NaNoWriMo - Cymru 6

I actually decided I liked all parts of this chapter, so you get to read it all. It's not as long as any others, so actually it's excerpt length anyway. Warning: it contains more frazzled brain attempts at poetry. Eventually it will be better, I promise.



SAERAN

Hilariously, it took Saeran a couple of minutes to recognise who the two men were, standing in the back of the crowd and watching her play the Ballad. Afterwards she comforted herself with the fact that it clearly wasn't her fault; she hadn't been to Aberystwyth's coronation the year before, and no one had seen Lord Gwilym properly for years since he seemed to have spent much of his time in Erinn. As such, Saeran simply assumed a pair of visiting Erinnish noblemen had come to see the festival.

What tipped her off that this probably wasn't the case was the Cymric edge to Lord Gwilym's features. His colouring was Erinnish but his cheekbones were too high, bearded chin too pointed, especially by contrast to his cousin next to him who seemed entirely Erinnish to an almost parodical extent. After she'd noticed that and pondered it, Saeran saw the excited looks the locals cast them as they passed, the occasional bow sent Lord Gwilym's way, although the slightly embarrassed wave of his hand with which he acknowledged them was wildly endearing in Saeran's opinion. Finally, after she'd finished the final, rousing chorus and everyone cheered he lifted his chin, displaying the golden torque around his neck, and everything fell into place. Saeran was glad she hadn't realised before; it would have been distinctly awkward to have realised she was singing to a Sovereign while halfway through the Ballad.

Further in the City the clocktower struck, and Saeran held up her hand to show she was finished. Flatteringly most of the onlookers groaned in protest.

"One more!" and old woman at the front said, a six-year-old boy perched on her lap. She wore a silver brooch pin on her shawl shaped like a stylised running horse, wings arced around it. "It wouldn't take long."

"I'm afraid if I don't stop now I never will, Mother," Saeran laughed, bowing to her. "And I do need to feed myself at some point today or I'll be collapsing all over my harp. I'll be back later, though."

"Better had, girl," the Mother grinned. "Or you'll have a riot on your hands."

"Thank you, Mother," Saeran said; and then, feeling daring, she bowed to the men behind her. "Sovereign."

"Singer," Lord Gwilym returned easily. He had a beautiful voice, all deep and sonorous in his throat. Probably a baritone, Saeran thought. "I don't suppose you're booked for tonight?"

"Not as of yet, Sovereign," Saeran said. In spirit she crossed every part of her anatomy she feasibly could and then some.

"Well," he smiled, " I would be honoured to give you a Chair tonight at the feast on the condition that you return here first this afternoon to prevent Mother here from inciting the masses to violence, which it seems she will."

"That I will," the Mother cackled. She looked at Saeran, mischief in her milky blue eyes. "He's a good Sovereign, this one, see? Knows whom to listen to."

"So it seems," Saeran grinned. "In which case, might I add another condition, Sovereign?"

Lord Gwilym managed to construct the best put-upon expression Saeran had ever seen.

"You see?" he told the man with him; although he looked about eighteen now that Saeran could see him properly. "You give an inch in this job, they take a mile. Although, what is the condition? Because if it's something that I don't have to do then I'll stop complaining."

"I'd like to visit the Great Library," Saeran said, and Lord Gwilym beamed.

"Excellent!" he said happily. "Yes, of course you can. It's slightly intimidating, as a warning; the chap who works behind the desk suspects everyone of trying to eat the books or something and so will probably find endless excuses to lurk at you from behind pillars, but otherwise it's lovely. You'll know him when you see him, he looks a bit like a rat."

Saeran giggled. Lord Gwilym seemed to have the same eminently personable aura as Lady Marged, albeit without the eccentricities and cats.

"Thank you, Sovereign," she said politely. "I shall keep an eye out for him. And now, if you'll all excuse me, I really must go and grab some lunch."

"Certainly" Lord Gwilym said grandly. "I'll see you at the feast." And he bowed her away.

****

The chance to visit the Library fitted in neatly between her afternoon stint along the sea front and the evening's feast in the Residence; there was a gap of about three hours which she otherwise would have spent wandering from tavern to tavern like a waif looking for a free drink. Instead, she skipped merrily up the hill to the Sovereign's Residence, emblazoned across the hillside and overlooking Aberystwyth. Beyond it she could see the imposing barrier of the Great Darkgate, looming ominously in the dusking light of the slowly setting sun behind Caerleuad. As physical warnings went, the Great Darkgate definitely did what it was designed to do; Saeran felt incredibly intimidated by it, and she wasn't trying to wage a war on Aberystwyth.

She turned right at the grandiose entrance to the Residence and continued along the short stretch of road to the Library. Since the Library was built of white stone and marble the effect in the sunset was remarkable; it looked like solid fire, every window aflame and every flourish in the decor forged and burning. It was beautiful, and intimidating like the Great Darkgate, but in such a different way. Eagerly, Saeran stepped up the pace and hastened inside.

The lighting inside was far cosier, the dark wooden interiors illuminated softly by chandeliers and mirrors that made the place look like a maze. Directly in front of her was a polished wooden desk that almost dwarfed the tiny, pointed man sitting primly behind it; as Saeran approached he looked up, almost annoyed at the presence of a visitor, and put his pen pointedly in its holder to give the impression of being disturbed. If she hadn't been partly warned by Lord Gwilym Saeran probably would have run away but as it was she put on her most blinding be-friendly-to-strangers smile and stepped right up to his desk.

"Hello!" she said brightly before he could intone the inevitable snooty 'Can I help you?' "I've come to browse the Library. Would that be okay?"

It seemed he was slightly taken aback by such hostile amity, but nonetheless it only took him a moment or two to recover.

"Yes," he said cautiously. "But I'm afraid there are some rules. You'll have to leave all bags, overcoats, hats and writing equipment here. No naked flames, no lanterns unless authorised and no touching the manuscripts," he pulled out a pair of what looked like mole-skin gloves, "without these. No running, dancing, skipping or moving at any pace other than a steady walk. No pets. No hand jewellery, no belt buckles and," and here he paused, leaning forward to fix Saeran with intense, pale grey eyes, his voice dropping to a hiss, "No defiling of the manuscripts."

That done he sat back, glaring at her. There was a brief silence as Saeran waited to make sure he was finished. It seemed he was; he continued to glare at her.

"Okay!" she said brightly after a second. Carefully she slipped the harp in its case off her back and placed it reverentially on the desk; to his credit, the clerk lifted it behind as gently as he could, giving the instrument obvious respect. The plain ring, the belt and the cloak she passed him he merely threw into a cupboard to the side, however, maintaining his glare. It was actually very impressive. Saeran wondered who he practised on.

"Take these," he intoned, once it became clear she had nothing illicit left to give him. He held up the gloves, and Saeran took them gently.

"Thank you!" she told him cheerfully, and he gave her a sour look before waving her off down the isles, taking his pen back out of its holder and resuming whatever it was he'd been doing. Firmly dismissed, Saeran headed off into the Library.

By the time she'd gone even a hundred steps, scanning the labels on the shelves for reference, Saeran realised two things about the Library. The first was that it was the most magical place she'd ever been or ever hoped of imagining. The second was that it was vast, and she had no idea where to go.

She wandered back to the clerk's desk. This time, the look he gave her was venomous.

"Yes?" he asked, voice deadly.

"I don't suppose you have a map of the Library I can look at, do you?" Saeran asked, keeping her own voice as amicably polite as she could. He glared at her and handed her a folded piece of paper, slightly yellowed with age. Saeran thanked him, and tried to ignore the feeling of his glare burning a hole through her skull as she walked back down the isles.

It took her almost twenty minutes of walking, but finally Saeran found the Ancient Manuscripts section right at the back of the Library, apparently as far from the front doors as possible. There were no windows there; four enormous chandeliers, each individual flame almost smothered in glass, provided the only illumination. A large wooden table with a raised central dais for resting the manuscripts stood in the centre of the room, tall stools set about it for the readers and scholars to use. The edges were the shelves, and the drawers, filled with knowledge just waiting to be learned.

It didn't take long to find what she was looking for; all poetry composed after the final Ysbrydnos before the fall of Cantre'r Gwaelod. It was a comparitively small section; not much had survived for obvious reasons, and the sea had taken it back not long after the Ysbrydnos anyway. But it was remarkably comprehensive in its subject matter nonetheless. Saeran grinned, carefully extracted the first, and began to read.

The clerk did lurk about as promised, but he didn't disturb her and Saeran barely noticed, absorbed in her task. The prohibition of writing materials was entirely not a problem, since Saeran was a bard. As she read the passages slipped into her head, neatly lined up in her memory for her to take out and peruse later. She read them all; eulogies, laments, englynion, cywyddau, the joys of dancing, the joys of music, the joys of Riders, the joys of joy itself and all other philosophies, myths, legends, rumours, complete poems, first drafts, crossed-out phrases and new words. Saeran absorbed each word, each lyric, each clue.

She finished just in time to leave and get to the feast, making sure she was doubly nice to the clerk as she left. She wondered if he was going to have her killed.

****

The tables were packed with gentryfolk and trades people of all kinds who were probably on their twentieth cup of mead that day. Saeran didn't mind overmuch. She was up on a raised dais in the corner of the room behind the Top Table, seated on Aberystwyth's beautiful bardic Chair. The tapestries lining the walls of the hall were vibrantly coloured, depicting the battle between Summer and Winter from start to finish, Summer winning. Occasionally, the Alpha Wingleader gave Saeran an odd look, but on closer inspection the woman seemed to do it to everyone, including Lord Gwilym, so Saeran didn't let it concern her overmuch. She simply played tunes as they ate; there was no point in singing yet when no one was going to hear, much less join in.

She pondered some of the poems she'd just learned as she did, her mind casually composing melodies for them as she did. Some of them were odd; there were more than a few children's poems, and a few that were clearly composed by apprentice bards learning their way around Conveying A Message, the balance between art and story not quite right still. Saeran loved them. One had been an odd little cautionary tale, maybe composed at the start of the Union cementing Cymru's borders; no poems tried to tell Riders how to behave nowadays. Mentally, Saeran sang through it, her fingers caressing the chords aloud.

Go fifth to the table to have no say;
Forth to be in a druid's way;
Now third is fine, but only with a
Bard to bring attention hither.
With second comes risk of always being
Fated to look, yet e'er unseeing.
Hand your attention to the one who is first
And listens to others with honest thirst;
Find your support and lend it to
The speaker of wisdom, clear and true.
Rider, oh Rider, always beware
Of throwing your lot in with nary a care.
The fate of the world may rest on you;
Land, sea and sky and all things through.

It did, however, fit the pattern of bad choices again. Saeran's brow creased as she thought about it. It was an odd one, certainly; all the other poems she'd collated so far had been very professional, slick affairs, whereas this one... wasn't. There was no real craft to this one at all, as though it had been written in a lesson and then forgotten about; but it fit both the time period and the pattern.

Well... the relevant parts to these poems usually came after the theme of the 'Bad Choice', but in this case the whole poem was about choosing. The preoccupation with numbers at the start? Did that mean something? The only three social groups named were the Druid, the Bard and the Rider. It had an elegance to it, Saeran had to give it that.

Attention was mentioned twice. Support once. And 'throwing in your lot', which counted. Someone needed to support someone else? In which case, who? The poem seemed almost to be aimed specifically at a Rider, so presumably not.

Closing her eyes, Saeran tried to imagine the poem in her head and its image presented itself neatly to the back of her eyelids. It was a messy hand that wrote it, onto paper that had a shopping list on the back and several mistakes throughout it. The letters were largely uneven, a broken scrawl that only really bucked the trend at the start of each line where the letters were inordinately large, almost as though the bard had really wanted to -

- to make a point.

First letters? GFNBWFH... well, that already wasn't working. Worth a try.

Saeran almost stopped playing, sitting bolt upright in the Chair. First letters were no good, but the first words were -

Go Forth Now Bard With Fated Hand And Find The Rider Of The Land.