Zinat’s monthly blood is a full week late when she begins retching up her breakfast each morning. One of her maids, Fenniel, holds back her braid and her veil, her hand making circles on Zinat’s back as she murmuring comforting nothings in Sindarin.
Tell no one, she instructs her maids, after washing out her mouth with the sweet wine they have brought her. She trusts those she has in her service—they speak in a pidgin of Sindarin and Haradi and Common Speak, have barred her door against Boromir in his rages, serve as her loyal eyes and ears in Emyn Arnen. If they swear to silence, then none of them will speak a word of this until Zinat tells them such.
She does not tell Boromir.
Instead—Amma, she writes to her mother, her heart pounding in her chest like the wings of a frightened bird. Her Haradi script has gone thin and inelegant with disuse and a shaking hand. Amma, what do I do? Amma, I am so frightened, I am not prepared for a child. Amma, I wish you were here.
Her mother sends a missive so adorned with seals and crests and ribbons that Zinat expects something more than, I am coming. Ready your house to receive myself and my retinue.
Zinat is so shocked—she cannot recall her mother ever leaving Umbar, let alone Harad—that it must show on her face, for Boromir asks her if it is bad news.
My mother is coming, Zinat says faintly.
But surely, that is the best news of all, Boromir answers, smiling. You have not seen her since your parting in Harad, it will be good for you to embrace her again. Eowyn and Faramir are away in Rohan, so there will be room enough for all their party, and I will be glad to welcome her as my own mother.
He says it like it is such a small thing, clasping her hand warmly before turning back to his plate. Zinat watches him for a long moment, searching for the right words. Boromir, she says, desperately, her heart fluttering like bird’s wings again. Husband, I—I am with child.
He chokes.
.
When her mother’s caravan appears in the horizon, Zinat’s heart feels less like a bird’s wings and more like dwarven hammers. Look at that, Boromir says, his mouth a wry twist. My fearsome lady wife can indeed feel fear.
Zinat does not have words, not in Sindarin nor Haradi, for the sort of love that sings like a surmandal string between her and her mother. The woman who embraced her, reprimanded her, made her cry, made her strong, used her as a shatranj piece in the complex games the nobility of Umbar played among themselves and then taught her to play the game for her own sake. In Harad, Zinat had outranked her—daughter of the emperor, Padshah Begum, first in the zenana, but still her mother’s child.
(Still calling out in fear of the darkness, even now.)
But Boromir lost his mother at such a young age, that to try and talk him down from the pedestal he has placed her on would be cruel. Mothers are not like that, has no meaning to him.
Zinat’s heart is still like a hammer in her chest. When she bends to touch her mother’s feet, Zinat is so light-headed that she almost does not comprehend when Amma seizes her arms, forces her to straighten up.
Where is my daughter, she asks, and Zinat’s hammering heart freezes. I see only a beloved mother and wife, where has my daughter gone?
I am always here, amma, Zinat says, embracing her until her heart stops its aching.
She does not approve of much of Emyn Arnen, especially the cold grey stone, the ugliness of the Sindarin and Common Speech with which she is greeted, the sparseness of dress and living that the Gondorians prefer. She has not had time to fall in love with the green hills of Zinat’s new home, the blue ribbon of the Anduin, the distant spire of Minas Tirith. She does not see the work that Zinat has done to become lady of this house, to garner the respect of Ithilien’s farmers and fishermen and tradespeople and craftsmen; to make this strange land the fairest country in all the westlands. She does not see all that Zinat has come to love here.
She does not see, ZInat reminds herself, taking steadying breaths. She does not see. She cannot see.
Amma approves of Boromir, though, and at dinner, compliments Zinat on ensnaring so fair a husband. It’s a wonder you weren’t with child earlier, she says lightly, and Zinat is so startled she drops the trencher of venison.
Boromir (whose Haradi is still poor, and mostly endearments he learned for Zinat’s sake) smiles bemusedly as Amma laughs.
Zinat shows her all that might be shown, over the next few weeks—takes her down into the market, to see the fruits of Zinat’s land, the bounty of the Anduin; takes her to meet the Greenwood Elves who came to heal the blighted forests of Ithilien, and fair Legolas, who snares more than one heart among the Haradi retinue. Amma and her ladies-in-waiting do not ride, but her litter becomes a well-accustomed sight in Ithilien, and people turn out to see the Haradi princess on her clever little pony and the great mumakil with the golden litter atop its back.
(There are more than a few who go pale, call their children in, and shut their windows at the sight, for it was no so long ago that to see mumakil on the road in Ithilien was a terrible omen of war. But Zinat cannot change the past—all she can do is send one of her guards to their house the next day with a basket of food, and her apologies.)
At night, she and her mother sit in Zinat’s rooms and speak of—everything. How her sisters fare, her royal brother’s journeying in Far Harad and Khand, the emperor’s health, and yes, her pregnancy. I am afraid for this child, she says. Not just for the birth, but—I cannot bear the thought of its Haradi blood being a grievous weight around its neck. For a Prince or Princess of Ithilien to be shunted aside, because I was its mother…But nor can I stand the thought of a Gondorian child, one that does not know enough to be proud of its twice-noble lineage.
Amma listens in silence, then she pats Zinat’s cheek fondly.
Bityaa, she says, the name she has not used since Zinat was small enough to fit on her knee. When your child is old enough, do you think I will not send you all the astronomers and scholars and holy men and tawaifs you demand? Gondor grows in power but all its wisdom is from the Elves, and that is no legacy for a child of Men. Any child of yours will not grow up ignorant of what Harad has done, what it has kept, what a daughter or son of House Verethragna calls their own.
In Gondor, you inherit your house from your father, Zinat replies. She lets her hand rest on the not-yet-defined curve of her belly, wondering if it felt different than the month before, if something in her skin knew—
And in Harad, you inherit it from your mother. Bityaa, you have made a home in a land that is not your own, made it your own. Yes, even if I do not like it, I can see that. Do you truly believe that your child will not be able to find peace in itself, as you have?
I can only hope. I can only hope.
Before she leaves, Amma leaves behind her favorite physician. I do not trust these Gondorian healers, she tells Zinat, patting her hand. They rely too much on Elvish techniques and Emperor’s balm—kingsfoil. See, I am learning to speak in the Northern-tongue too.
Yes, Amma, Zinat says, and kisses her mother’s cheek. (It was not so papery when she left for Gondor, was it? Those fine lines around Amma’s mouth had not been so deep, then, or perhaps—the idea that her mother has become older in her absence startles Zinat, and she watches too long at the gate, hiding her tears in her veil.)
Come back inside, lady, Boromir says, when the caravan is no longer in sight. It grows dark, and you shake with cold.
She does not bother correcting him.
.
And what did you learn today? Boromir asks, scooping up the giggling Maazin and making him shriek with laughter. Or should I send you back to Master Kamaluddin?”
Munel ra reyatip til les no pinici rilupit, katala wisarul catiro ror uma sem ipasec so regate civi, Maazin said proudly.
I think you mean ‘Munel ra reyatop’, Boromir corrected, and Maazin’s face fell. But that’s good, baghelaa, your amma will be very proud of you. Should we go see where she is?
Zinat was in the garden, sitting with Fathpuri in the gathering dusk. For the last month of her pregnancy, the physicians and healers alike recommended bed rest, with the occasional walk around the garden to get some air. Zinat had, of course, chafed at such measures—if she could have held audience from her bed, she might have—but ultimately the combined force of Boromir, her ladies-in-waiting, and the physicians bullied her into complying. For the safety of the child, she had said, piling about her missives and books and dusty records, determined to still see to the business of Ithilien.
Boromir had decided it a compromise, and gave up.
Amma! Maazin calls, flying to Zinat’s side. He chatters at her in a happy mix of Sindarin and Haradi, about his riding lessons and the letter from his cousin Elfwine—
Boromir kisses the crown of Zinat’s head, sitting beside her on the bench. After a few moments, Maazin wears himself out and goes to chase one of the stray cats who stalk through the palace.This one will be a girl, Zinat says suddenly, and when Boromir looks over, her hand is playing across the swell of her stomach. A daughter, I can feel it.
A daughter? Boromir echoes, thinking of a little girl in Harad silk, dark hair coming unplaited as she chases her brother through the halls of Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith. The vision makes something in his chest seize.
A daughter, Zinat says, smiling at him. Now, help me to my feet, it is time for evening prayer. Maazin! Fathpuri, fetch Maazin for me.
Boromir carries Maazin on his shoulders, walking beside Zinat to the room she has designated her temple. He goes no further than the threshold—he never has, except for the once, when Zinat’s labor had dragged on for a full day and he was panicked with the thought of losing both wife and unborn child.
He grants them silence as Zinat and Fathpuri and Maazin remove their shoes, joining the Haradi members of Boromir’s household already congregated. The ritual is familiar to Boromir now, as his own skin, as the prayers his mother taught him. He watches as Zinat and the others face West, towards where Meneltarma stood, the holy man Zinat brought from Harad reciting the prayers to Eru-most-merciful. They go down on their knees as one (Zinat, too pregnant to do so gracefully, bows her head) and then bow their foreheads to the thick tapestry, echoing, Peace be upon us.
Boromir gazes at his son, that small face screwed up in concentration, and then at his wife, who moves with all the grace of one who has the rhythm of this worship in her bones. A daughter, he thinks, and though he has only ever prayed on the battlefield (oh eru please eru please I don’t want to die) he finds himself sending up a prayer of his own.
A daughter. Eru protect us.
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