'Where now the horse and the rider?'
Prequel to 'Rain on the Mountain'.
Before the storm clouds of war gathered.
Before the growing shadow in the East took form.
Before the Riddermark knew the choking hold of a wizard's malice.
Before the illegitim...
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Chapter 1
Green, fresh and bright, Spring had come once again. As it always did. The bitter hold of Winter had melted away from the rolling meadows of the Riddermark, leaving only the distant peaks of the White Mountains to the South capped by snow. On the plains below the jagged precipices, the grass grew high, the mild air heavy with the pollen of blooming wildflowers and the sound of birdsong.
Not for the first time, Théadain wished she could name more of what grew around her as she sat amidst the grass and swaying blooms on a small hillock beneath the city of Edoras. Idly reaching to pluck an errant ear of wheat that must have seeded itself during the previous year's harvest, she twisted the stem in her fingers thoughtfully. The gentle breeze that filled her lungs and toyed with her loose copper curls gradually began to soothe the burning tightness that had gripped her chest since she had stormed down through the city gates some hours ago, spitting curses like an overboiling pot. She and her father had fought again, bitterly. It seemed to have become a regular occurrence in these past few seasons, as she had tumbled headlong into her seventeenth year and the conversation arose regarding the future path of the King's daughter.
The King's bastard daughter, she did not need to remind herself, for that was where the cause of conflict truly lay. Though the roots of their argument were anchored in the fact that she had never been treated as such. Her father had claimed her as his own and loved her and protected her fiercely, whereas lesser men would have gladly cast aside a child that could serve no use as an heir. It was because of that love the King held for her that he believed she ought to set her feet to the traditional path of the dutiful daughter. Indeed, had she been trueborn, the child of a blissfully wedded couple, her roles would be clear. Demureness and domesticity would be her calling. Perhaps a small role in the court of the King, all smiles and grace as she awaited the match of an appropriate man. Some Gondorian noble, a highly ranked rider – neither option seemed any less insufferable than the other, and Théadain counted her blessings every day that she was not born into that cage.
No, as she saw it, she stood just beyond the bars that threatened to entrap her wilful spirit, for wilful she was. She had never sought the quieter pursuits that had been half-heartedly offered to her as she grew. Perhaps it was because there was no gentle hand of a mother to guide her through them, or perhaps it was because she had been raised amidst the scuffle and scramble of her brother and cousin. What she desired was far from quiet. She wanted hoofbeats and dust, the flash of steel and raucous laughter, the burning ache of muscles pushed to the limits of comfort and beyond.
She longed to be a Rider. She longed for the joy and freedom she found in the saddle, the capability she felt when she gripped the hilt of a sword or landed a blow with her curled fist. She wanted to fly unbounded over the plains of her homeland, surrounded by her countrymen under an open sky. Whether knowingly or not, these were the things her father had taught her to love and yearn for.
