The tower was strange enough, jutting out from the mountain like a black stone mast. It was Gondorian, that much was clear. Númenórean, she would learn later—ancient stone work from the time in which the Hornburg and Orthanc were built in the same manner. But those fortresses were intact after an age. The tower in Blithing was all that remained of a fortress built to guard the East slope of the Harrowdale. The once-tiered burg that guarded the White Mountain passes was gone, the tower a monument to the descendents of that sunken isle.
The tower was strange, there was no doubt, rising from a landscape dotted with timber structures, but it had reason to be there. The history of the region was well-known—Rohan had of course been part of Gondor once—Calenardhon, it was called, the Green Province—until Eorl of the North rode to Gondor’s aid and was rewarded with the land for his allegiance.
Alliance, Dytha corrected herself, remembering a childhood lesson. Rohan was in an alliance with Gondor, not allegiance. It had its own king, after all.
No, it was not the tower that puzzled her, but what was inside it. The stone walls matched the same impressive color and structure as the exterior, with one exception. Set in the Southern wall was a craved doorway of an altogether different make. Its posts were not parallel, but tapered, the outsides slanting up and towards each other to be topped by two massive stone capitals, between them a relief carved with geometric knotwork. The door itself was a bas relief of different tones of inlaid marble to create what to her looked like three mountains, framed by clouds. They could be any mountains, she supposed, but whenever she saw them, she thought of the Trihyrne—the mountains that towered over her old home and another ancient fortress. How could she not?
It looked Dwarvish, but having little more than a passing knowledge about Dwarvish culture, she could not tell from where, or even from when. What was it doing set into the wall of a Gondorian castle, in a Rohirric village, far from the nearest Dwarven stronghold by at least a hundred leagues. The question would not leave her.
She sat across from it, having tried to pry it open not just by herself but with a team of as many horses as she could safely fit within the round stone room. It never so much as cracked. It was beautiful, but the mystery allured her more. Leohtwyn had told her she’d found an iron vein on the mountain. Had there once been a mine here? Had dwarves ever really settled in the White Mountains, only for their memory to be lost to time and their secret ways? Was the door some Númenórean artifact, pilfered in some campaign and set on display as a trophy? Did it ever actually open, or was it symbolic of something, as she’d seen in some Dunlending crypts—doors that were not doors, through which Men were never meant to pass.
She approached and reached out to run her fingers along the stone seams. The interior of the tower had been grimy and cracked, worn as much by age as by use. The door, however, was smooth to the touch, and in the right light she could make out a polished sheen. She needed to know what was behind it, if anything. She could not think of anything else until she did. With a firm nod and a look that warned the door she’d be back for it, she turned and hurried down the mountain path towards the Mead Hall to pen another message for Otarnon. If there was anyone out there who could tell her the slightest thing about the door, she would find them. Perhaps it held the answers she’d been looking for—her own wyrd, which she sought so desperately. Perhaps it was the answer to everything.
