You sent your women away, Boromir said, shutting the door quietly behind him. She could see him reflected in the curve of the mirror, the careful way he held himself, the sharpness of his gaze. How like her husband, Zinat thought with equal parts fondness and exasperation, to approach as though he were preparing an assault on unfamiliar territory. She was certain if she made too-sudden a movement, he would reach for the sword currently absent from his hip.
(It would be a lie to say she did not toy with the idea, but she was too tired and grieved to do more than that.)
Indrani came to me, Boromir said. She was worried.
I was only tired, Zinat answered, reaching back to unclasp the guluband around her neck. I do not like so many hands touching me, when I am like this. It only serves to foul my temper further.
In the mirror, she could see how Boromir studied her. You are very good at that, my wife, he said. Lying and telling the truth at once. But I am getting better at discerning when you do it. Indrani told me what passed in the hall.
Zinat’s fingers fumbled at the clasp of her necklace, as she stared blindly into the mirror. She could not find the catch, she couldn’t—her chest was tight and it was difficult to breathe, to think—they had said—is that was whispered of her? is that all she would be, in this land?
Your hands are shaking, Boromir said gently, crossing the chamber to her side. His rough fingers grazed the back of her neck as he unclasped her guluband. She let the necklace slip down to her lap, leaning into Boromir’s hands. Boromir laughed, and teased some of the strands that had come loose of her braid. It eased the ache in her chest, to feel the warmth radiating from him. Zinat…he began quietly.
My mang, she interrupted. In the mirror she could see his expression shift, the worry giving way to a furrowed brow and an expression of confusion.
Your—what?
She touched a finger to the strand of pearls that rested in the parting of her hair, and gave him an expectant look.
It has a name? Boromir asked, sounding faintly amused as he found the small hook at the other end of the mang, and loosed it from her hair. She held her hand out, and he let the strand of pearls pool in her palm.
They all have names, she said. She plucked the guluband from where it had slid into her lap, and placed it, with her mang, on the mirror-table.
What is this one called? Boromir asked, touching the the jeweled magrela flower at her ear.
Karnphul, Zinat answered, smiling as he ran his fingertip through the finely-wrought gold strands that fell from the ear-ring to her shoulder. It is the ear-flower.
These, too, he removed and placed in her waiting palm. (He was slower than her ladies, but she appreciated his care, the deftness of his hands.) This? he asked, his fingertips tracing the engraved band at her arm.
Tad, Zinat said. That one was given to me by my brother, after his first successful campaign. I had aided him in securing our father’s favor, and so he had this made, from gold he took from the conquered city.
Boromir slipped it down, over her elbow, until it tangled with the bangles around her wrist. And these? I suppose they have a name too.
Churin, she laughed, as knelt beside her chair, slipped each of the thin bangles, then the tad, over her hand and set them on the shining pile with the other jewelry. Still kneeling, he reached out and touched the gold and pearl bracelet on her other arm—Gajrah, Zinat said. And below it is the jawe, the one with the gold drops.
She could feel the brush of his callouses on her arms as he slid them down, over her wrists. Zinat exhaled slowly. (He had spent the day in the fields, helping with the threshing, and he smelled of it, of sun on the golden hay, and—)
You don’t wear rings any longer, Boromir said suddenly, taking her hands in his, and studying them as though he could read her fortune from the lines of her palms.
They disquiet you, Zinat answered simply.
I hope you wear them when I am not at Emyn Arnen, then, Boromir said absently. You have beautiful hands. It is right they be adorned with more than…He fell silent, running his thumb over the simple silver band that marked her as his wife, Lady Ithilien.
She opened her mouth to say that it was enough, of course it was enough, when Boromir’s great head bowed, and he pressed her palm to his lips, first one, then the other. The gesture stole her breath, and she was suddenly aware of how he kneeled before her, supplicant.
I am sorry, he said, his pale eyes flicking up to meet hers. I…I do not know how any can look at the work you have done, all you have devoted to Emyn Arnen and Ithilien, and think you undeserving to be their mistress. But I know that there are those…among my people who would hold your blood and people against you. I understand that such ugliness exists. And it grieves me that I cannot always protect you from it, whether the court’s scorn, or the whispers of the people. But those men are fools, and liars—slavish dolts who know nothing but their own narrow gluttony and hatred. Their slander is baseless, Zinat. You must know that.
She swallowed, though it did not seem to lessen the ache in her throat. Indrani did tell you.
Yes. Though she left me to guess some of the uglier slurs.
I am sorry to have disappointed you, she said, whispered. It felt as though her ribs would crack, she wanted to weep—
Zinat, how can you have disappointed me? Boromir asked. His face (like still water, Boromir had never been able to hide his thoughts) showed only incredulity.
I know those merchants were influential, and convincing them to expand their trade routes to Ithilien would have enriched us greatly. She took a shuddering breath, said, They may not deal with a—Black Numenorean princess, but perhaps if you go, and speak with them—
You jest, Boromir said sharply. Zinat, I would not do business with them now if Emyn Arnen were ablaze, and they owned the Anduin. They accepted my hospitality only to insult my lady, the mistress of Ithilien, and all her people. If you desire, I will hunt them down and have them thrown in the dungeons of Minas Tirith.
You should not offer what you cannot give, husband, she said, trying for humor—but instead, her voice broke, and the tears she had fought to keep at bay since the council-hall spilled over.
Oh, princess, Boromir said, loosing her hands to reach up and wipe the tears from her eyes. Oh, Zinat, I know I am no emperor, nor king, but if you would have their heads on pikes, I will see it done. I will.
You will not, she protested, though it was weak, and somewhat dampened by her tears.
Do not test me, lady, he said, but there was jest dancing in his eyes. We Northmen are a barbaric people, and I more than most. If you wish their blood in your cup, you will have it. Whole casks, to drink at your leisure.
That is revolting, husband. And against the will of the One.
Maybe he’s busy and won’t notice.
He was cupping her face when she laughed, a wet hiccuping laugh that made him smile in turn. Zinat, he said, and his voice was gentler still, as he knelt at her feet. All her armor was in a shining pile on her mirror table, and when he gazed up at her with those unnatural pale eyes, it struck at her like a blow. Lady Ithilien, how could any ever be disappointed in you? he breathed.
Zinat made a small noise, and slid from her chair to kneel beside him, pressing her face to the curve of his neck. He held her like that as she wept, murmuring low, wordless comforts in Sindarin, and smelling of sun on the hay.
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