Cymru - Chapter 30

The strange truth about Madog: he's impossible to write, I can't get a word out, struggle for days and then - suddenly, I have an immensely long chapter. Not sure what's going on there. Makes no sense. This chapter may or may not just end, therefore, since I realised how much of it there was and didn't read it back before posting. Ah, well. Madog, eh?

MADOG

And there it was. Huddled below them as they swept around on the wind, clustering around both banks of the Afon Wysg as it fought its way through the most dangerous mudbanks in Cymru, the smoke drifting up from its seperated industrial sector in the south but never quite reaching the twisting streets that marked out the inns and houses. In all fairness to it it wasn't that bad; certainly better than a lot of Cities Madog had seen, particularly when Port Talbot entered the fray. But several days' worth of politics had left him viewing Casnewydd as a den of filth, and when not at full tide the Wysg was shit hideous. It didn't help.

He did like the seperate areas for industrial and private sectors, mind. That was good urban planning. It meant that the sprawl of factories, workshops and docks gave way to a sweep of shops, taverns and houses leading away from the riverfronts and up the hill to the Residence, a building that rather cleverly managed to be impressive in a modest way, rather than the in-your-face splendour of many Residences. It was also a gleaming white, making for easy sighting of the Landing Tower as the sun began to slowly set behind them. Madog marked the wind directions, gave the signal and dropped into his descent.

Fortunately, Flyn wasn't there as they landed, apparently content to wait to see them. A stable hand in depressingly formal robes stepped forward to greet him, catching Calon's reins and tickling her chin absent-mindedly.

"Good evening, Rider," he said. He was a pleasant-faced man in his forties, his Casnewydd accent so thick it could have cut glass. "Welcome to Casnewydd. My name is Aedd, and I'll be your stable hand if it pleases you."

"It does," Madog said, the long-practised words rolling off his tongue without any higher brain functions taking part. "Thank you," he added.

As usual, he and Dylan were the first off and ready to go. They waited in a quiet corner by the door as the traffic of people buzzed about them, Dylan apparently scanning the architecture of the ceiling and its pattern of cobwebs. Madog glanced at him, and thought about 'insights'.

"And he hasn't come to welcome us," he remarked dryly. "Should we be ofended at his lack of attention?" Dylan snorted, his roving gaze moving to a neat stack of wheelbarrows and pitchforks.

"Only in a general sense," he said diffidently. "I shouldn't think he welcomes anyone. Thinks he's above us. I'm hungry."

"Well, we're in time for dinner," Madog said absently. "So? Are you willing to actually come to this meeting, or have you decided that this whole process is below you?"

"Do you know, I'm torn?" Dylan said, grinning and actually looking Madog's way for a second before one of the native merod in the stalls caught his attention. "Because on the one hand I really want to hear him talk. But. I also want to find and talk to Awen."

"We're staying overnight," Madog shrugged. "There'll be time for both."

"True." Dylan stretched. "Hey, you want to hear an added level of complexity?"

"No."

"If Owain's gone rogue we may not be the only country wanting him."

Madog stared at Dylan.

"What?"

"If everyone from the Phoenicians onwards wants to buy Riders these days, a rogue one will be shiny and attractive." Dylan's restless eyes switched to the stable they were leaning against. "It's so unlikely we won't kill him that I'm actually having trouble mentioining the possibility, whereas everyone else will be willing to pay him to fight for them, so he'll probably be in the market as soon as he realises. Everyone will be after him."

"It's best," Madog said carefully, "if I say nothing in response to that. It wouldn't give the people of Casnewydd a good impression of us."

"You don't anyway, you square," Dylan threw back. Madog sighed.

"Nor does your hair," he rejoined, his tone long-suffering. "Why does Flyn think he's above us, Dylan?"

"What?" Dylan glanced his way for the briefest of moments before examining a hay net. "I dunno. Old Family thing I expect; he thinks he should rule, we actually do but kind of don't, it annoys him, why are you asking me?"

"For your uncanny understanding of the world," Madog said neutrally, watching him. Dylan's grin seemed to be natural.

"I aim to please," he said, and then glanced at Madog, surprise flitting across his features. "What? You're staring, you freak."

"With that hair?" Madog said. "And you think I'm the freak?"

"Oh Madog," Dylan said, his voice deadpan. "You wound me so. Why? Why was I made to cry?"

"Shut up."

Everything was completely natural, completely normal, or at least normal for Dylan. Madog watched him. After a few seconds Dylan's gaze snapped back to him, and he gave Madog a Look.

"You're still staring, you socially deficient moron," he said. "What? What do you want?"

"Dylan," Madog said abruptly. "Is there some secret extra class of Rider that the rest of us don't know about?"

Dylan stared at him.

"How the hell should I know?" he asked blankly. "If there is it's secret, you complete retard, why would I-?"

"Because you're one of them," Madog said. Dylan snorted.

"Yeah," he grinned. "It's a Deputy thing. Owain was too, it's why he ran away from home. Don't turn your back, I've got a dagger ready and waiting for your throat. Then I'm off to help the Romans avenge themselves, they've got long memories."

"How do you know the things you do?" Madog asked bluntly. Dylan raised an eyebrow.

"I listened hard in school and did all of my homework on time," he said sardonically. "Seriously, now, what are you talking about?"

"You know things, Dylan," Madog said quietly. "You know you do. Politics? You've got the insider knowledge. New City? You know where to go and who to ask. New people? You know exactly which ones to trust and which ones to keep quiet in front of."

Dylan shrugged awkwardly, but Madog knew it was far from indicative of guilt. Most Riders squirmed when paid a compliment.

"It's a skill," he said. He was watching the activity of the people again; again, quite normal for Dylan. "An instinct, that's all -"

"And come to think of it," Madog continued, "it's always Riders you pick. Specific Riders. Like Aerona, who flew all across the country looking for Awen just to tell her specifically about the border warnings. Awen specifically. And of course, Awen herself."

"Madog," Dylan said, his tone bored. "Stop being weird. It's just a skill, and as you've pointed out, it's hardly unique to me."

"No," Madog agreed. "Which is sort of my point. Awen wasn't going to talk to us in Aberystwyth until she looked at you. Normally I'd ask if you'd noticed, but I really think you did."

"Yeah," Dylan grinned. "It's my animal magnetism. You mock this hair -"

"Dylan," Madog interrupted. "Is there some secret extra class of Rider that the rest of us don't know about?"

Dylan turned, and looked him fully in the eye. It was the second time in two days that had happened; Dylan must be growing up.

"Not that I'm aware of or part of," he said seriously, his voice low. Madog searched his face, but found nothing beyond an edge of alarmed concern. "Madog, where's this come from? Is this genuinely about Owain? Are you freaked out with Deputies now?"

"No," Madog said irritably. "I'm -"

"I wouldn't betray you," Dylan said, his voice intense. "I wouldn't, Madog. Ever. You do know that?"

Madog sighed, and mentally stepped back, pulling Dylan into a hug.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know."

"Group hug!" Glesni's voice said brightly, and abruptly another four pairs of arms wrapped themselves around them. There was a pause.

"I hate you, Madog," Dylan's voice said indistinctly from somewhere in the middle.

**********

They were ushered in to see Lord Flyn almost as soon as they'd stripped off their flying leathers, presumably taking his final slot of free time before dinner. The room he met them in was, in Madog's opinion, unnecessarily ornate, a long wood-panelled affair with a carpet thick enough to swallow children and an enormous window at one end overlooking the City. The chairs surrounding the long table were generously cushioned, and seemed to be velvet-covered.

The fanfare that heralded him was opulent, too. Madog put on the most neutral face he could as they stood and a clerk stepped into the room, intoned "Lord Flyn, Sovereign of Casnewydd," and stepped aside.

He was almost as tall as Hannibal. That was always Madog's first thought; Flyn was generously over six feet, and his grey eyes viewed the world down the length of his half-Saxon nose, adding to the illusion. His expression was imperious as they bowed, the glinting smile that thanked them for the subservience uncomfortably edged with satisfaction, and he sat with the regality of an Emperor.

Madog's second moment of realisation was that a Casnewydd Rider had followed Flyn into the room, a broad shouldered man with curly black hair that was far more ruly than Dylan's, and was standing quietly against the back wall. That was interesting. He wondered what Dylan would make of it.

"Welcome, Riders," Lord Flyn said as they sat again. He even seemed tall sitting down. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"Very, thank you, Sovereign," Madog returned. "I am Leader Madog; this is Dylan, my Deputy."

"It's an honour, of course," Lord Flyn smiled, his gaze piercing. "And this is Leader Ioan of our Beta Wing, who will be watching over proceedings. I assure you this is no reflection on you, Rider. It's simply a security precaution my Alpha Wingleader has seen fit to put in place after this business with her Deputy."

"I understand, Sovereign," Madog said, throwing a Salute to Ioan, who winked and threw one back. "It's a sensible idea."

"Yes," Flyn agreed smoothly, only the tiniest flicker of his eyelids disagreeing. "Well then; to business, I think. Firstly, on the subject of Senedd operations, we have a proposal for the Open Floor."

"Any details yet, Sovereign?" Madog asked, picking up a pen and holding it ready over the relevant part of the page in front of him. Lord Flyn steepled his fingers and pressed them against his mouth, his gaze probing.

"None official," he said. "But, Leader, I understand that you've been experiencing increased Saxon activity around Wrecsam recently?"

The rage was intense, but somehow, Madog managed to hold himself back from launching himself at Flyn blade-first. Probably his twitch would merely look like battle anger at the absent Saxons. People had died. Madog had sifted through the bodies himself, the hideous process of laying out the dead and cleaning them up as best they could so that they could be claimed by their grieving siblings, children, parents. He'd helped move the charred remains of houses and possessions and people, trying to help the living salvage what they could to try to make a new life out of the shattered remains of the old. And this man had stood in the woods and talked to a Saxon, just in time for the raids to increase on Wrecsam, just when he wanted their support.

He stared at Flyn's probing, calculating expression, and wished to every god he had that he could have just killed him there and then.

"Yes, Sovereign," Madog said. Under the table Dylan's foot touched his, an invisible offering of support. Flyn nodded.

"My deepest condolences," Flyn said gravely. "We've been lucky down here; their apparent new enthusiasm doesn't seem to have come this far south yet."

"Thank you, Sovereign," Madog said. It hurt to say it. Flyn nodded, and there was palpable sympathy in his eyes.

"I intend to ask Lord Iestyn at the Archwiliad if he requires any extra aid," he said. "But we digress. I imagine you've encountered the dissenters in Wrecsam, too?"

"We have," Madog said. Flyn nodded again.

"Our proposal will help both of these issues, we feel," he said carefully. "But, as I say, we have no official details to share as of yet."

"I see." Woodenly, Madog wrote out the short notes onto the proposal sheet. "Thank you, Sovereign."

"Next on the agenda," Flyn said neatly, glancing down at the paper before him, "we intend to ask the Union to consider allowing Messengers to travel to other countries sometimes. Erinn, for example..."

The rest passed in the usual cloud of tedious boredom tempered with Madog's own undercurrent of anger that he was fighting not to show. Finally, a clerk passed an extra sheath of pages stapled together to Madog entitled 'Internal Requests', and the meeting was ready to roll to a close.

"And these," Lord Flyn finished, flashing a brief smile, "are Casnewydd's internal requests as you can see. Do you wish to run through them?"

Which was a standard question that every Sovereign asked at this point, since this was the really boring technical bit that Riders didn't need to look at. It was tempting to make the bastard sit and outline every single new policy, but Madog decided against it. The Wing was tired, and hungry. Dinner was next. He wanted to find Awen anyway. And if he did go through every point in those papers in front of Lord Flyn, and spot something he didn't like, there was every chance he was going to start getting Angry.

"No thank you, Sovereign," Madog declined, his smile tight. "I think this ends my appetite for politics."

"An excellent choice," Lord Flyn said, his tone smoothly friendly. "Well, I'll have you shown to your quarters and see you at dinner, Riders! Thank you for coming."

He stood, several aides sweeping forward to tend to him, and the Wing followed suit.

"Enjoy your stay," Flyn said. Madog bowed.

"Thank you, Sovereign," he said, and Lord Flyn swept from the room, followed by his entourage and an impressively blank-faced Ioan. A clerk, a ginger-haired woman in her fifties, stayed behind, politely deferential.

"I'll show you to your quarters if you wish, Riders," she said, giving them a far more genuine than Lord Flyn's. "They aren't far."

"Oh, that'd be nice," Glesni said, yawning and stretching. "I think I just want to lie on a bed. Even if only for a minute."

"We'd be honoured, thank you," Madog told the clerk. "I'm Madog, by the way."

"Oh. Gwawr," the woman said, looking slightly surprised. "This way. We've already put the belongings you brought with you there."

She led them out and up, towards the top floor of the Residence, which was sort of exciting and exotic for the Wing. Practice in the Northlands was for Wing quarters to be around the middle, since the merod were stabled around a central courtyard halfway up the Residences instead of in Landing Towers. Here in the Southlands the merod actually lived in the Landing Towers, and the Riders slept on the top levels accordingly.

The quarters were different, too, but every bit as comfortable as back home. The Wing practically stampeded in as soon as Gwawr had the door open for them, leaving Madog to give her a ruefully apologetic smile.

"They're animals, I know," he said. "I'm so sorry. I promise they're housetrained, though."

"Oh, I've seen worse, Rider." She smiled. "Relax and enjoy your stay. Dinner will be in about half an hour, I should think."

"Thank you." Madog closed the door behind her, sighed, and nearly ran smack into Dylan as he turned around.

"Hello," Dylan said. "My name is Dylan and I'm standing here."

"Yes," Madog said. "Yes, you are. Other people would have chosen a spot that wasn't directly between me and the rest of the room of course."

"I'm an individual," Dylan said. "I'm hungry. I think Awen's going to find us."

"Here?" Madog said, glancing at the rest of the Wing. Glesni was now at full stretch on one of the sofas, placidly ignoring Caeron as he moved her legs out of the way and onto his lap as he sat down. Bronwen was already examining the gwyddbwyll set. Hefin and Medi were fighting on the floor. All in all, they'd very much made themselves at home already.

Which meant that if Awen did come in here it would be... weird. Wingleaders existed purely in a world of hierachies. Everyone was either someone they gave orders to or someone whose orders they obeyed. Alpha Wingleader, therefore, was, socially speaking, an odd job. You didn't have peers. You never entirely knew how to react with each other.

The answer to which was, usually, that you scrambled for anything that would establish who had seniority in any given situation. Here, it ought to be Awen, since it was in almost every sense her City. But in this room, with his Wing colonising, he'd be in charge. Another odd power struggle that neither wanted.

"Yeah," Dylan shrugged. "Probs. The fireplace is ugly. It's her City, she'll know we're here, unless she's really busy right now she'll turn up. Well done, btw."

"For what?" Madog asked, blankly. Dylan flashed him a grin before turning around and walking away, heading for the bedrooms.

"Not punching Lord Flyn over the raid comment," he said. "It was masterful. Get changed, you look like the arcane produce of a tramp and a bear."

"Offspring," Madog said, aware he sounded vaguely reproachful as he followed Dylan to the bedrooms, and the siren call of clean clothes. "Produce is for plants."

"Oh Madog," Dylan intoned. "So many puns, so little time."

"Shut up."

He opted for the formal-but-not-super-formal uniform and basked in the feeling of it against his skin, and five minutes later he was just sinking into a chair when there was a knock at the door. It was the sort of knock Madog didn't commonly hear on the doors of Riders; there was no hesitant, deferential reluctance, just a set of firm taps that proclaimed a bedrock of confidence behind them. Madog smiled, and went to answer it.

Awen grinned as door swung open, Saluting with her free arm as she leaned against the doorframe with the other. She looked, Madog noted, absolutely beautiful. Clearly her Wing had returned, and Expressed Their Feelings.

"Leader," she said pleasantly. He returned the Salute, and also noted the deferential title. "Welcome to Casnewydd! Has anyone implied you're a filthy Northlander yet?"

"Yeah, but it was Dylan," Madog sniffed. "So, you know, I'm not holding it against you guys. Come in, come in. Although I don't know why I'm inviting you, it's your City."

"Your room, for now," Awen shrugged, stepping inside. Her shoulder seemed better, Madog thought. "Although we will have it druidically cleansed tomorrow of heinous Northlander influences, because actually, we do all think you're filthy."

"It's Dylan's hair, isn't it?" Glesni said from the sofa, her eyes still closed. "We always have this problem. Things live in it."

"Dylan, for example," Awen offered solemnly, which was the point in the proceedings that Awen sold herself to Madog's Wing and got a round of applause. "Speaking of whom, I've not been hit with a witty comeback, yet. Where is he?"

"Getting changed, I think," Madog shrugged. "Or he may have passed out full-length on the bed much as Glesni has, there. It's been a long day. And politics were involved."

"Get Dylan to stab you," Awen advised. "It worked for me, I only did half of the Sovereigns this year. Could I have a word? It won't take long."

"Of course." Madog glanced at the rest of the Wing. "Watch this. Everyone, get out."

No one moved. Bronwen gave him the finger. Awen laughed.

"You see?" Madog said proudly. "Most disobedient Wing in the country. I really meant it. Come on; we'll use a bedroom."

He led her across to the door to the bedroom corridor and held it open for her, motioning her through ahead of him. Inside she paused, scanning the doors.

"Which is yours?" she asked.

"This one." Madog slipped ahead of her again and opened the door to his borrowed room, holding out an arm to gesture to it unnecessarily. "Do you want Dylan for this? I warn you, if you say no he'll probably sneak in and hide under the bed to listen anyway."

"Really?" Awen grinned. "Then I'm almost tempted to say no to see him try it. But yes - I need him too."

And Madog could have sworn that she glanced - for the briefest, tiniest moment - at the door to Dylan's room.

So, Madog thought as he smiled and kicked the door lazily a few times. Awen had made sure she knew where to find Dylan. Interesting.

Or he was seeing things that weren't there. It was a possibility. Dylan had seemed genuinely upset earlier.

"Stop kicking my door, you loser," Dylan's voice said now, muffled through the wood. "I know that's you, Madog. Learn to knock. You're an ingrate."

"I'm so sorry," Madog told Awen. "He's mentally retarded, doesn't know what he's saying. Open up, Dylan. Awen's here."

"I'm naked, and probably won't compare favourably to your Phoenician," Dylan called back. Awen looked at him, interested.

"You had a Phoenician?" she asked. Madog nodded.

"Yeah, last night."

"Canaanite or Nubian?"

"Nubian."

"Lucky," Awen grinned. She paused for a second. "And was he -?"

"Oh yeah," Madog nodded solemnly as Awen laughed. "Yes, he was."

"He offered to show me," Dylan said, the door opening. His hair was wet, weighted down to being slightly more tamed than normal by the water, and he'd only thrown on a loose pair of pyjama bottoms, leaving himself bare-chested to the waist and giving the world a good view of the scarred, inked muscle. Ordinarily Riders on the border covered up; it wasn't a vanity thing, just a belief that people shouldn't have to see the price they paid for not fighting Saxons themselves. Riders were glad to pay it for them. But Awen probably looked much the same under her uniform, so the taboo was gone. It was a strangely bonding experience.

"Did you accept?" Awen asked now. Dylan grinned at her and shook his head, drops of water flying everywhere.

"Nah. Madog would have sulked. Doesn't like to share." He stepped back from the door. "Come into my boudoir. Have the rest of the Wing seen you?"

"Most of them, I should think," Awen said, moving straight to the window sill and hopping elegantly onto it. Madog sat on the bed. "But it's okay, I'm allowed out on my own these days, so they won't tell on me."

"Your Wing have done a good job on you," Dylan explained, his grin evil. "So by the time Madog goes back out there they'll have the make-up ready and waiting. Can I curl your hair?"

"No," Madog said sternly. "Because, you see, I under no circumstances want to look like you. Get dressed."

"I'm sexy this way," Dylan told him, but he got up and started hunting through his pack for a clean uniform anyway. "Gwenda's selling weapons to the Saxons."

Awen's breath hissed through her teeth.

"Is she?" she asked, her voice even. "This is going to be quite the Archwiliad to remember. Can it be proven?"

"I reckon." A pair of socks sailed onto the bed beside Madog from Dylan's searching hand. "With a bit of help from Madog's Phoenician."

"Hannibal?" Madog looked at him in surprise. "What? Why him?"

"Because," Dylan said, in the tone of an irritating child explaining something deeply obvious to a stupid child, "he wants an Audience at the Archwiliad, for something the Union doesn't need to listen to. If he's willing to supply evidence for us he won't get overlooked."

Madog bit his lip.

"I'm not sure that would be enough to convince a Phoenician to part with trading secrets," he said. "And anyway, wouldn't that make for a somewhat unreliable witness? It's basically bribery."

"Depends what we're asking for," Awen said thoughtfully. "What do we want here, route numbers?"

"And serial numbers," said Dylan, standing up with the rest of his uniform finally. "Look away, Madog. You need at least a month to forget."

"Shut up."

"Route and serial numbers are okay," Awen said, staring at the stonework beside her, thinking. "Those wouldn't help anyone sail them, which is what the Phoenicians really safeguard. If we're really lucky, he'll have a nice official handbook with the official route numbers laid out. Otherwise... we'll need to take some of the weapons from some Saxons..."

She trailed off. Dylan sniffed.

"You can look again, Madog," he said, closing his belt. "And I know you desperately want to. Her trading contract has a loophole, anyway, so it's already enough for a caution. What's Flyn been doing with Saxons?"

Awen's eyes went dark. Madog felt himself getting tense just looking at her.

"Saxonia," she said, the edge of contempt just about audible, "has its own problems right now. And a lot of them. We don't have time for me to go into it now, but; Flyn has become best friends with a Saxon called Coenred, who is the ambitious power-hungry type. He's the king of a kingdom just over the border and a bit north of here."

"A kingdom?" Madog asked. "What -?"

"A lot like one of our City-states," Awen said, waving a dismissive hand. "The man who rules is very important to them. Anyway. In recent times Coenred has been a busy lad. He's seized control of the two kingdoms to the north of his and merged them all into one under his control. He basically rules the full length of the border, now. And for the last month, two months, he's redirected his warriors to the north."

"I knew it," Madog spat, venomously. Dylan's hands froze for a moment on the buttons on his collar. "Do you know he actually sat there, today, in that meeting room, and gave me his condolences?"

"I'm sorry," Awen said quietly, rubbing her eyes. Suddenly, for the first time, she seemed painfully young. "I should have seen this a long - anyway. I came to ask for your help, actually."

Madog stood, and walked across to her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

"It's not your fault," he said intently. "What do you need?"

She smiled, a hint of mischief sidling into her eyes.

"A diversion," she said.

****************

It turned out that Dylan had been right, and before he could go to dinner Madog had been forced to fight off the rest of the Wing fussing over what he looked like. Fortunately, hunger and a few well-aimed orders had prevailed, and he'd managed to escape before it could turn into a three-hour session of beauty therapy and wardrobe choices. Awen, heartless bitch, had simply laughed and left him to take it. Which seemed unfair; the least she could have done was stick around for Wingleader solidarity, especially given that it was her fault. But then, she had a lot to organise.

The night air was cool, and a refreshing change from the warm, slightly dank atmosphere of the tavern as Madog and Adara pushed their way outside, followed by Riders of assorted Alpha Wings. The rain that had forced them to stay in Tregwylan the night before had apparently blown itself out back west, the night sky above Casnewydd a serene star-scene that was completely clear of clouds, allowing the moon's full benefit. Madog looked up at it as the door to the tavern closed behind them, abruptly cutting off the chatter of dozens of merrily raised voices. Would that much moonlight help, tonight? Or would that make it harder for "Owain" to escape? Well; Caeron could handle it. Hopefully Adara would manage to remember he wasn't genuinely Owain, and the poor lad wouldn't end up beheaded.

"Genuinely beheaded, though?" Madog said now, fascinated. "With just your hands?"

"Yes!" Llio said, and Adara smacked her upside the head.

"No," she said, throwing the giggling other members of her Wing a withering look. "They keep telling people this, and then I sound like a psychotic episode. Not my bare hands, I don't sharpen my fingers."

"Right," Madog said cautiously. "But, I note, you aren't explaining what you did use...?"

"No," Llio giggled. She'd integrated into Madog's Wing well; Emyr in particular seemed rather taken with her. Madog wasn't expecting them to be in separate rooms tonight. "She tries to avoid it, because then everyone knows she's a psychotic episode."

"What did you - ?"

"Cheesewire," Adara sighed, and Madog and Emyr's jaws dropped as the others laughed. "It wasn't... intentional, not really. I just happened to have some on me."

"You just happened to have cheesewire on you?" Emyr said, incredulous. They turned onto the final road up to the Residence, the walls looming above them in the moonlight, six hundred yards away. "Why on earth did you have cheesewire on you? I don't think I've ever had cheesewire on me under any circumstance, but particularly not in battle."

"I forget," Adara said vaguely, waving a hand. "But there we are, end of story, I'm not a freak -"

"Except," Caradog broke in slyly, throwing a massive arm about the width of Madog's head around his and Adara's shoulders, "you're glossing over the important bit. I've gone into battle with horseshoe nails in my pockets, see, but - I've never thought to use them."

"I had a head that needed removing, the cheesewire was expedient," Adara sniffed. "Screw you all. And I'd lost my sword. I'm creative."

"Don't you also have a killer bird?" Madog asked mildly. The Residence was closer now, and the adrenaline was starting to seep into his system, sharpening his focus as he tried not to look up at the walls. He wondered if Adara was feeling the same. Or Llio or Caradog; Awen had told them that they were going to pretend to chase Owain, but nothing more. He wondered if not knowing the reason behind it all took some of the tension away.

"Yes," Adara said. "But that's perfectly normal too. Lots of falconers have birds."

"Yes," Llio giggled. "But -"

"Is that - someone on the wall?" Emyr said suddenly, and the entire group looked sharply upwards, following his pointing finger, levity instantly evaporating. Madog's heart leaped.

Sure enough, the dim shape of someone wearing a cloak was carefully climbing up the Residence wall from one of the house roofs at its base, picked out by the moonlight. Madog hoped it was Caeron. If not, some poor cat burglar was in for the shock of his life.

"Owain," Adara said, stepping forward; like magic Llio and Caradog shadowed her movement, carefully sliding blades from sheathes. "Owain!"

The shout rang out through the buildings, Adara's voice echoing back as she moved, already scaling the nearest drainpipe onto another roof. The figure at the Residence dropped back down, rolling as it landed far too neatly and elegantly to be anything other than a Rider, and everyone sprang into action.

"Get the others!" Caradog was roaring at Llio, already following Adara; Llio fled back the way they'd come to the tavern. Emyr was moving toward another drainpipe, looking over his shoulder at Madog.

"Go!" Madog yelled. "I'll tell Awen!"

He turned and ran. The streets were well-kept, so there was no need to take to the rooftops himself; the adrenaline pounded through his veins, powering him on. It combined headily with the enormity of what he was doing. In maybe a minute, he was going to outright lie to a Sovereign. And not with any Union sanction. It was insane.

He didn't even notice the incline. The run was good, the action a soothing and familiar counterpoint to the situation. The cool night air burned his lungs, balm to the physical stress. What exactly would happen if the Union found out? Would the Union find out? If Madog was right, of course, about Awen and Dylan and all of the others, then presumably they'd understand the course of action. Or would they? Was it a step too far? Was involving Madog anyway a step too far?

He almost slammed into the doors, the guards watching him coming with astonished expressions only just getting them open in time - Madog thanked the gods for the uniform - and he skidded to a halt for an instant in the enormous entrance hall, looking around wildly. A clerk carrying a ledger gave him an alarmed look.

"Rider?" she asked. "Can I help -?"

"Leader Awen," Madog said urgently, as though there was a human being alive in Casnewydd who couldn't instantly identify Awen's name. "Where is she?"

"The kitchens, I believe," the clerk said. Madog liked her; she didn't waste time asking questions. "Quickest through that door, first right and keep going. You'll catch her if you hurry."

"Thanks," Madog said, and sprinted for the proffered door. He doubly liked the clerk. She'd sent him through the servants' passages, nowhere near as opulent as he was probably meant to see but a far shorter route. A man with his arms full of fresh linen scuttled out of his way as Madog all but flew past, his pounding footfalls echoing loudly on the stone.

The corridor seemed endless. Finally, Madog reached the plain wooden door set in the end and burst through it into the kitchens, a huge room lined with ovens and food bins and worktops and filled with benches and tables. One table was thronging with people folding napkins and polishing cuttlery, who looked up in alarm at his abrupt entrance, the door banging off the wall, but he ignored them. The noise the door made had activated the person he needed; towards the back of the room Awen had half-risen from a seat, opposite a clerk, one hand holding a file, the other dropping to her belt. Their eyes met.

"Owain," Madog said, and she leapt over the bench, weaving swiftly through the silently watching people. She still held the file. "We think we saw him outside, climbing up the wall."

"Anyone after him?" Awen asked, her voice sharp but calm, and Madog was suddenly in awe. Was he acting this that well? Nothing was wrong with her reaction. She was all commander, all Alpha Wingleader, urgent but in control and demanding the details. Actors couldn't act that well.

"All of both Wings by now, I should think," Madog said, pulling the door back open again as she approached. "Adara and Caradog just behind."

"Really?" The tiniest, briefest hesitation was visible in Awen's stride, and then the focus was back. "They'll get him. We need to get Lord Flyn."

Perfect. So perfect, Madog found himself reacting to it as though it was real.

"Sure?" he said. "I can get him if you want to join them."

"I'd love to," Awen said bitterly, finally reaching him. "But sadly I need to prioritise. This way."

And they were off again, Madog wondering if Awen had missed her true calling to take to the stage. She led him a different way, up several flights of unadourned stone stairs on which more than a few servants had to jump out of the way, although Awen threw an apology back every time they did it because acting aside she was still a Rider. By the time they reached the top of the sixth Madog's legs were just starting to ache, his breath finally coming noticeably more quickly, although both were easily ignored. They hurtled through another door and abruptly the colour scheme shifted back from grey and stone to red and wood, the servants' area giving way to the aristocratic part of the Residence. Awen sprinted to a grand oaken door opposite and hauled it open.

Inside were Lord Flyn's quarters. Madog was familiar with the set-up; there would be several suites of rooms for visiting nobles, a library, an office, a few meeting rooms. Various anonymous members of Flyn's personal staff were inside, all quietly busy, clerks and trumpeters and two burly-looking men who straightened abruptly at their fast entrance and looked far too guilty. Which probably meant they knew about Alis; indeed, it probably meant they had brought her up. Madog itched to kill them.

"Everyone out," Awen ordered, marching straight through. "All of you, right now. Go down to the kitchens, go."

The room cleared almost instantly. People didn't disobey fretful Riders. Madog resisted the urge to stab the two men as they followed, and locked the door quickly behind them as they went. Fortunately, the key to every room along the corridor was in its lock, so he turned them all as Awen strode down to the end to Flyn's bedroom, and then ran to catch up.

"My lord!" Awen hammered on the door. There was now no one in the corridor but them, but if he hadn't known that the entire situation had been orchestrated by Awen Madog would have been completely taken in. Her body was tense, twitching with every sound, her expression a stony mask dropped over urgency and anxiety. When there was no immediate answer from within her eyes whipped between Madog and the door, her shoulders tensing, only to relax very slightly with relief as Flyn answered.

"Leader?" his voice called calmly. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes, my lord," Awen said, the urgent seriousness back again in place of the relief. "I need you to let me in, right now."

"One moment." It was hard to tell through the wood, but Flyn's voice seemed to be grave but calm. Madog wondered if everyone in Casnewydd was a secret thesbian. Awen had put one hand, fingers clenched into a fist, onto the wall beside her head, and was actually tapping it slightly with impatience. There was a pause of a few seconds, and then the sound of a key turning in a smoothly oiled lock reached them, and the door opened.

Flyn looked almost immaculate, much as he had at dinner. He'd taken off the torque of office, but he still wore the elaborate brocade tunic, blue with purple trim, and the knee-high leather boots that looked as though he exchanged them for a fresh pair every half hour to keep out the creases. His face was suitably serious but enquiring; but, as Awen pushed her way into the room past him, moving straight to the window, Madog saw Flyn's nostrils flare, just for a moment. He did not like a non-deferential Awen. Madog tried not to grin as he followed more sedately.

"All secure?" he asked Awen, who was running her fingers along the window seals, the file lying forgotten on the sill. She glanced back and nodded, tension still evident in every movement.

"As far as I can tell," she said. "But I want to be certain. My lord? Owain was seen a few minutes ago trying to break into the Residence."

"Indeed?" Flyn looked somber, his sharp eyes fixing onto Awen. "You believe I am a target?"

"I'd rather not find out, my lord," Awen said evenly. "I need to move you until we've found him."

"Very well," Flyn sighed. "I assume you're moving me to the Riders' Quarters, then? They're - "

"No, my lord," Awen said, and hesitated. Internally, Madog's interest was peaked. He'd assumed the same thing; where was she putting him? "He knows his way around them too well, and I want to be sure."

"I see," said Flyn, carefully blankly. "Then where am I going?"

"The dungeons," Awen said, and Madog froze, even his throat closing up in a sudden, desperate attempt not to laugh. And she was still looking perfectly natural. How was she doing that? How? She looked professional, tense, slightly regretful at the news but utterly convinced by the necessity for it. "I suggest you take down whatever bedding with you that will fit into your arms, my lord, because it won't be pleasant."

"I should imagine not," Flyn said sharply, his eyes trained on Awen. "I must protest, Rider. You cannot expect me - "

"I'd prefer you alive and discomfitted than comfortably dead, my lord, " Awen threw back levelly, with a bardic turn of phrase."I'd recommend the thickest blankets you have. It's cold down there."

"Rider," Flyn said, his tone quiet and dangerous. Madog's jaw nearly dropped at the challenge. Flyn had even taken a small step forward. "I am not going down to a room used to hold criminals, with no heating, furnishings or sanitation."

"Then the next time you build your dungeons, Sovereign, you may wish to remember to make them comfortable enough that you wouldn't mind spending time in one," Awen returned, and Madog was treated to a real-life example of When Height Doesn't Make You The Most Intimidating Person In A Stand-Off. Awen had turned to face Flyn fully and taken a step forward of her own; but rather than wasting any time trying to make herself seem as tall as him, she'd moved into predator stance, weight on the balls of her feet, ready to spring. Her hand wasn't quite moving to the hilt of the hunting knife in her belt, but her fingers were flexing beside it. And she'd just called him 'Sovereign'. In Rider terms, she'd just done the equivalent of raising her hackles, baring her teeth and snarling. "I repeat. I am not about to let you die for the sake of your material comfort. You are somewhat important, my lord."

Flyn continued the stare-out for a second more, and then turned away abruptly.

"Very well," he said, quietly, but Awen's last comment had been well-judged. "Thank you, Leader."

He pulled the quilts off his bed, Madog hastily taking them to speed things up which also helped to molify Flyn slightly more, and Awen chivvied them out. As they filed into the corridor Flyn paused for a moment, and turned back to the door.

"I'd best lock it," he said, pulling a key out of his pocket. "There are documents in there that had best not be seen before the Archwiliad."

"Go ahead," Awen said, her calm tone underlined with impatient anxiety as she glanced down the corridor. It was incredible. That was talent, Madog felt. And it was working. He saw the tiny glint of smugness in Flyn's eyes as he locked the door and pocketted the key.

The walk back downstairs was taken at a slower pace than their ascent, and went through the fancy part of the Residence rather than the servants' passages. It was still undertaken at a brisk walk, however, Awen marching slightly ahead of them and scanning every corridor and room they passed through with professional thoroughness. They arrived at the dungeons in surprisingly little time, and Awen vanished into a side room for a second to grab a key and a lamp.

"Only one free at the moment," she said, motioning them on. "This way. It's awful, but you'll have room to move around in, my lord. Most of these are just cupboards."

"A silver lining to every cloud," Flyn said placidly. "I presume this is a temporary measure, anyway?"

"Certainly, my lord," Awen said. They were approaching the end of the corridor, Madog noted, but they didn't seem to be aiming for any of the doors. He wondered what on earth Awen was doing with her Sovereign. "He was closely pursued. I'll be surprised if it takes as long as a few hours."

"Very well," Flyn said, and then even he looked around with sharp bemusement as they passed the final door. All that was left in the corridor was a round grating set into the floor. The mingled scents of sweat and blood and sewage were getting stronger. "Leader, we seem to have passed all of the doors."

"It's awful, as I say," Awen said, her apologetic grimace so good that Madog momentarily wondered if she'd forgotten all of Flyn's evil. "I'm sorry, my lord. But it's completely secure, and as I say, it's the only one that gives you room to lie down and move around in."

She crouched down and unlocked the grating. Madog fought his own lungs not to laugh. He didn't dare look at Flyn.

"Lucky you had it free," Madog offered, as deadpan as he could. Awen picked up the lamp and stepped down into the hole; it seemed a set of stone steps led down into the darkness.

"Previous occupants died the day before yesterday," she said, not looking back. "The charge was Saxon collusion, though, so don't be too distraught. Watch your step, my lord."

This time he did look at Flyn's face. His expression had frozen over, unnaturally blank. He knew who Awen meant.

It turned out that most of the smell in the corridor had come from this cell. Madog spread out the rich blankets onto the filthy straw in the corner as best he could in the flickering lamplight, and then stood back. Awen handed Lord Flyn the lamp.

"Well," Flyn smiled thinly. "Needs must, I suppose. Enjoy your hunt, Leader."

"If you wish, my lord, I'll bring you his fingers as punishment for the inconvenience," Awen said mildly, turning and making straight for the stairs, not stopping to bow. Madog followed, trying not to raise an eyebrow at the humour. "It would be my pleasure."

"You are generous to a fault, Leader," Flyn said wryly. "But please, don't trouble yourself on my account."

"As you wish, my lord," Awen said, leaping nimbly up the steps two at a time. "I'll be back as soon as I physically can. It shouldn't be long."

And she locked the grating back in place, turned, and strode away down the corridor. Madog drew level.

"What next?" he asked, his head still spinning slightly from the rush of locking a Sovereign in a death hole. "On foot or wing?"

"Wing," Awen said, leading him back into the servants' passages and onto a long spiral staircase. "Moon's bright tonight, so hopefully we'll get something. He took his meraden when he left, so presumably he flew in. If the others are chasing him on foot they'll need aerial support."

As they climbed, Madog watched Awen's back. The urgent tension was still there, now accompanied with the sort of dark purpose that he'd expect from a woman setting her sights on hunting down a man who'd betrayed her. And still, it was completely and utterly believeable. Unnervingly so. Almost enough to make him think that she'd forgotten the whole thing was a set-up.

So... how much of what he'd seen of Awen was real? That was a strange question that suddenly Madog found himself having to ask. If she was this believable when he knew for a fact that she was lying, how, technically, did he know she'd been telling the truth the rest of the time? It was an uncomfortable thing to think about another Rider. And paticularly another Alpha Wingleader.

But actually... Madog considered his Theory. If Awen and Dylan and Aerona and the gods only knew who else all belonged to some secret extra class, that no one else was ever supposed to know about... they must all be able to lie like this. They must have all been trained for it. After all, there was only so much anyone should be able to hide from their Wingleader. If Dylan could lie like this, like Awen currently was, then of course Madog had never noticed. This was acting so complete that you just couldn't see the cracks. Which made him feel a lot less like a complete tool for not noticing.

They waited until they were in the air, and therefore definitely away from anyone who could listen, before talking properly.

"Well, that went well," Awen called, her smile wry in the moonlight as they coasted onto a thermal. "I wonder if he'll forgive me."

"As soon as I tell him, you'll be Dylan's new god, you know," Madog grinned. "A cell? Leader! You have spirit when angered."

She laughed, the sound lilting and rich and completely devoid of all of the stressed anxiety and simmering anger of moments before.

"Poetic irony," she said. "I know. I shouldn't have. I was just going to make Ioan watch over him. Sometimes I have no willpower."

"I can't believe we've just done this, though," Madog said, watching Awen as best he could given that they were flying and wings kept getting in the way. "Seriously. What have we done? We just locked up a Sovereign without formally arresting him."

"I know!" she sounded almost dazed for a second, as though a heady rush of adrenaline was about to make her giggle. "Oh gods, what have we done? No. No, it's okay. It was necessary, it's sadly temporary."

"How long are we giving it, exactly?" Madog asked, glancing back down at the Residence. Awen made a choked sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and leaned forward, resting her forehead on her enormous meraden's neck. He snorted, swishing his tail.

"I don't know," she said. There was a slight edge to her voice, as though she was fighting down hysteria. "I... oh gods. Give it an hour or so, I think. We'll meet up with the others, get him out, put him back, let him..."

She trailed off, and Madog wished suddenly that they weren't flying. The memory of Hannibal was sudden, and poignant.

Everyone has a breaking point, my friend. Everyone. But you'd never notice yourself reaching yours.

"Awen," Madog called seriously. "I'm about to ask you something incredibly important, one Alpha Wingleader to another. I need a completely honest answer."

Awen sat up wearily, steering her meraden gently into a smoother flightpath, and glanced across.

"What is it?" she asked. The control was slamming back into place in her voice, moment of weakness being pushed aside in favour of handling whatever he had to say.

"Are you okay?" Madog asked quietly. And just briefly, for one tiny, infinitesimal moment, he saw just how not okay she was.

And then she gave him a tired smile, and nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Tired and stressed, but, yeah. I'm fine."

He didn't call her on it.

They flew in silence for a moment, and then finally, Awen started to laugh.

"What?" Madog asked, looking across. "Did you put rosehips in his bedding and have only just remembered?"

"Not quite," she chuckled evilly. "But I didn't fill up that lamp."

************

The cell in the ground was indeed dark by the time Madog and Awen arrived back again, three and a half hours later. Madog had been fully expecting them to return in half the time, but it seemed Awen really did have spirit when angered. She took a deep breath, exchanged a wry smile with Madog, and knelt down.

"My lord?" she called clearly. Her voice was steady, but tinged with weary disappointment. Madog unlocked the grating. "He's gone. You can come back up."

"Thrilling news," Lord Flyn's voice responded tightly. "With alacrity, please. When you say 'gone' -?"

"Escaped over the border, my lord," Awen said grimly. "Which explains a lot."

"I wish we knew what he was planning," Madog said, hauling back the grating with a shriek of metal on stone. "What on earth can he be doing with Saxons? And... why?"

"I generally find it best not to query the decisions of the clearly mad, Rider," Flyn said, rising out of the hole as fast as he could while maintaining his dignity. Madog stood as well.

"You're probably right, Sovereign," he said, but Flyn wasn't listening. He had drawn himself up to his full and impressive height and had his eyes trained sharply on Awen, who had stayed on the floor and turned her posture into a full kneel. Madog waited for him to tell her to rise.

"I was planning on being exceptionally angry with you, Leader," he said, his voice quietly imperious. "But I find I haven't the heart. This must be extremely hard for you."

"Not as hard as it will be for him, my lord," Awen said neutrally. The edge of weariness remained, but was joined by a tiny dusting of humour. "But I believe we've had this conversation."

Let her get up, Madog thought incredulously. Lord Flyn barked a laugh.

"True, true," he said, stretching. "Well. I find myself suddenly in need of a hot shower, followed by a long bath. And then I believe I shall burn that bedding with extreme enjoyment."

And she was still on the floor. It was jaw-dropping. Dylan would have been pointedly rubbing his knees by now. Madog found himself having to resist the urge to physically pull Awen to her feet himself in shared affront.

"An excellent plan, my lord," Awen smiled, apparently supremely unconcerned with the staggeringly blatant power trip. "Would you like me to arrange for some bards to entertain you while you do? You could make an evening of it."

"Perhaps not," Flyn said, his lips quirking, and finally he looked away from her. "Rise, Leader. My bathroom calls to me."

"My lord." Awen stood and they strode down the corridor, away from the cell.

"On the subject of bards," Flyn said, looking at Awen, his expression slightly odd, "it strikes me that I haven't heard you sing in quite some time, Leader."

Awen glanced at him, surprised.

"No, my lord," she said thoughtfully. One hand caught her beads involuntarily. "I don't think I've sung for anyone in quite some time, though. I've been busy."

"A pity," Flyn said. His tone, Madog felt, was distressingly reminiscent of a stalker telling his victim how much he cared about her. "You do it so well."

"I remember hearing you sing," Madog mused as they re-entered the Residence and started up the main staircase. "A visit to the Union or so ago. What do you play, in all?"

"Anything with strings, really," Awen shrugged, which was as traditionally Cymric as it could possibly have been. Bards loved strings. If it had strings it was bloody god-sent. "Ill-advised in a job where I'm likely to lose my fingers, mind. I think I remember that, though. You treated my meraden for a broken wing bone in the same visit, so I think we swapped specialisms."

"How diplomatic of us," Madog said mildly. "And how fortunate it was me and not Dylan. As a marksman his trade would have been to shoot you in the eye at twenty paces."

"Deputies, eh?" Awen grinned. "A case study in social ineptitude, one and all. Anyway; I'm increasing your guard to having someone present with you at all times, my lord. I'm thinking you'll prefer this to living in that cell."

"Somewhat," Flyn said, his tone slightly guarded. "Although how inclusive is 'at all times'? Every time I sleep? Every time I bathe?"

"Yes, my lord," Awen said, meeting his arched gaze unflinchingly. "But I assure you, Riders have an extremely casual attitude to nudity, it'll be unobtrusive."

"Yes, I know," Flyn sighed. "It's well-documented, Leader."

It was. Madog had never understood the fuss surrounding it, either; but clearly it was a cultural thing. After all, four hours ago Dylan had unabashedly stripped off in front of Madog and Awen, and none of them had so much as blinked.

They arrived back at Lord Flyn's bedroom door which he unlocked with a small amount of satisfaction, apparently happy that no one had been inside for a quick rifle through his stuff. Or, Madog thought with venom, for a quick go on the girl in his cupboard that he was apparently saving. Not for the first time, he wished he could just stab Flyn.

"Right," Awen said as they moved in, crossing to the window sill and reaching for the file she'd left there earlier, a page paperclipped to the front fluttering in the breeze. "I'll send Ioan up now, or whoever he's got on schedule -"

She broke off and froze, one hand on the file, her body language shifting from 'normal' to 'alert' so fast that Madog was carried straight along with it, his stance altering and looking around the room before he even realised he had.

"What's wrong?" he asked, putting a hand on Lord Flyn's arm and moving in front of him slightly, the other fingering one of the swords at his back. Awen ran a hand down the window and it swung open easily.

"That was shut," she said, turning to face the room, and in an interesting First Discovery about Awen Madog noted, with the alert and fighting part of his brain, that her hand didn't naturally stray to the seven-inch hunting knife at her belt. He wondered if she preferred hand-to-hand fighting. "And we lost him for an hour or so before he went over the border."

The trouble with Awen acting this well, of course, was that she was pushing his instincts to the fore. Madog pushed Lord Flyn back against the wall with a hand on his chest to keep him there before he'd really thought about it, drawing one sword and watching Awen, ready. For her part, Awen moved straight to a chest of drawers and started opening them, one by one, searching for something inside.

"Leader?" Lord Flyn asked, alarmed. "What are you looking for?"

"I don't know," Awen said, tensely. She finished with the drawers and went to the wardrobe, flinging open the doors, her movements quick and terse. "But he can think. Idiot, yes, bloody retarded, but he can plan..."

"I don't understand." Madog could feel Lord Flyn's heartbeat under his fingers, and suddenly it was speeding up. "What do you imagine he's done?"

"Planted something, set something..." Awen finished tearing at the clothes in the wardrobe and spun around, her eyes scanning the room wildly before she moved to the bed, hauling the mattress off its frame. "If he needed to kill you, but couldn't find you... Plan B. He can plan."

"He was a Deputy," Madog said tersely. "It makes sense. We're back to asking what he wants, of course."

"Sovereigns, targetting Sovereigns." Awen dropped the mattress, her searching gaze fixing on the door to the en suite bathroom, and Flyn's heart accelerated. "First Aberystwyth, Gwilym dead -"

Madog's own heart nearly leapt into his mouth at the lack of honorific, and he hoped to every god listening that Flyn hadn't noticed. Fortunately, as Awen advanced on the door it seemed he was alternatively occupied.

"Leader, if he's not -" he started, and then the next few seconds seemed to happen rather fast.

Firstly, Awen opened the door. Flyn started moving forward as she did so, a protest forming on his lips that promptly died as someone hurled themselves out of the bathroom at Awen, shrieking and clawing. Madog slammed Flyn back against the wall as Awen twisted her body with the nimble grace of a cat, her arm shooting across adder-fast to catch the girl before spinning her off-balance and curling a leg around her ankles to bear her down to the ground. It was such a fast movement that even Madog almost missed it; but just before the girl hit the floor Awen caught her for a fraction of a second, diminishing the final impact. And then the girl went completely still, lying motionless beneath Awen, her arms twisted behind her back and face staring blankly at the wall.

There was a silence.

"Looks like you were right," Madog offered cautiously. "He must have a key. Another assassin? Like Lord Gwilym?"

"Good gods," Lord Flyn said quietly. His heart thundered under Madog's palm. Awen threw the shortest of glances up at them and then back down at - presumably - Alis. Madog felt vaguely sick. He could see the bruises from across the room, in every stage of colourful healing from deep purple to sickly yellow. And her eyes burned, hollow and dull and yet somehow intense.

"What's your name?" Awen asked evenly. There was utterly no response, no sign she'd been heard. Awen's voice softened slightly. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Awen sighed, and gently unfolded the girl's arms, laying them beside her head. It was oddly reminiscent of Hannibal the night before, but the difference in context was wildly depressing. Glumly, Madog wished he could have somehow packed Hannibal.

"Might as well be talking to the carpet, I think," Awen said, her voice compassionate. She climbed off Alis and carefully rolled her onto her back, stroking the backs of two fingers down the side of Alis' cheek. The expressionless face stared at the ceiling, unseeing. "How much do you want to bet she attacked the uniform?"

"She must have," Madog said wryly. "I doubt many people in these parts view you as a heinous bitch they need to fight. And I can see those bruises. He's had her a while."

"Yeah," Awen said quietly. Flyn stirred. His heart beat had settled slightly now that he didn't seem in danger of being found out as a hideous rapist, but Madog could still feel it racing.

"Can she not speak at all?" he asked, his voice concerned. Awen glanced at them, and back down.

"I don't think so, my lord," she said wearily. "Whatever he's done to her... it's too much. It happens in interrogations sometimes, when the lichtors are too heavy-handed. Her mind has closed."

"We could send her to the Union?" Madog suggested. "To the Urdd, specifically. A druid may be able to help her."

"Good idea," Awen said, scrubbing a hand across her face. "To be honest, it's all we can do. She's wearing rags, there's nothing to identify her. To my knowledge no one has reported anyone like her missing recently -" Clever touch, Madog thought; her whole family was currently in Union custody, of course they hadn't. "- so there's no one who can take her. And druidic help is pretty much her only hope. She's catatonic."

"And they can cure her?" Lord Flyn asked, his voice sickeningly hopeful. "It's possible?"

And oh, how Awen could act. Madog considered himself lucky that he was facing away from Flyn, so that he didn't stare hatred into the man's eyes and give the game away. But Awen glanced at Flyn again, upset, hesitating over how to phrase her response.

"It's possible," she said at last, reluctantly. "But - my lord, it's unlikely. I can't stress enough how few curably insane people attack Riders. And... there's nothing there now. Nothing left of her. Even if they can wake her up again, as it were, the chances of her memory being even functional, much less intact..."

Awen trailed off, and Flyn relaxed, just slightly, beneath Madog's hand. Madog had never wanted to hurt someone more.

"Let's get her out," he said instead of decapitating Flyn. He even sheathed his sword. "She needs medical help, too, and I'm sure it won't kill Menna to be useful for a bit."

"Thanks." Awen lifted Alis gently into her arms, apparently without effort. "Could you grab that file for me? It seems I'm doomed to leave the bloody thing. My lord?"

"Go," Flyn said. "Help her. And thank you both! It's been an evening to remember."

Yes, Madog thought as he gathered the file and followed Awen back out of Flyn's quarters. It had. And when the time came, he was going to take great pleasure in reminding Flyn of it.