Cymru - Chapter 41

This chapter ended up being far longer than intended, and sadly I don't have time to cut it down before going to the Northlands this weekend, so here it is. It's split into three with rows of asterisks if you need to break it up, though. Also, I've said it before and shall say it again: damn the Anglo-Saxons had ugly names. Damn.



AERONA

"Here!" Adara said triumphantly, pointing at the map. "I'm not going to try to pronounce that. Ooh, that's not far from Trallwng, look, which is creepy."

"Oh, Adara," Dylan sighed, affecting a voice of great fatherly condescension. "Trallwng isn't creepy, it's just in the Canolbarth. Their ways may seem strange to you and I, but as Madog says, it just goes to show that it would be a funny old world if we were all alike."

"You know what would be funny?" Adara asked mildly. "If I broke your nose."

"That would not be funny," Dylan said decisively.

"Yes it would."

"It would not be funny."

"I think you'll find it would be hilarious."

"Guys," Aerona broke in reproachfully. "This isn't getting anything done. Let's just agree on a compromise that if Adara broke Dylan's nose it would be mildly amusing and get back to the important tactical planning, shall we?"

"Hey!"

"Agreed," Adara agreed. "Anyway, it's here, which looks like - half an hour? Three quarters? Not long, anyway."

"Time for lunch, then!" Dylan said brightly. "I like honey. What do we have left from the stuff I stole and the stuff Adara killed and the stuff Aerona made?"

"Two kebabs from last night," Aerona offered, carefully withdrawing them from the box they'd stored them in. Adara yanked the bag of stolen Saxon goods over and peered inside.

"Half a loaf of bread," she said, examining it critically. "Enough for a chunk each. A bit of cheese, although it's hard on the outside because they have no understanding of correct cheese maintainance in this backwards country. Oh, and a couple of those inordinately delicious biscuits."

"That's living," Dylan nodded, satisfied. "Let's do this thing, my friends. So, our boy Owain has been killing dissenters?"

"Mmm." Aerona careully slid the chunks of meat and leek off the skewers to divide them. "If popular rumour is to be believed, anyway. It could, of course, be propaganda."

"Doesn't matter." Dylan took the bread from Adara and tore it roughly into three. "Because if the Lord God Coenred actually needs to spread anti-dissident propaganda, then clearly there are dissidents. That's logic, see? Tell Madog I used it when we get back. He'll be so proud."

"No, he won't," Adara sniffed. "He'll say, 'Stop wasting my time with your lies', and then he'll never speak to us again. And I prefer him to you."

"Did I mention the barman I spoke to was personally mutilated by Madog?" Aerona asked suddenly. Dylan turned away from Adara and what would have been a stunning retort to raise an eyebrow.

"Yeah?" he asked, impressed. "This guy knew?"

"Apparently he went fighting as one of eighty men, and your Wing alone killed everyone but him," Aerona explained to Dylan's gleeful laugh. "And then Madog cut off his arm and his eye and sent him back home with a message not to do it again."

"Ah," Dylan said cheerfully, handing the bread out. "That was a while ago, then. He wanted to try talking to them when he first became Alpha Wingleader. He thought it might help."

"You can't talk to animals," Adara said derisively. "You train them. Although, I can't believe Awen can speak Saxon and never told us."

"Not a skill you'd want to shout about," Dylan sniffed with casual dismissal. "Anyway. Eating and going. Rooks look bald."

In spite of both cheese and bread being oxidised, it wasn't a bad lunch. Once they were done they began the task of pulling down the campsite, which predictably took far less time than it had to set up, and then repack the saddlebags, which predictably devolved into a scrambling fight between Adara and Dylan that involved a lot of rolling around on the floor until Aerona managed to step in and pull them apart by the scruffs of their necks. And then, finally, they were able to mount up and go.

As Adara had predicted, it wasn't a long flight, but it was hampered by the additional stealth requirements. The closer they got to Owain, the more likely they were to be spotted, since he must be permanently on the look-out for Riders flying to catch him. And, of course, the flying routes they were following to remain unseen were the ones written by Owain himself, so there was no guarentee he wouldn't also be using them. They landed five miles away from the new campsite once they reached it, and rode through the woods on foot. Or hoof, in any case.

They would have had to have ridden part of the way, anyway, though. As Aerona reined Briallu into a halt she could instantly see why Owain approved of the spot; the clearing was hidden perfectly well by a few rows of trees that marked the edge of an incredibly steep drop down into the valley, the town nestled around the river below them and giving them a spectacular view of the roads leading in and out along the valley floor and into the plains beyond. It was a perfect spot to spy from. And in the midday sunlight Aerona could see the individual people moving about their lives, travelling from building to building. Some were lining the main roads with foliage and flags. Clearly, they were preparing for Coenred's visit.

"Right," Dylan said as they halted, unclipping harnesses and jumping off. "Quick vote; who thinks we'll need to bother setting up a camp and who thinks we'll be gone by sundown?"

"If he's here, we'll be gone by sundown," Adara said bluntly. "I tell you, I'm not hanging around."

"Better safe than sorry?" Aerona the Teacher suggested. "I mean, it won't take me five minutes to get something basic set up, and then if we need it we can add to it."

"Go on, then," Dylan said, complete with magnanimous air. "I'm generosity itself. I'll even help you, you know."

"Astonishingly municifent," Aerona giggled, surrendering her reins to a preternaturally calm-looking Adara. "Cheers. So? Once we've done this? What's the plan?"

"Oh, I'm working on it, alright?" Dylan said irritably. "Gods, you're demanding! It's like you think I'm in charge or something."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Aerona agreed mildly. Adara had tethered the merod and picked her way to the edge of the drop, quietly watching the town below.

"I think," she said neutrally, settling herself comfortably against a tree trunk, "we need to split up again."

"We are listening, oh butterfly of wisdom," Dylan said, pausing in his helpful carrying of a branch to unhelpfully bow to Adara. "What do you propose?"

"I'll stay here again for a while," Adara said. "I'm going to watch for the full procession to arrive and make sure Owain won't come here before I go down to the town to join you. But in the meantime, you two should go down and integrate yourselves wherever you think he'll go. One of which, I'm telling you now, will be a bar, because he's a big hedonistic."

"Has his good point, then," Dylan said casually.

"Dylan!" Aerona giggled. "Look, more importantly; it's daytime now. Your eyes stand out like a sore thumb, as does your hair. I'm not convinced you'll be able to blend in that well."

"You're ruining our integration plans, Dylan," Adara complained. "Stop being a big awkward."

"No one will see me," Dylan said, rolling his eyes. "I am a master of stealth because of practical jokes on Madog. And, I planned ahead and brought make up. Okay; Aerona, you find all of the taverns and see if you can work out which one they're likely to go to. I, meanwhile, because I am brave and courageous, am going to go digging for dissenters."

"You just want to join a revolution and feel daring," Adara sniffed.

"How dare you, madam?" Dylan said in mock-outrage. "I wish to save them! I might even tell them I'm a Rider and their only hope for life."

"Don't," Aerona advised, lashing two branches together. "They'd definitely run away. Your eyes are terrifying."

"My eyes are cool," Dylan corrected. "You and a Saxon said."

"The Saxon said you were a demon, Dylan."

"Same thing." He caught the end of the branch Aerona was wrestling into place and helped her manoeuvre it flat. "And anyway, they will be make-upped. Reckon he'll still be in the uniform?"

Adara caught her breath sharply, and then shook her head.

"I have got to stop being shocked by anything I hear about him," she muttered, and Aerona gave her a sympathetic look.

"There's a good chance he will be," she said apologetically. "Since he still thinks he's a Rider, doing this for Cymru. Although I suppose he might have modified it a bit."

"Maybe he's wearing a skirt now," Dylan suggested brightly, and Aerona giggled.

"That's what their women wear, Dylan," she said. "Not the men."

"Well, that would be appropriate," Adara commented sourly. "Since he so desperately wanted to be Awen. Maybe he'll have castrated himself by this point. It'll save us the bother."

"We live in hope," Aerona grinned. "Okay, that's the frame done. If we need it later we can add to it, if not we can tear it down quickly."

"Hooray," Dylan said, dead-pan. "Let's go, I'm bored. Later, Adara."

"How can you be bored by den-building?" Aerona asked, astonished. Dylan rolled his eyes and grabbed her wrist, yanking her towards the steep path down to the town.

"Because," he said in tones of great suffering, "as I've already had to actually tell you once: I'm not six, petal. I grew out of it at the same point Madog stopped playing with dolls."

"Madog never played with dolls," Aerona giggled. "It's not allowed."

"He would have if he could," Dylan declared, leaping nimbly down the track. Fortunately it was fairly rocky, so their progress was made much easier by the ability to spring from rock to tree-root rather than sheer mud and scree. Combined with their proximity to the town, it only took around two minutes to reach the bottom where they put new clothes over their uniforms, covered Dylan's eyes in foundation as best they could and slipped nimbly into the narrow alleys between the buildings, unseen.

In the sunlight, the culture shock was stronger than the night before, because Aerona could now see the buildings. After thrity seconds of walking that brought them near the main street it became clear they were in the poor area of town; the buildings around them were all made of wood, wattle and daub, rectangular affairs ranging from one to two storeys high with thickly thatched roofs. None of them had windows of any kind. Each was emitting a thin, sickly plume of smoke from small chimneys, and as they passed one open doorway Aerona glanced inside. The floor was, surprisingly enough, covered in floorboards, strongly implying some sort of storage pit or possibly even cellar beneath. It was an enormous fire hazard. She wondered how many Saxons had died in house fires in order to preserve their great cultural purity.

Or of general diseases. As they threaded their way between the closely-packed houses they passed two middens, fenced off on three sides from the streets and smelling like death. In mainland Cymru, Aerona knew, there were plenty of small villages and independent farming settlements that still used middens, but there wasn't one town in the country that hadn't adopted drains after the first Phoenician ship had offered the schematics several centuries before. Suddenly, she felt a burst of understanding for Breguswid. To live your life in a society that you knew could change for better, but to be shouted down because of tradition... How on earth had she coped for so long? It was astonishing.

"I think this just might be hell," she muttered quietly to Dylan. His roving eyes flashed to her for a moment, giving her a tight, grim smile of agreement as he nodded once.

"They live like this," he murmured poisonously. "And then they come and burn what we have. What cads, eh?"

"Depends on how the leaders live, of course," Aerona whispered. "Something to consider, by the way; did you see the suspended floor?"

"Basements?" Dylan asked, quietly impressed. "I'll look into it. Literally. Ha!"

As they neared the main street the houses finally started to spread out a bit, as though they were trying to look a bit more respectable to passers-by. More of them stood at two storeys too, Aerona noted. She wrapped her cloak about her more as though unused to the colder, non-Phoenician weather and went to step forward when Dylan caught her shoulder and stopped her, turning her to face him.

"There'll be crowds," he said, the rising background noise of chatter proving him right. "So you'll blend in. But be careful. This isn't Cymru."

"Same to you," Aerona said, her voice low. "You don't know the layout here, and from the looks of it there won't be any secret passages to find. You won't be able to retreat if you're seen."

"Danger is possibly my middle name," Dylan grinned. "I've not met my mother, so it could be. Anyway."

He kissed her forehead and stepped away, his eyes already scanning the wooden buildings around them.

"Remember; the name not to mention in these parts is Llywelyn."

"I'll try to keep it in mind," Aerona giggled, and then Dylan was gone, melting into the maze of wood and thatch like a shadow. She smiled, and headed for the main street.

It very quickly became crowded even a sidestreet or two away; suddenly there were people everywhere, women in skirts sweeping the streets and scrubbing doorways, men bustling about with armfuls of flags and flowers or ticking off lists. The buildings were more sturdily-built here, and Aerona realised that they weren't all houses anymore; there were shops and workshops, each with carefully-brightened signs to advertise themselves, each with smiling workers at their doors holding trays of whatever they produced. It took Aerona a second before she realised she understood the signs because they were pictoral rather than written in Saxon, and she wondered how many people here could read. Probably not many in this part of town, she thought bitterly. The areas of comparitive activity were depressing. Clearly, the townsfolk were focusing their efforts only on the parts King Coenred would be actually seeing. Clearly, he'd have no interest in the slums.

She stepped onto the mainstreet and lost herself in the crowd, using the natural cover to look around. The mainstreet was, at the very least, paved with stone, although it wouldn't have passed a Cymric inspection test. The slabs had been unevenly laid, the corners either sticking up to catch an unwary foot or wheel or dipping down to form small drainage pools of rain and animal faeces. Aerona thanked the gods she was still wearing her uniform boots under the costume. They were waterproof. If she stood in one of those puddles, it would be the only thing to stop her from just massacring the crowd.

The smell of baking bread alerted her to the bakeries; or rather, to the town ovens. They were situated in a cluster at the edge of town behind a simple stone wall, a series of domes about the same height as Aerona obviously kept away from the predominant wood of the rest of the town to minimise the fire risk. Currently they were being manned by between twenty to thirty women of all ages, cheerfully chatting away as they kneaded dough and pulled the round, flat loaves out of the ovens on long-handled paddles. Once out the bread was loaded onto waiting carts and wheelbarrows and taken away by a group of mildly stressed looking men, whisked into the crowd presumably in readiness for the King's reception. On the other side of the wall was an open square, clearly a market, filled with merchants of all kinds and races selling their wares. Further up the main street again were more workshops, a blacksmith's prominent among them, backing onto more timber houses, and then -

Aerona had been right. Up ahead the main street rose up a hill slightly, and even to her untrained eye she could tell the discrepancy in quality between the buildings up there and the ones in the slums. Up there there were a few halls, a good twenty-five metres long, tall and proud above the town; and amongst them, finally, were buildings of stone. With towers. It was fine for the rich to break tradition then, thought Aerona the Rider angrily. But not the peasants. They should stay where they were, because that was traditional. They should carry on in their foetid squalor and waiting fire risks. But the rich would live in stone towers, very impressive.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" a voice said in Punic, and Aerona turned.

The man addressing her was tall, probably in his mid-thirties and Saxon. He was leaning against the wall of a shop that seemed to sell furniture, a half-eaten slab of ham and bread in one hand as he smiled at her. His eyes were just slightly too watchful. Aerona smiled.

"Certainly different," she agreed. "I am very used to wooden buildings among your people."

"It was the royal household of the kingdom, once upon a time," the man said, nodding to the stone walls. "This was a fairly rich kingdom. But, times change."

"The wealth is gone?" Aerona asked carefully, and the man smiled.

"The kingdom is," he said. "Have you been keeping abreast of our changing politics, my lady?"

And that was a bloody weird title, only made bearable by dint of being a different language and therefore lacking the punch of 'Sovereign'. In Aerona's world, that was what she called Lady Gwenda. It went against everything holy to receive it herself. But, even more odd, was that a Saxon man had just used it to address a Phoenician tradeswoman. It was an attempt at respect made slightly clumsy and condescending by being out of his cultural comfort zone. Aerona's suspicion about him solidified fractionally more.

"I've not, I fear," she said, bowing the short, apologetic bow of Phoenician traders who wanted you to pay them lots in spite of a cultural slight the world over. "My caravan has come from over the border, although I've heard rumours, naturally. You have a new king?"

"Indeed," the man said amiably. "The king to end all others, in fact. Oh; forgive me. My name is Bertwald."

"Asherah," Aerona lied easily. "It is a pleasure."

"Might I interest you in a drink, Asherah?" Bertwald asked with smooth charm. "If your grasp of our situation is only passing, you'll need a fuller briefing before you can effectively trade."

"Ah!" Aerona smiled slyly. "An offer unrelated to my having just been over the border and therefore likely carrying political news of my own, I imagine."

"Name your god!" Bertwald laughed. "And I shall happily swear by them that my interest is entirely based on altruism and a desire for conversation."

"Then I shall name no god of mine," Aerona told him. "But I shall nonetheless accept your kind offer. I don't turn friendly faces away."

"Excellent!" Bertwald smiled, passing the leftover ham and bread to a waist-high boy lurking in the shop doorway who looked like he might be one meal away from starvation. He took the food, and fled wordlessly. "Then follow me, if you would. What are you trading?"

"Many things," Aerona said comfortably, walking beside him as they threaded through the crowd. "Although most of the cargo is gone by now. Out here, we are on a tour to determine the demand for new produce."

"Such as?" Bertwald asked, with apparent genuine interest. Aerona almost felt bad for the lie.

"Sugar," she said. "Although it is, of course, an expensive commodity."

"I've never heard of it," Bertwald confessed, and through his light tone Aerona's well-trained ear heard the tiny, tiny hard edge, and her suspicion solidified another fraction. "Is it a cloth?"

"A food," she explained. "Not dissimilar to salt in many ways; it is the same to look at, and it cannot be consumed as a foodstuff in its own right. But it is very, very sweet. As salt is an ingrediant for savoury food, so is sugar for sweet food."

"Quite a luxury," Bertwald observed. "I can see why it's expensive. I can't imagine you'll find much of a market here."

"Nor can I," Aerona agreed. He stopped outside a building that looked not unlike a long house and pulled open the door.

"In here, Asherah," Bertwald said politely, standing back for her to go in first. Aerona kicked down the instinct that wanted him to stay in front of her and in no way wanted to step into the darkness unarmed, and stepped into the darkness unarmed.

It really was dark after the brightness of the sun. Aerona paused to let her eyes adjust as the thickly smoky atmosphere enveloped her, the chatter and heat of a bar full of patrons oppressive. Bertwald stepped beside her, his fingers finding her arm. Somehow, she neither shied away nor attacked him.

"It always takes a second to see again on sunny days, doesn't it?" he grinned. "Come. The bar is this way."

He led her into the room, an experience that Aerona vowed never to repeat again as long as she lived in which she basically had to trust a Saxon to lead her blind into a suffocating room full of other Saxons. Fortunately, her eyes adapted quickly, and by the time they'd reached the bar she could see again. In fact, she noted, there was the same level of illumination in the room as the tavern she'd been in the night before, the light coming from the fire-pit and the cressets of oil around the walls and along the tables. It was a lot of naked flame and oil near a lot of wood and straw, Aerona felt. And only one door. And no windows.

The murals on the walls were pretty, though. Saxons could paint at least.

The bartender arrived and then vanished again as Bertwald said something in Saxon to him, and then turned to Aerona, smiling.

"I've ordered you mead," he said. "It's no imposition you understand; they're simply saving the other drinks for the arrival of the king and his retinue."

"I would have ordered the mead in any case," Aerona assured him, sliding the cloak off. The Phoenician robes felt far too revealing, a feeling that intensified as Bertwald ran his eyes quickly over her body, and she missed the secure, all-encompassing feeling of her uniform.

"So will they buy your sugar in Cymru?" Bertwald asked her. Aerona smiled.

"I won't know until I return," she said. "The company owner has the Phoenician Audience at the Archwiliad this year, and is asking there. But many of the Courts have expressed an interest."

"Yes, I should imagine they have." It was a nonchalent sentence; but this time, Aerona saw the quick, upward thrust of his chin as he said it, projecting the hidden anger. Although there were several reasons he could have been angry there. "They have the money to spare in Courts."

The bartender reappeared with two tankards, but as Aerona went to draw out her money pouch Bertwald stopped her, and said something else to the bartender. The man gave a short bow, and bustled away. Bertwald smiled as he picked up the drinks, heading for a quiet corner.

"Either you just threatened that man's life or you have not yet told me something important about yourself, my friend," Aerona laughed, following him. "But either way, we seem to have not paid for these."

"The latter," Bertwald grinned, setting the drinks down at the table and pulling her chair out for her; again, it was a clumsy attempt at courtesy that became just fractionally condescending, albeit unintentionally. "I am, in fact, part of King Coenred's staff. I am here ahead of him to help prepare for him."

You still have to pay for your drinks, you dick, Aerona thought irritably, but she kept her smile in place.

"Ah!" she said. "Then perhaps it is to you I should offer my sugar. And now I realise I was right about you, my friend."

"Oh?" Bertwald sipped his drink, amused. "In what sense?"

If only you knew, Aerona thought.

"You have asked for this drink merely for my political knowledge over the border," she told him, earning a laugh. "Especially given that you do not have to pay for it."

"I swear that is not why," Bertwald said, his eyes twinkling. "Feel free to tell me nothing of Cymru for the rest of this conversation. I shall tell you of King Coenred."

Like hell, Aerona thought. If she was right about him, Bertwald was after some very specific news from over the border.

"Ah yes!" she smiled. "Your new king! I shall tell you one rumour I have heard; he has a Rider, from Cymru?"

"Oh yes," Bertwald grimaced. "In honesty, this is worrying. I imagine the Cymric will come for him. But yes. Part of the arrangements I've made today are for secure stabling for his... flying horse. I don't know the Punic word for it, I'm sorry."

"We generally use the Cymric," Aerona invented quickly. "'Meraden'. Yes, I suppose it would need guarding. In the stone building, I presume?"

"No," Bertwald said, his smile just fractionally hard. "There are no stables there. The previous king felt it was not for him to waste space on livestock; and who are we to argue with royalty? No; it will be housed in the stables beside the first long hall up on the hill, but under extremely heavy guard. No one will get near it."

Riders will, Aerona vowed mentally. We aren't leaving it here. But it was very good information already; that meant that as soon as Owain arrived in the town he would be on foot, and Adara could come down and join them. So; now to see if her suspicion about Bertwald was right...

"A shame," she purred. "From a personal perspective. I am Phoenician; I would move mountains to obtain a meraden! But, I could not have transported it back through Cymru, anyway."

"There is that!" Bertwald laughed. "If I'm honest, Asherah, we are mostly guarding it from the Phoenician traders in the marketplace."

"A wise precaution," Aerona nodded solemnly, and hoped Saxon guarding was sufficient to keep the bloody thing in its stable long enough for them to fetch. "But we digress! You promised to tell me of your king. This 'king to end all kings', as you phrase it. Why is this?"

Just for a moment - one tiny, fleeting moment - Bertwald's eyes swept the room around them as he drank, checking for listeners.

"It's unusually appropriate," he said lightly. "As of three days ago, King Coenred is officially the head of nine different kingdoms, now one under him. Naturally, in order to claim such territories he must defeat the previous wearers of the crowns."

"He kills them, I assume?" Aerona asked neutrally. Bertwald waved a hand lazily.

"Some, certainly," he nodded. "Not all. Although of those who willingly ceded their kingdoms to him, the two who were unhappy about doing so appear to have met with some rather unfortunate accidents."

"I see," Aerona nodded. Bertwald wasn't bad, she reflected, but he'd never have made Intelligencer like this. He went from looking at her to watching her on every important bit, telegraphing hidden motives. "This, I must say, seems to me to be very unusual behaviour for your people."

"Yes and no," Bertwald grinned. "We've always been at war with ourselves, Asherah. We are a casually violent people, I suppose. And, in all honesty, much though everyone likes to forget it there have been kings before Coenred who united large chunks of the country under themselves. Not as smoothly, not as successfully; but it has happened."

Interesting, Aerona thought. Coenred's meteoric rise to power wasn't as un-Saxon as the Saxons thought, then. Although that could easily have been propaganda on Bertwald's part.

"You say your people like to forget it," Aerona said carefully. "Not all approve of your new king?"

"We are a traditional people," Berwald said casually, his eyes briefly making the sweep for listeners again. "For which there are many things to be commended. But the drawback to a mindset that clings to tradition is, of course, an occasional willful blinding to the facts."

"Contraversial," Aerona laughed, and Bertwald gave a wry grin, the small chin thrust making a reappearance.

"A sad fact," he nodded. "But it is foolish to overlook it. After all; if one looks to the future to create an ideal of perfection, one can either work around or avoid any... problems, any unsavoury aspects. But, if one finds the ideal of perfection in the past, then the unsavoury aspects cannot be changed, as they have already happened. Therefore, they are ignored."

Cymric religious philosophy in a nutshell, there. It was strange hearing it from a Saxon. And it helped to solidify Aerona's suspicions even more.

"Well put," Aerona offered, and Bertwald nodded graciously.

"Thank you," he said. "In any case, King Coenred has begun his campaign to unite Saxonia under his rule, and has so far been very successful to the dismay of many."

"The traditional?"

"Mostly." Another sweep of the bar, another nonchalent sip at the mead. "He has dissidents to contend with. Those who challenge his right to rule."

"But as you say," Aerona began, and Bertwald shook his head. Another look around, another sip. Definitely wouldn't have made an Intelligencer, she thought. The closer he got to the point, the more he gave himself away. It was a tell a mile wide.

"For another reason," Bertwald said. "There are those who challenge his claim on his title. We hold the inheritance of station through family lines very dearly, you see, and he did not start out as a king. He was a thane, who stole the crown from his sister."

"His sister?" Aerona raised her eyebrow. "Forgive me, my friend, but my understanding was that you did not allow women here to rule."

"They can if their husband dies," Bertwald said. Another look around, another sip, another look around. It was quite exciting. Aerona bet herself that he'd try to namedrop Breguswid. She hoped he would; it would make her life far, far easier. "Which was the case. A southern kingdom along the border. King Eadfrid there, so the story goes, managed to get himself quite literally torn apart with his own sword by the Casnewydd Alpha Wingleader - we have poems about it. After that, the station reverted to Queen Breguswid, but she had ideas..."

He trailed off, his attention like a lance as Aerona very carefully made herself look thoughtful.

"I am truly sorry," she said apologetically. "Names are my weakness; I struggle with them. You said - Breguswid?"

"That's right," Bertwald said, his voice so casual it had nearly fallen asleep, the sip at his mead so nonchalent he was nearly forgetting to swallow, and his eyes almost impaling her to the chair. Aerona creased her brow slightly in concentration.

"It seems to me I know that name," she said softly. "Hmm. Perhaps it will come to me later. Well. I presume that this particular Breguswid is now passed along, in accordance with your new king's methods of conquest?"

"It's unknown," Bertwald said, the very personification of blitheness. "After he took the crown she vanished, along with several others from the city who had liked her ideas. Some say he killed them. He denies it."

"Indeed?"

"It is forbidden within our law to kill a kinsman," Bertwald said. "We prize family ties. If he did kill her, not only could he not rule, but he'd also be put to death himself."

"I see," Aerona said thoughtfully. "How very complicated! And... would it be treasonous to ask what her ideas were?"

"It would," Bertwald smiled, scanning the room with such ferocity Aerona was almost surprised people didn't turn transparent under his gaze. "Let us say... they went against the traditional mindset of many."

He watched her as she sipped her mead, again taking up the pretense of pondering the name.

"It is curious," Aerona said after a moment. "But - yes. I definitely know that name."

"It is an unusual name," Bertwald said, his indifference so staggeringly vast that the entire bar was probably now aware of his furtive ulterior motives. "Although I would be careful of whom you explain it to. These are not easy times to mention such a name aloud."

"Sound advice," Aerona smiled, drinking the mead. Bertwald gave her what was probably the most charming smile in his repertoire, turning his eye twinkle onto maximum dazzle, and finished his drink.

"Well," he said smoothly. "I fear I shall have to return to work. But, if you do remember your Breguswid, and would like to talk some more later..."

He fished a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and passed it over the tabletop to her. Aerona took it.

"I'll be there, at that time," he said. "And thank you very much for your enchanting company, Asherah. I enjoyed it immensely."

"As did I, my friend," Aerona returned with a bow, and examined the paper as he left. It was a crudely drawn map with a time scribbled in the corner, one of the slum houses circled, and Aerona nodded with satisfaction.

"As did I," she muttered, and went to find Dylan.

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

She eventually caught up with him halfway back up the track to Adara.

"Good news!" Aerona announced brightly, jumping onto a rock. "I met a man -"

"You're already breaking up with me, and we aren't even together yet," Dylan said morosely. "And this is good news. Why. Why was I made, to cry."

"Shut up!" Aerona giggled. "It's not like that Dylan, I swear. We're just friends."

"That's what everyone says to me," Dylan said. "Fine. Go and be happy with this, with this man who's so much better than me."

"He's part of Coenred's retinue," Aerona said, giving up on steering the conversation and jumping straight in. They scrambled up the last few metres to Adara's contented Salute. "He's here ahead of the full procession to make sure everything is arranged and things. Oh, so I know where Owain's meraden will be stabled."

"Ah, the old sexual wiles," Adara nodded approvingly, throwing over a water bottle that Dylan caught one-handed. "Good work. Sneaky, sexy and efficient. Where?"

"See the long halls on the hill?" Aerona said, crossing over to Adara's vantage point and pointing. "There's a stable block near that first one, apparently. It'll be heavily guarded, since there are Phoenicians in town."

"Those famous knaves," Adara nodded, and held up an arm. Her red kite flew down to her, whistling. "Well, that makes things easier. Well done."

"Cheers," Aerona said happily, accepting the flask from Dylan as he ambled over. "Anyway, he's even more useful. I think he's one of Breguswid's followers. He spent ten minutes trying to not-especially-subtley make me tell him of news about her after I told him my caravan had come from Cymru."

"They'll learn subtlety one day, you know," Adara said sagaciously, feeding the bird a small piece of raw meat. "Enjoy their lack while it lasts."

"Stop it, you'll make me cry," Dylan said. "So? What did you tell this upstanding citizen?"

"That the name was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it because I'm not good with names," Aerona recapped. "And then he gave me this map with a time scribbled on and an invitation to come and talk to him if I remember thinly disguised as a romantic encounter."

"Epic wins!" Dylan crowed, taking it. "Aerona, you just owned this backwater! Yeah, I checked that house. That one has a cellar."

"Really?" Adara asked, surprised. She let the bird go again. "They can build cellars here?"

"I'm as astounded as you," Dylan told her. "But these people are actually quite good with wood. Makes sense, since they seem to build everything out of it. I swear even their food is wooden."

"They have floorboards," Aerona explained. "Makes for a better-insulated floor. A suspended floor is pretty much the dream in shelter building."

"Although most don't have cellars," Dylan added, stretching. "They build those huts they call 'houses' over pits. Most are just stuffed with straw. It sticks up between the boards. That one, though," he said, tapping the circled house on the map, "that one has a lot of space beneath it, and a conspicuously-hidden access hatch under the table."

"Dylan," Adara asked with mild reproach. "Did you break into people's houses today?"

"No, of course," Dylan said defensively, rolling his eyes. "I sidled in when the residents left to investigate my massive distractions."

"Anyway," Aerona said, taking the map back. "He didn't draw this for me, he already had it. So I think it's a meeting. In which case, if Owain's killing dissidents, they'll be a target for him."

"And therefore he'll probably go there secretly and alone for us to pick him off," Adara nodded. "Excellent! I shall pack my implements."

"We want him largely untouched, you know," Aerona said, but Adara waved an arm.

"Oh, I know," she snorted. "Don't worry. My desire to give him to Awen far outweighs my desire to extract my own revenge."

"Ooh, speaking of Awen," Aerona said happily, "it was her turn for a mention today! The Saxons have a poem about her killing Breguswid's husband with his own sword."

"I love this job," Dylan declared over Adara's proud smile. "Seriously. Okay: Aerona, you keep your meeting with Saxon Man. Adara and I will stay up here until we see that meraden going into those stables, then we'll come down and check the tavern just in case. Then we'll come and wait for you. Then we'll have a party. I don't like wine."

***********

As it happened, Aerona was back in the town and on her way to her meeting with Bertwald when King Coenred finally arrived. She slipped around to the market square to watch, a Phoenician family happily pulling her up on top of their caravan with them to see over the crowd, the daughter even handing her a small cup of tea. Aerona offered her sugar. It made them all firm friends, just in time for the procession to reach them.

And what a sight it was. Coenred sat in a chair large enough to be a throne, mounted up on a cart pulled by four grey horses, covered by a velvet awning that formed a rudimentry but expensive roof. He was fairly unremarkable to look at, Aerona felt; she'd been expecting someone considerably more devious and furtive-looking, really, because apparently her mind worked like a children's book, but obviously it wasn't the case. He just looked Standardly Saxon; broad, strong jaw, strong brows, strong nose, blond hair, pale eyes. His clothes were coarse by the standards of Cymric Sovereigns, but considerably more ornamental than those of the townsfolk, as were those worn by the other members of his bodyguard riding on either side of the cart. He smiled graciously at the cheering people, waving lazily at his subjects with the indulgent air of a cat just fed and willing to be affectionate. Aerona hated him instantly. People who waved like that could frankly fuck off, she felt.

But he wasn't the star of the show. Up on his throne, in his rich clothes beneath his velvet roof, with fourteen armed men riding prancing war horses to either side of the cart and heralds riding ahead with banners and shouting his name, Coenred was upstaged. Because to the right of the cart, riding emotionlessly beside it on his winged black beast, went Owain Masarnen.

It was a strange thing, to see in the flesh someone you'd been despising for quite a while, someone with such a staggering price on their head. Aerona couldn't work out if seeing him in person made her angrier or not. Over the last few days she'd heard so much about Owain, the man who was Deputy Alpha Wingleader. She'd gone through his profile in minute detail, processing and assimilating everything she could about him to get inside his head, and now, within spitting distance, here he finally was, a face to match up to the name. And...

Well. He wasn't as ugly as she'd been led to believe, actually, although he certainly sat on the wrong side of the attractiveness scales. He very nearly didn't, Aerona thought; if his mouth had been slightly less wide, his nose slightly narrower, slightly shorter, his eyes slightly less sunkern, if his wiry blond hair had been slightly better styled, avoiding that widow's peak... he could have been handsome. But every feature was off just enough to produce what even Aerona had to admit was really quite an ugly face.

He looked partly Saxon, actually, a coarsely ugly version of Flyn's handsome Cymric-Saxon hybrid features. Which probably helped to explain his partial defection after obtaining a mirror. Aerona forcibly kept her lip from curling. There really was a reason for not using mirrors, she reflected. Owain was going to be in every manual on how not to be a Rider for the rest of the Union's days. She stopped focusing on his face, and studied him.

They'd been right about the uniform. He wore the old Casnewydd Alpha Deputy uniform, a comparitively smart one that Aerona recognised as the model generally used when on diplomatic tours, and presumably the one he'd fled Aberystwyth in; but it had indeed been modified. He'd kept the collar denoting his rank and the Union and Casnewydd symbols declaring allegiance, but had added a new one, a sharp, spiky image that jarred against the swirling lines of the rest. It matched the insignia on the banners carried by the heralds, Aerona noted. Owain was a dog with a new master. His hands were gloved, but - she looked carefully - two of the fingers on the right hand looked wrong, as though the fingers inside didn't quite fill them out. The sword at his hip sat on the right side, implying that he now drew with his left hand.

And finally, there was his manner. It was like seeing a machine for all the soul he seemed to be displaying. Owain looked straight ahead as he rode sparing no attention whatsoever for the crowds that drew back from him when he passed. He sat upright, and seemed alert, but that was about it. His eyes stared, a dull burn. Aerona shivered.

She'd honestly never seen anyone more dangerous. He was an insane, angry Rider in exile, with utterly no morals and all of the horrifying skill the Union was capable of pouring into him. And they were meant to take him alive.

"And that is their Rider," the Phoenician man beside her said thoughtfully, his dark eyes pensive. "Well. He certainly seems altered from Riders I have met. As could be expected, I suppose."

"I don't like him," the little girl said, snuggling into her father's side. "He's scary."

"We mean him no harm," the man smiled, brushing her hair. "He will not harm us. Do you remember the nanny goats in Gaul?"

The little girl nodded, and Aerona resisted the urge to ask about the nanny goats in Gaul.

"Think of Riders in that way," the man explained patiently. "They will only watch as long as you clearly mean them no harm. They only attack if you threaten their young. Their country."

"He has no young," the girl said, and the man exchanged a glance with Aerona. The adorable small child had missed the point, their look said. But she had also hit it perfectly.

"He is leaving," Aerona said softly. "He will be in the stone house, see? He won't come near you."

Because, in all honesty, Owain Masarnen was going nowhere near any more children. Not if Aerona could help it.

Ten minutes later the procession had vanished up the hill, Aerona had thanked the family and jumped down and the sun was just setting over the town. She wove her way through the moving crowds, heading into the maze of narrow streets again. The evening air was cool, but Aerona couldn't feel the chill through the adrenaline. Just seeing Owain, just laying eyes on him had filled her with a mixture of anger and loathing and trepidation that she couldn't shake. That was the man who had turned on his own Wingleader and cut her throat. That was the man who had murdered Little Dewi. That was the man who had tortured an innocent old woman to death. And that was the man who still had the temerity to be wearing a Rider's uniform with a Union sigil emblazoned across the front. Gods, she wanted to kill him.

But still; one step at a time. The house, when Aerona found it, was sort of one-and-a-half storeys high, apparently the product of an extension, and on the edge of the slums. As ever, it had no windows. Cautiously, she knocked at the door.

It took a few seconds to open. A pair of eyes level with Aerona's collarbones peered up at her through the thin crack between frame and door, bright and piercing.

"Yes?" a voice asked suspiciously, and Aerona tried not to smack her forehead against the lintel at what terrible Intelligencers these people were. No wonder Owain was finding them all over the country. There were cats who could have been trained to find them.

She pulled out her Friendliest Smile from her Mental Box of Smiles.

"Good evening, my friend!" she said as pleasantly as she could. Well, if nothing else, she was really keeping her oar in as far as her Punic went. "I met a young man earlier who suggested I come here. His name was... Bertwald? I believe?"

"Bertwald?" the suspicious voice asked suspiciously. Aerona bowed the apologetic Phoenician bow.

"I believe was his name," she said. "But, my apologies. Names are not my gift. I may have it wrong."

"No, there's a Bertwald here sometimes," the voice said. It seemed to belong to a man, but it was thin and wispy, possibly with age, making it hard to tell. Aerona beamed.

"Excellent!" she said. Really, whoever was there was horrible at secrecy. If they weren't hiding something they were at the very least a bit simple. "Is he here? I can come back if not."

There was a pause long enough to be so obvious Aerona was mildly surprised it hadn't yanked Owain towards them like a magnet. Clearly, Reedy Voice was trying to think. It didn't seem to be a natural gift.

"He's not here yet," it said at last. "But... you can come in and wait."

"Many thanks," Aerona bowed graciously. Good gods, she had half a mind to turn these people over herself. The door was opened for her, and she stepped inside.

As she'd expected from the tavern, it was a painted wooden room containing wooden furniture, a fire-pit and the lit oil cressets that produced light. The floorboards rang slightly with the promise of an underground cavity beneath her feet, and Aerona wondered how many people were down there. A single rug adorned the floor in the corner, sufficiently out of place to be hiding something like, for example, a cellar hatch. A flight of four stairs in the corner led to a storage area above the bedrooms. One of the corners of the room had been patched up with moss and ferns. Aerona smiled, and turned to her host.

Ah. Not old, just mutilated. He was a man, maybe fifties, with no legs below the knees and an over-developed torso. His hair in the dingy light was either pale blond or grey, and an enormous scar ran from one eye down his face and over his neck, possibly explaining his weak voice. He had a pair of three-legged stools that he seemed to use to get around; as she watched now he planted the one he wasn't sitting on between himself and the table and swung himself easily onto it, pulling the first one along and placing it in front of him again, using them like stepping stones. He had a surprising turn of speed with them, Aerona noted. He'd never escape Owain.

"Sit?" he offered as he reached the table, letting go of a stool to pull out a chair for her. Aerona took it. "Bertwald said... here? Now?"

"Yes," Aerona said happily, pulling the map out. "He gave me this. A charming fellow, I thought."

The man looked at the map, frozen for a good two seconds, and then grunted and nodded. He held out a hand to her. It took Aerona a moment to realise it was friendly.

"Egbert," he said shortly, and Aerona smiled and shook it.

"Asherah," she said. "It is a pleasure."

He gave her a suspicious look at that, although if his manner with her was anything to go by she probably was the first person to ever claim to derive pleasure from Egbert's company. He took the map again, running a blunt thumb over the time scribbled in the corner.

"Bertwald gave it to you," he repeated. "Why?"

"He was returning to work, and wished to meet me later," Aerona shrugged. This man had utterly no social grace, either. She wondered if he knew specifically who'd chopped his feet off. They seemed to take notes around here. "I suspect, if I'm honest, because of my recent trading across the border. As he works for your new king, I imagine he wishes to learn of the politics there."

"You were in Cymru?" Egbert asked, his eyebrows raised as though it was simply astonishing to find someone there. "Did you hear?"

There was a pause.

"I fear, my friend, you have lost me," Aerona said carefully, and at that moment there was a knock at the door.

A special knock, Aerona noted. One long, two short, two long. Bloody sodding amateurs.

Egbert glanced at her, and then knuckled his way over to the door with his stools. He opened it slightly, and then pulled it quickly open to reveal the form of Bertwald silhouetted against the dying light as he slipped inside, the door shut and locked firmly behind him. He gripped Egbert's shoulder briefly, who jerked his head at Aerona.

Bertwald glanced at her, and his eyes lit up.

"Asherah!" he said happily. "You came! I feared you would not. My apologies for being late; royalty has many requirements."

"So I'm told," Aerona smiled, giving him a short bow. "You are forgiven. I saw your king. He seemed most impressive."

"This is one word for him," Bertwald agreed, slipping off his cloak and sliding into a chair beside her, his pose one of studied casualness again. "Also demanding. In many senses. Would you care for a drink?"

"No, thank you." She smiled, folding her hands over each other on the table. "And I assume the meraden is safe from the clutches of myself and my fellow countrypeople?"

"A thousand apologies," Bertwald grinned. "But it is. A great many guards now surround it. Not even a Rider could get to it!"

Of course she can, Aerona thought, trying not to roll her eyes. What was it with Saxons and Riders? There was a man at this table with no feet and half a face, but they still underestimated their enemy.

"I am saddened to hear it," she said aloud. Bertwald snorted.

"Naturally," he said. "So! Have you remembered how you know our forbidden name?"

Egbert perked up, staring at her. She fancied she could feel the vaccuum of several people below the floorboards all trying to hear at once. She'd been right, then.

"I have, in fact!" Aerona said carefully. "But, my friend, first I must ask you something."

"Ask away," Bertwald said, propping his head on his hand. Aerona looked at her demurrely folded hands.

"You told me that your Queen Breguswid vanished," she said slowly. "But, she is the rightful heir to her crown. You also told me that you work for the new king, and he arranges accidents for those who oppose him."

She paused, letting the message sink in. Bertwald nodded slowly.

"Right on both counts," he said seriously. "But -"

"I cannot give you information on a person who will be killed on its merit," Aerona said firmly. "I will not. This woman may well be a different person entirely. She may be the same. It doesn't matter. I will not be responsible for someone's death."

"I swear to you, Asherah," Bertwald said intently, picking up one of her hands and looking her straight in the eye. "I am not a killer, nor will I pass on this information to one who is."

"My friend," Aerona said softly. "You are in the employ of your king. If he asks, you must tell him what you know. I understand this about your people. You are sworn to him."

"I would not tell him this," Bertwald said keenly. "I swear I would not. Not this."

"Then I must ask," Aerona said, covering his hands with her free one. "If you do not ask for your king; why ask at all? Why would it concern you? It seems to me that your interest goes beyond mere curiosity."

Bertwald hesitated, his eyes straying to Egbert, who watched him back wide-eyed-

And someone was moving beneath them. There was the sound of motion and cloth, and muted whispers on the edge of hearing coming through the floorboards, the words inaudible. Bertwald and Egbert froze, staring at each other apprehensively, and then Bertwald swallowed and forced a smile.

"It does not," he said lightly. "If you would prefer, we will say no more of -"

"No!"

The yell came up through the floorboards in the direction of the obviously-hiding-something rug, which suddenly exploded upwards, the cellar hatch dropping back with a thud. A girl in her twenties, probably Aerona's age or thereabouts, leaped out of it, her long blonde hair tangled and dull, clothes dirty. She looked like she'd been living rough for a while. She looked desperate. Arms tried to snatch her back into the cellar, and Bertwald stood abruptly, looking alarmed, but she nonetheless made it across the small room to Aerona and fell to her knees in front of her, her fingers clutching at Aerona's robes in Greek-style supplication.

"What -?" Aerona started, but the girl interrupted, her voice raw.

"Please!" she begged. "Please tell me! She's my mother, I have to know if she's still alive! I need to know!"

"Eanfled," Bertwald began, bending down and taking hold of her arm, but she shook him roughly off, almost snarling.

"No!" she screamed, clinging on. "Please, I - I'm begging you. We won't tell him. We don't want to kill her! We want to help her! We want her back!"

She'd never felt sorry for a Saxon before. It was the most bizarre experience. Aerona leaned down, and wrapped her arms around Eanfled, bringing her mouth level with the girl's ear.

"She's alive and she's safe," Aerona said, her voice low. Eanfled seemed to stop breathing, her fingers digging into Aerona's shoulders. "She's doing well. And she's not given up."

"Thank you," Eanfled whispered, trembling. People were climbing cautiously out of the cellar across the room. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Aerona said. Well, it was time to drop the pretence, then. She'd done her good deed for Saxon resistance. She stood, absent-mindedly undoing the clasp at her shoulder holding the robes together and stepping towards the door. "You're all trying to reinstate her as Queen, then."

"You can't tell," Bertwald said urgently, his tone tinged with alarm. "We'd all be killed -"

"I know," Aerona said, putting her ear to the door and cursing the lack of windows. "I'm intrigued by you, by the way. I thought fealty to the king was a high vow among Saxons."

"We need to change," Bertwald said. "It's - I had to. We're dying, Asherah, all of us, and we need -"

"Yes, I know," Aerona sighed, and turned back to the room, holding the open clasp together. Fifteen people watched her with various stages of anxiety. "Listen, and listen very carefully, because I may be the only thing that saves you all tonight."

"Your accent is Cymric," Eanfled shivered. The anxious expressions upgraded to horrified suspicion.

"That's right," Aerona said evenly. "Listen. I am not here to kill you. I'm here to help you, understand?"

She dropped the robe, leaving the uniform in full view. Egbert made a strangled noise in his broken throat, lurching back against the table; a few people slapped hands over their mouths, cutting off their own screams; one man took a few steps towards the poker for the fire; others backed away. Bertwald, strangely, looked betrayed.

"My name is Aerona," she said. "Stop cowering. I haven't killed you yet, and I don't intend to, so please put that poker down."

"Put it down," Eanfled told the man holding it. He swallowed, and dropped it, the sound of it impacting the floorboards loud. "I - Rider? You said you're here to help?"

"Yes," Aerona said, looking around again. "How many exits does this house have? Any other than this door?"

"There's a passage in the cellar that leads out into the woods," Eanfled said, hugging herself. Aerona nodded.

"Good," she said. "Any others? Anyone?"

"We might - " Bertwald regarded her for a moment more, and then sighed, looking away and running a hand through his hair. "We might be able to knock a hole through that corner with the moss."

"Excellent!" Aerona smiled. "Now, how well known is that hole in the cellar that leads to the woods?"

"Only to us," Bertwald said. "It was dug two days ago."

Aerona winced, shaking her head.

"Right," she said. "We'll have to risk it, I think, but before we progress; you are all horrible at stealth. Horrible at it."

"We lack your training, Rider," Bertwald said, his voice faintly accusatory. Aerona spared him a glance, vaguely bewildered.

"Well, it's lucky for you," she said. "In future? When a psychotic rogue Rider is known to be killing political dissidents, don't hold clandestine meetings on the night he's in town. Now, someone grab Egbert and his chairs and get going."

"He's coming here?" Egbert said, his thin voice terrified. "But - you aren't -?"

"I'm very much after him," Aerona said, turning to the corner held together with vegetation. "Don't worry. What you want and what I want coincide, which is making for a lovely cultural alliance never before seen. Get out, and make your ways back into town in groups of no more than three. Go."

They went, achingly slowly, Egbert carried by two men, his stools carried by a fourteen-year-old boy with limbs gangly enough to be a spider. Aerona pulled on her cloak.

Your best chance is if you can take him by surprise, be as subtle as possible.

The cloak would hide the uniform for longer, keep him from attacking on sight. If he came in through the door, which was fairly likely as the only entrance, then she could pretend to be just a Phoenician trader, unaware of the others below the floor. And Adara and Dylan would be on their way, only a few minutes out.

"You accepted that drink just to get to the Rider, then," Bertwald said in Cymric, watching her as the people filed down into the cellar one by one. Aerona raised an eyebrow at him.

"You offered just to hear about Breguswid," she told him. "And now I'm saving your life. I'm really being very caring."

"Can you handle him alone?" Eanfled asked. After the news of her mother she seemed to have calmed right down, proving herself to be inherently capable in a crisis. "He'll be a desperate man, Rider. He has nothing to lose."

"I'm not alone," Aerona said. "Now both of you go -"

The doorhandle turned, thwarted by the lock. They turned to look at it, the rattle loud in the quiet house. Aerona waved a hand at the Saxons to get them moving and stepped towards the door, switching neatly back to Punic.

"Bertwald?" she called, twisting the doorhandle herself as though trying to open it. "Is that you, my friend?"

"Not quite," the mocking voice called back in Cymric. It was hard, distorted by the Casnewydd accent, the arrogance oozing out of the syllables.

"Who is this?" Aerona called back, switching back to Cymric but keeping the accent as best she could. Behind her, the Saxons were still slowly going down the hatch, held up by the slow progress of Egbert in the tunnel. Behind the door, Owain laughed.

"Open up," he called. "In the name of King Coenred. You have three seconds from the end of this sentence."

"I will find the key," Aerona called. "It is not my house-"

"One second, friend," Owain threw back, his grin audible, and then Aerona just had time to step to the side that wouldn't be crushed between door and wall when the house trembled under a thundering crash, the lock ripped clean out of the doorjam as the hinges screamed their death and Owain stepped inside, throwing a large metal object to the ground behind him with a defeaning clang. The beady eyes, suddenly animated in stark contrast to their earlier glass, scanned the room, taking in Aerona in her Phoenician cloak cowering to one side and the final three Saxons trying desperately to get into the cellar, and he smiled maliciously.

"Now now, Eanfled," he said, walking with predatory slowness towards her, ignoring the frantic shouting echoing up from beneath the floor. Aerona silently dropped the cloak. "You have been bad. But Uncle Coenred will be so happy to know I've found you. Of course, we'll have to punish you -"

It happened very fast then. Aerona had her daggers out and moved, springing forwards and up, but Owain's instincts turned him before he'd even finished speaking, his own knife springing up to catch one blade, gripping her wrist with his right hand, opening his mouth to say something suitably mocking -

And he saw her uniform at the same moment as Aerona slammed her forehead into his nose, her knee making hard contact with his stomach and he pushed forward, a sudden slash with the knife that caught just the edge of her neck, the pain not even registering but his weight throwing her off-balance, and as they started to go down she knew she had to move, couldn't get caught under him...

She twisted, and managed to land at just the right angle to force his hip to land hard on her boot-heel, her free elbow catching his already-bloody nose. It naturally rolled him off-balance just enough to let her leap out from under him, rolling away -

Her arm. Shit, he still had her wrist. It was too late to stop it, though; he twisted her arm savagely, dropping her to the floor, his other arm raising to drive the knife through her back, and Aerona rotated the dagger in her trapped hand, catching his injured fingers on the blade and elliciting the first response from him. He snarled and jerked back, the memory of Awen's assault in Aberystwyth apparently sufficiently repulsive to his hind-brain without purification to provide a weakness, and giving Aerona the tiniest chance to roll and kick back, making Owain in turn leap reflexively back out of reach.

They both paused, crouching, watching each other in the now-empty room. She was running out of time, Aerona knew. If Dylan and Adara didn't get here soon, she wasn't going to survive much longer. Owain was a better fighter, simple as that. And he was stronger. And while she was looking to take him alive, he was looking to kill her. So far, she'd only found one chink in the armour, that automatic protection of his hands. There didn't seem to be anything else.

Except... Aerona knew more about his mind now.

"Awen is dying," she said, and launched herself at him in the split second after it where Owain froze, the mocking mask in his eyes splintering just for a moment. The dagger hilt smashed upwards under his chin -

The blade sliced across her rib-cage on the left, caught from going deeper by the bones, and in the moment she jerked away from it his fist slammed across her face, jolting her neck to its limit and easily throwing her back down onto the floor. It was just enough; as Aerona tried to roll away his body weight pinned her down and he grabbed both wrists, yanking them above her head painfully hard and holding them in place with one hand, the fingers of the other closing about her throat, abruptly cutting off the air supply.

"Say that again," Owain snarled, his breath hitting her face and speckled with saliva. "Right now, you little bitch. Tell me that again."

His fingers loosened slightly, just enough to drag in a weak breath, not enough to ease the growing ache in her head and lungs.

"She's dying," Aerona hissed, trying to control her limited breathing as much as possible. "She can't - be - purified..."

He stared at her for a moment, the emotions storming through his eyes, and then he let go of her throat to punch her across the face again. Well, Aerona considered dizzily as the pain finally started to surface over the adrenaline, at least she could breathe again. She drew in a deep, careful breath, fighting not to choke.

His fingers slid into her hair, gripping it tight and holding her head sideways.

"You're lying," Owain said, his voice loud in her ear. "You lying fucking bitch. Nothing beats her, you hear that? Nothing."

"You have," Aerona managed, baring her teeth. Come on, Adara, he's here... "When you turned... she blamed... herself."

"No," Owain said coldly, his fingers tightening.

"She knows...now," Aerona panted. "The...druids, and... the child in... Cas-Gwent... and Flyn... and Coenred... everything."

"Then she doesn't understand!" he screamed, his lips actually touching her ear. It was really rather unpleasant. "She should be with me! Why would she -?"

"Because you're wrong," Aerona snarled. "You're insane, and arrogant, and you're breaking the country you swore to protect-"

It was back-handed this time, which had the pleasant side-effect of pushing her neck the other way, but unfortunately led to him gripping her throat again. It also meant he wriggled slightly, though, so happily Aerona managed to jab her knee up hard between Owain's legs. That was alright, then, she reflected as he vision started to grey around the edges, stars dancing across Owain's furious, contorted face. She could die happy now. Which seemed to be happening. There was a roaring in her ears, the pain gathering -

"Whoa now, pickle," Dylan's voice scythed in a split second before suddenly the weight vanished from her, her breath rushing back into her lungs too quickly and making her cough. "That is not looking good on an already dystopian record."

"Fuck you," Owain snarled, somewhere to Aerona's right. She blinked, trying to reclaim her vision. "Dylan? Fuck you! You think you're better than me? You think you're anything-"

"Gods, dude, shut up," Dylan said, the eye roll actually audible. Aerona rolled to her hands and knees as best she could, dragging herself to where she remembered a wall being. "You kill kids dressed as a bear. You could not fail at life more."

Owain's snarl was gutteral, and the fight instantaneous. Aerona leaned against the wall, rubbing her eyes slightly. The world was still filmy and grey around the edges, but she could see in the centre again, giving her a view of a fight of equals. Two Alpha Wing Deputies, she thought vaguely. Dangerous odds. Although still stacked in Owain's favour; he was willing to kill Dylan, while Dylan was hampered by avoiding making a killing blow. Aerona tried to stand, and the world swam around her, dropping her back to one knee.

"I'll be there now," she managed, holding herself up with a hand on the wall. "I'll just..."

"Stay there, petal!" Dylan said, cheerful but breathless. "Guess who's coming in a bit? Guess!"

"Shut up!" Owain screamed. "Stop -!"

"Oh, you're not strong enough to shut me up, my psycho Wingleader-killing friend," Dylan sang. "Considerably better people than you have tried. Serious! My Wingleader's tried for years! And I've not killed him."

His scream was almost primal, rage and hatred combining into one horrendous sound. He launched himself at Dylan, his movements suddenly frenzied, driven, the knife flashing, and as she watched Dylan gave himself over to instinct just to keep up, the chatter falling away. Desperately, Aerona tried to rise again, but again the dizziness towed her down; she looked up, swaying, the images blurring together of Dylan fighting, Owain striking, the chair rising behind him -

At which point, Adara calmly brought the chair down over Owain's head and ended it in disdain and concussion.

Owain collapsed at her feet, Adara giving him the smile of a shark. Dylan staggered back, blinking for a moment as his higher brain functions reasserted themselves, and then spun around and jumped to Aerona's side, pushing her gently but firmly down to the floor, examining her head. She hurt now. Although clearly she was suffering with a mild concussion of her own, so the pain felt distant. To the side Adara dropped swiftly to a crouch over Owain, disarming him.

"He's down," she announced, pulling weapons away. "How is she?"

"Injured," Dylan said quietly. "Hey, Aerona, can you see my pretty face in gorgeous clarity?"

"It's fuzzy," she said thickly, and smiled. "It's okay. I'm okay."

"Yeah," he grinned, his hands running over her gently. "Hey, we're even! Now we've saved each other from death. That makes us BFFs, you know."

"Thank you," Aerona murmured. "The Saxons ran away. I think the man was disappointed."

"What, to live?" Dylan asked blankly, and Adara snorted.

"That she was a femme fatale Rider and not a pretty, demure Phoenician," she said. "Maybe I should get Awen to teach me some languages. Hey, Owain!"

An abrupt movement out of the corner of Aerona's eye suggested Adara had just smacked her former Deputy in the head injury, a theory backed up by Dylan throwing out an arm to her in alarm.

"Did you know she can speak Saxon?"

"Hey hey!" Dylan exclaimed. "Need him alive, remember?"

"Oh yeah." Adara sounded crushingly disappointed, and sighed. "You know, I'll be really pleased once he's tied up but awake. We're having us a great conversation as soon as he's awake."

"I'll bet," Dylan grinned. "Alright. We're going in fifteen minutes. Merod outside?"

"Yep." Adara pulled at a knot unnecessarily. "All ready to go. Can Aerona ride?"

"Not for long," Dylan said, studying her again, and through the cloud Aerona thought she could see the concern in his restless eyes. She raised an arm to try to tell him not to worry, but she couldn't assemble the words quickly enough, and he caught her hand and laid it back down again. "But long enough to get to Trallwng and a druid. And then we're going to the Union, and then we're going to drop that streak of semen in a cell."

"Riders?"

The voice was timid, deferential, but backed with its own strength. A word popped into Aerona's mind.

"Eanfled," she said. Dylan glanced down at her briefly from his alert crouch.

"That's right," the voice said, seeming to come closer. "I - thank you. For stopping him."

"We needed him back," Adara said indifferently. "But you're welcome. Don't take this the wrong way, but if you come too near me right now I'll punch you."

"How many ways are there to take that?" Dylan said. "Let's get them saddled up, come on."

"Eanfled," Aerona said again, her hand finding Dylan's arm. He paused in starting to scoop her up, looking at her. "She's the daughter."

"Oh, there's a mystic daughter now too?" Dylan asked brightly. "Excellent! Whose daughter?"

"Breguswid," Eanfled said. "She said - Aerona said she's alive?"

"And kicking," Dylan said, scanning Eanfled. Aerona wished the world would stop spinning. "Well then. That makes you a very important person."

"We needed to send a carriage anyway," Adara said, which made no sense to Aerona. "We could send her in it."

"I'm tired," Aerona said sleepily, and Dylan rose abruptly, holding her closely to his chest.

"Stay awake," he commanded. "Just for a few minutes, Trallwng's no distance at all because Saxons like danger. Right. I'll take her with me; you strap our boy there onto his own meraden. And as for you, Eanfled, mystic daughter of Breguswid! You're about to come for a ride."