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For the next few days the city was figuratively buzzing with excitement and gossip, about the Men of the West.

And the woman of the West, of course.

One woman came up to me one day - I became excited, thinking she was coming to buy, yet she paid no heed to my wares and asked me in a hushed whisper did I hear that the Ramyah's son had sneaked out of the Citadel grounds with the King's daughter early that morning. I could not have cared less and told her so. Affronted, the old lady tossed her shawl over one shoulder and stalked away.

I was probably a little interested in proceedings but right now I had other things to worry about. My supplies were running short, we had almost no spare money left and Grandmother was in bed with aching joints, so a slight desperation known too well by me was making itself known. That meant I was in a bad mood. I leaned my head onto the spindly timber frame of the stall, the only things holding up the bright drooping awnings, with their distinstive heavy fabric and embroidered hems, and wished I was relaxing in the gardens.

My usual customers - I say usual, I mean of course the occasional young woman seeking to buy something cheap - had all seemingly disappeared, and I was selling nothing instead of very rarely. I often wondered why this was so, as my materials were good, the embroidery fine and delicate, the prices not too expensive - I'd recently lowered them to entice any other potential customers.

The problem however was that Haradrim women had their own specific set of standards, and held family traditions in the highest order. So I put my hopes on newcomers to the city. This made me wonder idly if that Gondorian princess would be on that slim list of potentials - but I banished that thought, almost grinning at its absurdity. I had seen her clothing the day of their arrival and, with the eye of a seamstress, had surveyed the unusually cut gown and ruefully realised she would not care about my usual style of loose silk.

My musings were interrupted by a familiar figure jumping in front of the stall. The difference in Thekla was really remarkable - she was quite back to her usual cheerful self. Her optimise was so infectious that I almost forgot my worries for a moment. Smiling all across her friendly open face, she leaned across the stall to whisper.

"My sister knows a girl whose cousin's mother works in the Ramyah's house...."

"Is this about that princess?" I interrupted her, my black mood returning. Of course I was interested in her but the knowledge that even my best friend had fallen victim to the old gossips was incredibly frustrating. Thekla ignored my rudeness, well used to it as she was, and chattered on cheerfully.

"Well, she told her daughter who told her cousin who told her friend who told my sister who then told me that the princess is every bit as lovely on the inside as she is on the out. She is very friendly, and was openly interested in what Sawda and the other Ramyahs taught her." Thekla looked proud at her bit of news, and I shrugged.

"Who knows if that is true? Such stories get distorted," I said, returning to my thoughts of a peaceful sunrise in the gardens. Thekla took no notice to my pessimism.

"I like to think she is. And she is also fearless. My mother," she went on, voice dripping with envy, "was passing by when she was talking to Elyen some days ago and admiring her monkey. She heard every word, imagine! Take care, lady of the West, for even trained monkeys may bite, said old Elyen, that lucky old crone. That is just as well, for so do I, the princess replied. Have you ever heard of such confidence? I detest that creature of Elyen's, and here is a complete stranger with no qualms about it at all! Mother said her voice was light and cheerful, and her name, by the way, is Túrien. Does that not sound lovely and elvish?"

Thekla could have been gabbling gibberish for all the attention I paid her. "What of the men, then? They must be feeling quite left out," I interjected with a hint of sarcasm. My friend rolled her eyes but obligingly filled me in.

"There is the King of Gondor and his son, the King of Rohan, the Prince of Dol Amroth and the men in their entourage," she waved her hand dismissively.

"What is Rohan?" I asked. I had never travelled further in my life than the occasional visit to Pazghar as quite a young child. I loved to hear about new places, and to think about all the strange and wonderful countries that I had never seen. Grandmother often told Miarka and I about such places, tales she knew from her mother of countries where grass grew everywhere, tall trees grew with small green leaves, where rain fell so often that the air smelled fresh and sunshine was a welcome thing. I wondered if I would ever see a river five times the size and depth of Na'Man ab Jubayr, huge white palaces and cities full of rich lords and ladies, or an impossibly vast expanse of water glittering grey with the great wooden ships of Grandmother's stories. I sighed at the thought.

"Dolamroth," I whispered to myself. The foreign word rolled off my tongue with reverence. I almost did not notice Thekla's resumed chatter.

"Do you think they will come to watch the govenda çiya*?" She asked, and I suddenly bolted up. "When is that on? Those poor Mûmakil have nothing to do all day and the riders haven't done govenda çiya in forever. Nobody tells me anything," I complained.

"So are you coming, then?"

".....no."

Thekla looked at me pityingly. "Yes you are, my friend. Tomorrow morning, we will meet in the marketplace and you will leave all your fabrics behind for the day and enjoy yourself." With that, she swung herself back into the street and walked away, arms swinging as she hummed to herself. I stared after her until she disappeared in the crowd of people.

*(govenda çiya - the mountain rider's dance)

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The next morning, the sun shone with a vengeance. It was so warm I did not even want to wake, let alone get up, but unfortunately Miarka was going mad with excitement. "Will you get up, Jeddah! I have only seen a proper govenda çiya once, years ago, so hurry up!"

My temper had cooled slightly with a proper sleep so I patiently let Miarka race around the house, practically bouncing off the walls, while I wrapped my favourite purple gauzy shawl around my black curls. I always liked to dress nicely, at least a little, when the Mûmakil danced. It was always a sight to behold - even Grandmother was coming, and the three of us set off to the old market square where we met with Thekla's family. We walked to the rounded amphitheatre together, through the sandstone labyrinth, and found seats in the second row, with a slightly better view than the front. Grandmother and Thekla's mother talked like old friends, while Miarka reveled in the attentions of Thekla's sisters.

"Look there, in the Ramyah's box," was the sentence on everyone's lips as Chieftain Na'Man led his guests onto the viewing platform, higher than even the back rows to provide the best view for Sawda, Gulim and Zamira. People were openly staring, and even though I pretended to sniff in disgust I was curious. The man with the golden hair, the King of Rohan, was there. I wondered what it was like to have hair of such a light colour. The princess sat on her father's left, wearing an orange dress so different from the prim riding coat the day of her arrival, and she spoke happily to the assembled chieftains and kings, totally unafraid.

For a while I pretended to be as disgruntled as yesterday to amuse my friend, who as the Ramyahs made their entrance sniggered at the feigned reluctance I stretched out my arms. But after a while I became as excited as everyone else and the pretense dropped. Miarka nearly fell off the stone bench watching the acrobats' trailing silks with eyes wider than those of a Mûmak calf.

When the Mûmakil thundered into the arena I could not suppress a gasp of amazement at their sheer size - though I knew they were the most familiar, amiable creatures in the world, with the war paint and the huge wooden howdahs they seemed to have grown the height of these sky. Thekla nudged me and pointed at the Ramyah's box - the foreign men looked absolutely aghast, yet awed, and Thekla laughed quietly at their expressions but I understood. The Mûmakil were fearsome, and I would hate to have to face their massive tusks on the opposite side of a battlefield.

Then the 'golden hawks,' as Thekla  had once dubbed the riders, began to fly, and my eyes began to widen. No matter how many times I saw such a spectacle it never lost its splendour. I was so engrossed, I almost missed it were it not for Miarka's shriek.

"Look!"

I looked, Grandmother looked, Thekla and her family looked, the Ramyahs and Chieftain and every single citizen of Harmindon in the stands looked- and my jaw dropped.

Princess Túrien was in the arena. The distinctive orange silk and charcoal-black hair stood out against the pale sand of the arena floor. I was too far way to read her face but I imagined it was one of utmost determination - not once did she look back at her people, and when one of the 'golden hawks' swooped down and caught her in his arms she seemed to almost expect it. And when everyone caught a glimpse of the particular golden hawk had carried her to safety, well, I could almost grab the waves of envy rolling off every hopeful unmarried girl in the arena - Sufyan, the Ramyah's son, who was evidently enjoying her company immensely on the back of that Mûmak.

The fact that Ramyah Sawda had no heir was often politely ignored, out of respect of course.

Now, though, the subject would be brought up in every conversation for weeks in every household in Harmindon - it seemed there was hope after all for the long line of the matriarchs of Harmindon.

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