17 March, 67 F.A.

  In the life of a queen, nothing was private, and today that truth pressed on me more painfully than ever before. The room was bursting, not only with midwives and servants, but also with members of the Crown Council, for the birth of the heir had to take place before witnesses. Ironic, considering I had spent the last month in strict bedrest in a darkened chamber into which only my four maids were allowed to enter. And now, exposed, sweating, overwhelmed by pain, I lay before half the court.

  I no longer knew how long I had been fighting. Time had lost all meaning. At the midwife’s command I pushed one last time, until my vision went black and I was certain I would die. Then at last my child was there.

  A murmur went through the gathered men, the midwives bent over the newborn, and for an endless moment there was silence that froze my heart. Only when a strong cry split the air did the tension fall from me. I sank back into the pillows, exhausted, but alive.

  The child was wrapped in an embroidered cloth bearing the arms of Rohan and placed in my arms. I knew they expected me to present the heir to the throne, but the world could wait. For a long moment I saw only him.

  His eyes were dark, almost black, yet in their expression I recognised Théodred at once.

  “Halò, a bhalaich,” I whispered, touching his tiny hand before I lifted my head and looked at the assembled witnesses.

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  “Dhia glèidh prionnsa Alasdair.”

  A cheer rose through the hall.

  18 April, 67 F.A.

  When I stepped out into the bright sunlight for the first time after the mother’s blessing, the four weeks in that dark room were almost forgotten. Théodred greeted me first, his voice warm and full of pride:

  “Mo bhean, mo bhanrigh. A dhia glèidh a’ Bhanrigh.”

  The feast that followed was the greatest since the end of the War of the Ring, but the dignitaries did not interest me. Every free moment I spent in the nursery with my son, who grew more and more like Théodred, only that his fair hair shone with a reddish hue like mine.

  A maid brought me a letter bearing my mother’s seal. I dismissed her and sat down to read. The words were full of pride, but also full of demands: I was to pray daily to Eru for Alasdair’s health, to allow my husband back into my bed soon, and to remember that Arnor also needed an heir.

  “It needs an heir and a spare, for both kingdoms,” she wrote. “Arnor must remain an independent realm, no matter the cost.”

  And then, almost casually, the postscript: King Eldarion had once spent much time with an Elven woman who now wandered again through Middle?earth. She would soon be expected in Fornost — and perhaps in Meduseld as well.

  I read the letter five times, and with each reading my anger rose higher. At last I crumpled the paper and threw it into the hearth.

  It was so typical of my mother: my son was barely a month old, and already she was chiding me to bear more children. As if they grew on trees. And had she not spent so many years separated from my father, there might have been a sister who could inherit Arnor.

  Yet my anger did not change the fact that she was right. A single son was no security. No one knew whether he would survive his early years or whether an accident might befall him.

  I sighed. The healer had ordered me several more weeks of rest, but after that I would have to allow Théodred back into my bed. The act itself was not unpleasant; I merely disliked the disorder it left behind. Still, I knew what my duty was.

  And I would fulfil it.