Monday 14 September 2009

Cymru - Chapter 21

I'm posting this bit in two chapters on the grounds that it turned out to be longer than I expected and people sulk with me when I post anything too long. This means the next one will also be Awen, probably, and thus the chapter continuity will be weird, but tough. You've only yourselves to blame.

Oh, also; it has come to my attention that at least one of you treasured readers has completely forgotten that A) Dylan is an Intelligencer, not just randomly nosy, and B) the Intelligencers are a SECRET class. No one else knows about them. Adara does not realise that Awen is one, Madog does not realise that Dylan is one, no one realises that Aerona is one. Except for each other. Hence the wires on their beads. That's how they identify each other.



AWEN

The Bannau were beautiful from any angle, but Awen always felt they were especially so from above, when the flight path was low enough to pass between the crests and among the ravens that swept around them in the light of the setting sun behind them. It threw the heather and bilberry shrubs into vibrant colour, russets and purples and golds contrasting with the deep blue shadows lengthening east and filling the valleys and crevasses, and ahead of them in the distance the Black Mountains marked out the Saxon border. Occasionally a buzzard mewed, the lonely sound echoing through the peaks and back to Awen and Adara, making Brân snort and throw his head about restlessly. Awen ignored him. One day, he'd brain himself on a passing mountaintop, and then he'd bloody learn. And Awen would have no sympathy. She might even laugh if she was feeling particularly vindictive.

"Pen y Fan," Adara called over the sound of the wind rushing past. Awen turned to see her pointing down at the summit to their left. "There's no one up there, we'd be able to see them."

Well, that was both true and logical; Pen y Fan's summit was bare of any tree cover and flattened at the top, giving them a good landing point for the merod and an extremely wide visual range that would allow them to spot anyone coming a long time before they could be overheard. Awen nodded, and turned Brân into a glide approach to it. His shadow startled a flock of ravens as they neared, causing them to shriek and take to the air in a sudden frenzy of movement around them. Bizarrely, Brân didn't seem to care; but Awen had long ago given up on trying to understand him.

"Oh, that's better," Adara said contentedly, dropping the reins and stretching as Taliesin hovered neatly onto the sparse grass and instantly started to graze. "It's flying, isn't it? Fun to do, less so once the wind starts. I inevitably end up hunched like some freakish dwarf."

"You look like a freakish dwarf," Awen said automatically. Brân ambled over to a small tarn and began to drink, rustling his wings happily as he pulled them in around his body. It was like wrapping three quilts around her legs. "Sorry, couldn't stop myself there."

"Owain looked like a freakish dwarf," Adara nodded sagely. "It was the nose. And the quiff. And the stunted growth."

"That's mean," Awen chided. "You're thinking of him next to Caradog, who is the approximate size of a bear. Be fair."

"His nose, Awen, I'm hearing nothing in defense of his nose."

"No," Awen conceded. "Well. I won't try, either."

"Good, because he looked like he'd been hit in the face with a spade." Adara sniffed, wrinkling her own much smaller and daintier nose. Awen grinned.

"I always assumed he had been, actually," she mused as Brân moved to crop the grass. "And, indeed, that it was you."

"There were no witnesses, Leader, get off my back." Adara looked at her, her expression growing serious, and Awen bit back a sigh. "But enough of Owain. What's Lord Flyn up to?"

"Ruining my life," Awen declared darkly. "What do you know about the dissenters?"

It took a surprisingly short time to bring Adara up to speed, but Awen wasn't exactly going into detail; just a summary of Flyn and Marged and their opposing plans. Adara nodded silently through it as the sun sank lower and Gwenhwyfar swooped around them in the gathering dusk, saying nothing.

"And then Owain happened," Awen finished gloomily. "And, of course, Gareth, which adds a whole extra dimension. So I've got an awful lot of leg work to do now."

"Wow." Adara sighed and ran a gloved hand through her hair irritably. "We have the worst luck, don't we? It always comes in threes."

"Threes?" Idly, Awen started picking at the tangles in Brân's long mane. "I only count two, really."

Adara gave her an odd look. "The way I see it? First Owain comes clean as a prick and tries to kill you, then 'Lord' Flyn," and Awen could hear the disdainful punctuation, "starts a big scheme for world domination that apparently involves having tea with Saxons. And then -" Adara looked pointedly at Gwenhwyfar. "Then you start falling for a Sovereign. I'd say that's pretty bad luck."

Awen froze.

The wind blew merrily around them, oblivious of the sudden tension on the mountaintop and stirring Brân's mane into a mess around Awen's still fingers. Gwenhwyfar's shrill whistle bounced along the grass, mingling with the screaming of the crows and the gusting wind. Brân lifted his head, suddenly skittish at Awen's mood change as he rustled his wings, whickering low in his throat. Automatically Awen twitched the reins to calm him, staring at the pommel of the saddle beneath her hands.

She shouldn't have been so surprised, she knew that. Adara could always read her distressingly well, often problematically so; but it was one thing to have her noticing when Awen was pretending not to be upset by something. This... Awen hadn't really accepted this one herself, yet.

She exhaled slowly and looked over at Adara, who was still carefully watching Gwenhwyfar's acrobatics.

"That won't be a problem," Awen said evenly. Adara slumped slightly and rubbed one eye.

"Oh, gods," she muttered, and looked at Awen. "You were meant to tell me I was being stupidly presumptuous. I really wanted you to."

"It doesn't matter," Awen said. Brân yanked on the reins and went back to grazing, the leather reins catching on her fingers. "It won't be a problem."

"Definitely?" Adara asked as Gwenhwyfar swept back to her shoulder briefly. "It definitely won't be a problem? Because seriously; you know what the Union would do to you if they found out."

"Yes," Awen said levelly. She was trying not to think about it, actually. "But if I do nothing about it so will they. And I live at the opposite end of the country from him under a Sovereign who had his family murdered, so he's hardly likely to be dropping in every weekend for a chat and a biscuit."

"Aren't we removing Flyn, though?" Adara asked, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, sorry - 'Lord' Flyn." She sniffed. "Assuming we don't get some crazy one-eyed troll to take over he'll probably come visiting after that. Who are we getting to take over, anyway?"

"Well, that depends, really," Awen said delicately. This was not about to go down well. "Because, you see, depending on what 'Lord' Flyn is actually doing and how much evidence we find depends on whether or not he's actually removed."

"What?" Adara stared at her, eyes wide with horror. "Saxons, Leader! Saxons! Can't you kill him?"

"I hope so." Awen shrugged. "And it may come to that, in fact. But it's down to the Union whether they just want him dead or if they want him as a puppet. Or if they decide he should fall down a flight of stairs at night, I suppose."

"What? Really?" Adara looked thoughtful. "I didn't think we did things like that. Do we do things like that?"

"Certainly not," Awen said sternly. "It would be an accident, obviously, and a tragic one at that."

"Ah." Adara nodded as a gust of wind blew her hair around her eyes. "I see. If he does, though, who gets the torque next?"

"His eldest offspring," said Awen. "Except that's potentially impossible, since the mother of said offspring took said offspring and hid them all away about twenty years ago, ostensibly to keep them away from 'Lord' Flyn. Including herself."

"How scandalous," said Adara mildly. "Let's just get a one-eyed troll, then. Easier all round. We'll be better able to find one than a genuine heir, it can easily become a puppet-ruler for the Council and it'll keep Lord Gwilym away, and thereby will solve all our problems."

"Masterful," Awen sighed. "Fancy being Wingleader? I'd love to be demoted. Everything could be your problem."

"It's about to get dark," Adara stated, glancing at the sunset. "We need to get going."

"Yes," Awen said. "Now listen. When we get back to Casnewydd, I need to find out everything I can about Lord Flyn, preferably including some handy written confessions and a few eye-witnesses. This means -"

"What about Owain?" Adara asked, mildly alarmed. "He'll be -"

"Aerona's looking into him," Awen said. "And don't argue. This is prioritising. We -"

"He tried to kill you," Adara said, her voice hard and clipped. "And Lord Gwilym. And then ran away, and I don't -"

"Stop." It was a full command, all air of authority and stern tone, and Adara fell instantly silent. Still glaring, admittedly, but silent. "We are prioritising. Personal feelings aside, Owain is being looked for everywhere and Aerona is actively hunting him. We have more important things that we need to be doing, however; namely, finding out why our Sovereign is plotting with Saxons. And there's a definite time limit on it, since the Archwiliad is in days. We are therefore focusing on that."

Adara regarded her, her expression hard, and snorted, shaking her head.

"Unbelieveable," she muttered, looking away, and sighed before Awen had a chance to ask her what she meant. "What do you want me to do, then?"

Not find out what I'll be doing, Awen thought, but she didn't say it. Instead, she braced herself for the potential explosion.

"Well," she began.

********

The day had cheerfully ended and become evening by the time they reached Casnewydd's tumbling sprawl, twisted streets lit brighly with lamp posts and the windows of houses and taverns. Idris and two younger stable hands met them as they swept into the runway of the Landing Tower, grinning his near-toothless grin at Awen as he took Brân's reins without a word and led him with the ease of long practice straight into his stall. Everything Idris did was without a word, near enough. He had too few teeth left for coherence.

"Neatly done, Idris!" Awen told him cheerily as she dropped off Brân's massive back. "I swear I owe three new stable blocks at least in the Archipelago alone. He's a menace."

Another odd thing about Idris was his laugh. He actually said the words 'Ha ha' when he did so, possibly because 'H' was one letter he could still pronounce without trouble. He did so now, and twinkled his eyes at her happily as Awen slapped him lightly on the shoulder and stepped out of the stable.

It was quiet tonight, all of the day-to-day bustle of a Landing Tower apparently having been done for the day. Awen paused and took a moment just to breathe, and relax in the familiar, soothing scents of horse and hay and leather and saddle soap. None of the wounds hurt anymore, which was a good thing, and most of lingering stiffness was gone from her shoulder, but she still felt slightly out of sorts, as though she wasn't quite back to her best yet. It was a feeling that nagged at the back of her mind, as though she'd caught a cold but the symptoms had only just started to show. It was also familiar, in its own slightly more unwelcome way; Awen spent at least half of her life recovering from some sort of wound.

Muscular problems were always the worst, though, since trying to push through muscle stiffness risked tearing, and therefore more injury. Fortunately, Gwilym seemed to have a magic touch -

Lord Gwilym. She had not just thought of him as 'Gwilym'. Adara would kill her.

"Ready?" Adara asked behind her, and Awen nodded.

"Yeah," she sighed. "Let's go and announce it." And try not to spit in his face, she didn't add, but judging by the brief quirk to the corner of Adara's mouth she'd probably had the same thought, so that was okay. "Although; how dishevelled am I?"

"Completely!" Adara grinned. "We should go and get changed first. Flying leathers just aren't as lovely and appealing as a proper uniform. Also, the price for your hair is that you now need a comb."

"I wouldn't if you'd cut it," Awen retorted darkly. "It's bloody impractical."

"Oh, you can't cut it," Adara said serenly. "It's a feature. We'd all mutiny."

"I notice yours is short," Awen commented sourly. Adara shrugged.

"Yes," she said gleefully. "And I'm not a Wingleader, and as such I have no appearances to maintain. Shame for you, eh?"

Walking through the corridors of the Sovereign's Residence to the Riders' Quarters was a slightly surreal experience. Awen had grown up here, in this City, and since the Wing had been given active status they'd lived in the Residence. For far longer than that Awen had been very well aquainted with the floor plans and passages, both official and not, of the Residence in intricate detail with the result that the whole building was hers. It was home, with the intensely comforting familiarity of home; and yet the knowledge of Owain and Flyn was tainting it. The smells and sounds and hustle were all exactly as they should have been, but to Awen it felt like they shouldn't, as though everyone should have been reacting to events that were so inherently wrong.

Everything was bizarrely normal. Clerks would bow to them respectfully as they passed; Gentryfolk nodded while pretending to ignore them. As they rounded one corner a Tutor edged a class of nine-year-old Riders past them, all of whom Saluted solemnly with wide eyes. Awen returned it with a smile and they almost visibly swelled with pride, smiles breaking across their faces. The Tutor smiled resignedly.
"Oh, now they'll be bouncing," he sighed. "Saluted at by the Alpha Wingleader. They'll be able to focus in two days, I reckon. Stop trying to touch her, Geraint, she is allowed to kill you..."

"I wouldn't," Awen said mildly as Geraint hastily stepped back. "I'd get Adara here to do it. Took off a Saxon's head with her bare hands, once."

Adara sighed as the class filed away and they rounded the last few corners to the Riders' Quarters.

"You always tell people about that," she grumbled. "Then they get all scared of me for being psychotic. And you know that wasn't what happened."

"Yes," said Awen patiently. "But it's a weapon in my arsenal, and anyway, if I told people about the cheesewire they'd definitely never come within a hundred feet of you again, so look at the silver lining."

"But - "

"Cheesewire is more psychotic than mere battle-fuelled rage, Adara. Don't argue."

They reached the Alpha Wing quarters and pushed open the heavy wooden door and it was like balm on a wound. Long ago, when the Residence had been built by a Sovereign who already had his own Riders, albeit before the Union, it had been freely realised and acknowledged that trained warriors risking their lives every day to further someone else's political ambitions needed to be looked after in their down time. Apart from issues of basic courtesy it was plain common sense. War had its own horrors, after all, and the Riders back then were not as comprehensively trained mentally as they were now. These days, with the advent of the Union, Riders knew that they belonged to the country, to be used as the country needed, and therefore to see and do the things that the country shouldn't have to do. Back then, however, the goals were nowhere near as noble, and Riders had simply had the aim of allying themselves with whatever would-be Sovereign had decided to have a go on the throne this week.

The result was that the builder of the Residence had gone to great lengths to ensure that the Riders' Quarters were the most snugly, cosily luxurious places any human being could possibly hope to live in. The stone-and-carpet floors of the corridors gave way to sprung floorboards with hypocaust-style central heating, liberally piled with fleeces to make the thickest, warmest carpet possible. Peasants across the length of Cymru would happily have slept on the floor in the Riders' Quarters. You could probably cook small meals in the sheepskins when the hypocaust was on full blast. The walls were thick, covered in plaster and then painted green. Glass-covered oil lamps burned in brackets around the walls, the type with adjustable wicks and the twist of a button to raise or lower the light as desired. Plants grew in pots in the corners. The cheerful fire place on the one wall was surrounded by rich brown leather armchairs and sofas so comfortably springy if you sat down too quickly you rebounded back off again. They had wicker chairs molded to the perfect shape of a reclining body. There were thick, brightly-coloured wool blankets. There were cushions. There was a beautiful gwyddbwyll board in one corner, carved out of oak and mahogany and topped with King and Prince pieces covered in genuine gold. And they were only in the living room.

The sight and scent of it was like a hug, and Awen smiled.

"Ah, home again," Adara sighed happily. "Nothing like coming home, is there? It's all homey."

"Yes," Awen agreed. A servant had lit a fire in the grate, only small, and it crackled merrily and welcomingly. Her body was begging her to sit on the sofa, subtly reminding her that she hadn't really slept last night, and the night before that she'd been up until gone midnight with Lady Gwenda and Aerona... "I'm going to get changed."

"Me too." Adara was already halfway across the living room to the door opposite, which led away to a corridor of bedrooms and the architectural wonder that was the bathroom at the end. "And a shower. I simply must have a shower. So should you, but you'll have to try not to get your hair wet."

True on both counts, but it was worth the extra effort. Awen felt considerably more human once she'd finished, and far happier about putting on a clean uniform. She changed quickly in her bedroom, doing her best not to look at the simple bed pushed against the wall of the small room in case her muscles decided that mutiny was a popular option, and paused just long enough to re-annoint the tiny shrine to Rhiannon in the corner and mutter a blessing before striding back out -

- and pausing, outside Owain's room.

Would he have been back? Would he have had chance to come back here? Awen stared at the wooden door, solidly shut and adourned only with the simple brass handle. She'd been fast at sending out the report yesterday; the messenger Riders would have carried it as fast as they could after the priority alert she'd put on it, and everywhere in Cymru could be reached in less than a day by air. Unless he'd instantly headed to Casnewydd, which was unlikely after she'd given him what had certainly seemed to be a strong concussion, there was no way he could have beaten the messenger back here. And Owain wasn't completely stupid. He'd know not to try going to any Cities after the messengers had flown.

So... probably not. His room would probably be untouched since they'd flown off to shout at other Sovereigns.

That way madness lies, her inner voice cautioned. Awen ignored it, gripped the handle and pushed.

The room beckoned, dull and plain and tauntingly normal. Like all of the Rider bedrooms it was small, an eight-foot-by-eight-foot box that was only designed for sleeping, really, and so featured little else. The bed was against the far wall, the sheets neatly pressed and folded, beneath a window that looked out over Casnewydd's lounging spread of buildings around its mud-banked river. One wall held the small alcove containing the inevitable shrine to Rhiannon, while the other featured a small wardrobe and chest of drawers, a basin on top with a carefully-sharpened razor beside it.

It was so like Owain, really, Awen thought with a sigh. She'd never known a Rider to be so possessive of their... possessions. Riders weren't overly enamoured of personal belongings, simply because it was a mostly alien concept; they shared what they had with each other, and that was that. The rest of the men in the Wing - well, the rest of the men who also shaved, at any rate - kept their razors in the bathrooms, since the bathrooms contained a supply of water and other Riders who could do it for them. Which was important, since Riders weren't allowed mirrors, and wielding blades near your throat without any sort of guide was inadvisable at best.
But Owain kept his here, away from the others. This razor was his.

She stepped inside, smelling the edge of that odd perfume he wore so liberally hanging in the air, and started searching.

The four drawers held nothing but clothing; two drawers devoted to various uniforms, one to casual and nightwear and one, sadly, to underwear, although it was in fairness clean. There were no hidden compartments, nothing in any of the pockets, and nothing hidden down the back of the chest once the drawers were fully pulled out. Adara appeared in the doorway halfway through, but said nothing to Awen's activity. She simply watched silently. Awen didn't answer, and checked the basin. There weren't even any cracks in it, and certainly nothing was visible on its polished surface. Her fingertips found no indentations. The razor got the same treatment, but turned up the same results; the handle was bone, the blade properly set into it, and it was smoothly worn. The blade was unsurprisingly sharp. A man who bothered to guard something this pointlessly would certainly maintain it.

Awen was lucky when she opened the door of the wardrobe, however, because she was looking down. Riders kept boots in wardrobes, and they wore long boots at that, either to the knee or the thigh depending on the occasion. And boots could be useful places to store things, since Riders had them designed to conceal things like weapons. The result was that she was already looking at them, so when the right-hand door swung open to block her view of the doorway and Adara she only saw the reflection of her legs rather than her face.

Owain had a mirror.

"Good gods," Awen breathed.

"What?" Adara's footfalls began across the room. "What is it? Does he have horrendous sex toys or something? Don't look at them if they scare you, you'll be scarred."

"No." Awen closed the right-hand door and held it there, staring at the plain wooden front beneath her hand. "Don't look in there yet."

"You surprise me," Adara said mildly. "You're normally so good at giving orders. Yet you just gave me one that you know I now want to disobey."

"He's got a mirror," Awen stated. She almost felt like she was in shock. Adara looked like she was, too, her eyes staring blankly at Awen's. "On the back of the door."

"But..." Adara looked back at the wardrobe door. "How could he have gotten it in there? Without...? Wait." She looked at Awen, her expression mildly urgent. "You didn't see yourself, did you?"

"No," Awen said firmly, shaking her head. "I saw my knees, but I see them anyway. I didn't see my face."

"Thank gods for that," Adara said wearily. "That would have been bad luck in fours. But I suppose we know why Owain went weird now."

"Cause and effect." Awen shrugged hopelessly. "Is the mirror the cause, or is it just a symptom? We really shouldn't be surprised, should we?"

The anger was coming back, side by side with its good friend Bitter Recrimination. She shook her head, glaring at the door.

"How did we never notice? The signs were there. It's not like he was only very subtly a complete prick."

Adara wrapped her arms around herself, shaking her head.

"I don't know," she said quietly. "It's so obvious in retrospect."

They both stood there silently for a second, and then Awen nodded.

"Okay," she said decisively. "Grab one of the sheets off the bed, would you? We'll put it over the door, over the mirror."

"You know what I don't understand?" Adara said as she yanked a checked woolen blacket off the bed and Awen cautiously opened the door a crack. "If he was using a mirror, and looking at himself, and knew what his face looked like, why was he still arrogant?"

It wasn't that funny, but it nonetheless brought tears to Awen's eyes, forcing Adara to take over sliding the blanket over the door to open it safely. Owain really had not been an attractive man. Between the flat, triangular nose, the overly-wide mouth, the squinting eyes and the greasy widow's peak hairline he'd somehow managed to have a face in which every single feature was ugly. The only saving grace, really, was that the overall composition of his features had managed to shuffle his face into something that could be described as 'harmlessly unattractive' rather than 'shit-hideous'.

But, every Rider knew how resoundingly unimportant an asset their own faces were. It was a tiny part of the reason why they weren't allowed mirrors; it removed the ability to care about it, and allowed them to focus on what was important, like keeping the country running. Owain had been a Deputy. He was cunning, and clever, and manipulative. And he definitely thought he knew best in everything. Maybe that was enough to keep an ego going in the face of... having a terrible face.

"Right," Adara said as she finished twitching the cloth into place. "All good. Do we open it, now?"

"Carefully," Awen nodded, easing her hand back. "Look down, though, just in case."

They did, but they needn't have worried. The back of the door had become merely a
woven sheet of black and white wool. They both breathed a sigh of relief, and Awen went back to searching the furniture.

She needn't have bothered. Nothing was lurking in the wardrobe that shouldn't have been, no handy written confessions, no diaries of wrongdoings, no bodies. They carefully closed the doors again and started on the bed, but again it was fruitless. Awen wasn't overly surprised. If she'd been plotting treasonous things under her Wing's radar she wouldn't have hidden the evidence in her own bedroom, either. She was just straightening up and deciding whether or not to make a start on the floorboards now when the shrine to Rhiannon caught her eye.

It wasn't to Rhiannon. It had been very carefully, very meticuously designed so that it would look, at a glance, like it was, but Awen could tell the differences between totems with sublime ease. The birds were different, the horse was different, and the sun motif had been subtley made into the focal point of the whole shrine. The candles before it were different. The marks of dried water where the shrine had been annointed were over the sun rather than the horse. It was to a different god.
"He's been worshipping Lleu," Awen said. Adara's head snapped around from where she was happily and unnecessarily tearing apart Owain's pillow, feathers dropping out like a strangely floaty waterfall.

"What?" she asked, her hands frozen on the fabric. "You mean - ?"

"Instead of Rhiannon. Or," Awen amended, the habits of a lifetime moving her to soften bad news of Owain before she told Adara, "at least, he's been worshipping Lleu more prominently than Rhiannon."

But it came to the same thing, really. There was obviously nothing at all wrong with worshipping Lleu; Calan Mai would be a strangely non-religious party without him, and everyone loved a bit of sun if nothing else. But there was worshipping and there was keeping a shrine in your bedroom when you belonged to a specific profession. Craftsmen kept shrines to Lleu, because a shrine beside the place you slept basically meant you were dedicating yourself to that deity, and Lleu was the god of Being A Multi-Talented Show Off If A Bit Stupid Around Women. But Riders were dedicated to Rhiannon at birth, and mostly for their own bloody protection. It was like being dedicated to the country; there was no choice in it. Dedication meant just that. You didn't get to pick and choose which higher authority to recognise, and you didn't get to randomly switch gods. Riders belonged to Rhiannon just the same as they belonged to the country.

"Damn I'm glad I never have to take an order from him again," Adara muttered. "You've no idea how lucky you were, Leader."

"We'll finish this later," Awen said, standing up. "Unfortunately, time is growing short."

"Are you sure?" Adara asked, her voice sharp again. "I mean, this is -"

"I know," Awen interrupted. "But it's not the most important thing right now. We need to go and see Lord Flyn."

Adara swore viciously, and Awen wondered if she could check to make sure her eyebrows weren't burnt off surreptitiously. Probably not, she decided. And anyway, she felt like expressing much the same sentiment.

5 comments:

Blossom said...

Excellent! Thoroughly enjoyed this! I am beyond tired today, and realy needed a bit of escape, and the excellent, detailed descriptions of the places here were just what I needed! Love the dynamic between Adara and Awen, and the thing with the mirrors. But presumably they still see their reflections by accident now and again? Shiny armour, glass, lakes etc. I guess it has a symbolic significance? Also, love the idea of the men shaving each other - perfect. And all told with your standard subtlety and attention to detail. :-)

Quoth the Raven said...

Well, armour tends to be bendy, as do most shiny metal things, so any reflection in those would be warped out of shape. In the case of both armour and water, you tend to see them before you see any reflections anyway, so they'd know to either look away or not pay attention or what have you. Glass would give a clear reflection, of course, but bear in mind that this world is certainly not ours; it's an expensive commodity, and not widely available.

The men shaving each other make me giggle. They all have to do each other's hair, too. It encourages Co-operation and Teamwork and Fellow Feeling - after all, if you don't want to look like a tit all you can do is make sure no one else looks like a tit.

Glad you were okay with the descriptions, by the by. As I recall, when I started writing these you were the one telling me to ease up on the descriptions. This is an hilarious turnaround.

Steffan said...

Brilliant chapter!

There's a major strength in your writing which I want to point out, as I think it's worth concentrating on doing it more - your narrative voice. I find narrative punishingly difficult, and plenty of published authors write functional narrative devoid of charm or personality. Yours positively shines in places. I shall use the description of the Riders' Quarters as an example:

"You could probably cook small meals in the sheepskins when the hypocaust was on full blast."

"... rich brown leather armchairs and sofas so comfortably springy if you sat down too quickly you rebounded back off again."

These are brilliant! They counteract fantasy's general tendency to have the most soul-crushingly dull descriptions in literature, and lift the whole thing. So, my advice would be to just write more of your sentences like that! At the moment, maybe 20% of that paragraph is funny - I'd aim for about 50%, I think. Maybe the gwyddbwyll set could have done with a gag, particularly since this is from Awen's perspective.

Besides that, this is a very exciting chapter once it gets going (though I shall point out that all the information we learn before we arrive in Casnewydd could easily have been moved somewhere less boring) - searching Owain's room is wonderful, and the discovery of the mirror is fantastic! At the same time horrific and alien - a great glimpse of a different way of life, and still so, so normal in its telling. I've said it before, I think, but this story is at its best when strange elements are portrayed in a grounded way.

Discussion of religion is wonderful as well. Love the "if a bit rubbish around women" aspect of worshipping Lleu - I love the idea that he's the god equivalent of the Sun newspaper (lol! sun! Get it?), in that he attracts labourers who are probably a bit sexist.

Quoth the Raven said...

I find it hilarious that you're raising the point of the unnecessary information, since when I wrote this I think it was the first time I'd actually not listed the Plot So Far out again and just gone for a "and then Awen explained everything" style sentence. In my head at the time I was therefore really proud of myself. Ah, well. I could be wrong, but I think it's pretty much the last time I do that anyway.

Mirror stuff! Glad you think that worked. I love the mirror thing far more than I should, really. Oh, and hooray for Lleu! (Sun newspaper LOL) Totally rubbish around women. Although in this universe they don't really have a concept of sexism, so I imagine it's more of a cautionary tale of How Not To Do Relationships, in which the blame is squarely on him.

Oh, and jokes = noted. I shall endeavor to include more.

Jom said...

Agree muchly with the humour aspect - I would also add you have a sublimely economical way of describing settings beautifully, without lapsing into time-honoured artsy atmosphere writing. Balanced with the humorous narrative as well and the whole thing skips along.

Description of the bedrooms is excellent - the revelation of the mirror is great. More details on the difference between normals and Riders please!