Cymru - Chapter 33

AWEN

"Lord Flyn," Councillor Gwenllian said warmly, stepping forward to meet him and bowing to him, her red and black hair swinging forward. "Welcome to the Archwiliad! I trust your journey was comfortable?"

"As it could be, Councillor, thank you," Flyn said smoothly, smiling his charming smile. He bowed graciously back. "My apologies for being late. We'd planned to arrive yesterday, but Leader Awen was injured while fighting a raid almost single-handedly."

"Welcome home, Rider," Gwenllian grinned at Awen. "We heard. I keep trying to make Madog tell me details, but he won't. He says you kept him alive?"

"He's being kind, Councillor," Awen said, supressing a sigh. Haf had done a wonderful job, the healing cycle slightly more advanced than Awen was actually used to, but she ached today and Brân wasn't helping. "Although I hope he told you in detail about how dashing and glamourous I was, that part was true."

"As it goes," Gwenllian said, her grin slightly evil, "he really did. Ha!"

"I shall save you, Rider," Councillor Dyfan said, stepping forward and giving Gwenllian a dry look. "Landing bay seven, below us. Consider your Wing dismissed and at their leisure."

"Thank you, Councillor," Awen smiled, throwing a Salute. "Your generosity and kindness are your greatest virtues."

"Yeah, but he's paying you to say it," Gwenllian said as Awen turned Brân, heading back to the runway. "Anyway; this way, Sovereign, we'll show you to your quarters..."

The landing bay they'd been given was several floors below, and staffed with a modest number of formally-robed stable hands and Councillor Rhydian. Awen sighed as she landed, reining Brân in to as close to a walk as she could before surrendering control to the stable hands. Rhydian's face was neutrally friendly as he approached, but the man was a masterclass in only showing what he wanted. Almost literally. He'd taught her.

"Welcome home, Rider," he said merrily as he reached her, undoing the harness straps on one side while a stable hand did the other. "Good flight?"

"Terrible," Awen smiled. "I think I'm stiff to the point of not being able to walk. Dismounting is about to be fun."

"Just slide this way, I'll catch you," Rhydian said. "First thing's first, actually, since clearly I'm going to have to say this repeatedly; Owain. Not your fault. But I need to discuss it with you before we do anything else."

"I thought you might," Awen nodded, her tone neutral. He led Brân into his stable. "I don't believe you think that, though, Councillor."

"I know," he said, standing back for her to dismount. "You're wrong. Get down."

She obeyed, and just about managed to stay on her feet. Rhydian reached out to steady her -

-the Saxon's arm outstretched, lunging -

Awen flinched, her adrenaline spiking. Brân tossed his head and spread his wings briefly, separating them and preventing the contact. Awen breathed steadily, and Brân settled.

"Sorry," she said automatically, moving to the saddle bags. "He's an idiot."

"Hmm." Rhydian gave her a narrow look. "And how long has that been happening?"

Awen paused, her hands on the straps of the saddlebags.

"You know I'm trying so hard not to intentionally misinterpret that as being about Brân?" she said wryly. "Not long, only since yesterday. I mean, I'm... not the most stable around sudden movements usually anyway, but it's only been this bad since yesterday."

"I see." Rhydian watched her hard as she pulled a slim wooden box out of the saddle bag and took it wordlessly when she handed it to him. "Come on, then. The stable hands can finish off."

Awen gave Brân one last pat and followed Rhydian out of the stable, dodging the stable hands carefully. Tanwen and Meurig both gave her concerned looks as she passed, but she was starting to get used to it by now; none of her Wing seemed to regard her with anything less than 'worry' these days. She smiled, and tried to rub her neck surreptitiously as they walked.

He led them to his office, opening the door and gesturing her in ahead of him. Awen slipped inside and claimed a chair. If there was one good thing to be had out of the experience, she reflected, it was going to be the chair. Rhydian had sublimely comfortable chairs in his office. They were extremely good for those who were aching head to toe and suffering from lack of sleep. He closed the soundproof door behind her, locked it and rounded the desk in front of her.

"I got the reports of yesterday's fun and games at Cas-Gwent," Rhydian said, business-like as he opened the box and began pulling out the documents. "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you, Councillor," Awen said automatically. He gave her a look.

"Don't treat me like one of the others," he said. "Don't lie to me. How are you?"

"Fine," Awen repeated, a shade reproachfully. "Aching a bit, yes, but I'm hardly rolling around on the floor in abject agony."

"'Aching' isn't 'fine'," Rhydian said, rolling his eyes and looking back at the papers. Awen shifted uncomfortably. This was new. Rhydian had never cared about the semantics like this; he'd always accepted that 'fine' meant 'functional, don't worry'. It was vaguely unsettling. "Now. There'll be a hearing at some point about Owain, but I can tell you now we're going to clear you. Councillor Eifion is the only opponent-"

The sudden burst of fear gripped her heart, making her catch her breath and her fingers clench around the arms of the chair. Rhydian glanced at her reaction and sighed, resuming his study of the papers.

"My, but you're jumpy," he said. "Straight to the Great Shrine after this, please, the last thing we need is an uncontrolled Alpha Wingleader decapitating Sovereigns in the middle of an Archwiliad. Even if some do deserve it."

"Councillor," Awen nodded, trying to calm her breathing. Rhydian sniffed.

"And Councillor Eifion is under strict instructions to leave you alone," he added. "We voted and everything. So try not to worry, and if he demands you adjourn to a nice quiet dungeon with him, don't."

Yes, because Awen was so prepared to disobey a direct order from Councillor Eifion. She looked down, and belatedly noticed the crack running through the arm of her chair beneath her fingers.

"Oh," she said. "Sorry, did I just fracture your chair in a fit of suppressed rage?"

"Yes," Rhydian said vaguely, reading a page. "Don't worry, it makes it look well-loved. Well, this is damning reading, isn't it? And you got these...?"

"Partly from behind the mirror Owain had inside his wardrobe," Awen said neutrally, a small part of her childishly pleased for some reason when Rhydian looked up in sharp horror. "None of us saw ourselves, it's fine. And partly from the safe Lord Flyn keeps in his room under his floorboards, a carpet and a dresser."

"Which you gained access to via a rape victim having locked Lord Flyn into the most distressingly vile cell Casnewydd possesses," Rhydian said, his eyes twinkling. "For three hours. Obviously this is terrible behaviour, Rider. Consider yourself cautioned."

"Duly accepted, Councillor," Awen returned. "I assume Alis made it here safely?"

"Reunited with mother and brother," Rhydian nodded. "Shame she wasn't a Rider, she's got fire, that one."

"I thought much the same."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as Rhydian read over the Interrogation Log, his eyes darkening. Awen listened to the soft sound of the clock in the corner ticking. It was a pleasantly familiar sound. It comforted her.

"Oh dear," Rhydian said after a while. He put the papers down and steepled his fingers under his chin thoughtfully, watching her. "Well, several issues then. Owain, first of all. You've given me more than enough to have him killed as slowly as I physically can. So, first question: do you want to do it?"

She'd known she'd be asked it, had expected it to happen; and she had no answer.

"I don't know," Awen admitted quietly. "Very much so, on the one hand. But then again, no. And I'm not sure why."

"I'll bet," Rhydian said cryptically, glancing for the briefest of seconds at a file on the edge of the desk. Awen fought herself not to see what it was. You weren't meant to use your powers of investigation on the boss. "Put another way: if you're ordered to either kill him or leave it to someone else, will you be able to follow either order?"

"Of course," Awen said with certainty. He nodded.

"Okay," Rhydian said, satisfied. "We'll consider that to be under review for now. Next, then."

He pulled a few letters out of the pile, and Awen braced herself inwardly. This was the important part. In the pocket of her uniform she felt like she could feel the envelope against her skin, even though objectively she knew she couldn't. And she'd never tried to deceive Rhydian before. This was the one person in the entire country, the entire world, that she'd never lied to. It was going to be a monumental test of skill. If she failed...

"I never thought I'd see this," Rhydian said softly, and sighed, laying the letters out one by one. "You say this man's name is... Coenred?"

"That's right," Awen said, her smile slightly wry. "They have hideous names, I'm telling you."

"Yes," Rhydian sniffed. "You have your country's gratitude for learning Saxon, by the way. Clearly we're going to have to start including it on the syllabus. You're sure of these translations?"

"Positive," Awen sighed. She wished she weren't. "I checked and double-checked. But it also backs up what Breguswid told me."

"Yes." Rhydian sat back. "Tell me about Breguswid."

"In spite of wanting to kill her every time I get within a metre," Awen smiled briefly, "I actually do... well, not like her as such, but... I do think she's telling the truth. She wants to change Saxonia, and in such a way as would be extremely beneficial to us. She believes that there's a very large undercurrent in Saxon society that agrees, who would follow her. And I certainly think she has the spine to do it."

"Do you think she can succeed?" Rhydian asked. Awen thought that over.

"I think she has a good chance," she said eventually. "Not a certainty, but... a good chance. Particularly if Saxonia realises that Coenred really does not have our support. No more Flyn, no more Owain, and they're on their own. In that environment, yes. She'll do it."

There was a loaded silence. They both knew what was coming up. Rhydian picked up a letter.

"He's powerful, this Coenred," he said, and Awen tried not to feel the paper. "According to this he's got the whole border now and is moving inland. If we remove Flyn, and then - Breguswid? - fails, we're looking at a massive threat. An unprecedented one, in fact."

"Yes," Awen said blandly. It was true. Nothing she did could change that. Rhydian stared at the letter.

"We'd have to actually go to war," he said seriously. "Take the offensive. And maybe it is overdue, but... we'll lose a lot. So many. Not to mention the financial and economic effects. I don't think we'll be able to keep it from everyone."

"No," Awen agreed. It was a grim prospect.

"So our hopes," Rhydian said, "really, our hopes depend on either Lord Flyn or Breguswid succeeding."

"If we let Flyn do this, Councillor, it will never end," Awen said quietly. He looked at her, listening. "Once Saxonia is united he'll take it, and rule both. And then he'll turn to Alba, and push at that until he has the excuse to conquer them. And then he'll look overseas, Erinn first, and Dál Riada, and then Gaul, and Celtiberia... It will never, ever end. He'll only ever be happy once he's standing on the bones of an empire, and the entire world bows to him."

"Bardically put," Rhydian said, flashing her a humourless smile. "But yes, you're right. And if it were solely up to me..."

And he let the sentence trail off, and proved Awen right. The envelope sang in her pocket, unheard.

"We'll try," Rhydian said heavily. "But I'm not hopeful. A great shame, though. I would have loved to have been the first Council to meet with a Saxon. Something for the songs, eh?"

"What will happen to Lord Flyn if you find in his favour?" Awen asked. She was angry, suddenly. That was odd. She'd been expecting this. She tried to keep it at bay.

"Less of the 'you', thanks," Rhydian said sourly. "I'll tell you now which way I'll be voting, and it's not his. Nor Gwenllian, I shouldn't think. Well; he'll have to receive the fairest punishments we can mete out for the crimes. You can castrate him if you like. And every single step of his life from here on out will be watched and monitored. But yes. That's all we can do."

"I see." Her heart was hammering in her chest, the anger gripping at her. "What if they find against him?"

"Well, you could have used 'you' there," Rhydian muttered. "He'll be killed, eventually. After a lot of other things happen to him, as publically as possible. And then we'd meet with ... Breguswid, and work out a full plan with her to get her instated. I think I'd offer as many Intelligencers as she needed to get the covert things done, as many actual Wings as she needed to look good. We'd make it work."

He sighed, running his hands through what was left of his hair and linking his fingers behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.

"It could happen, still," he said tiredly. "But, let's try and be objective for a second, eh? Saxons aren't the only ones with a grudge they're holding onto a mite bit hard."

He stared gloomily on for a second, and then seemed to shake himself mentally and looked back down at the documents, resorting them.

"Well, I'll personally make his life hell until he dies, anyway," he said dismissively. "So. We have your whole family of eye-witnesses, we've got some witness statements - can you get Breguswid here, maybe? She'd make a good witness. And might just sway a vote or two, you never know."

"Yes," Awen said. "Within hours, just say when."

"Excellent!" Rhydian said merrily. "Let's see... once we have Owain he'll be a witness - Dylan told me about that plan, by the way, it's been approved. Otherwise it's reams and reams of paper here. Is this everything?"

And there it was. The envelope burned in her pocket, and Awen leaped off the precipice.

"Almost," she said, letting herself keep the outer shell of trying to push down the anger. It was a good mask, giving her an excellent reason for possibly looking edgy. Although she doubted she did. Awen was trained. "Adara has some maps and flight routes from behind the mirror to find Owain, but they'll bring them back."

"Okay," Rhydian nodded. "Well, I'll present it all to the Council. With as much of a slant as possible. We'll hold off on actually arresting him until we have Owain back here and in chains, and, in all fairness, until Dylan can give me a confirmed report of Coenred's spreading influence."

He gave Awen a surprisingly soft look.

"And I think it would be best if you brace Lord Gwilym for the eventuality that Flyn might get to hang around," he said. "I'm not convinced that wasn't Flyn's idea to have him assassinated. And by now it's become one of those generally known but unproven facts, of course, that Flyn probably had Lord Gwilym's family killed."

She winced. Another thing she hadn't stopped. Gods, was there anything she'd done right in the last fifteen plus years?

"I'll talk to him," Awen said hollowly. "And Alis and Iona. They definitely need telling."

"You know, if you want to find someone to blame," Rhydian said narrowly, leaning suddenly across the table to her and making her flinch again, "then you'd better start looking at Owain. You're fifty times the Rider he is. And he made his choices."

"Councillor," Awen nodded wearily. Rhydian nodded at the door.

"Go on," he said. "Shrine first, you're in desperate need of purification. Then report to the Ash Conference Room in an hour. Aberystwyth are making a change in their proposals."

Well, that made her smile, anyway. It seemed Gwilym had taken her advice with his chief advisor. She stood, trying not to wince as her muscles protested weakly, Saluted and left.

Owing to some kind of minor miracle she managed to move through the throngs of people wandering the corridors and Stairs without actually touching - and therefore thumping - anyone. When she reached the Shrine it was mostly empty, a few people walking around the ambulatory outside, a few white-robed druids moving serenely about. One of them, an incredibly old man with a kindly smile, rose from a seat and hobbled over to her, his arms spread in welcome.

"Rider," he said gently, his expression warm. "Welcome home. We heard about the raid. Does your mind need cleansing?"

"Burning down and rebuilding, I should think," Awen smiled. The old man chuckled, and she carefully offered him an arm. As long as she initiated the contact it didn't seem to be so bad, a tremor more than a flinch. He took it, and squeezed her wrist lightly at the tremor.

"The times have been hard on you," he nodded softly as she guided them to the pool at the base of the meraden statue. "The fault is not yours, Rider, however much it may seem otherwise."

Yes it is, Awen thought wearily. Outwardly she smiled, and helped the druid sit on the edge of the pool, kneeling herself and carefully starting to remove the arm guards over the wristblades. There were procedures here, she knew. Active Riders from the border were generally bound at the wrists for the Purification Ritual, a precaution against them reacting badly and swinging for a druid at the moment of purification itself, although to Awen's knowledge it hadn't happened in over a century. The Ritual took away the mind's ability to control the body, so it wasn't really an issue. Right now, though, the rope itself could easily be a problem.

Something reared up in the corner of her vision and she shied sideways, sliding out the one wristblade still on -

It was only the old druid, his arm raised to call over some of the other druids. Awen cursed herself mentally, removing the blade and willing her heart to slow down again. He gave her a sympathetic smile, which was generous given that she'd just drawn on him.

"Sorry, Derwydd," Awen sighed. "I did the same thing to Councillor Rhydian. I'm jumpy right now."

"You have nothing to apologise for, Rider," he said. "Will you be okay with having your wrists tied?"

"I should be," Awen said as two new druids arrived, both in the young-and-strong category. "Just - sorry. You'll have to keep your distance. And stay in front of me. And try not to touch me. Imagine I'm deeply poisonous, that may help."

"Contagious," one supplied merrily, kneeling down a metre away and holding the rope loose at his side. He was a stocky, thick-set man, his nose apparently broken. "I'm imagining you have some really horrible disease. Just say when you're ready."

"Excellent," Awen said mildly, moving the arm guards and wristblades far to one side and half-turning to face him, holding out both wrists together. "Which disease? Is it disgusting?"

"Definitely," he said, wrapping the rope gently around both wrists in a figure-of-eight. "I've made it up, you see. I'll spare you the details, but ooh, skin-on-skin contact, not good."

She let herself laugh. Halfway through he changed angle, wrapping the rope around the centre of the figure-of-eight, which had the effect of forming handcuffs out of the rope and making for a far more secure tie. Awen approved, although she was painfully aware that it wouldn't help if she did attack them.

"Well done," she said as he finished, inspecting his handiwork. "Very efficient. Would you like a job? You could tie up prisoners for us."

"Do stop stealing my workers, Rider," the old man smiled, gesturing at the pool. Awen shifted herself nimbly to the edge. "They take even longer to train than you. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Awen said, looking at the pool. It truly was a beautiful pool, she reflected; it's sides and base were enamelled, jewel-bright and shimmering, the pattern they formed constantly shifting beneath the water and impossible to clearly see. There were circles in there, she thought. Definitely circles, interlocking and weaving throughout one another, a tumbling, sweeping, rotating, whirling pattern of colour and non-audible song, dancing in greens and blues, swirling faster and faster...

Like bees, around flowers. Like pollen on the breeze. Like clouds from above, their icy, crystalline majesty roiling and reforming, but faster. There was something important, something she was forgetting, but she couldn't think what, her concentration dancing away in the spiralling, flowing patterns, the colours so pure, marbling together, green and gold and blue in every shade. It sang to her, lilting and rich and warm and so, so inviting, its promise of joy and peace just within reach, just beneath the surface, just there if she simply stretched out -

Her hands were almost black, coated to half an inch in blood so gelatinous and thick it couldn't even flow, sticking to her better thn her own skin, odious and polluted. She recoiled, hands gently pushing her forward, slowly moving her towards the water, and she wanted to scream; it was pure, so pure, the colours so beautiful and offering her something she had no right to take, no chance of having, and if she touched it, if she touched that water she would pollute it, corrupt it, destroy it; but she couldn't stop, couldn't make her body obey, and she was pushed on, her hands dipping down, the water just whispering against her skin -

- the light of evening stretches across the room, throwing the white tiles into dazzling shades of orange and red. Owain is stretched out in one of the sunken baths, his eyes closed and a small, contented smile on his face. The water has long since cycled clean, but the torn and bloody uniform on the floor beside it is a fair clue that he's been fighting something today, whatever it may be. Awen shuts the door to the bathrooms behind her, shutting out the happy sounds of the Wing in the lolfa, and moves to the foot of the bath, crouching down.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she grins, surveying his body quickly for injuries. Mercifully, he doesn't seem to have any. "Did you go rolling in a butcher's shop?"

"Far more glamourous," he smiles, keeping his eyes closed. "Saving the good people of Cas-Gwent from a rogue animal. Doing my job, in other words, while you all sat around today."

"We were helping the rebuilding in Trelech today," she says, stretching. "You know: Rider things, like we're supposed to. It's okay, though. I know you're not really cut out for hard work."

"Bitch."

"You're not the first man to say so," she sniffs, and he's slightly faster as they both move, sitting up and throwing an arm around her waist before she can dance out of reach, pulling her in. The water is warm, instantly seeping through her pyjamas as they wrestle and slowing her movements, preventing her from fighting back that effectively. In close quarters Owain is far stronger than her anyway, but he's also naked, and unhindered by the pull of wet cloth. She ends up pinned beneath him, only her head above water, laughing as he holds her there and they both get their breath back.

"These pyjamas were clean on, Owain," she complains good-naturedly. "Now I'll need to get changed again. And my hair takes forever to dry."

"Leave it wet," he grins. "You're sexy this way."

"You have a water fetish," she accuses. "Don't deny it, I can feel that."

"It's not the water," he murmurs, almost lip to lip. Awen raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, I see," she says, amused, reaching down and grabbing roughly. He gasps, one hand shooting out and gripping the side of the bath as she shoves downwards, jamming the foreskin back hard, no warning, making him yelp and recoil. "Good effort, but I'm stealing your towel for that."

He backs right off and she lets go, springing out of the bath neatly and peeling off the pyjamas, the air tickling her wet skin and making her shiver. Owain stays where he is, watching, his eyes tracking down the axe-scar on her left.

"You'll give in one day," he says confidently. She smirks and picks up the towel, drying herself off.

"Will I?" she says mildly. "Do let me know when. Anyway; be honest. Your rogue animal was a child, wasn't it? They can be vicious."

"A bear," he said quietly, his tone alive with self-satisfaction. "It was just a bear, Awen."

"Stop," Awen managed, struggling for breath. The pool was just a pool again, her hands clean and still dry, hovering over the water's surface; both druids were holding her, trying to push her hands into the water, a third crouching behind her with his hands on her shoulders while she seemed to have risen partly, one leg stretched out behind her. Her heart was hammering in her chest, so loud she barely heard the old druid sharply calling them to stop. She felt drained.

"Hold," the old druid commanded, leaning down level with Awen's face. "Rider? Have you woken?"

"Yes," she whispered, sitting up and pulling her knee back under her. "Sorry, I - have you now been infected with your imaginary disease?"

"So far, my immune system is holding well," the druid smiled, the concern in his eyes so obvious he might as well have written it carefully across her forehead. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Awen lied, swallowing. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened."

"Rider," the old druid said, his face gravely serious. "Was it a flashback?"

"Yes," Awen said. She felt vaguely sick. He nodded.

"We don't need details," he said calmly. "But we need the gist of what you saw. Were you fighting?"

"No," Awen said. "I was... with my Deputy. My ex-Deputy. He killed a child, you know. And I saw him that day. And I missed it."

Her voice was speeding up, she could tell. She fought for breath, trying to avoid the hysteria. The druid nodded, his eyes sad.

"You're carrying too much guilt," he said gently. "You need to be willing to let go of it, Rider. Let Rhiannon help you."

She nodded, fingers flexing, and he sat back, gesturing to the pool.

"Watch the water," he said. Awen looked in, saw the colours, watched them dance and swirl and absorb her -

- the pain is intense, consuming her entire shoulder, ironic given how small the wound is. The arrow shaft is still protruding eight inches out of her body. Bizarrely, other than the pain her main feeling is one of faint nausea, a standard reaction to the concept of having something that alien in her body, something that shouldn't be there. She sinks to the floor, strong arms around her, helping her to lie on her back.

"Funny, isn't it?" she manages through gritted teeth. "You barely feel it while the Saxons are there, but the second the last one falls..."

"Adrenaline," Owain says shortly. He pulls out his dagger, clamps a fist around the arrow to hold it still and cuts off the end. She cries out for a moment, but once the wave of fresh agony ebbs it hurts slightly less now that the weight of the arrow isn't pulling on the wound. "Sorry. I'm going to have to cut away the uniform here."

"You just want me naked," Awen grins, and Owain gives her a tight-lipped smile.

"You're injured," he says, the dagger sliding between skin and leather before ripping upwards. "Internally. You might want to focus."

"Of course I don't," Awen said, exasperated. "It hurts, you retard."

"You're a bitch," he tells her, pulling out a rolled-up medkit and selecting a silver tool. She knows what it is; it's used for sliding under arrow heads and removing them as safely as possible. It's also agonising. "We can talk, though. Caradog hid my razor today."

"Caradog does that to everyone," she says, gritting her teeth as the edge of the tool is pressed against the shaft of the arrow and the mouth of the wound. It's a familiar argument. "He pushed Llyr in the bath last week, too."

"Yeah," Owain says, and pushes it inside her shoulder. She screams, trying hard not to move too much but almost convulsing all the same. "It's all the time to me, though. I'm keeping a chart, you know. He targets me at least twice as much as the next person. And almost never you."

The agony is strong enough to leave her breathless for a moment, spots weaving in front of her eyes.

"I'm naturally personable," she says, panting. Owain shakes his head and twists the tool, trying to catch it under the arrow head. She screams again, lost for a moment to the blackness once more.

"You sleep with him," he says, his tone very slightly jealous. "He leaves you -"

"He sleeps with Llyr," Awen manages, teeth gritted. "And still targets him. More than you realise, you aren't always there. Where do you go, anyw-?"

He yanks the arrowhead out, and she screams -

"Hold again," the old druid commanded. Awen panted, leaning against the supporting arms and thanked every deity listening that she wasn't reacting to them. Any more and she was going to be pitching head first into the pool without them. "Rider? You are awake again?"

"Yes," Awen said, her breath catching in her throat. "Sorry," she added.

"It's not your fault," he said, but he definitely looked worried now. "Really. Whatever has happened. Your mind is rejecting the process; you aren't allowing it."

"Am I?" she looked up, surprised. "Well, there's clever. How am I doing that?"

"You won't let go of the guilt," he said. "The rage, the self-loathing... you have built it up, Rider, into a wall. We cannot get past if you don't take it down."

"Oh," she said, her head spinning. "Well, that's logical. How do I take it down?"

"Stop blaming yourself," the druid said, insistently. "The fault is not yours, Rider. Let Rhiannon decide."

Even as he said it, she knew she couldn't. They set up again, Awen watching the water, the colours whirling by in her head -

- "How are you feeling now?"

She comes out onto the balcony behind Owain. He's sitting on one of the wicker stools, cross legged, watching the stars coming out one by one while he runs his fingers over his heavily bandaged arm, clearly trying not to scratch as the bone knits together. She steps up behind him and puts her arms around his shoulders, leaning against his back.

"It itches," he says, reaching up and holding her wrist on his shoulder. "But, you know. It's healing."

"Well done!" she says, squeezing his shoulder. "I was expecting you to bitch more."

"You're a bitch."

"You always say that."

They fall quiet, watching the stars brighten. After a while she sighs and goes to stand up, but he holds onto her arm, keeping her there.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"Thank you," he says quietly, and lets go -


Union training, almost harder than genuine combat. Their brief was to find a box on one of the lower levels, a small thing about the size of a fist, and get it out of the Union; no small task, given that flying is the only hope of escape, and the landing bays are all watched. It's arduous, and taxing, and requires every bit of tactical thinking Awen possesses, and only one in seventeen Wings ever passes, and around halfway through Awen realises that theirs won't be one of them unless they try something drastic.

They're in the middle of a fight when she realises, so all she can shout is a brief "Owain! Split up!" and hope she's done the right thing. At the end of the fight she's left with Adara, Tanwen and Meurig, the others gone with Owain and no plan.

Eventually she's left here, in the landing bay, the runway a tantalising twenty metres away and on the other side of three grinning High Councillors and another Wing, all of them standing in front of the stables, preventing her from taking any of the merod. She stands firm, and nods her surrender, walking sedately up to the Councillors, very carefully dropping her belt and knife to display the point. She thinks, "What has Owain done?" And she knows the answer. She doesn't look back; merely inclines her body to suggest she has.

"Tanwen has it," she says, and moves. There's no time for anything fancy, the element of surprise being the only thing on her side. Rhydian doubles over from a hit to the solar plexus, getting just in the way enough of the other two to allow her to run. The Wing watching instinctively move to block the stables, and don't realise where she's headed until it's too late. The wind on the runway is cold as it hits her, and she looks up; he's above her, too far to throw the box to, and the people are inches away...

She jumps off, the sound of her own name shouted in several voices ringing in her ears before there's nothing but the wind rushing past, and she strains to hear the wing beats; and then the meraden appears in front of her, plummetting down at her speed, and she grabs Owain's hand and settles behind him. He eases out of the fall gently, and they miss the mountain-top by mere feet. She hugs him tightly, and neither can stop laughing -


- her back slams into the wall, the fingers of Adara's left hand entwined in her hair, her right arm wrapped around Awen's waist, holding them flush together. Adara's mouth is on hers, hungry and demanding, her hips pressing forward as far as they can without catching on the weaponry, and she breaks the kiss to run her lips down Awen's throat -

"You sleep with everyone who isn't me," Owain states, his voice hard as he pauses by the door. Adara snorts and looks at him over her shoulder, her eyebrow disdainfully raised.

"She has high standards and low tolerance for stalkers," she says, Owain's face darkening, and Awen lays two fingers against Adara's chin, turning her back to face her and locking their gazes.

"Don't," she commands softly, watching Adara's pupils dilate, and as their lips meet again Owain turns sharply and marches from the room -


"Well, that's just weird," Awen muttered, the world sliding back into place around her. Her hands were still depressingly dry, and it seemed she'd been struggling even more; four people were now holding her up as her body trembled, Councillor Rhydian sitting to one side with a face as serious as a heart attack and the old druid mumbling something. She shuddered, and sat up.

"What's wrong?" Rhydian asked gravely. He was watching her carefully, although the question was directed to the druid, who sighed and ran a frail hand over his face.

"As it stands," the druid said wearily, "it cannot be done. Her mind has turned inwards. Whatever great trials she has undergone recently, they've turned her against herself. She is actively rejecting salvation."

"But..." One of the druids around Awen leaned forward, his green robes slightly too big for him. "But all Riders try to reject the purification, don't they? We always have to push them. Why...?"

"All Riders consider themselves unworthy of it," the old man corrected sadly. "They cannot bring themselves to do it, and thus must be pushed. But this is beyond mere unwillingness. This is outright denial. I fear we could plunge her hands right in and hold them there for a week, and it would make no difference. Her mind is breaking the trance every time we get close."

"And you can't stop that?" Rhydian asked sharply. "You can't make her stay under? Undo the denial?"

"I'm afraid not, Councillor," the old man said, bowing his head. "Her outlook must change. Her perspective must change. Otherwise..."

He left the sentence hanging. There had been cases before of Riders who couldn't be purified. None had ended well. Rhydian stared at Awen for a moment longer, his expression stony, and then he nodded and stood abruptly. She tried, and failed, to suppress a twitch at the movement.

"Enough for now, then," he said. "Rider, report to the Ash Conference Room. We'll discuss this later."

"Sorry," Awen sighed, holding her hands out for the rope to be removed. "Are you diseased now?"

"Turns out, I'm immune," the druid smiled gently, carefully undoing the knots. "So I'm good. You take care now, though, okay?"

She left the Shrine feeling strangely numb, Rhydian marching silently beside her, every shadow posing a threat.