Cymru - Chapter 5

AERONA

“Morgan, that’s for the merod! Not you!”

“I’ve kept some for the merod, Carys, it doesn’t matter.”

“But that’s not enough! I’m telling!”

Aerona sighed, and nudged her meraden closer to the airbus’s windows. As she did so, two indignant faces appeared out of them, Carys’ round face red with frustration as she shouted, Siona expressively silent. Siona so rarely spoke.

“Miss!” Carys whined. “Miss, Morgan ate his apple but he was meant to save it so we could give them all to the merod!”

“It’s alright, Carys,” Aerona called over the sound of the wind. “If Morgan wants to eat his apple himself he can; he’s just not allowed to feed anyone else’s apples to any of the merod. Understand, Morgan?”

She raised her voice for the last two words; they were greeted with a muffled ‘Yes, Miss,’ from inside the airbus. Carys and Siona withdrew again, Carys looking smug and Siona looking wistfully at Aerona’s meraden.

Aerona shook her head contentedly, and flew around to where the Driver sat at the front of the airbus, expertly controlling the merod pulling it.

“How are we doing?” she asked, eyeing the horizon. Saxonia sprawled beyond the edge of the mountains, flat and shaded under cloud cover in an ironic pathetic fallacy. Cymru, by contrast, was gleaming in the early sun, the wind clear and crisp. Wrexham’s walls glinted to the north, Trallwng’s to the south.

“I was about to call you,” the Driver answered. He was the kind of old man that seemed to have been hewn out of a coal face, wrinkled and old even when he’d been born. He grinned gummily at her. “We’re descending now. Best get the kiddies strapped in.”

“Splendid!” Aerona pulled lightly on Briallu’s reins and fell back to hover beside the bus windows. “Okay, gang! All listening?”

Ten eager faces turned towards her, instantly silent. Morgan still had an apple pip on his face; Aerona wondered if he’d been showing off his ability to eat the entire apple again, core, stalk and all.

“We’re about to descend, so I want everyone sitting in their seats nicely with their seatbelts on properly. Bronwen, you’re in charge. Don’t forget your own.”

As she rose to check on the gas valves, Aerona heard the disappointed ‘Ahhhh’s’ from half the class as Bronwen merrily started giving orders.

“No, Siona, you do sit there, you do…”

The gas valves were working perfectly. As Aerona watched they changed from their steady hiss to regular bursts, slowly starving the canopy to lose altitude. The merod did the rest, gliding smoothly downwards toward the broad swathes of meadow and woodland sitting near the border. Aerona dropped again to see how the children were getting on.

She let Briallu’s black hooves drop slowly into view first. The result was that when Aerona could look in, the children were sitting perfectly like little angels, their arms folded and index fingers of one hand on their lips. Bronwen looked radiantly proud of her efforts.

“Oh, well done everyone!” Aerona called in. “And good girl, Bronwen! Good job! Five minutes, now; let’s see if you can keep this up until we land.”

As they flew on, Aerona found herself thinking about Wrexham. Their Wing wouldn’t be heading for Tregwylan until tomorrow morning. What would Lady Gwenda say to them? Would her message convince them to join in Flyn’s cause? Aerona wasn’t sure what to think – although she still couldn’t quite make the thought of Marged as an evil genius fit in her head. Even now, Aerona was wearing gloves made by Marged, under her leathers. Last year after a state visit, she’d sent the children cookies. Aerona was fairly certain Morgan was hoarding his.

The landing was smoothly done onto a large patch of meadow land, and Aerona felt a flush of pride as she landed Briallu perfectly and the Driver cheered. She patted the mare’s neck affectionately before dismounting. Briallu snorted softly at her and started cropping the grass, her wings hanging loosely at her sides, the tips almost touching the floor.

The children poured out of the bus, and Aerona grinned at them all.

“Okay!” she said happily. “Here we are! First of all, then, stand in your pairs.”

They did so, each pair innocently holding hands so as not to drop each other or something, and looked up at Aerona solemnly. Siona looked around instead, her eyes often returning to Briallu, who seemed to be eyeing up a patch of ground to roll on.

“Now, first thing’s first!” Aerona rubbed her hands together eagerly. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. What do we do?”

To no one’s surprise, Morgan’s hand shot into the air. Aerona decided it was probably safe to start with him.

“Morgan?”

“We stop and calm down and check for any injuries.”

“Excellent!” Aerona looked at them all meaningfully. “Well? Are you all calm?”

“Yes, Miss,” came the answering chorus.

“Uninjured?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Siona, you didn’t check. What if your arm was falling off right now?”

“Your meraden is rolling, Miss.”

Aerona sighed, and glanced at Briallu. The meraden had finally chosen her spot on the ground and had collapsed onto her back, wings sticking straight up in the air, rolling around with every sign of enjoyment. Aerona shook her head and turned back to the class.

“Yes, Siona, she is. Focus now, please. What’s the next step?”

Siona looked thoughtful for a moment. “Shelter,” she said.

“Yes!” Aerona nodded enthusiastically. “Good girl! So, gang, let’s start there! Make a shelter for yourselves, you and your partner. If you go into the trees, don’t go beyond the first stream. Understand?”

There was another chorus of ‘Yes, Miss’, and then the children scampered off happily to make dens. Aerona wandered over to Briallu and sat next to her happily, leaning against Briallu’s massively muscled shoulder. She loved this job.

She was just about to get up and do her first round of checks when Aerona saw a flash of black against the sky. She looked up, shielding her eyes with one hand. A pair of Riders was gently gliding toward the meadow. Aerona stood carefully, gently tugging on one of Briallu’s reins to pull her to her hooves. A quick glance told her that the Driver had simply gone to sleep inside his airbus, the merod neatly tethered around the other side. Aerona waited.

They were Northlanders; she noted the distinctive Wrexham livery as they landed neatly and trotted towards her. Inwardly, Aerona braced herself. This had the potential to be Political. Behind her, Briallu whinnied at the approaching merod, eager to play. One of them answered, the lead meraden, and the Rider on her laughed. It relaxed Aerona considerably.

They halted and dismounted, and as they Saluted Aerona realised with a start that they weren’t just Riders. The man closest to her wore the markings of an Alpha Wingleader, a tall man approaching thirty with a ruggedly handsome face and the blue and gold beads of a Healer Rider. To his right walked a man with the curliest hair Aerona had ever seen, unplaited and wild. Through the front curls she could just about make out a glimmer of white, suggesting a Marksman; the bow slung across his back confirmed the theory. He was looking all around them as he walked, his eyes quick and watchful. Aerona wondered what direction the wire on his beads spiralled if only she could see them.

She Saluted back, and went straight into Greeting New People mode.

“Hello!” she said merrily. “I’m Aerona!”

The Wingleader smiled, a genuine smile that nevertheless didn’t give much away. Aerona guessed he didn’t express his emotions easily.

“Madog,” he said. “Alpha Wingleader of Wrexham. This is Dylan, my Deputy, although presently it seems he’d rather be staring at that tree over there than introduce himself. I do apologise.”

It was entirely deadpan. Aerona giggled.

“Hey!” Dylan defended. “I was about to talk, you square. I’m Dylan, and don’t listen to Madog; he’s a loser.”

Madog’s expression didn’t even flicker. He simply shook his head sadly.

“He has a brain disorder – he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“That’s terribly sad,” Aerona giggled.

“Anyway – I’m assuming you’re the class from Tregwylan?” Madog said. Dylan stopped looking at the woodland and turned to look at Aerona. As he turned his head, she got her first clear look at one of the beads. Aerona clapped herself mentally. The spirals were anti-clockwise.

“Yes – they’re all in there, building shelters at the moment,” she said out loud. It was fairly evident – now that the children were actually building the sounds of quarrelling and laughter could plainly be heard drifting out from the trees. Silently, she watched Madog. There were roots to his question. He exchanged a look with Dylan, who nodded imperceptibly.

“There’s something you should know,” Madog sighed. “This area may not be safe.”

“Oh?” Aerona asked. Dylan went back to looking around.

“For the past few weeks now we’ve been getting increased Saxon activity around here,” Madog said quietly. “Abnormally so. It tends to focus around Wrexham, so you may be okay, but there is a risk.”

“We can take off quickly,” Aerona said. She nodded to the airbus. “It’s pretty fast. I can hold off any scouts until it’s airborne and we’re away.”

“Except you’re relying on a border warning, there,” Madog said, looking at her intently. “And we’ve been getting them too late.”

Aerona stared at him. “Too late? I… are the Saxons moving too fast or -?”

“Possibly,” Madog said, but his dry tone implied otherwise. He paused for a moment. “Occasionally, Dylan has his uses,” he said. Dylan snorted. “He’s somehow good at picking out whom to trust, which is why I’m telling you this. But I think the border warnings are coming deliberately late.”

On top of everything else… that had to be connected. Aerona closed her eyes briefly in silent frustration.

“Ooh, a small human,” Dylan said. Aerona looked at the trees. Morgan and Carys were happily making their way back over, smears of mud around their faces and twigs in their hair. Aerona smiled for them.

“Miss, Miss! We made our shelter! We beat everyone,” Morgan said happily. Carys jabbed him in the ribs, her eyes wide.

“Hello Riders,” she said politely. Dylan looked surprised; Madog, however, Saluted them. Their little faces flushed with pleasure as they Saluted back.

“Hello Riders,” Madog told them sombrely. Aerona felt a rush of affection towards him. She liked people who were good with children.

“Well done,” she said aloud. “Does it protect you from the weather?”

“Yes, Miss,” Morgan said happily. “And it’s away from the stream so all animals can’t get to it and it’s made with resin to keep out the rain and it’s got moss for the floor.”

“Moss is an excellent shelter floor,” Madog said, nodding his approval. “Where are you putting your fire pit?”

“Away from it so that all animals and Saxons and things don’t see the shelter,” Carys said importantly. Madog smiled, stood and pulled something out of the storage pouch on his flying harness. It was a long strip of leather embroidered with Wingleader markings. Carefully, he drew one of the curved swords from his back and sliced the strap cleanly in half. He handed half each to the children, who beamed as though Mayday had come early.

“You are now Captain Hat,” he told them sincerely as they tied the straps on like bandannas. “Good work. When you see someone else in your Wing do well, pass Captain Hat on. Understand?”

They nodded enthusiastically, and ran off back into the trees. Aerona beamed at him; Madog shrugged, looking faintly embarrassed.

“We always had Captain Hat,” he said. “I liked it.”

“You should reintroduce it,” Dylan said. “You could give it to whoever killed the most Saxons.”

“You wouldn’t get it, then,” Madog said, deadpan once more. “Anyway; just be on your guard, Rider. I don’t understand what’s happening with these Saxons, but I don’t want to see you getting caught up in it.” He glanced at the trees. “Or them,” he added.

Aerona nodded. “I think we’ll cut this trip short,” she agreed. “They’re only six and seven years old, they need to be home –”

With bad timing that was almost comical, the shriek of a claxon reverberated through the trees from the border, stirring the merod into a near frenzy and bringing the children running. Madog and Dylan mounted so quickly Aerona could have sworn they’d teleported, and they buckled their harnesses with a slick efficiency. Briallu neighed loudly, agitated. Aerona ignored her, almost throwing the children into the airbus as the Driver appeared on its seat.

“How long until you’re in the air?” Madog asked, strangely calm despite the urgency. Dylan took off and flew over the trees.

“Five minutes at most,” the Driver said grimly. “Quickly enough; the claxon’s only just started.”

Aerona paused long enough to exchange a glance with Madog, whose jaw tightened briefly before he, too, kicked off the ground. Above them, the canopy of the airbus warmed, and the Driver finished hitching up the merod.

“Just waiting on the canopy,” he said as the last children buckled their seatbelts and Aerona locked them in. “Don’t worry: we’ll be gone before they’re –”

The scout group of Saxons burst out of the trees, swords ready.

Aerona smiled.




GWILYM

The revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional clock clanged out midday. Gwilym looked longingly at the woodshed in the courtyard below his window. Woodsheds contained axes – and, usually, people who weren’t predisposed to sneer at him slightly as they tactfully explained precisely why he wasn’t allowed to pass a piece of legislation in the city while silently adding, ‘If only you were your father.’ As if by some arcane magic, Watkins materialised behind him, coughing his quietly intrusive whistling cough that informed people he was in the room and a human being and not, in fact, a kettle.

Gwilym plastered his best political smile onto his face and turned.

“Yes, Watkins?”

“It’s twelve o’clock, sire,” Watkins stated politely.

“Yes, Watkins,” Gwilym stated back. “The clock told me. Efficiently.”

“Quite so, sire. I mention it, however, because the Wing from Casnewydd is now ready to meet with you in the Long Drawing Room.”

“Ah.” Bugger. He’d been half hoping they’d get lost along the way and end up telling some backwater mayor all their important state secrets. “Very well,” Gwilym sighed, and strode out of the door.

Striding was important. It made you look as though you were in control even when you weren’t.

A pair of formally attired guards saluted to him neatly and stepped aside, opening both doors to the Long Drawing Room as they did. Somewhere, presumably around some corner or other since Gwilym couldn’t see whoever was responsible, a garish fanfare started up. He controlled his wince masterfully, and silently vowed to melt down every trumpet in Aberystwyth as scrap.

Gwilym strode into the Long Drawing Room and came face to face with the Wing.

He’d met his own Wings, of course; Aberystwyth had them just as all other cities did, but Riders had rigid allegiances. Gwilym’s Riders called him ‘My Lord,’ which was reassuring when you had to meet their eyes.

Meeting a full ten-strong Wing was always an intimidating experience. Riders were dedicated to the Union at birth, and raised to be what they were. They were all as lithely muscled as cats; their fighting skills could rout armies; they could survive indefinitely in any wilderness; they were well-versed historians with intimidatingly strong intellects. All of it showed in their eyes. There was just… something about Riders.

Of course, the uniforms and flying leathers they wore were close fitted and insanely cool, and that probably helped their self-esteem no end. Facing ten of them at once, however, was a daunting prospect. But there was something else again about a Wing. These were people who’d specifically been raised together for their whole lives. There was a pack mentality to them.

And these ones wouldn’t be calling him ‘My Lord’. They owed him nothing.

“Riders,” Gwilym said as cheerfully as he could. “Welcome to Aberystwyth! I hope your journey wasn’t too taxing?”

“As pleasant as could be, thank you, Sovereign,” a young man said, stepping forward and doing that slick Rider-to-Sovereign bow that they did. He had a slightly strange quiff, Gwilym noted. “I’m Owain, Deputy Wing Leader. Thank you for seeing us.”

“You’re welcome,” Gwilym said, and glanced around them all. In actual fact, there were only nine Riders now that he counted. “Can your Wing Leader not be with us?”

“She is en route, sire,” Owain said. His voice was slightly oily; Gwilym resisted the urge to wipe his hands on his revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional cloak. “She is travelling from further a-field. She begs an audience with you once she arrives, however.”

Damn. That would be the Secret Meeting of Doom that Gwilym really didn’t want to have, then. He smiled. This part, on the other hand, should therefore be a traditional meeting between Wing and Sovereign.

It was. It was a slightly surreal experience as it turned out, since the basic function of these meetings was to avoid actually saying that you promised not to sabotage the Archwiliad or start another war whilst promising you wouldn’t sabotage the Archwiliad and start another war. He also promised to turn up on pain of pain, although again, this was unspoken. Then Gwilym explained his proposals so the Wing could take them back to Casnewydd. That part became unfathomably dull.

Finally, affairs of state concluded, Gwilym stood. The Wing stood with him, and he resisted the mad urge to sit down again to see if they’d copy.

“Well, thank you, Riders,” Gwilym said. “You are guests in Aberystwyth for as long as you wish to stay. Watkins will see you to your quarters, I’m sure.”

He wasn’t sure. He didn’t look at Watkins.

The Riders saluted him again, which Gwilym graciously accepted with a nod of his head, and were just filing out when he heard Owain’s oily voice say “Awen!”

Apparently, the Wing Leader had arrived. Gwilym forced himself not to groan, and nodded to the servants left in the room. They scurried out after the Riders, probably glad that they wouldn’t have to sit through any more tediously traditional greetings. The door briefly swung shut, and Gwilym braced himself.

“Rider Awen, Casnewydd Alpha Wing Leader.”

The fanfare started again, and the door opened.

She was beautiful. It was the first thing he noticed about Awen as she stepped into the room, rolling her eyes slightly and wincing at the intrusive trumpets before hurriedly smiling to cover the reaction. Her Rider-styled hair was longer than Gwilym had ever seen in Aberystwyth – to her elbows, in fact – and a brilliant dark auburn that was almost physically warming, and glimmered briefly gold as she stepped through a patch of sunlight. She looked to be about Gwilym’s age; he wouldn’t have put her beyond late twenties.

Her smile lifted her face. It brought out her cheekbones.

“Sovereign,” she said. Her voice was fluid, like water. “My apologies for being late. Thank you for seeing me.”

She bowed. Gwilym smiled hurriedly.

“Not at all,” he said. “Welcome to Aberystwyth. I’m sorry about the fanfare; I’ve been trying to find whoever’s doing it, but I think they’re posing as a statue.”

Incredibly, Awen laughed at that. Gwilym had thought it was pretty weak himself.

“Threaten to redecorate and see which ones run away,” she advised. “It should work if you say it loudly enough with a mad gleam in your eye. And a sledgehammer.”

“Ah,” Gwilym said mock-morosely. “I think my mad eye gleam needs work. None of my advisors take me seriously about these things.”

“Probably because you’re forgetting the sledgehammer,” Awen told him sagaciously. Her eyes were amazing – a very dark green that twinkled merrily as she joked. There was something strange about the way they looked, though. Gwilym couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Anyway,” Awen sighed, “I’m afraid I’m here to talk to you about something other than how to become a mad statue-destroying dictator.”

“Ah, yes.” Gwilym waved her to a chair and sank glumly into one himself. Awen obediently took the proffered chair, perching gracefully and fixing him steadily with that slightly off-putting look.

“You know your histories,” she told him without preamble. “Cymru was at war for a very long time because of its lack of political structure. People grabbing Chieftain or King status and going to war all over the place until they were usurped and then the next war began.”

“Yes,” Gwilym said. Everyone knew their histories. “The Union rose up, created the Senedd and chose the Sovereigns. No more power struggles and no more rivalries.”

“And we finally got peace,” Awen nodded. “Which we can all agree was a bloody good thing, because if nothing else we get a free holiday to celebrate it. Everyone loves a holiday.”

It was so unexpected – not to mention at odds with her completely serious and deadpan delivery – that despite his general misery with the situation Gwilym laughed. The corners of Awen’s mouth softened slightly. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“We owe our peace to the Sovereigns, you see? They’re what’s kept the entire country sane for forty three years, now.”

Gwilym raised a hand, stalling her.

“The Senedd,” he said. “Not just the Sovereigns. If it had just been the Sovereigns, in fact, there would have been no peace – the same rivalries would have continued, the same power struggles… It’s the Archwiliadau that have kept us going.”

She froze, her face carefully blank but for that odd expression in her eyes, which intensified. Gwilym was suddenly struck by what it was. Awen didn’t just look at things: she watched things. It was like there was a part of her brain analysing everything she encountered. He fought the urge to squirm.

Finally, Awen glanced at the door, and then back at Gwilym. Very deliberately, she stood up, reached into a pouch on her belt and drew out a small, delicate tablet of birch bark, thinner than paper almost. She placed in on the table and slid it toward him with one finger. Her eyes watched him.

“Well, thank you for seeing me, my Lord,” Awen said clearly. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the Archwiliad.”

Gwilym stood and swept the fragile tablet under his cloak just as the guards opened the doors, and the irritating fanfare started. Awen bowed formally, and Gwilym smiled politely.

“It was a pleasure meeting you as well, Rider,” he said. “Please consider yourself and your Wing guests in Aberystwyth for as long as you wish.”

She inclined her head, making her hair rustle and shimmer before sweeping out, her gait graceful and confident. Gwilym followed and scurried back to his study as quickly as propriety would allow.

Once inside, the revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional clock screamed one o’clock. Gwilym ignored it, and examined Awen’s tablet.

Midnight, the Landing Tower.