecting their first child in the autumn, and Celie and Merimas had had a second little boy in December. After Merry had left the Shire, Saradoc had relented and let Ilberic and Estella marry, and Dodi and Isalda Took were married now as well. Isalda's eldest sister Ada had given up on Ferdi Took and married one of her sturdy and reliable Banks cousins. Fatty Bolger had felt lonely living alone in his home at Budgeford after his sister Estella had gone away to Brandy Hall and Aunt Beryl had gone with her, and he considered getting married himself; he was tentatively courting Ada's and Isalda's sister Flora. Ferdi seemed to be deciding between Pippin's sisters Pim and Peri, and it was up to the girls to make up his mind for him now.

"They'll all be paired off in another year or two," said Merry. "What about Pippin? Has he married that North-Took girl?"

"They weren't meant to marry for years yet," answered Frodo, "and the marriage arranged probably won't come off at all now."

"Really?" Merry's expression brightened at this news. "What happened? She came down to Tuckborough last summer, didn't she? Did you meet her, Frodo?"

Frodo nodded. "She came with Aunt Di, just as planned. She seems sweet and shy, and very young. Her name's Di too--Diamond, not Diamanta."

"And didn't she like Pip? Or didn't he like her?"

"They didn't really have anything to say to each other. But there was another girl, another Di..." He told Merry the story of the mischievous Diantha Took.

"I wouldn't mind meeting this Di myself!" Merry said, laughing once Frodo had finished. "She sounds like a perfect wife for our Pippin. They ought to get on very well."

"She's like us, Merry. She says she won't marry anyone. Besides, Pippin's never loved anyone but you."

"I know." Merry sombered. "I was half hoping that he'd come with you."

"There wasn't time to ask him," said Frodo. "Gandalf arrived and carried me off so quickly. But he knows where you are by now--I asked Sam to tell him."

"I cried every night after I first left the Shire," Merry told him. "I almost turned back a dozen times, but I knew I was doing what was right for me and for Pippin too, if he wants children. Perhaps it's best that I stay away long enough for him to sort things out one way or the other and marry somebody--one Di or the other, or anybody else who'll put up with him."

"That may be years. Will you stay away as long as that?"

"Oh, I suppose I'll come home eventually."

"Are you happy here, Merry?" Frodo asked; he could see that his cousin was not as restless and discontented as he'd been when he'd left the Shire, and was more like his old, cheerful self.

"Happy enough," said Merry. "I have a place here, and friends, but I miss being home all the same. The green hills and fields, wildflowers and trees that nobody planted. I miss the company of other hobbits--not just you and Pip and Sam, or my family, but people like us. There's no one here who looks at things the way hobbits do. It's odd being half the size of everyone around me, and living with furniture that I have to climb up to sit on! I miss round doors and windows, and curved walls. I miss the taverns."

"They have taverns here."

"Yes, but the ale doesn't taste quite the same as our good old Shire brews, and it's different sitting among the Big Folk to drink it."

"What about pipeweed?" Frodo teased. "Do you miss that too?"

"We have pipeweed. Strider's introduced it. Since he smokes a pipe, and so does Gandalf, half the court's taken up the habit. It's not bad here, Frodo. I get homesick, but I know that if I went home again, I'd only be back in the middle of all the things that made me want to leave. No one here disapproves of me, but without Pippin, I'm not doing anything for them to disapprove of. And I'm doing more good for the Shire here than I ever did while I was in it. Strider wants to do something for hobbits, and I talk to him about the things he might do. We talk about opening up more land for hobbits to use in the west, and making better roads between here and there, and mail routes with way-stations. Think of that, Frodo: letters carried from here to the Shire as easily as they are from one end of the Shire to the other! We could travel the distance in weeks rather than months."

Frodo had to smile at Merry's enthusiasm; it was remarkable to hear his reckless and wayward cousin, the famous bad-boy of the Brandybucks, speaking so keenly about improvements to the Shire. Merry must be growing up. "I traveled here quickly enough, thank you," he said. "I was at home barely a week ago." He and Gandalf had left Bag End on the morning of February 23 by the Shire calendar, and today was March 3.

Merry grinned. "Not everyone has the service of the fastest horse in all Middle-earth. It must have been wearisome to travel at such a pace." He looked over Frodo's pale face. "You will be able take up Strider's invitation to dine tonight, won't you? You're not too tired?"

"I won't be," said Frodo. "I only need to lie down for awhile."

Merry took the hint and left him to rest. Once his cousin had gone, Frodo lay down on the bed and was asleep within minutes.
Chapter 5 by Kathryn Ramage
Frodo awoke from his nap some hours later to a rap on the door. The room was dark; though the curtains were drawn back, the last of the sunlight had faded from the sky. "What time is it?" he called out.

"We've still half an hour before dinner," Merry answered through the door. "There's no need to rush, but don't dawdle either. We wouldn't want to be late."

Frodo rose, washed, and changed into his finest clothes--the dark blue velvet tunic he'd worn to Aragorn's and Arwen's wedding. Merry and Gandalf were waiting for him by the front door, and they walked up to the citadel together.

Frodo had been afraid that this dinner would be a grand, formal occasion, with all the King's court and the most important people of Minas Tirith assembled to meet him. To his relief, he found that it was only a small, private party in Aragorn's and Arwen's chambers. In addition to the three of them, Faramir and Eowyn were the only other guests.

The conversation over dinner was just the sort a reunion of old friends should have: Frodo talked about Sam and Rosie and the baby, and about the book he was writing of his adventures on the quest. He wondered if Aragorn had a little time to help him with the parts of the story no hobbit had witnessed, such as the phenomenal 45-league run that Strider, Legolas, and Gimli had taken to follow the orcs who'd kidnapped Merry and Pippin, and their later journey on the Paths of the Dead. Aragorn agreed to find time and, from there, they spoke of their erstwhile companions.

"What's become of Gimli and Legolas?" Frodo asked. "I assume they've gone from the city, or they'd be here too."

"They remained in Minas Tirith for many months," Aragorn told him, "but they went at last to see the Glittering Caves at Aglarond."

"How wonderful! Gimli spoke of visiting them for so long," Frodo recalled how, in Lothlorien, the dwarf had insisted that the beauty of the famous caves surpassed any elven woodland, and he and Legolas had argued about it since.

"Yes, he has long desired to show them to his friend."

"Will you write of your adventures as an investigator when you finish this book, Frodo?" asked Queen Arwen.

"I've written one already," Frodo replied, "about the history of Gondolin, as told to me by a very old elf who was there. Others, I suppose, may also make interesting reading. We've had some odd cases." He amused his friends with stories of the hunt for Mrs. Taggart's jewels, the circumstances under which he and Merry had first met Mr. Grimmold's troupe, and the curious tale of the umbrella thief who had plagued Hobbiton last autumn.

"Merry's told us that you've investigated other murders too," said Eowyn.

"A few," Frodo answered diffidently. "There have never been very many murders in the Shire, but I seem to have landed in the middle of every one that's occurred in the last two years, and been called to sort them out." He looked shyly at the others seated around him. "Is it permitted to speak of this business, of why you've called me here? I don't know what Big Folk's customs are on such subjects." He was thinking primarily of the ladies; Eowyn was a former shield-maid and accustomed to blood and battle, but would Arwen, with her elvish sensibilities, find the topic of murder grotesquely unsuitable?

"Aunt Eglantine, Pippin's mother, says it isn't fitting to speak of such horrid things over the dining table," said Merry with a grin. "But the other hobbit-ladies are always interested in hearing about mysteries and murders."

"Yes, that's so," Frodo admitted. "My cousins, Peony, Angelica, and Estella, have aided in my investigations."

Eowyn smiled. "I think I would like the hobbit-ladies."

"These deaths are terrible to think of, but they are near to us," said Arwen. "Their solution is of concern to us all."

"I've asked Beregond, who has been in charge of the investigation thus far, to join us after dinner to tell you what he's learned of the matter," Aragorn informed Frodo. "We will speak of it then."

When they finished dinner, the ladies retired to Arwen's boudoir, where her maids-in-waiting had gathered. Merry went with them, to tell Eowyn more about his and Frodo's girl-cousins. Beregond, the captain of the citadel Guard, arrived soon after and met with Aragorn, Frodo, Faramir, and Gandalf in the King's counsel-closet, a small room in the royal chambers for private discussions.

"What can you tell me of these murders?" Frodo requested. "I know very little, only what Gandalf said when he came to fetch me. We haven't talked of it since. There were two victims--a councilor and his son?"

Aragorn nodded. "And there has been a third since Gandalf left to bring you to Minas Tirith."

"Three murders?" Frodo looked up at the tall Men standing around him in surprise, and then at the wizard seated in the corner of the small room. "When did this last happen?"

"Two nights ago," Aragorn told him, "but it was not discovered until yesterday morning."

"I did not learn of it myself, until after you'd gone to rest," added Gandalf. "There was no good time to speak of it before this."

"But we get ahead of ourselves!" said the King. "It is best you hear of the deaths in an orderly fashion, Frodo. Beregond will tell you all he knows."

Beregond came forward. He was a tall Man, taller than Aragorn or Faramir, slender and lank with long, pale hair. As he gazed down at the tiny hobbit standing before him, Frodo wondered what he must feel at being supplanted by an outside investigator less than half his size.

Whatever Beregond's thoughts on the matter, he gave his report to Frodo impartially, as his king and lord had bidden. "The first was Councilor Carathir. He was head of one of the oldest noble families in Minas Tirith--his forefathers have advised Kings and Stewards of Gondor for countless generations. Lord Carathir was found dead in his chamber here in the citadel by his servants one morning at midwinter. He was an aged man, and it was first believed that his heart had failed in the night. An odd mottling was noticed on his skin, and there was a bluish color on his lips. After seeing the odd markings upon Carathir's face, the Master Healer said he may have taken some poison by accident. A tragic mistake, but no more was thought of it at that time. Lord Carathir was laid to rest in his family tomb.

"Unlike many of the great families, Lord Carathir was fortunate to leave a son to carry on his name, until Carathir's son, Caradan, died in the same manner a month later. Caradan was a young man in his prime, a lieutenant of the Guard."

"I knew Caradan from boyhood," said Faramir. "I've fought beside him in defense of the city many times, and considered him a friend."

"He was last seen alive among his fellows at the Steward's Arms, a tavern in the lower levels of the city, drinking ale," reported Beregond.

"Yes, I know it." Frodo remembered the tavern. It had been a favorite haunt of Merry's and Pippin's during their previous stay in the city; he'd gone with them occasionally to have a pint there himself. "Did Caradan die there?"

"No, but it seems most likely that that was where he was given the poison. Many men had ale from the same barrel that Caradan drank from, but the Arms is a crowded place, full of people and noise. It would not be difficult for someone to place poison in his mug and go unnoticed. Caradan's companions all say that he was hearty when he left them. The others are well. Only Caradan was found dead on the floor of his chamber the next morning. It appears that he fell as soon as he arrived. He still wore his uniform, and there is no sign that he took further food or drink after he left the tavern. As with his father, his lips were blue and his face mottled."

"It was then we realized Carathir's death was no accident," said Aragorn. "Some more malignant force was at work."

"Who is the heir now?" asked Frodo. "Is there one--or was he the third victim?"

"There is an heir, alive," Beregond replied. "He is Carathir's nephew and sister-son, Cirandil. He is also one of the citadel Guard."

"I see what you suspect, Frodo," said Faramir, "but I've known Cirandil as long as I knew Caradan. A man's mind may be turned to evil with great temptation, but I find it hard to believe that Cirandil is capable of such a crime. Besides, he was far from the city at the time of his kinsmen's deaths."

"There is no proof that the poison was given to Caradan that night," said Gandalf. "Poisons may be given days in advance, and their effects not felt immediately. I do not accuse your friend, Faramir, but it is also possible that our poisoner is not doing his work alone. He may have a confederate."

"Yes, that's so," agreed Frodo. "Do you know what poison the victims were given? Perhaps that's a question best asked of the Master Healer."

"You will have an opportunity to speak to him tomorrow," said Aragorn. "You'll no doubt want to visit the Houses of Healing tomorrow regardless."

At first, Frodo thought that his friend was gently alluding to his fragile health, then he understood that Aragorn was referring to something else. "Why?" he asked. "Does it have to do with the third victim? You still haven't told me who he was."

"She, not he. The third was an old woman named Bregilde, of no connection to the family of Carathir," said Beregond. "She was a herbalist in the Houses of Healing."
Chapter 6 by Kathryn Ramage
The next morning, Frodo began his investigation at the Houses of Healing. The Houses were a complex of buildings around small, secluded courtyards and a larger plaza, connected by cloistered walkways, and took up most of the eastern half of the fifth level of the city. All here were dedicated to the healing arts: there were not only beds for the sick and wounded in the central hall, and rooms for laying out the dead, but apothecaries and a herbarium for the making of medicines and a library containing all the medical knowledge that could be gathered, preserving old lore and training young healers. Both Frodo and Merry had spent time here as patients, and Frodo recalled his days of recovery within these peaceful walls as he entered them again.

The Master Healer remembered as well, for he smiled warmly when he saw Frodo and came forward to greet him. "I welcome you to our Houses, Ringbearer. I'm pleased to see your health has greatly improved since you were last here..." He placed his fingertips gently under Frodo's chin and lifted his face to study it carefully, "though not so improved as I would have hoped. If you require our medicinal arts while you are in Minas Tirith, you mustn't hesitate to call upon us."

"Thank you," Frodo replied. "I may need your aid, one day soon. Today, I hope you can help me in another way."

"You refer to these tragic deaths? Yes, of course. A most baffling matter, and this last death has affected those of us who work in the Houses most strongly."

"Did you know Bregilde well?"

"She worked here as a gatherer of herbs for many long years before I came to be apprenticed to the old Master. She has always been part of the Houses to me, a familiar sight. She's been laid out in our rooms for the dead, if you wish to view her."

"Perhaps later, thank you. I'd like to speak to anyone who knew her, worked with her, first."

"Yes, of course. I will take you to the herbalists."

The Master Healer escorted him into the herbarium, where healers skilled in herbal lore prepared the plants of their craft, some grown within these walls, others gathered wild from the woods, fields, and foothills of the mountains beyond the city. Several herbalists were at work when Frodo came in; like the Master and all who served within the Houses, they wore cowled robes. Some began to murmur excitedly at the sight of the hobbit, and one young woman regarded him with curiosity and surprise.

"This is Methilde," the Master Healer introduced the young woman. "She is Bregilde's great-niece, and an apprentice herbalist."

"Are you the King's Investigator?" she asked Frodo. "I'd heard that such a one was coming, but didn't know that you would be a halfling."

"Frodo is the halfling who saved our beloved city--indeed, all this Realm--from darkness," said the Master Healer.

"And will you find who has murdered my aunt?"

"I hope to," answered Frodo. "It is what I was brought here to do, to solve these poisonings." He turned to the Master Healer. "I was told you knew what poison was used. What was it?"

"It was Pahiril, our herb-master, who determined the poison after viewing the bodies," said the Healer, and took Frodo into a sunny bay on the outer wall of the herbarium, filled with pots of growing greenery and flowers, where the herb-master was at work.

Once he understood Frodo's purpose, Pahiril was only too happy to be of assistance. "From the discoloration of the victims' flesh," he began, "I would say that they had taken a powerful distillation of nightshade."

"Do you keep such a distillation about?" asked Frodo.

"Yes, of course. We keep many potions that might be called poisons. What may kill may also cure when given in minute doses. Foxglove, here-" he reached up and gently touched the leaves of a pink-flowered plant growing in a pot on the highest shelf, "strengthens the beat of a weak heart. Valerian gives a restful sleep. Wolfsbane is good for the headache, gout, and fevers. Hensbane eases spasms. Mandragora is beneficial for the pain of wounds, snakebite, and to restore vitality. Poppies are used to make many medicines, but it can ensnare the patient in its soothing spells if taken too often, or kill if too much is ingested. Others too--hemlock, oleander, laburnum..."

He would have gone on indefinitely, reciting the entire pharmacopoeia of deadly plants and their medicinal virtues, touching a sample each if they were at hand on the shelves, if Frodo had not brought him to the point and asked, "What about nightshade?"

"Nightshade? Yes." Pahiril indicated an innocent-looking plant with dark leaves and bright red berries, which sat on a lower shelf where the full sun did not fall. "It is used for pain, and to heal ulcers of the flesh, and also to bathe the eyes and expand the pupils--but in only the most dilute potions, a drop or two in water. More than that causes great distress in the bowels, vomiting, convulsions. That is how it kills. The odd thing is the blue about the lips, which suggests that the victims were unable to draw breath. Nightshade does not affect the breathing."

The Master Healer nodded in agreement. "By their lips, they appeared as if they had been smothered."

"It is my opinion that another poison was combined with the tincture of nightshade," Pahiril finished. "Laurel, or perhaps rhododendron."

"Could that mixture of poisons have been made here?" Frodo wondered.

"Yes, certainly--though all within the Houses are dedicated to the arts which will cure and heal, not those that cause death!"

"Who is permitted to enter this room, where the plants are kept?"

"Herbalists only, about their business, and our Master Healer, of course." Pahiril bowed slightly to the Master.

"Could someone else make this poison, someone not a healer?"

"It is possible," the herb-master admitted grudgingly, "if they knew which plants to use. Any might gather them in the wild--nightshade is found in the damp, wooded clefts on the lowest slopes of our mountains, and laurel trees grow everywhere in Ithilien. It is a matter of culling the berries and leaves of the necessary plants, then brewing them in such a manner that the essence of the poison is drawn off and collected. We have such workings here, but I do not think any others exist in the city."

"It isn't necessary to have such workings, Master," said Methilde, who remained nearby to listen to Frodo's conversation with the herb-master. "Any ordinary pot set to boil on a kitchen fire would do as well."

Pahiril seemed startled and somewhat offended that the girl should contradict him. "Not as effectively."

"No, Master," she replied, "but the one who killed my aunt and the others may not be so particular."

"You are impertinent, Methilde," the Master Healer said gently.

Methilde bowed her head. "Your pardon, Master. I only wished the halfling to know it is possible to make such a poison without the tools of our craft."

The Master Healer accepted this as an apology. "If you wish to help, why don't you introduce Frodo to those who knew your great-aunt best?" he suggested. "You might also take him to view her, if he wishes it."

"Yes, Master." She turned to Frodo. "Will you come with me... Frodo?" For the first time, a hint of a smile appeared on her face. "It is an odd name."

"In Gondor, perhaps," Frodo replied, "but not in the Shire."

He spoke with the other herbalists. Many knew Bregilde well, for they had worked at her side for many years, and praised her knowledge of herb-lore and remarkable healing skills. But none had any idea who would wish to kill her. The thought of it frightened them; if a healer could be murdered so cruelly, then none of them were safe!

Then Methilde took him to view her aunt's body, which lay on a low bier in a small, windowless room with a single candle lit above the head. Bregilde's body was well wrapped in burial shrouds, with a cloth wound tightly around the head lengthwise from crown to jaw so that only her face showed. The dead woman's face was very pale in the dimly lit room, but a trace of the mottling remained.

As he stood on tiptoe to have a closer look at these odd and distinctive markings, which herb-master had said were a sign of nightshade poisoning, Methilde spoke softly: "There is something else you must know, Frodo: Aunt Bregilde could easily have brewed such a potion herself. She knew the plants that grow for fifty miles around Minas Tirith. She taught me all I know, and knew much more besides."

Frodo was astonished, not at this information itself, but that the young woman seemed to be implying her great-aunt was the poisoner.

When he asked her, she replied, "I don't know it is so, but I've wondered since her death. I don't like the thought of it, but it is in my mind."

"Did she know Councilor Carathir or his son? Could she have borne them a grudge?"

Methilde shook her head. "No, none that I know. I never heard her speak their names."

"Why then do think she might have killed them? And do you think she took the last dose of her own poison herself, out of remorse?"

"Oh, no." She looked down at him, eyes bright. "I think that she made the poison for another, who wished the councilor and his son to die--and once they had been disposed of, he had no more use for her and got rid of her too. He used her own craft against her. That person, Frodo, is the one you must find."
Chapter 7 by Kathryn Ramage
When he left the Houses of Healing, Frodo went up to the citadel to meet the King's Council. Aragorn had told him that the Council convened regularly at what was ten o'clock in the Shire, and that they would be expecting him at that hour.

They were already seated around the great, round table in the council-chamber when Faramir escorted him in. There were eleven councilors in all, and an empty chair in what had been Carathir's place. Frodo found them and the room itself intimidating: the ceiling seemed to rise miles overhead; the black and white marble of the walls and floor felt cold and harsh, and all the furniture towered over him. The room was silent as he entered. He could feel all eyes upon him and, as he walked toward the table, the only sounds he heard were the soft patter of his bare feet and the louder, echoing thumps of Faramir's boots behind him. The sound of those boot-steps was comforting, for it meant that a friend was nearby.

He spotted the King seated in his tall-backed chair at the far side of the table and, standing at the windows behind it, Gandalf. When the wizard smiled, Frodo felt more confident.

Aragorn rose from his seat and came around table. "Frodo, welcome."

The councilors were also rising, coming forward to meet him. Aragorn introduced them: Larengar, Grangirtan, Alzaran, Diarmad, Imatibin, Hilabar, Belethor, Sirih. Frodo had met some of these same Men at Aragorn's coronation, but he knew little of the structure of Gondor's government and had never learned what the Council did beyond advise the King. The Shire had nothing like a Council; one mayor was considered sufficient to see to the necessary business of appointing magistrates, chief sherriffs, and postmasters, as well as performing the public duties of the office by showing up at ceremonies on holidays and attending parties held by prominent hobbits.

All spoke words of welcome, and those who remembered him addressed him as Ringbearer, as the Master Healer had, but Frodo thought he saw incredulity in the expressions of some as they looked down at him.

"We've long looked forward to your coming, Ringbearer," said Larengar, who was an elderly Man, heavy-set and white-haired. "You are indeed most welcome. This terrible matter has been of the greatest concern to all of us since we learned that Carathir's death was no accident. King Elessar has spoken of your work as an investigator in your homeland, and it is my especial hope that you'll also prove successful here. Carathir was a dear friend of mine, and I would see justice for him and his son."

"There was also the woman from the Houses of Healing," Hilabar, a much younger and leaner Man, pointed out. "She was poisoned too."

"True. None in the city are safe."

"I say it must be the work of a madman," said Imatibin, with a significant glance at his fellow councilors. "No sane creature could commit such acts."

It was then that Frodo realized they were all frightened, but not as the herbalists had been; this was a different type of fear. The herbalists he'd spoken to had been afraid for their safety from an outside harm--anyone who had killed one healer might easily kill another--but they did not believe that that killer was one of their own. Aside from Methilde, none could conceive the idea that a healer, who had vowed to preserve life, could also deliberately take a life. The councilors, on the other hand, suspected that the murderer was among them. As they discussed these poisonings, he saw the way their eyes flickered to the others; even as they ostensibly spoke to him, they were looking to see how the other councilors reacted to their words.

None of them dared to voice their suspicions, but he would have to consider exactly what they feared. Methilde's remarkable suggestion that someone had hired her aunt to poison Carathir and his son had been whirling in his head since he'd left her. If what she suspected was true, then these Men were the most likely people to do so, after the nephew Cirandil. Did any of them have a reason to hate Carathir enough to kill him and his son? There might be factions and long-standing political differences that went back years before Aragorn had claimed his throne. Or perhaps fresh quarrels had arisen under the King? These were questions that the Men of the Council would probably not answer honestly if he asked them, but they were precisely the things he must find out.

Aragorn had just invited Frodo to tell what he'd discovered that morning at the Houses of Healing, when a voice spoke behind him, "Your pardon, my lord--"

Frodo turned and saw that a young Man in the uniform of the citadel guard stood at the open doors with Beregond, staring at him.

Aragorn had also turned to the newcomer. "Cirandil, welcome. I wished you to join us today, to meet Frodo."

"Frodo..." Cirandil's eyes, still on Frodo, widened incredulously. "This is the great investigator who has come to aid us? I had heard he was to be one of the Little Folk, akin to the halfling seen about the court and the lad who served as Lord Denethor's esquire, but I expected- I am amazed that we have put the finding of my kinsmen's murderer into the hands of one who appears as a child of ten!"

Frodo knew that Cirandil didn't mean to be deliberately insulting; his appearance must come as a surprise to a Man who had heard of his reputation, but had never seen him before. "Actually," he said, "I'm seven-and-thirty."

The young man's face colored and he said, "You don't look as if you could be so old, little one. You are ten years older than me!"

"We age more slowly than Men, and don't come of age 'til we are three-and-thirty," Frodo explained. "I admit I am young, even by the reckoning of my own people, but I've solved other murders before this, and will do my best to find who is responsible for your kinsmen's deaths, and the death of the herbalist."

"It is a mistake to underestimate 'the Little Folk,'" Gandalf said dryly. "Time and again, they have been tested and proved their worth. I would not have brought Frodo so far if I did not believe he was equal to this task."

"And I would not have sent for him if I did not believe so too," Aragorn added.

"Your pardon, my lord, Mithrandir," Cirandil said again, but more contritely this time. "I meant no offense. If you say this Frodo is capable, then he must be so."

Cirandil said no more after that, but stood and listened as the Council began its business with the King's Investigator. Their first meeting was brief. Frodo reported what the Master Healer and herb-master had told him about the nature of the poison used and how it might have been made by any with a basic knowledge of herb-lore. He did not mention Methilde's theory.

Once Frodo had finished, Aragorn said, "We must speak of measures to be taken to ensure that the citadel and the Houses of Healing are made secure. You needn't stay, unless you wish it, Frodo."

Frodo left the council-chamber, but lingered in the corridor outside, taking a seat on a marble bench between two massive columns. He had hoped for a chance to speak to Aragorn privately, but the Council meeting seemed to be a long one. After awhile, he became aware that he wasn't alone. A flicker of dark cloth farther along the corridor caught his attention, and he turned to see a young lady of the court standing in the shadow of another column. She wore a black gown and had long black hair beneath an even longer black veil. She also seemed to be waiting for someone, for her eyes were on the door to the council-chamber and she did not appear to see him.

When Cirandil emerged, she went to him. The two exchanged a few whispered words before they noticed the hobbit seated nearby. The lady darted away again quickly.

After she had gone, Cirandil came to speak to Frodo. "I must apologize for my foolhardy words."

"I wasn't offended," Frodo answered. "I'm sure many of the Council thought the same, and must also have doubts about my abilities."

"But they had the good sense to keep their tongues still?" Cirandil smiled wryly. "They wouldn't dare speak against you in our King's hearing. My lord Elessar often speaks your praises. Even today, after you'd gone from the room, he said that he owes his return to the throne of his forefathers to you, and all in this city owe you their lives. I hadn't realized 'til then that you were the same halfling who went into Mordor."

"Yes, I am he," said Frodo, but said no more. It wasn't modesty; he never liked to talk about his quest, especially when he was praised for a success that had been entirely beyond his control. It was somewhat disconcerting to hear how Aragorn spoke of him to others.

"I never saw you when you were here before, though of course I heard the tales that were told," Cirandil continued. "If you could accomplish that, then you may also find the one who killed my kinsmen--and prove that I did not. I am suspected. I know it. I see it in the eyes of many, even comrades in arms who have been my friends from boyhood. Oh, they would fain deny it, but they doubt me all the same. Even the most loyal wonder if I could have done this thing. But know this, little one: I have no desire to assume my uncle's place, nor take what rightly belonged to my cousin Caradan. They were dear to me as a father and brother. If I come to a higher position through their deaths, it is a responsibility I am not prepared for, nor that I wish to undertake. I would be happier to remain a guardsman for many years more, and have my kinsmen live."

He sounded extremely earnest and even a little angry, as if he were shouting down his doubting friends. Frodo didn't know whether or not to believe him. "I will do all I can to discover the truth of the matter," he said noncommittally. "Since you wish to clear your name, I hope that I can rely on your assistance. May I ask--Who was that lady you were speaking to, the one who was all in black?"

"She is no one," Cirandil answered shortly. "She has nothing to do with this." And he turned on his heel and walked away.
Chapter 8 by Kathryn Ramage
Frodo waited until midday for the Council to disperse. When they did not, and noon was long past, he left the citadel and returned to Gandalf's house. He hadn't had a bite to eat since breakfast, so he went in through the kitchen door; he was looking through the larder when Merry came in and offered to make lunch for him. "I'm not so good a cook as Sam is, but I've learned to make a decent meal for myself," said his cousin. "I'll cook something for you."

'Something' turned out to be toasted bread and cheese, and they sat together at the table to eat it while Frodo told Merry about his morning's work, and how he had felt when he faced the Council.

"For all Aragorn's and Gandalf's taking my part, I'm not so sure that they're wrong to wonder if I'm fit for this job. I feel as if I've accepted a task that's much too big for me."

"Not for the first time," Merry said, smiling in sympathy.

"Yes, and look how that ended!"

"You succeeded, against all hope. You'll do as well this time, Frodo, and it won't be as hard on you."

"No, nothing could ever be." But Frodo was encouraged by Merry's faith in his abilities. Everyone who knew him seemed to believe he could do this... perhaps he really could. "All the same, this isn't like my investigations at home. I don't know where I am here--I've barely begun, and already I feel lost. These Big Folk are strangers to me. I can't speak with them as I can with other hobbits. Their manners and language are more formal than we're accustomed to. I need a way inside, to learn about them. I can't go about as I did in the Shire, visiting people, and asking my family to help."

"What about Strider? He's not a stranger, and he could tell you a lot about the people in the citadel, if you asked. He's promised to give you whatever help you need and he meant it sincerely."

"I'm sure he did, but I'd hate to bother him more than I have to. After all, he is the King, and he must have other business to attend to." Frodo thought of how long he had waited today to try and speak to Aragorn, but he knew that Merry was right.

"You have me," Merry offered. "I'm not busy. I'll help."

"Can you?"

"Yes, if you'll tell me what you need. I've been here among the Big Folk longer than you have, and I know them and their ways a little better. What can I do?"

Frodo thought about this while he nibbled his bread and cheese. "Are you familiar with the people in the King's court?" he said after a minute.

"I don't have much to do with the Council members, if that's what you mean. They're all much too stuffy. But I'm friends with some of the citadel guards. I knew Caradan, though not well enough to call him a friend."

"And the cousin, Cirandil?"

Merry shook his head. "He's been away in Ithilien since midwinter, and hasn't been out with the other guards since he came back."

"What about the court ladies?"

"Oh, I get on very well with them, especially Queen Arwen's attending maids."

Frodo's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Do you?"

"Lady Eowyn's my friend, and she misses woods and green hills as much as I do. We go out riding together, or for walks on the mountain paths. When we don't go out, I'll sit with her and the other ladies in the Queen's chambers. If I were a young Man, three feet taller, and spending so much time in the company of the Steward's Lady, it'd be quite a scandal, but no one thinks anything of it. They don't think of us in that way, you know. We might as well be children."

"Ten years old," said Frodo, recalling what Cirandil had said.

He'd experienced something like this already in the Shire, when older hobbits who had heard of his reputation as an investigator met him for the first time, and were surprised to see a young hobbit-lad only a few years out of his tweens. To the eyes of Big Folk, he must appear tiny and childlike. If he looked older and wiser like Uncle Bilbo, or had boots and a beard and an undeniable voice of authority like Mr. Grimmold, who was shorter even than a grown hobbit, he might be taken more seriously.

But perhaps his youth and size might be used to an advantage here? If the Big Folk thought him a child, they might speak to him less guardedly than they would to a Man like Captain Beregond.

Merry grinned. "It's a pity I don't take an interest in ladies, Big or hobbit-sized. I could have such fun."

"The next time you go to see the ladies, may I come with you? I saw a lady today I'd like to know more about."

"Really?" His cousin looked curious. "Which one?"

"I don't know her name--I only saw her for a moment outside the council-chamber with Cirandil. Her face was hidden beneath a veil, but I think she was rather young. Tall, even for a Big woman. She has long, black hair, and was dressed all in black."

"Oh, her. That's Tharya. Yes, you'll want to talk to her. Will tomorrow do? I'll tell Eowyn and the Queen you'll be coming."
Chapter 9 by Kathryn Ramage
The next morning, Frodo returned to the citadel. There were more guards on duty than there'd been the day before, as part of the stricter watch to protect those who lived within the citadel, but the guard stationed at the door to the great hall knew who the hobbit was. When Frodo asked to see Aragorn, he was escorted immediately up to the King's chambers, where a page announced him.

The King and Queen were still in their private apartments, just as Frodo as hoped, but were not at breakfast. By all appearances, they had just finished.

"I don't mean to interrupt," Frodo said apologetically once his escort had shown him into the room. "I was hoping to speak to you alone, Strider, before you went to the Council. They're partly what I want to talk to you about. You said you'd give me whatever aid I needed-"

"Yes, of course, Frodo." If Aragorn found such a request odd first thing in the morning, he gave no sign of it. They went into the council closet for a private conversation.

"I want to know about Councilor Carathir," Frodo explained. "After all, this began with his death. I have to think that his was therefore the most important murder, from the murderer's point of view. The son was only killed afterwards. Was it simply because he was his father's child? Or perhaps he knew something that endangered his father's murderer, and must also be got out of the way. We must start this investigation by listing everyone who would gain by the councilor's death."

After listening to Merry, Aragorn was accustomed to hobbits' fast-flowing bursts of speech. "You wish to make a list?"

"Sam would write one out for me, to be methodical," Frodo answered with a small smile. "We needn't do that, but we must consider the question, and take into account everyone who could reasonably be an answer to it. You can tell me what others might not. They'll wish to speak well of the dead, and no one will dare say anything that might draw suspicion to themselves."

"Yes, I see..." Aragorn thought about this for a minute. "Though Faramir does not like to hear it spoken, there is, of course, Cirandil."

"And who else?" Frodo prompted. "Are there other members of the family? Cirandil is heir now his cousin is dead. Who's next in line?"

"I believe the line ends with him."

"Was Lord Carathir a widower? No one's mentioned a wife."

"The lady of Carathir died when Caradan was a boy."

"Could he have had a mistress?"

"Frodo!" Aragorn was shocked at the question, then he laughed. "I know nothing dishonorable of Carathir's private life. Besides, I believe he was long past such... passions."

"It might have happened years ago, a woman he'd loved and cast aside, perhaps misled with promises of marriage. She would be an old woman now too." Though he didn't say so to Aragorn, Frodo was thinking of Bregilde. Had the herbalist and councilor shared a mutual past that made her bear him and his family a grudge even after many years? Could that be the reason why she'd agreed to help someone else take revenge against the family, or had taken revenge herself?

As he spoke, the King regarded him with amused astonishment. "I never guessed you had such a vivid imagination, Frodo."

"Gandalf tells me it's a valuable quality," Frodo rejoined. "It helps me to see all the possibilities. Very well. No mistresses." Now that he had cleared the ground of other suspects, he broached the ones he had come here to talk especially to Aragorn about. "Shall we consider your councilors then? You must know something of their characters and their history, Strider--what can you tell me about them? Did Carathir have enemies or rivals among them?"

Aragorn was suddenly alert. "You suspect one of the Council? Who is it, Frodo?"

"I don't suspect anyone in particular yet," Frodo admitted, "but I have to consider them, as close acquaintances of Carathir. That's something I've learned from my other investigations: you must be willing to consider everybody. You can't simply say, 'It's impossible for this person to have committed a murder--he or she would never do such a thing.' You have to imagine, 'What if they did?'"

"Yes, I see." Aragorn nodded. "It is a wise course, though I fear it will upset and offend many people."

"It's offended many hobbits, but it had to be done. I've had to question members of my own family, some of them very dear to me, but I couldn't refuse to look for the truth even when it was unpleasant," Frodo told him. "I believe it's why Captain Beregond's investigation didn't succeed: he wasn't able to search the right places for the answers he needed. He couldn't question the Council, could he? Their position protects them--they'd refuse to answer any questions they didn't like. But they have suspicions amongst themselves. You do know, don't you, Strider, that they suspect one another of committing these crimes?"

"I've seen the looks that have passed between them since Carathir's death," Aragorn acknowledged.

"I have reasons to think one of them hired someone with knowledge of poisons to act for him." Frodo would only say that much, even to Aragorn, until he was more sure that Methilde was right. "Which ones do you think are most likely? Who had reason to be glad to see him gone from the Council? Did you give Carathir any special appointments or favors that the others might resent?"

"No, none. He'd been Keeper of the city's treasury for more than fifty years. Since he proved himself trustworthy with so much gold, I deemed it best that he should hold his place for as long as he wished it."

"Carathir was an honest Man?"

"Undoubtedly. He was stubborn about clinging to the old ways and traditions, and found it hard to accept the new. He was very proud of his family line and its long service to Gondor. His sense of duty to the city never wavered."

"Who keeps the treasury now?"

"Carathir's secretary has taken his duties in the treasure-house, but he does not sit on the Council. I must appoint a new treasurer."

"If he was a Man who clung to old ways, I suppose Carathir often disagreed with the younger and more modern-thinking councilors?" Frodo was thinking of Hilabar and Imatibin, who were the youngest members of the Council with the exception of Faramir, and from what he'd heard today, had the sharpest tongues.

"Many argued with him, naturally. Carathir and Lord Larengar were especially vociferous, but they were also old friends. You must understand, Frodo, that debates within the Council can become very heated when each party is certain that he and he alone is right. I sometimes fear that they'll come to blows in anger, but they never do."

"Did you appoint them all to their places? I noticed that some are old Men, and I guess that they served Lord Denethor before you."

"Yes, almost half of the Council who served in Denethor's day still advise me," Aragorn answered. "I thought they knew the business of governing a great city better than I, and I retained all who were known to have done good service. Only those who deemed unfit were dismissed."

"Such as who? Can you tell me their names?"

"There was Garamant, who drank to excess and rarely attended the Council, and was never in a fit state when he did appear. And Bifilir, who was in his dotage and slept through the meetings." Aragorn was silent and thoughtful for a moment, then he said, "In the final days of Denethor's stewardship, the best men of the Council did all they could to check his madness. When he would do nothing to prepare the city's defenses, they tried to dissuade him and offered advice that he refused to hear. Against their Lord's decrees, they did what they could to see that provision was made for the city's protection. But there were others... Broneron was their leader."

"Broneron?" Frodo repeated the name.

"He was Head of the Council at that time. His family had risen to prominence during the days of the most recent Stewards. Perhaps he thought of it as a sign of loyalty, but he stood by Denethor in all he did and fed the worst of his madness. If others, such as Carathir or Larengar, worked to protect the city, Broneron worked against them, as Denethor had decreed that nothing should be done. He, and the others who stood with him and worked for the city's fall, were expelled from the Council when I assumed my throne."

"Do you think he might seek revenge against Carathir and his family since you dismissed him?"

"He might," Aragorn admitted, "if he believed that Carathir was responsible for his disgrace."

"Does Broneron still live in Minas Tirith?" asked Frodo. "Or did you banish him?"

"He has been banished from the citadel, but he has a house within the city. He lives there still."




When they came out of the counsel-closet, the hour of 10:00 was approaching.

"I have your permission to go freely about the city and make inquiries?" Frodo requested.

"Certainly," Aragorn replied. "I will provide you with an escort, so that none may stop you from going where you will. You may search for the answers you need without hindrance. If any bring complaints to me, I will say that you act with my authority, and in my name. But the hour is upon us--I must go."

Aragorn went down to meet the Council. Frodo would have gone too, but Arwen asked him to stay awhile. She offered him a glass of some sweet, pale orangish fruit nectar and they sat down at the little table where the King and Queen had breakfasted, but had since been cleared by servants.

"Lady Eowyn tells me that you and Merry will return to us this afternoon," Arwen said. "You think to bring your investigations here, into my chambers."

At first, Frodo thought that she disapproved and was going to refuse to let them intrude upon her private rooms and disturb her ladies-in-waiting with questions. Then he realized she was merely curious. Although she looked like a young woman, no older than Lady Eowyn, she was thousands of years old; there was a cool, elvish detachment in her voice and expression that made it hard for him to interpret what she was truly thinking.

"If you've no objection to it, my lady," he answered deferentially. "In the Shire, I've found that social occasions where ladies gather to talk--gossip--about goings-on are a perfect opportunity for me to listen and learn. I know so little about Minas Tirith and the people here. Your ladies do, don't they?"

"Save for Eowyn, all the ladies who attend me are of the old Gondor families. Many are wives and daughters of the councilors. They know a great deal... more than I." A small smile curved at the corner of her lips. "This city and the life within it are new and strange to me too."

"There is one lady in particular I wish to meet and speak with. Merry tells me her name is Tharya."

"Tharya? Yes, she is among my maids-in-waiting. She is Councilor Larengar's daughter."

"I won't pry or ask personal questions," Frodo assured her, "only listen to their ordinary chat. I'm sure they talk about these murders in any case."

"So they do," Arwen agreed. That hint of a smile appeared again. "I admit, I am intrigued. When I first heard of your work, I was curious how you would investigate the deaths here. Mithrandir told me how you discovered the true tale of the fall of Gondolin, and how my mother's tutor at Caras Galadon visited you on his journey to the West."

"Since he helped me then, Gandalf seems to believe I can solve any puzzle I put my mind to."

"If he believes it, it must be so," Arwen answered. "You will stop these horrors, and I will do what I can to aid you." Her voice lowered, she added, "I wish to aid you however I can." She reached out to touch the astonished hobbit's cheek and said, "You are in pain, Frodo. I see it. A shadow lay upon you when I first saw you in the wilderlands near Imladris, gravely wounded as you were. You were healed, and wounded and healed again--and yet the shadow remains. The Ring still haunts you, though it has been destroyed?"

"Yes," Frodo admitted. He was usually reluctant to discuss his illness, but he couldn't conceal it from her. Since her fingertips had touched his cheek and, with her eyes gazing solemnly into his, he felt as if a spell had been cast over him. He was reminded of her grandmother Galadriel's way of looking into your thoughts and seeing all the secret things you never dared tell. He felt compelled to speak. "There's been an emptiness in my heart since it was lost, as if something vital to me has been cut away. I sometimes think I'll never be entirely healed." As he spoke, he felt that empty ache swell within him.

"And if you can find no relief, what then?"

"I don't know," he answered in a whisper. The pain wasn't so bad right now, but on his darkest days, it rose to engulf him; each year, it seemed to grown worse. What would happen when it became too much to bear?

The spell was broken abruptly when a page brought Captain Beregond into the room.

"Your pardon, my lady," Beregond said with a bow. "The King bids me escort the halfling about the citadel this morning." He turned to address Frodo: "I am to answer all your questions of the two deaths that occurred here. I will wait without until my lady has finished with you."

"We have done," answered Arwen. "You may go, Frodo. We will speak again, and be merrier, this afternoon."
Chapter 10 by Kathryn Ramage
Beregond took Frodo to see Caradan's quarters in the guards' hall first. The room was small, but neat and plain, fit for a soldier to sleep in. Beregond informed him that the young lieutenant had been found lying on the floor beside the bed, but no sign of this tragedy could be seen on the stone. No blood had been spilled in the young Man's final minutes of life, and any spew of sickness had long since been cleaned up. Frodo saw no sign that Caradan had drunk anything here on the night of his death; the captain's theory that the young Man had been poisoned at the tavern was probably correct.

When he looked through the chest at the foot of the bed, Frodo found little out of the ordinary for a guardsman to have--extra uniforms and civilian clothes, small personal arms, a few books, an empty flask. The only remarkable object was a delicate silver bracelet--too delicate for a Man's wrist--crafted to look like a bird with outstretched wings. A gift intended for a lady, Frodo surmised, or else a keepsake from one.

Most of the citadel Guard were on duty at that hour, or abroad on business elsewhere in the city, but at Frodo's request, Beregond managed to find one guardsman who'd been a friend of Caradan's and had been with him at the Steward's Arms on that fatal night. Beregond had already questioned his guardsmen about the ale Caradan had drunk, and how easy it might be for anyone to put poison into an unwatched tankard; Frodo passed on such questions, and instead asked the guard if he had any idea who could have wanted Caradan dead. Had anyone borne a grudge against him?

No, Caradan had no enemies. He was popular and well-liked by all who served with him or under his command. "We've talked of it amongst ourselves," the guard admitted, "and there's only one we can think of who'd be bettered by Caradan's dying... though Captain Beregond doesn't like to hear it said."

"I won't hear it said," Beregond responded grimly, "not against one of my own men until I am shown it is so by undeniable proof."

No name was mentioned, but Frodo knew who they were talking about. Cirandil was right; his friends among the guards suspected him. "Did Caradan have a girl-friend or lady-love?" he asked, thinking of the bracelet he'd found.

The young guard grinned at the question. "One or two." Apparently, Caradan was as popular with the maidens of the city as he was among the guards.

"Shall I show you where Lord Carathir died next?" Beregond offered as he and Frodo left the guards' hall.

"Yes, please. There's something I've been curious about since I first heard of Carathir and his son," Frodo said. "They both died within the citadel, but in their bed or bed-chamber. Did Councilor Carathir live here?"

"The family of Carathir owns a grand house on the sixth level, not far from Mithrandir's, but it has been closed for years," Beregond answered. "Lord Carathir found it troublesome to maintain so large a household for himself alone once his lady had died and his son and nephew had grown and were in the Guard. Since he spent most of his days within the citadel, he chose to spend his nights in his chambers here too."

"Do all the councilors have private chambers at their disposal?"

"Yes. I will take you there." They went around behind the great hall to a smaller courtyard. There were other buildings here, including a long, low one which swept around the southern end of the small courtyard in a semi-circle beneath the outer wall of the citadel, connected to the back of the great hall by a long, covered gallery. "If a meeting of the Council goes well into the night, or goes on for days, the councilors like to have a place to lay their heads and rest for an hour or two without having to walk down through the city streets and return again. Some use their chambers little, while others like Carathir make them a second home." They went into the long, low building and down the curved hallway to a locked door; Beregond unlocked it and held the door open for Frodo to go inside. "Here you see Carathir's chamber."

It was a richly-appointed room--large to a hobbit's eyes, but probably just adequately big enough to contain the minimum of necessary comforts for a Gondorian nobleman: a tall-posted, curtained bed and oaken wardrobe, an armchair before a screened fireplace, a desk, a number of books on shelves that rose from floor to ceiling on one side of the fireplace, and a small, floridly carved cabinet on the other. A light layer of dust lay on the upper surfaces of the furniture.

"Has anything been changed since the night of his death?" Frodo asked.

"Carathir has been dead more than two months," answered Beregond. "We did not know then that it was murder. The sheets were taken from the bed, and a few papers carried from the desk, as they were of need to others in the Council. An empty mug left at the bedside was removed. Otherwise, nothing has been changed."

Frodo looked around the room, opening the drawers of the desk and wardrobe to examine the contents. When he opened the little cabinet, he found a set of glass decanters containing wines and colorful liqueurs, and six pewter goblets; he picked one up to find it clean of any residue. All were clean--none had been used on the last night Carathir had spent here; he'd had no company. Frodo then took up a decanter half-full of greenish liquid and removed the stopper to sniff: the scent was crisp and pungent, but not unpleasant. Would he recognize the smell of nightshade? Did it have a distinctive scent? He'd have to ask the herbalists.

"Carathir drank none of those wines on the night of his death," Beregond spoke behind him. "Each has been tested, and none are poisoned."

"How did he take the poison?" As Frodo turned to the captain with this question, he noticed an old, ringed stain on the varnished wooden armrest of the chair, where a damp, hot, cylindrical object had been set down. "You mentioned a mug. What was in it?"

"Lord Carathir was accustomed to take a posset made of warm brandy with spices to ease his sleep. I believe that the poison was given in his drink that evening. The spices would disguise any odd taste."

"Where did he get the brandy, if not from here?" Frodo indicated the row of decanters.

"The posset was made in the kitchens, and brought to Carathir's chamber. The servants knew he would ask for it nightly, and had it made ready when he called for it."

"His servants, or the citadel's?"

"The citadel's. Some are assigned to attend the councilors and other guests. They keep these chambers in order, wash the laundry, and see to their wants while they dwelt within these halls. Carathir kept no servant of his own after he came to live here. All food and drink, save his private stores, was brought to him from the kitchens that serve all the citadel, from the King and Queen to the scullions."

They left Carathir's chamber and passed through the gallery to visit the citadel kitchens, which sat behind Merethrond, the Hall of Feasts. The kitchen staff were busy, as Frodo guessed they were from daybreak to night, to feed so many people. The midday meals were being prepared now: enormous copper pots full of stew and vegetables simmered; dozens of roasting fowl turned on spits over a vast pit of glowing embers; and maidservants rushed about with platters, bowls, and tankards. It had been crisply cool outdoors, but it was sweltering in here; Frodo could only imagine what it must be like in summer.

When the head-cook noticed the visitors, she came to see what they wanted. Beregond presented Frodo as "the King's Investigator," and explained their errand.

"May I speak to the servants who attended Lord Carathir?" Frodo requested.

The cook consented to send them, though she added, "But you may be sure, Lord Carathir never was poisoned by any food that came from my kitchen!"

Frodo and Beregond went into the servants' dining hall. A few minutes later, the butler who saw to the steaming of the brandywines came in. He was very sorry about Lord Carathir's dying, he said, but there'd been nothing wrong with the brandywine his lordship was accustomed to drink. Carathir had had his mug from the same bottle of brandy every night, and it had been finished off by others since his death; no harm had come to anyone else from it. No, he could remember nothing remarkable about that last night. Everything had gone just as usual. He'd warmed the brandy at the regular hour, added the spices--nutmeg, cloves, and others from the kitchen stores; Frodo might see them if he wished--and sent a maidservant to Carathir's chambers with it.

"Which maidservant took it to him?" asked Frodo.

"I don't recall which it was," the butler answered. "These girls come and go so quickly. This one was new to the King's service, for she had to be told where his lordship's chambers were. All the maids who've served here for a time know where the councilors' rooms are."

They asked around the kitchens, but couldn't find the maid who had taken Carathir his mug of spiced brandywine that night. When questioned, none would admit to doing it. Were they afraid? Frodo wondered. The maid who'd done it might think she'd be blamed if she confessed to carrying that drink, even if she had no knowledge of the poison within it. Or was the maidservant who'd brought Carathir his brandy no longer here?

"Is there anything else you wish to see this morning?" Beregond asked after they'd left the kitchen.

"Only Cirandil, if he's about."

"He is on duty within the citadel. I would have sent him to serve elsewhere during this troubling time, but he insisted on remaining here to perform his duties as if nothing was changed. Perhaps that is best, and it commends him well that he wishes to stay and brave the worst of it." There was a distinct note of pride in the captain's voice.

Cirandil was standing guard at the White Tower of Ecthelion. Beregond relieved him briefly from his duty to speak to the King's Investigator.

"I hope you can tell me about your cousin Caradan," Frodo explained to the young man. "You were brought up together, in the same house, weren't you? Almost as brothers?"

"Yes, that's so," Cirandil answered solemnly. "Caradan was as a elder brother to me."

"I know what that's like," Frodo said, thinking of Merry. "You must've been quite close to him, and knew him better than anyone else. You knew his secrets."

"If he had an enemy who wished to kill him, I know nothing of that," the young guardsman replied. "I wasn't here when he died."

"I don't wish to ask you about that. This is something else, something personal. I gather that your cousin was well liked by the ladies."

"Indeed, he was," Cirandil said dryly.

"Was there anyone he was particularly fond of? It may have nothing to do with his death, but I found a curious object in his quarters today--a bracelet--and I'd like to know more about it. It's a silver circlet shaped as a sort of bird, open at one side for a lady's wrist to pass through. Do you know anything about it?"

Frodo thought this a fairly innocuous line of questioning, but it seemed to strike a nerve; at the mention of the bracelet, Cirandil grew wary. "Yes," he answered, "I know them well."

"Them?" Frodo echoed; he had only found one.

"They are a matched pair of pledge bracelets. They belonged to my Aunt Rainelde."

"Caradan's mother?"

Cirandil nodded. "They've been in our family for generations. It is a tradition that the eldest son gives one to his chosen lady when he plights his troth to her, and the other on their wedding day. When both bracelets are worn together, the two doves clasp and the wings embrace. My uncle gave them to Aunt Rainelde when they were wed. At her death, they were passed on to Caradan, to present to his bride."

"Was he betrothed?" asked Frodo. "I only saw one bracelet. Who did he give the other to? Do you know?"

Again, Cirandil's reaction surprised him. The young man looked almost angry. "Yes, I know," he answered tersely, "and if you don't mind, I have my duties to attend to and no wish to gossip about my dead cousin." With this, he turned on one boot-heel to return to his place in the White Tower. Frodo considered going after him, but decided to let the matter drop for now. He would pursue it later, if he didn't find the answer elsewhere.

His path had taken him in a full circle around the great hall; he and Beregond had begun at the guards' hall on its eastern side, and the White Tower lay on its northwestern corner, beside the fountain and white tree. Frodo returned to the front of the great hall just as the Council concluded its morning session. The councilors were dispersing, some heading across the vast courtyard toward the entrance to the tunnel, others standing together and talking. Larengar was speaking with a small group of his fellow councilors, but when he saw the hobbit, he broke away from the others and swept toward Frodo, a beatific smile on his broad face.

"Ah, Ringbearer! We'd heard that you were abroad on your investigations today. With some success, I hope."

"It's really too soon to tell," Frodo replied. "I've only just begun to look around."

Although there was no one standing near enough to overhear their conversation, Larengar bent with his hands upon his thighs, so that his face was nearer to Frodo's, and he lowered his voice. "Some of the Council have questioned the King's wisdom at having an outside investigator brought in, but I say that it is our duty to aid you in discovering who has committed these monstrous deeds in any way we can. You may consider me at your service."

"That's very kind of you, sir."

"I will tell you this, in hopes it will help you: Not everyone wept at Carathir's death. He was a dear friend of mine, and I grieve at his passing--but others, I am sure, feel no sorrow."

"Are you referring to anyone in particular?" Frodo asked, amazed at this confidential statement.

"I've no wish to cast aspersions upon anyone," Larengar said virtuously, "but you've only to ask who Carathir argued with the most, and the worst."

"The King told me that Carathir often disagreed with the younger members of the Council," said Frodo.

"Ah," said Larengar. As he stood up straight, he turned to glance at Imatibin, who stood on the steps leading up to the great door, talking with a Man whom Frodo hadn't seen before. "You have your answer. But I pray you pardon me--I have matters to attend to before the Council reconvenes this afternoon." He bowed to the hobbit, and went on his way.

Imatibin had kept an eye on them during their conversation; once Larengar had gone, he raised a hand to beckon Frodo. As Frodo came closer, he saw that the other Man was as dark and thin as Imatibin was, but clean-shaven while Imatibin wore a trimmed beard. "This is my brother, Erlotibin," Imatibin introduced his companion once Frodo had come up the steps to join them. "He is not of the Council, but has a place at court as the King's Master of Scribes. I was just telling him about your arrival, and how you will find the person responsible for these poisonings. I wish you all luck, Frodo. It must be quite a task for you--no matter how skilled an investigator you are in your homeland, you are unfamiliar with Minas Tirith. You don't know the ways of the city."

"Yes," Frodo admitted; he'd thought the same himself more than once since he'd come here, but he didn't like hearing it said by someone else. The Man seemed to be suggesting that he was out of his depth, and made Frodo wonder if he was among the councilors who doubted the King's wisdom in bringing him here.

"You must want aid and advice," said Imatibin.

"As a matter of fact, I would welcome any help," Frodo answered.

"I can help you on one matter, at least. I saw you were speaking with Lord Larengar."

"Imati-" Erlotibin said in a soft, warning tone.

Imatibin turned to silence his brother. "No, I must speak the truth. There is something I must tell the King's Investigator--I'm sure he'll want to know. He'll find it interesting." He turned back to Frodo. "Larengar has told you what great friends he and Carathir were, hasn't he?"

Frodo nodded.

"Yes, I thought as much. He makes a point of it whenever the opportunity presents itself. But for all the mournful sounds Larengar makes about the death of his dear friend Carathir, the two had their differences."

"I've been told that everyone quarrels in the Council," said Frodo. He was beginning to see the purpose behind Imatibin's offer of "help." It was the same, apparently, as Larengar's.

"And so they do," Imatibin agreed with a laugh. "A councilor who keeps his opinions to himself is worthless as an advisor. No, little one--I meant quarrels outside the council-chamber, of a more personal nature. We heard them shouting at each other one evening not long before Carathir's death. Didn't we, Erlo?"

"I want no part in this," his brother responded.

"Never-the-less, we did see it," Imatibin insisted. "They were in the cloisters before the guests' hall, where Carathir spent his last days."

"What were they arguing about?" Frodo asked.

"We were not near enough to hear their words," said Erlotibin.

"We couldn't hear all they said, but I distinctly heard the name of Caradan spoken more than once," Imatibin added quickly. "Their argument must have been over Carathir's son, who is also dead now. If you wish to know more about it, Frodo, you'll have to ask Larengar yourself."

After the two brothers had gone, Frodo rejoined Beregond, who stood waiting for him near the fountain and the white tree.

"They both wanted to tell me how the other quarreled with Carathir," Frodo told him, and laughed. "Your councilors smile so pleasantly and speak so kindly, but they are as insidious as adders!"

"Words are their craft," said Beregond. "They use them to make things plain, or to conceal the truth."

Frodo looked up at the Man, who towered over him. "Tell me please, Captain: When you were in charge of this investigation, did you suspect one of the Council of having a part in these poisonings?"

"I did wonder," Beregond admitted. "I can name no names--not because I wish to be discreet, but because it was no more than a thought that crossed my mind. I spoke to Larengar and Imatibin and to other members of the Council after Carathir's death. They did not speak so boldly against each other then, but I saw the looks that passed from one to another. I saw that they were wondering too."

"But you could go no further?"

"No. One does not question a great noble of the city without good reason. I had none." They rose and began to walk toward the tunnel to the sixth level. "Perhaps you will find reasons to question them, Frodo. Is there anything else you wish to do today?"

"Not just now, thank you. I'd like to go home and rest for awhile before I call upon the Queen." It had been a busy morning, and he was feeling rather tired. "I must think about what I've learned so far, and what I need to do next."

"I'll come to Mithrandir's house for you tomorrow morning," said Beregond. "Tell me where you wish to go, and I'll go with you."

"That's very kind, but you don't need to accompany me everywhere," Frodo replied.

"I must," said Beregond. "It is what my king asks of me. He loves you dearly, little one, and would not see you endangered in his service."

"Endangered?" echoed Frodo. "How?"

"Your presence and purpose is well known throughout the city," Beregond explained. "Whoever has committed these three murders would not hesitate to kill a fourth, especially if that fourth seeks him."

"Oh." Frodo had been thinking of the poisoner as Bregilde, a woman already dead--but the person who had hired her was still alive and might resort to the further use of poisons, or to violence, if he was threatened with discovery.

"Such a small creature as you are can hardly defend himself against a murderer," Beregond continued.

"I think you'll find that hobbits are stronger than they appear."

"Your kinsmen, perhaps. I know well the brave deeds done by both Peregrin and Meriadoc... but you are not like them, Frodo. You are not so hearty," Beregond said bluntly. "Wherever you go, I shall go with you. It is worth my life if I let you come to harm."

Frodo realized that he had acquired a bodyguard as stubbornly determined to protect him as Sam was, although from very different motives. "Very well," he consented. "Come for me tomorrow, after breakfast."

"And where will we go?" asked Beregond.

"I don't know yet. I'll tell you then."
Chapter 11 by Kathryn Ramage
When Frodo returned to Gandalf's house, he went into the kitchen and found Merry there, reheating soup left over from last night's dinner.

"I thought you'd probably be in for lunch," Merry explained, "and I ought to have something ready for you."

"Thank you. It's almost like being home," said Frodo. This room, large, square-cornered, and flagstoned, wasn't as cozy as the kitchen at Bag End, but after the overheated, noisy bustle of the citadel kitchens, it seemed quite cheerful and pleasant. He set the table and helped himself to the soup.

As they settled down to have lunch, he began to tell Merry about his morning's exploration in the citadel. They were surprised when they heard the front door open and, after a minute, Gandalf came to the kitchen. "You're home early," Frodo said to the wizard.

"I'd heard you were about the citadel today, and I left in order to find you, Frodo. Beregond told me that you'd gone away alone. He should have escorted you."

Frodo realized that Gandalf had been frightened for him, and had come home to be sure he was all right. He hadn't been very alarmed when Beregond had expressed a concern for his safety, but if the wizard was worried too, then there must indeed be good reason for it. How odd to feel that he might be in physical danger over this investigation! Frodo couldn't recall feeling personally threatened during an investigation before, and only once when he'd met with murderers face to face.

"I'm fine, Gandalf," he answered. "It's only a short walk, and I doubt that anyone will attack me in the streets of Minas Tirith in broad daylight. We're hunting for a poisoner, remember? If I'm going to be truly well-protected, perhaps I'd better have someone taste my food."

Frodo turned to regard his cousin archly; Merry laughed and pushed away his half-finished bowl of soup. "Not me!"

Gandalf snorted. "Is there anything hobbits won't make jokes about?" he grumbled, but the hobbits knew he wasn't really angry. Frodo smiled at him.

"Only missing dinner," Merry rejoined. "There's nothing funny about that."

"I suppose you're right, Frodo," Gandalf said. "Little harm can come to you between here and the citadel, as long as you don't do anything foolish."

"I won't," Frodo promised. "I'll be careful. Beregond will go around with me tomorrow, just as he did today."

"And what did your investigations turn up?" the wizard asked as he took a seat and helped himself to some soup.

"I've had a look about the citadel and seen where two of the victims died. I've spoken to some of the Council, and learned the names of a few people worth suspecting. There are certain points I must follow up on if I'm to figure out which of them is responsible for these murders." Since he didn't have a pen or paper at hand to write things down, Frodo counted off these points on his fingers.

"I need to find this Broneron Strider spoke of, and the other Men who stood by Lord Denethor when he went mad. If Broneron believes that Carathir opposed him and had something to do with their dismissal from the Council, others might feel the same. It's possible that one, or perhaps all of them, have taken their revenge this way.

"I also want to visit the treasure-house and see the secretary who has taken Carathir's duties. A Man might go to great lengths to get his hands on so much gold.

"Next, I must look into the herbalist Bregilde's death. It seems to me that another visit to the Houses of Healing is in order. I'm sure Bregilde's niece can tell me more than she has, and I need to learn more about these poisons. I've been wondering how difficult it is to find nightshade growing beyond the city walls. If it wasn't taken from the herbarium, our murderer must have gathered the plants and brewed the poison him- or herself. Let's see if we can trace their steps. Would you mind, Merry, if I go with you and Lady Eowyn the next time you go out?"

"Of course I don't mind, and I don't see why Eowyn would either. What else can I do?" Merry asked. "'Tisn't fair that you keep all the fun to yourself."

"Yes, you're right. I can't go everywhere with Beregond trailing after me. If you want to help, Merry, can you go to the Steward's Arms first thing tomorrow morning?"

"In the morning? But they won't be open yet!" Merry protested.

"I don't mean for you to have an ale. You're to speak to the tavern keeper at an hour when he isn't busy with a house full of people. I want you to ask about the night when Caradan was poisoned. Ask especially about his servants. Were there any new barmaids or serving-women about the place at that time?"

While Frodo outlined these errands, Gandalf had been sitting and listening without interruption. The hobbit assumed that he would speak up eventually to offer some advice or suggestion on a line of inquiry, but Gandalf seemed to think Frodo was doing fine on his own. At this last instruction to Merry, however, the wizard's eyebrows went up and he began to look extremely interested. "You suspect a woman, Frodo?"

"It's an idea I have," he answered vaguely; Gandalf continued to regard him with curiosity. "Only a suspicion." He was thinking again of Bregilde. If she had poisoned Carathir and his son, she had probably administered the poison herself. How hard would it be for her to go in and out of a tavern or the citadel kitchens unnoticed? Out of her healer's robes, she would look no different from any other old woman of the city.

To Merry, he said, "We can begin all that tomorrow. But first things first--we have a call to pay upon the Queen and her ladies, including the elusive Tharya."
Chapter 12 by Kathryn Ramage
The ladies of the court had already assembled by the time Frodo and Merry entered the Queen's boudoir, but Arwen had not arrived. Eowyn introduced Frodo to Dame Thressildis, a large and motherly woman who was in charge of the maids-in-waiting, and presented him to the other ladies.

The Queen's boudoir was near the top of the great hall in one of the turrets. It was in part a work room, for a loom stood in one angled corner, and there were a number of embroidery frames and tables with pieces of tapestry spread out on them around the room. From the scenes on the sections Frodo examined, he could see that the work commemorated the fall of Mordor and the return of Gondor's king. The three main panels told the tale: On one, Aragorn and his army confronted Sauron's legions of orcs at the Black Gate; on another, the Oliphaunts that besieged Minas Tirith were driven back by the Riders of Rohan, and the tiny figures of the Stewart's Lady and her halfling companion could be seen dispatching the Witch King and his monstrous, winged mount; on the largest panel, Mount Doom was depicted as crumbling into fiery ruin, while another tiny figure cast a golden ring into the pit--which was not quite as it had happened, but that was the way the story was told in Minas Tirith.

Once the pieces were sewn together, Eowyn explained, the finished tapestry would be hung in the throne room. All the ladies of the court were working on it. Tall, mullioned windows on three sides of the turret room gave them light for most of the day.

When Frodo stood on tip-toe to gaze out of the foremost windows, he could see the top of the white tree in the courtyard, which was just beginning to put forth new leaves, and out onto the dizzying view of fields and mountains beyond the city.

"It was not so pleasant a sight in the days of the Dark Lord, but it grows more green with every day," said Thressildis. "These rooms haven't been used in many a year, not since the death of Lady Finduilas."

"She was Faramir's mother," Eowyn added. "He speaks fondly of the days he spent here with her as a little boy."

"That's right, my lady," said Thressildis. "Faramir was his mother's favorite, and it fair broke his heart when the poor lady died. It was a sad day for all of us who remember it. The last light of the court went out with her passing, and the old Steward never smiled at anything afterwards. There hadn't been a Lady of the Citadel since Finduilas. But now we have two, since our young Steward has married you, my lady, and there is a King again, who's brought us a Queen." She turned and dropped into the deepest curtsey she could manage, as did all the other ladies present, as Arwen entered the room.

From Thressildis's remarks, Frodo inferred that there hadn't been much of a courtly life in Denethor's day. After the death of his wife, and as the danger from nearby Mordor had grown darker, the citadel had become entirely masculine and military. Now that the danger was past, the wives and daughters of the councilors were happy to have a place at court, and Ladies of the Citadel to serve.

Arwen bid them all to rise, welcomed the hobbits, and joined her ladies at their work. As she smiled and spoke with her attendants, the Queen seemed not so different from the other young women about her.

The ladies chattered cheerfully as they worked. By watching them and occasionally joining in their conversations, Frodo observed that they were not very different from the hobbit-ladies of his acquaintance, only much taller, and they wore thin-soled slippers on their feet. The matrons sat together and gossiped, and the maidens giggled and whispered like hobbit-misses. He might almost believe he was in the drawing-room of an oversized smial. There was only one conspicuous discrepancy.

"Is there no tea?" he asked Merry. This seemed very odd. Frodo couldn't imagine hobbits without a tea-table to gather around in a similar setting.

"They don't have the custom of afternoon tea here," Merry replied, "not the way we do in the Shire."

"Poor things! Perhaps we ought to introduce it?"

"What a good idea!" Merry grinned. "Shall I ask?"

As Merry proposed the idea of having tea parties to Arwen and the women seated around her, Frodo soon saw what his cousin meant about "having fun" if he were inclined to like women, for they obviously liked him. The older ladies doted on him as if he were a small child, and the young maidens flirted with him as shamelessly and harmlessly as he paid gallantries to them. They laughed at his jokes, and rumpled his curls, and even though he wasn't interested in girls, Merry obviously enjoyed their attention.

Frodo believed the ladies would have treated him the same way if they'd known him better, but his shy, reserved manners did not invite cuddles from strangers. Never-the-less, he blushed when he heard one girl whisper to another, "Have you ever seen such a darling little thing? He's just like a living doll!"

The ladies of Minas Tirith, Frodo also found, were as interested in mysteries as their hobbit counterparts. They all knew who he was, and why he'd been summoned to the city; several told him that they'd heard Merry speak of him as a marvelous investigator.

"The night of your arrival, Merry told us of your investigations, and how your cousins help you," said Eowyn. "Peony, Angelica... are all hobbit-ladies named after flowers?"

"Many are," said Frodo, "and some lads too. It's a common practice in the Shire."

"I can see why Merry is named as he is," giggled one of the younger maids. "He is so cheerful, and it suits him perfectly. But why are you called 'Frodo'? What does it mean?"

"Nothing at all," he admitted. "Some hobbit-names are plain nonsense." His answer only produced more giggles.

The ladies were also curious as to what he could do to find the poisoner who was terrorizing the courtiers as well as the city. They referred to the murders that had happened in the citadel in horrified whispers and some sorrow, for they had all known Carathir and Caradan.

Frodo was surprised to learn that the older ladies also knew Bregilde. Outside the Houses of Healing, the herbalist was best known as a midwife, for she was frequently called upon by mothers-to-be to provide remedies to ease morning sickness and other ailments related to pregnancy.

"Has one of the ladies had a baby recently?" Frodo asked Thressildis. "Or is someone expecting?" If she had a patient here, Bregilde could easily go in and out of the citadel, bringing whatever potions she liked, and not rouse suspicion.

"Oh, we have our hopes..." Thressildis inclined her head in the direction of the Queen, "but I'm sorry to say there's no sign of a little prince yet. 'Tis Imadene, the wife of Councilor Hilabar. She is Mistress of the Wardrobe. No, she isn't here today. She has troubles in her early months. Bregilde always tended her before, and she's at a loss now the poor woman is dead to know who will deliver this baby for her when the time comes."

As the afternoon went on, more ladies came in, or those already present went away on errands, but the one Frodo had seen outside the council-chamber wasn't there. He was beginning to think she wouldn't come at all, when she did appear.

She was no longer veiled, but he recognized her immediately, for she wore a black gown as she had that day. He could see now that she was indeed young and rather pretty. It wasn't easy for him to judge the ages of Big Folk, since they seemed to reach maturity much earlier than hobbits, but Frodo thought she was probably in her middle-twenties. A hobbit of that age was a half-grown child; here, they were grown women and men.

She curtsied to Arwen and said, "Your pardon, my lady. I was delayed."

"I'm glad you've come, Tharya. We've felt your absence today," Arwen replied. "There is one who's been waiting to meet you." She turned to bring Frodo forward with a graceful gesture of one arm; the hobbit almost seemed to appear by magic within the sweep of the long, draped sleeve of her gown.

Tharya's eyes widened in surprise when she saw Frodo, but she said, "You- Why, you are the investigator the King has sent for."

"Yes, I am," Frodo answered, and introduced himself.

"Isn't he adorable?" one of the other maids-in-waiting said with a laugh, which made the tips of Frodo's ears turn pink. "Our Merry tells us he's twice as clever as any Man in the city. He'll find out who murdered poor Caradan and his father."

"I hope you will," Tharya said to Frodo. "Someone must put an end to this terrible thing, and what it's done to us all. The fear we live with, the awful suspicions. It's become unbearable. I am pleased you're here." These last words were spoken courteously, but with an undertone of nervousness that made Frodo doubt she meant it. She wasn't pleased to find him here.

"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Miss," he responded with equal courtesy. "But we've met already, haven't we?"

"Have we?"

"Downstairs, as a matter of fact, in this very hall. It was while I waited outside the Council chambers the day before yesterday-"

"No, I don't recall," Tharya said quickly. "You are mistaken--It must have been someone else. I think I would remember if I'd seen you before." She turned to the Queen. "I really must pray your forgiveness, my lady, but I can't remain today. My father requires me elsewhere."

Frodo was sure that this was only an excuse; the girl was obviously anxious to get away from him. After another deep curtsey, Tharya darted away.

"What an extraordinary thing!" said Dame Thressildis after Tharya had gone. "I've never seen her behave so strangely."

"She has been in a peculiar state lately," said another lady. "But I suppose she has her reasons, after all. These last weeks have not been happy for her, poor girl."

"Why does she wear black?" Frodo asked them. "In the Shire, it is the color of mourning." The ladies confirmed that black was also worn for mourning here. "Who does she mourn? Was she related to Carathir?"

"No, she wasn't," said Thressildis. "At least, not yet. She was betrothed to his son, Caradan."
Chapter 13 by Kathryn Ramage
"That didn't go very well," Merry said as they were leaving the great hall at dusk. A steep, circular stairwell in the corner tower led directly down from the turret rooms to a side-door on the eastern side of the hall. The last of the fading light came in through tall, narrow slits of windows, and the hobbits each kept one hand on the outer wall as they hopped down from step to step.

"Even if I didn't get to speak to Tharya as I would've liked, it was a good afternoon's work. I learned a few interesting things," Frodo replied. "I know that Tharya was betrothed to Caradan." He had guessed as much from her mourning garments, but his guess was now confirmed. He'd also observed that Tharya was not wearing a bracelet to match the one he had seen in Caradan's quarters.

"I could've told you that, Frodo."

"But you didn't!"

"You didn't ask me. Besides, I thought you had something particular to ask her about him," Merry retorted. They reached the bottom of the stairs; standing on the last step, Merry seized the handle with both hands and pulled with all his might to try and open the heavy door.

"It wasn't Caradan I was most interested in," said Frodo. "Tell me, Merry--between your flirtations with every other pretty young lady in the room, did you have a chance to ask Lady Eowyn about my going out riding with you?"

His cousin laughed. "Yes, I did. She said she'd be delighted, whenever you want to go. If we can't get a pony for you, you can ride with her. Now that's a great honor. I'm rather jealous."

With Frodo's help, Merry pulled the door open a crack, enough for a hobbit or two to slip through. Outside, the evening was clear, still and quiet. Frodo could just glimpse the corner of the vast courtyard; torches lit above the entrance to the tunnel that led down to the sixth level of the city cast a flickering, yellow light over the stone pavement, but the space between the great hall and the guards' hall was in darkness. At first, Frodo thought that there was no one nearer than the guards on duty in the courtyard--then he realized that two figures stood in the long shadows by the guards' hall.

Before Merry could go out, Frodo grabbed his cousin by the arm to pull him back. "Ssh!" he hissed.

By peeking through the gap made by the slightly open door, they could see Tharya standing with a Man in guard's uniform. His face was in shadow, but Frodo could guess who it was. The pair were talking together softly, urgently. As she turned to go, the guardsman stepped out of the shadows and into the torch-light. It was Cirandil.

"Have a care, Tharya," he called after her in a voice loud enough for the hobbits to hear, "or you'll be suspected too. I don't want you involved in this. No breath of scandal should touch you. Be wary of that little investigator. It would be a mistake to underestimate the halflings. They may look like children, but they are not. If the King and Faramir and even the wizard Mithrandir think so highly of this little one, then there must be good reason."

"He means you," Merry hissed near Frodo's ear, although Frodo had already deduced that for himself and waved for his cousin to be silent.

"I have no worries for myself, Cir," answered Tharya. "My only fear is for you."

The pair stood silently for a moment, gazing into each other's eyes. Tharya lifted one hand and placed it lightly on Cirandil's chest, then she whirled and came to the door they were hiding behind; she shoved it open, pushing them back into the angle of the wall behind, and went up the stairs. The hem of her long skirts brushed close to the hobbits as she swept past, but she did not see them. They waited until Cirandil had gone too before they emerged.

"Is that what you wanted to ask her about?" asked Merry.

Frodo nodded, though he had no need to ask now. The look in the young couple's eyes had told him everything. He thought he might have been mistaken in those few seconds when he'd seen Tharya with Cirandil that first time; now, he was sure he was right. He knew very well how people in love looked at each other.
Chapter 14 by Kathryn Ramage
Gandalf was waiting for them when they returned to the house, and opened the front door even before Frodo and Merry reached it.

"It's all right," Merry said cheerfully as they went inside. "I've been with Frodo every step of the way, and you see I've brought him safely home. We aren't late for dinner, are we? No? Great! I'll go wash up, and Frodo can tell you about all the fun we've had."

"'Fun'," snorted Gandalf after Merry had gone to his room. "He calls your investigations of murders 'fun.'"

In spite of his grumbling, Frodo knew Gandalf wasn't angry. The wizard was often gruff over young hobbits' foolishness, but he enjoyed having them around. He wouldn't have let Merry stay at his house for so long if he wasn't fond of him.

"For him, they are fun," Frodo answered. "He's always been eager for adventures, more than the rest of us. I think he enjoyed his part in the quest. Even if it's dangerous, helping me to catch a murderer gives him something exciting to do."

"He is certainly more lively since you've joined him," Gandalf agreed as they left the front hall and went into the sitting room down the hall. "It's more than the opportunity for adventure--you've given him the company of another hobbit, and I know he's missed that sorely. You are very dear to him, Frodo."

"He's very dear to me too. When I agreed to come here, I was hoping to convince him to come home with me, but now... well, if only we'd thought to bring Pippin with us, Gandalf. I think Merry would be perfectly happy staying in Minas Tirith if Pip were here too. He did ask Pippin to come with him, you know, but Pippin wanted to stay in the Shire."

"No, I didn't know," Gandalf said. "Merry's told me nothing, and neither have you. Perhaps it is no business of mine, but hobbits are usually so forthright, I admit that it piques my curiosity when they keep things back. This is the one point on which his unending, ridiculous prattle falls silent."

"It is rather personal," Frodo said reluctantly. "I don't know if he'd like it if I told you. You might think differently of him." But Frodo hoped it wouldn't be so. Whether or not wizards knew anything about love, Gandalf had seen a great deal of the world and the people in it in a lifetime that spanned centuries. Perhaps he would understand, not only Merry's situation, but his own.

The wizard's bushy white brows rose at this last statement. "What did he do? Frodo, I promise you, unless Merry has taken to waylaying travelers and robbing them, or something equally criminal, it will not alter my opinion of him."

All right then. "He wasn't happy in the Shire," Frodo began. "I've told you that much."

"You said he'd quarreled with his father," Gandalf prompted.

"Yes, that's right. Uncle Saradoc wanted him to marry a girl he'd chosen for him, and Merry refused. He was in love with someone else."

"Someone his father didn't approve of?"

"Well, yes. They couldn't have married, not by any rites that we hobbits have. I don't know if it happens to anyone else on Middle-earth, but it sometimes happens to us hobbit-folk. Maybe it's a peculiarity only our people have." Frodo could see that Gandalf was only perplexed by this explanation that was no explanation. He would have to be clear. "It was Pippin, you see. They've loved each other since they were in their twenties. Even before Pippin, Merry's always been that way: he can only love other boys." He regarded the wizard timidly. "Do you know about such things?"

Gandalf nodded. "It is not a peculiarity exclusive to hobbits, Frodo. There are such Men too, and Elves. Among the Dwarves, it is commonplace--they have so few women-folk."

He wasn't shocked. He didn't even seemed very surprised to hear the truth about Merry, as if he'd already guessed something of the sort. Frodo thought of what had gone on in this same house three years ago, when all four hobbits had lived here with the wizard, and his cousins had shared the room where Merry now slept alone. Had Gandalf seen it then? If it was as common a thing as he claimed, then perhaps he did understand.

Since he'd told Merry's secret, it was only fair he tell his own as well. But this next step required more bravery, and before Frodo could work up his courage, Merry came in.

"Aren't you ready to eat?" he asked them. "The cook's put dinner on the table--roast chicken--and she's waiting to carve it up. Did you tell Gandalf who we saw, Frodo?"

"No," said Frodo. "I haven't had a chance to yet. We've been talking about something else."




Over dinner, the hobbits told Gandalf how they'd seen Cirandil and Tharya together, and repeated the fragment of conversation they'd overheard.

"She might've been betrothed to Cirandil's cousin, but there's something between the two of them," Frodo concluded. "I'm sure they're in love."

"Is this Tharya the woman you suspected?" asked Gandalf.

"She wasn't. I only saw her talking to Cirandil yesterday, and wondered who she was. I thought she must be connected with the family, because of her mourning-dress. But now I wonder if she has a greater part in this. It seems we've discovered a new motive for these murders. Perhaps Cirandil didn't poison his cousin to have his place, but for a more basic reason: love and jealousy."

Frodo saw now that Cirandil had not spoken the entire truth when he'd said he wanted nothing that rightly belonged to Caradan. He desired his cousin's intended bride. He wouldn't even speak her name when Frodo had asked him directly if Caradan was betrothed. Surely, Tharya must have the other bracelet, even if she didn't wear it.

"What about the uncle?" wondered Merry. "Why kill him?"

Frodo thought about this. "Perhaps the uncle didn't approve his nephew marrying. He wanted Tharya for his own son. If it was an arranged match and Tharya had no choice in the matter, she's free to do as she likes now. And Cirandil's come up in the world since his uncle and cousin are dead. He's in a better position to marry. A young guard living in quarters couldn't give a proper home to a wife, but now he'll have his uncle's wealth and that grand house down the street. Nothing stands in their way."

"Except the suspicion of murder," said Gandalf. "Be careful how you accuse them, Frodo. Being young and in love is not proof of guilt."

"I know it," Frodo answered, "and I don't intend to accuse anyone yet. I can't be certain that they're guilty, but I do wonder..."
Chapter 15 by Kathryn Ramage
After dinner and a few quiet hours in the sitting room, smoking his pipe and talking with Merry and Gandalf of things unconnected to the citadel murders, Frodo went to bed, and found he couldn't sleep.

On his journey to Minas Tirith, he'd traveled at an incredible speed for days, and had scarcely had time to think at all. Since he'd arrived in the city, he'd been thrown immediately into the problem of finding out who was responsible for these poisonings, and that had been foremost in his mind. The last two nights, he'd fallen asleep as soon as he'd gotten into bed. Now, he was rested, and restless.

Since his talk with Gandalf before dinner, when he'd nearly told the wizard his secret, Frodo had been thinking about Sam. He'd begun to feel how much he missed him. They'd been parted for more than two weeks now, as long as they'd ever been apart since Sam's honeymoon. Feelings of longing had haunted him all evening, and lying in bed, alone in the darkened room, they grew more strong than ever.

Here in Minas Tirith, he thought of the first time he'd come to the city with Sam at the end of their Quest. He remembered what it had been like to fall in love.

He couldn't point to an exact moment during the quest when he'd finally realized the true nature of Sam's love for him, or when he'd understood his own feelings for Sam. That knowledge had dawned gradually during the long days and nights as they'd made their way toward Mordor. The details of that journey were vague to him now, for the Ring been slowly overtaking his mind; what he recalled most clearly was the warmth and strength of Sam's arms around him, giving him one last thing to cling to before he'd descended into darkness. He'd certainly known by the time Sam had rescued him from the tower at Cirith Ungol. How could he fail to fall in love then? And, when they'd sunk down together on the fiery ruins atop Mount Doom, expecting to die, he was almost happy. He'd wanted nothing more than what he had at that moment: to spend the rest of his life with Sam. He hadn't changed his mind about that since.

He thought too of a night nearly three years ago, not long after they'd first come to this house. He'd recovered enough from his injuries to be let out of the Houses of Healing; his maimed hand was in bandages and he still felt weak and rather fragile after all he had endured, but he was ready to invite Sam into his bed. Now that he truly understood what Sam meant to him, he hadn't wanted to lose another day.

He remembered the fumbling awkwardness of that first time, the tenderness, the thrilling flutters of fear... and the incredible joy of learning what it was to love so completely.

Afterwards, and on other nights that followed, they'd lain awake in the darkness, making plans for what they would do when they returned home to the Shire. Wonderful plans for their future together--and, for the most part, they'd made those plans come true.

Sam was home now, and he was here again, in this same room, in this same bed. Wishing that Sam were with him.

After he'd tossed and turned for an indeterminate amount of time, Frodo gave up. He'd never be able to sleep with such powerful memories in his head. He got up and went down the hall to Merry's room. After tapping lightly on the door, he went inside. "Merry," he whispered, "are you awake?"

It was a moment before a groggy voice answered, "I am now. What's wrong, Frodo?"

"I can't sleep. Do you mind if I stay with you tonight?"

"No, not at all. 'S a big bed. Plenty of room for two." Merry shifted over a little to make room for him.

Frodo climbed up and slipped under the blankets beside his cousin. "Thank you," he said. "I was feeling awfully lonely tonight. I've been thinking of Sam."

"I know what that's like," Merry said in a drowsy mumble. "Not about Sam, I mean. Well, you know what I mean. It's always worst at night."

"Yes, it is," Frodo murmured sympathetically. "Merry, I told Gandalf."

Merry lifted his head from the pillow. "Told Gandalf what?"

"About you and Pippin."

"Oh." Merry settled down again. He didn't seem upset about it, but Frodo felt he had to explain.

"He asked me why you left the Shire. I know it wasn't my secret to give, but I'm afraid I told him all about it. Do you mind very much, Merry?"

"No," Merry answered. "I suppose it had to come out sooner or later, and better you tell him than I did."

"Why did you never tell him yourself?"

"I would've, if he'd asked. I knew he wondered what brought me here, but he didn't pry and I was grateful for it." Merry was quiet for a minute before he went on. "It wasn't because I was ashamed, or was trying to keep secrets. I wanted to forget. When I left the Shire, I'd left it all behind me--left Pip and my father and everything, and I didn't want to drag it here after me. If you don't mind, Frodo, I'd rather we didn't talk about it anymore. It only makes me miss him."

"We don't have to talk," Frodo agreed. "G'night, Merry." He was feeling more drowsy now himself. The sound of another person's slow breathing soothed and calmed him. It wasn't Sam, but it was someone he felt very close to. Somebody warm and familiar, and lonely too...

He snuggled a little closer. Merry threw an arm around him, and Frodo soon fell asleep.
Chapter 16 by Kathryn Ramage
Frodo woke the next morning before Merry, and went back to his own room to wash and dress. He apologized to his cousin for disturbing him when they met again for breakfast. "It was very silly of me. I should be used to sleeping alone. Half the time, anyway."

"It was hard for me at first too, but I got used to it... after awhile," Merry admitted. "I do know what it's like, Frodo. If you're troubled or lonely, or anything, you're always welcome to come to my room, any time you like."

Beregond arrived while they were finishing their breakfasts, and asked Frodo where he wanted to go today.

"First," Frodo told him, "I'd like to see where the herbalist Bregilde died. Can you show me?"

"I will take you there," said Beregond. "All is as it was when she was found. After the woman's body was removed, I had her rooms kept locked, since we expected you to arrive in a day or two. I thought you'd wish to see it."

"I'd also like to learn something of how she spent her final hours. Do you know who saw her last? Who found her?"

"It was a girl who summoned me, a niece of the dead woman."

"You mean Methilde?"

"Yes, that's her name."

Frodo had been planning to speak to Methilde later in the day, but as long as these two points of inquiry converged, he might as well begin with her. After he had seen Merry off on his errand to the Steward's Arms, Frodo went with Beregond to the Houses of Healing and asked to see Methilde.

When the apprenticed herbalist came out to meet them, Frodo explained his purpose to her and asked if she would come with them. Methilde agreed, and the three of them walked down through city to the second level, to the rooms her great-aunt kept over a baker's shop. The pleasant smells of freshly baked bread and pastries followed them up the stairs to the first floor; Frodo thought he'd have to stop and buy something to bring back with him. At least, he and Merry would have afternoon tea.

Bregilde's rooms were a strong contrast to the spacious and elegant chambers of Carathir and the orderly guardman's quarters of his son. The two rooms the old woman lived in were small and low-ceilinged--Beregond had to duck his head to pass through the doorway--and cluttered with the possessions of a long lifetime. Bregilde had kept herbs and flowers growing in a number of pots on the flat window-sills, but no nightshade, Frodo observed. She also had an extensive collection of dried herbs in jars set on the shelves over the fireplace, remedies for countless common ailments, familiar even to one who knew as little of medicine as he did: willow bark, dandelion leaves, ginger root, kingsfoil, tansy. There was one small clay jar empty, with only a few fragments of broken leaves left at the bottom.

The bed was unmade, and a deep dent down the middle of the mattress showed where Bregilde had last lain. "She died in bed?"

Methilde nodded. "It was there I found her, as if she were still asleep..."

"Did you live here with her?" Frodo asked. There didn't seem to be room for another person.

"No," said the young woman. "My family keeps a house in the third level. When Aunt Bregilde didn't appear at the Houses of Healing that morning, I was sent to call upon her and see if she was ill."

"You touched nothing?"

"Only Aunt Bregilde, to be sure that she was dead. I opened the shutters, there-" she indicated the window on the wall opposite the foot of the bed, "to bring more light into the room. When I saw the mottling on her face, I knew what had happened. I'd heard the herb-master speak of the lord and his son who were poisoned, and how they appeared. I called out the window to a boy in the street, and sent him for the Captain." She bowed her head to indicate Beregond.

Unlike Carathir's last drink, the mug Bregilde had been drinking from was still sitting on the little table beside the bed; Frodo picked it up to find the remains of a yellowish liquid with a faint but distinct and familiar scent and traces of honey at the bottom. He next examined a small pot sitting on the hob above the ashes of the fire. Bregilde had been brewing something and had strained it through a sieve, which sat on the hearth. The sieve was filled with a mushy-looking golden-brown mess of boiled flower buds and shredded vegetable matter, dry and crusted at the edges but still slightly damp at the middle. That distinct and familiar scent was stronger here.

"Chamomile and ginger tea," Frodo identified it.

"Yes," said Methilde. "On evenings when I came to sit with her and she taught me her craft, she would make a pot of tea for us both."

"Were you here the night before she died?"

"I was, but I left for home earlier than usual. That pot was still boiling when I bid my aunt good night."

"'Twas fortunate you didn't stay to drink it!" said Beregond.

"I've thought so myself," the girl replied solemnly. "If you've no further need of me, Frodo, Captain Beregond, I ought to return to my duties. They'll be wondering where I am."

"One last thing, before you go, please," Frodo requested. "Can you tell me about the taste of nightshade? Would it be noticeable in spiced brandywine, or ale, or chamomile tea?"

"Taste? I've been told that the leaves of the plant have a bitter taste, but the berries are sweet when ripe. They are a dangerous temptation to children." Methilde considered it. "No, if berries were used, Aunt Bregilde wouldn't have tasted them in her tea. She might think she'd put in too much honey." An odd expression crossed her face, as if she were about to weep, and she left them quickly.

"You thought it was in the tea too, when you were first here?" Frodo asked Beregond after Methilde had gone.

"Yes, I did, but this was to be your investigation, and so I left it for you to see."

"Can we have that mess of boiled buds examined for poison?" Frodo didn't know how this would be done, but Beregond had mentioned testing the wines in Carathir's rooms. Surely the same process could be done with the chamomile dregs? "And the jars on the shelves, as well, to see that they all contain only what they appear to?"

"Of course," said Beregond. "I will send one of my men to gather them."

When they left Bregilde's rooms, Frodo went into the bakery below to purchase some currant buns and ask the baker's family, who lived at the back of the shop, about their neighbor upstairs. It was a terrible thing, they all agreed--and to happen just above them! No, they hadn't heard anything amiss that night. They had seen no one go up to her rooms that evening, but the entrance to the stair was in the alley beside the bakery, and they wouldn't necessarily see a visitor come or go at that hour.

On their way back up the curving streets of the city, they stopped at the Stewart's Arms on the third level. Merry was still there, sitting at the otherwise empty bar and chatting with the tavern-keeper, who had given him a pint tankard of ale even though the place was not officially open.

"Have one yourself, Captain--you and the little lad?" the tavern-keeper offered as Beregond and Frodo were admitted by the his daughter, a dispirited-looking girl who also worked as a barmaid.

"We're here on the King's business," Beregond replied.

"Now, I'm sure the King wouldn't mind if you refreshed yourselves while you're about on his business," the keeper insisted. "Master Meriadoc had no objection to a pint, so there's no reason why you shouldn't either."

"Think of it as second breakfast," Merry said with a grin, and had another sip of his drink.

"We can do that as well. Ilsethe, love, will you go and fetch a bite to eat for our guests?"

The girl said, "Yes, Father," and went into a storeroom behind the bar. The tavern-keeper invited his guests to take seat at a table before he went down into the cellar to fetch some of his best ale. Merry brought his half-finished ale over to the table to join them.

"Did you ask?" Frodo murmured to his cousin in an undertone as Merry climbed up onto the bench beside him.

"I did. He says he's hired no new maid-servants since mid-winter. As to other women, he recalls no one remarkable. 'Tis a favorite haunt of soldiers, but they see quite a lot of women here, young and old."

Beregond overheard this exchange. "Maid-servants?" he repeated, then asked the same question Gandalf had: "You suspect a woman, Frodo? Why?"

"From what I've observed, anyone might enter the citadel kitchens, or come and go here," Frodo answered. "It seems to me that a woman might do so more easily than a man. On a busy night, there are so many serving-women rushing about. In such a crowd, who would notice one more handling drinks?"

"But if that's so, how was the old herbalist poisoned?" Beregond asked. "There was no crowd of people in her room, nor any maid-servant. She was alone, save for her niece. Did she have another visitor? You asked the bakers if she did."

"I thought it possible," said Frodo. "If the niece left earlier than usual, the aunt might've been expecting company, someone she didn't want Methilde to meet. Or Bregilde brewed the poison in her tea to take it deliberately and sent Methilde away before she drank it. She might've had nightshade at hand. There was an empty jar among her dried herbs."

Both Beregond and Merry stared at him. "I begin to follow your thoughts," said the captain. "The herbalist supplied the poison before she became a victim of it herself?"

"I may be wrong in thinking it," Frodo admitted, "but I can connect her death to Lord Carathir's and his son's no other way."

"But why would she do it?" asked Merry.

"Perhaps for personal reasons of her own that we haven't learned of yet, or she may have been hired to act as an agent or confederate of another who wished them harm. Or she might've done no more than supply the poison, and later regretted her part in it--and was got out of the way, or removed herself. There may be another woman in this-" He gave his cousin a quick, warning glance; Merry must know who he was referring to, but he would not give a name before the Captain of the Guard.

He still thought foremost of Bregilde, but another possibility had occurred to him. If Tharya and Cirandil were acting together, she could have dispensed the poison while he was safely far from the city. Could she be mistaken for a serving maid?

At first, he would have said no. A striking-looking young woman of noble birth would surely be noticed and remembered if she'd come here. Now, he reconsidered. Tharya was striking, yes, but was that primarily because of her courtly style of dress--the flowing gowns with hanging sleeves and skirts that trailed the ground--and that long, black hair falling freely to her waist? Dressed so, a lady of the citadel who went into the lower levels of the city would immediately be recognized for what she was. But what if she were dressed like an ordinary girl..?

He considered the barmaid, whom he could just glimpse through the open storeroom door as she gathered bread, sausage, and cheese to go with their "second breakfast" ales. Her hair was braided and wound into a knot at the nape of her neck, and her head was covered by a kerchief. Her skirts were shorter than those worn by the ladies of the court, several inches above her ankles, and her laced boots looked much more sturdy than the court ladies' slippers. Would Tharya be noticed if she came into the tavern dressed in the same way, or would she be taken for a common maiden of the city?

"What woman?" asked Beregond, breaking into his thoughts. "And who do you think engaged the herbalist?"

"I couldn't say..."

"What odd answers you give! 'I think,' 'I believe,' 'It may be so.' First it's one thing, then another."

"That's because I know nothing as a certainty, Captain Beregond," Frodo answered. "'Til I do, it's only guesses. I haven't even met all my chief suspects yet! I may be entirely wrong from beginning to end."

The tavern-keeper returned from the cellar with two tankards full of ale. "There you are!" he said as he set the ales down before them. "Nothing but the best for the King's Men, and his halflings too. May you have great success in your business for him. We're hoping to see this awful matter settled as quickly as possible and the murderer brought to justice, aren't we, Ilsethe?" He turned to his daughter as she brought out the platter of food, and received a mumbled reply. "You see how it is--my poor girl's been as gloomy as a dark day since the poor lieutenant died, and I know just how she feels. It does an alehouse's reputation no good to have people say a man was poisoned by its drink. We used to be crowded here with the city Guard night after night, and now most of the lads are too afraid to enjoy their ale, for fear they'll be next. You'll find there's not a drop wrong with those."

"I've certainly felt no ill effects," laughed Merry, who had nearly finished his pint.

"Don't get too tipsy, Merry," Frodo cautioned him. "I have more work for you this afternoon. Will you go and see Lady Eowyn? Ask her if it's convenient for her to go riding with us tomorrow." Beregond looked concerned at this, and Frodo added, "You needn't accompany us, Captain. The Lady is a valiant warrior, and so is my cousin. They will protect me from any harm."

Ilsethe set the platter down on the table. As she laid out the food, Frodo noticed the bracelet she wore on her wrist: a delicate silver band, with a flourish like a stylized bird with outstretched wings. It was the twin to the one he had seen in Caradan's quarters.
Chapter 17 by Kathryn Ramage
"You spoke of your chief suspects," Beregond said after he and Frodo had left the tavern and were walking up the steep streets toward the citadel. Merry had gone on ahead, to stop at Gandalf's house and leave off the bakery goods Frodo had given him before also going to the citadel to make arrangements with Eowyn. They would meet again after Frodo had finished a few errands of his own. "Who is it you suspect, Frodo? Cirandil, I can guess, and some persons within the Council. Who is there that you haven't met?"

"I've learned that there were councilors expelled after the King's return," Frodo replied. "Something to do with their actions during the last day's of Denethor's stewardship. You served under Lord Denethor--do you remember them?"

"I was there to see it all," Beregond answered reluctantly. "How do you know of it?"

"The King told me, but of course it happened before he came to the city. Can you tell me more about it, Captain?"

"You mustn't judge these Men too harshly, Frodo. Denethor was our Lord Steward, ruler of this city, and we were his to command in those days before Mordor's fall. His word was law. All obeyed him. It is often the way with soldiers, to do as we are bid even if our hearts disagree."

"But for some, it was more than an unpleasant duty, wasn't it? Aragorn spoke of a Man named Broneron. Tell me about him, please. What did he do, exactly?"

"Very well," said Beregond. After a moment, he began to explain: "Broneron was Head of Council, favored of Lord Denethor. His loyalty led them to stand by his lord, even to the ruin of the city. Minas Tirith would surely have fallen before the armies of the Enemy if it hadn't been for the intervention of Mithrandir. It was he who directed the defense upon the city walls when Denethor would have us surrender, and held the gates as best he could until aid arrived."

Frodo nodded; he'd heard this story before, primarily from Pippin.

"We saw long before Sauron laid siege to the city that such an assault would come one day. There was much that could have been done to prepare for it, but Lord Denethor would do nothing. Time and again, when the councilors advised him to make the city ready for the coming war, he said that any defense would be useless. He said that whatever efforts we made were doomed to fail."

"But he'd gone mad by then," said Frodo. "He'd looked into that seeing-stone, and Sauron showed him only death and defeat, and destroyed all his hope."

"Yes, we know that now. Then, we saw only his despair, and we despaired. There were those among the Council who stood beside him."

"That was Broneron? Surely he did more than stand by Denethor. As you say, everyone obeyed--they had no choice."

Beregond nodded. "You've guessed rightly, Frodo. Broneron did more than obey the Lord Steward's edicts. He saw that none spoke against them. If any in the Council argued for preparations, he said that they were standing in opposition to the Stewart, and called them traitors. His followers in the Council said the same. Soon, none dared speak. In the final months of Lord Denethor's stewardship, the Council did not meet at all."

"But Carathir opposed them? Aragorn said that Carathir and other members of the Council planned for the city's defense."

"Yes, that's so. Their plans must be made in great secrecy, for there were spies everywhere in those dark days, but they did what they could."

"You knew of it, didn't you, Captain?"

"I knew," Beregond admitted, "but I did not speak of it. I was no spy."

"Do you know where Broneron is now?" asked Frodo. "The King said he still lives in the city. Is it possible for me to speak with him?"

"He may not agree to see you without the force of the law behind it, but he will see me. I will try to arrange an interview for you."

When they reached the citadel, the Council had just concluded its business for the morning, and the councilors were leaving the great hall. Frodo was not yet ready to question Larengar about his quarrel with Carathir--although what he'd seen at the tavern this morning had given him an inkling of what it had been about--and he had no desire to speak to Imatibin. Instead, he sought Hilabar.

"A minute, only," Hilabar consented when Frodo requested a moment of his time. "My wife expects me home at midday, and I mustn't tarry."

"I've heard she's expecting a baby," said Frodo.

"Your investigation's brought that out, has it?" asked Hilabar, but he was smiling toothily as he said it.

"It was Dame Thressildis who told me."

"Yes, this will be our third child. We have two little boys. So many of the old families are dying out for lack of heirs--it's the duty of the rest of us to have as many as we can."

"You're not from one of the old noble families then?" Frodo asked.

Hilabar was still smiling. "I've no claim to a prestigious ancestry. My wife Imadene, however, is a kinswoman of the late Lord Carathir. It was he who recommended me for a place in the Council when several seats became vacant."

"Was that when the King dismissed Garamant, Bifilir, and Broneron?"

"It was. You have unearthed quite a few secrets, haven't you? The King has engaged a most effective investigator."

"That remains to be seen," Frodo replied modestly, "but I've learned quite a lot. I know that the herbalist Bregilde also served as a midwife to the ladies of the court. She delivered your sons, didn't she? And she was tending Lady Imadene before she died."

"Yes..." Hilabar began to regard him cautiously. "Bregilde was a skilled healer. She'd delivered many children of courtiers in the last twenty or thirty years."

"Your wife is Mistress of the Wardrobe. Would she see Bregilde here in the citadel?"

Hilabar's brows came together sharply and he suddenly looked less pleasant. "Do you imply that my wife-?"

"No, not at all," Frodo hastened to assure him. "I only thought that the lady's condition might have brought the healer here. Bregilde must have come here, you see."

Hilabar didn't see, but this was enough to reassure him that his wife was not threatened by Frodo's question. "The Mistress of the Wardrobe has chambers within the great hall, so that she may attend the Queen, but Imadene does not live in them," he answered. "We have our house below, on the fifth level. I will ask her, but so far as I know, she never summoned Bregilde to her here. If you will excuse me, I must go."
Chapter 18 by Kathryn Ramage
After the councilors had dispersed, Frodo bid farewell to Beregond before the great hall, then went inside and up to the Steward's chambers. He'd expected to find Merry there with Eowyn, and instead found only Faramir. While Frodo had not been deliberately avoiding the young Steward, he'd been relieved that they hadn't seen each other since the beginning of his investigation. Given Faramir's friendship for his principal suspect, any meeting between them was therefore awkward.

"I- ah- I thought Merry would be here," Frodo explained rather weakly.

"He and Eowyn have gone to the Queen's boudoir," answered Faramir. "You will doubtless find them there." But before Frodo could retreat back out the door, Faramir put out a hand to delay him. "Before you go, a word, please, Frodo. I wish to speak to you on Cirandil's behalf."

This was precisely the conversation Frodo had been dreading, but there was no escape. He stepped into the room, and shut the door.

"I know that Cirandil is suspected by his fellow guards, and I know the King thinks him the most likely suspect too. You've looked about you now, Frodo, seen the citadel and the people within it," said Faramir. "Do you believe Cirandil committed these murders?"

"He is among the people I am considering," Frodo admitted circumspectly. "I've also found others with reason to want Lord Carathir or his son dead. I promise you I will examine all the information I find with great care and make no hasty judgments in this matter. I will accuse no one until I have certain and undeniable proof of their guilt. But, Faramir, you must admit that your friend Cirandil does have a good motive for these murders."

"Perhaps he does," Faramir admitted, "but I can never believe he'd kill his uncle, who was like a father to him, and a cousin who was dear as a brother. And he was miles from the city when they died."

"Yes, but I believe that whoever committed these murders did not act alone. At least two were involved--one to order the deaths, and the other to dispense the poison. If it is Cirandil, that other might be one of two people." Frodo took a deep breath, and said the names: "The herbalist Bregilde, or Tharya."

"Tharya? Larengar's daughter? But she was betrothed to Caradan."

"Never-the-less, Cirandil is in love with Tharya, and she with him. I've seen them together, Faramir."

Faramir was stunned by this information. "Cirandil and Tharya, lovers? Murderers? No, I can't believe that!" but he spoke with less conviction now. For the first time, Frodo saw a flicker of doubt in his friend's eyes.

"It may not be so, but it is why I suspect them. People will do a great many things, some of them quite horrible, in the name of love. I'm sorry, Faramir. I know it's never easy to think someone you care for capable of such crimes," Frodo said gently. "I've had to consider members of my own family, hobbits who are like brothers and sisters to me, as possible murderers." He thought of them now: Melilot, Milo, Dodi and Ilbie, not to mention several prominent Tooks. "It's always the worst part of an investigation, and I've had more than one bad night because of it."

"Were any of them guilty?" Faramir asked him.

"One... but I didn't see it until it was too late." He looked up to meet the eyes of the tall Man standing over him. "If you wish to aid Cirandil, please tell him I must speak to him--about her. If he isn't guilty, no harm can come to him by telling the truth."

"And if he is not-?"

"Then the most he can hope for is mercy. I don't know what punishments you have here for such crimes. At least, it will put an end to this terrible suspicion cast upon innocent people." Frodo knew there was at least one person Cirandil wanted to protect; if he was guilty and Tharya was not, would he confess to spare her?




When he left Faramir, Frodo went to the Queen's boudoir on the other side of the great hall. Merry was there, entertaining the ladies with tales of the Shire and making them laugh as they worked at the tapestry. Since his cousin was busy being the unabashed center of attention, Frodo sought out Eowyn to ask, "Have we settled our plans for tomorrow?"

"We'll go riding in the morning," she answered. "Will you and Merry meet me at the citadel stables after breakfast? I'll have the ponies saddled and made ready for you."

"That would be wonderful! Thank you!"

Tharya was in the room too, but seated in an angle of the tower, busy knotting a length of golden fringe that would trim the edges of the finished tapestry. Frodo didn't see her immediately, but when she heard his voice, she looked up from her work, set it down abruptly, and rose to leave without a word. With a quick excuse to Eowyn, Frodo followed her out.

"Miss! Lady Tharya!" he called after her once he'd left the boudoir. "Will you stop, please? I only want to talk to you."

She didn't stop, but headed swiftly toward the tower's circular stairwell, and down. Frodo ran to try and catch her.

"It's no good running away!" he called out. "I know all about it already. We saw you and Cirandil last night, Merry and I."

The patter of slippered feet on the stone steps below him had ceased. Either she had gone out of the tower on a lower floor, or had stopped at his words. Frodo went down the stairs. Two turns of the stairwell down, he found her, waiting for him. Tharya was standing on the stairs with her face ashen and her eyes as wide as a startled doe's.

"Cirandil said I must be wary of you," she said.

"I know. We heard him say it. Be wary if you like, but I think it's time we ended this nonsense, my lady." Frodo spoke now from plain, hobbit common sense. "If you don't wish to look suspicious, stop sneaking around in the shadows and rushing away whenever you see me. It only makes me think you've got something to hide."

"I've nothing to hide!"

"Then you might as well tell me the truth about you and Cirandil. You're in love with him, aren't you? I saw how you looked at each other when you spoke."

Tharya nodded her head and whispered, "Yes."

"Even though you were betrothed to his cousin? Or did this happen only after Caradan's death?" Frodo thought they must have fallen in love before Caradan had died; why else would they be at such pains to keep it secret, whether they were guilty of any crime or not?

"Before," she answered, still in a whisper.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" If she'd been a hobbit-lady, he would have taken her arm, but even though he stood a step up from her, her elbow was at level with his forehead. Instead, he tugged on the dangling sleeve of her gown. "If you've done no wrong, my lady, you've nothing to fear from me."

She did not resist, but let him guide her back up a few steps and out through a door they had both just passed in their flight down, into a little alcove beneath the Queen's rooms. There was a seat beneath the windows, where they could sit and talk privately. Tharya seated herself and stared at the hobbit standing before her, incredulous that she was about to confide in him. But confide she did.

"You must see how it was," she began after she had taken a minute to compose her thoughts. "I've known Cir and Caradan since we were all children together. Even as a small girl, I knew that I was meant to wed Caradan. Our fathers long wished it." A wry smile twisted her lips. "Many girls envied me, for Caradan was a brave and handsome youth, and most winning in his manners, but I never truly considered him a lover."

"What about Cirandil?" Frodo asked.

"I didn't consider him as a lover either, not until after he'd been away on his duties for long months. More than a year passed, and I did not see him. He returned last winter, just as I was betrothed to Caradan. Our fathers deemed it was time for us to marry, and there was no reason why I should refuse to consent, for I was fond of Caradan and loved no other. But when Cir returned, it was as if we truly beheld each other for the first time. I would have broken my betrothal vow to Caradan before I made the more binding vows of wedlock, but Cirandil wouldn't think of betraying his cousin. He went away again--he said he would not return 'til after we'd married. He only returned when he heard of Caradan's death.

"Cir and I couldn't think of marriage for ourselves... before. Now, it is different, if only it weren't for this horrid suspicion that hangs over him! You see why we must keep our love secret. If anyone knew, they would think he had put Caradan and his father out of our way, so that we might be together." She looked up suddenly, meeting Frodo's gaze with eyes that were flashing in resentment. "You think so yourself, don't you?"

Frodo didn't answer this. Now that he'd gained enough of her trust to have her talk to him, he didn't want to destroy it. Instead, he said, "It if isn't so, then you've only to wait until this investigation is over. You and Cirandil can wed then, without being afraid of what anyone will say about it."

"And how long will that be?"

"I don't know," Frodo admitted. "Thank you for telling me the truth, Tharya. May I ask one last question? Did Caradan ever give any gift to you, as a token of your betrothal--a ring, or gem, or perhaps a bracelet?" He knew Caradan hadn't, but he wanted to see if she knew about the one in his quarters and its mate, and what she would say about it if she did.

Tharya shook her head. "No. He gave me nothing."




Frodo and Merry left the citadel at tea-time, planning to go home and have the pastries Frodo had purchased that morning. They were just passing into the tunnel down to the sixth level, when a voice called out behind them, "Frodo! King's Investigator!"

Frodo turned to find Cirandil walking swiftly across the courtyard. He stopped where he was to let the young guardsman catch up with him; Merry went slowly a few feet farther down the tunnel, but not out of hearing if voices were raised.

"What is it, Cirandil?" Frodo asked when the young Man had come to the tunnel's entrance.

"Faramir said you wanted to talk to me." Cirandil answered bluntly, then spat out, "What did you say to him? I would've thought that he was one of the few friends who remained on my side, but now I see doubt in his eyes as well. What did you tell him, little spy, to turn him against me?"

"I told him about your love for Tharya, your cousin's betrothed," Frodo replied.

"Tharya!" the young Man cried out the name in outrage. Frodo took a step backwards, momentarily alarmed that Cirandil meant to strike him. Merry came closer, ready to defend Frodo if necessary. "Have you questioned her? What did you make her say?"

"I only asked her for the truth, and she gave it me. She told me how you love each other, but that she was going to marry Caradan all the same."

Cirandil laughed. "And now Caradan is dead, and you believe you've found your poisoner? You think you have incontrovertible proof of my guilt because I love the girl who was to wed my cousin? Will the King now send my former friends among the Guard to arrest me at your word?"

"No," said Frodo. "I wanted to ask-"

But he got no farther; Cirandil turned and stalked away, heading across the courtyard in the direction of the guards' hall. Frodo did not go after him. He knew he could never catch so long-strided a creature moving so fast.

"I wanted to ask him about a bracelet," he said to Merry as his cousin came to stand beside him, "to see if he knew about it."

"What bracelet?" Merry looked extremely curious.

"The one the barmaid at the Steward's Arms was wearing. Did you notice it when we were there this morning?"

"Silver," said Merry, "with a little bird-thing across the back of the wrist. An expensive sort of trinket for an ale-keeper's daughter to have, but the Arms is a popular house for drink, and perhaps he's earned enough to buy her expensive things."

"I don't think her father bought it for her," said Frodo. "I saw another just like it in Caradan's quarters when I was there yesterday."

"You think he-?"

Frodo nodded. "Her sorrow over his death may be more deep, and more personal, than her father guesses--he doesn't seem to have any idea that there was anything between the two. It's my guess she's kept it from him. I need to talk to her. That's something we must do, Merry, just you and I. I can't have Captain Beregond standing over it all and making people nervous while I try to ask questions about such a delicate matter.

"If there was something between them, it may also answer another question for me. Councilor Imatibin told me that Carathir and Larengar quarreled over Carathir's son not long before Carathir's death. I thought it only a sly insinuation from Imatibin, but if there was a quarrel as he claims, perhaps it was over Caradan's attachment to the barmaid. He was, after all, betrothed to Larengar's daughter. That would certainly be reason enough to provoke a fight." But was it reason enough for Larengar to poison both father and son? "I must see Ilsethe before I speak to him."

"And what do you want me to do?" asked Merry as they began to walk.

"Provide a distraction. I want to speak to her when her father isn't there to hear her answers. I'm sure you can keep him busy." Frodo smiled. "Early morning seems the best time for an interview, don't you agree?" They emerged from the lower end of the tunnel and headed down the street toward Gandalf's house. "We'll go down to the Steward's Arms before breakfast, when no one else is there, and before Captain Beregond comes to call upon me. But not tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, we're going riding."
Chapter 19 by Kathryn Ramage
They did not go out riding the next day. Rain began to fall that night, and was pouring down heavily by the morning with no sign of stopping. Frodo gave up hope of going beyond the city gates in such muddy weather. But, since he couldn't think of sitting idle all day, he decided on an alternate line of inquiry.

After an early breakfast, he and Merry ventured out, braving the water that coursed down through the streets of the city like a fast-flowing stream and washed around their ankles whenever they had to cross it. They made their way down to the Steward's Arms, becoming completely soaked before they reached it.

They went into the back alley behind the tavern, past the stacks of enormous, empty ale kegs, and Merry knocked on the door. At this hour of the morning, the keeper and his daughter were sure to be in the back rooms, where they lived.

The Man opened the door and stared down at the wet hobbits in wonderment. "What're you lads doing out on a day like this? Come in, please, come in. You're like as not to be washed away down the street and out the city gate if you stand in this rain much longer."

The hobbits entered the kitchen, which was warm and welcoming after their walk. "Thank you," said Merry. "We were on our way down to the Old Guesthouse on an errand, but this was as far as we got, and had to stop before we drowned." The excuse for their unusual visit sounded plausible coming from his lips in a chatty, easy-going way; Frodo and Merry had agreed that the tavern-keeper should not guess that they'd come here deliberately. "We hoped you'd take pity for us and give us shelter."

"I hope we haven't interrupted your breakfast," Frodo added apologetically. It looked as if they had just finished the meal; Ilsethe was clearing the dirty plates from the table even as he spoke.

"Not at all!" Ilsethe's father replied. "But if you'd like a bite to eat or drop of something warming, the kitchen fire's still hot."

"A hot toddy would be nice," said Merry.

"'Toddy'?" the tavern-keeper laughed. "What odd words you halflings have! What do you mean, Master Meriadoc?"

"Don't you know what a toddy is?" Merry replied. "Why, every inn-keeper and alehouse keeper in the Shire can make toddies easy as pull an ale. It's just the thing to ward off a chill on a miserable, wet day like this."

As Merry intended, the tavern-keeper was intrigued by this mention of a drink he wasn't familiar with. "Well, I've never heard of such a thing. Hot, you say? You must show me how to make it, Master Meriadoc!"

"Gladly! Have you got any rumbullion?"

"There're six jugs of it under the bar."

"Wonderful! We'll need butter, spices, hot water, and some honey or sugar."

"The butter's right on the table. Ilsethe, my love, put a pot of water on the stove and find the sugar and spices," her father directed her, and he and Merry went into the bar-room in quest of the rum, leaving Frodo alone with Ilsethe in the kitchen.

"I was hoping to have a word with you, Miss," he said as she set about gathering the items for the toddy.

"Miss?" She looked confused; apparently, the honorific 'Miss' was not used for unmarried women here.

"Ilsethe," Frodo began again. "I wanted to ask you about that bracelet you're wearing. I noticed it when I was here yesterday, but didn't like to ask you about it when your father and Captain Beregond were near."

"'Tis kind of you, little master," the girl answered in a mumble.

"May I ask where you got it?" Frodo asked.

She wrapped her opposite hand over the bracelet, as if to hide it, and answered softly, "He gave it me." A glimmer of tears appeared in her eyes, and she turned away from Frodo quickly and put the a pot of water on the stove.

"He? Caradan?"

She nodded. Frodo offered her a clean, if somewhat damp, handkerchief, but this article of linen was also unknown in Minas Tirith; he returned it to his waistcoat pocket while Ilsethe blotted her tears with the hem of her apron.

"Your father doesn't know?" he asked.

"No." She shook her head briskly. "No one does. Father'd be angry if he knew. He wouldn't let me wait tables if he thought I was up to anything with a guardsman, let alone a nobleman's son--he keeps such an eye on me when the city Guard are about. But I managed to meet with Caradan once in awhile. We could never say a word about it while he was living, and I can't speak of it now. I can't even weep as I'd like to, else Father would see and ask questions."

"What did you tell him about that?" Frodo indicated the silver bracelet around her wrist.

"I said it was a gift from my granny. She has a few pretty things that my grandfather gave her, and I sat beside her when she was ill abed last winter. He'd never ask her about it."

Frodo found himself wondering. The tavern-keeper seemed entirely unaware of his daughter's love-affair, but what if he did know? And what about Ilsethe herself? She spoke of her love for Caradan, but had he felt the same about her? What if it was only dalliance for him before his intended marriage to Tharya?

"Did you know that he was betrothed to a lady of the court?" he asked.

To Frodo's surprise, she nodded. "He told me he was pledged to a lady, but he didn't love her. He said he ought to by rights give this bracelet to her, but he wanted me to have it. He meant for me to be his true wife. He was going to tell his father so, but then his lordship died." Fresh tears appeared in her eyes. "Then he died, and it's all I've got left to remember him by. You'll find who killed him, won't you?"

"I-" Frodo began to reply, when Merry and the tavern-keeper returned, bearing a large and dusty jug of rum. When the water was hot, they made their toddies. Frodo had no chance to say more to Ilsethe before he and Merry went on their way.
Chapter 20 by Kathryn Ramage
They returned to the house to change out of their wet clothes before Beregond called. Frodo decided that it was a good time to visit the treasure-house and talk to Carathir's secretary. Merry declined to go with them, although he said he might come up to the citadel later.

The treasure-house was at the very back of the citadel, behind the guest hall and near the closed gates and the passage that led to the Houses of the Dead, the tombs where Kings, Stewards, and members of the great noble families had been laid to rest for generations. A pair of guards stood on duty outside the treasure-house doors, with no regard for the rain; they saluted their captain as he and Frodo went inside.

Standing just within the doorway, shaking droplets of rain from his dripping cloak, Frodo looked up and around. The treasure-house itself was not an impressive-looking place. He stood in a small and austere, windowless room of plain, pale stone, with shelves full of large and dusty books lining one wall. A large, iron-banded strong-box sat beneath. Opposite the entrance was another doorway, blocked from floor to ceiling with an ironwork gate, shut and presumably locked; beyond, an unlit tunnel disappeared into darkness--Frodo thought it must reach into the thick, city wall, perhaps even into the rock of the mountain itself. There were doors at intervals along the tunnel's length, going back as far as he could see. These were also shut and Frodo assumed locked.

Between the entrance and the tunnel gateway sat a desk and at it sat a Man, pale and dusty-looking as the room around him, with limp, fair hair that was thinning at the temples. He had been writing in another large book, open on the desk before him, but as Beregond and Frodo came in, he set his quill down and rose from his chair.

"Good morrow to you, Captain," he said with a slight bow, and regarded Beregond's small companion with interest.

"And to you, Gathin," Beregond replied. "This is Frodo, son of Drogo, the King's Special Investigator who has come to find out who murdered your master and his son."

"Yes, I'd heard of such a one. It's all anyone can talk about lately--'the little investigator'." Gathin bowed to Frodo. "They say you are extremely clever, Frodo. I hope you are. I will be glad to know Lord Carathir has seen justice. How can I help you?"

"I only want to ask a few questions about yours and Carathir's work here," said Frodo. "I understand that Lord Carathir was keeper of the treasury for more than fifty years."

"Yes, that's so. And I assisted him for almost twenty."

"Are all those rooms filled with gold?" Frodo pointed to the tunnel beyond the iron gate.

"They are," answered Gathin, "Gold and gemstones and many other precious objects. The wealth and treasures of the city. For many years, the crown of Gondor's Kings was kept here, awaiting the day when the last king should return. It was brought out for King Elessar's coronation. A most glorious day, and I was proud to be there to witness it."

"So was I," Frodo agreed, remembering that day. "Do you have the keys to all the doors, Gathin?"

"I keep them, but I have not unlocked the gate since my lord's death. There is sufficient gold in the strong-box to pay the guards' and servants' salaries, and the citadel accounts, for some months to come. I make a record of each payment that goes out of here." He gestured to the book he had been writing in.

"Will you continue to keep the books now that Carathir is dead?" asked Frodo. "Will you become the next treasurer?"

"No," said Gathin. "The King will appoint a new keeper of the treasury from among the Council. If it is my new lord's will, I will continue to serve. I think I will be asked to stay," he added with a note of pride. "No one knows the business of the treasure-house as well as I."

"Can I ask you about Carathir's preparations for the defense of the city, against Lord Denethor's wishes? The King's told me a little, and Captain Beregond more, but I expect you can tell me quite a lot. You aided him, didn't you?"

"Yes, I knew all about it," Gathin answered. "It was a conspiracy between those of the great noble families who loved the city and did not wish to stand by and see it fall without a struggle. I was proud to serve in such a cause."

"Did you and Lord Carathir use the treasury money to further your cause?"

"No, certainly not! My master and all who worked with him paid for the city's defense from their private funds--to do anything else would be a grotesque breach of the trust we are given. King Elessar offered to recompense them for the expense, but my master refused. He said his money was well spent."

"Who were the others in this conspiracy, exactly? Did his son and nephew give their help?"

"No," Beregond answered this question. "Both Caradan and Cirandil were far away in Ithilien, serving with Captain Faramir, as he was then. If they knew of Carathir's work, they were in no position to give more aid than their service in battle."

"It was my lord Carathir," said Gathin, "Larengar, Grangirtan, and Arethur, who was killed during the siege. It was they who saw to the reparation and reinforcement of walls and gates, created secret stores of food and other provisions against a long siege. Dame Thressildis devised a path that the women and children might use to escape through the mountains in hope of finding safety if all else failed."

"Dame Thressildis?" said Frodo, surprised that she had had a part in this.

"Yes, and why not? Women do not serve on the Council, but she is the last of a noble line, ancient as the city itself," Gathin replied. "Hilabar, though he was not yet a member of the Council, and his Lady were also involved."

"What about Imatibin?"

"No, not he," said Gathin. "He wasn't in the Council yet either, and didn't hear of the conspiracy until after the city was safe."

"You said that the King will choose the new keeper of the treasury. Who will it be?" asked Frodo. "Do you know?"

"King Elessar hasn't yet announced his choice. I've heard around the citadel that Councilor Hilabar desires the position. He's been here, asking questions about the city's riches and how they are spent. But I think the King will choose another, older and more fiscally responsible."

This was an intriguing piece of information. "Is Hilabar irresponsible then?"

Gathin smiled. "It's only what I've heard. Gossip. Hilabar and his lady live beyond their means, and live upon the generosity of her family. His seat in the Council and the lady's place as Mistress of the Queen's Wardrobe are said to be granted through the favor of others, but it is not enough. A prestigious court appointment such as this would be most welcome."




When he left the treasure-house, Frodo intended to go up to the royal chambers to report his progress to the King. As he and Beregond walked toward the back entrance to the great hall, Cirandil approached them. "Your pardon, Captain. I wish to speak to the investigator--I've something I must say to him."

Beregond, demonstrating his trust in Cirandil, retreated.

"I wanted to apologize. I was angry yesterday--all these suspicions wear on a Man's mind. But I've since spoken to Tharya, and she seems to think you will help us. At least, we no longer need to hide our love from you."

"It was silly to try," Frodo told him. "Keeping secrets and sneaking around only makes things look worse. I will tell you just what I told Lady Tharya: if you are not guilty of these crimes, you have nothing to fear from me." He repeated what Gandalf had said about the young pair. "I understand that love is not proof of guilt, and I haven't got as far as asking the King to arrest anybody."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"I only wanted to ask you a few questions," Frodo replied. "Specifically, about Caradan and a pair of bracelets. I found one his quarters. Do you know where the other is? He didn't give it to Lady Tharya--I've asked her. Who did he give it to?"

The corner of Cirandil's mouth turned down. "I think you know that as well as I do, little one. You've been to the Steward's Arms, haven't you? She wears it for all to see, though few may understand its meaning."

"Yes, I've seen it, on the barmaid Ilsethe's wrist," Frodo admitted. "I guessed that Caradan gave it to her. I thought you were protecting Tharya when you wouldn't tell me who your cousin had given the other two--as if I wouldn't learn of her betrothal to him through ordinary gossip soon enough! I wanted to find out if you knew about it."

"I learned of my cousin's dalliance before I last left the city," said Cirandil.

"After he became betrothed to Tharya?"

"Soon after. One visit to the Arms told me all. Caradan was too handsome and persuasive for his own good. He won maidens' hearts easily."

"Not Lady Tharya's."

"No," the young man agreed. "Tharya cared no more for Caradan than he did for her. The match was made by their fathers, who desired it since they were children. You must know by now that my uncle and Lord Larengar were the greatest friends. When I asked Caradan, he acknowledged that he'd given the bracelet to her. He knew he would never be able to wed his barmaid, but he said his heart would be hers even if Tharya must be his wife in name." Cirandil's face flushed and he looked furious at the thought of it.

"After that, you went away?" Frodo asked incredulously. "You'd let the girl you love marry someone else under such circumstances?"

"I was powerless to stop it!" Cirandil snapped. "Such marriages are made every day. Tharya said she would break the betrothal for my sake, but I knew it would bring disgrace upon her to defy her father's wishes and come to me instead. I thought that if I left the city and did not return for many months, Tharya would cease to think of me... and I wouldn't think of her."

"You didn't tell her about the barmaid? She doesn't know?"

"No! Do you think I would, and spoil her last chance at happiness?"

Frodo thought Cirandil had already managed that by going away and leaving Tharya to a mutually indifferent marriage to his cousin when a little common sense all around would have settled things nicely for the two of them as well as for Caradan and Ilsethe. If it was intended as a noble and self-sacrificing gesture, it was also a foolish one. If Cirandil had gone away from Minas Tirith so that he wouldn't be suspected when Caradan and Carathir were murdered at his order, so that he could have Tharya, then it was even more foolish. Why resort to such brutal extremes? She'd said she would break her betrothal for him, and Frodo saw no reason to think that was a lie. Surely being frank with Caradan and standing up to his uncle and Tharya's father was easier than committing murder?

"What about Lord Larengar," Frodo asked. "Did you say anything to him?"

Cirandil looked puzzled. "About my love for Tharya? Certainly not!"

"No, about your cousin and the barmaid." He could see by the young Man's expression that the thought of it had never occurred to him. "It might've put an end to the betrothal and set Tharya free."

"Not Lord Larengar," Cirandil answered with a small, bitter laugh. "He was set on the match. If he'd known, he would have insisted that Caradan give the girl up and be true to his promised wife. He would see to it that Caradan did as he was told."

"Would he indeed?" said Frodo, and wondered if it was time to ask Larengar about his quarrel with Caradan's father and find out if he'd tried to do just that.




Beregond escorted Frodo up to the royal chambers and left him at the door. Arwen, taking note of Frodo's dripping wet condition, invited him to sit by the fire, then she discreetly exited so he could speak with Aragorn alone.

Frodo told Aragorn all he'd learned so far, omitting nothing, even his encounters with Cirandil and conversation with Tharya.

"Do you think she has a part in these poisonings?" Aragorn asked when Frodo had finished.

"I don't know." Frodo laughed. "It was easier to believe in her guilt when she was a mysterious, black-draped figure who fled at the sight of me! Now that I've spoken to her, I'm not so sure. All I am certain of is that she loves Cirandil and hopes to protect him. I believe she spoke the plain truth when she said she feared for him more than for herself."

"She hopes to protect him," Aragorn repeated. "Does she believe him guilty?"

"Perhaps... although she won't admit it even to herself. I wonder if Cirandil is the one we're looking for," Frodo admitted. "I realize I haven't seen him at his best--he's frightened and feels as if he's set upon on all sides, and that naturally makes him snappish, even if he isn't guilty. He seems to me to be a hot-headed, blustering ass, but he must have his finer points to inspire the loyalty he does in the people who know him well."

"Lady Tharya, you mean, and Faramir."

"Yes, and Captain Beregond too. He will hear no talk against Cirandil from the guardsmen under his command. It speaks in Cirandil's favor that such honorable Men stand by him. Another point in his favor is that he has been away from the city for most of this past year."

"But you said yourself that another person must have delivered the poison."

"Yes, but that's just it. Unless he or Tharya gathered the nightshade and laurel and brewed the poison themselves, they must have gotten it from the herbalist Bregilde. But Cirandil had little time to make plans with her before his uncle's death. When did they meet? How? Where? How long had they known each other?" If Bregilde had provided the poison, and perhaps even dispensed it to the victims by her own hand, she must have had some reason to act on his behalf. Had she received money for her work, or was there some more personal reason?

According to Hilabar, Bregilde had delivered many children born to the noble families; she might very well have delivered Cirandil, 27 years ago. Nursemaids, wet-nurses, and foster mothers often held a strong affection for the children they cared for, even into the child's adult life. Would a midwife do the same? Had she remembered him so fondly after so much time that she would agree to help him commit two murders?

Frodo shook his head. No, that was too implausible.

Aragorn smiled at him and put a hand on his shoulder. "You've done remarkable work in such a short time," he said encouragingly. "I am most impressed, and have no doubt I've chosen the best investigator to find who is responsible for these murders. You will find them in the end, Frodo, and it will all make sense."

The praise was heartening. "I hope so," Frodo rejoined, "but right now it's all very confusing and frustrating. May I ask, Strider, if you've decided upon a new treasurer to take Carathir's place?"

"I will not announce my choice until after this matter of the murders is settled, but I've decided to offer the place to Grangirtan--unless you tell me he is the poisoner."

This made Frodo laugh. "I've found nothing against him yet. Did you consider Hilabar for the treasury?"

"No, even before I heard your court gossip about him. Who would have thought the secretary of the treasure-house should hear so much that I do not! Hilabar's name was put before me, but he is new to the Council and has enough responsibility for the present. If you suspect he killed Carathir in hopes of having his place, then he will be disappointed."
Chapter 21 by Kathryn Ramage
The rain had not ceased by the next day's dawn, only begun to fall more lightly. Frodo was finishing his breakfast with Merry, and gazing out the kitchen window at the dismal, gray day and rain-dappled puddles on the flagstones in the little yard outside, when a messenger from the court arrived--not Beregond, as Frodo had expected, but a page bringing an invitation from the Queen: if Frodo had no other business, he and Merry were asked to come and spend the morning with her and Eowyn, and to have lunch.

Since Frodo had only planned one errand for the day, also within the citadel walls, and that must wait until the Council was dismissed and Larengar was available to be questioned, he accepted the invitation gladly. The page escorted him and Merry up to the royal chambers, where the Queen and Steward's Lady were waiting.

Eowyn was also looking out the windows at the rain, but she turned with a welcoming smile when the hobbits were shown in. "I'm sorry about our ride," she said. "I dislike being shut up within doors as much as you do, and the horses must be restless and eager for a run after being stabled for so long. I promise, we'll ride out on the first sunny day after this ends!"

"There is little in the way of investigation to be done in this rain, and I am pleased to have your company," Arwen said simply. Two low, cushioned chairs had been set near the hearth and, before them, stood a little table covered with delicate silvery pots, cups, and utensils. Arwen gestured to them. "Please, Frodo, Merry, sit down. You see, I've had tea made ready for you."

The tea was not one they had tasted before, but a fragrant brew of white flowers with a sweet, honeyed flavor that warmed them to their toes and heartened them on this dreary and chilly day. They spent a cheerful morning in the ladies' company, and said little more about the investigation; by an unspoken mutual agreement, more pleasant topics of conversation were chosen. They talked of Rivendell and Lothlorien. Eowyn repeated the news she'd last received from her brother, King Eomer, and Frodo told of his brief visit to Orthanc on his journey here, and how trees were growing around the tower again. While Eowyn and Merry went on with their own fond reminiscences of Theoden, Arwen asked Frodo if he was well; the note of concern in her questions made him believe the inquiry was not mere politeness. The matter had been heavy on her mind since she'd last asked him about it.

At midday, as the servants were setting the table in the private dining hall in preparation for lunch, Aragorn came in. Gandalf and Faramir were also expected to join the party shortly. After greetings and some pleasantries had been exchanged between the King and his guests, Arwen lay a hand lightly on her husband's arm and said something softly to him in elvish that Frodo did not catch--but he was sure his name was spoken.

Aragorn also began to regard him with concern, and soon afterwards drew Frodo aside. "Arwen tells me she is worried for you," he explained. "She fears you've taken too great a burden upon yourself. I've let you have your lead in this investigation, so you may go wherever you wish to find answers, but I would not ask you to do so much that it wearies you. If the task is too great, you must tell me."

"Thank you," said Frodo. "I will tell you if I can't go on. For now, I feel fit enough to continue. I want to. If I'm weary, it isn't because of that. It's just that I haven't slept very well the last night or two, that's all."

"Haven't you?" Aragorn still looked concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm feeling a little homesick," Frodo admitted. "I miss Sam. I keep thinking about him, and Rosie and the baby they were about to have when I left them--it must certainly have been born by now. I wish there was some way to have a letter sent him, to find out how they are." Of course, there was a great deal more to his reasons for missing Sam, but this was as much as he dared to say.

"A letter will take at least a month to travel so far, and as long again for you to receive a reply," Aragorn replied, "but there is a way I can show you Sam and his family. Would you like to see them, Frodo?"

"Can I?" Frodo brightened eagerly. "Is it possible? How?"

"It is indeed possible. Come with me."

Aragorn told the others that he and Frodo would return in time for the meal, then they left the royal chambers and went down through the spiral stair in the westward tower; once outside the great hall, they crossed to the White Tower of Ecthelion. Two guards stood at the entrance, and bowed low as the King led Frodo past. They went up another circular stair to the Tower's top, and into a vast, round chamber with narrow windows all around. The room was empty, except for a tall pedestal at its center. Atop the pedestal sat a black orb.

When he saw the orb, Frodo understood what Aragorn was offering to do, and balked. He'd never seen the palantir before, but he knew what it was. Saruman had kept this one at Isengard to communicate with Sauron, and it had done something horrible to Pippin when he'd stolen it from Gandalf and gazed into it. There had been another one that Denethor had used until he'd been driven mad by the things it had shown him. It was said that no one could gaze into that one now without seeing the late Steward's fiery demise.

Aragorn saw his reluctance and assured him, "It's all right, Frodo. The palantir is no longer dangerous. I have wrested it to my own will and restored it to the original purpose for which it was made. It is meant for the Lords of Gondor to see all that goes on within the kingdom, even those lands hundreds of miles away. I have gazed into it often without ill effect, and so may you." He took the orb from its pedestal and, cradling it between the tips of his spread fingers, knelt to hold it before Frodo. "There is nothing to fear."

"Will it show me Sam?" Frodo asked.

"It will show you whatever you wish to see." He placed a hand on Frodo's shoulder, and drew him closer to the orb.

"Wh- what must I do?"

"Only think of what you wish to view. Think of Sam..."

That was no effort; Sam was already foremost in his thoughts. Frodo stared at the smooth onyx surface, until it seemed as if he were gazing into it: the black stone became clear as crystal, and the globe appeared to be filled with mist. Then he realized that what he was seeing were clouds over a green land. He was looking at the Shire as if he were high above it, like a bird in flight, and heading toward Hobbiton and the Hill. He could see the round, green door of Bag End, and came down, closer to it.

Then, suddenly, it was as if he had descended through the roof of Bag End and was inside the kitchen. Frodo was momentarily overwhelmed by feelings of longing at the sight of that familiar room. Rosie was there, busy preparing bacon and eggs for breakfast. The old wooden cradle the Cottons had given her sat by the hearth. A tiny, pink-faced baby lay within; as Frodo watched, it opened its mouth--to yawn, he thought, since there was no sound, then as the baby's face grew more red and Rosie came over to lift it from the cradle and comfort it, he realized that he couldn't hear what she was saying. This vision was only to be seen.

Sam came into the room, drawn by the baby's cries. His mouth and Rosie's moved as they exchanged a few unheard words, then he took the baby from her so that she could attend to the eggs before they burned. Sam held the baby to his chest, rocked back and forth on his heels, cooed to the child and jounced it gently. In spite of these efforts, the baby would not be quieted, and Rosie moved the skillet off the fire and set it down on the table so she could take the baby back. Both parents fussed over the infant until, at last, it had howled itself out. Sam knelt beside the cradle to set the baby down; Rosie came to stand beside him, then she knelt too. As they tucked the baby in, Sam gazed down at his child with such an openly adoring expression on his face that Frodo felt a lump in his own throat.

More words passed between the couple, and Rosie leaned on Sam's shoulder. Sam smiled at her, then kissed her. The image faded.

"Did you see what you hoped to, Frodo?" The voice so nearby was startling, but Strider had in fact been beside him all the time, holding the palantir.

"Yes," Frodo said. "Thank you."

Once they left the White Tower, he left the citadel. He didn't think about it; it was simply a matter of turning left instead of right once he'd gone out the door and down the steps. The rain had begun to come down heavily again. Aragorn was walking swiftly, to avoid being in the downpour longer than necessary, and didn't notice that the hobbit was no longer at his side. Within a few seconds, Frodo had raced across the courtyard and gone down into the tunnel.

He fled down the wet street to Gandalf's house, went to his room and sank down into the chair before the dead embers of the fire, trembling, knees draw up and head in his hands. He felt sick and stunned, as if he'd suffered some terrible blow to his vitals, but the full pain of the wound had not yet come to him. He wanted to weep, but this was beyond tears.

Seeing Sam with Rosie and their new baby had been a greater shock than he had anticipated. There was no doubt in Frodo's mind that Sam loved him and missed him, and would be overjoyed when he came home, but in the meantime, Sam had others to love. That glimpse into the palantir had shown him Sam's life as it ought to have been--what Sam and Rosie might've had from the beginning, and would've had if he'd never come between them in the first place. What they would have after he was really gone for good.

He heard the front door burst open, and bare feet pattering damply down the hall, without pausing on the doormat. There was a tap on Frodo's door, and then it opened a crack. Merry looked in. "Frodo, thank goodness you're here! Why did you go? They're looking all over for you. Strider thought you were right behind him. When you didn't come back up to the dining room, he sent everyone searching. Gandalf's frantic. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Frodo answered, but a quaver in his voice betrayed him.

Merry came in and shut the door behind himself. "Frodo, what's wrong? What happened?"

"I saw Sam. Strider showed me. He let me look into that palantir of his."

"Yes, he told us so. Is Sam all right?" asked Merry. "It's not Rose or the baby-?"

"No, they're fine." Frodo felt foolish as he explained, "I saw them. The baby is born--boy or girl, I couldn't tell, but I could see something of both Sam's and Rosie's features in its face. They're very happy, Sam and Rose. He's happy with her."

Merry understood. "Oh, Frodo..." He wriggled into the chair beside Frodo--there was room enough for two hobbits with a little squeezing--and put an arm around him. Frodo leaned his head on his cousin's shoulder.

"I don't know why it should disturb me so," he told Merry. "It was a very sweet scene--a young married couple with their first new baby. It's the life I chose for Sam, insisted he have even when he said he'd give it up for my sake. It was my doing. I thought Cirandil was a fool for leaving Lady Tharya to marry someone else when she would've chosen him, but it's not so very different from what I did, is it? They wouldn't have married but for me. I arranged the match. I encouraged Sam to court Rosie, talked to her, made them agree to it on my terms. I didn't want Sam to be left alone after I'd gone. I meant for him to go on with his life... and he has. I've no reason to be hurt or resentful. How can I blame him for doing just what I told him to?"

"Because you're still in love with him," Merry answered. "And you're more selfish about him than you like to admit. It's all very nice to think of yourself being noble and generous-hearted, but it isn't so easy to see the effects of your work."

"Yes." Frodo had to acknowledge it. "I liked the idea of Sam having someone to love and to look after him. I never thought I'd still be around to see it."

"Why do you think I stay so far away from the Shire, and Pippin? I am selfish--I admit it--and if he'd liked that girl, or any girl, enough to marry her, I couldn't bear to see them together. If I don't see it, I don't have to think about it."

Now, Frodo felt tears start in his eyes; Merry had said something like this before, but he hadn't realized how strongly his cousin felt about it. "Oh, Merry..." They clung to each other all the harder.

The front door opened again and they heard heavier footsteps enter the house. "Merry!" Gandalf called out. "Is he here? Have you found him?"

Frodo lifted his head from Merry's shoulder and wiped his face. "In here!"

The footsteps in the hall hastened toward them, and the door opened. Gandalf peered in, and looked relieved to see the pair of hobbits seated together, still in each other's arms. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Gandalf."

"Then what are you thinking of, Frodo? You know you may be in danger and said you wouldn't do anything foolish to put yourself at risk--and then you run off, leaving the citadel without saying a word! Do you know what horrors we've all imagined since you were discovered missing?"

Frodo thought of what they must have imagined--that he'd been set upon by the poisoner, possibly kidnapped or even murdered--and he suddenly aware just how foolishly he'd behaved. "I'm sorry," he answered, abashed. "I didn't think. I didn't mean to cause such a fuss and frighten everyone. I only felt so awful after looking into that palantir, I wanted to get away for awhile."

The wizard's bushy white brows came together. "Do you wish me to send for the Master Healer? Perhaps Aragorn..."

"No! Please, I'm all right. It's nothing. I feel better now." He struggled free from Merry's arms and rose from the chair. "I'll go back to the citadel and apologize."

"I hope we haven't missed lunch," said Merry, also rising.

"I'm sure they haven't started without you," Gandalf answered dryly. "Are you ready to go, Frodo?"

Frodo went to the washstand in the corner of his room, filled the basin with cool water to splash on his face and dried his tears. "Yes, I'm ready. Let's go."
Chapter 22 by Kathryn Ramage
They returned to the citadel amidst a great commotion. Even though the rain was still coming down, there were people everywhere. Beregond was directing the Guard in a search, and someone was blowing a horn in notes of alarm from the top of the White Tower; Frodo had heard it even on the lower level, but hadn't realized the alarm was over his disappearance. This was all very embarrassing.

When Beregond saw Frodo safely in the company of Gandalf and Merry, he looked very much relieved and shouted to call off the search. The horn blew an "all clear."

Frodo was taken back up to the royal chambers, where he offered the King and Queen his profuse and sincere apologies for causing so much trouble. The apology was readily accepted, although Aragorn gave a stern order that Frodo was never to frighten him by going off like that again. In spite of Frodo's explanation that he'd simply been overwhelmed by the sight of his home in the palantir, and was all right now, Aragorn insisted that he'd been working too hard. There'd be no investigations today.

After luncheon, Frodo went back to Gandalf's house and, as ordered, went to bed. He had just changed into his nightshirt and was lying down when Gandalf knocked on the door and came in.

Standing at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips, the wizard said in non-nonsense tones, "Tell me the truth now that we are alone, Frodo: what did you see in the palantir that upset you so? This is more than homesickness over a glimpse of the Shire. It has shaken you to the core."

Frodo had no choice but to explain. Gandalf would have to know about him now, to understand why he'd been so upset. "It was Sam," he said. "I asked to see him, and I did. Gandalf... do you remember what I told you about Merry and Pippin--how Merry can only fall in love with other boys?"

"Yes, I remember."

Frodo plunged on bravely, "It isn't just Merry. I'm the same way myself. Sam and I-"

"My dear Frodo," Gandalf replied with a twinkle of understanding in his eye, "do you think I didn't see that? I knew how Sam loved you when I asked him to stay by you before I sent you from Bag End. I knew he would never leave your side if he could help it."

Frodo's mouth dropped open. "How could you know? I didn't know it myself then, not 'til much later, when we went into Mordor." He sat up, arms hugged around his knees. "Facing death has a way of clarifying your mind. It makes you see what was really most important in being alive."

"But Sam has married since," Gandalf observed.

"Yes, that's what I wanted for him," Frodo tried to explain this as well. "He loved Rose too, you see, and wanted to have children. I couldn't deny him that. I wanted him to go on with his own life rather than spend it all on taking care of me."

The wizard's brows rose. "Is that what you saw? Sam, with his wife and child."

Frodo nodded. "I thought I could let him go, until I saw him today. I saw his life, a good life, without me..." He flopped back to the bed. "It's far too late to regret my choice now."
Chapter 23 by Kathryn Ramage
The rain stopped by mid-afternoon and the sun made a brief appearance before it set, but Frodo remained in bed for the rest of the day. Between them, Merry and Gandalf kept so close a watch over him that Frodo was certain even Sam couldn't have been more diligent. Unfortunately, this enforced rest gave him plenty of time to think about Sam. Even though Merry offered to stay with him, Frodo refused. He wanted to be by himself. He slept badly that night, worse than he had been lately, and when he slept, he dreamt of Sam. He saw that scene in Bag End's kitchen again and again, and himself powerless to be a part of it.

When Beregond called for Frodo the next morning, the wizard gave the bleary-eyed hobbit a stern but concerned look and asked him if he felt well enough to carry on with his investigation today.

"I'm fine, Gandalf," Frodo answered. "I'm not ill. I was only a little upset, but I mustn't let it affect my work." Not only was finding this poisoner the most important thing he had to do, his work kept him from dwelling on his personal problems. "I'd like to talk to Councilor Larengar. I meant to yesterday, but never had the chance." He turned to Beregond. "Is it too late to see him this morning?"

"It is nearly the hour when the Council convenes," said Beregond. "If we are quick, you may catch him before he goes into the chamber."

Gandalf still looked concerned, but there was no time for an argument. Frodo seized his cloak, and he and Beregond hastened to the citadel. When they reached the council-chamber, the door was already closed. The Council was in session.

"They've only just started," said Beregond. "Do you want me to go in and summon Lord Larengar to speak to you? The King will certainly give him leave."

"No, thank you, Captain. I'd rather speak to him privately. The matter is rather confidential. I'll wait here 'til he comes out." Frodo climbed up to sit down on the marble bench nearest the chamber door. "Gandalf wants me to rest. I can do it here as easily as in my bedroom."

Beregond sat down to wait with him. They talked little, until a messenger who'd been searching for the captain found him. The boy gave Beregond a note sealed with a heavy wax stamp.

Beregond opened the note and read it, then glanced at the hobbit. "I have an errand that must take me into the city on your behalf," he told Frodo. "If it is successful, it will aid our investigation."

This cryptic announcement only piqued Frodo's curiosity. "Can I go with you?"

"No, not yet," the captain answered. "Arrangements must be made before I can bring you, but there is another difficulty. I have been charged not to leave you unattended, particularly after yesterday's incident. If I go for a short time, you won't fly away as you did yesterday, will you?"

"I'll be good," Frodo promised, smiling. "I'll be right here when you come back."

"I have your word then, and my lord Elessar will have my life if you should break it." Beregond left on his unexplained errand.

After these parting words, Frodo did not dare move from the bench for the next hour. That morning's council session was a short one, and the councilors began to emerge shortly after noon. When the door opened, Frodo slid off the bench on the side closest to the wall and hid behind a marble column, hoping that Aragorn and the members of the Council would not notice him as they passed.

Fortunately, Larengar was one of the last to leave. Frodo followed him; when he caught up, he took the sleeve of the councilor's robe in his hand, and tugged to draw Larengar's attention.

Larengar looked down, and looked surprised. "Why, Ringbearer! What brings you here? I heard you were taken ill yesterday."

"I came to talk to you," Frodo explained. "Will you answer a few questions, please? They're rather personal, but I think they may aid me."

"Yes, of course," Larengar answered, somewhat bemused but not at all wary at the request. "I said I would be happy to assist you, didn't I? Ask away." He sat down on another bench, farther along the corridor than the one Frodo had been sitting on.

"Thank you, Sir." In spite of the councilor's generous response, Frodo decided to tread carefully. Even without the shadow of suspicion, the subject was a delicate one. "What I want to know is," he began in a roundabout fashion, "are you likely to go into the taverns in the city?"

Larengar chuckled at the question. "Not so frequently as I was in my youth."

"What about the Steward's Arms?"

"Where poor Caradan was poisoned? Not in years."

"You aren't acquainted with the family there? The present keeper is a jolly, generous Man, a widower with one daughter who serves as barmaid. Ilsethe is her name. She's a pretty girl, about the same age as your own daughter."

Now Larengar stared at him and looked less amused by the hobbit's questioning. "No, I don't know them. I've never seen them."

Frodo changed tactics to a more direct attack. "I've been told that you quarreled with your friend Carathir shortly before his death."

Larengar's large, round and genial face suddenly went red with indignation, and he sprang to his feet, forcing Frodo to step back. "Who told you such a lie?" he demanded. "No, you needn't answer. I can guess who it was--Imatibin, that sly, insidious creature!"

"Then there was no quarrel?" Frodo stood his ground, staring up at the Man with head tilting back so far that he almost lost his balance.

"A difference of opinion between us, that's all. Although it comes as no surprise to me that certain persons have found it advantageous to make more of it than there was to divert suspicion from themselves."

"Will you tell me what this 'difference of opinion' was about?"

Larengar waved a dismissive hand. "After so many weeks, I'm afraid I can't recall the details."

"Was it about Caradan?" Frodo pursued.

Larengar didn't answer, only stared down at him.

"I suspect that it was," said Frodo. "You may not have been to the Steward's Arms in years, and never saw the alekeeper's daughter--but perhaps you've heard gossip about her? Perhaps someone else who visits the tavern noticed that the bracelet she wears is very like one of a pair that Lady Rainelde, Caradan's mother, used to have? Perhaps they came and told you about it?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"No more than I say: the gossip reached your ears. Since Caradan was betrothed to your daughter, you went to his father to have him put a stop to it. Is that what happened? What did Carathir have to say about it? It isn't an accusation, sir. I only want to know the truth."

Larengar continued to stare at him, then turned to pace up and down the hallway. At last, he made up his mind and admitted, "Carathir refused to believe it. I hadn't the proof of my own eyes, only the tales that had come to my ears. That Caradan should spurn my Tharya for a barmaid! We'd both wondered why the boy hadn't given Tharya the first bracelet upon their betrothal, as is the custom of their family. I had thought it merely an oversight before I heard of this girl. I told Carathir we had only to go to the Steward's Arms, see her wearing his late wife's bracelet, and ask her for ourselves how she came by it." He whirled to Frodo. "It is true, isn't it?"

"Yes, it was so," Frodo confirmed. "I've spoken to her and had the story from her own lips... and from others. Caradan gave the girl his mother's pledge bracelet, and his promise with it." Larengar made a furious snorting sound, and Frodo asked him, "Didn't you and Carathir go to see for yourselves?"

"No, he refused to come with me. He did agree at the end to ask his son for the truth, but he died before he could do so."

"Did you ever speak to Caradan about it?"

"No," said the councilor. "We were all so shocked and grieved by Carathir's death, it drove the thought of it from my mind. The boy--foolish, reckless boy!--was also dead before I could look further into the matter."

"What would you have done if Caradan refused to abandon the girl?" Frodo continued with his questioning. "Would you have had Tharya break her betrothal vow to him?"

Larengar snorted furiously again and said, "If you, or Imatibin, suggest that I would see my friend Carathir and his son dead over this, then you are wrong. That it would be a cleft between us, I do not deny. I would do all I could to see Caradan remember his pledge to Tharya and all that has been between our two families, to put aside his dalliances and wed. But if he refused, I would not see my child bound to a faithless husband. Better the break come before their wedding than after." He sighed, and began to calm down. "Well, that's all ended now. My friend has gone, and my daughter will not marry his son. That line has ended now, and this last difference must always lie upon my memory of our long friendship."

"What about Cirandil?" said Frodo. "He is the last of that line. Would you object to him as a husband for Lady Tharya?"

"Cirandil? I had not thought of it before. He was only Carathir's ward and nephew. But now..?" Larengar began to consider the idea, and seemed to find it a good one. "Yes, you're right, Ringbearer. He's no longer an ordinary guardsman now, is he? If he's innocent of his uncle's death--and I believe he is--then he'd be as good a match for my daughter as Caradan. I'll speak to Tharya about it after a suitable time for mourning has passed."

Frodo smiled. If Cirandil and Tharya were indeed innocent, then he had done a good deed for them. Larengar would not stand in the way of their happiness, but would encourage it.

But then a darker thought rose in his mind: had they planned for it to come out this way?




After Larengar left, Frodo was about to return to his seat near the council-chamber door, when he realized that he was not alone. The rest of the councilors had gone long ago, but Hilabar was standing at the far end of the corridor.

"I meant to have words with Larengar," the young councilor said as he came closer, "and when he did not come out of the hall, I grew curious as to what detained him."

"Have you spoken to him?" asked Frodo.

"No. Our business is not urgent. I would much rather speak to you, Frodo, and find out what lies the old bear's been telling you. I know he's all but declared that either I or Imatibin must have something to do with Carathir's death, since we opposed him in the Council."

Frodo had to smile at these cross suspicions and accusations between the Council members. "He didn't speak of you at all," he answered. "Our conversation was on another subject entirely."

"But he has before, hasn't he?" Hilabar asked, and looked somewhat anxious.

Frodo nodded.

"Do you believe him?"

"I've found nothing to confirm his suspicions," Frodo replied noncommittally. "I must say, I wonder that he makes such statements against you, when Carathir was your kinsman by marriage and recommended you for the Council."

Hilabar smiled wryly. "Larengar would say that I repaid Carathir's patronage with vile ingratitude because I wouldn't follow his lead and support him in all matters before the Council. I am not in league with Imatibin--I don't even like Imatibin much. We share a belief in Gondor's future, no more. I was grateful to Carathir, but I couldn't pretend to agree with him when I had my own opinions on a subject. No Man of honor would expect it, or respect me if I did. A King's councilor is no one's pet dog! Surely you can understand that?"

Yes, Frodo could.

"Carathir was a dear man, but an old one. He didn't see that the old days were at an end. We are at the dawn of a new Age," Hilabar went on with growing enthusiasm. "There is a King in Gondor again, and much to do if we are to restore the realm to its former greatness. We might make it even greater than it was before."

"I've been told that you hope to be made keeper of the treasury?" Frodo asked. "Is that part of your plan?"

"If we are to rebuild, we must have funds. It was the one point on which Carathir always held back. He would not advise the King to authorize the release of more money than was absolutely necessary. But I say that the ruins of Osgiliath will not rise to their glory of old by magic, nor will the roads and ports grow again in the blighted lands as the flowers do. After Carathir's death, I'd hoped that if I were given his place, I might put the wealth that lies locked in the treasury vaults to use."

Aragorn had obviously not announced his decision yet, and Frodo decided not to say anything to disappoint the young councilor in advance. Hilabar's plans sounded worthwhile--in fact, this talk of roads and ports reminded Frodo of Merry--but there was something in his zeal to implement them that seemed a bit too enthusiastic. How far would Hilabar go to fulfil his vision of a restored Gondor?

Beregond returned while Hilabar was talking, and looked relieved to see that Frodo had not gone away in his absence.

At the sight of the captain's approaching, Hilabar rose to depart. "I'm glad we've had this talk, Frodo," he said. "It much relieves my mind."

"He is not the councilor I expected to see with you," Beregond said after Hilabar had gone. "Did you speak to Lord Larengar as well?"

"I did, and with some success. What about you, Captain? Was your errand successful?"

The captain nodded. "I've seen Broneron, and he's agreed to speak with you."

"Broneron?" Frodo repeated the name excitedly. "Is that who you went to see?"

"You asked me to arrange a meeting, and I've done so. Broneron will grant you a private interview at his house. I'll take you there now."
Chapter 24 by Kathryn Ramage
They walked down to the fifth level of the city. Broneron's house looked as forbidding and gloomy as any grand house on the level above that had been empty for generations. Only the smoke rising from the chimneys indicated this house was occupied.

There was a heavy brass knocker on the front door, well out of Frodo's reach. Beregond took it in one hand and rapped it loudly three times.

A servant admitted them. They were expected; Beregond did not explain their business, and the servant did not ask, but bowed and showed them into a dimly lit room. Their host stood waiting before a single window that overlooked a small, enclosed courtyard. At their entrance, he turned and Frodo could see that he was a heavy-set Man of middle-age with black hair well oiled and combed back straight from his brow.

"I've brought him," Beregond said simply.

"So I see," Broneron replied. "Leave us, please, Captain. If the King's halfling investigator would question me, I'd prefer that we conduct our interview privately."

Beregond glanced at Frodo, concerned for his safety, but the hobbit said, "It's all right, Captain. I'd rather we speak in private too." Broneron was more likely to be frank with him if they were alone and, even if this Man were the murderer he sought, Broneron would gain nothing by threatening him now.

"As you wish," Beregond consented. "I will wait in the hall outside. You've only to call when you need me." He went out and shut the door.

Broneron laughed. "The good captain is sure I mean to throttle you as soon as he's out of sight! But you're not afraid of me, are you, little investigator?"

"No," said Frodo. "Even if you meant me harm, you wouldn't be so foolish as to try anything when the captain of the citadel Guard stands armed just beyond the door."

"True, I am no fool," Broneron answered. A tray with a pewter pitcher upon it sat upon a table. The Man refilled a goblet with wine from the pitcher and offered, "Will you have a drink with me?"

"No, thank you."

This polite refusal made Broneron laugh again. "You're no fool yourself, little halfling. Never accept a drink from a suspected poisoner. You do think I'm responsible for Carathir's death and the death of his son, don't you? I assume that's why you've come here, to accuse me."

"I make no accusation," Frodo replied. "I've learned that you and Lord Carathir were at odds in the last war, and I wanted to hear what it was all about, by your own account."

Broneron sipped his wine, then lifted the goblet as if to show Frodo that the drink was harmless. "Carathir was a traitor," he said bluntly. "That is my account of the matter. He was one of a treacherous pack of nobles who worked behind the back of our late Steward, countermanded his orders, and undermined his authority."

"They were trying to save the city."

"They had no right to do so against the Steward's orders. It was my lord Denethor's business, not theirs--nor was it the wizard Mithrandir's place to take the defense of Minas Tirith upon himself when my lord would not do as he wished. Well, they've been amply rewarded for their treachery, while I am paid for my loyalty to my lord as you see... a life of exile, within the city. I do not go where those who know me might see me. I hadn't seen Carathir since I was dismissed from the Council and left the citadel for the last time. You may take me at my word, or not, as you choose."

"It wasn't necessary for Carathir's murderer to have seen him," Frodo pointed out.

"Since he was poisoned, you mean?"

"Yes, and that a confederate might have actually dispensed the poison while the one who ordered it was far away."

"I see." Broneron nodded. "Well, I won't lie and say I grieve for Carathir or his son. I do not, but that doesn't mean I ordered their deaths. There's no reason why I should hold Carathir in particular contempt. He was only one traitor among many--or do you think I mean to murder Larengar, or Thressildis, or the wizard next? If I strike at them, I might as well seek revenge against the King, for rewarding them and dismissing me."

"The others who stood with you," said Frodo. "Do they feel as you do?"

"No doubt."

"Would any of them have particular reason to hate Carathir for his part in the city's defense, or their dismissal?"

"I couldn't say. You'd have to ask them."

"I'd like to. Will you tell me where they are? Do you still see them?"

"Occasionally," Broneron answered, and smiled again. "Do you wish me to tell you where to find them? What if I refuse? My friends like their privacy as much as I do. Besides, one of them may be the poisoner you're looking for, little investigator, and I won't betray the one who paid out treachery with its just deserts." He chuckled. "I am nothing, after all, if not loyal."

"I can easily find them in other ways."

"You will have to do so. Call for Beregond to take you away to seek them. I've said all I intend to."




"What a wretched, loathsome Man!" Frodo said after he and Beregond had left Broneron's house and hastened up the street. "He sounds as if he regrets that the city still stands--and that he lives! I believe he would rather Denethor let it all be pulled down by Sauron's army, as long as he died by his lord's side. He thinks more of what he calls loyalty than lives."

"Do you think he had Carathir and his son poisoned?" asked Beregond.

"He spoke as if he wanted me to think him dangerous, but I doubt he truly is. I don't believe he had Carathir killed, but I wonder if he knows or guesses who did. He shields his friends most carefully. He wouldn't even tell me their names or where they live." Frodo looked up at the captain. "You know them, don't you?" It couldn't be a secret; surely, the members of the Council in Denethor's last days were a matter of public knowledge. Anybody in the Council now, or even Aragorn himself, could tell him who'd been dismissed. "Are they all still within the city?"

"Yes, I assume so," Beregond answered. "Do you wish to seek them out?"

"I want to, but not today. Right now, I'd like to go back to Gandalf's and rest." Frodo suddenly felt unaccountably weary; it was more than a lack of sleep or the strain of this investigation. "Perhaps Gandalf was right-" he spoke, when his head began to spin. It seemed as if the street rocked beneath his feet, and the tall buildings that rose on either side of him swayed. At his next step, his legs folded beneath him, and he tumbled to his knees.

He heard Beregond cry, "Frodo!" as he fell to the cobblestones. The last thing he was aware of was being lifted up into the captain's arms and being borne swiftly away...
Chapter 25 by Kathryn Ramage
When Frodo opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a bed in a neat and comfortable room at the Houses of Healing, very like the one he'd first awoken in after the end of his Quest. He was not bandaged this time, but he felt dazed and slightly nauseous. A cool, damp cloth had been placed on his brow, and the Master Healer himself was seated at the bedside.

"What happened?" he asked.

The Healer smiled to see him awake. "So far as I can determine, you fainted." Methilde brought in a glass of chalky white liquid, which the Master Healer took from her; with one gentle hand behind Frodo's head to support it, he held the glass to the hobbit's lips. "Drink this, Frodo. It will make you feel better."

The liquid had a heavy and sweet taste, but Frodo swallowed some of it, then sank back down with his head on the pillow. He began to feel a little less dizzy. "Where's Captain Beregond?"

"He's gone to fetch Mithrandir. You've given him quite a fright, but I think you'll be well enough to go home soon. I see no sign of injury upon you, beyond some slight scrapes on the palms of your hands from your fall, and no sign that you've ingested poison, as Beregond feared. Your pupils are not dilated, your breathing is regular and unconstricted, and your heart beats steadily." While he'd been talking, the Healer had taken Frodo's wrist to monitor his pulse. Frodo also now became aware that his shirt and waistcoat were unbuttoned and his chest exposed. "You aren't feverish. Your face is pale, but no more so than it usually is. What color you have is returning to your cheeks now. I think we must therefore look elsewhere for the cause." He released the hobbit's wrist and asked, "Are such bouts of dizziness and fainting a usual symptom of your illness, Frodo? Do you ever have convulsive fits?"

"No, nothing like that. I have my bad turns, nightmares, when I've been upset or I push myself too hard."

"And have you been upset, or pushing too hard?"

It was a frank and impersonal question from a professional healer, which made it easier for Frodo to answer more frankly than he would answer a concerned friend. "Yes, to both, and I haven't been sleeping very well since I came to Minas Tirith. I suppose that's what brought this about. Investigations are always hard on me, but I thought I was up to the long journey and the effort of hunting out a murderer here. So many people wanted me to come. I felt quite well, as well as I ever do, before I began. I wasn't expecting to be seriously ill until the end of this month--on the anniversary of Mordor's destruction, to be precise."

"That day now marks the beginning of our New Year," said the Master Healer. "It is a day of great celebration in the city. I imagine it will be specially important this year, if you are here to attend the festivities. Or will you be too ill?"

"I'm afraid I will," said Frodo. "I'm always at my worst then, and it takes some time afterwards for me to recover my strength. While the celebrations go on, I shall be abed with the curtains drawn."

The Master Healer made a sympathetic noise, and Methilde, who had remained silently standing at the foot of the bed, said, "You poor little thing. Can't we do anything to ease him, Master?"

"Frodo's illness is not one that can be cured," the Master answered solemnly, "for it is not entirely an illness of flesh and blood. There's a dark magic in it, beyond the power of any earthy medicine. I will do all I can for you, Frodo. I'll give you something to help you sleep, and I advise you to rest as much as possible when your investigation does not require you to be up and about. Spend the rest of today and tomorrow abed. When the day arrives, summon me and I will come to you."

"Thank you," said Frodo, though he doubted that these kind people could do anything to help him. There was no escape from that day, which was barely two weeks away now. The anniversary of the Ring's destruction and Sauron's fall was a day of joy for all free peoples of Middle-earth, but not for him.

Gandalf was shown into the room, accompanied by Beregond. Both looked very worried, but grew less alarmed when they saw that Frodo was awake and not obviously sick. "What's happened to him?" Gandalf demanded of the Master Healer. "Has he been harmed?"

"No," answered the Healer, "he's only swooned. He has overexerted himself and needs to rest. You must see that he does."

"I assure you, I intend to," the wizard replied, and regarded Frodo sternly. "I should have done so this morning."

"Yes, you were right, Gandalf," Frodo said meekly. "I shouldn't have gone out."

"I was afraid Broneron had done something to you when you were alone with him," said Beregond.

Frodo had to smile. "Oh, no. He never touched me. He offered me some wine, but I refused it. Do you think I'm silly enough to take any drink given me, when a poisoner's about?" He took another sip of the chalky potion; the taste was rather cloying, but it did help to clear his head. "It's all this dreary rain, and running up and down steep streets--it's taken its toll on me. If you'll give me a moment, I'll be fit to walk home. I promise I'll get right into bed."

"Nonsense," said Gandalf. "You've done enough walking today. Not another step." Once the Master Healer said that Frodo could go, the wizard picked him up and insisted on carrying him home through the streets, sheltered within a fold of his cloak.




Once Gandalf had brought him home, Frodo went straight to bed as promised. His fainting spell had been as exhausting as his nearly sleepless night, for he slept through the afternoon and awoke when Merry knocked on his door and asked if he was hungry. Frodo was ravenous; he hadn't had a bite to eat since breakfast.

His cousin went away to return again a few minutes later, bringing Frodo his dinner on a tray.

"Shall I taste it for you?" Merry joked as he set the tray down on Frodo's bed, and climbed up after it. "I've had mine already--soup from the same pot, bread cut from the same loaf." He tore off a piece of the bread, dipped it into the soup, and popped it into his mouth. "But you never know. I was up at the citadel when Beregond brought us the news. He said you were all right and Gandalf was looking after you, but you can imagine how Strider felt about it. He feels it's all his fault. He's given strict orders that there's to be no more investigating until he's satisfied that you're well enough to continue."

"So has Gandalf," Frodo said as he started on the soup. "It looks as if I'll be stuck in bed for a few days. Even if I've left Sam behind, there are plenty of other people ready to bully me about my health. Between you and Gandalf, Strider, the Queen, and Beregond, even Sam couldn't complain that I wasn't being looked after."

"Somebody's got to look after you, Frodo," Merry responded. "You do such a bad job of it yourself. You never give a thought to food or rest when your mind's on some problem, and you keep things to yourself until you get into such a fret that you fall to pieces over it."

"You know how these murder investigations affect me, Merry. I always get close to a bad turn after awhile. This one's no different-"

"Bosh. And this doesn't have anything to do with the rain and your running up and down the city streets looking for murderers either. I know exactly what's bothering you. It's Sam, isn't it? You were upset over being so far away from him even before you looked into the palantir."

Frodo had to admit that this was true. He'd been missing Sam terribly for days. That vision in the palantir had only made it worse.

"I can see why you don't want to go around telling everybody what's really wrong, but why didn't you tell me?" Merry went on. "You know I would understand, if nobody else does."

"I told Gandalf," Frodo said. "He wasn't at all surprised to hear it. He said he'd knew about me and Sam already."

"Of course he did. He's a wizard. They know everything." But this did not put a halt to Merry's scolding. "But Gandalf's never said you can come sleep in his bed when you're missing Sam. I told you days ago that you were welcome to come to me whenever you were lonely and couldn't sleep. And you haven't been sleeping well, have you, Frodo? You didn't tell me that--Strider did. But did you come? No. You'd rather lie here, miserable and alone, working yourself into a fret."

"I couldn't have come to you night after night, Merry."

"Whyever not?"

"I don't want to disturb you and make a nuisance of myself," Frodo answered diffidently.

"Nuisance!" Merry rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation. "Honestly, Frodo Baggins, the biggest mystery is how you manage to be the cleverest hobbit in the Shire and the most infuriatingly idiotic one at the same time! Do you really think I mind sharing a bed with you? You're no nuisance. And you're not the only one who gets lonely, you know. I'd be glad of the company. Don't be silly, Frodo. If you need me, I'm right here and ready to help. You've only to ask."

He left Frodo to finish his dinner and ponder his words. It had come as a surprise to Frodo to realize that his cousin's feelings were hurt because his offer of comfort had been scorned.

Later in the evening, when Frodo had settled down to read before taking the medicine the Master Healer had given him to sleep, Merry returned. He'd brought a nightshirt with him and tossed it onto the foot of the bed.

"I've been thinking it over," he announced. "It's no good waiting for you to ask. You'll have to be told--that's how Sam does it, isn't it?"

To Frodo's astonishment, Merry began to undress. "What are you doing?"

"I'm staying here with you tonight, Frodo, whether you like it or not. Sam wouldn't like it if he thought we weren't looking after you properly. If you are getting close to a bad turn, he'd never forgive me if I left you alone. Now scoot over."
Chapter 26 by Kathryn Ramage
Frodo slept better that night than he had in a week. After swallowing two drops of the medicine the Master Healer had given him in a glass of water, he snuggled close beside Merry, shut his eyes, and didn't open them again until the next morning.

When he awoke to bright sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the curtains, Merry had gone. Gandalf brought a mug of tea in to him, and said, "Merry is making your breakfast. I hope you have an appetite for it." He regarded the hobbit with a curious expression that puzzled Frodo. "Did you have a good night?"

"Yes, very restful," Frodo said cheerfully and sipped his tea. "That potion of the Master Healer's worked wonders." He had not once tossed and turned in the darkness, as he usually did, and no fretful dreams of Sam had haunted his sleep.

"Merry tells me he slept here with you," Gandalf said with great delicacy.

"Yes, he did-" Frodo responded, then blushed when he realized what the wizard was thinking. He added hastily, "But it's not like that, Gandalf, not between Merry and me. It never has been."

"I didn't mean to pry."

"It's all right--it's only natural you'd wonder, after what I told you the other day about us both being- ah- how we are." Frodo tried to explain. "We're nursery-mates, you see, brought up together since we were babies. His parents looked after me after my own mother and father died. I've always thought of Merry as a brother and, well, hobbits might consider marriage and that sort of thing acceptable between cousins, but not brothers or sisters. We're too close to feel that way about each other."




He stayed in bed throughout that day. While Gandalf went up to the citadel, Merry sat with him to keep an eye on him and keep him entertained.

"Will you help me, Merry?" Frodo requested when his cousin brought him his luncheon on a tray. "If I'm forced to rest for very long, I may have to solve this mystery while I'm still abed."

"You know you're not supposed to do any investigating while you're ill," Merry pointed out. "Strider's forbidden it."

"He can stop me from going about and asking questions, but I can't help thinking about what I've learned so far, and what it means. As long as I'm lying here with nothing to do, I have to think about it, Merry--it keeps me from thinking of other things that can put me in a worse state." Frodo turned to his cousin with pleading eyes. "You know what I mean."

Merry did understand precisely what he meant. "All right, I'll help. Do you want me to go about and ask people questions?"

"No, not yet. Right now, I only want to look over what we've found so far. Perhaps talking it over will put everything together so that I can make sense of it. It's all a terrible muddle. I've got no end of suspects, and plenty of motives for murders. The problem is, there are people who might've wanted Carathir dead, but I don't know why they'd wish harm to his son. There are also people who might've wished Caradan dead, but they've no reason to want his father dead too. Only one or two people had motives to kill both. And who would have killed Bregilde, except the person who engaged her for her knowledge of plants and poisons to murder the other two?"

"Why don't we go through them all, one by one?" Merry suggested. "We'll be methodical, just you used to say we ought to be, and consider everyone. We can make a list."

Frodo had spoken of listing his suspects before, but this seemed the opportune moment to put the idea into practice. He'd put away the little writing-box he'd brought with him from Bag End in the drawer of the bedside table when he'd first arrived in Minas Tirith. The Red Book sat atop the table, barely touched; they didn't want to write their list in that, so Merry searched until he found an old memoranda book with empty pages. After Frodo had finished his lunch, Merry sat on the bed at his cousin's feet with the writing-box open beside him, inkpot open and quill at hand. He wrote in large, bold letters at the top of a blank page:

SUSPECTS FOR CARATHIR

"Who should we put down first?" he asked Frodo.

"Cirandil," Frodo answered. "With the death of his uncle, he's become very wealthy and head of what's left of his family line. Also, Carathir would have opposed his marrying Tharya, since she was intended for Caradan, and there's no one to oppose their match now."

Merry wrote this down. "What about Caradan? Could he have killed his father?"

"It's possible." Frodo considered the idea. "We haven't looked at his motives, since he's dead himself, but he was very much alive and right here in the citadel when his father was poisoned. He could've done it to gain his inheritance a little early, or perhaps his father did confront him about Ilsethe. After all, we only have Larengar's word that Carathir never spoke to his son before his death, and he might be mistaken. What if they did talk, and Carathir ordered his son to give Ilsethe up? If Caradan refused, could he have resorted to murdering his father to have the girl he wanted?"

"And then someone else killed him?"

"Yes, but why wouldn't they say so if they did? What was that person's reason? Well, put Caradan's name down, and we'll consider his murderers when we come them."

Merry dutifully put Caradan's name on the list beneath Cirandil's.

"Next, there's Broneron and the other expelled councilors. Broneron called Carathir a traitor, and might well believe a traitor deserved death. I need to know more about the rest of them before I can determine which, if any, also believed that, or if they thought Carathir was personally to blame for their expulsion and disgrace.

"Then there are those still in the King's Council." Frodo counted them off on his fingers. "Larengar. He quarreled with Carathir over Caradan. He tries to make light of it, calls it a 'difference of opinion,' but what if it was more than that? Would he poison his dearest friend over it?

"Imatibin. They quarreled often in the Council--which means nothing in itself, but he's so anxious to cast suspicion on Larengar that I can't help feeling he's trying to distract attention from himself. There must be a reason why. I've been told he had progressive ideas that Carathir, who was old-fashioned, disagreed with. Maybe he was working with Hilabar in a plot to see their new ideas win out, and Carathir stood in their way?

"Then there's Hilabar. Carathir befriended him and sponsored him into the Council, but they had strong differences about the management of the city's treasury. Hilabar has some keen plans to see Gondor restored to its former glory. He's a Man who likes to spend money, and he's eager to be keeper of the treasury to put all that gold to use. Could he have gotten Carathir out of the way to take his place?

"And we must put down Grangirtan. I've heard nothing against him, but he is going to be the keeper of the treasury. Strider told me so. If I can suspect Hilabar of killing his old benefactor to have the treasure of the city in his hands, I ought to in all fairness suspect Grangirtan too."

Merry chuckled as he wrote rapidly; Frodo waited for his cousin to catch up before he went on.

"Lastly, there's Bregilde. She'd been serving the citadel as a midwife and herbalist for many years, and may have formed all sorts of personal reasons for disliking Carathir ages ago that led her to aid someone else in killing him, or to poison him by herself."

"Now, let's consider the people who might've killed Caradan." Merry dipped his quill afresh and wrote across the top of a second page: SUSPECTS FOR CARADAN

"There's Cirandil, again. He loves Tharya and now that Caradan's dead, they can marry each other. Didn't you say Frodo, that nobody opposes them now--not even her father?"

"No, not even Larengar. He might've felt differently if he'd known about them three months ago, but he seemed to like the idea when I brought it up. I don't know whether or not he'd ever thought of Cirandil as a husband for his daughter before that. He behaved as if it'd never occurred to him, but perhaps he'd had similar ideas when he learned about Caradan and Ilsethe. If Caradan had refused to give up his barmaid, marry Tharya, and behave himself, Larengar might've decided killing him was the best way to break the betrothal and leave Tharya free to marry someone else. Or, if your idea that Caradan killed his father was right, Merry, Larengar could've killed Caradan for that reason. He'd be avenging his friend instead of his daughter--either way, perhaps he thought that a second death was preferable to the disgrace of an open scandal."

"So Larengar goes second on this list."

Frodo nodded.

"And who else? There's Tharya, of course. Her reasons for killing Caradan are just as good as her father's and Cirandil's."

"Do you think she knew about Ilsethe?" Frodo wondered. "Even if she didn't care a straw for Caradan, it must hurt her pride to learn how he'd treated their betrothal vow. She and Cirandil might've acted together, or maybe she did it herself. He was away from Minas Tirith when his cousin died, but she was here. Dressed as a maid-servant, she could go into the citadel kitchens and the Steward's Arms when everybody was busy. No one would notice another maid rushing about or recognize her.

"Also at the Steward's Arms, there's the tavern-keeper. If he knew that Caradan was dallying with his daughter while promised to another, he might've taken revenge."

"I'll put his name down," said Merry as he wrote, "but I protest. He's one of the friendliest, jolliest, most even-tempered alehouse-keepers it's been my pleasure to be acquainted with--and you know I've been acquainted with plenty of alehouses! I don't think he knows about his daughter and Caradan, and Caradan would really have to have done something awful to her to provoke her father to murder. She doesn't look like she's having a baby."

"You're probably right," answered Frodo, "but who's in a better position to poison a tankard of ale than the Man who works behind the bar? And we have to consider Ilsethe too. We don't really know Caradan's feelings for her. Maybe he did truly love her and would've defied his family for her sake. Or maybe he was only playing with her and making false promises. If Caradan intended to cast her off when he married Tharya, she had reason to want revenge too, and a good opportunity to take it."

"I see what you mean," Merry said, and looked over the lists he had made so far. "The tavern-keeper and his daughter have no reason to kill Carathir, and the only two reasons I can think of for any of the councilors to kill Caradan are if he discovered which of them it was and could give them away, or they were so zealous in their vengeance against his father that they struck him down too."

"The first is possible," Frodo replied, "but if Caradan did know or suspect who killed his father, why didn't he go to Beregond or Faramir and say something, instead of keeping quiet and going off with his friends to the tavern? The second seems excessive for anybody who isn't mad. I've seen no obvious madmen in this investigation, not even Broneron."

"If we discount the madman and Caradan knowing who killed his father, only Cirandil and Larengar are on both lists."

"Cirandil seems the more likely, with or without Tharya's help," Frodo acknowledged. "I can easily believe that Larengar killed Caradan over the matter of Ilsethe, but unless there was much more to their quarrel than he's admitted, I can't see him killing Carathir too."

"It makes my idea of Caradan committing the first murder more plausible," Merry said. "Or, if it wasn't Larengar who avenged Carathir's death, then it might've been Cirandil, or another friend or relative who doesn't dare speak for some reason."

Frodo brightened suddenly. "Merry, I've just thought of someone else, or two somebodies, who might want to kill both the father and son: Councilor Hilabar and Lady Imadene, and it has nothing to do with the treasury or quarrels in the Council. Carathir and his heir are dead, and Cirandil is the primary suspect. What if he too were dead, poisoned like them or hung for their murders? Aragorn says Cirandil is the last of that family, but what about Lady Imadene? She's a kinswoman of Carathir--a niece or cousin or something of the sort. I'm not sure of the exact degree of relationship, but they are related. She and Hilabar have two little boys, and a third child on the way. Do noble families of Gondor inherit through the female side?"

"Kings and Queens did in the old days," said Merry. "If Cirandil falls over dead next, then we'll have to consider them seriously."

"Very well then! Add them too. Now, for our last list. Who would want to kill the herbalist?"

Merry wrote: SUSPECTS FOR BREGILDE

"I haven't gone into the circumstances of her death as deeply as I should," Frodo admitted. "That's something to be done when I'm up and about again. Who would kill her? If she provided the poison or dispensed it for another person, one of the people we've already listed seems most likely. If that's so, then I think she must've been killed to silence her before I came to the city and started my investigation. She'd be a danger to whomever had engaged her. Or she might've committed suicide when she heard there was a King's Investigator coming, to avoid being caught and questioned, and giving her patron away. It's also possible that someone killed her to avenge her victims."

"You're probably right," Merry said, "but what if it wasn't one of those people? Her death isn't connected to the other two in any other way, is it?"

"No, not that I've discovered. That she provided the poison for the first two deaths is the only way I can make sense of the three together."

"Could she have had an enemy at the Houses of Healing? Herbalists and healers take vows to preserve life, but if we can believe she would go around poisoning people, why not believe the same of some other healer?"

Frodo gave the question some thought. "Lots of herbalists work around the poisonous plants in the herbarium and can gather leaves or berries to brew their own potions without drawing attention. Would one of them have a reason to resent her?"

"Maybe they learned what she was up to, and poisoned her as punishment for breaking her vows?"

"That's very good, Merry! Write that down, and we'll look into it. The herb-master Pahiril should be able to tell us how herbalists who misuse their craft to do deliberate harm are treated. As her master, maybe he saw to her punishment himself."

Merry chuckled. "I can't see him getting around to actually poisoning anybody, can you?"

Frodo grinned. "He'd be talking about all the possible poisons he could use and the history of each plant and the effects they had, and never get around to it. Nevertheless, if we're to consider every possibility, he must go on the list. And there's Methilde."

"Methilde?" Merry looked up from his notes. "Who's that?"

"Bregilde's great-niece. You haven't met her. By her own account, she was in Bregilde's rooms on the night the old woman died. Maybe there was no other visitor that night. Methilde might've put poison in the chamomile-and-ginger tea herself and left earlier than usual so she wouldn't have to drink it with her aunt. That's possible--put her on the list. Who else is there? What about the Master Healer?"

"Frodo!"

"You must admit, he has the best opportunities to poison anyone he likes. I only saw it myself yesterday. He could have poisoned me easily, twice over. I would take no drink from a stranger's hand, but the Healer had only to press a glass of medicine upon me and say 'Drink this.' I swallowed it without hesitation. I also took the sleeping potion he sent home with me without a thought. Anyone would do the same. Is any Man trusted more with people's lives? They would take whatever potion he gave them under the guise of medicine. He could give Carathir or Caradan a little bottle just like this one-" Frodo picked up the bottle of medicine the Healer had given him, "and tell them to drink it down at bedtime. They'd do it. And if Bregilde, who knew her poisons well, suspected him, he could get rid of her as easily! Perhaps, if she did have a visitor on the night she died, it was he."

"But why would he poison them?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he's gone mad."

"Now you're being ridiculous," said Merry, but they were both laughing. "Do you really want me to put these last three down?"

"It was your idea to consider the healers in the first place. We really ought to have another talk with the herbalists who worked with Bregilde, and see what they can tell us. At least, we ought to speak to Pahiril."

"I can do that for you, before you're out of bed." Merry wrote the names on the last page. "Has putting it all down like this made things less of a muddle for you?"

"It's given me some interesting ideas to think about." Frodo sank back against the pillows behind him. This exercise had tired him and he thought he would have a nap. "Leave those lists with me, Merry, and I'll look over them later. Perhaps the truth will emerge if I have it written out plainly before me."
Chapter 27 by Kathryn Ramage
The next afternoon, Frodo got out of bed, but he continued to rest in his room. Both Gandalf and Merry had gone out and had left him sitting before a well-built-up fire, dressed in a shirt and trousers and his dressing gown, looking over the notes Merry had written out for him the day before.

When the day-servant who'd been hired to do the laundry, sweep up, and cook dinners for the wizard and hobbits, brought in Frodo's tea on a tray, she told him, "Ye've a visitor, little master, if yer fit to see 'e. If ye an't fit, I'll tell 'e to come back later."

"No, I'm fine. Please, show him in." Frodo was expecting the King, for Aragorn had promised to come and look in on him while he was ill, and tell tales of his adventures during the quest for the Red Book. He doubted that this could be Aragorn, however; it would take a dauntless servant indeed to stand up to a King and send him off!

When the servant returned, the slight figure of a cowled and robed healer followed her.

"Methilde, hello!" Frodo said in surprise. "What brings you here?"

"The Master Healer wishes to know if you're feeling better today, or if you need aid," the young herbalist explained. "It is not my usual office to carry messages, but I wished to know too. Are you well, Frodo?"

"I am better, thank you. You may tell the Master that, unless he hears it elsewhere first. I've sent my cousin Merry on an errand to the Houses. If the Master asks, Merry will tell him all about my present state of health." Merry had gone to talk to Pahiril and arrange for Frodo to interview the other herbalists; he must certainly see the Master Healer, to gain permission, while he was there. "I expect him back at any minute. I thought he'd join me." Frodo gestured to the little table at his elbow, and the tray upon it crowded with teapot and cups and the sweets Merry had run down to the bakery this morning to purchase specially for him. "Sit down, please, and wait with me," he invited her. "Will you have a cup of tea?"

"Tea?" Methilde lifted the lid on the teapot to have a peek at the steaming brew inside. "What is the herb? What benefit do you take it for?"

"None," answered Frodo. "It's good, plain tea, simply to drink." He poured a cup out for her. "Don't you know of it?"

"Yes, of course. It's a shrub of the camellia family. Some brew the leaves to drink at breakfast. How odd to see it at this hour of the day! It stimulates the nerves to wakefulness, but it has no medicinal virtues."

Frodo smiled and offered her the cup. "Perhaps not, but hobbits couldn't live without a spot of afternoon tea. Merry's introduced it to the ladies of the court, so I'll suppose you'll be seeing more of it around the city once the fashion for it spreads."

As she sat down in the other chair to drink her tea, Methilde pushed back her cowl to fall behind her shoulders. Frodo saw her face fully for the first time. When he'd seen her in the Houses, and when she'd accompanied him to her aunt's room, he'd only had an impression of pale cheeks and chin, and dark, solemn eyes beneath a frame of cloth. He observed now that, like the barmaid Ilsethe, Methilde wore her hair neatly braided and looped into a coil at the nape of her neck. Her unadorned simplicity made a contrast to the court maidens with their long, flowing tresses and colorful finery, and she didn't giggle and fuss over him the way they did.

It was the first time that he'd thought of her as a girl, in the same way he thought of the court maidens and the barmaid, or the hobbit-misses at home. One tended to think of the robed healers who served in the Houses as sexless beings rather than ordinary males and females, which made it much easier to discuss extremely personal matters of health with them.

"I hope to be able to continue my investigation in another day or two, if they'll let me," Frodo told her. "I'm not allowed to go out until I'm well enough. King's orders."

"But you work at it even here, I see." She was looking at the little memorandum book, which lay on the arm of Frodo's chair, open to the page about Bregilde. "What have you done to find my aunt's murderer?"

"Quite a lot, actually. Ah- Merry and I have written up a list of suspects." Frodo wished he'd hidden the book before she'd seen it, but it was too late now. He tried to put his elbow casually over the page, but Methilde had already spotted her own name written beneath her aunt's in bold, black ink; she reached out to snatch up the book before Frodo could stop her.

Circles of dark red suffused her cheeks. "Do you suspect me, Frodo?"

He could only explain, and hope she would not be offended. "I'm sorry, but it is customary to consider everybody connected with the victims, no matter how far-fetched. Merry and I put down every name we could think of."

"But it's ridiculous..." Her eyes went over the rest of the page, reading the names of the other suspects listed for Bregilde, and to his relief, she laughed. "Oh, you're entirely wrong! Auntie had no enemies among the other healers. Everyone admired her skills. Master Pahiril? And the Master Healer! Surely you see how silly that is?"

"Very silly," Frodo agreed, recalling how he and Merry had laughed over the notion. "But a healer could easily poison anybody if he wished to."

"No healer I know would wish to! Why, if that were so, he might've put something into your sleeping potion..." She lowered the notebook, held up before her face, and asked him, "Do you take your sleeping draught, Frodo? You've slept well?"

"Yes, wonderfully well, thank you."

Methilde twisted around in her chair to find the little colored glass bottle, stopped with a plug of cork and bearing the Healer's seal, sitting on the bedside table. "Is it a tincture of poppy?"

"I don't know, but it works most effectively." Frodo pursued the question, "Why don't you believe a healer would poison someone? I don't accuse the Master Healer or anyone specifically, but you told me yourself you thought your aunt had done so. You said that was why she'd been murdered herself."

"Yes... but she was made to do it."

"By whom?"

"I don't know. I hoped you would find out." Methilde had turned to look back through the previous pages of the memorandum book and was reading what Merry had written about the suspects for Carathir. "So, it's as I feared. You suspect Cirandil. That is the name I hear spoken most often since these poisonings began, but I'd hoped you would find out otherwise. It couldn't be him."

Frodo was surprised to hear both the name and the emotion with which she insisted on his innocence. "I didn't realize that you were acquainted with him."

"We met once," she answered. "He was wounded in the leg during the war, three years ago, and he lay abed for a long while in the Houses of Healing. Aunt Bregilde made a poultice to draw the bile from his wound, and thus saved the leg, which might've been cut off otherwise. She also made him a soothing potion for the pain--he was in great pain for long afterwards. I'd only begun my apprenticing then, but would attend him with her and I spoke with him while his wound healed. He seemed a Man of noble mien and honor. I don't believe he would kill his kinsmen to elevate himself, as you've written here."

Frodo thought that the handsome young guardsmen had made a strong impression on her, if not an entirely accurate one. It seemed that Cirandil had as much power to charm the girls of the city as his cousin Caradan had. He did not point out that, even though Methilde meant to defend Cirandil, this story of hers had just provided the connection between the young Man and her great-aunt and he'd long been looking for. Instead, Frodo said gently, "He may have had other reasons."

Methilde stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Cirandil is in love with a young lady of the court, the same lady who was promised to wed his cousin Caradan."

"I've never heard such a thing!" she protested. "Which lady is it?"

"Her name is Tharya." Frodo wondered how familiar Methilde was with the people in the citadel. Had her aunt ever spoken of the families she tended? "She is a daughter of one of the councilors--the late Lord Carathir's friend Larengar, as a matter of fact--and a maid-in-waiting to Queen Arwen."

"Is she pretty?"

Frodo was not the best judge of feminine beauty and its charms, but he had some aesthetic taste. "I'd call her striking-looking--tall, black-haired. Pretty enough, if you like that sort."

"I didn't know of this, but I see you've written her name too." Methilde appeared agitated; the red had returned to her cheeks and she quickly gave the memorandum book back to Frodo as if she didn't want to read anymore. "Yes, you may be right, Frodo. That would make a difference."

She rose from her chair and was preparing to leave, when Merry returned. Aragorn was with him.

"Look who I found coming down the street to see us!" the hobbit announced gleefully, then looked contrite when he saw that Frodo was not alone. "I didn't realize you had company."

"You've sent for a healer, Frodo?" Aragorn asked with a note of grave concern.

"No, she only came to pay a call upon me," Frodo explained. "This is Methilde, the herbalist Bregilde's great-niece. We were just talking about the murders. Methilde, this is my cousin Merry Brandybuck, and of course you know the King."

Methilde had dropped into a deep curtsey at the sight of Aragorn. "My lord Elessar," she murmured. Frodo realized that to him and Merry, Aragorn was simply 'Strider,' an old and dear friend; to the apprentice healer, he was a long-awaited king out of legend and lord of the city. She had probably never been nearer to him than one of a crowd at a public ceremony.

Aragorn was courteous to her, as he was to all his subjects, but the young woman seemed very anxious to get away. She left after she promised Frodo she would call again.

"Merry, wait 'til you hear what she told me!" Frodo said eagerly after she'd gone. "But first, tell me--what did Pahiril say?"

"Frodo..." Aragorn was frowning sternly down at him. "You should be resting."

"I am resting, Strider," Frodo replied. "Don't scold."

"You are still investigating. Merry tells me you sent him to question the healers. You won't be well if you keep this up and push yourself beyond your strength."

"I haven't!" Frodo insisted. "I haven't left this room in two days, and I won't until I've been given leave to. I was only talking to the young woman. That's all I intend to do until I am well again--talk and think. If there's any more strenuous work to be done, Merry will do it for me. After all, you brought me here to find a murderer, Strider, and now I am here, I mean to see this through to the end. Will you let me? Please?"

"If you agree not to exert yourself, Frodo," Aragorn agreed. "I will be watching closely to ensure that you don't."

Frodo beamed up at him. "I'm sure you will, and others too. Under such careful guard, I couldn't over-tire myself if I tried!"
Chapter 28 by Kathryn Ramage
On the first sunny day when Frodo felt well enough to go out, he went riding with Eowyn and Merry, as they had arranged to do days before. Unless Bregilde had gone out to gather the plants herself rather than take them from the herbarium to brew her poisonous potion, Frodo thought it unlikely that anyone else had done so. But the furtherance of his investigation was not the primary reason he wanted to do this. After his recent illness, he was eager to be outside of the city for awhile. He'd been too long within stone walls. He was weary of feeling the hard, cold surfaces of cobblestones, marble and wood floors beneath his feet; it was a welcome relief to be among green and growing things again.

Merry still had the pony he had ridden from the Shire last year, and another pony had been obtained for Frodo. They trotted after Eowyn's Rohan-bred mare, which she kept at a slow pace for their sake, though Frodo thought she would have preferred to go tearing off at a hard gallop across the fields. The lady seemed as happy as the hobbits to be out of the city.

Eowyn wore a riding habit consisting of a long coat with slashed skirts to the knees and leather breeches tucked into tall boots. Frodo had rarely seen a woman in trousers before and it rather shocked him, but it must be her usual costume for riding, for Merry seemed to take it as a matter of course. He remembered what Di Took had said about trousers being easier to ride in; long skirts must be extremely cumbersome to wear while on horseback.

The days that followed the rain had been warm, and spring had begun in earnest. The countryside around Minas Tirith was freshly green and in flower--more green than Frodo remembered it being when he'd last been here three summers ago. Even the distant, dark Mountains of Shadow that bordered Mordor showed spots of fresh, living color. As Gandalf had observed at Isengard, the land was recovering from the evil that had blighted it. There was only one little patch of dead earth, which they passed on Pelennor field: it was the place where the monstrous flying beast Eowyn had slain was burned, then buried, and where she and Merry had destroyed the Witch King who'd ridden upon it. A brief look of sadness crossed both their faces as they looked upon it, for Theoden had also died here.

They rode along the mountains to the west of the city, eventually finding and following a path that wound into the little valleys between the foothills. Laurel trees grew everywhere in groves. Frodo thought he also saw a few rhododendrons, although it was too early for their distinctive flame-red blossoms to bloom.

"Be careful of the ponies," Eowyn cautioned. "They will eat the leaves if you let them. The taste is pleasant to them, but there is no cure once they swallow it. Few horses recover from a dinner of laurel."

"Will we find nightshade here?" asked Frodo.

"If there's any to be found, it'll be in such a place as this," Eowyn assured him.

"How do we know what to look for?" asked Merry.

"I've seen nightshade, potted in the herbarium," said Frodo. "The herb-master showed it to me when I first visited. I don't think I've ever seen it growing wild, but I'd recognize it if I saw it again." He acknowledged that his herb-lore was minimal, and that Merry knew even less than he did. Sam's knowledge of plants would have been invaluable today.

"I've seen nightshade growing wild," said Eowyn. "My old home lies near the foot of mountains such as these--the same mountains, but many miles away at the other end. The women of Edoras are as skilled in herb-craft as the healers of Minas Tirith, and I would go out with them to gather the healing plants." She smiled. "I never took much interest in such things when I was a girl. It was only after we were in the Houses of Healing--you were there for less a time than I was, Merry--that I've wished to learn. We will find it in shaded and wet places."

Once they were safely away from the laurels, Eowyn dismounted and tied her mare in a clearing cut by a stream that trickled out from between the rocks above. The hobbits also tied their ponies and left the path to follow the stream up into the hills. They clambered over boulders and down into grassy dells where little shrubs and bright spring flowers grew where the sunlight reached. The soft dirt and grass, even the warm stones, felt pleasant beneath their hands and feet, and they scrambled upwards, laughing and joking as if they were on a picnic. The lady followed, her thick-heeled boots making her less agile on the rocks than the hobbits' bare toes, but she was laughing too.

At last, they traced the spring to its source, a deep cleft in the hillside. They were in shade here at midday, and the rocks were cool to the touch. The water was icy. Thick beds of moss grew in the deepest cuts beside the stream, and beneath some tall ferns grew a cluster of dark little broad-leaved plants; the flowers were still in bud, but Frodo was sure that it was the same as the one the herb-master had shown him.

"Here!" he shouted to his companions. "It is, isn't it?"

Eowyn reached down to lift the dark leaves with her fingers. Three red berries grew beneath. "Yes, that's nightshade."

Frodo stood up and looked around. "How far are we from Minas Tirith?" he wondered. They hadn't ridden for very long, but the outcroppings of the mountains blocked the city from view.

"Not more than three or four miles," said Merry.

"An easy walk, even for an aged woman in good health?"

"That climb over the rocks might've been hard for an old lady, but there could be other places nearer the city."

"Dozens of these little streams cut down through the hills, and there are many places where nightshade can grow," Eowyn agreed.

"So it wouldn't have been difficult for anybody who knew their herb-lore and who wanted to make their own poison to come out collect the necessary plants," said Frodo. "They needn't have gone far."




As they rode up through the streets of Minas Tirith, Frodo saw that the city was already being decorated with colorful banners in preparation for the upcoming New Year's celebration, and he felt a sudden, sickening pang in the pit of his stomach. The approaching date filled him with dread.

Merry saw that he had gone pale, and offered to take his pony back to the citadel stables for him; he ought to go directly home and rest. Frodo dismounted before the entrance to the tunnel, gave the pony's reins to his cousin, and bid farewell to Eowyn, thanking her for her help. As they rode on, he went into Gandalf's house, intending to lie down until Merry's return.

He had only been in the house a few minutes, when there was a knock on the front door. Frodo went to answer it, and found that Beregond had come to see him. "heard that you were up and about today," the captain explained.

"All my nursemaids have finally agreed that I might get out of bed and go outdoors," Frodo replied.

"And are you well enough to continue our investigation, little one?"

The eager tone in Beregond's question made Frodo smile. "I'm ready to go on," he answered, "though not at so urgent a pace as we went before. Merry and Gandalf will insist that I rest this afternoon, but we can begin tomorrow. Shall we start where we left off? At the moment when I fell ill, we were talking about the expelled councilors."

"Yes, I recall. I have not been idle during your illness, Frodo. I've made a list of the names of the Men involved." Beregond took a slip of paper from his tunic and gave it to the hobbit.

"Have you? How splendid!" Frodo read the list of names: Falnadil, Waldimir, Pellagris, Gefetibin, Duradlond, Osiric, and the drunkard Garamont.

"They were not all members of the Council, but they stood beside Denethor in his last days above all, and have not been permitted to set foot in the citadel since the King's coming," Beregond explained. "I've spoken to one or two. You may speak to them as well if you like, but I am satisfied that if Broneron seeks revenge, they want no part in it. As they are in disgrace, I did not need to be discreet in questioning them."

"Which ones did you talk to?" Frodo asked. "I think I may pass over them, and go on the next name on your list."

"I spoke to Garamont and Pellagris. Falnadil is next."
Chapter 29 by Kathryn Ramage
With Beregond accompanying him, Frodo visited the houses of Waldimir and Falnadil the next day, but learned nothing useful from either. Both spoke of what it had been like to serve at the end of Denethor's stewardship--Waldimir, like Broneron, was defiant, and Falnadil contrite--but both also insisted that they had no personal reason to harm Carathir or his son.

The following morning, rather than wait for Beregond to come to the house to continue their questioning, Frodo walked up to the citadel with Gandalf shortly before ten o'clock. He parted from the wizard before the great hall. The councilors were likewise assembling for the morning session, and when Imatibin saw the hobbit standing on the courtyard, he approached him eagerly.

"Frodo! What's this I hear? You and our good Captain Beregond are interrogating those unfortunate councilors who were asked to resign at the beginning of King Elessar's reign?" he asked.

"Yes, that's so," said Frodo, and wondered how Imatibin had heard about it. "Why do you ask?"

"Well... you surely know your own business, but you did say I might offer advice about the city and its people, and so I feel I must speak. I believe you've taken up a false line of inquiry that will lead nowhere. Since you've been ill of late, you wouldn't wish to exert yourself unnecessarily, would you? You ought to direct your inquiries upon more fruitful lines. It is a present member of the council you must look to, not a past one."

"You believe it's Larengar," Frodo replied. "You've made no secret of it."

"No, I haven't," Imatibin agreed unabashedly. "In the pursuit of justice, one must be willing to speak out. Don't you believe that as well, little one? Have you pursued the matter of that quarrel I told you about?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. I've spoken to Larengar, and know all about it. It had to do with Caradan and- ah- his betrothal to Larengar's daughter."

"Is that what he told you?"

"Don't you believe it's true?" Frodo asked back.

"Oh, I've heard some gossip about Caradan's conduct with a maid of the city," Imatibin admitted. "I've no doubt that it's true, and Larengar would certainly be angered by it for his lovely daughter's sake, as any father would. I do doubt that's reason enough for him to kill the youth, or his dear friend Carathir."

Frodo had his doubts as well, but he was surprised to hear Imatibin say so. "It is what they quarreled over--the same quarrel that you witnessed. He's admitted as much."

"I daresay it's what he admits to, but that was not the reason they quarreled."

"You let me think it had to do with Caradan."

"Your pardon, little one, but I didn't hear what they said. I told you as much, didn't I? My brother Erlo and I only heard Caradan's name spoken. I'm sorry if you misunderstood, but I couldn't be more plain. I thought from the first that the quarrel must be over... something else, and you would discover the truth for yourself once you were guided in the right direction."

"What then?" Frodo asked skeptically. He couldn't help wondering if the Man were deliberately misleading him.

"There are other rumors about Carathir, more serious ones than his son's dalliances. The whispers I've heard concern the treasure of the city. Of course, you've learned of the conspiracy in the last days of the old Steward Denethor, of how Carathir and Larengar and other nobles worked for the city's defense."

"Yes."

"Where do you think they found the money to fund their plans?"

"I was told that they spent their own gold for the purpose."

"By whom? Larengar? Or was it Carathir's secretary?" Imatibin laughed. "That secretary's loyalty to his master was faultless, but he still keeps the treasury books."

"Are you suggesting that they stole money from the treasury?" Frodo had never heard any rumors like this before. Could it possibly be true?

"They borrowed it, shall we say?" Imatibin replied smoothly. "It was done in a good cause. Better the riches of Gondor be spent in its last defense than be despoiled by Sauron's armies and carried off to go into his coffers--if such a creature possessed coffers! Carathir surely told the others that the money would be returned once the city was saved, and My Lord Elessar has been most generous in reimbursing all those who paid what was said to be money from their own pockets for the city's aid. If he repaid Carathir, that money somehow never found its way back into the treasury. It was Hilabar who told me of it. Since he desires to be the treasury's keeper, he's looked into the books. He must've told Larengar his suspicions--and as a man of the highest honor, Larengar would want his friend to behave honorably as well."

Frodo didn't know whether or not to believe this story. "So why did they speak of Caradan?"

"I couldn't say. Perhaps Larengar wanted to remind Carathir of his family honor, or asked how his son might feel once he learned the truth--that his well-respected and trusted father was no better than a common thief. And now both father and son are dead..." Then Imatibin turned suddenly to look around himself. Except for the guards stationed at the tunnel's entrance and the White Tower, they were alone on the courtyard. "But I am late for the Council--I must fly."

He swept up the stairs into the great hall, leaving the bewildered hobbit behind.
Chapter 30 by Kathryn Ramage
Beregond found Frodo soon afterwards, still standing where Imatibin had left him. "Are you ready to go on with our questioning of the former councilors?" he asked.

"Not today," said Frodo, although it was why he'd come here this morning. "I've just learned of something that we must look into right away. Will you take me into the treasure-house, please? I need to talk to the secretary there."

He repeated the story that Imatibin had told him. Beregond was astounded--he'd never heard a hint of such rumors before--but he agreed that, if true, it was a most serious crime. They went swiftly to the treasury, Beregond escorting the hobbit past the guards who kept watch outside with only a brisk nod of his head.

The secretary Gathin was seated at his desk, as if he had not moved from it since Frodo had last seen him. At their entrance, he looked up and rose to greet them. "You are welcome, as always, Captain. How may I assist you and the King's Investigator?"

"We've heard the most alarming rumors about a misuse of the city's gold, and come to you to know the truth of it," Beregond explained.

"Will you tell us the truth, please?" Frodo added.

"I always try to," Gathin replied.

"I've been told that when Carathir and the others were planning for the city's defense, he did use money from the treasury to fund-" Frodo began, but he got no farther, for the placid secretary suddenly turned very red and looked very angry.

"No!" he exploded. "A thousand times, no! I've told you once already--such a thing would be a breach of a great trust. My lord Carathir wouldn't dream of it. He would've let the city fall, and fallen dead himself, before he'd steal the smallest bit of the treasure."

"Never-the-less, it is said-"

"Then those who say it tell lies! Their vile gossip slanders an honest man!" Gathin answered Frodo, but his eyes were on Beregond.

"I'm sorry if it distresses you, Gathin. I've no wish to darken your master's reputation after his death, but the accusations has been made and we must look into the matter for ourselves," Beregond answered patiently. "It is my place to examine all crimes and claims of crime within the city walls and, if this has a part in the murder of Carathir and his son, then Frodo has the King's leave to investigate it too."

Gathin was angry, but Beregond had the force of the law behind him and could not be turned aside from his duty. "Very well," the secretary answered shortly. "If you must see for yourselves, then look!" He turned to take down one of the heavy books from the shelf behind him and set it down flat on the desk with a dust-raising bang! "These are the accounts for the last year of Lord Denethor's stewardship. If there has been any mismanagement of the treasury funds, you will see it writ here."

Frodo approached the desk and climbed up onto Gathin's chair to have a look at the enormous book. He opened it to turn the vast pages. Long columns ran down every page, recording monies paid out for various expenses at regular and sometimes irregular intervals, with noted dates for each expenditure; all seemed to be subtracted at the far right-hand margin and totaled at the bottom. Now and then, new funds were added with red ink. Frodo was better at mathematics than most hobbits, but the most complicated sums he ever had to do involved balancing Bag End's household accounts. The city's finances looked infinitely more complicated and unfathomable. If there was a discrepancy, it would not easily be detected. Beregond had also come over to the desk to view the accounts, and looked even more lost at the columns of numbers.

"You see!" Gathin said, as if he'd been vindicated. "The King himself might study these books and count every coin in the treasury, and find no fault."

"Yes, I see," said Frodo. He offered an apology to Gathin for disturbing him, and he and Beregond went out.

Once they'd gone past the guards at the door, Beregond leaned down closer to the hobbit and murmured, "Did you understand what you looked upon, Frodo?"

"Very little," Frodo admitted. "I think only another mathematician as skilled as Gathin--if there is another!--would understand it."

"As Gathin himself says, the King must find such a one to look upon those books and count the coins," Beregond answered. "Whether or not this business has anything to do with Carathir's murder, we must bring it to the King's attention, Frodo. He must know."

"Yes, we'll have to tell him, but I want to hear what Larengar has to say about it first. The Council won't be out for at least another hour. Will you wait with me, Captain?"

Beregond was about to accept, when a guardsmen came toward them, looking as if he wanted to speak to the captain urgently. Beregond pardoned himself and went to talk with the young guard. Frodo returned to the great hall alone. He sat down on one of the marble benches outside the council-chamber door to wait for the councilors to emerge.

When the doors to the chamber opened, Frodo stepped forward to catch and tug on the sleeve of Larengar's robe as the councilors followed Gandalf and Aragorn out. "My lord, a moment, please," he requested. "I have a question for you."

The large Man stopped and smiled down at him. "Yes, what is it, little one?" He was so pleasantly unsuspecting that Frodo almost felt guilty about the shock he was about to deliver.

"It's about your quarrel with Carathir," he explained in a low voice, since there were still others nearby. "Was there more to it than you've told me? Did you talk of anything besides Caradan?"

"No," Larengar answered. "I've told you all I remember."

"You didn't discuss money?" Larengar only looked perplexed at this question, and Frodo made himself more plain, "About funds Carathir is said to have taken from the treasury-"

Like Gathin, Larengar's face turned red and he cried out, "No! How did you hear-?" Several of the councilors--including Grangirtan, and Imatibin--had not gone yet. At this shout, they turned to stare. Larengar glared at Imatibin; there was no mistaking whom he was referring to. "Is there any abominable lie that Man will not tell to implicate me? I refuse to stand and listen to such slanderous nonsense against a friend who is no longer able to defend himself."

Imatibin looked triumphant as Larengar brushed past indignantly--but his face changed when the older Man turned to hiss something. Frodo couldn't hear what Larengar said, but his words wiped away Imatibin's smirking expression as abruptly as a slap. Imatibin's brother, who'd been standing at the end of the corridor to wait for him, came quickly forward to intervene before the two councilors came to blows. Larengar snorted furiously, but departed without another word. The brothers walked away together, one holding the other's arm, both whispering furiously.

"It's a shame you should be caught in the midst of their battle," a voice spoke behind Frodo, and he turned to find Hilabar standing there. The youngest member of the Council usually left the citadel immediately at the midday break to return to his lady, but he too had stayed to observe the scene between Imatibin and Larengar. When Frodo's eyes met his, Hilabar gave the hobbit a sympathetic smile. "They set you upon each other with their accusations. I would feel more sorry for the old Man, if he hadn't accused me as well." His smile broadened. "What did Imatibin tell you, Frodo?"

"He said that Carathir had borrowed money from the treasury during Denethor's last days and not returned it, and Larengar had quarreled with him over it. I've no idea if it's true. Larengar says not, as you saw, but it's obvious that he knew what I was referring to. Whether he confronted Carathir or no, he'd heard something before I spoke. Perhaps you can help?" Frodo appealed to the young councilor. "Did you know about it?" Imatibin had said he did.

"Yes," Hilabar confirmed. "I'd heard... certain rumors."

"From Imatibin?" Frodo prompted; Imatibin had said otherwise, but he wanted to see how Hilabar would answer.

"Yes," said Hilabar.

"When did you first hear of it?"

"Perhaps two months ago. There was never a word spoken against Carathir's integrity before his death, but since then, stories are whispered around the citadel."

"You didn't suspect at the time, when you were all trying to defend the city?"

"It never occurred to me to wonder," Hilabar admitted. "With Men so wealthy as Carathir, Grangirtan, and Larengar, I'd assumed they had plenty to pay whatever was needed from their own purses. If we failed, all money would be meaningless."

"And once you heard, you looked in the treasury books?"

"Yes, that's right. Carathir was such an honorable and trusted old nobleman--I found it hard to believe these terrible rumors, and I thought I'd better go and look for myself before I spoke of it to anyone else."

"Did you find any discrepancies?" Frodo wondered if Hilabar had the mathematical skills to detect any gaps; since he desired to be keeper of the treasury, he must have some ability as a bookkeeper, even if his household accounts were said to be lacking.

"No, none. The books of these last years appear to be in perfect order."




Frodo's head was whirling. After this, the only sensible thing to do was to go to the King and tell him all. Aragorn needed to know about this. Frodo would have preferred that Beregond accompany him, but the captain had not yet returned by the time Hilabar departed. He went up to the royal chambers to find Aragorn.

"I don't know who to believe," Frodo confided once he'd repeated all he'd discovered today. "Imatibin said he'd heard of the misplaced money from Hilabar, but Hilabar said that Imatibin had told him about it. One of them must be lying. I think it's Imatibin. I feel almost certain he started the rumors himself, or at least did his best to spread them about once they came to his ears. It'd be very easy for him to claim that he heard it from someone else first. I also suspect he's lying about the reason for Larengar's quarrel with Carathir. After all, he didn't really hear anything. And yet, as much as I mistrust and dislike Imatibin, I'm afraid there's a kernel of truth at the heart of his story."

"The theft from the treasury," Aragorn said, and looked grim.

"Well, yes. Gathin and Larengar deny it most vehemently--but they would, even if it were true. Gathin wishes to protect Carathir's reputation at all costs, and he's clever enough to do whatever he likes with the treasury accounts. And Larengar would also want to protect his old friend."

"I will have those accounts studied. Every book in the treasury must be thoroughly examined for discrepancies before I put another keeper in Carathir's place." Aragorn rose and to pace the floor of the tiny counsel-closet; he could cover it from end to end in three long-legged steps. "Oh, Frodo, you don't know what you've done!"

Frodo stared up at him in alarm. "What've I done?"

"This investigation of yours has torn a veil from my eyes. Even if you find there is no murderer among them, I can never see my councilors in the same light again. It seems I have a nest of vipers governing Gondor! I see them to be liars, vicious gossips, and now my long-respected treasurer a possible thief. I knew they had differences among them, but I thought them honest Men, devoted to the city."

"I would say that most of them are devoted to the city, in their own ways." At least, he could say that of Hilabar, Larengar, and the late Carathir even if the rumors were true. Who or what Imatibin was devoted to, Frodo couldn't guess. "Even the very worst of the Men I've met has done what he's done out of some idea of loyalty. They're frightened now, because of these poisonings, but perhaps they'll remember to behave themselves better when my investigation is over."

"I hope you're right, Frodo." The King sat down again--the room was too small for much pacing. "Sometimes, I heartily believe I would've done better to remain a Ranger, wandering the Wilds. The Men about me were Men I could trust with my life. I would have them about me now, if they were not abroad on other errands in the lands of old Gondor. But they are Men of arms, no politicians, and no more used to courtly intrigue than I am."

"Are you sorry, Strider?" Frodo asked timidly. He knew how long the lost heir of Gondor had waited for his destiny to unfold, and how reluctant he'd been at first to become the great king he must be. Did he regret claiming his throne?

"No..." Aragorn lifted his eyes to Frodo's and gave the hobbit a wry smile. "It is what was meant to be--we accept our destinies, for both good and ill. And there are compensations for the hardships of rule. I could not have married Arwen until I was king."

As they went out of the counsel-closet, Arwen was waiting for her husband. She invited Frodo to join them for lunch, but he refused politely; he'd promised Merry he'd be home by lunchtime, and he also felt, as the two gazed at each other, that they would prefer to be alone.
Chapter 31 by Kathryn Ramage
As Frodo prepared to leave the citadel, he wondered again where Beregond had gone. Once he left the royal apartments and was crossing the eastward gallery that led to the tower stair, he noticed some commotion going on below, outside the guards' hall. Was this the same emergency that had summoned the captain over an hour ago? If Beregond was needed elsewhere, then Frodo decided he wouldn't seek the captain out just to escort him home. Everyone might disapprove, but surely he could walk down to Gandalf's house by himself.

He took the stairs to the ground level. At the bottom, rather than go out through the door by the guards' hall and put himself in the middle of whatever was happening there, Frodo went through the building. He headed down the long corridor that took him along the front of the great hall, past the council-chamber and the Hall of Records, where the scribes worked, and came out by the enormous front doors.

After he passed the Hall of Records, a Man came to the door and called after him, "Investigator! Wait, please!"

Frodo stopped and turned. It was Councilor Imatibin's brother, Erlotibin.

"I was hoping to speak to you after the- ah- incident earlier, but I had my brother to contend with and you slipped away so quickly. May we talk now?"

"Yes," Frodo consented, "for a moment." Even at the heart of the citadel, he felt a little nervous being alone with a relative stranger. There were a dozen or more guards on the other side of the solid stone facade, but would they hear if he cried out for help? "What it is?"

"I must tell you that you've been misled," said Erlotibin. "My brother Imati's done his best to make you think Lord Larengar was responsible for Carathir's murder, but he doesn't believe it himself."

"Is he also lying about the theft from the treasury?" Frodo asked eagerly. It would be a great relief to the King and many other people if that were so.

"I don't know," the Master Scribe admitted. "The story's been whispered around the citadel for weeks. But I know he brought it to your attention today to distract you."

"From what?" asked Frodo. "Is he trying to protect someone?" And, when Erlotibin nodded, "Who? You?"

"No, not me." Erlotibin hesitated, then told him: "We have another brother, the eldest. His name is Gefetibin."

The name was familiar; Frodo recalled seeing it on the list of names Beregond had given him, and he understood. "He's a friend of Broneron's." Was Gefetibin the one Broneron was protecting too?

"You may know that Broneron was head of the Council in Denethor's day. Gef was his aide, and might've been appointed to the Council himself if he hadn't chosen the wrong side and supported the old steward in his madness--or rather, Gef stood by Broneron, who stood by Denethor. And when Broneron was asked to resign, Gef went too. Last night, we learned that you and Captain Beregond were talking to the expelled councilors and the others who'd left the citadel in disgrace. Our friend, Waldimir, called to tell Gef about it, and said he might very well be next. Gef said he'd have to see you when you came to him, but Imati wouldn't hear of it. He's devoted to Gef."

"And so he gave me this new story about Larengar's and Carathir's quarrel, in hopes I'd find it more interesting than a lot of expelled courtiers," Frodo murmured, understanding it all now. So, even the most duplicitous member of the Council had his own sense of loyalty to his family. But why was Imatibin so protective of his elder brother that he was doing all he could to cast suspicion on another Man? What was he afraid Frodo would find out once Gefetibin was discovered?

He asked, and Erlotibin answered, "Perhaps I'd better let Gef tell you that. He isn't permitted to set foot within the citadel, but our home isn't far from Mithrandir's. I can take you there, if you will agree to come."

"Thank you, but it'd be very foolish of me to go anywhere without telling Beregond or my friends where I'll be," said Frodo.

"No harm will come to you," Erlotibin insisted. "If you won't come, will you allow me to bring him-"

A horn was blown from the top of the White Tower to sound an alarm, putting an end to their conversation. Frodo went out to the great hall's front door. A number of guardsmen were running across the courtyard toward the tunnel. The alarm reminded him of that humiliating day when he'd fled the citadel and frightened everyone. Did they think he'd wandered off again?

When he caught sight of Beregond and Faramir, walking swiftly from the guards' hall in his direction, he waved his arms to draw their attention. "It's all right," he called out to them. "I haven't gone anywhere. I was only talking-" He glanced back into the corridor to see that Erlotibin had disappeared. "I'd only gone upstairs to see the King."

"The alarm is not for you, Frodo," Faramir explained from the foot of the stair. "It's Cirandil--he's flown."

"He was meant to report for duty at midday," Beregond added, "and when he did not show himself, others were sent to fetch him. He is nowhere to be found, but his horse is missing from the stable and some of his gear has been taken from his quarters."

"We fear he has left the city. The guard at the city gate reports that a lone rider departed at mid-morning."

"It must have been Cirandil."

Both Men looked dispirited. "As much as I hate to think it so," said Faramir, "this flight looks like a sign of guilt."

"No, not necessarily," Frodo said as he came down the steps to them. "He may have had other reasons for leaving as he did. In the last murder I investigated, our suspicions fell upon a young hobbit-lad, who escaped from a room we locked him up in and fled, we thought to his home in the woods."

"And he wasn't guilty?" asked Faramir

"No, he only went to find someone who could prove his innocence."

"What proof could Cirandil hope to find in the wilderness?" Beregond wondered.

"I don't know," said Frodo. "I've no idea why he's gone, but we'll find out when your Men find him... or when he returns of his own will."




Faramir went up to deliver the news to the King, and Beregond went to direct his guards' search for the missing man. Frodo accompanied the captain down through the tunnel, taking care not to let himself be trampled by the guardsmen on foot and horseback who were rushing out of the citadel at the same time. They parted on the sixth level, when Frodo turned to walk up the quieter end of the street to Gandalf's house.

Merry was there, waiting for him and growing worried since he was so late, but his lunch had been kept warm for him. Another, half-finished plate sat on the kitchen table.

"Gandalf was here too," Merry explained, "but he left when he heard the horn blowing. I think he's afraid it had something to do with you."

"No, not me," said Frodo. "We must have just missed each other going through the tunnel. It's Cirandil that's caused the alarm. He's run off."

Merry whistled. "So that's it then! He's the one."

"We can't say that yet, Merry. You know as well as I do he might've gone for some other reason."

"I know, but he is your most likely suspect. You've said so from the first. Everything's against him. He had the best reasons for killing both his uncle and cousin--money and love--and you even found a connection between him and herbalist. If she did help him, he's the only one who'd want her dead too. You remember that I asked Pahiril and the Master about punishment for herbalists who misuse their craft? They don't kill anyone. Nothing of the sort. It's against their code. They cast them out, so that they're never allowed to practice medicine again. No one at the Houses would kill another healer."

Frodo conceded that Merry was probably right. Only his memory that things had looked just as dark for Rolo Bindbole made him question Cirandil's guilt. He sat down to have his lunch, and was only starting on the soup when there was a knock at the kitchen door. Merry went to answer it, and was surprised to see two Men there.

"Your pardon, little master," said one. "Is your kinsman here? We would speak to him."

Frodo, recognizing the voice, got up and went to the door. When he saw his visitors, he understood at once what had happened to Erlotibin; the scribe had left the citadel and gone home to fetch his eldest brother.

Erlotibin indicated his companion. "This is Gefetibin." But the introduction was unnecessary. This third brother's face was a little fuller and his beard less closely trimmed than Imatibin's, but the family resemblance was obvious. "Since you wouldn't come with me to see him, I thought it best to bring him to you."

"I cannot be seen in the citadel," Gefetibin added. "I'm not permitted to enter without special leave granted by the King, but I want to talk to you, Investigator. May we please come in?"

At a nod from Frodo, Merry stepped back from the ajar door and opened it fully to admit the visitors to the kitchen. The two Men regarded Merry, who showed no sign of leaving the room to let them speak to Frodo in private, with apprehension.

"It's quite all right," Frodo assured them. "My cousin Merry is completely in my confidence. You may speak before him as you would to me alone." He sat on the bench that had been cut down to hobbit size and invited the two brothers to sit down as well. Merry took Frodo's bowl of soup from the table and dumped it back into the pot over the fire to keep it hot, then took a discrete seat on a nearby stool out of the visitors' immediate sight.

As he and his brother sat on the taller kitchen chairs, Gefetibin studied the tiny hobbit before him from the dark mop of curls and pointed ears to the furry toes. "So you're the halfling who's cast the Council into terror? I've heard a lot about you. My brothers bring me all the news. Many of the councilors laughed into their sleeves when the King first bought you in as an expert investigator. They thought it must be a joke. Some, in fact, made unkind jests about the King's and the wizard Mithrandir's obviously favoring a pretty young boy." Merry made a snorting sound of ill-repressed amusement, and Frodo blushed. "They aren't laughing now. You've got some of them badly frightened."

"Your brother Imatibin, for one?" asked Frodo. He was also sure that Imatibin had been one of those who'd laughed and made dirty jokes. His face was still pink over that.

"Indeed." Gefetibin smiled. "You look as harmless as a child, but I've been informed that you're remarkably clever at digging out everyone's secrets and that's always a dangerous thing. You would've found me out sooner or later."

"Soon," said Frodo. "You were next on my list." He and Beregond would almost certainly have seen Gefetibin today if Imatibin hadn't sent them off on an entirely different line of investigation.

"Then please take it as a sign of my good faith that I've come to you first. Imati means well--he only wishes to protect what remains of my reputation--but he's done more harm than good. He makes my situation look more suspicious than it is."

"And what is your situation?" Frodo prompted. "Your brother seems afraid I'll find out you're the murderer I'm looking for. Your friends too, or else they wouldn't take such care to keep your name from me. Not one of them has spoken of you, but it was obvious to me that they were concealing something important--Broneron especially. Will you tell me why they're so afraid? Do they really think you did it?"

"It isn't so!" insisted Erlotibin. "I would never had spoken if I believed that."

Gefetibin put a hand on his youngest brother's arm. "He means Imati, Erlo, not you. And he's right. I didn't poison Carathir, nor his son--I've told Imati and Broneron the same, but they don't believe me. Imati says otherwise, but I see it in his eyes. Broneron seems pleased to think it's true."

"You don't think Carathir was a traitor, as Broneron does?"

"No. He did what he thought best for the city, at the risk of his own life. He hoped to live, when we all expected to die. Broneron, I think, is sorry that he didn't die at Lord Denethor's side, but I am glad to be alive and that Minas Tirith still stands. I see that my allegiance to him was misplaced, but I had little choice. There are many who could tell you what it was like in the citadel in those days."

"Beregond's told me a little," said Frodo. "He said that Broneron called anyone who spoke against Denethor traitors."

Gefetibin nodded solemnly. "None could stand against him, but that didn't mean we must stand with him so ardently. I did as I was told. Imati was more clever than I--he has the good sense to turn whatever way the wind is blowing, and so not be blown away by it. If he was aware of the conspiracy to plan for the city's defense against Denethor's express command, he didn't join it, but he did not betray it. If his loyalties were questioned by Broneron, he never said yes or no, but gave answers that were neither. And when poor Lord Denethor was utterly lost to despair and set himself afire, and the new King arrived to claim his throne, Imati stood without reproach on either side. He has his faults, but it was his skill with words as much as our King Elessar's generosity and good will that assured our whole family wasn't blighted and my brothers have places at court."

"Imati would see Gef restored to his rightful place if he could," said Erlotibin. "Gef was cast out more for being Broneron's aide than for anything he did wrong himself--but for some, Larengar and Carathir among others, that was crime enough. They won out in the end, and Imati's never forgiven them for it."

"That explains why he and Larengar behave so poisonously to each other," said Frodo, "but you haven't told me why he and your friends think you killed Carathir."

A glance was exchanged between the brothers, and Gefetibin said, "They know what occurred just before Carathir's death."

"What happened? Did you quarrel with him?"

"It wasn't a quarrel." Gefetibin sighed. "I was attempting to procure a pardon for myself and those of my old friends who would accept it. We can't live out the rest of our lives as outcasts within our own city. I can't. I'm only five and forty, and have many years ahead. There's much good I can do if I'm allowed to."

"Didn't Broneron object?" Frodo wondered. "He didn't think you were betraying your friends?"

"Oh, no. He thinks we should all be restored, with full pardons. When I told him what I meant to do, he suggested I go to Faramir. Faramir and I were friends of old--and, after all, a Man who would ride out on a futile errand and face almost certain death at his father's command surely understands the meaning of duty."

"Did you speak to Faramir?" Frodo asked, and planned to ask the young Stewart as well. Faramir could not only verify Gefetibin's story, but tell him whether or not Gefetibin was trustworthy.

"No, I held back," answered Gefetibin. "You see, it was his father we obeyed. Even if I have Faramir's sympathies, he has his duties as Steward of the city and his loyalties to the new King, and I would not place an old friend in such an awkward position. Instead, I spoke to Caradan. He was a friend of Erlo's."

"I arranged it," said Erlotibin. "Caradan agreed to meet Gef in the Steward's Arms one evening at midwinter."

"Caradan thought I'd been treated unfairly, and he said he'd do what he could to help me. Unfortunately, his father found out we'd met, and what I wanted, and Carathir came to see me himself. He said not one of us would return--'not as long as I draw breath,' were his exact words. My brothers were there to hear what he said. Carathir vowed he would advise the King never to receive me. And then he went back to his chambers at the citadel, and died only a few days later."
Chapter 32 by Kathryn Ramage
After meeting Gefetibin, Frodo decided not to continue his inquiries with the expelled councilors. He'd found what he was looking for.

When he went up to the citadel the next day with Merry, the vast courtyard was being decorated with colorful banners and wreaths and garlands of flowers, just as the streets of the city were bestrewn.

He accompanied his cousin briefly into the Queen's boudoir to pay his respects to Arwen and Eowyn. Per Merry's suggestion, a tea table had been introduced to the room since Frodo's last visit; no one dared bring a cup near the precious tapestry and risk spilling it, but many said that the stimulant of tea enabled them to work much later into the evenings than they used to.

The ladies were all very busy, for they hoped to have the tapestry presented at the coming New Year's celebration, and lamented that they might not finish it in time. It looked to Frodo as if there wasn't much more to do; the three great tapestry panels now lay pieced together on an enormous table that had been placed in the middle of the room, so that everyone could gather around it to add smaller panels and fringes to the edges.

As the ladies worked, they talked primarily of Cirandil. Although most claimed they would never believe he'd taken part in his uncle's and cousin's murders, speculation on the possibility was rampant. While the others talked, Tharya sat silently and looked miserable; she lifted sullen, red-rimmed eyes to Frodo, as if she blamed him for her lover's flight.

When he left Merry and the ladies, Frodo sought out Aragorn in the royal chambers. Since the Council had just disbanded at midday, the King soon arrived, and Faramir with him. Frodo asked them if there'd been any news of Cirandil--and learned that Beregond was away from the city with his guardsmen on the search--then he told of them of Gefetibin's visit.

"This Gefetibin, do you believe him, Frodo?" Aragorn asked once Frodo had finished his tale. "He might've done just what his brother and friends suspect."

"Perhaps," said Frodo, "but I'd like to believe he was telling me the truth. He seems like a decent Man at heart--he didn't make the skin at the back of my neck creep when he spoke, as Broneron did. All the same, he might be just as insidious as his brother Imatibin, only more plausible. I've met pleasantly mannered murderers before."

"I know Gef well," said Faramir. "His family has served the Stewards of Gondor for years, and I've been acquainted with the three brothers from childhood. Of the three, I would have said he was the best. I believe he was treated too harshly for his allegiance to Broneron and my father. It was an allegiance I can understand, and fault no one for. I wish he had come to speak to me. I might have helped one friend in need." He was still obviously very upset over Cirandil's defection.

"If you both recommend it, I will receive him in the citadel and reconsider his case," Aragorn said. "I've no wish to be unjust to him, or any Man. I must also have a word with Imatibin."




Merry laughed when Frodo repeated this to his cousin as they were preparing for bed that evening. "And did Strider call Imatibin onto the royal carpet and give him a good scolding? Serve him right if he gets booted out of the Council! Maybe his brother will be put in his place."

"Strider hadn't summoned him yet when I left, but I expect both brothers will have their audience with the King very soon." Frodo tossed his shirt onto one of the fireside chairs and stepped out of his trousers. "There's the whole matter of the treasury funds too. I doubt it has anything to do with the murders, but now that the accusation's been made and I've brought it to Strider's attention, it has to be looked into officially. If it turns out that Councilor Imatibin was telling lies about that too, I don't see how he can keep his place on the Council." He pulled his nightshirt on over his head. "A King ought to have advisors he can trust, and Aragorn simply doesn't trust Imatibin anymore. And even though Cirandil's flown off, I haven't actually discovered the murderer yet. It might still be anybody."

There was another point, which Frodo had not brought to Aragorn's attention, but which had occurred to him while listening to Gefetibin and Erlotibin speak of their brother. He hadn't realized how much Imatibin hated Larengar and Carathir and blamed them for his brother's expulsion. Did his hatred only lead him to spread ugly rumors about them, or had he gone to greater lengths to have revenge?

"In any case, Strider would do better to wait 'til this business is finished before he makes any changes," he concluded. "He wouldn't want a murderer on his council, if he hasn't got one already."

Merry, who was fastening his own nightshirt, stopped to regard Frodo with curiosity. "Do you think it's Imatibin?"

"I couldn't say," Frodo murmured.

"You never do," his cousin answered with a grin. "You make guesses here and there, but never make definite accusations until you're absolutely sure. But I can see why you'd think the worst of the councilor, the way he carries tales. If he was the one who made rude jokes about you and Aragorn-"

"Merry..."

"Well, you did have some feelings for Strider once, didn't you? We all did, a bit, after he first took charge of us and led us off into the wilds, before we learned about his lady-love."

"Don't be ridiculous. I admire him tremendously, that's all. I couldn't think about anyone so big the way I would a hobbit," Frodo answered as he climbed up into bed. Merry pursued him, both literally and with his teasing.

"Strider is rather good-looking for one of the Bigs, even if he's got those stubbly little hairs all over his face. Have you ever wondered what'd it be like to kiss someone with a beard, Frodo? I don't fancy the idea myself--I think it'd be awful scratchy."

"Merry, do shut up." Frodo blew out the candle on the bedside table. "You know very well there's only one person I've ever loved."
Chapter 33 by Kathryn Ramage
Frodo woke the next morning to a dark haze that grew steadily over his mind. He rose to have his bath, but never got so far. As he crossed the bedroom toward the door, his feet seemed numbed and distant, so far away that they couldn't be his own, and his fingers were just as numbed and clumsy as he tried to put on his dressing gown. He couldn't knot the belt at his waist. Before he'd washed or dressed, he turned to go back to bed.

He was lying hidden beneath the blankets, curled with his head in his arms, when Merry came back into the room to see why he hadn't come to breakfast.

"What's wrong, Frodo? Are you ill?"

In reply, Frodo groaned, "Awful." He didn't want any breakfast. The thought of food made him sick. Yes, something was very wrong. He knew what this felt like, but surely it couldn't be that. Not yet. "What's the date, Merry?" By his count, his worst day was still half a week away.

"It's New Year's Day in Gondor," Merry answered.

"But it can't be! It isn't March 25."

"Not by the Shire calendar, no. The days are different here."

"Then it is today. Oh, no..." Frodo saw that he'd made a very stupid mistake. Hobbits had reorganized their calendar over a century ago so that each of the twelve months was evenly allotted thirty days, and the leftover days were placed outside the months for the holidays at Lithe and Yule. A neat and sensible scheme that suited them very well, but one that caused confusion when hobbits ventured out of the Shire, which was one of the reasons why most hobbits preferred to stay put in their own country. He'd lost track of the days during his travels and had miscalculated since. Because his dark day fell on March 25 in the Shire, Frodo had assumed it would occur on the same date here, but the days of the Gondorian calendar were different. He'd seen all the New Year's preparations in the city this past week, but hadn't realized how close the day actually was. Now, unexpectedly, it was upon him.

"Is it your bad spell?" Merry asked with increasing alarm. "What can I do?"

"Get Gandalf," Frodo begged, "or the Master Healer. Quickly, please!"

The rest of the morning was a waking nightmare--memories he could never escape. He saw the Ring as a wheel of red fire before him more clearly than the bedroom around him, which receded into a dim gloom. He relived that most terrible day when he and Sam had reached the Crack of Doom, and the Ring had entirely taken him into its power. He'd belonged to it utterly. When it had been destroyed, he felt as if part of himself had been torn away at the same time. He could feel that missing part like a raw and gaping wound torn in his flesh, still bleeding and consuming him with a fiery pain after all this time. Was it worse this year because he was nearer to the place where it had all happened?

Shadow-shapes appeared out of the dimness, but they seemed less solid and real than his visions of Mordor. A hand touched his brow and Gandalf's face suddenly loomed close to peer at him with a worried frown. But Gandalf was dead--fallen into the pits of Moria! Voices murmured above him:

"Is he like this every year on this day, Merry?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never been with him during one of his bad spells before. Sam sits by him and looks after him. He could tell you, if he weren't a thousand miles away."

Sam? Frodo listened for Sam's voice, but didn't hear it. That was wrong. Where was he? Sam should be here, holding his hand. Sam had always been here, at his side, protecting him from dangers and leading him every step of the way into the burning heart of Mordor. He couldn't go on without Sam.

"Sam!"

"Sam isn't here, Frodo," Merry answered. "We've sent a note to the Houses of Healing." His hand closed around Frodo's. "Hold on--it's going to be all right."

Then Merry was gone, and he lay swathed in yards of billowing white cloth, rougher than the bed-sheets. The surface he lay upon was more firm and lumpy than a feather-stuffed mattress, and his cheek rested on something harder than a pillow. He heard Gandalf's voice again, strangely echoed against his ear, murmuring words in a language he didn't recognize. They must both be dead. Was this what being dead was like--wrapped in shrouds?

When Gandalf's fingers ran lightly over his temple, Frodo realized in a brief moment of lucidity that the wizard was holding him in his lap.

Gandalf was speaking, but not to him, "I'm relieved you're here. The Master Healer hasn't answered the message we sent, asking for his aid, and I can do nothing to bring Frodo out of this state."

"Merry's told me something of it." The voice that answered sounded like Strider's, even though Frodo knew they had left him far behind, doing battle with orcs at Amon Hen. "Frodo has some sort of 'bad spell' on this day every year."

"Yes, but I've never seen anything like this 'spell' before. There are dark powers still at work within him. He doesn't seem aware of where he is, or that we are here. From what he's said in his delirium, he believes he's in Mordor, as he was on this day three years ago."

"Can you help him, Strider?" Merry pleaded.

"I'll do what I can. I've brought something that might help. Here, let me take him."

Aragorn lifted him from Gandalf's lap. Frodo felt himself cradled in the curve of one strong arm; his head fell back while Aragorn stroked the tangled hair from his brow. He curled up and gripped the soft material of the King's tunic in his fists to cling as tightly as he could: the rich, crimson velvet seemed to ooze between his clenched fingers and over the blunted top of the missing one like welling blood... or molten lava as the mountain crumbled to pieces around him and the liquid fire flowed up to drown him and Sam.

"It's gone!" He hid his face in the hollow of Aragorn's shoulder and sobbed. "Gone forever."

Aragorn spoke soothing words to quiet him, and paced the floor. Another, even more absurd thought flickered in Frodo's mind--of Sam cradling and comforting his newborn child--and he sobbed again. "Gone..."

"Is there any hot water, Merry?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes, in the kitchen. How much do you need?"

"Bring me a small pot, and some towels."

Some time later, minutes or hours, Frodo smelled a fresh, pungent scent that was strangely familiar. Athelas? The scent was not unpleasant, but it brought back terrible memories of old wounds and illnesses, and of the first time this darkness had spread through him, threatening to overtake him...

"Hush, Frodo." The corner of a warm and wet cloth that smelled of athelas gently patted on his brow. He breathed in the scent, and it soothed him.

Aragorn lay him down on the bed and continued to bathe his face with the athelas-soaked cloth. The darkness still clung to his mind, but the Wheel of Fire had faded and the vision of Mordor was gone. He was in his room. He could see it now, and see the people gathered around him--Aragorn bending over him, Merry sitting at his side, holding his hand, and Gandalf a little farther away, all watching him with grave concern. As his pain diminished, he shut his eyes and began to breathe more easily.

Another voice, one not so familiar, spoke. "Your pardon, my lord. I did not know you were here. The Master Healer sent me. He's received your message that the little one has been taken ill and regrets he is unable to come himself. He thought that this potion might offer some ease."

"Leave it there on the table, I pray you. He's sleeping now. I will give it to him later, if he needs it."

I'm not asleep, Frodo was about to protest, but before he could speak the words, he was.
Chapter 34 by Kathryn Ramage
When he awoke, the room was still dimmed, but Frodo soon realized that the darkness was not in his mind. It was now evening. The curtains had been drawn over the windows and the only light in the room came from the low, glowing orange embers of the fire and a single candle on the table beside the bed. He placed a hand on his chest: While that little ache that was always within him remained, the terrible pain that had engulfed him earlier in the day had gone.

Frodo thought he'd been left alone, but as he stirred and tried to sit up, a voice spoke from the shadows in the corner, "How do you feel, Frodo?"

He turned as Gandalf sat forward into the circle of flickering candlelight. "Better, thank you," he answered. "What time is it?"

"Not late. An hour or so past sunset."

His worst day was almost over. He had slept through it. "Where did everyone go?" he asked as he sank back to lie with his head on the pillows.

"Aragorn was called away to the New Year's ceremonies on the citadel courtyard. As they celebrate Sauron's fall, the King intends to speak of you particularly, to remind the people of Gondor how much they owe you. All of Minas Tirith will be there to hear it."

"Did Merry go with him?"

"Merry's gone to bed, to sleep in his own room. He sat beside you through the day and only left when I told him to go and rest. I promised I would watch over you tonight." As Gandalf regarded the hobbit, his eyes grew sad. "Frodo, why didn't you tell me what you suffered?"

"I did. I said that I always had bad spells on this day."

The wizard shook his head. "I didn't understand. I saw that you weren't well, but I didn't realize that your 'bad spells' were as bad as this. We should never have brought you here."

"It would've happened just the same if I'd stayed in the Shire," Frodo responded. "It happens every year. Truly, Gandalf, bringing me to Minas Tirith didn't bring this on. There was nothing you could've done to stop it, here or at home. You and Strider and Merry couldn't have done more to care for me than Sam would've. I daresay even Sam wouldn't say otherwise. It isn't so bad," he lied. "I'll be myself again in a day or two."

Gandalf looked unconvinced. "You were still abed a week later when I visited you at this time last year."

"Yes, but you know how Sam likes to fuss. He wouldn't let me get up."

"I ought to do the same." Gandalf rose and pulled up the blanket to Frodo's throat to tuck him in. "Go back to sleep, Frodo. Do you want the medicine the Master Healer gave you?"

"No, I'll be all right," Frodo said as he turned on his side and snuggled in; after this horrible day, he felt weary enough to go on sleeping without aid. Even this brief period of wakefulness and talking to Gandalf had tired him. "You'll stay by me, won't you?"

"I'll be right here, through the night," the wizard assured him.




Frodo still felt weak and depressed the next morning. His head ached and he had little appetite for the breakfast Merry brought him, but he'd eaten nothing at all the day before and forced himself to swallow the boiled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast set before him.

"You put a real scare into everybody yesterday," Merry said after the tray had been emptied and taken away; he tried to make it sound as if he were joking, but he watched his cousin anxiously as he spoke. "I've seen you have nightmares before, but nothing so bad as that. None of us had any idea what to expect. It was as if you didn't see us at all."

"I barely could," Frodo admitted. "You were like ghosts to me, very far away. I was half in Mordor, living that last day again."

"Is that what it's always like?" Merry asked, horrified.

Frodo nodded. "Year after year. I told Gandalf last night that it wasn't so bad. I didn't want to upset him, but this last spell was the worst. Perhaps it's because I'm so near..." He turned his head to look out of the windows at the mountains that bordered Mordor. "I've returned to the place where it happened, and the power of those memories is stronger here. Or," he paused before voicing the other possibility, the one he was more afraid was true, "perhaps it was worse this year because it will grow worse and worse every year, until it kills me. It will kill me one day."

He turned quickly away from the windows. He couldn't look anymore. Helpless despair overwhelmed him. Tears began to fill his eyes and he threw himself down onto the pillows to weep.

"I don't want to die, Merry! I'm still young--I should be at the beginning of my life, not settling my affairs and making plans for the end."

He could never talk about this to Sam. Sam never wanted to hear it, and Frodo had to be brave for his lover's sake as much as his own. He wasn't feeling brave now, only weary and frightened and under a cloud of darkness as he always was in the days following that worst one. The words came tumbling out, as if he couldn't keep them to himself any longer.

Merry climbed up onto the bed and wrapped both arms around him. He hugged Frodo tightly, head against his back between the shoulder-blades, and didn't offer hollow comforts; he let Frodo sob it all out.

"I hate being ill like this. Always being watched and looked after. Never having the strength to do what I want. Having to give things up. If I were well, I'd never have given up Sam. I said I was thinking of his happiness, and I was. It was best for him. I wanted him to have a family, and I didn't want him to be left alone. It was all very noble and unselfish of me, but it's easy to be generous when you know you won't keep what you've got for very long anyway. If I had fifty or sixty more years to look forward to with him, I would've been more selfish."

"How long do you have?" Merry asked in a hesitant voice that dreaded an answer.

"I don't know," Frodo answered after a moment. "A few more years. I have good hopes of living to see forty, but beyond that..." he sighed. "I'm afraid, Merry, that I won't have long beyond that. Sometimes I think it might've been better if I'd died in the fire on the mountain. At least then, it would've been over quickly."

"Nonsense!" Merry lifted his head and said fiercely. "No matter how little time it is, you're alive now. You've had three years, and you've done some wonderful things with that time. You got to go home and see your family, and you will again once this business is finished. You wrote most of a book, and you'll finish that too. You've helped so many people with your investigations. You saved the Shire. You saved me. That's all been worthwhile, hasn't it? Who know what else you'll do with the time you have left? Be glad you're still alive, Frodo. I know I am."

"Yes, I suppose so," Frodo sniffled. "It's only this awful waiting for the end, and not knowing when it'll come."

"No one ever knows how it'll end, Frodo. We could all be struck by lightning tomorrow."
Chapter 35 by Kathryn Ramage
Once Frodo had cried himself out, this outpouring of emotion left him feeling fragile and tremulous, and extremely embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he apologized to Merry after he had calmed down. "I don't know what came over me. I've known for a long time that I won't live to be old. I've understood it, and I thought I'd accepted it. I've always tried to be brave about it, until this morning... I just couldn't keep myself from weeping and saying- well- things I never had before, even to you. I've never felt so foolish."

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Frodo." Merry smiled at him sympathetically. "I think you're the bravest hobbit I know--you've had to stand so much--but even you can only go on being brave for so long. It had to come out sooner or later. Why not to me?"

Merry sat with him the rest of the morning. Gandalf looked in to ask Frodo how he was feeling before he went up to the citadel for the morning council-session; he returned at midday with Aragorn. Merry had gone out to talk to them before he returned with them to Frodo's room.

The King was relieved to see Frodo recovering from yesterday's ordeal. "I did not like to leave you when you were in such a dire state," he said as he sat down at the hobbit's bedside to stroke the hair from his face to look into his eyes and feel his brow for fever.

"You had duties to attend to, I understand," answered Frodo. "I wish I could've been there to see the celebration--it must've been wonderful. There was nothing more you could've done for me here, Strider. You helped me through my worst day, and I'm grateful for that. The athelas was soothing--I must remember to have some at hand the next time. I usually have to lie abed for a few days, but after that, I can go on with my investigation, if you'll let me."

"Yes, if you wish," said Aragorn, "although there remains little investigating for you to do. Beregond and his Men will find Cirandil and return him to the city. If he cannot account for himself and his actions reasonably, the matter will be settled. Until then, you mustn't think of it. You take too much upon yourself, Frodo." He was still stroking the hobbit's curls. "Merry's told us you had another bad turn this morning."

Frodo cast a reproachful glance at his cousin, who looked apologetic. "I didn't tell them, Frodo, but I thought you ought to. Maybe they can help?"

"They can't," said Frodo. He told Gandalf and Aragorn, "It wasn't a 'turn.' I was only upset over nothing. Something that can't be helped. These spells always leave me feeling rather gloomy. I weep at the most ridiculous things." He tried to make light of it, but Aragorn continued to regard him with concern and the wizard was frowning severely.

"Enough. It is time we heard the truth from you, Frodo," said Gandalf. "You've told us as little as you could about the state of your health. I know you haven't ever recovered from the effect the Ring had upon you--anyone who has eyes can see that you bear the pain of it still. I suspect you've deliberately concealed the worst. How ill are you, Frodo? Is it as bad as I fear?"

"Tell us, please," Aragorn said more gently. "If there's anything that can be done to help you, we must know."

Frodo shook his head. "You might give me medicines to ease the pain, but you can't heal me, Strider. I won't ever be well again. That's beyond your powers." He hadn't wanted to reveal the true seriousness of his illness, but there was no help for it now. They'd have to know. Others had guessed how ill he was or, like Sam, saw but refused to acknowledge it; he had only spoken the words aloud bluntly to two other people before this. "I'm dying."

Gandalf shut his eyes and looked as if the words had struck a painful blow. It was what he'd suspected, and hoped not to hear. Even Merry, who'd known the truth for months, stood teary-eyed.

"Oh, Frodo..." Aragorn reached out a hand toward him; Frodo wrapped his fingers around the tips of the King's.

"It was the quest, the Ring." Fresh tears blurred his eyes and his voice seemed to catch in his throat, but he squeezed Aragorn's hand and went on. "It's ruined my health, and it will take my life in another few years--five, six, not much more than that. It doesn't matter that it was destroyed. It's killing me, and there's nothing you nor Gandalf, nor the finest healers among Men or Elves can do to stop it."

"Are you sure nothing can be done?" Aragorn asked him. "Have you consulted any healers?"

"Not about this, no," said Frodo, shaking his head slightly. "But I've felt it from the first."

Aragorn looked to Gandalf, who had stepped closer to the bed. "I'm afraid he's right," said the wizard. "The wound is not merely of the flesh, but of the spirit. Nothing on this Middle-earth can heal that."

At these last words, Aragorn stared at the wizard, and an odd light brightened his eyes. He hugged Frodo and bent his head down to speak to him softly, "Even if it seems hopeless, Frodo, you mustn't give up. There may still be ways to help you, and we will do what we can."

Frodo took comfort in being held so tightly in strong arms; it almost gave him hope. He thought of the way Merry had teased him about Strider and felt a little shy as he reached up to put his arms around Aragorn's neck and kissed him on the jaw. The beard was scratchy; he'd have to tell Merry. "I doubt anything can be done for me, Strider," he answered, "but if you wish to try, you are welcome to. Thank you."




Two such scenes so soon after his bad spell left Frodo exhausted. After the King and wizard had gone, Merry drew the bedroom curtains so that Frodo wouldn't have to look upon Mordor anymore and tip-toed out. Frodo slept through the afternoon, and didn't hear when another visitor arrived.

When the door to his room opened and Arwen came silently in, it seemed like a dream, like the first time he had ever seen her. In the dim light, she seemed to glow from within with a warm, white radiance of her own. "Frodo?"

This was no dream. Frodo sat up, fully awake now, surprised and somewhat bashful. The only ladies he'd ever received while ill abed were relatives: Aunt Dora and Peony last spring, Aunt Esme when he'd nearly drowned near Brandy Hall. It didn't seem right that a Queen should call upon him when he wasn't decently dressed.

Modestly clutching the blanket to his chest to cover his nightshirt, he bowed his head. "My lady, welcome. What brings you here?"

"Aragorn's told me of the price you've paid for bearing the Enemy's Ring. It is what I feared most for you. Therefore, it is time for you to know how I can aid you. You need not die."

Frodo gaped at her, wide-eyed, too astonished to say anything.

"I have that in my power," she said as she approached the bed and stood before him. "Do you recall, Frodo, when we crossed the ford at the River Bruinen?"

He did remember, as if it too had been part of a long-ago, nearly forgotten dream: He'd been wounded by the Witch King's blade and was falling slowly into darkness. Arwen had found their party in the wilderness and had carried him swiftly away on horseback to Rivendell to escape the Black Riders, leaving his friends behind. After a hard and furious ride, with the Nazgul at their heels all the way, they'd crossed the ford. Arwen had stopped and spoken some incantation, summoned some force that caused the water in the river to rise and sweep the Riders and their horses away. He had swooned then and, as he lay on the stones beside the river, he'd heard her voice speaking above him, as if from far away even as she had held him in her arms: What grace is given me, let it pass to him...

"Since I have chosen to wed a mortal Man and become mortal myself, I've given up my place in the Undying Lands," Arwen explained to him, "but I may choose another to go in my stead. I chose you that day, Frodo, so that the grace of the Valar might protect you and see you through your quest. Arrangements are being made for your uncle Bilbo, and the same will be done for you if you wish it." Arwen wore a white gem on a thin silver chain around her neck; she removed it now and slipped the chain over Frodo's head. "This is my token. If you find that the pain becomes too great to bear, you have only to go to the Gray Havens and be taken to the West. You will find peace there."

As Frodo's hand closed around the gemstone that lay at his breast, he felt the pain in his heart lessen a little. "Thank you, my lady."

"It is only what you deserve." She leaned forward to place a kiss on his brow. "Rest, Frodo, and be well."
Chapter 36 by Kathryn Ramage
After Arwen had gone, Frodo told Merry about the amazing thing that had happened. It seemed impossible to believe, but Arwen had indeed been there, and her gift and the promise of life that went with it, remained as proof of that.

Both hobbits were still laughing and crying and hugging each other in delight when Gandalf returned and looked in through the open bedroom door.

Merry, seeing that the wizard wanted a word with Frodo alone, jumped down off the bed and went to see about dinner. "Have you heard the news, Gandalf?" he said cheerfully before he went out. "Frodo's going to be all right after all! The Elves, Queen Arwen--they can do something for him. They're going to help. Isn't it wonderful?"

"More wonderful than you realize," Gandalf murmured, more to himself than to the hobbits.

After his cousin had gone, Frodo met the wizard's eyes and felt strangely contrite, as if he and Gandalf had quarreled, even though they hadn't. Gandalf was regarding him with a sad, solemn look. "Do you see what she gave me, Gandalf?" He held up the gemstone by its delicate chain. "It's a token. She says that I can be taken to the West like the Elves when I'm too weary to go on living."

"Yes," Gandalf answered. "The Queen told me what she meant to do."

"You knew..." Suddenly, Frodo recalled the cryptic remarks Gandalf had made when he'd visited Bag End a year ago, about conversations with the Elves and how Frodo might be repaid for his sacrifice. He hadn't understood it at the time, but he did now. "That's what you meant by 'nothing on Middle Earth' healing me! You knew that such a thing was possible, didn't you?" Aragorn must have understood it too, when the wizard had said it.

"Elrond and I have discussed it," Gandalf confirmed, and sat down at the bedside. "We'd hoped that it might be done for both you and Bilbo. The Ring has had its effect upon him too, and his time is shorter than yours. But we weren't sure that it could be done. No one not of elven-kind has yet been received in the Undying Lands. Mortals have forever been barred from crossing the sea to reach it."

Frodo thought of the ancient King of Numenor, who had once sailed for the West and had not only been destroyed for his presumption, but had caused the whole western coast of Middle Earth to fall into the sea, and he shuddered.

"It was Arwen who first thought you might be allowed to go in another's place, and that you should have hers," Gandalf continued. "While we discussed the question, she has, as usual, taken matters into her own hands. If you can be brought there safely, your pain may be eased and your wounds healed. Your life may not be extended beyond its normal years... or it might. These are, after all, the lands that do not know death." He regarded the hobbit with that same solemn look in his eyes as he had when he'd first come into the room. "Why did you never tell me, Frodo? We might have settled things more quickly if we'd realized how ill you were."

"Are you angry with me, Gandalf?" Frodo asked meekly. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but I didn't think anything could be done."

"No, I'm not angry, only grieved by your silence. You never used to keep secrets."

"I never used to have so many secrets to keep. Since Sam and I went home and set up house together, I've learned to live most of my life in secrecy. Hardly any of my family knows how ill I've been. I haven't told many people, only one of my cousins--I'd proposed to her, so it was only fair that she know the worst--and Rosie before she married Sam."

Gandalf's eyebrows shot up at this last statement. "But not Sam?"

Frodo shook his head. "I've tried to once or twice, but it only upsets him."

"Merry has known for some time?"

"Oh, yes, I told him months ago, after I made out my will. Merry and I have no secrets from each other. He can usually keep them." But Frodo couldn't be very angry at Merry's breach of confidence; if Merry hadn't given him away this once, then Arwen wouldn't have come to bestow her gift and he would still be dying without hope. "Besides, Merry wouldn't blame himself for my being ill like this." He placed his small hand upon the wizard's. "You would, you know. You do, don't you?"

Gandalf didn't answer, but stared him in surprise.

"If I didn't tell you how bad it was, it's because I didn't want you to feel as if you'd done this to me. You think it's all your fault because you made Uncle Bilbo leave the Ring to me, and sent me on the quest. Aragorn feels the same way, as if he were responsible because he let me go into Mordor alone. But, Gandalf, it was my choice. Perhaps I didn't fully understand what I was getting myself into when I said I would destroy the Ring, but I did say it, and I must take the responsibility for how it's turned out. It isn't your fault."

Gandalf was still staring at him. At last, he said, "I've always known that you were a most remarkable hobbit, Frodo Baggins, but time and again you amaze me. I continue to discover depths to you that I hadn't guessed at before." Then he asked, "Which of your cousins did you propose to?"

Frodo laughed at the unexpected question. "It was Melly Brandybuck. She didn't accept, but that's an awfully long story..."
Chapter 37 by Kathryn Ramage
In the days that followed, Frodo began to recover with remarkable swiftness. After Arwen's visit, he felt stronger and more hopeful for his future than he had in years. He hadn't realized how badly his health had deteriorated; the descent had been so gradual. He could hardly remember what he'd been like before the Ring had come into his life and cast its spell over him.

"I don't know how long I'll have, Merry," he confided to his cousin one evening after dinner. The two hobbits lay before the fire in Frodo's room, Merry curled lengthwise on the hearthrug, and Frodo rested with his head in the curve of his cousin's waist and his toes stretched toward the grate. He held the white gemstone, which he'd worn since Arwen had placed it about his neck, up to the fire-light to catch bright glints in its facets. "This gift of the Queen's allows me to bear my pain better and I may be able to stay on in Middle-earth more years than I thought I would. I mean to stay as long as I can. At least, when I can bear no more, I have the choice of going to a place where I can be healed, and have peace and rest... but at a price. Once I go, I can never return. But surely that's better than dying, isn't it?"

"It'll be easier for those of us who love you to think of," Merry answered. "And easier to say goodbye at the end. I'll have to say goodbye to you soon in any case. Your work here is nearly done. I suppose you'll be eager to go home once it is." He sounded sad, and Frodo was dismayed to realize that his cousin had no intention of going home too.

"I've been talking to Gandalf about it," he answered. "When we go, we'll go by way of Rivendell. Gandalf says he has business with Lord Elrond." Frodo knew that the two needed to discuss what Arwen had done for him, and to arrange his passage to the West. "Besides, I want to see Uncle Bilbo again. Won't you come with us, Merry?"

Merry shook his head. "I'd like to see old Bilbo too, but there's nothing to draw me back to the Shire. I'll miss you when you go, Frodo. It's been wonderful fun having you here."

"I'll still be here awhile," Frodo told him. "Even if my work is finished and Cirandil is the one, we won't start out right away. I'm not ready to make the journey home yet."

"Aren't you feeling up to it?" asked Merry. "I thought you were much better--the Queen's gift was going to help you."

Frodo's hand closed around the gemstone. "It was. It has. But it can't cure everything."

While abed, he had given a lot of thought to going home and what would happen when he got there. As much as he missed the Shire, what did he have to return to? Bag End? His family? His career as an investigator? Sam? He'd finally made a difficult decision, but one that had to be made.

He'd once been the center of Sam's life, and he would never have that place again. Other responsibilities took priority over him. When there'd only been he and Rosie, they could at least share Sam equally, but now that there was a baby, he must take second place, or third. With each successive child Sam and Rosie had, he would move a little farther from the center. The Queen's gift had given him renewed strength; it might be another ten years before he was weary enough to go to the Gray Havens--and a hobbit-couple could have quite a lot of children in that time!

With each child and passing year, he would have a smaller piece of Sam's life. Therefore, it seemed to him that the best thing to do was take himself entirely out of it now. It would make the ultimate break less painful for them both. The longer he stayed away from Sam, the easier it would be. At least, Sam would have Rosie and their child to love and sustain him. He, on the other hand, must get used to being alone.

Merry had been watching his cousin's face during this reverie; now, he put his arm around Frodo's collar and sat up, bringing Frodo's head down to lie in his lap. He bent his head over Frodo's and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Frodo didn't try to pull away. In his present frame of mind, it was a welcomed gesture.

"You did that once before, at a Yuletide party," he said when Merry sat upright again. "Remember?"

"I remember."

"It upset Sam and Pippin. I think they were jealous." His head still lay in Merry's lap, and his cousin's fingers were in his hair.

"Did it upset you, Frodo?"

"No..." Frodo admitted. "But can I ask you why you did it?"

"Because," said Merry, "when I came out of the Ivy Bush Inn to join the party, I saw you standing there by the green. I recognized you right away. You looked very pretty in your blue tatters, and you were pouting while you watched Sam dance with Rosie. I could see how badly you wanted to dance yourself, and I knew Sam wouldn't ask you. And I wanted to."

"Wanted to? Kiss me, you mean, or dance with me?"

"Both. You looked like you needed it."

"And just now?"

Merry smiled at him. "You looked as if you needed it this time too."

"Yes, I did. Thank you."

For the first time, Frodo began to consider Merry in a new light. Hobbits had no word for the peculiarity he and his cousin shared; until recently, most hobbits never talked about it at all, except in horrified whispers. Since Merry and Pippin had created a public scandal by bringing their love for each other out into the open, "like Merry Brandybuck" had become a common way of describing it. "Like Merry" was how Frodo had described himself more than once. Yet he and Merry were not alike. In their temperaments and personal tastes, they were very different, but they did have this one fundamental trait in common: While most hobbits-lads who loved other boys eventually outgrew it or gave in to their families' wishes and settled down to respectable married life, neither he nor Merry would ever have any natural desire to find a wife or father children. They would never have to be generous and let each other go, as both of them had just given up the one he loved best.

Could they find comfort and companionship in each other?

He'd always loved Merry as dearly as a brother, but the fact of the matter was that they were not brothers, only first cousins once removed--a degree of blood relationship less close than Merry's to Pippin, or between any number of hobbit-couples currently married in the Shire.

Could they..?

"Merry, can I ask why you never played with me the way you did with the other boys?"

"I didn't think you'd want to," Merry answered after a moment's consideration. "You never seemed interested in that sort of thing until Sam got hold of you, and I wouldn't dare to stand in his way! Before Sam, I used to think you were above all that, games and fun. You don't like any of the things other hobbits do--ale or food or going to parties."

Frodo lifted his head. "I like parties and all the rest of it as much as any hobbit."

"No, not as much," Merry retorted, half-teasing. "I believe most hobbits would curl right up and die if you told them they'd never have another pipe to smoke or a drop of ale to drink. They wouldn't want to go on living. Not you. You can take or leave it. You were just the same about sex when we were lads--you never seemed like quite the same flesh and blood as the rest of us."

"Perhaps you're right," Frodo sighed. "If it weren't for Sam, I might've gone through life and never realized what I was missing... and never missed it. I wouldn't have understood myself. I'm not like you in that respect, Merry. You understood what you were about before you were thirty."

Merry grinned. "Five and twenty, actually. Believe me, Frodo, if I'd ever thought you were interested, I would've done something about it."

Frodo sat up so that he could look at Merry face to face. "Would you, Merry?" They met each other's eyes, and held them. Both knew exactly where this conversation was taking them. "You once said that one day, it'd be just you and me left. It looks as if it will be. Sam has gone on with his life, without me."

"And Pippin will go on with his, if he hasn't already," Merry replied.

"Why shouldn't we do it then? It'd be a good match, as they say in the Shire--a match that might've been made for us, if one of us had been a girl."

Merry's grin flashed again. "If one of us was a girl, I don't think the other would be very interested."

Frodo laughed. As he continued to gaze into his cousin's eyes, he thought of how they'd grown up together, so close, closer in some ways than they'd been to Sam and Pippin. They could always talk to each other as they could to no one else. He thought of how they'd slept cuddled together night after night these past weeks, and how nice it was to have someone always nearby if he woke in the dark. He thought of the way Merry had kissed him just now... and he moved a little closer.

They leaned in toward each other. Their lips met, parted at the moment of contact. When he felt the wet tip of a tongue slip past his teeth, Frodo recoiled, startled. "Merry! What're you doing?"

Merry looked puzzled. "What's wrong? Don't you open your mouth when you kiss, Frodo?"

"Of course," Frodo answered, "but not like that. Not with tongues stuck out."

"I won't do it if you don't like it. Are you sure you don't?"

"It's not so bad, I suppose." It seemed like a distinctly unhobbity thing to do, and yet... "Can we try it again?"

Merry tried another deep kiss, which Frodo liked a little better, enough to flicker the tip of his own tongue tentatively in and out of Merry's mouth. The touch tickled, and both of them laughed. A moment later, they were rolling on the hearthrug, arms flung around each other, kissing wetly and enthusiastically.

When they rose from the hearthrug, Frodo walked to the foot of the bed to undress. He didn't ask if Merry would stay the night; Merry had spent most of his nights here lately and it would be nothing unusual if he should stay tonight too. But tonight, Frodo felt enervated at the prospect of it. As he cast shy glances in his cousin's direction, tingles of anticipation thrilled through him and he was more breathless and flushed than even so much kissing could account for.

He'd gotten as far as the top three buttons on his waistcoat when Merry put his hands over his and undid the last two for him, then helped him out of the garment. While both his hands were upraised, Merry took him by the wrists and held his arms away from his body while he gave him another kiss.

"Do you really want to do this, Frodo?"

Frodo nodded. When Merry let him go, he stripped off the rest of his clothing, leaving his shirt, trousers, and underclothes in a heap where he stood, then climbed up onto the bed.

"I lost my virginity here," he announced to Merry, who was still undressing beside the bed. "Sam-" but of course, Sam. Who else? He'd never been with anyone else before this. "Will you make love to me the way Sam does?" he requested.

"Yes, if that's what you want." Merry climbed up after him, cupped the side of his face with one hand, and kissed him tenderly. "Show me how."

Frodo showed him. He showed Merry just how he liked to be touched, the way Sam would touch him. Merry did just as Frodo had asked, although he didn't love him quite the way Sam had--and then he showed Frodo some things Sam had never done, to Frodo's astonishment and utter delight.




Much later that night, Gandalf opened the door to Frodo's room and peeked in, as he did every night before he went to bed himself. It reassured him to see that Frodo was sleeping peacefully.

He was accustomed to see the two hobbits curled together, Merry's fair head on the pillow besides Frodo's darker curls. If he also observed that neither was wearing a nightshirt, he would not say anything to them about it when he saw them in the morning.
Chapter 38 by Kathryn Ramage
In the morning, Frodo woke before Merry. Slipping quietly out of bed, he found his dressing gown and pulled it on, then went downstairs to the bathroom. The day-servant had banked the bath-fire coals below the large ceramic cistern before leaving last night, as she always did, and there was enough warmed water to fill the small bath. Jars of scented oils and bath salts, left by a previous occupant of the house before Gandalf had taken it, sat on shelves above the towels; Frodo climbed up to find one jar containing yellowed, aged salt crystals with desiccated lavender buds, and threw a few handfuls into the water before he got into the bath.

He was soaking languidly, arms stretched along the curved rim of the tub, head thrown back, when Merry came in.

"I wondered where you'd got to, Frodo," Merry said as perched on the rim at Frodo's feet. "How're you feeling? Not too tired after last night?"

"Not at all," Frodo responded cheerfully. "I feel glorious! A few little aches and sore spots, but I hope to have them soaked out before breakfast-time. It's been a long time since I had a thorough and proper rogering."

"It's been much longer for me, Frodo dear."

They smiled at each other. They were not any more in love with each other today than they'd been yesterday, but their mutual fondness and affection had grown with their new intimacy.

Last night had also been a lesson for Frodo about pleasure for its own sake. He and Sam had started together as lovers, equally inexperienced when they'd first made love in the same bed nearly three years ago. They'd learned from each other in those nights, but neither of them were overly adventurous; once they'd discovered what they liked, they kept to it. Merry's experience was much broader and much more experimental, and for the first time, Frodo appreciated the merits of that education. He'd never imagined two hobbits could do some of the incredible things they'd done last night. The kissing trick was not the only one Merry could do with his tongue and, while Frodo had thought that Sam had put hands on every inch of his body at some point or other during their love-making, Merry had found a couple of places nobody had ever touched before.

In addition to the comfort and companionship Frodo had sought when he'd turned to Merry last night, he'd found that they could also have a great deal of fun as lovers. And he meant to have fun.

"Let's go for a walk in the hills today," he suggested. "Or perhaps another ride with Lady Eowyn. I'm sick of being shut up indoors--I want to go out. Then I must go up to the citadel and find out if there's any investigating left for me to do."

"Probably not, not 'til Cirandil's found, but I'm sure everyone will be happy to see you up and about and looking so well." Merry rose and tossed his robe onto the chair near the fire, where Frodo had also left his. "I hope you haven't used all the hot water."

"There's a bit left."

Merry climbed up on the chair and lifted the cistern lid to peer at the level of water inside. "Not enough to fill another tub."

"Why don't you join me here, then?" Frodo gave him an inviting grin, and flicked his toes to splash at his cousin playfully. Merry came over to the tub; when he was close enough, arm extended out to the surface of the water, intending to splash back, Frodo sat up to grab him by the wrist and hauled him in with a shout and a terrific splash.

There followed a great deal of flailing and laughter, and splashes that sent more water onto the tiled floor. When Frodo let him up for air, Merry reached for the bowl of soft soap beside the bath, scooped out a handful, and showed Frodo a new use for it. There was more splashing and, if the hobbits weren't laughing, the sounds they made were equally joyous.

After awhile, Frodo, panting, said, "We'd better stop. If we don't show up for breakfast, Gandalf will wonder where we are and come looking."

With a reluctant sigh, Merry sat up. "D'you think he guesses?"

"He will soon enough. I don't mind if he knows, but this isn't how I want him to find out!"

Merry chuckled and extracted himself from Frodo and the tub, soap-slick and dripping wet. He filled a pitcher with warm water and set the largest wash-basin on the floor to stand it in, then poured the water over his head to rinse the soap off his skin, the salt out of his hair, and the lavender buds that had clung in curious places. Frodo watched the little dance he performed to accomplish this last task, and laughed again.

"Your turn next!" his cousin warned him, and refilled the pitcher. He brought it to the tub to dump the water over Frodo's head.

After Frodo had washed the salt and soap from his body and stood toweling off, he asked the same question he had the night before: "Will you come home with me, Merry, when I go?"

"I will, if you give me a reason to," Merry answered, then asked him, "What about Sam? What'll you tell him about you and me? How do you think he'll take it?"

"He'll have to be told," said Frodo. "I hope he'll take it well." But he knew that there would be trouble. Sam had always been more physically possessive of him than he'd been of Sam. Even though he'd let Sam marry and didn't mind sharing him with Rose, he knew that Sam wouldn't be as generous about his having another lover, especially if that lover was Merry Brandybuck. Sam was already a little jealous of his close relationship with Merry, and this new intimacy would only make it worse. "You won't mind if I see him once in awhile, do you?"

Merry considered him before he answered, "No, of course not."

"I won't object if you want to see Pip. I don't require that kind of fidelity, and it'd be ridiculous between you and me. I want us to be on good terms--no hard feelings. I'll make Sam understand that this is best for all of us. But I can't see us living at Bag End with the Gamgees." That household arrangement would be too much of a strain for everyone involved.
Chapter 39 by Kathryn Ramage
While he'd recovered from his worst day, Merry had brought him news from the citadel. Frodo knew that Aragorn had received Gefetibin in the royal chambers, and had a private talk with Imatibin that left the councilor blanched and looking like a whipped dog, but no one knew what the King had said to either brother. While the story of the misappropriated gold had not yet become an open scandal, the whispers had grown louder of late. The treasury account books had been surrendered by Gathin at the King's orders, and Faramir was discreetly looking for skilled mathematicians to examine them.

Beregond and his Men were still out in the wilds of Ithilien, and other members of the guard stationed beyond the city had been called to join in the search. Messages were sent back to the King every day to report that Cirandil had not been found. According to Merry, even Faramir had given up hope now that the young Man been missing for over a week.

After breakfast, the hobbits went up to the citadel. It was still early, and the Council had not yet convened. While Merry went to find Eowyn in her chambers, Frodo went to the royal apartments in hopes of catching the King before Aragorn had gone downstairs. As he crossed the gallery that led to the royal chambers, he saw he was not the only person to seek an audience with the King that morning. Councilor Grangirtan was just leaving. He was a huge Man, like Larengar, but some years younger and his hair iron-gray rather than white. As he met the hobbit, he stopped to say, "Good morning, little one."

"Good morning!" If Aragorn had summoned Grangirtan, Frodo could easily guess why. "You've been talking to the King about the treasury, haven't you?"

Grangirtan looked surprised. "Yes. However did you find it out so soon?"

"He told me that he meant to appoint you in Carathir's place."

"Did he?" The councilor seemed pleased, and oddly sad, to hear this. "I'm afraid that may not be so, now."

Frodo realized he had misunderstood. "Why? What's happened?"

"I might as well tell you all. Lord Elessar will undoubtedly tell you himself, since you were the one to bring the matter to his attention in the first place and ought to know how it has been resolved." Grangirtan looked down at the tiny hobbit standing before him, and announced, "I've gone to the King and explained that he will find no money missing from the treasury. We put it back weeks ago--Larengar, Lady Thressildis, and I--soon after Carathir's death. Hilabar and his lady knew nothing of it. We used our own money to replace what had been taken, and Gathin locked it away in the vaults as if it had always been there. We'd hoped that would be the end of it, and Carathir's reputation would be preserved. There was no proof of misconduct, and the rumors were dying down, until that fool Imatibin dug them up again. Now that the rumors have reached the King's ears, he must hear the truth."

"Then Carathir did take the gold," said Frodo. "But why didn't he return it himself?"

"He didn't have it. He had no money left, you see, after the war. Carathir impoverished himself to ensure the city's defenses, and when the last of his own money had gone, he borrowed the city's gold. His nephew Cirandil, if he is not a murderer, will inherit very little beyond the family house and a few heirlooms. Carathir lived in the citadel because he couldn't afford to keep up his home."

"But the King would have reimbursed him for his losses," Frodo pointed out. "He offered to repay you all, and Carathir refused."

"Carathir was a proud man. Too proud," Grangirtan answered. "He would take no money from his friends while he lived, nor would he take it from the King."

"He could have at least put back what he'd taken."

The councilor gave him a small smile. "And where would that money have come from?"

"The treasury- oh." Frodo understood.

"You see, it would hardly be repayment--only a redistribution of funds. When I last spoke to Carathir, he said he would rather wait for the blow to fall, as it inevitably must. When he was discovered dead, I admit I thought he'd committed suicide to avoid the disgrace, though I did not like to say so. But if he did, how did his son and the healer come to die in the same way?"

"Do you think Cirandil murdered them, sir?" Frodo asked him.

"I've known that young man from his infancy, and don't like to believe it's true," Grangirtan replied, "but what other answer is there? You were summoned by the King to find the truth. Have you?"

"No," Frodo admitted, "not yet."

After Grangirtan had gone, Frodo was about to go into the royal chambers to find out what Aragorn meant to do about this amazing confession, when there was a clatter of boots coming up the tower stairwell. A moment later, Beregond appeared, dirty and dust-covered, so long unshaven that the straw-colored stubble on his jaw had nearly grown into a beard. His eyes brightened at the sight of hobbit. "Frodo, it's good you're here," he said in little gasps, short of breath from his run up the stairs. "I bring news at last."

"You've found Cirandil?"

Beregond nodded. "He was captured last night, in Ithilien. He surrendered to the guardsmen who found him without a struggle. We've brought him back to the city, and he's being kept prisoner in the old garrison hall on the lowest level."
Chapter 40 by Kathryn Ramage
The old garrison hall lay just within the great gates of Minas Tirith. The outer portions facing the gateyard had been partially destroyed when the city had been breached during Sauron's assault; the building was no longer used to quarter guards, but the broken walls had been repaired and the remaining rooms were used for storage, and to house prisoners when necessary.

"He gave no explanation for his sudden flight?" Frodo asked as Beregond escorted him down through the city later that day. The captain had shaved and changed into a clean uniform since Frodo had seen him at the citadel. Since the morning, Beregond had also tried to question his prisoner, as he explained to Frodo when he'd come for him.

"No, none," said Beregond. "He's told me nothing. I am heart-sore that he makes no effort to acquit himself of the accusations against him. As he will not say otherwise, we have no choice but to think the worst." He sounded as if he sincerely despaired for the young Man. "In truth, Frodo, I fear he's been driven mad. He's taken no food nor drink since we brought him here. He seems to think everything is poisoned. He says he will only speak to you. Perhaps he'll tell you what he will not tell me."

As they approached the entrance to the garrison hall, the guard on duty opened the doors for them. Beregond led Frodo through a large room with thick walls made of huge square stones that served as a refectory; there were several long tables, each beneath a narrow slit of a window that let in light, and a few guards sat eating their dinners. At the opposite end of the room, Beregond unlocked another door. There was a corridor beyond with small rooms that had originally been meant for guards on duty, but were now cells.

Only one cell was occupied, and its door was open. A young guardsman stood at the entrance, bearing a small loaf of bread and a bowl of stew on a tray. "You might as well eat, Cir," he said to the prisoner within the room. "Do you think to escape the gibbet by starving yourself to death?"

"No," said Cirandil, "I mean to live." Even before he and Beregond approached the cell door and Frodo saw the prisoner, he could hear the ragged edge of fear in Cirandil's voice. "I will not touch a bite, unless you join me."

"Is that why you wanted me to come here?" Frodo asked as he stepped into the doorway. "To taste your food?" He saw Cirandil now; the young Man, seated on the hard-looking bench of a bed against the far wall, had the haggard and haunted look of an animal at bay, but his expression brightened when he saw the hobbit.

"No, not you," he told Frodo. "You are in as much danger as I am, little one."

The guard tore a piece off the loaf of bread and dipped it into the stew. Cirandil watched him anxiously as he ate. "Does it taste odd to you?" he asked.

"It's more salty than I like, but wholesome," answered the young guard after he'd swallowed his mouthful. "It isn't poisoned, if that's what you fear. Will you have the rest now, Cir?"

"Leave it, Alaric. If you are still alive an hour from now, I will eat."

"The stew will be cold."

"But I will be certain then that it's safe."

The guard rolled his eyes, but at a nod from Beregond, he left the tray on a table by the door and went out.

"As you see, I've brought Frodo to you," Beregond said to Cirandil.

"Thank you for that, Captain," Cirandil replied. "Will you leave us now, I pray you? I want to talk to the little investigator alone."

"Surely you know I can't do that," said Beregond. "My Lord Elessar would never allow it."

"Do you think I'm too dangerous to be left with the little one?" the younger Man asked back with a hoarse and unpleasant laugh. "I don't intend to harm him, Captain, I promise you! But my words are for him and no other."

"I will stay alone and listen to what you have to say," said Frodo. "But if it has to do with these murders, you realize that I must repeat it to Captain Beregond and the King."

"I've no confession to make--at least, not as you think. I'd rather they not hear what I have to tell, but you are no soldier, Frodo. You might understand why I did... what I did." Cirandil glanced up at his captain, and his face went red. For all his size, he looked like a shame-faced boy who feared a scolding from his elders. Frodo felt sorry for the young Man, and at the same time was touched that Cirandil, for all his irrational stubbornness and defensiveness, had turned to him to confide in. He wondered what Cirandil was so anxious for Beregond not to hear.

"It's all right, Captain," Frodo said.

Beregond nodded solemnly and went out, but he left the door ajar and Frodo was certain he did not go far down the corridor.

"Why can't you tell them, if you've done nothing wrong?" the hobbit asked once he and Cirandil were alone.

"They will call it cowardice," Cirandil answered. "I am no coward! I've fought orcs many times in battle and been wounded grievously, and never once did I fly nor flinch at any blow. None may question my bravery. But how do I battle this?" He took a folded square of paper from the breast of his jerkin and gave it to Frodo. "I received it the day before I left the city. It was placed in my quarters at the guards' hall."

Frodo unfolded the note. The paper was somewhat worn, dirty, and crumpled at the edges, as if Cirandil had been carrying it with him for days. The words were in the Common Tongue; the letters looked somewhat oddly formed to hobbit eyes, but they were easy enough to read: Leave the Lady Tharya, else you and she will Die as the others did.

"Is this why you left the city?" he asked. "Do you have any idea who wrote it?"

"The one who poisoned my uncle and Caradan," replied Cirandil with another sour laugh. "I don't have to be an investigator to guess as much! But I don't know who it can be. Since I received it, I see enemies everywhere. All hands seemed turned against me. Every drop of water might be poisoned. I dared not eat a bite of food nor take a drink. It wasn't safe for me to stay in the city--I must leave or starve, or else eat and be certainly poisoned as my kinsmen were. They were brave Men as well, but it did not save them. And I thought of Tharya. She might be in danger because of me. It was for her sake as much as my own that I fled. Is she well?" he asked suddenly, eagerly. "Have you seen her, Frodo?"

"She's been sick with worry since you've gone, but she's come to no harm," Frodo told him.

Cirandil looked relieved to hear this. "But who knows about us? While I lived in the wild, I could eat what game I hunted myself and drink from clear streams, and know that she was safe as long as I was far from her. Now I am brought back, we are both in danger again." He sat forward and reached out to grab the hobbit by the arm; Beregond, who'd been watching from a discreet distance outside, came to the doorway. "Tell Tharya for me: eat or drink nothing unless it has been prepared by her own hands, or others eat it too," Cirandil hissed urgently. "You might do the same, little one. Have a care what you eat, if you wish to live to see your home again."
Chapter 41 by Kathryn Ramage
When they left the garrison hall, Frodo and Beregond went to the citadel and, in the counsel-closet of the royal chambers, reported to the King with Gandalf and Faramir present. Frodo repeated what he'd told Beregond on their walk up through the city and expanded upon it.

"Cirandil confessed to me, but not to any crime. That's not what he refused to tell his captain or his fellow guards. He fled in fear of his life, and is ashamed to have you know. He's afraid you'll scorn him as a coward. He'd rather be thought a murderer than that." He showed them the note, which Cirandil had given him.

"Why did he tell you, Frodo?" asked Faramir as the Men and wizard passed the note from one to the other, each reading it in turn with expressions of surprise and alarm.

"He said it was because I'm no soldier myself. He hoped I wouldn't judge his actions so harshly as you Big, brave Men might." Frodo smiled up at the tall Men who towered over him. "Hobbits understand the value of hiding when faced with overwhelming danger."

"I do not blame him for his flight," said Beregond. "One cannot do battle with a poisoner as one would another foe. But why did he not tell us when he received this note, or show it to me, instead of running away without a word?"

"I don't know," said Frodo. "Perhaps he didn't wanted to reveal his love for Tharya to anyone who hadn't guessed already. They've gone to such trouble to keep it a secret 'til now. Or perhaps he thought no one would believe him."

"Do you believe him, Frodo?" Gandalf asked.

"Yes, I do," he admitted. "I've no proof. It's only my belief, now that I've seen him and spoken with him. Cirandil is telling the truth."

"He could have written this note himself," the wizard observed. "The script is formed in a most peculiar manner, as if the writer intended to disguise his hand."

"You're right. It may be so. It may be all sham, or madness, but I think he's genuinely terrified that he'll become the poisoner's next victim. Beregond will tell you how he's refused to eat since he was captured and brought back to the city."

"Do you want me to order Cirandil's release?" asked Aragorn.

Frodo found it gratifying to realize that the King would do just as he advised, and accept Cirandil's guilt or innocence at a word from him. "No," he answered, "I think it's best to keep him where he is for now. If I'm right, then it's the safest place for him to be. Captain Beregond can ensure that he's well-protected there and that all food that goes in to him is untainted. If I'm wrong, then he ought to remain under guard."

When he left this private conference, Frodo went to the Queen's boudoir. He had one last task to perform in the citadel: to see Tharya and warn her as Cirandil had asked him to.

Tharya was not in the citadel. The ladies who attended the Queen were talking excitedly about the news of Cirandil's arrest, but they informed him that Tharya had gone home earlier in the day, claiming that she hadn't felt well. Several of the ladies looked as if they understood what had disturbed her so.

Frodo went down to Larengar's house, which was only a few doors down the street from Gandalf's. When he knocked on the front door and asked to see Lady Tharya, he was admitted to the house by a servant and shown to a plaza on the other side, very like the one behind Gandalf's house. Tharya sat on a marble bench in her black dress and veil, staring out over the fields far below and beyond the city walls. For the first time, she looked as if she were truly in mourning.

When she saw her visitor, she rose from her seat and whirled upon him. "Is it true, Frodo? They've arrested Cir?" Her eyes flashed at him accusingly. "Did you tell them to do this?"

"His arrest was not my doing, Lady," Frodo answered. "When Cirandil fled the city, even those who most believed in his innocence began to doubt. The King ordered him to be kept prisoner once he was found, unless he could give a good account of himself."

"Didn't he?" she asked. "What did he say when they captured him? He didn't confess?"

"He said nothing to Captain Beregond, who questioned him," he told her. "I've seen him since. He told me that he fled the city to save your life, and his own."

"My life?" Her eyes went wide.

"He claims you both have been threatened by the poisoner. He has a note he says he received. He showed it to me, and I've taken it to the King. If they keep him under guard now, it's as much for his own protection as any other reason."

"Then you don't think he's guilty." Tharya looked relieved, then horrified. "But who-? Who would do such a thing? Why threaten us?"

"I don't know. I hoped you might help me to find out. Who knows of your love for each other, Lady Tharya, besides me? Have you confided in any of your friends among the maidens, or would Cirandil tell his friends in the Guard?" Frodo prompted.

"No," she answered, and her lips twisted wryly. "No secrets can be kept within the citadel, even among friends. You must have seen how everyone gossips and carries tales. Cir and I said nothing, but someone must have guessed."

"What about your father? Does he know?"

Tharya laughed. "Father spoke to me of Cir only the day before he fled. He said he didn't believe Cir had had a part in his uncle's death and what did I think of him? I understood why he asked, and what match he intended to propose now Caradan is dead, but I answered only that Cir had always been a friend to me. I was fond of him and hoped his innocence could be proved. But that was before Cir left the city. Father hasn't said another word about him for good or ill since." Then she turned to Frodo with a new eagerness. "You've seen Cir. How is he?"

"He is unharmed," Frodo told her, "but he's frightened for both of himself and for you. He won't eat, lest he be poisoned. He asks you to do the same: take care what you eat and drink, and take only what others do."

"I shall," the lady agreed.




"And what about you, Frodo?" Merry asked him that evening. "Are you going to take Cirandil's advice too?" The two hobbits were cuddled together in one large chair in the sitting room, waiting for Gandalf to return from the citadel so they could have their dinner. Frodo had just told his cousin all that had happened that day.

"I think I'd better." Frodo snuggled more tightly into his cousin's arms. "It's a terrible thing to consider, Merry. Poison. I've never had a fear for what I might eat or drink before, but now that I am afraid, everything looks dangerous. It quite takes your appetite away. I can understand why Cirandil fled as he did, rather than eat a single bite while he remained in the city."

"You should be safe with tonight's dinner," said Merry. "It's roast chicken, with potatoes and carrots. Not a soup or sauce in sight. Our cook'll be insulted if she hears you're afraid of poison. She'll take it personally, and it couldn't be her."

"No, but to be safest, I suppose I ought to eat only what you cook for me, Merry, or what you and Gandalf eat. A wizard can't be poisoned, can he? They aren't even mortal, as we are. But it's all the more important I find this poisoner, before he kills someone else."

"Since you don't think it's Cirandil anymore, who do you think it is?"

Who indeed? Frodo had been puzzling over this since his visit to Cirandil. If Cirandil was telling the truth, then the poisoner was still at large and ready to strike again. But who could it be? And why had he or she emerged so blatantly from hiding to threaten the young Man? Was it to drive him away from the girl he loved? He said as much to Merry.

"Perhaps he wants to marry Tharya too," Merry suggested in reply. "This person might've got Caradan out of the way so he could have her for himself, but he didn't learn that she was truly in love with Cirandil 'til recently, so he has to go too."

"But who know about them, besides us?"

"Well, anybody in the citadel might've found them out as you did, Frodo, the way those two have been carrying on."

"Why send a note to Cirandil, rather than kill him outright?" Frodo wondered. "This person is responsible for three murders already. He's struck before with no word of warning. Why give warning this time? And why, if he's after Tharya, would he kill Councilor Carathir?"

"Carathir wanted Tharya to marry his son, and wouldn't want her to wed anyone else."

"Yes, but it wasn't his say. Wouldn't it make more sense to kill her father, who might stand in the way?" Frodo fell into musing. "Or ruin him." An unpleasant thought had just occurred to him: Imatibin was not married, nor were his brothers. They were a little older than Caradan and Cirandil, but must also have known Tharya all her life. Could one of them have desired her, and both her father and Carathir refused in Caradan's favor? Was this at the heart of the hostility between the families as much as any political scandal or intrigue? Was one motive somehow mixed up with the other?

He was still turning this idea over his mind when Gandalf came in. The two hobbits drew quickly apart, startled, even though Gandalf had certainly seen them cuddling before, but the wizard took no notice. They went in to dinner but, in spite of Merry's assurances and offers to taste his food for him, Frodo could eat little.
Chapter 42 by Kathryn Ramage
The excitement following the news of Cirandil's arrest hadn't died down--although the true reason for his continued detainment was a secret known only to a few people--but within days of the young Man's return, the city's inhabitants were talking of another surprising turn of events: there were to be changes in the King's council. Larengar spoke of retirement, which was not so astonishing for a man of his age and long years of service, but the much younger Imatibin had actually resigned.

Frodo saw the latter on his final day as a councilor. He had just returned from a ride with Eowyn and Merry; his friends had gone on to the stable with the mare and ponies, leaving him waiting before the great hall when Imatibin emerged and stopped short at the sight of him. It was an awkward moment. Frodo didn't know what to say.

Imatibin dismissed the hobbit's attempts at condolences. "At least, my brother's reputation has been redeemed," he answered tersely. "It seems that only one of us can be in favor at a time. I understand it was partly your recommendation that led the King to see Gefetibin, and I must thank you for that, Frodo--but I wonder if you made other recommendations to My Lord Elessar as well, hm?"

Frodo knew what Imatibin was insinuating. "I only reported what I discovered," he answered primly. "I never advised the King to expel you or anyone else. He hasn't, has he?" It would surprise him to learn that Aragorn had; although the matter had been settled quietly, without a scandal, Imatibin was right about Carathir's taking the treasury gold. It would be unfair to dismiss him over it.

"No, the King didn't ask me to leave, but it's obvious he finds me untrustworthy in light of your... discoveries." He frowned down at the hobbit. "The day Lord Elessar first introduced you to the council, young Cirandil said only what we all were thinking. How we smiled to see such a tiny, harmless-looking creature called a famous investigator! Had we known what lay behind that childish guise, we would've been more careful with our words to you."

"You took me for a fool and tried to use me against each other," Frodo retorted. "You can't blame me if your own tricks have turned back upon you."

"Oh, but I do," Imatibin hissed, and Frodo saw how bitterly this Man hated him. He recoiled at the intensity of the emotion directed at him, and if Merry had not returned just then to walk home with him, he would have fled.




As they walked down through the tunnel to the sixth level of the city, Frodo told Merry how Imatibin had frightened him. "It was really quite chilling, the way he glared at me. I wouldn't be at all surprised to find poison in my soup at dinner tonight--if we were having soup. Thank goodness we've taken precautions!"

Since Frodo had grown wary of poisoning, Merry carefully monitored everything his cousin ate: he went shopping every morning and locked the freshly bought food in the kitchen larder; he had the only key. He made Frodo's breakfasts, luncheon, and tea himself, and sat in the kitchen while the day-servant cooked dinner. No visitors were permitted in the kitchen. Merry had explained to the servant that these odd precautions were necessary for Frodo's health; the servant, who knew that the little master had been ill and knew nothing of the mysteries of medicine especially where halflings were concerned, took no offense.

As they approached Gandalf's house, they saw that a visitor in the hooded robe of a healer stood on the doorstep and was trying the latch. "The door's locked," Merry called out. This was another precaution.

At his voice, the visitor turned and they saw that it was Methilde.

"Hello!" Frodo greeted her. "Merry, you remember Methilde. I'm sorry," he explained to her as they came up to the front door, "but we keep the house locked up, and the day-servant is given firm instructions to admit no one when we aren't home."

This explanation only made the young herbalist look puzzled; Merry told her, "Frodo's been threatened by the poisoner."

Methilde went pale, then red. "But h- how? That's impossible. He's been arrested. All the city thinks so. It was Cirandil." A flicker of pain and anger crossed her face as she spoke his name. "Do you say now that he isn't responsible for my aunt's murder?"

"No," said Frodo, "I don't think he is." But he didn't tell her where his suspicions currently lay. "The poisoner is still active. He sent a note to Cirandil to warn him away--he and Tharya would be next if he saw her again."

"The lady of the court you told me about?"

"Yes, that's right. He's terribly afraid for her."

"Both are taking precautions against poison now too," added Merry. He unlocked the front door.

They went into Frodo's room. The hobbits invited Methilde to have tea with them, but she refused.

"I can't stay long. I only came to find out how you were after your illness," she told Frodo. "It's good to see that you looking so well. The Master Healer will also be pleased." As she looked around the room, her eyes found the table beside the bed; the last time she'd visited, a small bottle of medicine had sat upon it, but now it was gone. "Have you taken all the sleeping potion the Master gave you? We can have more sent up to you if you require it."

"That's very kind, but no, thank you," Frodo answered. "I haven't needed it lately. I've been sleeping quite well on my own." He smiled at Merry, who grinned in response. Since they'd become lovers, he hadn't dreamt once of Sam. "There's still plenty left, but I've put it away until I have need of it."

Methilde lingered awhile longer, until after Merry left them to make the tea and she saw that Frodo had settled comfortably in his chair by the fire. "I really must be going now, Frodo. I've other errands to attend to," she said as she went out. "I'm glad it isn't Cirandil. He was such a pleasant young man."

Contrary to Frodo's expectations, there was no poison in the dinner, and he didn't see Imatibin or any of the Council the following day. That night, he and Merry and Gandalf dined in the royal chambers.

The next afternoon after the luncheon hour, Beregond came to the house to see Frodo. His face was drawn and grim as he said, "You must come with me to the garrison hall, Frodo. One of the guardsmen there has died. It appears to be another poisoning."

Frodo felt a slow chill creep up his spine. "Not Cirandil?"

"No, not Cirandil. It was the guard who was set to keep watch on him. Alaric."
Chapter 43 by Kathryn Ramage
When they entered Cirandil's cell in the garrison hall, the young Man was sitting with his head in his hands. He made a low moaning sound, and Frodo was first afraid that he'd been poisoned too, but Cirandil's dinner still sat untouched. It soon became apparent that he was not ill, but terribly distraught at the death of the other guardsman, who had been his friend.

"I made him eat it," Cirandil told them, horrified. "Alaric never believed me when I spoke of poison. He thought it fretful nonsense, and I began to think there was no danger myself. We were wrong." He bowed his head and began to sob. "It was my death, meant for me--not Alaric. His death is my fault! If you wish to call me a murderer, you may do so now."

They could get nothing more out of him; the young guardsman was too wracked with guilt at what he'd brought about to tell them what had happened. Beregond ordered the untouched dinner tray to be taken away so the stew could be examined, then he and Frodo left Cirandil's cell and went out to the refectory, where Alaric's body had been laid upon one of the tables and covered with a cloth. The other guards who'd been present said that Alaric had fallen over suddenly, not long after taking Cirandil's dinner in to him, and had died within minutes, retching and gasping for air. His lips had the blue tinge of suffocation and the familiar mottling had appeared on his skin. It was definitely the same poison that had killed Carathir, Caradan, and Bregilde.

"Who cooks the meals here?" Frodo asked. "Who brings the food, prepares it, serves it to the Men?"

Beregond sent for the kitchen staff to provide answers to these questions. A series of interviews established the following routines: The meals, usually a stew or hearty soup, were cooked daily in an enormous iron pot and served to all the guardsmen on duty in the lower part of the city who came to the garrison hall from midday until evening. Each serving was ladled directly into a bowl from the pot, except for the prisoner's bowl, which was set aside on a tray with a loaf of bread to be taken in to him by the guard assigned that duty. Alaric had not been the only guard to keep watch over Cirandil; two others also watched him in shifts and brought him his meals. The other two guardsmen were summoned. Both said that they too tasted the prisoner's food before leaving it, at Cirandil's insistence. Both, while stunned and somewhat shaken by Alaric's death, were fine. No other men who'd eaten the stew had fallen ill that day.

One of the guards had accompanied Alaric to the corridor outside Cirandil's cell, and affirmed that the prisoner had had no opportunity to poison the stew that day himself. He hadn't touch the bowl before Alaric had eaten from it. His clothing had been searched and no vial of liquid nor plant leaves or berries had been found on his person, and he had received no visitors since Beregond had last brought Frodo to see him. The obvious conclusion was that the bowl of stew meant for Cirandil had been poisoned while it sat waiting to be taken to him.

Frodo then set out finding out who exactly was in the kitchen and who could have entered while the bowl of stew sat unattended, when even more horrible news came from the citadel, summoning him urgently to the Houses of Healing. There had been a second poisoning in the Queen's boudoir, and Merry and several of the ladies had fallen ill.
Chapter 44 by Kathryn Ramage
"It was in the tea," Pahiril told Frodo. "That's as much as we know so far. That, and it wasn't nightshade."

"Not nightshade?" Frodo echoed. He had arrived at the Houses of Healing only minutes before, heart beating wildly in fear for his cousin and the ladies. The plaza around him was busy as it had not been since the days of the siege, when the Houses were crowded with the wounded and dying; healers and herbalists rushed in out of the central House, where patients were kept, bearing basins, blankets, and pitchers of water. Gandalf, Faramir, and Aragorn were already there ahead of him. Beregond conferred with the Steward and King while Frodo spoke to the herb-master.

"No, they were given some other poison, one that causes severe nausea and vomiting. Elderberry root, or perhaps wisteria. The second has no medicinal value, but it grows freely even within the city. We are most fortunate that the poison was diluted by so much water--the tea was given to so many. Any amount ingested by one person would not be fatal."

Frodo suddenly felt weak with relief. "Then they're going to be all right."

"Oh, yes," Pahiril said, as if he'd already said so. "They've all been given a harmless purgative, to be sure all the poison has been emptied from their stomachs, which is especially important for those who had not expelled it on their own. It is an unpleasant process, but once it is done, they are all sure to make swift recoveries."

They were now at the door to the central House. The Master Healer came out to meet them. "Where's Merry?" Frodo asked eagerly. "Can I see him?"

"Yes, of course. I will take you to him."

The Master Healer guided Frodo into the hall, and down a corridor past several rooms. Through partially opened doors, Frodo could glimpse various ladies lying on beds and looking pale and unwell. Eowyn was sitting on the edge of her bed, head in her hands and golden hair spilling on the floor. Dame Thressildis sat in another room; Arwen sat beside her with an arm around her, and the old lady insisted that she was quite well now and ought to go and see to the maidens in her care. Tharya lay curled up into a ball like a cat in another room.

Near the end of the corridor, the Healer opened a door. Merry was on the bed, looking as pale and sick as any of the ladies, but he smiled when he saw Frodo and held out both arms to him. They hugged each other fiercely, and when Merry rested his brow on Frodo's shoulder, Frodo stroked his cousin's hair and kissed his temple. He didn't care who saw; the Big Folk would think nothing of it.

"You gave me quite a scare for a change, Merry. I was afraid you'd be dead," he said softly near Merry's ear. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel like I do after I've had far too much ale and spent the whole night with my face over a chamber pot," Merry joked. "I don't think I'll want afternoon tea for awhile after this. The ladies are sure to give it up entirely."

"You halflings are a remarkably robust people," said the Master Healer, who had remained near the door. "Given your size and weight, Meriadoc, I would have said that you would be affected worst of all, rather than the least."

Merry lifted his head from Frodo's shoulder to smile. "I'm just more used to being violently sick."

Gandalf had come to join them by then, and also looked extremely relieved to see that Merry was all right.

"Meriadoc can go home to rest in his own bed tonight," the Master Healer told them. "But I would have the ladies who are more ill remain a little longer, to be sure they have fully recovered, and ensure that they come to no further harm."

Merry was unsteady on his feet when he got up from the bed, and Gandalf gathered him up to carry him home. Frodo walked with the Master Healer behind Gandalf and Merry. As they went back down the corridor toward the front door, he observed that Faramir had gone in to see Eowyn and was holding her as tightly as he had hugged Merry. Arwen was looking after the ill maidens in Thressildis's place while the Dame continued to rest.

Frodo began to wonder if this incident was actually the work of the murderer. He couldn't help feeling that if the true poisoner had wanted to kill these people, they would now all be dead. Could it have been an accident, or a horrible, cruel prank?

Or could it be a ruse? Was the note to Cirandil and his fear of poisoning merely a sham after all, to deflect the suspicion that had turned upon himself? His warning to Tharya to eat only what others ate might therefore actually be covert instructions on how she might also escape suspicion, by giving herself and the other ladies an alarming but essentially non-deadly bout of sickness.

If that were so, could she also be the one who had poisoned Alaric, knowing that Cirandil wouldn't eat the food meant for him? Frodo knew that Cirandil couldn't have tainted the stew himself, and may not have known of his lover's plan; he had seemed genuinely upset at the other guard's death.

"I've been hoping to offer you my apologies, Frodo," said Master Healer. "I did not come on the day of your great illness, as I had promised to, and it has troubled me since. Another patient, seriously ill, required my care and I could not be called away from him. I was greatly relieved to learn that the King himself attended you when I could not. He gave you kingsfoil? It is a common plant we are only beginning to learn the virtues of. It seems to have greater healing properties than traditional herb-lore has hitherto recognized. Master Pahiril has been making a keen study of its merits since Lord Elessar first brought it to his attention. You are fortunate to have such friends. Our King is a most talented healer, as is his queen." He bowed his head to Arwen as they passed her, attending to one of her ladies.

"Yes, they've both aided me." Frodo's hand went to the pendant on his breast, hidden beneath his shirt. "I received the medicine you sent, but with the King's ministrations, I didn't need to take any of it."

"Medicine?" said the Master Healer. "I sent no medicine."

As Frodo stared up at the Healer, his mouth dropped open and his head began to whirl. He quickly pardon himself to the Healer and raced to catch up with Gandalf and Merry; they had stopped at the entrance to the House to speak with Beregond and Aragorn.

"Gandalf! Strider!" Frodo called to them urgently as he ran up to them. "Do you remember on my worst day, somebody brought a potion and said it was from the Master Healer? He's just told me he never sent anyone. What happened to that bottle? Do you know?"

No one knew. Merry remembered that a bottle had been sitting on the bedside table for a few days while Frodo was recovering, but it had disappeared soon afterwards. He hadn't seen it since.

"It must be found," said Frodo, "right away."

Together, they hastened up to the house on the sixth level to look for it. After a brief but frantic search of Frodo's room, Merry found the bottle in the nightstand drawer, along with the sleeping potion. The two small bottles were identical, except that one was half-empty while the other was full and the wax seal over the cork was unbroken.

"Don't touch that!" Gandalf ordered as the hobbits reached to pick the bottle up. He came forward to take the upper rim of the cork on the sealed bottle very carefully between his fingernails, and held it up to the light from the windows. He peered at it closely, then smiled.

"There is an obscure piece of wizard-lore that you may not be familiar with," he told them. "The pattern of whorls on the ends of your fingers--have you noticed them?"

Everyone present, Man and hobbit, held their hands up before their faces, fingers spread to examine their fingerprints.

"It is said that no two are ever alike. They are distinct for every person. But I think we can learn something from these even if we can't identify the person they belong to." The wizard was still examining the prints on the bottle. "These appear to be quite small. The hand is, I think, a hand larger than a hobbit's or a child of Man, but not so large as a grown Man's. A half-grown boy, or perhaps a woman."

"I haven't touched it," said Frodo. "Merry, did you-?"

Merry shook his head. "I don't think so. I can't remember. I might've put it into the drawer, or else the servant did it."

The day-servant was still in the house. Summoned to Frodo's room, she admitted that, yes, she'd done a bit of tidying up after the little one'd been taken ill. She'd shoved the bottles and other clutter on the table top into the drawer so she could dust--she made a broad gesture with one arm to demonstrate how she had cleared the table. No, she hadn't picked anything up.

"Didn't anyone notice who brought this vial in?" Frodo asked. He could only recall hearing a voice.

"I didn't see," said Merry. "We were all too busy tending to you."

"The room was dimmed, the curtains drawn," said Aragorn. "It was only a shape at the doorway, cowled and robed as a healer. I gave him no more than a glance. I thought it a beardless youth, but it might've been a young woman."

"You let no one in?" Beregond asked the servant.

"No, Capt'n, only his lordship." She made a bobbing curtsey to the King. "There wasn't no healer come that day, not that I saw."

Frodo's mind was busy. A young woman. She'd disguised herself as a healer, just as she must've dressed as a serving-maid. Who? Tharya, working with Cirandil? Ilsethe? Lady Imadene? Some agent of Imatibin's he had not yet discovered?

She'd stood here in this room and no one had noticed her. Cowled and robed, her face would barely be visible. She must have walked into the house without knocking; they hadn't locked the doors, since they'd all been at home. She'd known that he would be ill that day, and that the Master Healer wasn't be able to come. Had she intercepted the message Gandalf sent to the House of Healing? How?

The bottle Gandalf held was exactly like the one which contained the sleeping potion the Master Healer had given him. The poisonous plants might be gathered outside the city and brewed over any fire, but who outside the Houses of Healing could have access to medicine bottles like the healers used?

"It might be that one as was here afore," the servant was still speaking. "I let 'e in then--young lass in healer's robes. E's been up and down outside t'house a score o' times this week, since the little master's been up and about."

Frodo saw it. The room seemed to whirl around him and he staggered. Aragorn darted forward to catch him by the arm; he thought Frodo was about to faint.

"No, I'm fine," said Frodo, waving the offer of support away. "It's Methilde."

"Methilde?" Aragorn repeated the name without recognition. "Who-?"

But Merry and Beregond knew who he meant. "The apprentice herbalist," said Beregond. "The niece of Bregilde, the third victim."

"Yes, her. She's our poisoner!" Frodo spoke as if it were obvious, even though he had only just realized it for himself. The truth had been right before him, and he had been blind. Then he realized something else. "We must go back to the Houses--right away! Don't you see? The ladies weren't meant to be killed by the poisoned tea, only made sick. It was meant to bring them, bring Tharya, to the healers. She can be given more 'medicine,' and if she takes a turn for the worse-"

He didn't need to say anything more; Aragorn and Beregond understood the danger, and raced out of the house, not troubling to wait for Frodo. Merry wasn't feeling up to going out again, and Gandalf agreed to stay and look after him.

"Let us know how it turns out!" Merry called after Frodo as he ran to catch up with the two Men.
Chapter 45 by Kathryn Ramage
Frodo ran as swiftly as he could to the House of Healing, but his legs were no match for the long strides of the two Men who had sped down through the main street of Minas Tirith and reached their destination well ahead of him. When the hobbit arrived at the Houses and entered the central hall, he found himself in the midst of a chaotic scene: Most of the ladies who were still there were in the doorways of their rooms, or out in the corridor in a flurry of confusion and excitement. A tray of small ceramic cups containing some milky liquid had been spilled in the middle of the corridor. Aragorn was attempting to explain to Faramir, Arwen, and Eowyn, though he knew only what Frodo had told him. Beregond was demanding, "Where is she? Where's the apprentice Methilde?" of an utterly bewildered Master Healer, Pahiril, and a small group of attendant herbalists.

"Is she all right?" Frodo asked between gasps to catch his breath. "Tharya. Were you here in time?"

"I'm here," the young lady stepped forward from the doorway of her room. "And I am well." As she realized that this commotion had something to do with her, she began to look frightened. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"The captain here tried to take the tray from me, and spilt it all on the floor," one of the herbalists said indignantly.

"I was sure it must be in one of those cups," Beregond defended himself.

"You were probably right." Frodo looked down at the mess of white liquid and shattered ceramic on the floor at his feet. "What was in the cups?"

"A posset of warmed milk and honey," said Pahiril. "It was meant to settle the poor ladies' stomachs after what they'd endured."

"It would taste very sweet," Frodo mused.

"What did you think it might be?" asked the Master Healer, also growing more alarmed as he began to understand. "Was something in the drinks?"

"We believe so, yes," Aragorn answered. "Tell me--" he addressed the healers as a group, "Did you distribute many of them before we came? Has anyone drunk from theirs?" One or two ladies shook their heads, and both the King and Frodo turned to regard Tharya with fearful expectancy.

Tharya quickly shook her head also. "I was given a cup, but I haven't drunk any yet." She gestured back toward the room behind her, where the untouched cup sat on a low table beside the bed.

"Was Methilde here?" asked Frodo. "Has anyone seen her?"

"She was here only a few minutes ago," said Pahiril, "helping to take the possets around." Several of the herbalists confirmed this.

"Did she bring your posset in to you?" Frodo asked Tharya.

"I don't know who you mean. It was one of the healers-" She looked around at the faces of the herbalists in the corridor, but did not see the person who had attended her.

"A young woman?" Frodo prompted. "About the same age as yourself, but shorter. Pale and solemn, with brown hair parted at the middle and dark eyes?"

"Yes, I think so. I didn't really notice--her hood was drawn low over her face. She brought the cup in to me, and said that the milk would be soothing. I was to drink it at once, before it cooled." Tharya's eyes grew wide with fear and comprehension; Frodo thought she might be sick again. "I didn't- I was about to do so, but that was when the captain and my lord Elessar came in shouting. Then I heard a great crash, and came out to see what had happened."

"She must've stolen out in the confusion," said Aragorn, and turned to Beregond. "She must be found immediately, before she can do more harm."

"At once, my lord." The captain went out to assemble his guardsmen for the search.

Most of the crowd in the corridor still only half-understood what was going on, and Frodo explained it to them. He had only once before addressed so large an audience, and never a group so tall. He felt somewhat diffident at having so many Big people gathered around him, hanging on his words as he told them why he was certain that Methilde was the poisoner.

"No one but a healer could have used one of your medicine bottles and seal," he explained. "I'd long suspected that a woman was involved in this, and when I learned that a woman had brought in that bottle the Master hadn't sent, and heard that Methilde had been around our house since then, I realized it must be she. She had opportunities no one else had. She knew I'd be ill on New Year's day. She was with us when I told you." He turned to the Master Healer. "Was she here on New Year's day when you received the message that I needed aid? You didn't send her, did you?"

"She was here," the Master Healer confirmed. "Few were about, since it was a holiday. I recall seeing her when your message arrived, but I was busy with my patient and did not speak to her. I did not send her to you, Frodo, but asked another to go in reply, explaining why I could not come."

"She must have intercepted your reply, and told messenger that she would go in his stead," said Frodo. "We ought to find that person and see if I'm right. If the King hadn't been there to help me, I might've taken the 'medicine' she brought without a second thought."

"It seems a fortuitous coincidence for her that you weren't able to come to Frodo that day, Master," said Faramir.

Frodo agreed. "Your patient," he asked the Master Healer, "may I ask what was wrong with him?"

"He had suffered from a fever for several days. He was showing every sign of a recovery--his fever had abated--but on New Year's day, he had a most violent relapse..." The Master Healer fell silent as a terrible thought occurred to him, the same thought that had already occurred to Frodo, Faramir, and others.

"She knew her herb-craft," said Frodo. "Her aunt must have taught her a great deal."

"A most bright and promising pupil," Pahiril said, and shook his head. "That she should misuse her talents in such a vile manner!"

The herbalists were stunned and scandalized that the poisoner who'd been terrorizing Minas Tirith for months should be one of their own--and one they all knew well and never suspected. At Pahiril's orders, they went to examine the medicines stored in the herbarium pharmacy to be sure that nothing had been tampered with. The mess on the floor was cleaned up, and the cup on Tharya's nightstand taken away to be examined for poison. The sick ladies were allowed to go home; under the circumstances, it was agreed by all that they would rest more comfortably in their own beds than they would in the Houses.

The horn atop the White Tower blew an alarm for the third time as Frodo left the Houses of Healing with the King, Queen, Steward and his lady. Tharya went with them, for she would be safest in their company until Methilde was found.

"But why?" she asked as they walked up the street. "Why did this herbalist, whom I've never seen before, want to kill me? What grudge does she bear me?"

"Yes, you've told us how you discovered the poisoner, Frodo," Eowyn agreed, "but you haven't explained why she did these terrible things. Why poison Lord Carathir and Caradan? How did she know them, or Tharya?"

Arwen was equally perplexed. "There is much of this I still don't understand."

"It was because of Cirandil," Frodo explained, with an apologetic glance at Tharya. "She loved him, you see. He met her while he was wounded and lying abed at the Houses of Healing three years ago. Her great-aunt Bregilde nursed him. Perhaps he courted Methilde then, before he saw you again, Lady Tharya. Cirandil might tell us more about that. I can only guess at her motives, but I think she must have killed his uncle, and then Caradan, to give Cirandil the inheritance that should have gone to his cousin. With their deaths, Cirandil has risen from a citadel Guard to a lordling. Perhaps she hoped to marry him and become his lady. There was no money, but she didn't know about that."

"Did Cir know of this plan?" asked Faramir. Tharya also looked as if she were worried about this same point, but did not dare ask for fear of the answer.

"No, I don't believe so," Frodo assured them. "If he had, she wouldn't have threatened him, or tried to murder him today. She killed for his benefit, and when she learned that he loved someone else... she must have felt she'd been betrayed. He and his love must die too."

"I did indeed choose the right investigator when I summoned you, Frodo," the King praised him. "This woman would have gone unsuspected, and we would be no nearer finding her than we were four months ago, if not for you."

"If I'd been more clever, I would've seen the truth earlier, before it came to this end," Frodo answered. Alaric's death might have been prevented, and he felt his responsibility for it as much as Cirandil did.

The royal party left him at the tunnel to the citadel, except for Faramir, who saw Frodo safely to the door of Gandalf's house. Once the door was unlocked from within and Frodo admitted, he told Gandalf and Merry what had happened at the Houses of Healing. None of them had any appetite for dinner. They all knew that this was not yet over; Methilde might have gone anywhere in the city, might be planning one last strike against her chosen targets before she was captured. They could only make sure that the house was secure, and wait anxiously for news.

At dusk, Beregond came to tell them that the search had ended. "She was found in the rooms where her aunt had lived, above the bakery," he reported. "She's been borne to the Houses of Healing."

"I want to talk to her," Frodo said, and was ready to grab his cloak and go out. He still had so many unanswered questions.

"You can't," Beregond answered bluntly. "It's too late. She had already taken the last of her poison before we discovered her--she was still alive, but beyond recovery. She died within minutes."

The captain brought forth a scrap of cloth and, from it, took out another small vial like the two on Frodo's bedside table, holding the top with his fingertips as Gandalf had done. "I thought you would like to see this, Mithrandir," he said as he gave it to the wizard, "though we've no need for such proof now. I've taken care not to touch the glass and smudge the marks left by her fingers. They are most certainly from Methilde's fingers--I took it from her hand myself."

"You said she was alive when you found her," Frodo said hopefully. "Did she say anything at all before she died?"

"Very little," Beregond answered. "Her only words were, 'I'm sorry about Auntie.'"
Chapter 46 by Kathryn Ramage
After Beregond had left, Frodo sat on Merry's bed and told his cousin the end of the tale. Gandalf had also joined the hobbits and sat smoking his pipe on the empty bed that had once been Pippin's while he listened.

"I was closest to seeing the truth when I wondered if there'd been an old romance between Carathir and Bregilde, and the herbalist bore a grudge when he cast her off," Frodo concluded. "It was the right idea, but the wrong generation. Cirandil and Methilde were the ones I should've considered. It would have told me much of the story."

"You couldn't have guessed, Frodo," Merry said consolingly. "She seemed like such a nice, quiet girl, and not mad or vengeful at all."

"That's the horrible thing. I liked her," Frodo answered glumly. "I thought she was trying to help me find her aunt's murderer, but every word she said was a cold-blooded lie. She had no qualms about killing anyone who stood in the way of what she wanted, even me. She felt no remorse--except for her aunt, if we take her at her final word. I thought it was so kind of her to come and visit when I was ill, but she must've come that first time to look for ways to poison me. She always planned her murders carefully, and learned something of her victims' habits before she acted."

"And what about the second time?" asked Merry. "If she'd been hanging around outside the house for days, she must've been after something. That bottle of poison was already here."

"I think she hoped to get into the house unobserved and retrieve that bottle once she saw I wasn't going to take her 'medicine'. She couldn't even hope that I'd take it in mistake for the sleeping potion, since I'd stopped using that as well. As long as it sat here, it would be a danger to her. Once I learned that the Master Healer hadn't sent it, I'd soon figure out who had." He sighed. "Until then, I was blind and trusting. She made a fool of me from the first. She planned to mislead me even before I came here."

"How do you mean?" asked Gandalf.

"Her aunt's death," Frodo replied. "I've been thinking about it, and I'm sure Methilde killed her aunt because she'd heard that the King had summoned a Special Investigator to find the murderer. Perhaps Bregilde knew or suspected what she'd done, and Methilde ensured the old woman's silence before I arrived. But more than that--I think she did it so I would have someone to look for. As a skilled herbalist, and one who often went into the citadel on her business with the ladies, Bregilde would be a natural suspect. Methilde led me in that direction when I first met her--she was the one who suggested that her aunt had provided the poison that killed Carathir and his son, and then been killed herself. Not a word of it was true, but it sounded plausible and I came believe it. My theories were based upon it. As long as I was busy searching for the person who'd hired Bregilde, a person who didn't exist, I wouldn't consider other possibilities, or other herbalists.

"It might've ended there, with my investigation running to no end, if it hadn't been for Cirandil and Tharya. Methilde didn't know he was in love with another girl. I told her that. She kept insisting to me that Cirandil was innocent. She didn't want him to take the blame for the murders. Even when she realized that he'd scorned her, she didn't want to see him harmed. She stayed her hand rather than kill him as she did the others--I'm sure that's why she sent that note to frighten him away. It wasn't until he was brought back and we told her how worried he was for Tharya, she must've seen that driving them apart wouldn't do no good. And so the poison came out again--for Tharya, for Cirandil, and for me. Perhaps she already intended to poison the ladies' tea and bring Tharya to the Houses where she could give her something more deadly."

"Why do you think she wanted to kill you, Frodo?" Gandalf asked him. "You admit that you never suspected her, but she must've felt you were a threat--enough so that she risked coming here to deliver that bottle when she might be observed and remembered. It was, after all, her attempt to poison you that brought her to your attention."

"I don't know," Frodo admitted. "She might've done it before then. She had a chance, in the Houses of Healing, and didn't. Maybe she was afraid I was getting too close to discovering the truth and wanted to stop me." He brightened suddenly. "She saw her name in that list of suspects we made up, Merry! Remember? It was mostly a joke, but she must've poisoned her aunt just the way I said then. Bregilde had no mysterious visitor that night." He flopped onto the bed at his cousin's feet. "I feel like such a fool, and more people are dead because of me."

"Enough recriminations," Gandalf said, rising from his seat. "You did your best. Do you think this young woman would have stopped at two murders if you hadn't intervened? Having such power over the lives and deaths of others is a temptation too great for some to resist. Once she'd tasted that power, she would use it again and again whenever she had need. Once she learned of Tharya and Cirandil, as she must eventually, she would've done just as she did. Who knows how many more lives might have been taken? Everyone in the city will sleep more safely tonight, Frodo, because of you. And so you too must sleep."

As he headed for the door, he paused and turned back. "I suppose you'll want to stay in here with Merry tonight--but, Frodo, you are not to keep him up. He's had a tiring day too." This was spoken with an underlying meaning that the hobbits couldn't misinterpret, and Merry laughed after Gandalf had gone out.

"There, you see, Frodo? Wizards do know everything." He held back the blankets to invite Frodo in. "Come to bed. Gandalf's quite right: I'm not up for much tonight, after the day I've had, but I'd welcome someone to hold me tight. And so would you."

Frodo couldn't argue with that, and snuggled down beside his cousin.
Chapter 47 - Epilogue by Kathryn Ramage
Although there were families that grieved within it, Minas Tirith had become a safer place once the poisoner had been discovered. Members of the councilor sat down to their dinners without fear. There were less guards on duty within the citadel, and the off-duty guardsmen had begun to frequent the Steward's Arms in great numbers again. Even the Queen's ladies-in-waiting were able to drink tea after a few days. Frodo's work was praised by all.

Cirandil was stunned when he learned who had killed his kinsmen. "Of course, I remember the girl," he admitted to Frodo after he was released from the garrison hall. "We became friends while I recovered from my wound, but hadn't seen her since I went away last autumn. Nothing dishonorable passed between us. I never promised her marriage, or anything else. I never even kissed her!" The young Man grew pale as a thought occurred to him. "I told her once that I hated being a poor relation, orphaned and dependent on my uncle's kindness... Do you suppose that's where it began? I swear, I knew nothing of what she was doing. When I received that note, I had no idea who'd sent it."

In the days that followed, the King considered how best to fill the vacant seats in his Council, since Imatibin had resigned and Larengar was about to retire; Gefitibin's name was spoken, but no definite decision had yet been made. Grangirtan was appointed as Keeper of the Treasury and, in spite of his part in the scandal, Gathin was allowed to remain in his place for the present, until someone else who could manage the complicated bookkeeping system was found.

"You don't hate me, as Imatibin does?" Frodo asked timidly when he met Larengar shortly before the elderly councilor's leaving.

"I bear no grudge for you doing your duty," Larengar answered. "My Lord Elessar brought you here to conduct an investigation, and so you did, with great success. You only found out things that must come to light eventually. Mithrandir warned us at the beginning that it was a mistake to underestimate you Small Folk. I've learned the truth of that for myself!" He chuckled. "And Imatibin's gone--I'm thankful for that service you've done Gondor. If only Hilabar were out as well. It's what he deserves."

Frodo was surprised to hear that Larengar was still so vehemently against his old rivals. "You know now that they had nothing to do with Lord Carathir's death, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes, but they should never have been on the Council in the first place. At least, Hilabar's lost his chance to get his hands on the treasury. What he would've spent out of it on all his outlandish projects would never be replaced. Well, I'm out of that argument. Let the Council settle it. I'll spend time with my family--Tharya and Cirandil. They'll be married in the autumn, you know, after a decent interval has passed, and will live with me until that old ruin of a house of Carathir's can be made livable."

"You've no objection to the match?"

"None at all! You're welcome to attend the wedding, Frodo, if you're still here. Tharya thinks the world of you, since you saved them both."

Frodo ventured, "May I ask, if it isn't too personal a question: You knew that all along that Carathir had used up his money, and had nothing to leave his son or nephew, didn't you?"

"Yes, that's right," Larengar confirmed. "I knew about his taking money from the Treasury, if that's what you wish to know."

"No, that's not why I ask. But you would have your daughter wed to Caradan, and now Cirandil, even though they'd have no inheritance?"

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Carathir was my dearest friend. It was a show of allegiance that my daughter wed his son. Tharya is my one child and heir, and will be wealthy enough. Cirandil's the one she wants. Fool that I am, I didn't see that until she was so distressed when he flew off. And since I nearly lost her... Well, I can deny her nothing now. Besides, it's important that I stand by the boy. There are some who will always say he was in collusion with that poisoner woman. Tharya says it isn't so, and you don't believe it, do you, Frodo?"

"No, sir."

"Then that is enough for me. I can think of no better way to show our loyalty than by calling him my son-at-law. Carathir would wish it."




Though his work in Minas Tirith was done and Frodo was in better health than he'd been in in years, he was in no hurry to return home. It was best, he'd decided, to stay away and let Sam get used to living with Rosie and their baby, without him there. He tried not to think about Sam, and instead focused on making a new life for himself with Merry. They had fun together. He worked on his book. He and Merry went out riding with Eowyn and took walks on the mountain paths whenever they felt a need to have green grass and earth beneath their feet, and they spent their afternoons in the citadel in the company of their friends. Frodo even became involved in another mystery, following the discovery of a long-dead Elf buried within the citadel wall.

Midsummer had passed, and still Frodo remained in Minas Tirith. He and Merry were in the royal chambers one evening before dinner, when a page announced that a lone rider had arrived at the city gates and asked to see the King. Since he was known to the city guardsmen, the new arrival had been escorted up to the citadel and waited without.

"Please, bring him in," said Aragorn, as curious as the rest of the party to see who this messenger could be. The page went out, and returned with Pippin.

There were yelps of delighted surprise, and hugs all around. "You came all that way by yourself?" Merry and Frodo both asked, deeply impressed that Pippin had made such a remarkable journey alone.

"I had to come," Pippin answered, with an odd note in his voice; the undauntable little hobbit sounded unusually subdued, as if he were apologizing. "I didn't know how to send a message and be sure it would reach you." The other hobbits were alert now; whatever had brought Pippin so far, it was important. "Merry, your father's dead," he announced in the same contrite tone.

Merry gripped Frodo's arm. "How? He wasn't even eighty. Wh- what happened?"

"His heart gave out, they said," Pippin told him. "They found him in his study one evening after dinner. He hadn't been the same since you went away."

Merry looked as if he'd been struck by these last words. Frodo also felt a sharp pang of grief; Uncle Saradoc hadn't quite been like a father to him, the way Aunt Esme had been a second mother, but he'd grown up under Saradoc's care and protection, and had been fond of him in spite of his uncle's ridiculous stubbornness over Merry.

While the others murmured their sympathies, Pippin plunged on with his business: "It's six weeks ago now, Merry, but they're expecting you to come home as soon as you can. Your Uncle Merry's looking after things, but if you're going to take your rightful place, he says you've got to come. The Master of the Hall can't live away from it."

They decided to leave in the morning. Gandalf would accompany the hobbits as far as Rivendell. After dinner, they made their farewells and went to pack for the journey home. While Merry gathered his belongings in his room, Pippin sat on his old bed and told his cousins news of the Shire. When Frodo asked, he talked about Sam.

"They had a little girl," Pippin reported. "She was a funny little red lump at first, but they say she's going to turn out pretty. Sam says she's the image of Rosie. They named her Elanor."

"That's an odd name for a hobbit," said Merry as he stuffed shirts into his pack. "It sounds almost elvish."

"It is," said Frodo. "It's what the Elves call the little yellow flowers that grow in Lothlorien." He'd been the one to suggest the name, when Rosie had contradicted Sam's hopes for a son by stating definitely that her firstborn would be a daughter.

"Sam wanted to come with me," said Pippin, "but he couldn't, of course. He's far too busy at home with the new baby and his investigations."

"Sam's investigation's?" Frodo repeated in surprise.

"You couldn't know, but people still come to Bag End with their mysteries, even though you've gone away. Sam couldn't turn them away, so he does what he can for them, and I help out whenever I'm in Hobbiton. No murders--we mostly find missing things and untangle mischiefs. Sam's helped the shirriffs with a robbery or two. Why, the Mayor's-" Pippin stopped, for at this moment, Merry sank down to sit on the floor by his bed with his face in his hands.

"Merry!" Frodo leapt up before Pippin could move, and crossed the floor to crouch down at Merry's side. "Darling, what is it?"

"I'm sorry," Merry said in a choked voice. "It just struck me again, all of a sudden. Father's dead. Gone for good. He never understood, and he was awful to me when I left the Shire, but I always thought there'd be time for us to make things up between us one day... and now we won't." As he began to weep, Frodo put his arms around him. Merry clung to him and sobbed, "We'll never be reconciled now."

Frodo held onto him tightly while he cried. When he glanced up over Merry's bowed head, he saw that Pippin was staring at them. While not the most perceptive of hobbits, Pippin could obviously see that things had changed between the two of them.

As Frodo met his younger cousin's eyes, he realized that the long journey home would be an awkward one for all three.
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