NaNoWriMo - Cymru 10

SAERAN

To Saeran's surprise, there was a Rider sitting at the bar, nursing a tankard of something in one hand and staring down into it, apparently lost in thought. Her face from this angle was mostly hidden behind the wall of long hair, dark auburn that glimmered gold in the candlelight and fell to her elbows, worn in the elaborately plaited style most Riders favoured. She was a Southlander, it looked like; as Saeran neared she did a double-take as she saw the insignias on her shoulders, partly hidden under her hair.

She was an Alpha Wingleader. Just casually sitting in a Northlander City inn, alone, having a drink. Saeran edged closer to check the liveries. It was Casnewydd as far as she could tell. So not just a Southlander; this Rider was a Border Southlander sitting in an inn at the opposite end of the country, as far from home as she could be without flying out to the Archipelago.

Was that what it meant? The Rider of the land? Maybe this was her. Well, Saeran reasoned, if nothing else she could make a new friend. It was lovely making new friends.

"Good evening, Rider," she said pleasantly as she slid onto the stool beside her. The Rider stirred and looked up, fixing Saeran with a pair of dark green eyes that contined the strangest expression she'd ever seen. She looked young; about Saeran's age, maybe, although you could never tell with Riders. She smiled after the briefest moment of what was probably assesment and looked back at her drink.

"Good evening, Singer," she responded, and Saeran wondered what her singing voice would be like. It was deep and fluid, rich and lilting. Her accent was Casnewydd, though, which was a shame. "Are you playing tonight?"

"I certainly hope so," Saeran laughed. "I'd be a poor bard if not. Just water, please," she added to the barman as he crossed to them.

There was a pause as Saeran accepted her water and the barman refilled the Rider's tankard before bustling away. Saeran wondered what to say next that wouldn't be too intrusive when the Rider spoke and saved her the bother.

"Where safer than by a Rider?" she smiled wryly, glancing at the instrument in its case that Saeran had automatically put between their stools. "I learned to play a harp, once. My Father was a bard before he met my Mother."

"Good for him!" Saeran said enthusiastically. "Does he still play?"

"I've no idea," the Rider confessed. "I don't see them often."

It was a curious statement, simply for the sadness inherent in it. For an Alpha Wingleader to be this far from home - especially from the Border - she had to be on leave. So why wasn't she with her family? Why was she sitting in an inn in Aberdaron?

"What did he teach you?" Saeran asked. The Rider smiled.

"Some incredibly basic chord sequences for the Ballad," she said reminiscently. "Some love song or other that was bloody depressing and no one liked. A couple of eulogies... oh, and a weird one about shadows that used to scare me as a child."

Saeran pulled the harp up and out of its bag as she spoke, carefully checking the tuning.

"Scare you?" she said. The Rider laughed.

"Yes," she said drily. "Me, a Rider, being scared. It happens, you know."

"I always rather assumed you were hewn out of the ground at some rockface somewhere," Saeran said, mock-wonder in her voice. "I'm Saeran, by the way."

The Rider looked up, and again Saeran was struck by the odd expression. It was a searching look, as though she didn't look at things so much as she watched them; a hunter waiting to see her prey move.

"Awen," she said. "It's nice to meet you, Saeran. Not many people casually try to talk to me nowadays."

"Oh, that's because you're incredibly intimidating," Saeran said, waving a hand. Awen chuckled. "To be honest, though, you look like you need cheering up."

"Ah." Awen drained the mead in her tankard. "You're right, there. What have you got?"

"A harp," Saeran said decisively. "And I know Music."

"Astounding," Awen said mildly. "It's like you're a bard or something."

"Isn't it?" Saeran grinned happily. "Show me the chords, though."

Awen snorted but took the harp gently. It was strange, Saeran thought, to see it being held so delicately by hands that were much more used to gripping swords and reins, the callouses and network of scars over Awen's flesh standing testament to her violent occupation. She held the harp correctly, though, and her long fingers bent elegantly to the strings.

The chords themselves were clever, easily-played simplified versions of the official rendition. Awen played them confidently, her sense of rhythm satisfyingly strong. Saeran found herself approving of this unnamed Father. He'd taught her very well.

As Awen finished both Saeran and the bartender clapped. She smiled and shook her head, the Rider beads in her hair swaying and clicking against the bar top as she did, and held the harp back out to Saeran.

"Easy version," she said. "And now I shall return this to you so as not to show myself up any further in a field I have no profficiency in."

"I liked it!" Saeran said enthusiastically. "It's a good version, actually. Your Father must be good."

"He certainly was once upon a time," Awen mused. "I don't know. Is it a skill that stays with you?"

"I like to think so," Saeran nodded. "What's his name? I may have heard of him."

"Rhydian ap Gwynfor," Awen said. Saeran felt her jaw drop to her knees.

"Seriously?" she asked. "He's a legend in bardic circles! The first tune I ever learned was composed by him!"

"Me too," Awen said. "Although, you know, that's more expected in my case, I suppose."

Of course, Rhydian ap Gwynfor was a legend for more than just his tuning prowess. Saeran bit her lip. What had Awen said he'd taught her? A depressing love song? Some eulogies? And a song about shadows that had scared even a Rider.

"The depressing love-song he taught you," Saeran asked as casually as she could. "I don't suppose you remember the names of the people in it?"

"Oh, gods." Awen stared into her tankard for a moment. "Now you're asking. Something monosyllabic, I think. Pedr? And... Mair. Maybe."

Saeran's mind reeled at the coincidence. Pedr and Mair? It had taken her the better part of a year to piece that one together, and here sat this Southlander Rider in an inn in Aberdaron who just casually knew the damn thing from her Father.

But that was the point, wasn't it? Rhydian ap Gwynfor was a legend. He knew exactly what he was doing. Riders weren't just given to any old families to be raised; the potential Parents had to meet strict requirements and then volunteer their services. He'd Fathered a Rider and taught her all the right songs, knowing she would come to this moment.

Awen was watching her. Saeran smiled.

"I know that one," she said weakly. "Not many do, though. What else did you say he taught you?"

"Three eulogies and a creepy song about shadows," Awen said, and stopped the barkeeper with a hand over her tankard. "Singer, might I drag you out on a walk?"

"Of course," Saeran said. It was terrifying. It wasn't like she could have said no; suddenly she was painfully aware that she'd just been pumping a Rider for information. Covert information. From a woman born and trained to hunt down potential conspirators against the country. And, lest anyone forget, to kill people.

Awen drained the tankard and stood, passing a few coins over to the barkeeper as Saeran replaced the harp in its case. Awen waited patiently as she did, and then led them both out of the inn door, her stride free of the nerves that Saeran felt. Outside the world had turned to night, the stars covering the sky like dandelion seeds over a field and a nearly-full moon illuminating the buildings around them. It was cooler now and Saeran shivered slightly, the harp nestling into her back as she hurried to keep up with Awen's much longer stride. They walked along the houses to the sea front, turning at the harbour to get down to the beach. Awen said nothing as they walked, her face hidden in the dark.

They stopped in the middle of the beach near the water's edge, where Awen turned to face Saeran and the City behind her. It was an odd position, or so Saeran thought at first; if one wanted to make sure no one could overhear she'd have thought the end of the beach by the rocks might be better, but actually the beach was exposed enough that anyone close enough to hear would be close enough to see, and Awen was watching for it.

"So," she said to Saeran conversationally. "I'm going to stand here quietly as you explain what that was about."

"That could take a while," Saeran smiled nervously. "What do you know about Cantre'r Gwaelod?"

The question apparently threw her slightly, although since she was a Rider she was thrown in a suave, warrior-like way that merely caused her to raise an eyebrow.

"Cantre'r Gwaelod?" she repeated. "The same as everyone else, I should think. It was a druidic civilisation that formed the template for modern Cymric society until it fell."

"Yes," Saeran said quietly. "It's how it fell, though."

"It flooded."

"And none of the druids stopped it."

The wind blew, mingling with the cries of the oystercatchers. Awen closed her eyes and ran one hand through her hair wearily.

"Go on," she said through gritted teeth. It probably wasn't a good sign; she didn't seem to be taking the news well.

"It was forseen," Saeran said. "I should mention here that it's all top secret, incidentally. Anyway; they saw it coming, in the final Ysbrydnos before the Sea. It, and all the things they had to do afterwards. I don't know why, yet, but they didn't stop it happening because they knew they weren't to do so."

"They just... let it happen?" Awen's eyes were wide and disbelieving in the moonlight. Saeran shook her head.

"No," she said. "They planned for it. The Archipelago exists now because of it, the Cities weren't raised before. They were flat, on the same level as the surrounding lands. As far as I can tell the people were all sent to the Cities when the storm hit, the Cities were raised up and the rest of the land drowned."

Awen seemed lost in thought for a moment, digesting that.

"So how do you know?" she asked inevitably. "If this is all secret how do you know all of this?"

"There are records," Saeran sighed. "But they're hidden. You have to look to see the patterns but they're there, hidden in all of the really old songs. And not just about what happened to Cantre'r Gwaelod." She paused, twisting her hands nervously. It was a safe bet that Awen was really going to hate this part, although potentially not as much as she would hate being kept waiting, so it was probably for the best if she just dived straight in. "About what's happening now, and what's going to happen soon. Things are happening, Awen. Things are going wrong."

Awen stared at her, expression sharp, and Saeran wondered if she believed her.

"What things?" she asked, voice low.

"Have you spoken to any druids lately?" Saeran asked. "Although they won't admit it all; the magic is failing."

"What?"

"Unseasonably cold for this time of year, isn't it?" Saeran said. "Something happened on the Ysbrydnos, and now the energy fields are going haywire. I met a druid in Aberystwyth with full sensory perception who was on his way to the Urdd; they had no idea what was happening. The day before I finally managed to piece together the last lines of Pedr and Mair. They fortell the magic failing."

"How," Awen asked slowly, "is it even remotely possible I didn't know about that?"

"I couldn't say, actually," Saeran admitted. "You'd have to ask the druids. They really should have told the Union. Maybe they're trying to work it out."

Awen pinched the bridge of her nose.

"What else?" she asked. "What else is happening? Or will happen."

"You," Saeran said. "I think. You're important. And possibly me, but you more. I think you're the Rider of the land."

"The what?" Awen asked, slightly blankly.

"The Rider of the Land," Saeran repeated. "I'm not a hundred percent sure what that means, mind, but I'm going to assume you have some deep connection to the country. But, you're also the only person below seventy I've ever met who knew Pedr and Mair, and it was taught to you by a man I know saw a lot of these patterns himself once. You're important."

Awen looked away, and Saeran was uncomfortably aware that she was probably changing her relationship with her Father.

"For it to be hidden like this," Awen said eventually, "there has to be a reason. Someone it's hidden from, for example."

"Yes," Saeran agreed. "I expect so."

Awen swore, the vicious kind of word that only those who regularly risked their lives on frontlines knew. Saeran smiled wryly. It was like seeing her brothers again.

"He taught you some very specific songs, Rider," she said gently. "I doubt the others aren't significant."

"If those bloody shadows are important," Awen muttered, and sighed.

"The darkness comes before the light
Returns to darkness once again;
The circle spirals ever on
The river ever runs to rain.
The balances are ever kept,
The links ever forged anew;
Though absent light is present shadow
Light's own shadow is light too.

Beware the children who are lost
To darkness irretrieveably;
Their shadows hiss and whisper and
Writhe so inconceiveably.
Their circles have been broken down,
Their souls entombed in shadow cloaks
Whose yearning, burning hunger feeds
And forms inescapable yokes.

Beware those living shadows, who
Whisper in the darkest hours
With clever tongues and clever minds
Ideas that ever overpower.
Beware that rustling darkness, that
Watches all without need for eyes
That feasts its myriad teeth upon
Souls born and raised on lies.

Beware their spread, their corruptive reach,
Their rise to greater prominence.
Beware; they bring the country's fall to
Darkness and pestilence.
Beware the shadow fingers sinking
In, creating people magnified;
But mostly, beware their effigies
And wish, oh wish that they had died."

"Wow," Saeran breathed, absorbing the lyrics. "I can see why you didn't like it."

"It's worse if you sing it," Awen said distantly. "Really worse. It's creepy enough as a poem, but I think I was about fourteen before I stopped having nightmares about the music."

"Living shadows," Saeran said quietly. "And circles being broken."

"Yes," Awen said steadily. "Much like the magic, I expect. So? What does it mean?"