Cymru - Chapter 42

GWILYM

"Gwilym, boy! Visitor! You should get up!"

The bone-shaking boom of Mental Uncle Dara's voice exploded inside Gwilym's eardrums, speeding his heart up to around eight times its until-oh-so-recently resting rate and dragging his eyes open so quickly one eyeball narrowly missed being pressed into the pillowcase. In fairness, though, it missed it because his body had sat bolt upright in the bed without any impulse from his conscious mind. His conscious mind was too busy trying to work out where the polecats had gone and why his bedroom seemed to be under siege.

Instantly, he thought of Awen's Mysterious Letter, tucked into his pocket.

"Ha ha! You're awake!" Mental Uncle Dara marched in cheerfully, grabbing the quilt in two giant fists and hauling it off the bed and, horrifically, Gwilym. The polecats fled his mind. There was a very real risk of being thrown out of windows by Mental Uncle Dara.

"What?" Gwilym managed. His heart was slamming in his throat. "What's -?"

"You have a visitor!" Mental Uncle Dara boomed. "As well as me! Well, your rooms are lovely, so they are! Benefits of being a Sovereign, eh?"

"What time is it?" Gwilym shivered, rolling wearily to the edge of the bed and attempting to rub his eyes while watching Mental Uncle Dara.

"Time?" Mental Uncle Dara paused, the quilt held up to his chest, eyes wide. "I haven't looked, lad. Is it important?"

Gwilym sighed, and tried not to cry. Yes. Yes, this was exactly what his childhood had been like and, come to think of it, what had driven him onto a Phoenician ship. The gods only knew what time it was. And that was after being up for a long time the night before drinking -

"Have you slept yet?" Gwilym asked abruptly, looking up at Mental Uncle Dara.

"No, no not yet," Mental Uncle Dara said, wearing the quilt as a hood. "Drinking with that Marged lass, she's great fun, that one! Is it important?"

"Yes," Gwilym said decisively, standing up and looking around blearily for a shirt. It was far too early to be wandering topless around the place. "Go to bed, Uncle. You need sleep now."

"Heavens!" Mental Uncle Dara said cheerfully. "So I do, lad. Night!"

He ambled over to Gwilym's bed, climbed on and curled up like a hedgehog in the centre under his quilt-cloak. Gwilym watched him for a moment to make sure he wasn't about to go on a rampage, breathed a sigh of relief when a soft snore started emanating from the bequilted huddle of king and bedding and left as quietly as he could, pulling on a shirt.

He padded into the living room and learned two things. The clock told him it was half past six. Councillor Rhydian told him he was the visitor.

"I'm the visitor!" Rhydian grinned, looking unfairly well-groomed for half six in the morning. "And I come bearing a gift. I hold here the censored-for-reasons-of-national-security version of the official Union file for Leader Awen Masarnen, Casnewydd Alpha Wing. You'll love it."

"Excellent," Gwilym said placidly, taking the file. It was plain, completely unremarkable-looking given its contents. In his pocket the Mysterious Letter from Awen felt heavy. "I'm now thoroughly excited. Don't tell me how it ends."

"Well, you'll find out soon enough," Rhydian said, swinging himself easily into a chair. "Because, you see, even censored that file is so classified I'm barely allowed to read it, and you'd be truly astonished at what I'm allowed to read if I so wish. So I'm going to sit here and wait for you to finish, and then take it straight back off you."

"Good idea," Gwilym declared darkly, dropping onto a sofa and making himself comfortable. "My Mental Uncle Dara is here. I honestly wouldn't trust him not to take it off me and make it into a hat."

"Awen's not allowed to read it, by the by," Rhydian added, putting his feet up on the small table between them. "You can't tell her what's specifically in her file. Anyway! Enjoy."

It was a strange thing, to be holding photogenically exciting forbidden knowledge. Gwilym opened the file and looked at the first page. It seemed to be a list of quick-reference facts.

"She's thirty-three?" he asked in mild surprise, looking at the birth date. Rhydian linked his fingers behind his head and leaned back.

"Thirty-four tomorrow," he smiled, closing his eyes. "Not that she knows it."

"Is that why Riders are so bad at counting years?" Gwilym asked curiously. "You don't know your birthdays, so you've got nothing to mark them by?"

"Gwales Ritual," Rhydian shrugged. "When you're aging more slowly you don't notice the years anyway."

And Awen had undergone it twice, according to this, which explained why she looked twenty-six. Gwilym read on.

"She took command at eight?" he asked, astonished. "She said it's ten, usually."

"Leadership Trials were advanced for their Wing," Rhydian said lazily. "A few dominant personalities, they needed a Leader earlier. It's all in there."

Eight to thirty-four. That was twenty-six years of responsibility and nearly all of her childhood. No wonder she had control issues. And...

"Eleven years old when you recruited her as an Intelligencer," Gwilym said neutrally. "I assumed she'd have been older."

"It's intensive training," Rhydian said, opening his eyes and looking briefly thoughtful. "We start them young. They have to learn complete mastery over themselves."

"In what sense?" Gwilym asked, carefully turning the page. Rhydian waved a hand.

"Well," he said. "Facial expression and demeanour are the big things. Whatever they hear, they have to show only the emotions that won't give them away. An impassive or blank face is a giveaway by itself. They need to be instantly on top of their reactions."

Oh, for gods' sakes. So in addition to carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, Awen spent most of her life acting. Was there any way at all in which this girl was normal?

He read on, and quickly found that there wasn't. Awen had been a popular child among her Wing members, naturally charismatic and an incredibly quick learner; at three she'd been attracting hopeful attention, and by six she'd been attracting mild concern that she didn't seem to have any personal interests until her musical gifts mercifully surfaced at seven. At eight she'd become Wingleader, and proven so good at it that in order to give a slightly bolshy Wing some stability she'd not been taken out of the role. At ten she'd begun the training for the wristblades; at eleven to be an Intelligencer; at thirteen she'd mastered eight languages and the extraordinary ability to lip-read; at fifteen she'd learned a further three to fluency; at sixteen she'd passed the training for the wristblades; and at seventeen she'd passed the exams into Active status with the highest marks possible in using a sword, knife, wristblade, bow, crossbow, axe and staff. They'd been added onto the roster of Casnewydd's Active Wings, initially stationed at Y Fenni but quickly moved on into Casnewydd proper within two years. At twenty-seven she'd become Alpha Wingleader, thus taking charge of every Rider in every Wing below her, every person in the streets of every town around her, and every plot her manipulative Sovereign contrived.

It was the most depressing thing Gwilym had ever read, until he turned the page to the psychological evaluations and just wanted to cry. Awen didn't hate herself exactly - well, until the past few days, at any rate - but only because she had no clue who she was. As expected, not being allowed to grow up properly combined with constantly pretending to be something she wasn't had left her with no genuine sense of identity. Add on the standard Rider disregard for self...

Well, there was no way of rehabilitating a mind like that. Not without a complete overhaul of principles and worldly understandings, and even if that were possible, it certainly wouldn't be allowed. Gwilym sighed. It would be a challenge, he reflected. To get her to a state of accepting herself again... It was a tall order. He thought about Rhydian's blasé comment that he'd probably decline any romantic involvement after reading the file, and could understand the point. Awen was a difficult person to care about, even for her Wing. She would never prioritise him over duty, that was glaringly obvious. She didn't know how to give herself in a relationship. And the concept of sharing her problems was completely and utterly alien to her.

"Scared off, yet?" Rhydian's voice broke through Gwilym's musings. He had his eyes closed again, looking utterly relaxed. Gwilym watched him for a second.

"Not yet," he said thoughtfully. Rhydian snorted, but said nothing. Gwilym read on.

There was something called a Rider Evaluation Report, which was basically a big list of all the things she was good at within the job. Gwilym paused over 'Emotional Control'.

Despite initial trauma after the first kitten test administered, subject has been exemplary in all subsequent excersises, showing a pleasing desire to overcome all obstacles including her own mind.

"What's the 'kitten test'?" he asked aloud. Rhydian actually winced, and gave Gwilym a hesitant look.

"Incredibly important," he said. "But you really won't like it. To be a warrior you have to be able to switch yourself off, or you're no damn good on a battlefield."

"Right," Gwilym said, suspiciously. "'Despite initial trauma', this says. What's the test?"

"They're given a kitten each," Rhydian said, sighing and closing his eyes again. "Or a puppy, or mouse, or whatever adorable small animal we can find. Anyway; they have it for a week, in which they have to look after it well, feeding, playing, all that. Then at the end of eight days they have to kill it and eat it."

"Oh, my gods," Gwilym muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Rhydian gave him a sharp smile.

"It seems barbaric, yes," he said. "And is, I suppose; it took me three goes before I could do it. But it's necessary, Sovereign. As I say, it's vital a warrior can face taking a life, and they have to learn that before they reach a battlefield."

"How old?" Gwilym asked wearily. "How old are they when that first happens?"

"It varies," Rhydian said. "But yes, your horrified suspicion is correct, Sovereign. They're children still."

"That's beyond messed up," Gwilym sighed. Rhydian snorted.

"Yes," he said. "So isn't it nice you didn't have to do it? That your children won't have to? Because that's the sacrifice, Sovereign. That's why we do this to ourselves, to each other as you put it. We're saving you from doing it to yourselves."

"Has it struck you," Gwilym said carefully, "that by doing that to children who haven't chosen that life you've made an unacceptable sacrifice?"

"No," Rhydian said blandly. "Because if we only trained adults, they wouldn't be Riders. How did you phrase it to those Phoenicians, Sovereign? Riders don't belong to the Union, we belong to Cymru. That doesn't happen by recruiting fully-developed adults. That happens by raising from scratch."

The chasm opened up in front of Gwilym's feet, and he turned away from it. This, he reflected, was not a subject to push. Not with a Councillor, and not if he wanted Awen. And to just generally live.

"This was written by Councillor Eifion," he said instead. He'd disliked the man so far. You couldn't trust anyone with that unpleasant a face. It was the face of a weasel who'd committed arson and was blaming it on its elderly crippled mother.

"Yes," Rhydian said in the slow, awkward tone of a man who had something he wasn't quite saying because it was quite important but you probably weren't going to like it. "Yes, there's something you should know about Councillor Eifion's role in Awen's life."

"Really?" Gwilym glanced up warily. "Did he lock her in a cupboard and beat her or something?"

"Oh, probably," Rhydian shrugged, somewhat alarmingly Gwilym felt. "And considerably worse. Councillor Eifion's job is probably the most unpleasant we have. It's his role to punish infractions and handle the negative conditioning, amongst other things. Thing is, though, any Riders who show particular promise get extra training of all kinds -"

"Extra torture?" Gwilym asked sourly, unable to help himself. Rhydian's smile was icily neutral.

"Something like that," he agreed. "They're all afraid of him. Alpha Wingleaders are terrified of him."

"Does he enjoy it?" Gwilym asked suddenly. He didn't bother to hide the edge of anger. Rhydian would obviously know, and anyway, it was a fair question to be angry about.

"Unofficially?" Rhydian sat up abruptly, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward, elbows on knees. "Yes. Immensely. He's sadistic. Something I try not to judge him for too harshly; he was a Rider in the Wars, Sovereign, and for a long, long time. Back then, that changed a person. And in spite of that, he does as he's told to not overstep the mark. Yes, he enjoys it, but he doesn't get carried away. He understands restraint."

"While torturing children," Gwilym said tonelessly. "Well, that's something, I suppose."

Rhydian sighed.

"Be grateful for it," he muttered, and then looked up. "Officially, no, of course he doesn't enjoy it, Sovereign. But he bears the burden anyway, because that's his sacrifice. If you're nearby and he orders her off to a nice, quiet dungeon with him, by the way, don't let her go. We've told him not to."

"I thought you said he had restraint?" Gwilym asked, raising an eyebrow. "If you've told him not to -"

"Yeah, well," Rhydian muttered darkly. "He's therefore on the look-out for her to slip up over something else, so he can have her then. The thing about sadists is that they like a good vintage. She's a big prize. Unofficially, of course."

"Of course," Gwilym said gloomily. Being in a secret club that got you in on all the gossip was far less exciting than he'd hoped. Already he wanted to go for a quiet lie down, and Mental Uncle Dara was on his bed. And good gods! How was he suddenly thinking about a childhood with Mental Uncle Dara as 'not so bad'? Bloody Riders.

He read on. Marged's summary had been spot on about their emotional handling, he noted, but she hadn't quite gone far enough; she'd said Riders used their negative emotions as fuel while fighting, but it was slightly more complicated. Awen was highly praised at several points for her apparent skill at fighting with her brain working, using her anger "as motivation rather than letting her anger use her." And finally, the reason for her not fracturing into several pieces years before was revealed. According to the file her purification rate was higher than for any other Rider in the Union. She relied heavily on her mind being cleansed at least every two months, frequently more. Gwilym sighed.

Complex, he thought. Yes. Incredibly difficult. But worth it.

"I'm done with your important file of death," he told Rhydian pensively. Rhydian beamed, and leaped to his feet.

"Excellent!" he said merrily, taking it back and pulling a folded piece of parchment out of his pocket bearing his seal. "I shall lock it away again. Now; this is my official sanction to say you're legally allowed to do forbidden things with my Rider, for you to give her. Do you still want it?"

"Very much," Gwilym said, ignoring the blatant surprise in Rhydian's eyes and taking the parchment. Oh, how many people were giving him important bits of paper these days. He carefully put it in a different pocket from Awen's Mysterious Letter. "Thank you, Councillor."

"Not at all." Rhydian regarded him seriously for a moment. "To be honest... she'd be a loss, Sovereign. There are few Riders as good as her. I don't think anyone else is as purely devoted to Cymru as her. If you can save her, I think it's fair to say this country will be in your debt."

No pressure then, Gwilym thought as Rhydian left to be busy and important. And concept of him saving a Rider was turning his head upside down. He glanced at the clock.

Seven in the morning. Well, the nightmares would probably be keeping her awake these days. He went to get dressed, and find Awen.

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

"Sovereign!"

Llio beamed up at him in the doorway to the Wing's quarters, obscenely chirpy given that it was still, to all intents and purposes, seven in the morning. There was something incredibly loveable about her, almost like a puppy. It was depressing to realise that she'd happily killed and eaten puppies in her time, therefore. Gwilym put it out of his mind.

"Rider," he returned merrily. "Well, I was woken by my mental uncle. Why on earth are you awake?"

"Early riser," she said, stepping aside for him to enter, but her eyes flickered to the corner in a quick gesture that said 'Oh, and also, my Wingleader was screaming but is sitting over there'. "Come in! It's just me, Llyr and Awen at the minute."

"That's fine," he said, ambling in. "You three are my favourites. Don't tell the others."

"Excellent!" Llio declared, going back to the gwyddbwyll board with Llyr, who gave him a grin. "We've beaten Caradog, Llyr!"

"You're spreading discontent in my Wing, Sovereign," Awen said without looking up. "I'm going to have to ask that you stop."

She was sitting cross-legged in an armchair, her hair loose and flowing about her shoulders, dressed casually in a sleeveless, hooded woollen top and a pair of linen trousers in blues and greens. The low table in front of her was covered in paperwork that she was carefully going through with a pencil - left-handed, Gwilym noted absently. It was strangely exotic to see her in something other than a uniform. Especially her hair. She made rainbows look like they weren't trying hard enough.

"Can I ask you carry on?" Llyr said, moving a piece. "Where does Caradog fit in your scale?"

"Just above Meurig, because he seems to be a reknowned cheat," Gwilym said, and Awen sighed over Llio's loud laughter.

"Sovereign," she said reproachfully. "I'm not above arresting you for something, you know. They don't need encouraging."

"I'm canvassing," Gwilym grinned, heading over to her table and placing the letter from Councillor Rhydian very deliberately in front of her on top of the page she was checking. "That's what politicians do, I'm sure of it. I've read books on the subject."

"Oh, that's where you heard of ninja dancers," Awen said with good humour, picking up the letter and breaking the seal. "And the flock of mutant birds. And those nubile food tasters that -"

She froze, reading the letter. Gwilym sat carefully in the chair opposite, watching her. Across the room Llyr and Llio both looked up, suddenly alert in a way that made him hope very much she wasn't about to set them on him, the kitten-eaters. And he had to stop thinking about that.

Awen clicked at them and pointed at the door to the bedrooms, her eyes not leaving the letter. They glanced at each other but went, Gwilym carefully avoiding their eyes. He waited. Awen stayed paused a moment more after the door clicked shut and then stood, crossing to the fire and dropping the letter onto it. She watched it burn.

"I have no idea where to start," she said quietly, staring into the flames. She sounded shaken.

"No." Gwilym smiled fondly at her, suddenly feeling bizarrely happy. "I know. I didn't think you would."

"He told you about - " she broke off, covering her mouth with one hand, her voice sounding shell-shocked. "No one finds out about that. No one."

"Gwenllian wants to go drinking with me to celebrate being the first person to ever find out and not die," Gwilym said brightly. Awen gave a strangled laugh, almost horrified-sounding. "Well. It would have been mean, since I'd worked it out using Cultural Understanding and Intelligence and such. The Maurya did this all the time, you know. And the Greeks. And the Romans. And the Egyptians."

"I take back my suggestion that all Sovereigns should travel," Awen said faintly. "Clearly, it's dangerously subversive."

"Or perhaps you should travel," Gwilym said, standing up, and laughed at her shudder. "Or not. You're a bit rooted, there, Rider."

She was silent for a moment, watching the last shred of paper burn away, one hand still covering her mouth while the other leaned against the mantlepiece for support. He walked over to her, and waited.

"I don't -" Awen started at last, and broke off, dropping her other hand to the mantlepiece. "I don't understand. Why? Why have they -?"

"Oh, well," Gwilym grinned, running his hands over her shoulders, pressing against the tensed muscles. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, bowing her head. "I am pervasive and influencial. And, and I quote, 'if you can't save her she'll be the country's loss.' That was Rhydian, that was."

"Like hell," Awen muttered bitterly, a tremor running through her body, but she didn't pull away, arching into his touch almost involuntarily. The magic of the massage, Gwilym thought. It was almost overwhelming to a Rider.

"It's true," he said. "I read your file."

"You did what, now?" she asked, alarmed disbelief lacing the words. Gwilym chuckled.

"That's where I've just been," he grinned. "With Rhydian leaning over my shoulder and snatching it back out of my hands once I was done, and answering questions like 'hey, what does this bit of torture mean?' It was great fun."

"Good gods, there should be such a price on your head," Awen sighed. "I don't understand any of this. I don't -"

She stopped as the knot dissolved under his thumb, her fingers tightening on the mantlepiece. He smiled sadly.

"It's very simple," he told her. "You, with your self-destructive mind, think that you're a terrible failure and not worth saving. Everyone else, with their external viewpoints and their objectivity, can see that you're quite the opposite. Steps have therefore been taken to try to prevent your untimely demise at the hands of anything other than a Saxon."

"It said 'relationship'," Awen said desperately. Her body shifted slightly, a twitch that strongly suggested to Gwilym she was trying to pull away but not quite managing it. "Why? I mean, telling you about Intelligencers is one thing, especially if you've already worked it out, but -"

She broke off again as he caught another knot, and Gwilym sighed and stopped. He was going to have to hear her objections if he wanted to talk her down off her ledge, and as he'd noted once already, conversation escaped Awen if massage was involved. He slid his arms around her waist instead, and pulled her tightly against his chest.

"Go on," he said softly. Awen shuddered, one hand going back to her face again, the other gripping his wrist.

"It can't happen," she said, her voice flatly calm. "We live at opposite ends of the country, and that's just the logistics. There'd be no equality, Sovereign. None whatsoever."

"Doesn't matter," Gwilym said serenely. Awen made a frustrated noise.

"Of course it does!" she said. "We've been through your old-fashioned religious views, remember? You'd hate an inequal relationship! And I can't even use your name!"

"Oh, well, that just makes it quirky and different," he shrugged. "And no, I wouldn't hate it. Don't get me wrong, it wouldn't be ideal, but it's not like there isn't a fully understandable reason for the discrepancy. And I think you're worth it."

"You're wrong."

"Am not," he grinned. "And I can keep this up all day if necessary."

"Yes, and on the subject of children," she said sarcastically, "you need some. You're a Sovereign. You need an heir. I can't give you one."

"Adoption is a wonderful thing."

"Oh, for -" Awen twisted around in his arms, not an easy task given how little room he'd left her. Her gaze was like a lance. "Stop it. You've known me for five days, Sovereign! That's all!"

"Six."

"I'm going to hit you," she told him squarely. "I think I'll punch you in the face."

"Worth it," he smiled. "And it's for me to decide that, not you. Next problem?"

"I want to punch you in the face," Awen said evenly. "That seems problematic."

"Well, I knew a relationship with you would be volatile," Gwilym grinned. Awen shook her head, closing her eyes briefly.

"I'm an unstable killer," she said roughly. "How's that one? I could, at any time, snap and dismember you. I am not safe, Sovereign. Not even when at the peak of mental health."

"For anyone else," Gwilym said.

There was a pause. Awen looked away.

"Look," Gwilym said softly, drawing her hair back behind her ear. "I'm not planning on jumping out at you from behind pillars with axes to test the theory. But clearly, your brain doesn't, for whatever reason, perceive me as a threat. I think we'll be fine."

"And what if I hurt you?" she asked. She sounded suddenly lost, voice suddenly raw. "I don't just mean physically, Sovereign. I have the most dangerous job in the country. I nearly die at least once a week. If you're all emotionally attached -"

She broke off, looking away again, her eyes haunted. For once, he could see someone far older looking out through those eyes. He looked at her closely.

"I can't keep hurting people who don't deserve it," Awen said, her voice hardening. "I pretty much destroyed Gareth's entire family -"

"Damn, you're good," Gwilym breathed, cutting her off. It was so believable, so carefully, cleverly wrapped up in just enough truth to ellicit the right response. No wonder Rhydian wanted her alive. Awen watched him warily, suddenly tense. "You don't believe that. You're far too intelligent for that."

"It was Owain who -"

"No." Gwilym shook his head. "Wrong though you are, and that's a conversation for later, I don't mean that bit. You're clever, and you're a bard. You know how this works. I'm already emotionally attached. That means I'm already going to be devastated if you died tomorrow, and separating us will do nothing to stop that except depressing me more beforehand. You're trying to not say your real objection."

A small smile twisted her lip, and she looked down.

"Wow," she murmured. "It's been a while since anyone picked me up on a lie."

"I imagine it has," Gwilym grinned. "Get used to it. I know about you now. Real problem?"

"Aside from all of that?" Awen asked wearily. She leaned back, her hand running down his chest in a move that did all sorts to his poor old imagination until her palm ran over the inner pocket where the Mysterious Letter was, and they both stopped. She met his eye.

"There are things you still don't know, Sovereign," she said, her voice so quiet it was on the verge of a whisper. "And until you do, we can't. And when you do..."

"You think I'd turn you away?" Gwilym asked, his eyebrow raised. What on earth was in that letter? Either way it won't be fair on you, she'd said on the mountain side. He hadn't cared at the time.

"Can't talk about it here," Awen breathed, so quietly the words barely existed. Gwilym pulled her in tightly, one arm rising around her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. She rested her head on his collar bone, totally pliant in his arms.

"Can we go flying again?" he asked at normal volume. " You need a break. You were more relaxed then."

"You weren't," she grinned against his shoulder. Her fingers had knotted themselves into the fabric of his tunic, apparently subconsciously clinging on. "You'd have screamed if you could. Admit it."

"Of course I would," Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. "We were flying. That's not normal. Can we go again?"

"I rather think you're supposed to be here for an Archwiliad," Awen smiled, but he could hear the waver in her voice. And, he realised, she was looking at the paper on the table. Without letting go he shuffled over to it, dragging her with him, giggling.

"What's that?" he asked brightly.

"Archwiliad, Sovereign," Awen said. "Not to mention the arrival of your family. You need to be here. And stop looking at my top secret adventuring documents."

"Well, that entire exchange was a masterclass in making me want to come on the fun excursion and give you the right excuses," Gwilym said happily. "How devious you are, Alpha Wingleader. I won't get to see them much today until this evening, anyway, because their Audience is today. Which also, of course, means no Sovereign interaction. So I'm free all day! Where's the adventure?"

"The Archipelago," Awen said, her smile slightly mischievous. "Caerdonnau, to be exact. I need to find someone, and I believe he's there."

"Ooh, exciting!" Gwilym said. "Who?"

"Casnewydd's heir, hopefully," Awen smiled grimly. "To have the best chance of Flyn going down I reason I'll need everything in place and ready to go the second the torque stops spinning. About twenty years ago the mother of his children grabbed the kids and ran away to keep them all safe from him."

"Oh, the number of women who've done that to me," Gwilym sighed. "Can I come? You can be the useful, brilliant one and I can be the clownish oaf. We'll be a crack team."

Awen leaned back and regarded him for a moment, fixing him with her openly analytical gaze.

"You'll have to leave the torque here," she said after a moment. "And wear something slightly less ostentatious. And we'll need some sort of cover for you. Can you be a clerk?"

"Just give me pens," Gwilym told her. "I will take your minutes."

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

She was far happier in the air, the slightly-panicking edge of denial gone.

"It's still terrifying," Gwilym called conversationally over the wind, his arms probably crushing her diaphragm. "But slightly less so this time. How long did it take you not to scream?"

"I never screamed," Awen grinned, pushing Brân onto a thermal and smoothing out their motion as he settled into a glide. "But I giggled like an absolute maniac for every second of my first flight. My Tutor seriously considered having to slap me."

"That's brave," Gwilym declared, making Awen laugh. "How old were you?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Early teens, I think, it's probably in my file. Which you've seen."

"Do you like it?"

"Flying?" She sounded surprised. "Good gods yes. It's freedom."

The only freedom she had, he supposed. He watched as the land melted away beneath them, yielding to the race of the sea, the rocks of the Archipelago rearing up. From up here... yes, he recognised the temptation of the horizons, the unexpected wanderlust, could recognise the feeling of detachment from the world below. It was a strong sensation from the window of a Carriage, strong enough once to send Gwilym around the world, looking to see what was over the horizon, but on the back of a single meraden it was stronger. He wondered if Awen would have wanted to travel, had she not been a Rider.

"How often do you fly for pleasure?" Gwilym asked. He was definitely holding on too tightly. One of his fingers had gone to sleep.

"I don't," she called back, and then paused. "Well. I do and I don't. I never fly just for the sake of it. But, I fly places even when I don't need to, so I suppose it evens out. I shouldn't, really."

"Why on earth not?" he asked, astonished. "What's wrong with -?"

"Merod are precious," Awen said matter-of-factly. "We're not supposed to risk them out of battle. And I wouldn't if it weren't Brân. He has extra energy that he genuinely needs to burn off."

Gwilym sighed, leaning his chin on her shoulder.

"It's like your entire life is built around the principle of you being unhappy," he said morosely. "Do you like your life?"

She was silent. The waves sped past below them, the wind a cheery yell all around, threaded with the screams of the gulls. Gwilym didn't push her.

"Yes," Awen said at last. "I - yes. Normally. There are parts that are hard, I'm not... I feel lucky, Sovereign."

"Lucky?" Gwilym asked, fascinated. "Really?"

"Definitely," Awen nodded. "It's not a job, it's a life you get chosen for. I could have not been. I could have been overlooked."

"And instead?" He wasn't surprised, really, but it was still slightly depressing hearing someone tell you how grateful they were for the honour of being brainwashed from birth.

"Instead?" She grinned, and Brân suddenly rose twenty feet in the air, wheeled around and just hovered, half a tonne of animal balancing on air, facing the land.

"See that?" Awen said with satisfaction, pointing down. "That, Sovereign, is my country. That's mine, mine to defend, mine to preserve. Do you know the world's greatest tragedy?"

"Is it by Euripides?"

"No," she laughed, the sound clear. "It's all the greatness that could have been, Sovereign, if it weren't for circumstance. Euripides! He's a fantastic example. One of the best playwrights Greece ever produced, amongst so many others; this enormous literary tradition, even rivalling our own - but only the men. Do you see? The women they've produced who could have been bards, doctors, politicians, anything! But they were born in the wrong place."

"But here?" Gwilym pushed, unable to hide his smile. Awen seemed to have lit up, as though several days worth of terrible revelations and a death sentence had never happened.

"Here," Awen said, the pride in her voice like a rock. "Here, people get their chances. It's not perfect, I know that. But we're constantly working at it. We've got the Archwiliadau, we've got the Urdd, we've got the Gorsedd, we've got the Union. We have a concept of what is and isn't acceptable; the gods only know it's hard to find another country that doesn't deal in slaves. But so much of that, so much of that progress happens because we don't have wars anymore."

Her eyes fixed on the horion in front of them, broken by the peaks of Eryri.

"And that's what I do," she said, the satisfaction back. "All of that potential, all of those chances for all of those people down there; that's mine to defend, and that's why I defend it. I fight for that. And I so nearly might not have had that chance, see? If I hadn't been chosen. If my mother, whoever she may have been, had decided not to give me to the Union. I wouldn't have been able to do this."

"You're completely and utterly mental, you know," Gwilym said fondly, hugging her tightly. "But in a better way than my uncle, so it's fine."

"Yeah, well, you asked," Awen grinned abashedly, turning Brân back to the Archipelago and resuming course for Caerdonnau. "And anyway, you can't talk. I've seen your budget."

"Yeah," Gwilym agreed. "I had an idea for a banking system yesterday, too, but I think someone will put out a hit on me if I cause any more paperwork this Archwiliad. Hey, can I ask you something?"

"You generally do," Awen said, her tone just slightly dry. "Is this going to be another personality test question, or are you planning on depressing me with politics this time?"

"Neither!" Gwilym protested defensively, and then shrugged at her snort. "Yeah, okay. Sort of both. This Mysterious Letter you've given me, that is preventing our epic love affair on the grounds that I'll apparently spit in your eye on reading it."

"Oh, that old chestnut," Awen said, her tone jumping from 'dry' to 'parched'. "I know the very one."

"What's the decision?"

"Sorry?"

"Well," Gwilym said. "You're either going to tell me to drop it in a fire for no one to read ever, so grave is its importance, or you're going to tell me specifically to read it. Two different options. What's the dilemma?"

"Ah." Awen looked down at her hands, her eyes hidden by the goggles. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask me that."

"I can rescind it if you like," Gwilym offered. "Or, well, I can try, but I think I'd have to ask it again backwards, and I phrased it fairly exotically."

"It's the thought that counts," Awen said absently, and then sighed. "You're holding in your pocket the difference between me trusting the Union to do what's best for the country and me deciding I know what's best for the country and forcing them to act."

There was the sort of pause that generally accompanies such massive announcements.

"Oh," Gwilym said, faintly shocked. "Really?"

"Yes," Awen said glumly. "And even giving it to you and not Rhydian means I've already travelled part way down the second path there. I just - I can't work out if I'm right, in which case you absolutely definitely have to read it, or if I've just become as arrogant as Owain ever was, in which case you absolutely have to destroy it."

"So if you'd given it to Rhydian -"

"They might have done the right thing," Awen nodded, and then laughed bitterly. "Gods. 'The right thing.' As if I'm in any way qualified to judge that over them. But - yes, they might also have destroyed it and covered it up themselves."

Her previous good mood had leeched away, it seemed, her shoulders slumped defeatedly and head bowed. Gwilym rested his chin on her shoulder again, glad that his innate terror meant he had her in his arms anyway.

"Listen," he said quietly. "Obviously I can't know what it is, so it's difficult for me to really help. But there are a few things I can tell you. Firstly, you don't possess an ounce of arrogance, so that can't be a motivating factor here."

"I thought the same of Owain," Awen said wearily. "He had to start somewhere."

"He did," Gwilym said. "Birth. And latterly a bloody mountain-top. Don't compare yourself to him, though, because you're comparing the wrong part."

A self-loathing killing machine she may have been, but she was intelligent. She paused, thinking about it, biting her lip.

"Okay," Awen said slowly. "Well, right now I'm thinking I know more about what Cymru needs politically than forty people whose job it is to know such a thing. That just seems -"

"It's not arrogance if you're right," Gwilym shrugged. "And if you're right, and do nothing, it's not modesty - it's stupidity. But that's beside the point. The thing about Owain's arrogance, you see, was the motivation behind it."

"Oh," Awen said. "Himself."

"Exactly!" Gwilym beamed. "Your concern is for those people down there, not yourself. You're not trying to prove that you're better than the Full Council. You're trying to get them to make the right choice for the country. That's not arrogant."

"Maybe not," she said, unconvinced. "I might also be making it personal."

"You?" Gwilym asked dismissively. "Doubt it. Although if it's something you want you might be mistakenly thinking you're making it personal, because you never get want you want."

"I might just be wrong, too," Awen sighed wretchedly. "It's outside my training, really. I don't know why I'm doing this."

"As I say, I don't know the circumstances," Gwilym said. "But I might suggest that if you never normally do this, but have decided to now... it could be because there's something to it."

"Well yes," Awen said, her smile hard. "But I'm also crazy right now. Maybe I'm not that reliable. Anyway; landing now."

She probably made it as sharp as she did to shut him up, but it worked. To Gwilym it was a plummet out of the sky on a vertical gradient to an extremely narrow ledge, and he just about managed not to scream, thus fusing his arms onto Awen's ribcage tightly enough that she probably lost all feeling in her legs instantly. She definitely stifled a laugh as they landed. Definitely.

"Welcome to Caerdonnau, Rider," a fifteen-year-old stablehand said pleasantly, his grin showing a missing tooth or two. He gave Gwilym an interested look. "My name is Dafydd, and I'll be your stablehand if it pleases you."

"It does, thank you," Awen told him merrily, the words from both of them carrying the ring of long practice. It was presumably the formal exchange. "We won't be here long, you can just leave his tack on and throw him in a stable. Although, could you fetch a stool and possibly a crowbar for my companion here? Clerks don't fly well, turns out."

"Ha! You can use the mounting block," Dafydd said gleefully, taking Brân's harness and leading him in. "It's high enough."

"So was the flight," Gwilym offered. "That's the trouble."

So this was undercover, he thought excitedly as they walked into the tower. It was already brilliant not being recognised as a Sovereign; it had been a year now, and gods he missed the ability to go walking through the crowds sans molestation and bodyguards. And Awen was already demonstrating her brilliance at it. Within seconds his cover had been neatly inserted without arousing any suspicion at all, meaning he'd be interesting but quickly forgettable to the stablehands. She chatted easily to Dafydd as he unhooked the multiple harness straps from Gwilym, and he carefully withdrew his death-locked fingers from her stomach.

"Okay, sir," Dafydd said cheerfully, taking off the last buckle. "Hop off! Or you can just slide if you'd prefer, I'll catch you."

"I don't think my nerves could take just letting myself fall off," Gwilym said frankly. "I've been trying to avoid that very eventuality for miles. Hold on."

He wriggled, shifted and fell off. Dafydd caught him.

"Oh, well," Gwilym said, standing and dusting himself off while trying to ignore Awen laughing. "I didn't need my dignity anyway. I think on reflection, Rider, I prefer carriages."

"So I see," she grinned, hopping down with the nimble grace of a cat. "Anyway - thanks, Dafydd. We won't be long."

It was pretty much a case of going incognito for Awen, too, Gwilym reflected as they descended into the lower levels. She was wearing the most casual of the Rider uniforms, knee-high boots, slightly higher socks, plain breeches, flight jacket. She took the jacket off and left it in the stables, though, so by the time they hit the streets of what was presumably downtown Caerdonnau she was just in a plain, unmarked undershirt, obviously a Rider but with no markings as to rank or City. No one spared her a second glance.

"So what's the plan now?" he asked neutrally as they passed a row of shops and cafes. "Where are we headed?"

"A butcher's shop," Awen smiled, scanning the scene around her like a tourist who was actually a spy. "I think he works in one, or did last year, at any rate. Hopefully he won't have moved too far since then."

"Is he likely to have moved?" Gwilym asked, dodging three teenagers carrying bolts of cloth and following an old man with a measuring tape. Awen looked thoughtful.

"I'd expect so," she mused. "They've always been moving, see? Keeping ahead of the pursuit. And he's got a temper, it seems."

"Is that a quality we want in a ruler?" Gwilym grinned. "If trade meetings don't go as planned will he sink their ships?"

"Of course not," Awen said serenely. "That's the purpose of me. There'll merely be a risk of him throwing his water in their faces, so I'll have to make sure there's none in the meetings."

"Ooh, you're good at this," Gwilym said approvingly. "It occurs to me to ask, by the way: how are you going to cope in a crowded shop?"

"You're a calming influence, it seems," she said, flashing him a quick smile. "Give me a poke if I look edgy."

They passed through a large market room, not far from the docks and so full of overseas merchants, all happily yelling their wares and prices. Awen wove her way neatly through the crowd, one hand firmly gripping Gwilym's wrist as she towed him along, forcibly keeping calm. On the other side she went down a side street, slightly narrower and quieter than the others they'd been along, and finally they reached a shop with a faded 'McGregor's Butcher' painted over the door. Gwilym raised an eyebrow.

"McGregor?" he asked. Awen smiled.

"Alban," she said, pushing the door open. "Ex-traders account for a lot of Archipelagan shops."

"That we do!" a jolly fat man said from behind the counter as they entered, his enormous orange moustache covering most of his face. "We add flavour, I say! And what can I get you both?"

"Information at the moment, sorry," Awen grinned. She was, Gwilym realised, putting on a flawless Aberystwyth accent to match his. It was sort of strange to hear; he'd gotten so used to her odd Casnewydd slant. "We're updating records. How many workers do you have here?"

"Oh, let's see, let's see." McGregor looked thoughtful. Gwilym poised his pen over his pad like a good clerk. "Well, there's me, obviously... Delyth, wee lass, had to take her on after the business with her brother... Oh, and Teleri does Wednesdays, on account of her father having his troubles and all."

"Lovely," Awen smiled, glancing at Gwilym's pad. He'd just done a doodle. "Ah, yes, that has changed. We still had a Maelon and no Delyth."

"Aye, well," McGregor said with the dark enthusiasm of a serial gossip about to update you. He even looked around furtively. "Brother and sister, you ken? Took her on after I had to let him go. Angry lad. Picked one too many fights with a customer. What with them not having much money and that, though, and their poor mother half-blind now... well, didn't seem right to kick him out entirely. So I took on wee Delyth, so I did, and I sent Maelon on to a friend of mine who was recruiting."

"Really?" Awen grinned. "And did you tell your friend that Maelon had a terrible temper?"

"Aye, I did!" McGregor chuckled. "Don't fret. She's a blacksmith, though, and they can take a lot. And, he works in the back, away from customers."

"Ah," Awen nodded. "She's still your friend, then. It was good of you to do that for them."

"Ach, well," McGregor shrugged, pleased. "He's a good lad really. Just quick with his fists. I get the feeling the family used to move a lot, you ken? Until the mother lost her eyes. Bairns don't always grow up well that way."

"No, that's true," Awen agreed. "Well, thank you very much! You've helped our records no end. I don't suppose you could point us to your blacksmith friend, could you? We probably won't be up to date with her, either."

"Aye," McGregor said happily. "Up on the third level; nice wide street to get merod to from the Landing Tower. You'll not miss it, it's the only one up that high."

"No wonder you like your life," Gwilym marvelled as they moved back up the streets again, dodging hauliers and traders and customers. "This is tremendously exciting. Will we get to chase someone in a bit?"

"Yes, if they run," Awen said generously. "Leave the fighting to me, though, would you? I really don't know if I'm breaking every rule in the Union's extensive handbook by bringing you here anyway, but I definitely can't let you jump into clouds of fists."

"That's fine," Gwilym agreed. "I don't know how to fight, anyway. I just sort of flail at people until they go away."

"I'll have to teach you a bit," Awen said, throwing him a concerned look. "You should know self-defence."

"Oh, I have that!" Gwilym said brightly. "I jump behind Riders. It works spectacularly."

"They jump in front of you, more like," Awen said wryly, looking at the white scar crossing her palm; and then the crowds got too thick for conversation as they reached the stairways, Awen grabbing his wrist again to prevent a massacre.

The third level, when they reached it, was lovely; a strange mix of shops and posh furnishings. As the upper eschelons of Archipelagan society lived on the upper levels it made sense, though. This was their shopping district, away from the crowds and smells of the lower areas. Which explained why there was only one blacksmith to ruin the effect.

It was a large, open-fronted shop, currently filled with three merod being shod and with a separate, classier front to one side that sold jewellery. It went back a fairly long way, Gwilym noted, with multiple forges inside and a small forest of metalwork hanging from the roof, tools of all kinds and descriptions. Awen headed confidently in, clearly at home in such a place, making a beeline for a broad, middle-aged woman cheerfully showing an apprentice how to viciously attack a pair of bellows without blowing up the forge. The woman glanced up as they approached, her round cheeks red and shining, and she beamed.

"Rider!" she said. "Welcome to my humble establishment! Can I help?"

"Good news!" Awen said amiably. "You can! We're updating our personnel records. Could you give me a run-through of all the workers you have and point them out?"

"Oh certainly," she said, standing up and dusting her hands off. Her apprentice meekly stepped in to take her place. She gestured to him. "Well, this is Dewi. That's Branwen over there - say hello, Branwen! Oh, she's dropped her hammer, clumsy girl - there's Gruff, that's Ioan, that's Rhys under that meraden - never mind, Rhys, it's just practise - that's Goewin, and Maelon's just gone off shift. The pub, I should think."

"Typical!" Awen grinned. She looked at Gwilym's pad, where he was doodling again. "Well, we've got the rest of them. Do you happen to know which pub? I just need to lay eyes on him and have him confirm it."

"Take the service shaft at that end," the woman smiled, pointing down the corridor-street. "It's right in front of you, one level down. He'll be the one sitting alone and brooding."

"Right," Awen laughed. "Thanks very much. Enjoy your day!"

They moved on, and once out of sight she took the pad from him.

"Is that Flyn?" she asked suspiciously. "He's wearing a torque, and you've drawn a knife through his head."

"Well, I needed to draw something," Gwilym shrugged defensively. "And I'm a hopeful kind of guy. Will we get to chase him in the pub?"

"What, like, around and around the bar?" Awen asked blankly. "This isn't a farce, Sovereign."

"The number of levels of Caerdonnau we're seeing?" Gwilym asked archly. "Yes it is."

The service shaft was a sloping spiral floor, designed to move carts and animals up from the docks below. There was more dodging of people and crates, more Awen gripping his wrist and more generally trying to look like a clerk, and then halfway through a briefly exciting bit where Awen suddenly went on Full Alert, sprang terrifyingly up onto a cart and dragged a man out of it, who seemed to have been stealing bread from it. A native Rider arrived with unnervingly good timing to take the man away. Finally, they emerged at the bottom onto the next street, Gwilym still buzzing, the door directly opposite bearing a painting of a tankard to avoid lingual confusion. They pushed their way in.

It was very nearly empty. Three Indo-Greeks sat at a table in a corner, chatting comfortably among themselves and ignoring the rest of the world. A woman sat at another table with paperwork spread around her, absorbed in the columns of numbers, a tankard of mead perched to one side. At the bar sat a dark-haired man, his build tall but thickly muscled, clearly a manual labourer of some kind, nursing his drink. There was no barman in attendance. Awen looked at the man at the bar for a second, and then ambled over.

It was clear it was him almost instantly. As he looked up he had Lord Flyn's face for one thing; long and thin, his eyes grey and piercing, only his hair colour and a slightly smaller nose really varying from his father. But also, he saw Awen walking towards him and immediately tensed up, one foot dropping from the kick-bar of the stool to the floor, his hands clenching into fists.

"Ah," Awen said sharply, freezing in her stride and falling into what Gwilym's hind-brain saw as 'scary predator stance'. "Don't do that, Nobleman. I'm twicthy right now. If you start squaring up so will I, and I can't tell you how little I want to attack you."

She'd let her accent return to Casnewydd as well. Maelon's eyes narrowed, his body language not downgrading from 'wary'.

"Right," he said, his voice hard. "Then I suggest you stay there and I'll stay here, Rider. Is that acceptable?"

"As long as you do stay there," Awen nodded shortly, and then looked down. "Dammit, no. You've activated me, now. And in the nicest possible way, your face is unhelpful."

"That's nothing new," Maelon said sourly, taking a swig from his tankard. Gwilym stepped forward and laid a hand on Awen's shoulder; instantly, she froze, and then slowly relaxed. "It's been fun, looking like the man we've spent our lives running from. So? What brings you here now, Rider? Are the Union now bothering to pay attention to who Daddy does and doesn't try to have assassinated?"

"Oh dear," Gwilym murmured. "This is going to be complicated."

"My life generally is," Awen sighed, and picked her way to the bar, sitting five seats away. "Okay. Nobleman -"

"Don't call me that," Maelon spat. "I don't have a title, do I?"

"Of course you do," Awen said wearily. "You're officially missing, that's all. It's just not a title you're using. And I have to use it, I'm sorry."

"She really does," Gwilym added. "She's very strict about names."

"Your father," Awen said, ignoring him, "has done something very, very bad, Nobleman. A lot of things. He's going to be arrested this Archwiliad."

Ioan regarded her for a few moments, swirling his drink with one hand.

"Who are you, Rider?" he asked evenly. "Before we go on. You know who I am."

"My name is Awen," she began, but there was no need for her to complete the title. Everyone in Cymru knew who the Alpha Wingleaders were, and Maelon had probably been taking a keen interest in who the big movers and shakers of Casnewydd were for years. He raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?" he said, looking her up and down. "Tell me, Leader. Are you here representing the Union, officially? Or is it just you?"

"It's just me," Awen nodded. "At this stage."

"Is it you who's managed to get him arrested?" Maelon asked.

"No," Awen said, and Gwilym frowned at her and put a hand on her shoulder again.

"Yes," he said pointedly. "Yes, it is. She doesn't like herself very much, though, so she wants you to shout at her."

"Generally how I communicate with the world," Maelon muttered, looking into his drink. "Well; well done, Rider. And thank you. You've removed a monster, even if it is forty years too late, but that's not your fault."

"There's a problem," Awen said wretchedly. "I'm sorry. You know how well he plans things. He might have to be left on the throne for political reasons."

"Oh, of course," Maelon all but snarled. "Yes, naturally. Never mind what he did. There are shades of grey, so let's just leave him where he is to carry on doing what the Union swore it would stop Sovereigns from doing. It's easier."

"I said 'might'," Awen said neutrally. "I'm here and talking to you for a reason, Nobleman."

Maelon watched his drink for a moment, and then sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Yes," he said calmly. "Obviously. Sorry. Go on."

"If he was removed from office, you're the heir," Awen said. "Would you be willing to be the next Sovereign?"

He blinked, and stared at her.

"It's a funny thing," he said distantly. "I've never actually thought about it in terms of whether I'd actually do it or not. I never thought it would come up."

"I know that feeling," Gwilym sighed morosely, pulling out a stool beside Awen and sitting in it gloomily. "Hell of a shock when it happens. And advisors are snooty."

"This is Lord Gwilym of Aberystwyth," Awen said brightly. "He doesn't like his title either, so you can be best friends and compare notes. If you say yes, Nobleman, there's a higher chance of your father being dropped in a dungeon somewhere."

Maelon paused, watching them.

"I have a temper," he said finally. Gwilym snorted.

"Let me share with you the secrets of Sovereigns," he said. "They're massive children. Massive children. You being angry a lot is wildly overshadowed by Girly Lord Ieuan's libido, and Lady Marged's knitting, and Lady Marged's insanity."

"You already counted her," Maelon said, a smile quirking his lips. Gwilym grinned.

"Trust me," he said. "She counts twice. You're in good company. If you don't know what to do, just stand there and wave and let your advisors and Riders do everything for a year. Then be hands-on. It's worked for me so far."

Maelon smiled down at his drink, and then nodded.

"Yes, then," he said. "I'd be willing. What happens if he stays a free man?"

"Well," Awen said, pulling a face. "He'll be watched like a hawk for the rest of his life. You'll be safe to live wherever you want. Oh, and you'll get the throne eventually anyway, because he's definitely going to be castrated, so he won't have any other heirs."

"Which is nice," Maelon nodded, his eyes hard. "But it's not enough."

"It's not, is it?" Gwilym agreed. "Although I for one plan on making as many testicle-based jokes around him as I possibly can afterwards, because I'm also a massive child."

"We need to go," Awen said looking up at the clock above the bar. "I really shouldn't be keeping you away from the Archwiliad for this long, Sovereign."

"It's so much more fun here, though," Gwilym said, disappointed. "And we haven't chased anyone yet."

"I said we'd chase him if he ran," Awen said, standing up. "Not just on principle."

"I can do a few laps if you want," Maelon suggested blithely. Gwilym sighed.

"Nah, you're alright," he said. "It's not the same without the thrill of charging through a crowd and knowing that you have a Rider to do the actual hard work. But thanks, it's decent of you to offer."

"If he does go down I'll send for you to come to the Union," Awen said, looking at Maelon. "Tomorrow or the day after, probably."

"I'll be ready," Maelon nodded. "And - thank you, Rider. It's good to know that someone is trying to stop him."

"I hope I can," Awen muttered, and bowed, the Rider-to-Sovereign bow. Maelon blinked. Gwilym sympathised. "Good day, Nobleman."

And they ended the adventure, and went back to the Archwiliad, and politics.