Cymru - Chapter 7

AWEN

The banqueting hall was long and beautiful, with mythic tapestries and statues gracing the walls. It smelled of wood smoke and mead, sweet and rich, and harp music filled the room melodiously, providing a lively and pleasant counterpoint to the chatter of the gathering guests along the long tables. Awen listened to it with a bard’s ear, constructing harmonies and descants in her head as she watched the rest of her Wing take their seats below her, Adara nimbly stealing the seat Owain was about to take as her red kite settled in the rafters above them.

Awen had been expecting to sit with them. They were in a good position, at the top end of the hall, central table and closest to the Top Table on its raised dais, filled with local visiting gentry, druids and Riders sworn to the city. On arriving, however, she’d been ushered up to the Top Table herself and sat in the chair to the Sovereign’s right: the place of honour in the entire hall. It was incredibly flattering; Awen hadn’t thought she’d made that much of an impression on Lord Gwilym.

The drawback was that generally speaking, druids weren’t all that good at social niceties and gentry-folk usually acted as though social niceties didn’t actually apply to them, and neither tended to be scintillating conversationalists. Which, ordinarily, should have left the Riders; but with less than two weeks left before the Archwiliad, Aberystwyth’s Alpha Wing had flown. Awen was left alone with a mumbling druid and a raucous local Lord and Lady as her nearest companions. She hoped Lord Gwilym would arrive soon.

“The trouble these days,” Lord Sieffre said in that effortlessly loud voice that people who thought they ‘called a spade a spade’ always seemed to have, “is that there seem to be far too many people who aren’t…”

He trailed off, waving a plump hand in the air as he searched for words.

“Who just aren’t like us, you know?” he finished. His wife – Blodwen, was that her name? – nodded solemnly. They both looked at Awen.

“I’m afraid not, Nobleman,” Awen said politely. She did know. She was hoping he’d drop the subject; she could see where it was headed.

“Ah! The innocence of youth!” Sieffre answered airily in what he probably thought was a knowing, fatherly tone. It was just condescendingly offensive. “Well, you see, there are people like us, Rider: people who were clearly born and bred here, in Cymru, who understand the whole country. But then! Then there are people who came here from somewhere else, like… Like Saxonia, or Erinn or somewhere, or whose family did, and they just don’t understand the country, you see? They’ve got other ways of doing things.”

Potentially, that was treason in Aberystwyth. Awen hadn’t checked Gwilym’s family tree, but his colouring – dark hair, pale green eyes – certainly suggested an ancestor or two from Erinn. It was a shame no one official was listening. Lady Blodwen nodded. The druid mumbled.

“But then, there’s the problem with border cities, in my opinion,” he continued, and Awen managed heroically not to wince. “The old families there. All specially bred for leadership, but they’re not all Cymric! Tainted. No offence to your Lord Flyn, of course,” he added. Awen smiled.

“None taken, Nobleman,” she answered tightly, and mercifully, at that moment, the harp music stopped and the harsh brass fanfare blared. A man by the massive double doors with a nose like a spout intoned, “Lord Gwilym, Sovereign of Aberystwyth,” and stepped aside. Everyone in the hall rose to their feet, and the chatter ceased.

Lord Gwilym strode down the hall, a vision of nobility and grace in Caerleuad Green brocade that was overtly fancy and – to Awen’s highly trained eyes – he clearly hated. She could see it in the set of his broad shoulders, the slight jar to his stride, and she wondered how anyone had managed to make him wear it. When they’d met that morning he’d seemed vaguely harassed, but there was a deep air of competence to Lord Gwilym. Maybe he wasn’t aware of it himself. Maybe only Awen was: she was trained for this sort of thing.

As he neared, she found herself studying his face for any Erinnish markers. There were some, definitely. His profile was delicately aquiline, although it was also set against higher cheekbones than were usually seen in Erinn. His lips were certainly Erinnish, however: full and sculpted, although hidden slightly behind the freshly trimmed beard. He was, in fact, rather handsome in his own unusual kind of way –

Surprised at herself, Awen bit back that thought, and buried it.

Lord Gwilym stopped before her seat as custom required and she bowed to him. He gave her a slightly resigned smile, as though he found the whole process tedious, and rounded the table to sit in the elaborate seat to Awen’s left.

“Please be seated,” intoned the man with the spout-like nose. As one the people sat, servants began serving the starter, and the harp began again.

“No chance to redecorate just yet then, Sovereign?” Awen asked, her face professionally straight. Gwilym put on a superb ‘polite smile’, although his eyes twinkled and gave it away.

“Sadly not,” he said conversationally. “Although I have put it high on my list of things to do. Somewhere between feeding the poor and paying my Riders.”

Awen grinned down at the food being placed in front of her, which looked to be some sort of fancy concoction with laverbread. Sadly, Lady Blodwen chose that moment to speak.

“You’re redecorating, Gwilym?” she asked snootily, with a fine disregard for his title and social status. Evidently, she thought he was twelve. “But I understand that the decorations in this palace have been here for generations!”

“Well yes,” Gwilym said calmly. “But when they were first installed I daresay that whatever they replaced had also been there for generations. And I mean some specific decorations anyway.”

“With a specific redecorative style,” Awen added. She tried the starter. It was actually surprisingly nice, considering that it looked like regurgitated seaweed and partly was. The harper struck an erroneous note and she winced.

“Well, might I ask which decorations?” Blodwen asked. She seemed incredulous. Lord Gwilym shrugged.

“I do believe you might,” he said with polite disinterest. It was superb. Another note went wrong on the harp, and Awen looked around for the harper.

“Well, which are you removing?” Blodwen asked, affronted.

“The statues,” Gwilym said decisively. “They’ve got to go. I’m replacing them with all-natural living willow statues in the shapes of naked people.”

Awen barely heard Blodwen choking. The harper was just to one side of the large double doors, sitting on the Bardic Chair to play. His face was down, making it hard to see, but Awen could see the tension in him, tripping his fingers as they danced over the strings. A few other harpers and apprentices were sitting around behind him, still cloaked and waiting for their turn to play. Awen watched them; beside her, unnoticed, the druid stopped mumbling and fell silent, turning to look at Awen.

“Naked - ?”

“Oh, hush, Blodwen!” her husband broke in. He’d had far too much mead considering they’d only just been given the first course. “At least he’s got his priorities right! Riders never seem to do anything worth actually paying these days, am I right? Eh?”

Which was a staggering social faux pas. Awen barely heard it. One of the men behind the harper was getting up to take his turn, covered in a black cloak.

“I’m afraid you’re not, Sieffre,” Gwilym said, quiet but firm. “The Riders remain invaluable.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Sieffre scoffed, waving a hand. They live free of charge in your city, eat your food… What return do you get, exactly? There’ve been no wars for forty years!”

“Largely because of the Riders,” Gwilym said flatly. The harper stumbled on the strings. The cloaked man stepped forward. Awen watched. “I’m afraid I –”

“Yes, but that was forty years ago, m’boy! Now? Unless they’re sworn to you they don’t actually –”

The cloaked man’s arms whirled up, and Awen moved even before she saw the arrow, instinct operating her like a puppet. It left the man’s bow almost in slow motion, and she was on her feet, reaching around in front of Gwilym, right hand grasping –

She caught the arrow a foot in front of Gwilym’s face, but the shaft slid through her ungloved hand, stopping a mere four inches from him. The entire hall froze, all conversations abruptly halted as everyone turned to stare in shock at the Top Table. Awen watched the cloaked man. Her eyes had never left him.

“The cloak,” she said, and the Wing stood instantly. It broke the spell: the cloaked man bolted for the door. Adara threw what looked suspiciously like one of the steak knives at him, which pinned his cloak neatly to the heavy wood of the double doors. The Wing advanced, but he wriggled free of the cloak, revealing an adolescent boy, barely into his late teens. He yanked the door open and ran.

Awen dropped the arrow with a resounding clatter and practically hurdled the table.

“Front Riders, defence!” she commanded. “Check the harper! Others with me!”

And she was gone, out of the hall and after the boy, her hunt instincts taking over. She could hear the others on her heels, Owain’s oddly wheezing breath, Adara whistling to Gwenhwyfar, the bird swooping almost silently over their heads.

He was fast, this boy – Awen had to give him that. Unfortunately, he also had a good head-start on them. He fled down corridors, hurling himself around corners and down staircases. At first, Awen cursed, mentally. Evidently this boy knew the palace well, whereas the Wing knew only the layout of the main rooms; they hurtled into the servant’s quarters, a veritable maze of narrow corridors, bustling people and piles of linen, rope and straw. Awen ran harder.

It was as a blast of cold wind hit her that she realised where the boy was leading them: the courtyard. She grinned. If he did know his way around, he was stupid. Out in the open he’d pretty much lost every chance he’d had of escaping them. As the doorway loomed up ahead, slowly swinging shut behind him, Awen dropped back, allowing the ranger Riders to overtake so as to give them a clear shot. Caradog had even brought his bow. Adara whistled as she ran past, Gwenhwyfar swooping closely behind her, and Awen grinned. Gwenhwyfar could easily outrace the boy outside; the other three would knock him down, and all she and Owain would have to do was stroll on up and punch him once or twice.

They were two metres from the door when Owain cannoned into her, knocking her into one of the side rooms. They crashed onto the stone floor, unfortunately missing the pile of freshly dried linen from the courtyard with the kind of luck that had made Awen decide, long ago, that the universe probably hated her. She rolled as she landed, her mind already alert for some new threat. Another bowman? One of the servants? She was releasing the wrist blades from their sheathes and rising to her knees when Owain’s forearm grabbed her shoulders, his other hand holding his dagger to her throat.

Awen froze, heart thumping painfully hard in her chest. Owain wheezed slightly, getting his breath back.

“You have to let him go,” he said at last. “The kid. You have to let him go.”

“Why?” Awen hissed. Her senses were in full battle mode, registering every detail with distracting clarity. The stone was agonisingly painful beneath her knees, cold and hard and pressing up; the walls had been whitewashed, but the paint was chipping and flaking off around the doorframe; the laundry smelled of lavender and heather, mingling with the smell of rising damp, musty and thick; the kitchen was nearby, the cooks clanging cauldrons and spoons; and damn her hand hurt. She could feel Owain’s chest rising and falling against her back as he breathed, feel the slightly shaky adrenaline-fuelled tension in both his arm and his dagger blade. The blade was cold, and already painfully sharp despite having broken no skin yet.

“I can’t tell you,” Owain said, the words rushing out. “Not yet. Please, Awen? This is really important. You have to trust me.”

“You’ll appreciate that since I’ve known you and trusted you since birth and now you’ve pulled a dagger on me I’m feeling a little bit betrayed and untrusting, Owain.”

“You wouldn’t have stopped otherwise,” he said. “You wouldn’t have listened.”

“Please don’t mistake me for you,” Awen spat through gritted teeth. Her left shoulder hurt where she’d landed, a dull, throbbing ache that contrasted wonderfully against the sharp agony of her right hand. “I actually care about other people and what they have to say. This is largely why I am Wing Leader and you’re not. Now get the hell off me before I have to hurt you.”

“You have to let him go!” Owain insisted urgently. “Don’t twist this into being about us! This is important!”

“He just tried to murder someone before our very eyes, Owain,” Awen said steadily. “And now you’re holding a knife to my throat. I absolutely don’t care what this is about. We’re Riders: we belong to the Union. We don’t allow this kind of thing. Now you’ll either let go, or I’m going to have to take you to the Union for violation of your Oaths.”

“Then I’m sorry,” Owain said self-righteously. “But I have to do this.”

And that was the problem with Owain, Awen reflected. He spoke and behaved as though he was the star of a play and everyone was watching: anyone normal would have just cut her throat at that, but Owain narrated himself. It was his undoing.

She was moving before he’d even finished the sentence, wrist blades flashing upwards. One she embedded in the arm holding her shoulders still, feeling it hit the bone. The other bit into the fingers holding the dagger. He screamed, abruptly dropping the dagger and pulling back before he lost any fingers, and Awen drove her elbow backwards into Owain’s nose.

It was a fairly short fight. One more kick to the head left Owain concussed and twitching slightly, lying prone on the floor. Awen looked down at him, feeling suddenly tired.

“If you run I will find you,” she said simply. His eyes rolled around, unfocused.

“You have to let him go,” he whispered. “You don’t… understand…”

Awen turned, and walked out to the courtyard.

One side of the courtyard was simply a row of pillars holding up a walkway, so there was a spectacular view of Aberystwyth nestled in the valley below and opening out onto the sea, the fortress of Caerleuad glittering out in the bay. The sun was setting in a glorious fusion of russet and green, the moon a pale coin rising above Caerleuad. The air was the pure, sweet smell of evening; it soothed Awen, calming her raging heartbeat. In the middle of the courtyard, suspended between Caradog and Llyr, hung the inert form of the boy, his bow still strapped to his back. Adara had Gwenhwyfar on her wrist and was feeding her small pieces of meat from a pouch at her belt, which probably meant, as Awen had predicted, that the bird had taken the boy down herself. Awen watched them near, feeling empty.

“Good gods, what have you done?” Adara asked in alarm as they stopped in front of her. “What happened to your neck?”

“Owain.” Awen raised her left hand to check, wincing as her shoulder protested the motion. A long but mercifully shallow cut met her fingertips, and immediately started to hurt. “He wanted to stop us from getting this boy. I don’t know why.”

They stared at her. She understood.

“Our Owain,” Awen confirmed the unspoken question. “I think he’s working for someone outside the Union, I don’t –”

She was cut off as Adara stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. Her pain in her shoulder intensified sharply, but she didn’t care. Right now she needed the comfort more; needed to reaffirm her faith in other members of the Wing. There was a soft, organic ‘thump’ of someone hitting the floor, and then Caradog and Llyr had joined in, Caradog’s massive frame almost the size of the three of them put together.

“We should have realised,” Adara said in her mild, comforting voice. “He had a terrible quiff. He was clearly a deranged lunatic.”

“That’s true.” Awen forced a smile, amazed to find herself fighting back tears. “And he had a weird voice.”

“That’s because he was an oily,” Adara said sagaciously. “Also an ugly. He was dreadful, really.”

“And he was a terrible Deputy,” Caradog put in, his voice deep and rumbling. “I always preferred being led by you.”

She nearly did cry then, but managed to pull herself back from the edge.

“Thanks,” Awen smiled at him. Caradog clapped her on the back, or tried to. He hit Llyr’s arm instead, making the other man yelp and leap back. Adara caught Awen’s eye, and grinned: Llyr had been crying.

“Girl,” Adara accused him.

“I am not!” Llyr insisted, wiping his eyes. “I’m just emotionally free. And Caradog nearly broke my arm just now.”

“That’s because he’s a clumsy,” Adara supplied.

“And I have to say I’m glad he did, sorry,” Awen said, disengaging from the group hug. “Since he was aiming for my spine. You took one for the team, there.”

They scooped up the boy from where they’d dropped him and steered him back inside. Outside the laundry room they stopped, steeling themselves for what was to come. After a few seconds of hesitation, Adara pushed past Awen and marched inside.

“Awen,” she called back, her voice flat. “Come in here.”

Oh, gods, had she killed him? Was his still-warm corpse ruining the fresh laundry? Dreading it, Awen opened the door, and looked in.

Owain had gone.