The Abduction of Éomer, King of Rohan

Chapter 1

Dol Amroth, October 3019 TA

I suppose the whole wretched affair started with that courier from Rohan. But I had no warning: no black geese flying by as he rode in through Dol Amroth's gates, no threatening clouds of thunder overhead, no sudden infestation of rats. Only the dogs barked, but they do that with every stranger.

It was one of those late, sunny autumn days, all the more precious because a trace of chill was in the air, hinting at winter rains to come. I had been schooling my mare in the practice ring behind the stables, and was just returning to the keep to get changed, when the courier rode in. For a moment I wondered if my father had sent him to prepare for his arrival four days hence, but then I saw the green tunic and the blond hair spilling out from under his helmet. From Rohan, then.

One of the grooms ran to take his reins and the rider dismounted with the easy grace of a man who has spent half his life on horseback. I saw him take off his helmet and exchange a quick word with the groom, so I went to join them. Had my father been present, he would no doubt have chided me for my impatience, but I'd had enough waiting for news the past few months to last me a lifetime.

"Welcome to Dol Amroth," I addressed the rider. "I am Princess Lothíriel and in charge of this castle. How fares Rohan?"

His nostrils flared and his eyes widened in surprise, but he caught himself quickly. "Thank you, my lady," he answered with a bow, "Rohan fares well."

I suppose I did not agree with his picture of a Gondorian princess, for he raked his eyes over me, starting at my dusty boots and ending on my less than pristine riding tunic. Perhaps I shouldn't have let Tuilin slobber all over me, but she was such a pretty thing. Too late now, anyway.

"You have messages for my father?" I asked. "He's on his way home from Minas Tirith, but won't be back for another four days."

"I carry a letter from the King of Rohan to Prince Imrahil," the rider confirmed and turned to his saddlebags to extract his missive.

This gave me the chance to study him more closely: a tall man, carrying himself with the same assurance of the accomplished warrior that my brothers displayed. While his clothing was nondescript and worn, the pommel of his sword gleamed with polish and his horse's tack looked well cared for. As for his stallion, his quality was unmistakable in the fine line of his neck and his powerful chest. If an ordinary courier had a steed like this, no wonder my father had been impressed with the horses of the Rohirrim.

The rider handed me a parchment sealed with the Sun of Rohan. As the stiff vellum crackled under my touch, I wondered whether to open it, but decided against it. Father would be home very shortly and quite likely it held some private communication for him. After all, he had become close friends with the King of Rohan.

I lifted my eyes from the letter to find the man studying me. Were they all so tall in Rohan? It was rather disconcerting to have to look up at somebody – not something I was used to, except for my father and brothers. Also not only did he tower over me, he also leant forward slightly, balanced on the balls of his feet in the swordsman's manner.

Another woman might have been intimidated by this, but I had been raised amongst warriors from childhood. And being thrust into the running of Dol Amroth during the war had taught me how to deal with men doubting my authority. The trick was not to let them encroach on your space, but rather hold your ground.

So I straightened my spine and lifted my chin. "Your name?"

"Léona they call me," he answered.

What an odd phrase. But I had noticed the speech of the Rohirrim often sounded strange to our ears. Although this man's Westron, spoken in a deep, rich voice, did not even hold a trace of an accent.