Cymru - Chapter 22

AWEN

Night had finally dropped on the world outside the windows by the time they approached the lavishly ornate doors of the Grand Hall, and judging by the mingled sound of conversation and background music drifting through dinner was being served. Probably being finished, in fact, considering the time; a tall, old-fashioned grandfather clock opposite the doors in the entrance hall clanged nine as Awen drew to a halt in front of the guards. Traditionally, the doors stayed closed from the start to the end of a meal, but Riders tended to be a law unto themselves.

"Good evening," Awen smiled politely. The nearest guard gave her a slightly awed look as he fumbled for the handle.

"Good evening, Riders," he returned with a nervy smile. "They've just finished the final course, I'm afraid, but -"

"That's fine. We're sadly not after the food." Adara sighed wistfully behind her, and Awen grinned. "Not yet, at any rate."

He pulled the door open and his companion stepped smartly through ahead of them.

"Rider Awen, Alpha Wingleader," he intoned. "And Rider Adara, Alpha Wing."

And what a boring drone that man had, Awen thought idly as she swept up the room, between the long tables of gentryfolk watching her passing. It was strange, almost like he'd been carefully trained to remove any and all inflections and intonations from his tone before announcing any name. Actually, it was possible he had; certainly it was a good way to avoid bias towards anyone. It was just a shame he made everyone assume you were boring.

And then there was no more time to think on it as she came under the gaze of Lord Flyn.

Once, years and years ago now, before the Wars and the Union and the establishment of the border warnings and certainly before Cymru had been unified, the noble families along the border had made an... arrangement with the newly formed Celto-Saxons to the east. Cymric civilisation was still barely evolved beyond tribal law, only held together by the druids, and everyone invaded everyone else constantly. The same was true among the Saxons. Each clan distrusted the rest, each struggled to retain the lands they'd taken against the dwindling native population, and none of them liked the Jutes or the Angles to the east and north. Against that backdrop, it became important when seizing or defending one's throne to claim a greater entitlement to it, to keep the armies on side if nothing else. And so the arrangement had been made. If hereditary rule was law, then that should mean something. That should be the case for a reason.

The result was breeding farms, for people. The socially highest families from both cultures put forward 'good examples' of their bloodlines, and the resulting children were said to have been perfectly bred for leadership. They now had the greatest claims to the thrones, because no one else would ever do as well.

It had ended a long time ago, and everyone did their best to forget about it. Cymru finally forged itself properly into one country, the border was closed, the Union was formed. These days not many people remained who actually knew emphatically that they were decended from the Old Families. Lord Flyn did.

And it was evident in his features. His bone structure was broader and stronger than the classic Cymric mold, which could generally put elves to shame, but his chin was narrower and more pointed than the average Saxon's. His nose was a thin blade of Cymric width but Saxon length, making his face longer than most. His cheekbones were high, but stronger than normal; his brow was strong and framed grey eyes. His hair was a pale blond that didn't often turn up west of the border. And Lord Flyn was tall; at least six foot three in bare feet, and he carried himself proudly enough to convey every inch of it even when sitting down. If the eye wasn't paying attention, it was easy to think he was a head taller than the nobles sitting to either side of him at the Top Table.

Mostly, though, his height pervaded people's perceptions because it was a reflection of Lord Flyn's mental state. He believed that he was born better than everyone else. He believed that he was the only possible choice to be Sovereign on the grounds of his breeding. He knew that no one else near him had such an impeccable pedigree. He even had a copy of his family tree on the wall at the back of the Grand Hall. And it all showed in those disturbingly piercing grey eyes; Lord Flyn looked down on the world, and he found it wanting. He saw the flaws in everything but generally deigned not to notice, because it wasn't the world's fault that he wasn't allowed to steer it to the perfection he no doubt would have delivered.

His eyes watched now as Awen strode up the Hall and paused metres away from the Top Table, going easily onto one knee. As ever, something flickered in Lord Flyn's eyes as she did so. As ever, Awen pretended not to notice.

"My lord," she said clearly. She knew what would happen. Courtesy demanded that the next words out of his mouth should be 'Rise, Rider', but -

"Welcome home, Leader," Lord Flyn said, his voice smoothly devoid of any emotional response. "I trust your journey was a pleasant one?"

And they were once again playing the game of 'How long can the Sovereign keep the Rider on the floor?' Lord Flyn defined the term 'megalomaniac.' You could tell by the constant tacit power struggles with her and the way in which he wasn't otherwise given to suicidal tendencies. Also he called her 'Leader'. All the time.

"As pleasant as it could be, my lord," Awen returned neutrally. The Hall had fallen quiet except for the soothing background noice of the harp. Adara stood like a statue behind her, spared the effort of bowing by her Leader doing it for her.

"Excellent," Lord Flyn said, carefully putting a smile onto his lips. It didn't affect his eyes. "Although, my understanding was that your Wing wouldn't be returning yet?"

"They haven't, my lord," Awen said. "Unfortunately, a somewhat more pressing matter requires my attention." And she was fed up of being on the floor still. "Could I drag you away to fill you in?"

"Of course." Lord Flyn stood quickly, flashing a smile to the nobles around him. "Rise, Leader. We'll adjourn."

Awen stood, taking care not to spring to her feet while pointedly shaking out her legs, and nodded to Adara. They followed Lord Flyn's confidently striding figure out of one of the Hall's side doors as the conversation hesitantly returned to the room behind them, undercut by the gentle lilting of the harp. The bard was good, Awen thought absently, whoever it was. That was encouraging. Probably not an unwillingly murderous adolescent. And she was stroking her scar again, she had to stop doing that. It was almost as obvious as just thumping a fist into her palm. Any further down that route and she'd be twitching an eye whenever people suggested conspiracies.

They ended up in one of Lord Flyn's insanely comfortable offices, a rectangular room almost as lavishly furnished as the Riders' Quarters with an enormous carved wooden desk and leather armchair at one end, and various padded wooden chairs in front of it. He strode to the desk and sat in the armchair with the same air he used when taking his throne in court, waving a hand graciously to motion them to sit. Awen did so, trying not to get too comfortable. It wasn't difficult. The seats may have been padded, but the wooden chair backs were unyielding on the spine.

"And what troubles you, Leader?" Lord Flyn asked calmly, leaning his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. I care about your problems, his body language said. Please share with me, so I may help you.

"My Deputy has gone rogue," Awen said without preamble, and studied his reaction out of the corner of her eye. "Yesterday. I've got orders from the Union to find him and deal with him. Hopefully, I'll have done so by the Archwiliad, but since people with hefty prices on their heads and swords at their backs rarely act to convenient schedules, I can't guarentee this."

"No," Lord Flyn agreed. He'd gone quite still, although it was such a subtle change Awen suspected only her highly-trained eyes would have picked it up. His face gave nothing away, the perfect politician's mask of mild sympathy for her loss. His eyes watched her. "I understand, Leader, although it'll be a shame not to have you there."

I'll bet, Awen thought. "It's kind of you to say so, my lord," she said mildly. "But I'm hardly integral to the proceedings. Adara here will have Acting Deputy status for a while, though, and she'll be watching over you for the next few days."

"Watching over me?" Lord Flyn raised an eyebrow. "Am I at unusual risk?"

"We honestly don't know, my lord," Awen lied. "We learned about Owain through the medium of an arrow aimed at Lord Gwilym's throat. The would-be assassin only knew the target, not the motive. We're therefore improving the guard on all Sovereigns, to be safe."

His expression didn't falter. He nodded.

"Very well," he said, smiling smoothly at Adara. "I'm grateful for the attention, Rider. And I hope you catch him soon, Leader. It must have been hard for you both."

"It'll be harder for him," Awen said, her tone fractionally darker than it had been. Lord Flyn smiled again.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said. "I trust Lord Gwilym is well?"

"He is, my lord," Awen said. "He wasn't hit."

"The bowman had a thankfully poor aim?"

"I'd have classed it as 'distressingly good', actually," Awen said wryly. "But the arrow was caught, so no harm done."

"Caught?" Lord Flyn raised an eyebrow again, this time in a mild astonishment that was just fractionally too sincere. "By whom?"

"By me, my lord," Awen said indifferently. Well, clearly he'd already heard this, then. "The bowman is in custody in Aberystwyth, awaiting trial. No one important."

"You caught an arrow," Lord Flyn stated quietly, and a very slightly hungry look edged through the carefully constructed expression, finally pushing at his self control. "May I see, Leader?"

If he'd been Lady Gwenda, Awen would have carefully dodged the question with a brief "The arrow? I didn't keep it." If he'd been Lady Marged or Gwilym - Lord Gwilym - she'd have made a joke about Sovereigns developing macarbre interests. As it was, it was inescapable. Acting stupid would instantly have been seen as an act, and the sense of humour she'd carefully cultivated in Lord Flyn's presense over the years wasn't bold enough to deflect this sort of thing. But that was fine. Awen had learned, a long time ago, how to handle Lord Flyn. Under the pretence of being self-effacing she'd worked in the lie about 'the bowman', while Lord Flyn would now not think to question it because -

Well. Because Lord Flyn was obsessed with power. He loved the idea of powerful people bending the knee to him. It was why he called her 'Leader' instead of 'Rider', why he liked to keep her bowing as long as he could, and why he was now suddenly transfixed by the concept of her carrying out a marginally glamourous aspect of her job.

"Certainly, my lord," Awen said blandly, and held out her right hand across the desk. In this uniform her hand was again ungloved, and the healing scar ran in a jagged pink line clearly across her palm. Lord Flyn watched it like an adder watching a mouse, and then very softly took her hand in both of his, his long, broad fingers holding it carefully still.

"Incredible," he murmured, very quietly. Awen shrugged.

"Any Rider could do it, my lord," she said neutrally. "In any event, the Wing will be returning either tomorrow or the day after, I should think, so there's no hold up before the Archwiliad."

"Hmm." Lord Flyn looked up at her, his grey gaze penetrative. He didn't let go of her hand, his thumb pressing the scar. It was oddly intrusive. "Although they are, of course, talking to many Sovereigns without you."

"Yes, my lord," Awen said, giving him a quick smile. "I've already spoken personally to any who required additional diplomacy, however."

He nodded, satisfied with the response.

"Very well," he said, and looked at Adara. "And are you content with being a bodyguard for the time being, Rider?"

"As keen as a bee, my lord," Adara said in her mild voice. Awen snorted.

"Ah," she said, looking at Lord Flyn. "I can only apologise, my lord. Adara is cursed with the ability to sound sarcastic even when being deeply sincere. It may take you a day or so to learn to tell the difference."

Lord Flyn's smile gave nothing away.

"I'm sure there won't be a problem, Leader," he said jovially. "Very well. Thank you for reporting, Leader."

"My Lord." It was only just the right side of awkward, trying to bow on one knee while her hand was still up on the desk, but she managed it with what she felt was a fair amount of poise given the circumstances. There was a pause that went on a fraction too long, and then her hand was released.

"Rise, Leader," Lord Flyn said, and Awen did so, giving Adara an apologetic smile as she left for the door. Later, Adara was going to shout at her. A lot. It couldn't really be helped.

*********

Gareth's family were first, but they were almost going to be the most problematic. Lord Flyn was acutely aware of a large portion of Owain's recent activities, what with them involving him, so Awen had to act without appearing to have noticed any connection between the two. She therefore went straight back to the Riders' Quarters and then went the back way down to the dungeons and interrogation rooms, praising the Residence's hidden network of passages and crawl-spaces. The only people who'd see her here would be mice. And maybe the odd Intelligencer.

At this time of night the lichtors had gone home, leaving only the odd pair of guards to stand by various pairs of doors. There were none in the main offices of the interrogation rooms, so Awen started there, dropping to the carpet as soundlessly as she could and padding to the desks. From Gareth's non-specific description of events, his family's arrest had to have been official on some level or other, which meant that there should in theory have been an entry into the main log books. Silently, Awen slid the top drawer open on the duty desk and lifted out the leather-bound tome from within. The paper inside spelled of wood-pulp and ink, each thick page seperated by blotting paper. Awen glanced at the door and the thin crack of light bleeding beneath it. The guards nearest would be at the other end of the corridor, twenty feet away, blocking the entrance - or exit, depending on your view of drinking-vessel volume - to the dungeons themselves. If she lit a lamp in here, would they notice? Probably not, since the distance would lower any real chance of seeing a faint crack of light in a well-lit corridor that they'd had, but even so...

Awen was a bard. They knew a lot of history, the bards, all wrapped up in songs, and according to one or two there had been a place called Atlantis once. As far as Awen could make out it sounded basically like Greece had once been when it was still united, except it had apparently sunk or something and everyone seemed rather hazy on how to happen across maps of it. But apparently, in Atlantis, they'd had a lot of very clever druids who had learned how to do something very clever indeed with fire. It was said that it couldn't be put out; whatever it hit would carry on burning, and it could even burn underwater.

Awen was a warrior more than a bard. The very idea of a Saxon getting hold of Atlantean fire was enough make her wake up screaming even more than normal, so she was generally rather happy that the damned place had sunk and no one had thought to even compose a short limerick on how to make it. But it really would have been useful to have some in a jar or something, for times like this.

She sighed, and carried the book over to the window. The moon was bright tonight, and currently sailing between the cloud banks working their way east, so light was actually less of a problem than she'd thought it might be. The size of the writing remained a challenge, though. As a result, it took her a few wrong turns in navigation before she found the right dates, and then a few more minutes before she could find the word 'Magwyr', but finally she found the right entry at the top of a new page, just after an entry on three visiting farmers who seemed to have gotten into a spot of bother over a sheep in the cattle market. Awen checked the names carefully.

Iona Morgannwg, 48, Magwyr. Colluding with Saxon forces.
Nerys Morgannwg, 65, Magwyr. Colluding with Saxon forces.

Well, they definitely had been here, then. That was a good start. The inclusion of their names in the Prisoners Received book would make for a lovely bit of side-evidence when telling the Union about Flyn's many crimes, too; but this was a book that only made a log of who had been brought in and on what charge. It wouldn't tell her what had become of them.

Awen was just starting to close the book when she noticed the symbol in the margin beside their names, and stopped. It was the mark used by the good clerks who were conscientious about their jobs to denote that someone else had been brought in as part of the same case later on. Awen narrowed her eyes at the tiny date beside it, and then turned the pages onward.

Two days later, apparently. Iona and Nerys Morgannwg had been arrested in the morning, Gareth pulled in front of Lord Flyn on the same day. He'd have been on the road either that night or the very next morning, but a day afterwards someone else had been arrested for apparently being involved in the same Saxon tea party. It couldn't have been Gareth though. So... why? Surely bringing in anyone else was beyond unnecessary? Flyn's intention had been to have Gareth killed on the road, and the boy was already gone, anyway, so there was no need -

Alis Morgannwg, 21, Magwyr. Colluding with Saxon forces.

"You son of a bitch," Awen breathed. He'd done it anyway. He'd threatened Gareth with turning his sister into a concubine, and then he'd gone and done it anyway.

Carefully, Awen closed the book and inserted it into the hole into the crawlspace. The books were often taken by other clerks to copy up the contents, so no one was likely to miss it. She moved softly to the next desk, and started the search anew.

It took another ten minutes to find the Interrogation Logs, and longer again to work through the reports until she found the right ones. Unlike the Prisoners Received book this one was still waiting to be written up even for the first time by a clerk, meaning that although the writing was helpfully normally-sized it was also mostly written by lichtors who had a poor grasp of the art at the best of times. Grimly, Awen leafed through the reports until she reached the right ones.

Subject: Iona Morgannwg of Magwyr, 48.
Charge: Colluding with Saxon forces.
Interrogating Officer: Deputy Wingleader Owain Masarnen, Alpha Wing.

It was all Awen could do not to swear visciously enough to bring the guards running in, but somehow she managed it.

Subject brought in early, before dawn. High pain threshold; in spite of various interrogative techniques maintained innocence. After receiving stronger evidence interrogation intensity was upgraded to level 4, after which injuries sustained were as follows: loss of fingernails from left hand, loss of fingers from right hand, broken bones in right hand, two fractured wrists, right elbow dislocated, broken right collarbone, fractured jaw, three broken ribs, burns to torso and neck, various others. Confession obtained nine and a half hours later. Subject detained in cell 5. Awaiting trial.

Well. Owain had been a determined lad. It wasn't easy to dislocate an elbow, since the joint wasn't really meant to work that way.

A quick check of Nerys' record revealed that she'd somehow lasted longer even than her daughter, and nine and a half hours was a bloody long time to go under torture of that intensity. It was a stupid level; Awen never went that far simply because false confessions were inevitable when the body was faced with that much pain, but then Awen was usually looking for a legitimate suspect, so the rules were probably different. These women were intended to die under questioning. Given the severity of their injuries, how long they'd had them - just over a week - and the fact that Owain had merrily thrown them both into a pit afterwards meant they were unlikely to still be alive. After storing the Interrogation Logs with the Prisoners Received book, she stealthily tracked down the trial lists.

As expected, Nerys and Iona Morgannwg weren't scheduled to appear before a court for another three weeks. That gave them plenty of time to die and be forgotten about. Depressingly, it also meant they were probably still in Cell 5, which was little more than a hole in the ground with a grill over it and a set of steps leading in. The guards generally just dropped food into it. There probably weren't rats, but only because rats had standards.

But this gave her a whole new headache. Nerys and Iona were probably dead, but if they weren't Awen could hardly drag them back through the crawlspaces the way she'd come in when they had so many injuries they couldn't quite make a whole human being between them. So how on earth could she get them out? No matter what excuse she gave, if Flyn found out he'd suspect she might know something, and he'd probably cover up whatever already well-covered tracks he had.

Unless everyone thought they were dead, of course. Hmm.

Five minutes later Awen was creeping into one of the interrogation rooms via a well-oiled sliding ceiling panel, which brought her into the same long corridor as the cells. A pair of guards were not far from the room she stood in; she could tell by the gigglingly drunk conversation and the smell of whiskey on the air. There probably wouldn't be any more guards in this stretch, since the Casnewydd cell doors were probably the strongest in the land. Awen crept towards the door of the interrogation room and stopped, listening.

"was a six," a voice mumbled. "Look! I definitely rolled six, then."

"Ha! You're blind," a second answered, slurring slightly. "Look, that one's five, look, it's on the crack inthe stones..."

"Said six," grumbled the first voice. "I think it's a six."

"I think it's a four," Awen offered helpfully. Two guards, bleary eyed, big strapping men, looked up at her from where they were sat on some crates, the whiskey bottle on the stone floor between them and a set of dice scattered about. One smiled brightly, the edges of his plaited moustache lifting as he did so.

"Excellent!" he said brightly. "I win!"

"Is it a four?" the second asked wonderingly. He had eyebrows apparently full enough to need trimming in their own right. "Oh. Might be at that. Hang on," he added, in the voice of a man whose brain was very slowly doing some sums, "how're you here - ?"

"I'm a Rider," Awen said knowingly. "We're all around. Can I have your keys? We need to do a quick check of the cells, find out who's dead and who isn't, how much space we have. Unofficially."

"Unofficially?" Eyebrow Guard said blankly as his colleague fumbled vaguely with his keys. "Why unofficially?"

"Don't ask," Moustache Guard said firmly. "It's a Union thing, checking on everything, right? They have to make sure Sovereigns are behaving, right?"

"Exactly," Awen smiled. She took the keys off the slightly wavering fingers. "Can't have Sovereigns misbehaving. But this means you can't tell anyone about this, understand?"

It was the work of moments to change her voice and stance for that sentence, and suddenly both guards were staring at her, mild terror sinking through the whiskey. They nodded.

"Good." She flashed them a smile. "Keep playing. The other die is behind that crate."

The sounds of the bone dice rattling together and against the flagstones followed her as she went down the corridor, undercut with light laughter and a murmured arguing of numbers and the swishing of a whiskey bottle. Awen marched straight past the cell doors on either side of her, ignoring the sounds coming from within and moving straight to the end of the long corridor. The grating was locked firmly in place on the floor by a heavy padlock, its lack of rust the only thing that marred its stereotypical image. Awen crouched in front of it and unlocked it on the third key before pulling it free and taking it with her in accordance with the laws of paranoia. No one was locking her down there.

Then she unhooked a lamp from the wall, turned up the wick and carefully picked her way down the steps.

Actually, the steps weren't as bad as she thought they'd be, probably because the guards knew how difficult it was to haul prisoners and corpses up badly-maintained staircases, but the smell more than made up for it. Something was definitely dead down there. Awen lifted the lamp halfway down the steps and looked around the cell below her.

There were no lights other than the one Awen carried, and no windows at all other than the hole in the ceiling that led back out. The walls were stone, and damp, a very slow trickle of water having caused some sort of mildew to grow down one side of the cell. A thin, greasy mat of straw had covered the floor, but someone had very practically pulled it all together into a corner, making a thick bed of it away from the small gutter that ran along the opposite wall. She could make out a shape on the straw, mostly a dark heap but with the odd flash of pale flesh reflected in the lamp light. Awen sighed, feeling suddenly weary. If they were dead, she was going to have to kill someone. Preferably Flyn.

"Nerys?" she said, quietly. "Iona? Are either of you -?"

The heap on the straw stirred, and Awen got a move on down the steps. Closer up, the darkness she could see seemed to be an impromptu blanket made of sack cloth, possibly thrown down by a guard. As she neared a face, drawn and pale and covered in dried blood and grime, looked out at her.

"Who's there?" it croaked, the defiant fear almost completely masking the tiny seed of hope in the voice. "Who -? Why are you -?"

"My name is Awen," Awen said gently. It was odd. She hadn't had to say her own name in quite a while. There was usually a man for this sort of thing. "I'm the Alpha Wingleader here. Are you both still alive?"

"I don't know," the woman said quietly. "Mam hasn't woken up for a while, and I can't tell if she's colder than she was." She laughed bitterly. "What would be the difference? I wouldn't even know by smell. It already smelled like this when we came down here. Are you here to torture us some more?"

"No," Awen said, gently but firmly. "I'm here to get you out. Can I check your mother?"

Wordlessly, the woman nodded, and Awen set the lamp carefully beside her before crouching down and pulling back the blanket from the other shape -

- and dropping it again before Iona could see. No one should have to see another human being like that. Especially not someone they knew.

"She's gone," Awen said quietly. Iona stared up at the ceiling, her face emotionless but for the tightening around her jaw. "Iona -"

"Don't tell me you're sorry, Rider," she said, her voice low and venomous. "Don't. She wasn't your mother. Or if she was you wouldn't know, would you?"

It actually made her catch her breath. In her entire life, no one had ever taunted Awen about that. Riders were given to the Union as babies, never to meet their real parents again. Some didn't have any, of course; but even the best, most thoroughly trained of Riders, especially as children, would yearn for real parents at some point. It was a subject no one raised around them, therefore. And no one tried to hurt a Rider anyway, unless they were a Saxon.

"No," Awen said, after a moment. "No, I wouldn't. And I won't apologise to you, because I've got too much to apologise to your family for, and if I start now I won't stop. I found Gareth, though. He's safe."

"He's -?" Iona looked at her, her eyes suddenly wide and filled with an almost desperate pleading. "You're sure? You're sure he's safe? They said -"

"I've put him in the Union," Awen said, stepping cautiously back to the lamp and laying a hand gently on the blanket over Iona. "He couldn't be safer. Can I see your injuries?"

"I - yes," Iona said, nodding. "Alis? What about Alis? Do you know if she's still okay?"

"Not yet," Awen lied, carefully peeling back the blanket and keeping the instant desire to swear firmly inside her head and away from her tongue. "Can you still feel the pain?"

"Not like I could," Iona said. She looked at Awen, her eyes sharp and almost sneering again. "Am I dying, therefore?"

"I've seen worse," Awen said candidly. "Not by much, but I've seen worse. You're lucky."

"Really?" Iona said. "It's a good job you're armed, Rider girl, or I'd have thumped you then."

"I'll bet," Awen said levelly. "But your legs are unharmed and the gangrenous flesh that was building up around your right hand and the various burn wounds has been cleaned away by maggots, so yes, you've been pretty lucky. Also you still have two eyes. That's not to be sniffed at."

Iona stared at her a second, then grinned. A few teeth were broken.

"Mam would have liked you," she said, quietly approving. "You bite back. She always did like a girl who bites back. How are you getting me out, then?"

"By pretending you're dead and then carrying you both out on stretchers," Awen said. "And then I'm going to bandage you up as best I can and sneak you onto a carriage to get you off to the Union. Once you're gone I'm going to find Alis and send her on to you."

"Sounds good," Iona said, her head falling back and her eyes closing. "Wake me when you're done, then."

"Sorry, can I just check?" Awen asked. "You are related to Gareth, yes? Quiet lad, incapable of answering anything back?"

Iona chuckled.

"The very same," she said, her croaking voice betraying her affection. "Takes after his dad, that one. Wet boy, really, but he has his good points. Hurry up and get me out."

"Hurry up and die, then," Awen threw back, and she left to threaten some guards.