30 April, 66 F.A., Edoras

  In Rohan, Beltanie had always been celebrated on the night of April 30th, when the fires were lit and the may?tree blessed.

  I dipped my quill into the ink and wrote:

  “Rohan, two weeks after my coronation. Where shall I begin? The most urgent matters have been dealt with thanks to the Crown Council. Banrìgh Alyndra — my mother — has been reaffirmed as ruler of Arnor. The reason is as simple as it is farsighted: Arnor remains an independent kingdom, even after my father’s death. Should Gondor invade my homeland again, Rohan will stand with Arnor. At the same time, this decision sends a message: my mother will seek a new husband after the year of mourning. Of course the council in Fornost will decide, but my advisors believe it wise to spread this news already. Like my mother, Queen Tariél has departed. Her husband will not be pleased with her failure — but that is not my concern. Enough politics. It gives me headaches.”

  I paused, then added:

  “Théodred visits me every evening. I pray for an heir. The people of Rohan worship Eru differently than in Arnor. Their word for Him escapes me… perhaps I will remember later.”

  I closed the diary. A knock sounded. Théodred entered.

  “Feasgar math. Am I disturbing you, my lady?”

  “Chan eil idir, my husband. I simply did not expect you so early.”

  I reached for the pins of my headdress, but Théodred gently stopped my hands. “Leave it. That is not why I am here.” I stared at him in alarm.

  “Are you already weary of me? Tell me what I have done wrong, and I will amend it!”

  To my astonishment, he laughed softly. “What sort of man do you take me for? A fool who betrays a queen is a doomed fool.” His hands rested on my shoulders. “I think you are lonely since your mother left.”

  He was right. Her retinue had returned to Fornost with her. The servants here had once served her and my father, not me. I knew no one except Théodred. I would have liked to have my ladies?in?waiting from Arnor with me, but the council had forbidden it. I had been instructed to choose ladies from the old families of Rohan, as tradition demanded. But I had not yet had time to summon any candidates.

  “Why are you here, if not to share my bed?”

  “Does the word Beltanie mean anything to you?”

  “The fertility festival? I heard the servants speak of it. It is tonight, is it not?”

  “Exactly. I would ask you to attend. You are their lady now. The people should see you.”

  I hesitated. I knew the stories of the place. The legends of the Elves who were said to have blessed the hill had always fascinated me. So I agreed.

  Before midnight we climbed the Creach na Beatha — the Hill of Life — with my guard. I wore one of my travelling dresses, dark blue, plain and heavy, of tightly woven wool. Over it lay my dark cloak, and my round headdress kept my hair in place. It was not a splendid gown, but warm and practical for the night.

  When we reached the summit, the firelight blinded me. Four great fires burned at regular intervals. Many people had gathered around them. In the centre rose the may?tree, a slender trunk surrounded by a stone circle.

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  Four women hurried toward me and fell to their knees. “Lady Celebrian!”

  One of my guards stepped forward, but I raised my hand and said clearly in Rohirric: “No. Let them.” Théodred nodded to the women. “Rise. Tonight we celebrate as one people, not as lords and servants.” They obeyed, but did not dare meet my eyes.

  “Why have you come to me?” I asked.

  The smallest spoke: “Lady Celebrian, you and your husband honour us greatly. Tonight we embody the four seasons. Would you bless the tree of fertility?”

  I stepped toward the may?tree. In the moonlight, the stone circle looked both beautiful and uncanny. I did not know what one was supposed to say when blessing a tree, but I spoke loudly in Gàidhlig:

  “Am fear nach dèan cur sa Mhàrt, cha bhuain e san Fhoghar. Gum fosglach dorus na bliadhna ùire chum sìth, sonas is sàmchair. Gun cuireadh do chupa thairis le slàinte agus sonas. Gum biodh ràth le do thurus. Deagh?bheus, slàinte agus beartas!”

  I closed my eyes. The warmth of the fires and the words of my mother tongue filled me with pride. Of course a blessing in Rohirric would have been better, but I knew none that fit.

  The four women now stepped into the stone circle. They wore white garments and veils, each holding a lantern. They danced in circles around the tree, turning on their own axis. I watched, fascinated. Finally the eldest stepped forward, lifted her lantern toward the moon, and began to sing.

  I froze.

  It was Gàidhlig. Not as spoken in Arnor — older, softer, stranger — but unmistakably Gàidhlig.

  “A Rìgh na gile A Rìgh na grèine A Rìgh na rinne A Rìgh na reula…”

  The people around us listened reverently, without surprise, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Théodred leaned toward me.

  “They have sung this for generations. No one knows where it came from.”

  The eldest continued:

  “A Rìgh na cruinne A Rìgh na speura Is aluinn do ghnùis A lùb eibhinn”

  The air seemed to shimmer. The other lanterns turned toward the may?tree. A jolt went through the ground. I grabbed Théodred’s arm in panic — but there was nothing.

  A humming filled my head, swelling into a roar. I screamed, but no sound left my lips. Hands held me. Voices called my name. Then the roaring stopped, and I collapsed.

  When I awoke, Théodred knelt beside me.

  “Celebrian, can you hear me?”

  I nodded, dazed, and felt heat rush to my face. I had collapsed before the entire people. They would think me weak.

  The four women approached and stopped at a respectful distance. The eldest stepped forward. “My lady… it has happened.”

  “What has happened?” Théodred demanded sharply.

  “Since the old days it is said: if a woman falls at Beltanie, she carries new life. The earth knows it before she does.”

  I stared at her. “That… that is only superstition.”

  But the women shook their heads solemnly.

  “Not on this night. Not in the stone circle. Not under the full moon.”

  Théodred helped me up. “We will speak of this later,” he murmured in Gàidhlig. He wanted to lead me away, but I did not move.

  “I am well,” I said. My voice was steadier than I felt, but I could not afford weakness.

  A guard stepped forward. “My lady, we should return you to Meduseld.”

  “I will stay,” I interrupted loudly. “The people shall see that I am well.”

  Théodred studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded, though he was clearly unhappy with my decision.

  A murmur went through the crowd. Only now did I truly see the people.

  Their clothing was simple, warm, earthy. Wool, leather, fur, braided hair with patterns like sun?wheels and horse?hooves. I looked down at myself: my dark blue travelling dress, plain and heavy, without ornament. Still, I looked different from them.

  Not foreign like from another world — but foreign enough to be recognised at once. A little girl stared at me as if I were a figure from a song.

  An older man bowed deeply, but appraisingly. Two young women whispered and examined my clothing.

  I lifted my chin and looked at the gathered people. “I am well,” I said loudly.

  Some smiled shyly. Others bowed. And I remained standing, in the firelight, upright. I had fallen. But I stood again. And the whole people saw it.

  I looked at Théodred. “Should I go to them?”

  He placed a hand lightly on my back.

  “If you do, you will seem approachable — but they will notice you are still new here. There will be other occasions.”

  I nodded and allowed myself to be persuaded to return to Meduseld, but my gaze drifted one last time to the may?tree. The trunk shimmered in the moonlight as if it were breathing. And deep inside me, very deep, a quiet suspicion stirred.

  What if the women were right?