Cymru - Chapter 40

GWILYM

Something was going on here, Gwilym reflected, that he really didn't understand. He was being played in some way. Except it was by the Union, so he wasn't entirely clear on whether he was just meant to accept it with patriotic gladness or go storming to Councillor Gwenllian's study to demand an explanation. Not that he was that upset about it.

The image of Awen wearing only a pair of leather breeches cut off below the knee was going to keep Gwilym happy for the rest of his life, he decided. She had her back to him where he sat cross-legged on the bed, giving him an uninterrupted view of the supple muscling sliding beneath the silver-brindled skin as she stretched, the swirling indigo tattoos marching up her spine and across her shoulder-blades. It was a beautiful sight.

Bizarrely, it was also sexier than when she'd been tied to a bed, naked and oiled between his thighs, although Gwilym supposed he was being a bit soppy there. She'd been in terrible pain when tied to the bed, naked and oiled between his thighs. Now she was - well, knowing Awen, probably still in pain, but far less terrible. And anyway, as he'd already revealed today and been mocked for, Gwilym was an old-fashioned religious lad. There were two social groups it felt sacreligious to try to tame or restrain in any way, and they were Riders and bards, and look who fit both categories like some kind of falsified image of perfection...

"How did you escape last night, by the way?" Awen asked curiously, her fluid voice puling him back out of his reverie. "I saw who you were sitting with."

"Ienifer and Girly Lord Ieuan?" Gwilym shuddered. "I told Marged about my drinking game with Gwenllian, and then she and Erys were kind enough to drag me away while Iestyn kindly distracted them with a socially demanding but boring story about prunes."

"Really?" Awen flashed him a grin as she closed the clasps of a supporter beneath her breasts. "I actually want to hear it now. Prunes, you say?"

"Prunes I say," Gwilym agreed. "And boring, did I mention that? You don't want to hear it. You're wrong, I'm afraid."

"Oh," Awen said mildly. "I see. You really do make the strangest Sovereign, you know. I think the last person to tell me I was wrong was - well, Owain, actually."

"I'm unsurprised," Gwilym said disapprovingly. "He was an unsavoury fellow, apparently of body and mind."

Awen laughed, the sound like honey.

"In fairness, it's a privilege of rank," she grinned, pulling on a clean jerkin. "He was my Deputy. They're allowed. Like Madog and Dylan, although I'll freely admit that their dynamic is considerably different from mine with Owain."

He'd noticed that, actually. Getting to know Casnewydd's Alpha Wing all morning had been a whole new education. Madog and Dylan's relationship was that light-hearted, indifferent dance of banter that covered chasms of earned affection, and Gwilym had been expecting much the same here; but it was far, far more complicated. To them, Awen was commander, mother, sister, lover and friend. They adored her. She was every kind of comfort to them that she could possibly be; but, at the same time, she could have ordered them to walk into the sea and drown themselves and they would have done it joyfully. A Deputy was a sub-commander, someone to share the leadership with in some way, someone to debate orders with her. But the others couldn't and wouldn't. With the loss of Owain, Awen had actually lost the closest thing she'd had to a peer. It wasn't that surprising that she was feeling lost. Everyone needed someone who could tell them they were wrong.

"Their dynamic is the opposite of mine with Watkins," Gwilym nodded sagaciously. "We pretend to like each other while secretly hating each other. I think my father once told me that sort of thing is character-building."

"Of a sort," Awen snorted, her fingers closing the clasps at her throat. She was a fast dresser, although Gwilym supposed it was an expected skill given that in her line of work speed of dressing meant the difference between fighting in uniform or fighting in nothing but a smile. "Depends on the character, of course. Was your father a tough-love kind of man?"

Gwilym considered that for a moment.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I didn't know him that well. He didn't have much spare time, and what he did have was spent with my sister to teach her Sovereigning and such. He seemed to be."

Gwilym trailed off, idly watching the wall opposite as he thought.

"He was... stern, certainly," he said at last. "Didn't smile much. He grew up in the Wars under my completely psychotic grandmother, though, so I suppose it was expected. He was definitely one of those people with firm ideas on what makes an adult, killing a hare with your teeth and wearing its blood as face-paint, that kind of thing. But he was also very fair, so it was hard to complain."

"That's important," Awen nodded, pulling on a boot and somehow lacing it from ankle to knee in the same sort of time Gwilym would have used to just pick up one lace and look at it blearily. "It makes you a better leader."

"Presumably it did." Gwilym linked his hands behind his head and leaned back against the pillows, watching her. "To be honest, though, I think you would have met him more than I did. You probably knew him better."

Awen glanced at him, the fleeting look guilty before she turned to the other boot, a soft smile firmly in place. She was far too used to wearing masks, Gwilym felt.

"My take on him was much the same," she said. "Stern as a rock and about as likely to change his mind on something. But fair. I don't find it at all surprising he came up with Marged's crazy system of butterflies and sunshine."

"No," Gwilym agreed. "Although I'm surprised she didn't. I wonder how disapproving he'd be of what I've done so far? I've ruined his careful system of budgetting already."

There was a pause as Awen finished the lacing and stood, her gaze fixed on the wall as she dusted off her hands, apparently trying to work out how to say something. Gwilym almost laughed.

"Tell me what's on your mind and I promise I shan't take it as either condemnation or endorsement of my crazy political schemes," he grinned. "Or change anything based on it."

"I'm not allowed," she said, clearly torn. "You're already not supposed to be in my bedroom, Gwenllian or not. If I start giving you any sort of political advice I probably won't survive long enough to see Adara come back after all."

"That's a policy that really needs changing, you know," Gwilym said contentedly. "Life would be much easier if the Union could just give us all instructions on what we should do as Sovereigns."

"We don't run the country," Awen smiled with a distressing amount of certainty given how wrong she was. She picked up a long, rectangular mechanism from the dresser and began to strap it to her forearm. "We just guard it."

"Well, yes, I'll just be avoiding that particular bear-trap now," Gwilym said, sitting up. "But anyway; I'm merely asking what my father might think of my wanton destruction of his carefully-created scheme. Not what you think."

"Well..." Awen shrugged awkwardly. "As I say, he didn't change his mind much. I expect he'd have hated it at first."

"Only at first?" Well, that sounded hopeful. Perhaps it was mildly pathetic Gwilym was seeking approval from a dead man he hadn't known that well.

"Yes," Awen said, and it took Gwilym a moment to work out that she hadn't just answered his internal reflectings about his patheticness. "Because he was fair enough not to hold a grudge against something once it was already done and demonstrably working. Once you've got that system in place properly and everything clicks, I think he'd have been proud of you."

Proud of him. He hadn't considered that. Although it must have been the case, given that on finding out about Gwilym's nocturnal doctoring habits he hadn't deported him or anything. Although that could have just been Gwilym's mother's influence.

"I wonder what your sister would have been like as Sovereign?" Awen mused suddenly. Gwilym blinked.

"Bethan?" he asked blankly. "Terrifying. She was so angry, Awen. She'd have combusted within the year. My Mental Uncle Dara pushed her into a grain bin once. My chefs tell me they had to peel her off his face."

"Yes, but that's excellent foreign policy," Awen said, straight-faced, and Gwilym actually giggled. "You'd never lose a trade agreement again. And just imagine Flyn asking her for an illicit vote, all our problems would be solved at a glance."

She finished with the mechanism and flexed her wrist. A seven-inch blade, slim and horrifically sharp, shot out of the mechanism from her inner arm with enough speed to punch through metal. Awen gave it a critical look and then nodded, another flex making the blade shoot back so suddenly it seemed to have disappeared, and then began strapping a second to her other arm.

It took a second, but Gwilym realised his jaw was hanging.

"Er," he said. "Concealed death wrists?"

"Yes, they're very handy," Awen said absently. "They're easier to kill with, and of course they practically already-drawn - that's how I got away from Owain. Risky though. They're literally an accident waiting to happen. You have to undergo extensive training before you're certified safe to use them."

"Surely," Gwilym said, his mind swimming, "the risk of self-impalement -"

"Staggeringly high, yeah," Awen agreed. She flexed this wrist and again, the blade shot out and back, a flash of metal, deadly and hidden. "And accidental impaling of others, of course, which is why the training is so intensive. You do it for years upon years before you're allowed them. I've often considered cutting my ring fingers off, actually."

"You - what?" Gwilym managed. Awen started pulling a leather guard over the mechanism, and blankly he realised she'd been wearing those the day before. He'd just taken them to be archery guards, defence against errant bow strings.

"To give the blade an exit point against my palms," Awen explained, supremely unconcerned. "But I decided against it on the grounds that it would then be a clue that I wear them, and half of the efficacy of wristblades is that no one knows you have them."

"Awen," Gwilym sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You are beyond messed up."

"It's-"

"You're floating around somewhere, way out past the border of messed up," Gwilym continued. "So much so you seem to think you're actually back in Well-Adjusted Land with the rest of us."

"I don't think that," Awen protested mildly. "I'm not normal, I know that. I'm a Rider."

"Oh, I see," Gwilym said glumly. "And therefore normal rules don't apply."

"No, they don't," Awen agreed, finishing with the guards and picking up her knife-belt. She looked at him suspiciously. "Is this about my fingers? I said ring fingers, I'm not mental. You don't need those."

"You're a bard!" Gwilym protested. "You need all of your fingers!"

"It's a secondary job," Awen shrugged, and gave him a look. "And anyway, I decided against it, remember? This discussion is academic. More important-"

She sighed as she finished buckling on the belt and ran a hand through her hair, looking worried. Gwilym sat up straighter. Some primal part of him was screaming in girly fashion at the sight of a trained killer looking worried. It was like seeing a mountain get dizzy.

"More important is why Gwenllian sent you here," Awen muttered, and Gwilym went still.

Well, he agreed. It was, after all, probably a safe bet that the Union knew all about his increasing infatuation with their best Rider. Gwilym wasn't naive. The second he'd put on the torque he'd been quite aware that he was going to be closely monitored, because that was the whole point of the Union. Their job was to make sure Gwilym did his legally. Presumably, therefore, he was watched. He found it mildly bizarre that no other Sovereigns seemed to realise this, but perhaps it was an advantage of growing up outside the country giving an external perspective.

Apparently, though, this was a mutual infatuation, something which made him feel all soppily happy inside, but nonetheless created a genuine Problem. There really should have been more of an attempt on the Union's part to keep them apart as much as possible. Gwenllian's intervention this morning was frankly bizarre. And seemingly worrying to Awen.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "I think I'll ask her."

"What?" Awen said. Her voice was alarmed, as though he'd just declared himself to have three heads.

"It pays to be direct." Gwilym stood and stretched, his spine easing back into place after sitting on a bed for so long. Awen took a few steps towards him and stopped barely a foot away, her expression much the same as someone whose elderly father has just declared he wants to marry a pony. Mental Uncle Dara had done that once. Gwilym still wasn't sure if it had been a joke or not.

"I don't for a minute believe you think that, what with you being a politician and all," she said. "And - no. That just wouldn't be a good idea."

"Of course it will," Gwilym grinned. "Stop freaking out. The worst she can do is innocently deny everything. Hopefully, she'll helpfully explain what she's up to. And I'm a rubbish politician, by the way. Don't attribute any level of skillful sneakiness to me. You'd be wrong again."

"Councillors like people tacitly dancing around their plans," Awen said, raising her hands. "Seriously. They don't like people just asking them things."

"Councillor Gwenllian is exactly the one to ask, then," Gwilym pointed out. "Since she has a fine disregard for social niceties anyway."

"Well, yes," Awen said, exasperated. "But this isn't a social -"

"You don't like people discussing you, do you?" Gwilym asked thoughtfully. Awen's face went carefully blank. "Not if you can't steer the conversation. You have control issues."

And the more he met of other Riders the clearer it became that there was more to Awen than met the eye, although Gwilym couldn't begin to guess at what.

"It's a Wingleader thing," she said mildly defensively. "Shut up. But anyway; a lot of Councillors tend to make plans based around no one actually saying what they are. If she is, and you say something, you could force her to change it."

"Fortunately," Gwilym said wryly, stepping forward against her raised hands and freezing her in place, "I'm not sworn to her and have no need to protect any scheme she may or may not have. I'm going to ask her. I live life on the edge, me."

"If you - " Awen stopped, her eyes closed for a moment, and the change was abrupt. She seemed suddenly calmly resigned. "No. You're right."

"Sorry?" Gwilym studied her suspiciously. "Either I'm genuinely more pervasively influential than I'd realised, or you're not sharing something. My mother always told me I should share."

"It's nothing that matters," Awen shrugged, and sighed, frustrated. "I'm sorry. I keep doing this to you. Go and ask, it's fine. I need to see someone anyway."

And there went a full morning's worth of rehabilitation in a wash of weary self-recrimination, and without pausing to think about it Gwilym caught her arm and pulled her into a hug.

And then his brain froze in childish terror, because it was the equivalent of just asking to be assassinated, really. He'd been trying so hard not to be, too.

But she clung to him back. Her fingers clutched at the tunic on his back, winding themselves into the fabric and pulling it tighter, her face buried against his shoulder while she trembled slightly in his arms. Gwilym sighed, idly combing her hair between his fingers. On some level, somewhere, Awen was not facing the prospect of her probable imminent demise anywhere near as serenely as she was on the surface. And deep down on that level, beneath the surface, something was going on that she wouldn't or couldn't tell. And that was going to kill her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Shut up, you mentalist," Gwilym snorted. "I want this clear, Awen, right now. You don't ever apologise to me for falling apart, or breaking down, or even something as mundane as just needing a hug. I will gladly hold you up every time you need it should circumstances so allow. And you don't get to feel guilty about it, or ashamed of it. Understood?"

She stayed glued to him for a moment more, her grip tight, the lithely muscled body tense against him, and then Awen pulled back, her face wistfully calm.

"No," she said, turning to the small shrine beside the bed and kneeling to it. Gwilym blinked.

"No?" he repeated.

"It won't be allowed, Sovereign." Her fingers moved almost automatically over the figures, the prayer short and muttered, and then she stood and moved to the door. "And furthermore; I'm going down. I'll not take you with me. Llio can show you where Councillor Gwenllian's study is, if you're not sure."

"How very good you are at retreating," Gwilym observed, and Awen flashed him a wry smile.

"It's a skill," she said, and bowed. He'd never been hurt by a bow before. "Anyway; enjoy your day, Sovereign. And thank you for this morning. I'll now enjoy mine considerably more."

"You know, you were far friendlier when you were naked," Gwilym smiled sadly, and Awen grinned.

"You're not the first man to say that to me," she answered lightly, and then she was gone, leaving Gwilym looking at the empty doorframe, his mind racing.

***********

"You're actually going to have to come back later," Llio told him as she led him along a corridor. "We can't do her hair and make-up at the moment, which is genuinely terrible timing given that we're at the Archwiliad. They'll think we don't love her."

"I'd love to!" Gwilym said brightly. "Although I'm fairly sure this mysterious 'they' will understand that you do, in fact, love her deeply, and will simply think she can't be touched because she's impure."

"Of course they won't," Llio said, shaking her head. "They're my Paranoid They, Awen says. They don't really exist but because they're paranoid they'll think the worst."

"They - hang on," Gwilym frowned. "Surely it's you who's paranoid? Not them?"

"That could be it," Llio nodded. "To tell you the truth, at the point Awen was telling me this Owain was being an arse, so the end of my memory for this conversation is of pushing him into a bath. But anyway, it doesn't matter, because we can touch her if you're touching her too. I wonder why you?"

"So do I," Gwilym agreed thoughtfully. "I might ask a druid about that. I suspect I represent something her subconscious views as 'safe', although I couldn't begin to guess at what."

"Can you help her, do you think?" Llio asked quietly, almost pleadingly. "I'm sorry, I know it's nothing to do with you and stuff, it's just -"

"Please stop talking," Gwilym winced. "Every time I speak to Riders these days I seem to want to cry for you all. I'd dearly love to help her. More than anything else. I don't know if she'll let me, though."

"But you want to help?" Llio asked hopefully. "Really?"

"Yeah, I'm a gentleman like that," Gwilym sighed, trying to rein down the sarcasm. They reached a door with a bronze nameplate inscribed with the words 'High Councillor Gwenllian' in the sort of curly font that was meant to convey posh, fancy wealth and sophistication, but just made Gwilym's eyes go funny, and he smiled at Llio.

"Thanks for being my guide!" he grinned. "Although I'll bet you a torque I get lost on the way back and eventually have to be extracted from a cupboard."

"I can wait if you like," Llio giggled. "I don't mind. The trouble with holidays is that I get bored not killing Saxons."

"Oh, I know," Gwilym agreed with fake empathy, making Llio laugh again as he knocked on the door. "It's a dreary day if you don't have to wash blood off your tunic by breakfast. But no, thank you. I'm absolutely certain you have better things to do."

"Come in!" Gwenllian's voice called cheerily, and Llio bowed to him. Gwilym smiled and pushed the door open -

- and paused, staring to his right. Councillor Rhydian was standing maybe a foot away, his arm raised above his head and ready to strike and holding, Gwilym noted with keen interest, an axe. A very sharp axe, too, by the look of it. He lowered his gaze to Rhydian's. Rhydian looked extremely embarrassed. Gwilym wondered if he'd regain the ability to speak any time soon.

"Um," he managed, and Rhydian lowered the axe awkwardly. Gwenllian seemed to be near asphyxiation over by the desk.

"Sorry Sovereign," Rhydian said, abashed. "I thought you'd be a Rider. It's a little joke of mine."

"You threaten them with axes?" Gwilym asked blankly. "What, to - see them jump?"

"Sort of," Rhydian said warily, and Gwilym narrowed his eyes.

"No," he said, his tone accusatory. "You actually attack them, don't you? With an actual axe."

"Sometimes," Rhydian said, slightly defensively. "They can dodge."

"They aren't toys!" Gwilym said, exasperated. "They don't grow on trees! What if you pointlessly injured one? And then we all got attacked by Vikings or something? What then, hmm?"

"Well, we'd need to know if they'd lost their edge," Rhydian said, looking at the carpet. Gwilym folded his arms, ignoring Gwenllian's desperate attempts to stop laughing.

"And precisely how, Councillor, would you help them re-sharpen said edge if they no longer had a head?" he demanded. "Honestly! You torture the poor things into adulthood, you send them off into wars and tell them to be grateful, and then you can't even allow them the luxury of relaxing when they come 'home'. Is that any way to treat people?"

Gwenllian actually fell off her chair. Rhydian sighed, defeated.

"I fear, Sovereign, we've made a terrible start to this meeting," he said gloomily. "Come in, sit down, help yourself to tea, it's on the side there. I'll pick up Gwenllian."

And finally, Gwilym's brain caught up with him and quietly explained that he'd just lectured a High Councillor on how to treat Riders. Really, it was a miracle his spine was still intact these days. He just kept inviting people to kill him. He really had to stop.

Fortunately, Rhydian seemed to be feeling guilty about the whole axe thing, and after Gwenllian had been propped back up and calmed down she was so high on seratonin it seemed she would be incapable of anger for a day or so, so Gwilym had apparently gotten away with it. He poured himself some tea, and tried to maintain his composure as he sat.

"Anyway," Gwenllian said merrily after a while. "What brings you to see me, Sovereign?"

There was a gleam in her eye that suggested she knew damn well what. Gwilym sighed, and put his tea down.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm really terrible at politics, and this includes subtlety. Why did you send me to Awen this morning?"

"You did what?" Rhydian asked, startled, turning to Gwenllian. She grinned, ignoring him.

"Because she would otherwise be as stiff as a rock right now and possibly in screaming agony, boy," Gwenllian said, sitting back in her armchair and winding a red-and-black braid around a finger. "Well, I say possibly. Probably. Biscuit?"

"Why me?" Gwilym asked. He took the biscuit. He liked biscuits.

"Because you have special gifts, Sovereign," Gwenllian said innocently. "You've a way with your hands, I'm told. I'm sure Lady Ienifer and Girly Lord Ieuan were disappointed not to -"

"Tell me," Rhydian interrupted calmly, one hand over his eyes, "that you did not send the Sovereign of Aberystwyth to have sex with a crippled Alpha Wingleader. Please."

"If she did, I wildly misunderstood the message," Gwilym said. Gwenllian sat up brightly.

"But not the massage, eh? Get it?"

"Massage," Rhydian said, with relieved comprehension. "Right. Good with your hands. Excellent."

"Nonetheless," Gwilym said carefully, pulling the conversation back around. "Why-?"

"Yes, why?" Rhydian demanded, frowning at Gwenllian and crossing his arms much as Gwilym had at him not three minutes earlier. "Good gods, woman! Were you thinking? She could have killed him!"

"Could have," Gwenllian smirked. "Except Lord Gwilym is exempt from Awen's angry reflexes. I noticed it in the bar last night, Rhydian. She jumps like she's been stung with everyone except him, when she just goes still."

As did Rhydian's expression. Gwilym nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes!" he said, pointing at Rhydian's face. "Exactly! And I know I've not been subtle; I spent half of dinner yesterday with Marged telling me what a shame it is that Aberystwyth and Casnewydd are so far apart!"

"Did you get on that well with Flyn?" Gwenllian asked, grinning. Rhydian watched her impassively. Gwilym rolled his eyes.

"Oh, look at that," he said, sourly. "Awen was right. You really can't give a straight answer."

"She didn't want you to come?" Rhydian asked neutrally, his eyes on the ceiling. Gwilym shrugged.

"She didn't and then she did," he said. "Or rather, she told me it was a bad idea and then abruptly put her emotional masks back on and left to do important and secret things."

There was a pause as Rhydian and Gwenllian exchanged a serious glance, the atmosphere suddenly rather different from that of mere seconds before, and Gwilym hastily groped for the significance. Why was it important? Why hadn't Awen wanted him to come anyway? Why was it bad that she hadn't? Why - ?

Oh. Saying it aloud can force them to change their plans. As long as the attraction between him and Awen went unacknowledged officially, Gwenllian could have continued to put them togther; not a relationship, but the closest they could get. Saying it aloud, now, meant they'd be kept seperate. Which Awen had known. And not told him.

I'm going down. I'll not take you with me.

Gods damn it, Awen.

"That's more serious than I thought," Rhydian was muttering to Gwenllian, her tattooed face serene. "She's never done that before."

"Done what before?" Gwilym asked blankly, and Gwenllian actually answered.

"Tried to hide something from us," she said, sounding puzzled, and Gwilym suddenly scrabbled not to think about the letter pressed against his ribs. "She's - well. Awen's very... devoted? Good word?"

"Yes," Rhydian said quietly. "If it's for the good of Cymru, she does it. She's never violated a protocol for personal reasons before."

"Are you willing to lose her, Councillors?" Gwilym asked abruptly. They both turned and blinked at him. He was really getting into the swing of lecturing Riders today. Maybe he'd be dead by sundown after all.

"For the sake of what?" Rhydian asked suspiciously. Gwilym leaned forward.

"Look," he said. "I'm a really, really rubbish politician. I have no concept of when not to say something, and besides which one of my father's few life lessons to me was 'Never lie to a Rider' -"

"Before or after 'Never try to out-drink a Rider'?" Gwenllian asked, fascinated. Rhydian swatted her shoulder, and motioned Gwilym on.

"Awen is going to be killed, isn't she?" he pressed on. "And it's going to happen because, frankly, you did too good a job of both messing her up and making her into a weapon. You drove the 'You are your country's only defence and it is all your resonsibility' lesson far, far too deeply, so now it's all gone wrong she's blaming herself entirely. If you want to save her, she's going to need to talk to someone who can explain it all to her."

"We can do that," Rhydian said blankly, and then looked slightly embarrassed as Gwilym gave him the most unimpressed look he could muster. "What?"

"Of course you can't, Councillor," Gwilym said flatly. "With every possible respect you're owed, you have the emotional intelligence of a child. You all do. That's what you do to yourselves and each other, and it's why Awen is slowly going insane now."

"Owned," Gwenllian smirked childishly. Rhydian smacked her upside the head this time.

"I think I can do it," Gwilym continued, ignoring the interruption. "Talking to her this morning there were several points where I thought I was making some sort of progress, but she's got some incredibly deep convictions because, obviously, as part of her very job she does things I'm not allowed to know about. And that's the problem. Without knowing everything, there's not a lot I can do. And she'll never tell me, because obviously she'll take state secrets happily and willingly to her grave."

"Ah." Rhydian straightened, his face now incredibly grave. "I see what you mean by 'willing', then. Except we can't tell you, Sovereign. There are some things that no one outside the Union is allowed to know, and you - well. You're a Sovereign."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"If that's the price, Sovereign," Gwenllian broke in softly, "then yes. We would be willing to let her die. And she'd actually be happy that way. This is a system Awen believes in, very strongly."

"Yes, I thought you might say that," Gwilym nodded, thoughtfully. "Which is where the 'Never lie to Riders' part comes in. What if I already knew?"

And suddenly he was on the receiving end of two dangerously calm stares, and Gwilym had never felt more like he was about to die. He fought to maintain his compsure, and to his very great credit, he felt, he didn't melt onto the floor and sob at their feet.

"Oh?" Rhydian asked dangerously calmly. "And what do you know, Sovereign?"

"Conjecture on my part, obviously," Gwilym said with a slight smile. "But; I travelled a lot when I was younger, Councillors. A lot. Right through the Mediterranean, visiting every civilisation along it and meeting several from a long way beyond. And I went to what's affectionately known as the Great Library of Alexandria. Do you know they have books there about the political systems of at least fifteen different nations? Not all of which are still alive and well. Like the Romans. Old Greece, pre-Graeco Egypt, the Far East, the Maurya in India, the Hebrews... the list goes on. It was fascinating reading."

He'd wrong-footed them again. They exchanged another glance, this time the sort of slightly blank look given by two people who are alone with a maniac and are each hoping the other is following, but are saddened to see this is very much not the case.

"My point," Gwilym said, and they both looked mildly relieved that they were being given a conclusion, "is that all of the civilisations I've just mentioned used what they called 'espionage'. It's where you train someone to cross enemy lines and pretend to be one of them, while secretly sending intelligence back to your side."

There was silence. Both Councillors seemed to have frozen in place, watching him impassively, but Gwilym didn't seem to be dead yet, so he carried on.

"I think I was nineteen when I first read that," he said quietly. "And I instantly thought that was what Riders must do. Some of you, anyway. Your very purpose, the whole point of the Union, is to make sure Sovereigns behave in order to keep us out of war with ourselves. That means you have to be watching Sovereigns at all times, or near enough. Or that at least you have to be ready to if you suspect something. And then I didn't think anything more of it, since I wasn't actually going to be Sovereign, but... well..."

"Life had other ideas," Gwenllian said mildly, and looked at Rhydian, a clearly deferential look. Apparently he was the authority now. Gwilym wondered vaguely if he was about to die. Rhydian watched him, and quite suddenly Gwilym knew he was right. He recognised the calculating, analysing look in Rhydian's eyes, windows into a rapidly turning mind. Awen had that look. He was right.

"You're on the right lines," Rhydian said carefully at last. "One in each City-state, inactive until the Alpha Wingleader suspects something and activates them. Through a quirk of fate Awen is both in Casnewydd."

Only one? Gwilym doubted it. He didn't press the issue, though. Right now he was experiencing the incredibly pleasant sensation of blood pumping around his body. He rather enjoyed it. He nodded instead.

"And I assume she can't tell anyone else around her?" he asked. Both jobs? Alpha Wingleader and spy? In a border City? No wonder she was breaking. Add the inability to share it with her Wing... Gwilym would have crumbled in a week.

"No," Rhydian said. He was still watching Gwilym carefully, as though waiting for him to leap from his chair and make a break for the window. "As you can't, Sovereign. I'm afraid I'll have to insist. Other than myself, Councillor Gwenllian or Leader Awen -"

"I won't tell," Gwilym smiled. "As I say, I've thought this since I was nineteen, Councillor. I didn't even tell my father. I certainly didn't tell anyone abroad."

"It is a lot, Rhydian," Gwenllian said suddenly, watching her desk-top. "For one person to do. It's a lot of responsibility, and she can't share it."

"The thought had occured to me," Rhydian nodded. "Very well. Lord Gwilym. In spite of your claims to be a terrible politician, we've been watching you with something akin to awe this week, which has helped your case tremendously; additionally, in spite of your claim to have no subtlety you clearly have plenty. Use it," he stressed, locking eyes onto Gwilym, "and I'll sanction whatever sort of relationship you want with Leader Awen. Although she may need ordering. She's quite traditional."

There was a pause as both Gwilym and Gwenllian gaped at him. In his mind's eye, Gwilym imagined the entire Union grinding to a halt and turning to stare blankly in Rhydian's direction, not knowing why but nonetheless dumbfounded. Hell, the entire country were probably pausing in their daily activities to be unknowingly shocked.

He should probably say something, Gwilym thought detatchedly. He should probably give the old speech a go. He should probably say something like, 'I'm incredibly grateful, Councillor, for this genuinely unique opportunity. Thank you.'

"What?" he managed.

"A full relationship," Rhydian nodded, his steely smile slightly undermined by its amused glint. "If that's what you want. Don't shout it from the rooftops, though. And, I'll be honest, you probably don't want it, actually. We're hard work without much reward."

Just for a second, a tiny edge of bitterness flashed through Rhydian's eyes, and Gwilym thought of Marged's fond smile towards him, and sighed. Riders, it seemed, were Riders. Whatever stage you found them at.

"Why?" Gwilym asked. His voice had lost its stunned edge. That was a start. "I mean, I'm -"

"Well, to be honest, at whatever age you found out about this - espionage, did you call it? - I'm not and never will be comfortable with a Sovereign knowing," Rhydian shrugged. "So now, if you ever try to use that knowledge to your own advantage, you can sleep uneasily knowing that Awen Masarnen would hunt you to the ends of the earth and into Annwfn itself in order make you feel every last second of the betrayal."

"Ah", Gwilym said. Rhydian smiled brightly.

"Exactly!" he said.

"But don't, boy," Gwenllian broke in. "Serious now. We've all been so impressed by you so far. Especially this new proposal for Iestyn's builders that we're now going to have to do more paperwork on, you bastard."

"That's sort of a mixed message, you know," Gwilym began, but Rhydian stood, apparently closing the meeting.

"Well, it's been informative!" he said merrily. "I'll get you Awen's file to read, Sovereign. You should know what you're getting into before you make a decision. Otherwise, I've an Audience to make arrangements for, so I'll be off. Thanks for the tea, Gwen."

"Don't forget your axe," she said silkily.

There was an embarrassed pause, and then Rhydian shuffled back to the desk, picked up the weapon and shuffled out, not meeting Gwilym's eye. Gwenllian grinned.

"It's a milestone!" she said happily. "No one's ever survived finding out about Intelligencers before. Pub after? To celebrate?"

"Only," Gwilym said sternly, "if you promise you won't change your mind and poison my drink."

"Ha! Alright!" Gwenllian drained her teacup, and picked up a document from the table in front of her. "I'll push you down the stairs instead. Now sod off. You've given me paperwork."

***********

It was lunchtime when Gwilym found out which Audience Rhydian had been arranging. This being the Archwiliad, of course, Gwilym's days were filled with banquets, and the banquets were filled with Sovereigns, and the Sovereigns were filled with snide, underhand comments at each other. Lunchtime was fortunately not too formal, and even more fortunately he wasn't on a table with Ienifer or Girly Lord Ieuan, so he decided to hang around in one of the big common rooms for the after-dinner chat. Which wasn't entirely hellish. There was Lady Erys, for a start.

"Almost all of your food now!" she said, holding a few pages in one hand, a pen behind her ear. She was, it seemed, the type of workaholic who viewed holidays as merely a different setting to check her receipts. "There's impressive!"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Gwilym smiled sheepishly. "I just thought, you know, it's a bit of a waste to be producing food that doesn't sell and keeping all the money. It seemed a bit mean."

"Yes." She lowered the pages thoughtfully. "Your father was an admirable man, don't get me wrong, but... he could occasionally be a little bit stuck in his ways. I was always surprised when we'd get to yet another Archwiliad and he still hadn't changed it."

"I was surprised when I saw it," Gwilym agreed. "My Chief Clerk wouldn't let me see it for ages. I think he knew I'd go crazy and tear it in half."

"A fabulous start to one's day, I find," Erys grinned. "I am impressed, though. I'm starting a few schemes in Milford Haven to encourage local production. Did you know all four Graecian Empires pay twice as much for Cymric honey as any other kind?"

"I didn't," Gwilym said with interest. "Although when I was travelling honey was what I missed the most. I thought I was just being homesick, though."

"Ah, it's all in the bees," Lord Iestyn smiled, claiming a chair beside them. Or, beside Erys, anyway. "Better bees, better pollen. I remember your mother talking about you travelling, Gwilym. She had a small collection of tea towels you'd sent her."

"She insisted before I left," Gwilym grinned. "I offered to bring her something more useful, but she said she wanted tea towels. I think the Erinnish are all just very slightly crazy."

"Ooh, I travelled once!" Marged's voice said happily, preceeding her into the chair to Gwilym's left. She snuggled in and started to knit. "I went to Gaul! Lovely, it was. I went to a village where they had a druid who thought he could make a potion that gave super strength! Couldn't, though. Sad end."

"I went to Dál Riada once," Iestyn smiled. "To arrange a trade agreement. It was very pleasant; almost like a cross between Cymru and Phoenicia, as far as their culture was concerned. Celtic, but very much about sea-trade and sailing."

"I've always rather liked the Dál Riadans, I must admit," Erys smiled. "And the Phoenicians, for that matter, although they occasionally - good gods, Gwilym. You really meant it when you said you weren't interested in your own money, didn't you?"

"Yes?" Gwilym said hesitantly, leaning over to see the paper in her hand. "Oh, the Luxury Budget. Well, how many purple silk hankies does one really need, anyway?"

"You've cut it to eight percent of what it was," Erys marvelled. "You're a wonder. Perhaps you're right; maybe even half-Erinnish people are slightly crazy."

"Cheers," Gwilym grinned over Iestyn's deep laugh. "I like to think I'm the optimum cultural fusion."

"Ooh, you should bring your arrow to dinner tonight, by the way," Marged broke in, contentedly oblivious to the conversation thread. "It's ever so impressive."

"I sort of think that would be macabre over dinner," Gwilym said mildly, and Iestyn snorted.

"It's a crowd that appreciates macabre," he said drily. "Although don't show it to Ienifer, whatever you do. She won't leave you alone, and I've already told her my prune story."

"Yes, have I mentioned that I'm grateful to the point of being willing to carry your child for you?" Gwilym said to Iestyn's laugh. "Really. I'm willing to find a way. The druids must have some sort of trick for it."

"I still say you should have taken both," Marged grinned. "You'd have had a lovely time."

"You really would," Erys smirked, making a few small notes with her pen. "And she's a beautiful girl, Ienifer. You could do far worse."

"She looks like a doll," Gwilym said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure said doll-visaged temptress was not about to brain him with a vase for the scorn. She wasn't. "And - this is going to sound so patronising, and deeply ironic given that I'm about eight years younger than her - but..."

"I know what you mean," Iestyn interrupted, rather graciously saving Gwilym yet again from Ienifer even though she wasn't actually present this time. "There are far more advantages to those with more experience of the world, is that diplomatic enough?"

"Considerably better than I was going to say," Gwilym grinned, and carefully ignored the brief glance between Iestyn and Erys in favour of examining Marged's knitting. Predictably, Marged was almost cackling.

"Very good, boys!" she giggled. "You'll go far, Gwilym. Well, that's Ienifer out, then, bless her she'll be crushed. What about Ieuan? He's certainly got experience, you have to give him that!"

"He's terrifying," Gwilym said, slightly more whingily than he'd intended. "And a bit rapey."

"Only a bit?" Erys asked mildly. "I'd have said - there's unusual. Isn't that your clerk, Gwilym? Looks a bit like a kettle?"

Gwilym looked up. Sure enough, Watkins had entered the room, which in and of itself wasn't that unusual. Watkins entered rooms all the time, and to Gwilym's knowledge almost always without assistance. What was unusual, though, as Erys had rightly pointed out, was that he seemed to have done so this time at a flat out run, so much so that his face had gone shiny and red, unfortunately making him look like a kettle that really needed to be taken off the boil now. His clothes were slightly askew, too. Clearly, he'd run quite a way. Either that or he really needed to get into shape.

"My lord," he puffed as he slammed to a halt at Gwilym's chair. "I had - to tell - you -- The Audience -"

"Stop and breathe a bit, Watkins," Gwilym said, alarmed. "Is there any water?"

"Here, poor lamb," Marged said, handing over a glass. "I wonder what's so important about the Audiences?"

"I can't imagine," Gwilym said his mind racing. Had he done anything to anger anyone else? He'd turned down the Phoenicians, but it was Hannibal now, so clearly they were -

"I think the Erinnish one was chosen today," Erys put in casually, and Gwilym's world shrank in horror as he locked eyes with Watkins.

"Where is he?" he pleaded. "Tell me he's still in Erinn. Just say 'Erinn'. Tell me it's not -"

"Kitchens," Watkins managed, and Gwilym was up and out of the room faster than it took Marged to finish repeating the word blankly. Where were the kitchens? Oh gods, where were they? The Union was huge, they could have been anywhere -

- near the banqueting hall. They had to be. No one wanted to carry a whole roast pig further than ten feet. Gwilym fled down the corridor, retracing his steps to the room he'd just eaten in, dodging the scurrying clerks and tradespeople with limited success and leaving them astonished and mildly bruised in his wake. Who the hell had taken him to the bloody sodding kitchens? Of all the places to take the mentally derranged! And it wasn't like he was only mentally derranged in private! It might as well have been written on the man's forehead!

Gwilym shot round a corner, nearly dragging a group of children into his slipstream. Who was with him? That was the question. Would there be a Rider with him? If so, maybe everyone would survive, you never knew. Maybe it would all be a slightly embarrassing joke. Although that was assuming he wouldn't try to push the Rider into the grain bin -

He hadn't thought he could run faster, but apparently he'd been wrong. Not that he could keep this up. There was a stitch forming angrily in his side, prissily reminding him that he shouldn't eat and sprint, and he was already out of breath. Which way here? Left or right? Had he seen that statue before -?

"Sovereign?"

Gwilym spun around, glorying in the sound of her voice. Awen was standing in one of the doorways he'd just fled past, studying him with bemused concern, Madog glancing over her shoulder. Gwilym ran back to them and skidded to a halt.

"My Mental Uncle Dara is loose!" he panted, looking around in wild frustration. "I must find the kitchens!"

And advantage number one to being Friends With Riders was that no matter what gibberish you shouted at them, they instinctively obeyed whatever order was buried in the sentence; in this case, 'Take me to your kitchens.' Both of them went from staring at him as though he was a nutter to a full sprint away along the corridor, Awen grabbing Gwilym's wrist and yanking him after them to get him started.

"Why's he mental?" Madog asked as they ran. They also seemed to run smoothly and elegantly and with no sign of tiring. Gwilym was relatively certain he was showing the comparative grace of a swan taking off. "What's he going to do in the kitchens?"

"Push someone in a grain bin," Gwilym managed. "The 'why' is harder."

"In fairness, jury's still out on the 'why' for Dylan," Awen threw out, and Madog laughed.

"Definitely," he agreed, pointing to a large pair of double doors ahead, which Gwilym optimistically took to mean they could stop running in a few more metres. "Although he's never pushed anyone in a grain bin. Here we are."

They both slowed to a sedate walk at the doors, but Gwilym crashed through them, staring around desperately. It seemed okay; the chefs were milling about, preparing food for the banquet that evening, no one seemed to be too distressed other than more than a few staring at him, except -

Further in. Gwilym ran in, weaving between people holding pastry and a girl with a tray of silverware, following the booming voice. Sure enough, as he approached the ambient chefs were forming a small, nervous crowd - and gods, behind them against the back wall, there were the grain bins -

"Uncle!" Gwilym almost screamed in Erinnish as he plummetted in front of them and desperately tried not to double over, clutching at his side. Several people jumped. He was going to be a hot conversation topic tonight, Gwilym just knew. "Good to see you! Please tell me you haven't been near the grain bins yet?"

"Gwilym!" and Mental Uncle Dara's enormous bulk wrapped itself around Gwilym in a bear hug, instantly cutting off his breathing. "Sovereign now, eh? Fantastic! Look at these kitchens! Have you seen their butter churns?"

"Are they big enough for a person?" Gwilym managed. No, he really couldn't breathe. That was going to be a major problem in about three seconds.

"Sire?" Awen's beautiful, mellifluous voice cut through the exchange, warm but polite. And speaking Erinnish. "Welcome to Cymru. I think you may be crushing Lord Gwilym's ribs."

"So I am!" Mental Uncle Dara boomed joyfully, and dropped Gwilym. "It's always a pleasure, Rider! And may I say, your Erinnish is as beautiful as you look?"

There was an almost comic pause in which Awen glanced helplessly at Madog, who nodded, before smiling back at Mental Uncle Dara.

"Thank you, sire," she said smoothly. "If you'll excuse me, Leader Madog and I have something to attend to briefly..."

They moved away, behind Mental Uncle Dara, and as Gwilym watched Awen sprang lightly off Madog's obligingly linked hands and on top of the grain bins, balancing as easily and elegantly on the rim as a cat.

"So, Gwilym, destroyed your City yet?" Mental Uncle Dara near-shouted jovially. "Tricky thing, ruling, eh?"

"Challenging," Gwilym nodded. "But the walls are still up and only one person has tried to kill me, and I'm assured that he doesn't count."

"Oh, you get used to those after a while!" Mental Uncle Dara beamed. "Only this month a man tried to break my skull with some sort of cosh! He was fine afterwards, though. I said to him, I said, 'Not my skull, laddie!' and he saw the funny side eventually. After I'd had him whipped, of course."

"Of course." Gwilym glanced around in some trepidation. "Um... is Aunt Clíodhna here, too?"

"Oh, yes!" Mental Uncle Dara waved a hand vaguely behind him, where the kitchens seemed to continue around the corner. Awen was nimbly disappearing around it on top of the bins still, Madog shadowing her on the ground. "She's around somewhere, back there, I think. Lorcan's here too. Thought I'd best bring him, show him the ropes. Hey, they told us you have a Rider we mustn't touch or startle because of Death! Is that true?"

"Yes," Gwilym said fervently. "You just met her, and Uncle, I cannot stress this enough. She is immensely dangerous right now."

"Well, can't be as bad as Clíodhna, eh?" Mental Uncle Dara said, mentally. "Anyway, I'm ravenous! Any good pubs?"

"Plenty," Gwilym said weakly, and his worst fears were realised as Awen and Madog reappeared round the corner, leading Lorcan covered in flour and being led by Aunt Clíodhna, apparently the physical vessel for the wrath of the gods. It seemed Mental Uncle Dara had resorted to pushing his own son into a grain bin. Although it was less of a diplomatic incident, so there was at least a silver lining.

The cloud being Aunt Clíodhna. She looked not unlike a withered, shrivelled and sour version of Gwilym's mother, really; mid-height and once dark-haired, now iron grey and almost permanently scraped back into a bun. Her eyes were the same very pale green, but narrowed and piercing, and constantly looking down her raised nose. And her expression found you wanting. Wanting and punishable.

And right now, she was furious. Her aura made her seem around three times taller and broader, an anger that his sister had inherited. Gwilym wondered nervously if he could edge behind Awen and Madog unobtrusively. Or just run.

"Dara!" she snarled, her eyes almost flashing. "We are standing in the very heart of Cymric civilisation, a privilege reknowned the world over, and you have celebrated by pushing your son into a grain bin. Explain!"

Even the chefs cowered. Even Lorcan cowered, almost vibrating in a small cloud of flour, and it was his honour being defended. Only Awen, Madog and Mental Uncle Dara seemed immune.

"It's character-building!" Mental Uncle Dara boomed cheerfully, spreading his arms. Awen caught Gwilym's eye, and suddenly they were both trying hard not to laugh. "And anyway, I'm not made of stone! He was leaning over the bin, it was just too tempting!"

"No I wasn't, Dad," Lorcan said wearily. He'd grown since Gwilym had seen him last. Which made sense; he must have been about nineteen now, and they were almost the same height, although Lorcan hadn't quite filled out into it yet. "You picked me up bodily and threw me in."

"Threw him in!" Aunt Clíodhna repeated, her voice poisonous. "You're an embarrassment to our entire country -"

"Lorcan!" Gwilym interrupted brightly, neatly side-stepping the relatives he would forever think of as 'The Adults' and slipping back into Cymric. "You've grown! I'd hug you, but you're inexplicably covered in flour."

"Yes, I'm as surprised as you," Lorcan grinned. "Thanks again, Riders. Trouble is, once you're in you're trying not to breathe. It makes shouting difficult."

"It's sort of tragic that you clearly have experience," Madog said wryly. "We can find out where your quarters are and show you there if you like."

"Otherwise, I can offer you an overlarge brush," Awen suggested, looking around. "They usually have some around in case someone accidentally gets covered in flour."

"That's best to start with," Lorcan said with the voice of experience. "If you get straight in a bath you just cover yourself in dough."

"I'll fetch one," Awen said, and then grinned over Gwilym's shoulder. "And the perfect distraction has just arrived to smooth out the diplomatic problems."

"Ooh, Gwilym!" Marged's voice trilled behind him. "Are these your relatives? My word, what a jolly bunch!"

"Sod it, then," Gwilym said, throwing an arm over Lorcan's shoulders. "Let's go to the pub. Just don't try to out-drink the Riders."