Cymru - Chapter 44

GWILYM

"Goodness, what a loud bell!" Mental Uncle Dara boomed, inexplicably louder than the loud bell. "Why's it ringing?"

"I have no idea, Uncle," Gwilym said, urgency mingling with the sort of frustration that was making him want to punch someone out. "But it's a border klaxon. Usually they precede Saxon attacks, so if it's going -"

"There're no Saxons here, lad!" Mental Uncle Dara said cheerfully, patting him on the shoulder. "We're in the air!"

"Yes," Gwilym said, trying his hardest not to shout. "So if it's ringing it must be important, Uncle, so come on."

"These Riders will handle it, surely?" Clíodhna sniffed, her voice supercillious even when just making a pertinent contribution to a conversation. Gwilym shuddered involuntarily. "They pride themselves on being such expert fighters, and the place is crawling with them."

"They aren't fleas, Elder," Lorcan muttered from Uncle Dara's other side. Aunt Clíodhna didn't hear him.

"Yes, probably," Gwilym said, tugging futilely on Mental Uncle Dara's arm as the man started ambling towards the theatre's stage. "Except the klaxon is still going, so they've not sorted it yet, now let's go, Uncle."

"Oh, come along, Dara," Clíodhna said impatiently, turning and marching back to the double doors they'd entered by. "I wanted lunch, anyway. We'll come back later, stop making such a fuss."

"Shame she's Elder and I'm King," Mental Uncle Dara said in a situationally appropriate stage whisper that inappropriately meant Clíodhna could easily hear him. "I'm much more fun. She's a sour old crone, eh? Coming, Clíodhna!"

"It's a small miracle she hasn't had you assassinated yet," Gwilym said evenly, steering Mental Uncle Dara as he finally turned and followed Clíodhna. Lorcan gave him a look of grim agreement across his chest. "Now. We're going to go back to your quarters as fast as possible, okay? And then -"

"This door is locked," Aunt Clíodhna said in tones of such icy venom Gwilym was astonished said offending door hadn't melted. "This was not the case when we arrived."

"I'll have a go!" Mental Uncle Dara said cheerfully, and ran at the door. Gwilym exchanged a look with Lorcan.

"Would they have locked us in to keep us safe in here?" Lorcan asked quietly. "If they're all running around it could be the quickest way to keep us out of trouble."

"Possibly," Gwilym said slowly, scanning the room. "But I'd expect one to lean their head around the door and tell us to stay put in that case."

"Might not have had time," Lorcan suggested, but he sounded doubtful. "Any luck, Dad?"

"No," Clíodhna said coldly. "But he's nonetheless enjoying the repetitive futility of collision. I sincerely hope your reign will be better, Lorcan."

"There are side doors," Gwilym said, starting back down the isle towards the stage. "We can try those and -"

He froze, staring at the stage. It must have been the klaxon, he thought. It was loud in the accoustics of the theatre, filling the room with its desperate wail and drowning out all other sounds. Combined with the heavy thuds of Mental Uncle Dara making contact with the door, it must have masked the sound of metal impacting on wood.

An arrow sat quivering in the front of the stage, the shaft embedded in the wood by several inches. A series of barbs ran down it, promising severe complications for anyone who survived its initial introduction. The fletching was a sickeningly familiar pattern of white and black feathers. Gwilym knew that pattern. He'd seen that pattern before.

He tore his eyes away, following the angle of the arrow up to the balconies above them. There was no one there.

"That wasn't there before," Lorcan said sharply beside him. Gwilym glanced briefly at him.

"No," he said calmly. He turned, quickly making his way back to the Adults. "It's a message. We need to get out of here, right now."

"If they did that they could hit us," Lorcan said apprehensively, following. "Why haven't they? We can't see into those balconies, we're easy targets."

"He's playing with us," Gwilym said grimly, grabbing an arm each of Mental Uncle Dara and Aunt Clíodhna. "But the longer he does so the more likely we are to be found and saved, so we're going to play along. Come on. Side doors, let's find an open one."

"Who is it?" Lorcan muttered, looking up at the balconies. Gratifyingly, Mental Uncle Dara actually came away from the main doors obediently, although given how many assassination attempts he had survived he probably was capable of being serious when under direct threat. That, and he was mildly dazed.

"Our rogue Rider," Gwilym said, surprised by how firmly calm he was sounding. "Looks like, anyway. Although I have no idea how. Try that door, Uncle, I'll look at this one down here."

"Why you?" Lorcan asked nervously, skipping on ahead down the side to the door and twisting the handle. It didn't budge. "Why does he want you dead?"

"Oh, I told you!" Gwilym said with forced cheer. "Because of my pervasive influence, remember? And I'm in love with his Wingleader, I suppose."

He reached the end door and it swung open to his touch. They were being herded, then. Really, Gwilym wasn't surprised. From his limited knowledge of Owain, he was a lad who liked to have his say. There would probably be a full list of crimes explained to Gwilym before his death this time, possibly with diagrams.

"This way," he called up to Aunt Clíodhna and Mental Uncle Dara. "Quickly."

"Where does it lead?" Lorcan asked, peering into the narrow corridor beyond. "It looks like a servant's passage."

"It is," Gwilym said, stepping through as the Adults caught up. "And I don't know," he added, exercising some Homeric last-first ordering. "But if it is for servants to use, then I imagine to somewhere like the kitchens."

"Oh gods, let's leave Dad here then," Lorcan muttered as they started through. "I'd rather take my chances."

The corridor was well-lit with sunpipes. The klaxon was softer here away from the theatre's sound trap, which meant that as they reached and rounded the first corner the sound of the door they'd left behind slamming shut echoed easily back to them, making them all freeze and look back. Clíodhna looked livid.

"This is ridiculous," she hissed. Lorcan shuddered. "We are not some young man's playthings!"

"That's okay," Gwilym said before his brain could catch up. "He's thirty-four, it's a professional thing."

And then his brain caught up and screamed, and then Clíodhna turned to him, her eyes like lasers, and then he was saved by the last person he expected.

"Yes, it is," the voice said, quietly mocking, echoing around the bend in the passage. Gwilym narrowed his eyes. He sounded less oily out of a formal situation, but there was still an unpleasant quality to Owain's voice, made hard by the cold amusement it now contained. And the accent jarred, thick as overcooked porridge and blunting the words. Funny how it sounded so fluid on Awen, and so turgid on Owain.

Gwilym turned, and calmly walked on down the passage, pulling Lorcan after him.

"So do you want them as well, or can I leave them in a doorway safe in the knowledge that you'll leave them alone?" he asked evenly. The laugh was short and clipped, a bark of sound.

"What do you think, Sovereign?" Owain said contemptuously. Gwilym nodded to himself. Well, he hadn't expected anything else. The question, then, was how long they were meant to carry on moving - as quiet places to kill people uninterrupted went, this passageway was pretty good.

"Okay," Gwilym said, absently trying a door as they passed it. It was locked. Lorcan looked skittish. "Are we heading anywhere specific?"

"Yes, actually," Owain said, the smile audible. "But I won't spoil the surprise. Just keep going. You won't miss it."

"I feel I should congratulate you, actually," Gwilym said. Another door; locked again. "Given that you haven't been here and the entire Union is looking for you, this is well-planned."

"Thank you, Sovereign," Owain's voice said with mock-modesty. "Tactical thinking has always been one of my best skills."

"So I see," Gwilym said thoughtfully. The passage curved again. "Presumably, though, you couldn't have locked all of these yourself?"

"Well done," Owain said condescendingly. "No. But I know the Union like the back of my hand. This area is barely used during Archwiliadau. And where we're going has been scheduled for renovation. It's closed off."

"Well, he's thorough," Mental Uncle Dara boomed approvingly. "Have to give him that!"

"What if we run?" Lorcan muttered, hiding the words under the muted wail of the klaxon. "Even if we get to the renovated bit, someone might hear us."

"No," Gwilym said quietly. "If we act like prey he'll act like a predator. It's his game."

"Gods," Lorcan breathed, and ran a hand through his hair. "It's funny. We heard there was a rogue Rider, and we were just astonished it could happen. I didn't think of how dangerous he'd be."

"Nothing to lose," Gwilym murmured. "He's a dead man walking, and he will not die quickly. This is his swansong. Partly why he's enjoying it, I should think."

The passage turned another bend and widened for a few metres before ending at a set of double doors. Gwilym paused, looking at them. Objectively he knew he was no safer there in the passageway than through the doors in wherever Owain was aiming to put them, but psychologically that door was suddenly the gate to Annwfn. Was this what Riders went through, Gwilym wondered abstractly. Did they face this when they went into battle? Did they ever fear getting onto that meraden, heading straight into the swords and the blood? Was Owain afraid now? He knew exactly what was in store for him now. Gwilym couldn't even imagine it.

"The double doors?" he asked.

"The double doors," Owain answered, cold and cruel. "And close them behind you. Hurry now. You don't want me catching up."

"No," Gwilym said, more or less to himself. He stepped forward, heart thudding in his ears, and opened the doors.

Which was sort of anti-climactic. In Gwilym's head his subconscious had been absolutely certain a comically large axe was going to sail at his head from the doorways, or flames would pour forth, or there would be a massive pit of spikes with an outline of a human being chalked in for him to land on. Astonishingly, none of these things happened.

Instead he stepped out into a rundown courtyard, open to the sun above and surrounded by several floors on all sides. The passages on the same level as the courtyard were visible through narrow, glassless windows that had been roughly boarded off, the doors opposite firmly shut and probably locked. The next floor up was a balcony level with a verranda, probably earmarked to have a proper balcony rail put in, and the gutter pipes above it had been taken out of their brackets above to hang at about waist-height. The walls above that were sheer.

It was strangely peaceful, given that it was a prison. The sunlight was gentle, warming the flagstones beneath Gwilym's feet and illuminating the old washing lines strung across the courtyard, suggesting it had been a laundry yard. Some hopeful plants were growing here and there between stones, a cheerful green against the grey. The klaxon was quieter again, a background noise now, the sound of the lock turning behind them a mortiferous undernote. Mental Uncle Dara sighed happily and wandered over to a sprig of fireweed waving in the soft breeze, ignoring Aunt Clíodhna's scything glare.

"Calmly," Gwilym said to Lorcan quietly, "make your way around the edge, see if there's any gap you might fit through. Don't make any sudden movements. Take the others."

Lorcan nodded and went, followed after a few seconds of Clíodhna's hellish whispering by her and Mental Uncle Dara. Gwilym watched them, trying to steady his nerves. If he was right, then any second now...

"I suppose I should congratulate you back, Sovereign," Owain said. Gwilym looked up. He was, with tedious predictability, standing up on the balcony six feet above them, leaning against a pillar and looking down with a particularly powerful-looking bow in his hands, held down at the moment but with an arrow already clipped onto the undrawn string. His gaze as he watched Gwilym was frankly terrifying. Gwilym had seen cats look at birds like that. It was the unwavering stare of a predator, absorbing every move.

"Why's that?" Gwilym asked neutrally. Owain smiled, cocking his head to one side in an unconscious imitation of Awen.

"I thought you'd panic," he said lazily, running a thumb casually through the fletching on the arrow. "But you've taken it well enough so far. That's so much less fun, of course."

And that was a cliched sentence. Adara had complained about Owain's speech. Gwilym chose not to mention it.

"There is that," he said instead, and sighed. "Sorry, though. I'm terrible at subtlety, I keep telling people. Why do you want to see me as a corpse?"

Owain snorted, his smile of condescension and hatred.

"Because I was right, Sovereign," he said. "Again. You've got a golden tongue, haven't you? Like your father."

"My father?" Gwilym blinked. "Hardly."

"Power in the people's hands," Owain said, his voice almost sing-song in its disdain. "That was his idea, wasn't it? He gave it to Marged to push, of course, because she's retarded. The ideal scapegoat. But he'd have managed it. Anarchy, for him to step in and claim."

"Democracy," Gwilym said carefully. Owain raised an eyebrow.

"What?" he said. Gwilym took a steadying breath.

"It's democracy," he said. "Not anarchy. I've studied it. The Greeks practise it, it's not a trick system. It works. Although to be fair, I doubt Dad realised it already existed. He was proposing it slightly differently."

"I knew it," Owain grinned. "Clever with words, there, aren't you? I knew you'd champion it. And drop the pretense, Sovereign. We both know it 'works' only for you. I know what Aberystwyth's economic set-up is like, and you've declared no changes for this Archwiliad. Do you like having purple silk sheets?"

"Right," Gwilym said, suddenly fighting the mad and insanely foolish urge to giggle. "Your politics are a few days out of date. I've overhauled the entire budget. I had to have a special meeting with all the Alpha Wingleaders and everything."

"Oh yes," Owain said, deeply sarcastically. "Oh, I'll just believe that, shall I? While I've got this big bow?"

"Obviously, I can't make you," Gwilym said, smiling slightly. "But since this is a big basis for you killing me you're going to feel bad afterwards when you learn I was right."

Owain's grin was almost a leer.

"Oh, Sovereign," he said, amused. "I've never felt bad about about killing anyone in my entire life."

"No," Gwilym smiled. "No, I imagine you haven't. Can I be honest with you?"

"Haven't you been so far?" Owain asked softly, with fake shock. Gwilym fought his eyes not to roll.

"Yes," he said. "But I'm changing topic slightly."

"Oh, well," Owain said, amused. "Go right ahead, Sovereign."

"I don't believe you," Gwilym said.

There was a silence, although it failed to be actually Silent on account of the klaxon. Owain watched him.

"Really," he said at last. "About what?"

"If that was why you wanted me dead in Aberystwyth you'd have done it properly," Gwilym shrugged. "You're a clever man, and the gods only know you're a good killer. But you sent a coerced fourteen-year-old to try in front of everyone, including your Wingleader. I don't know what you were actually planning, but... it wasn't me. I wasn't the point. Why am I now?"

"Oh, every word you say just proves me right further," Owain said gleefully. "But no, you're correct. I didn't realise in Aberystwyth just how right I was. I didn't prioritise you. I see now I should have."

"Why?" Gwilym asked. "Why now, specifically? What's changed?"

"So much," Owain smiled smugly, shaking his head. "Where to start? Well - how about: what are your intentions towards my Wingleader, Sovereign?"

"Union sanctioned," Gwilym said evenly, and completely owned the argument for a moment. "By Councillor Rhydian. Although I was as surprised as you."

Owain stared at him, his eyes narrowed, lip curling slightly. His fingers twitched on the bow string, and Gwilym found himself looking at them, adrenaline squeezing his heart.

"Right," Owain said after a moment, his voice near loathing. "Yes, I'm sure you were astonished. And how does she feel about you, hmm?"

And Gwilym could see the path this part of the conversation was going to take. He sighed.

"You'd have to ask her," he said carefully, but Owain wasn't satisfied.

"Would I?" he asked, his smile bitter. "Adara seemed to think it was fairly clear."

"There's definitely a sexual attraction," Gwilym shrugged. "Are you going to accuse me of manipulating her into -?"

"Of course you did," Owain said contemptuously. "Awen is a Rider, Sovereign. She doesn't go around jumping into bed with Sovereigns. And while it's pleased you to subvert her, you have no idea - no idea - of what the Union will do to her if they find out."

"They already have," Gwilym said mildly. "They sanctioned it. I wasn't lying. But I imagine you consider that to be evidence of my pervasive sway over the Council as well?"

"They can't see it," Owain said disdainfully, shaking his head. "But I do. And that's the thing about Riders, Sovereign. We do what has to be done."

"I've had that impression," Gwilym smiled. He glanced across at Lorcan, trying to push at the boarding over one of the windows, helped by Mental Uncle Dara and hindered by Aunt Clíodhna's general presense. "That's still not all, though, is it? Why kill them? They -"

"I knew it!" Owain crowed. "Adara never could keep her mouth shut! I knew you knew. That's why you went for Awen, isn't it? To make her tell you!"

Gwilym stared blankly.

"Sorry, you've lost me," he said. Owain's snort was contemptuous, his eyes alive.

"Like hell," he grinned, the malice lighting up his face. "Behind the mirror and in the safe. She found everything from both. And she's told you, hasn't she? The one person who mustn't find out!"

I'm sorry.

"Told me what?" Gwilym asked, the world crystallising around him.

I want you to take this and look after it. Don't tell anyone about it, don't let anyone find out, don't let it out of your sight.

"This isn't your game to play anymore, Sovereign," Owain grinned, shifting the bow up, not quite taking aim yet. "Don't lie to me."

You need to keep it on you at all times, and I mean all times - when you sleep included. It cannot leave you.

"She told you," Owain repeated. "And you must have told those three, I'm not stupid. But that knowledge can't go any further. It could never even reach you, so now it has... Don't lie to me. She told you, didn't she?"

And if anyone -anyone - asks you for it who isn't me, you deny all knowledge. Do you understand?

"No," Gwilym said, staring at the arrow head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar," Owain grinned, eyes bright. He aimed, pulling back the bow string with one muscled arm, the motion smooth. "A politician who lies, eh? Who'd have thought it?"

Whatever happens, it won't be fair on you.

I'm sorry.

"Tell her something for me?" Gwilym asked softly, his eyes fixed on the arrow. Owain jerked his head in a nod once.

"Go on," he said, the lazy cruelty rich in his voice.

"Tell her I never blamed her," he said simply. "And I never will."

Owain smiled.

"No," he said.

And he let go of the bow string.

And the plank of wood sailed through the air in front of Gwilym, smashing into the arrow and splitting.

And the arrow whipped past his ear, close enough that the fletching brushed his earlobe, the scream of the air being torn all he could hear.

And someone collided with Owain, knocking them both clean off the balcony, but he twisted as he fell to land on his back, the second person rolling off and landing nimbly in a crouch -

"Run," Awen snarled, watching Owain as he snapped into a similar pose. Gwilym blinked.

"Will do," he said, and fled to his family members. Lorcan was staring at him, wide-eyed.

"I thought he'd hit you," he said hoarsely as Gwilym grabbed a board with Mental Uncle Dara and hauled on it. "It looked like - are you okay?"

"Great," Gwilym managed as the board failed to move. Mental Uncle Dara growled frustratedly and punched it. "Any luck with any of these?"

"None!" Mental Uncle Dara said angrily. "Not one, lad! Shocking!"

"Well, hopefully more people will be on the way," Gwilym said, looking around restlessly. The adrenaline had his heart hammering in his chest and ears, making him want to move. "The doors? How strong is the lock?"

"Supremely," Aunt Clíodhna said, in the tones of one who wished to burn down every door she encountered for the rest of her life to make up for the inconvenience. "Although perhaps Dara could fling himself against it a few times. That always works so well."

"It's worth a try!" Dara said brightly, and did just that. Gwilym spun around to see the fight.

"Good gods," Lorcan breathed, and Gwilym had to agree.

He'd never seen anything like it. Probably no one had. It was rare enough to get to see Riders even sparring, rarer again to see one genuinely fight. But this was two fully-grown, fully-trained Riders fighting with every ounce of skill and ability they had. He'd never seen anything more dangerous in his entire life, even including the arrow that twenty seconds ago had been aimed at him. It was like the perfect predator, the perfect hunter, the perfect killer, all condensed down and molded into human shape, something primal and raw given the face of civilisation. Gwilym stared at them. They fought Saxons, he thought. This was what the Saxons saw. And still the Saxons came.

"You could rule the world so easily, you know," Lorcan said, the horrified awe written large across his face and in his voice. "Look at them, Gwilym. These people swear themselves to you."

"Certainly," Gwilym managed, "that's what Flyn thinks."

People were shouting on the other side of the door, but Gwilym didn't listen. He just watched. Awen fought in silence, those blades she had flashing in and out so quickly he could barely keep up, Owain already covered in several regrettably-shallow slices from them around his face and shoulders. She had so much grace, Gwilym thought. Even here, now, giving herself over entirely to the battle, her movements were so elegant, so lithe, so beautiful. And so terrifying. This was the part of herself that she would never have shown him otherwise, Gwilym reflected. The charm, the wit, the compassion all gone, just beauty combined with terror.

"That's her, isn't it?" Lorcan said. "You're in love with her?"

"Yes," Gwilym said.

"Which is entirely inappropriate, of course," a voice said unpleasantly, and Councillor Eifion appeared beside him, his aged face watching the battle like a connoisseur. "You were only sanctioned to have a relationship with her as I recall, Sovereign."

"Which I don't," Gwilym said sharply. "And my feelings towards her aren't something anyone can control, Councillor, particularly including her."

"A fair point," Councillor Eifion smiled nastily. Gwilym looked around. Three Guard Riders had arrived also and were spreading out, carefully surrounding Awen and Owain, while the echo of footsteps suggested a lot more were now on the way. He glanced at Councillor Eifion.

"Why aren't they helping?" he asked, nodding to the new Riders. "It strikes me that if Awen has some help this would be over in seconds."

"We can't risk it," Eifion said. "Leader Awen is volatile in the extreme anyway these days, and is, at the present moment in time, entirely out of control. She will snap out of it once he falls, or perhaps once she does. Until then, she'd attack the reinforcements."

It was strange, but she didn't look out of control. She just didn't look human anymore either. As they watched she dodged a punch from him by twisting her body nimbly out of the way, lightning-fast, and brought her elbow into play against the back of Owain's head; he stumbled slightly downwards and she slammed her knee into his nose, the crack of breaking bone bouncing around the courtyard. It made him automatically recoil and Awen punched him across the face, throwing him back a few steps; she sprang after him, that inhuman grace dodging her out of the way of his leg as he went for a kick to the stomach and she swept down the wristblade, but Owain just managed to withdraw, the blade drawing only across his shinbone -

At which point, with speed that made Gwilym's eyes blur to watch, Awen leapt forward and smashed her elbow into Owain's throat. He doubled over, gasping for breath and she kicked the back of his knee, dropping him to the floor -

He hadn't quite made it down when Awen's knee, shin and foot all slammed into Owain's face again in quick succession, hurling him over backwards and against the wall. Councillor Eifion smiled and started forward as Owain rolled onto his elbows, fighting to breathe still, and Awen dropped to one knee beside him, seized his hair in one hand and drove his head, face-first, into the wall. Gwilym winced. That was a brutal way to end a fight, he reflected. There really wouldn't be much left of Owain's face now, and he hadn't been much to look at anyway -

She did it again. And again. Eifion sped up towards her and suddenly Gwilym could feel himself going on alert, starting towards them.

"Stand down, Leader," Eifion barked. Clearly, he was expecting Awen to leap away with all due fear and deference; but it didn't happen. She did it again, her fingers twisting in Owain's hair.

"Leader Awen," Eifion snarled, and in the stupidest move Gwilym had ever seen he grabbed hold of Awen himself, one hand in her hair, the other gripping and twisting her right wrist up behind her back, and he slammed her against the wall. "I said to stand down."

"Councillor," Awen managed, her voice tight. Gwilym sped up. "Stop -"

"You three, get him out of here," Eifion ordered, jerking his head at the unconscious Owain. Awen's left hand hit the wall beside her head, her fingers clutching vainly at the stone work. "And you, Leader -"

"Please let go," Awen begged him desperately, and here was the other side Gwilym hadn't expected to see: Awen being scared. Her hand kept clenching into a fist on the wall, her body almost convulsing it was twitching so badly. Gwilym jumped over the fallen Owain. "Don't -"

"Shut up," Eifion ordered. "That was twice I told you -"

How he got there in time Gwilym never knew. Fortunately he was already pulling Eifion back with one hand, so as Awen's elbow whipped back he was just out of range. Unfortunately, that meant that her arm kept going through its extension, Eifion leaping back -

- and Gwilym caught Awen's forearm just as the wristblade shot out of its mechanism, holding her arm so the blade finished beside the Councillor's throat rather than in it.

There was a loaded pause, and then Awen slowly sank to her knees. Gwilym didn't let go. Right now, right at this moment, the forces of nature themselves could not have prised his hand from her body.

Eifion watched her, his eyes filled with disbelieving delight.

"Well," he began, not even bothering to contain his glee, and Gwilym overrode him as harshly as he could.

"Are you insane, Councillor?" he snarled. Eifion blinked and took a step back. "Have you completely lost your mind? She can't be touched right now! What in creation made you think that after almost fighting her own Deputy to the death she'd be fine for you to assault?"

"I rather thought she'd have more self-preservation, Sovereign," Councillor Eifion said, fixing his grey eyes on Awen again covetously. Clearly, he felt he'd finally discovered his birthday. "I think you'd best come with me, hadn't you, Leader?"

"For what?" Gwilym asked bluntly. Beside him Awen had sunk almost as far as her free elbow, apparently only prevented from cowering far enough to touch her face to the floor by Gwilym holding her other arm. Eifion didn't even look at him.

"What do we think, Leader?" he asked, his eyes almost dancing. "Armed assault or attempted murder? But of a Councillor... well. Makes no difference, does it? That's a strict regimen of torture and abuse -"

"She told you to back off!" Gwilym snapped. Shouted, actually. Quite loudly. Really, there were only so many times you could face death before you started getting a might bit testy about the shoddy treatment of those who bothered to save you from it. "You were told! And being as you admitted yourself that she wasn't in control, in what possible way can you now blame her for an incident you instigated?"

"Quite right!" Councillor Gwenllian's voice said with tremendous cheer. Eifion straightened suddenly, his expression going blank. Gwilym switched hands on Awen's arm and dropped the other to her shoulder, feeling the tension in it. "He can't. And he's not - we test them on their willpower and ability to say no to unreasonable orders occasionally, but you've ruined it now, boy, so never mind."

Awen trembled under his hands, and Gwilym carefully pressed his thumb along the muscle between her shoulder and neck. She twitched and went still.

"Ah, all sorted," Rhydian said, striding up to them. Gwilym looked up. Suddenly there were Riders everywhere, all wandering around and looking angry and grave. Dylan had an arm around an incredibly tired-looking Aerona in the corner, holding her upright and talking rapidly to an incensed-looking Madog, while various members of Casnewydd's Alpha Wing were gravitating forwards, watched carefully by Councillors. Some Guards pulled Owain away.

"Anyway, Eifion, we need a meeting in ten minutes in my office," Rhydian was saying. "Could you make sure Owain is securely imprisoned and still breathing and then meet us there?"

"Certainly," Eifion smiled, and swept out. Riders drew back from him, Gwilym noted. The predators gave him a wide berth. It was almost incredible. Rhydian watched him go, and then nodded grimly to Gwilym.

"Well done," he muttered, and then returned his voice to normal. "And, Sovereign, you have our sincerest apologies for Owain trying to assassinate you again. Rest assured we'll evicerate him this time."

"You can even watch!" Gwenllian said brightly. Gwilym sighed.

"That's fine," he said wearily. "Can I sort Awen out now, please, or is this too public?"

"Go right ahead," Rhydian said, eyeing up Dylan. "I need to go and find out how that happened, anyway. If you'll excuse me?"

"Are you okay?"

Gwilym looked down as Awen sagged against him, her free hand wrapping around his ankle. She was looking up at him wearily, the concern evident on her face; and he managed to turn the hysterical laugh into a chuckle before dropping down to his knees beside her and gathering her into his arms.

"Yes," he grinned, belatedly realising he was shaking. "I'm shaking. I think it's the adrenaline. More importantly; are you injured?"

"I don't know yet," she said quietly, clinging to him. "I won't for a while. And - I'm sorry. I'm -"

"Don't ever apologise to me for him," Gwilym told her sternly, massaging the muscles at the base of her neck. "Not ever."

"I know why he went for you," Awen breathed, her hand clutching his tunic over the Now More Mysterious Letter. "I'm - I should never have -"

"Reason Number 1 for Owain wanting to kill me," Gwilym interrupted. "Because I'm not changing the Aberystwyth budget this year."

There was a pause.

"What?" Awen asked, sounding lost. Gwilym kissed her head, wanting to giggle again.

"Yeah," he said. "You heard. It doesn't matter, Awen. He's believing what he wants to. If you hadn't given me that he'd have believed you had anyway. He only got it right by coincidence."

Awen hugged him, tightly enough that she seemed to want to affectionately break his ribs, but Gwilym didn't care. It was the first time she'd displayed any affection for him without him instigating it. He stroked her hair contentedly.

"Thank you," she said, her voice strengthening. Gwilym smiled.

"Ah," he said. "Putting the armour back on, are we? Want to go back to your quarters? Your Wing are here."

"Yes," Awen said, giving him the smile of a carefree non-traumatised young woman and rolling gracefully to her feet, offering him a hand up. "Although first I - it's fine, I'm not injured -"

"We have no way of knowing that yet," Adara snapped. She stood maybe half a foot away from Awen, Caradog holding her back with one hand on her shoulder, both looking upset as the rest of the Wing started to gather round. Gwilym stood up with considerably less grace than Awen. "I swear, I don't know how he did it. We'd given him to the Guards when... I'm sorry."

"Stop it."

And that was Awen Giving A Command, Gwilym noted. It was oddly exciting getting to see this many sides of her. She gripped Adara's shoulders with both hands, looking her straight in the eye.

"He had help," Awen stated. "And from a druid. You couldn't possibly have known. And anyway, if you'd handed custody over then it definitely wasn't your fault anymore, okay? Sounding the alarm was the best thing to do, and you managed that before he could get away."

"Yeah." Adara sighed, tired. "Well done for not killing him. I was going to, if I caught him first."

"I was stopped," Awen said, slightly abashed, and glanced at Gwilym for some reason. "Anyway; what happened to Aerona, and how long has her and Dylan been going on?"

"Ooh, Aerona and Dylan?" Caradog asked interestedly, looking over at them. "How can you tell?"

"He's looking at her," Awen smiled. "He never looks at anything in particular. Look, he'll do it now..."

They all turned to watch expectantly, including Gwilym. Across the courtyard Dylan was explaining something to Rhydian, his eyes wandering across the wall opposite him. Rhydian asked a question which Aerona answered, and Dylan looked down at her, his eyes fixing for a good four seconds.

"Awww," they all said, and then turned back to the matter in hand.

"Since the day before yesterday technically," Adara grinned. "But I reckon it was since fighting together in the temple. Oh, and in answer to why she's bandaged, Owain smashed her head against a stone floor a few times. They had to drill through her skull. It was really disgusting. And Dylan was a tiny step away from growing fangs."

"Oh, for gods' sakes," Awen muttered, running a hand through her hair. Gwilym reached out and rested a hand on the small of her back, and she leaned into it slightly. "Her Wingleader is genuinely going to behead me. She should be in bed, why isn't she?"

"I imagine Dylan will take her there," Caradog grinned, the back-handed swat from Adara bouncing off his arm, ignored. Gwilym wondered if he even had nerve endings left near his skin, or if the muscle had simply out grown them. "She'll be fine, Leader. We need to check you over, though."

"And Lord Gwilym," Llio threw in inclusively, and suddenly they were all looking at him. "He might be injured."

"Oh, I'm fine!" he said cheerfully. "He didn't actually touch me, he just talked a lot."

Awen was nonetheless running her eyes down his body now, though, which Gwilym was quite content to let her do. Adara rolled her eyes and snorted.

"When you say 'talk'," she said derisively, "do you mean 'whinge'?"

"There -" Gwilym paused. "There was a whingy edge, actually, yes. Oh, and you were right - he really does talk in clichés."

"Oh, gods, he did that all the time," Llŷr muttered. "My favourite was 'Do you really want to know?' after asking him a question. Yes, Owain. Yes I did. I wasn't just looking for any excuse to hear your honeyed voice."

"Oh, well now I feel left out that he didn't use that one on me," Gwilym grinned, pulling Awen back into his arms again while she meticulously examined one of his hands, as though she suspected he might have tried slapping Owain a few times. The Wing beamed at the contact. "And I asked him several questions. He did tell me that I was spoiling his psychotic fun by not running around panicking and rebounding off walls and such, though, is that any good?"

"I swear to you, Sovereign," Adara told him gravely. "As soon as I'm allowed near him I will make it very clear that he shan't be spoiling my fun by not screaming."

"That's as generous as it is unsettling," he told her brightly. "Thank you!"

It was quite sweet in its own way. And suddenly, Gwilym was aware of the behaviour shift; they were saying 'Sovereign', still, but they were enfolding him into the Wing dynamic, as though he'd become their inept tenth member they had to look after. Adara was sticking up for him against Owain, Llio wanted him there for the after-battle social interaction - clearly an important part of Rider relationships - and Awen had started distrusting his word for his physical well-being, as she would for any of the others. And she'd completely lost control with Owain in Gwilym's defence.

It was a shame he couldn't even hold a butter knife the right way around, therefore.

"Will we get to torture him?" Meurig asked lazily, stretching. "Owain, obviously, not you, Sovereign."

"He's clarifying because he wants to climb your ladder of favourites," Llio grinned, but fortunately Awen interrupted.

"We are not going any further into that conversation," she said sternly. "Not least of all because Caradog would clearly lose. And I don't know, Meurig, we might."

"Hey!" Caradog boomed indignantly. "I wouldn't lose! I'm too winning and attractive!"

"That's what I used to tell people about me," Councillor Rhydian said, striding over. "They didn't believe me, though. Right, get out, all of you, take care of those two," he pointed at Gwilym and Awen, "and then I'll see you in my office in two hours, Leader."

"Thank you for saving my life again," Gwilym said quietly as they started trudging back to the Wing quarters. Awen made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat and gave him a look that succinctly explained his insanity.

"That's why I'm here, Sovereign," she said. "It's my job. You don't need to thank me for that."

"For saving my life," Gwilym laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "Of course I do. I love being alive, and I was raised to be polite-like. I'll understand if you're regretting it, though."

"And you say I'm the messed-up one," Awen muttered, ignoring his laugh. "No I'm not regretting it, you weirdo. I'm just still utterly failing to understand you in any way."

"We'll work on that," Gwilym promised contentedly, ignoring her sad but-you'll-hate-me-when-you-read-it look and rubbing her shoulder with his thumb. "I think it's time we had another chat, isn't it?"

The future was looking up, Gwilym decided. Admittedly it could have been the endorphin rush of being alive, but things just generally seemed more positive. Now he just had to negotiate an Archwiliad filled with scheming Sovereigns and he was sitting pretty.

Well; and he had to keep Mental Uncle Dara from pushing anyone else into a grain bin again. That bit was going to be hard.