Excerpts are becoming weird, now: there's so much story going on, since I've reached the point where everything's really kicking off, but I can't include it here because I've been carefully avoiding pasting plot. Anyway, here's more inconsequential stuff.
AWEN
"I'm coming with you."
Awen sighed, exasperated, running her hands through her hair.
"For the millionth time," she snapped through gritted teeth, "you are not. You are staying here and enjoying your holiday with your family. Now stop bothering me, Owain, I need to go."
The Landing Tower bustled, some stable hands trying their hardest not to overhear the two Riders shouting at each other and others trying very hard to overhear unobtrusively. Except the small boy standing in Brân's now-empty stable. He was openly staring. His mouth was even open. Brân pushed at Awen's back, impatiently.
"Whatever this is," Owain said seriously, stepping closer. "Whatever Lord Flyn has you doing in Aberystwyth, it doesn't matter. If you don't want me involved, that's fine, I won't be around for those bits. But you don't have to do this alone, Awen. I'm here for you."
"Owain," Awen said. "Either construct your own sentences when you talk to me or don't bother, but this isn't some kind of play. Stop using the most clichéd phrases this side of the Wars."
"Stop avoiding the issue," Owain countered, undaunted. "Anyway, I've already saddled up Cefin, and he'll sulk if he doesn't get to go out."
"So fly him around the city a few times," Awen said irritably; but her heart wasn't in this fight. Having come back to Casnewydd she was reminded just how much she wanted to go and collapse somewhere, so even though the situation remained laughably unresolved she'd been nonetheless profoundly disappointed to be told by Lord Flyn to go back to Aberystwyth barely three hours after Lord Gwilym and Prince Lorcan to ask Lord Gwilym directly for his help. Especially since Lord Flyn could have just done it while they were still in Casnewydd, and saved Awen a lot of bother.
At the end of this, Awen swore, she was taking a year off. Or a Half at the very least.
Having Owain around would actually be unfathomably comforting, even if she didn't want him knowing what was going on. It certainly fit the bill of him behaving naturally, anyway, especially since most of the stable hands in Casnewydd were now witness to her trying to keep Owain firmly in the City.
And Lord Flyn had a living shadow. This was rather preventing Awen from making clear decisions.
"Fine," she said wearily, rubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes. "Fine. But you are doing exactly what I say throughout, understand?"
Owain grinned, and Saluted.
"Understood, Leader," he said, and vanished in the direction of Cefin's stall. And really, Awen thought as she sprang onto Brân's back, who in the name of the gods called a meraden Cefin? It was like Owain was incapable of ever making any kind of good decision. Stable hands slunk forward and buckled her harness in place for her as she tightened her reins, Brân almost dancing on the spot, and behind her she heard Cefin's hooves clipping flatly on the floor. It was an odd sound; Awen was still used to hearing the sound of battle shoes on the merod.
She trotted to the runway, although she was aiming for a walk. Bân compromised by trotting at walking speed. As she reached the start of the runway Awen glanced down at the stable hands backing away.
"When you tell everyone you've ever spoken to in your life about this argument make sure you mention how suave and attractive I was," Awen said conversationally. They had the good grace to look embarrassed at that, and slunk away again. The second they were clear, Awen loosened her grip on the reins and allowed Brân to canter and fling himself off the edge of the runway as fast as he liked. She ignored Owain's shout behind her. If he wanted to come he could bloody well keep up.
Showing posts with label NaNoWriMo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NaNoWriMo. Show all posts
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Sunday, 16 November 2008
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 13
SAERAN
"Good morning, Singer!"
The voice was disturbingly cheerful for how early in the morning it was, but somehow Saeran managed not to wince. Instead, she swallowed the lump of cheese in her mouth, fixed on her brightest smile and turned to face Gwyn, his cheerful grin partially obscured by his mighty red beard.
"Good morning, Sailor," Saeran returned. "Or so I presume, anyway. I haven't been outside yet." Gwyn laughed, and sauntered over to her table.
"Not a morning person?" he asked kindly, his voice pleasantly deep. He was fully dressed in sailing gear, complete with hat and scarf, which Saeran suspected meant they were going to be sailing out soon.
"Not really," she said wryly. "It's not really conducive to my lifestyle. Entertaining people lasts into the night, and I'm a soprano. I sound dreadful in the mornings."
Gwyn laughed, the sound rich and throaty.
"Ah," he said. "While I have the opposite problem. I'm at my best in the morning, just when everyone is hungover."
"Hang on," Saeran said, her brain finally catching up with her. "You dropped me off here two days ago. I thought you were leaving as soon as you'd stocked up?"
"We would have," Gwyn agreed, scratching his beard. "Funny thing, though. The winds have been all... strange lately. We thought there were too many gusts against us on the way up, but now there's a proper north wind blowing. Not like a gale or anything," he added. His bushy eyebrows were creased in perplexity. "It's just steady. And it's odd, because I met up with a friend who was sailing in from Wrecsam today, and she said that the winds along the Northland coast are mostly easterly."
"Shouldn't we have westerly winds around here?" Saeran asked, mildly alarmed. Gwyn nodded.
"Aye," he said. "But it's like it's curving around Cymru's coast at the moment, in an arc, sort of. Just gusts at first, and nothing strong, but prevailing. And it's stronger now than a couple of days ago."
So, the energy fields were out of line and now the weather was changing. An arc, Gwyn had said, but where you got arcs nine times out of ten you got circles; in which case, Cymru was at the centre of a gathering cyclone.
"Anyway," Gwyn said, waving a hand. "We were waiting for it to die down, but it hasn't, so we're braving it today before it gets unsailable. Probably a storm coming."
"Probably," Saeran smiled weakly. "Have you asked a druid?"
"Aye," Gwyn said. "Or, well, I tried. Seems finding one to talk to nowadays is harder than navigating the Archipelago, though. A storm was the general implication, though. But we're going, anyway. Thought I'd say goodbye, or see if you needed a lift."
That druid in Aberystwyth had talked to her. What was it he'd said? He was reporting what he knew to the Urdd, then going home to... Llangors. Maybe he'd talk to her again; it was always worth a try.
"I'd love one!" Saeran said enthusiastically. "Thank you. Where are you headed?"
"Abertawe," Gwyn smiled. "I couldn't say how long it'll take, mind, not with the weather all funny, but gods willing making it to Aberdaugleddau won't even take a day with the winds like this."
"Lovely." Saeran carefully wrapped up the remainder of her bread and cheese and stored it in her rations bag. "Let's go!"
As they climbed back aboard the Manawydan Saeran could feel the strange wind, mild but steady and blowing down from the north. It wasn't strictly north, actually; it felt more like it was blowing in from Ynys Môn, which was more northeast. Her scarf moved lazily in the breeze, lifting about an inch or so off her shoulder and staying there. If nothing else, that was odd; no wind should just steadily blow without stopping, in Saeran's opinion. She settled onto the sheltered seat Gwyn directed her to uneasily, and watched the seagulls ghosting inland.
Since Aberdaron was at the very tip of the Lleyn Penninsula it was in no way sheltered from the sea currents, which meant as soon as they left the wooden jetty they were straight into the stream of the wind. Gwyn remembered his promise to her, and two minutes into the voyage he called Saeran over to the mast to teach her how to run up the sail. It was harder than it looked, in Saeran's view; the canvas was heavy, both with its own weight and the added addition of the water that covered it and the massive ropes. The ropes themselves were rough and bit into Saeran's hands, reminding her none too gently that she'd been using a hoe only a few days before and her skin still hadn't forgiven her for that. Nonetheless, with a lot of help from Gwyn and a lot of encouragement from the sailors she finally got the sail securely up, and suddenly they were flying over the waves, the strange wind gently propelling them on.
"I remember my first time with a sail," an old woman said from the prow. She was clearly a seasoned sailor, Saeran noted; either that or she'd gone to great personal lengths to appear it. She was missing one eye and a leg below the right knee, and her gnarled fingers were deftly weaving a net. Saeran clambered over to her. "I was about twelve, or thereabouts. Bolshy, I was; I insisted I could do it by myself with no help. Nearly sliced my own fingers off with the pulley."
"Really?" Saeran giggled. "I'm glad I didn't. I need my fingers."
"So you do." The woman grinned, revealing a few broken teeth. It was a nice grin, slightly cheeky but kind nonetheless. "You'll play an old woman a song as she works, won't you?"
"Don't bother her, Mam," Gwyn scolded, but Saeran shook her head.
"It's fine," she said earnestly. "It's what I'm here for. I'm Saeran, by the way," she added as she pulled the harp out. The woman nodded.
"Eirian," she said. Her fingers moved astonishingly quickly over the strands of the net. Saeran wondered if she'd ever played a harp. "Let's hear the Ballad, then, girl. You can't go wrong if you start with the Ballad."
And so they sang the Ballad of Cantre'r Gwaelod, which, typically, began with everyone just joining in on the choruses and finished with everyone singing the whole thing as they dipped fishing nets over the side, scrubbed the decks, fiddled with the sails and ultimately danced a quick jig on the cabin roof. Which was fair. You couldn't go wrong if you started with the Ballad.
As it finished Gwyn called over the applause.
"We'll have to work on our song at some point, Singer," he said, coiling ropes by the cabin door. "Lovely tune, that was."
"Ah," Eirian sighed contentedly. "I always hoped he'd be a bard, you know. I do love a song. Has he been tuning?"
"Yes, on the way up," Saeran smiled. "It was lovely. We've no words to go with it, though."
"Let's hear it," said Eirian. Obligingly, Saeran stroked the harp strings back into life, and she and Gwyn hummed their way through it. Eirian nodded slowly.
"Beautiful," she said approvingly as they finished, and Saeran saw Gwyn's small smile as he got back to the ropes. "Well done! Reminded me a bit of one we used to sing when I first joined the boats, just the rhythm."
"Really?" Saeran asked, fascinated. The rhythm had come together from the boat rocking on the journey north. She wondered if Eirian's song had. "What was it like?"
"Oh, you know," Eirian shrugged, her thin shoulders rising and falling rapidly. "It was one they used to sing to new sailors. An old one. I never much cared for the tune, though. Yours is better."
"Sing it to ours, then, Mam," Gwyn said. He would have made a good bard, Saeran thought. Music was in his blood, clearly, and he was appropriately curious about new songs. Eirian chuckled.
"Aye," she said. "I suppose I could."
"Excellent!" Saeran began the introduction again. "We'll just hum the harmonies."
"Good morning, Singer!"
The voice was disturbingly cheerful for how early in the morning it was, but somehow Saeran managed not to wince. Instead, she swallowed the lump of cheese in her mouth, fixed on her brightest smile and turned to face Gwyn, his cheerful grin partially obscured by his mighty red beard.
"Good morning, Sailor," Saeran returned. "Or so I presume, anyway. I haven't been outside yet." Gwyn laughed, and sauntered over to her table.
"Not a morning person?" he asked kindly, his voice pleasantly deep. He was fully dressed in sailing gear, complete with hat and scarf, which Saeran suspected meant they were going to be sailing out soon.
"Not really," she said wryly. "It's not really conducive to my lifestyle. Entertaining people lasts into the night, and I'm a soprano. I sound dreadful in the mornings."
Gwyn laughed, the sound rich and throaty.
"Ah," he said. "While I have the opposite problem. I'm at my best in the morning, just when everyone is hungover."
"Hang on," Saeran said, her brain finally catching up with her. "You dropped me off here two days ago. I thought you were leaving as soon as you'd stocked up?"
"We would have," Gwyn agreed, scratching his beard. "Funny thing, though. The winds have been all... strange lately. We thought there were too many gusts against us on the way up, but now there's a proper north wind blowing. Not like a gale or anything," he added. His bushy eyebrows were creased in perplexity. "It's just steady. And it's odd, because I met up with a friend who was sailing in from Wrecsam today, and she said that the winds along the Northland coast are mostly easterly."
"Shouldn't we have westerly winds around here?" Saeran asked, mildly alarmed. Gwyn nodded.
"Aye," he said. "But it's like it's curving around Cymru's coast at the moment, in an arc, sort of. Just gusts at first, and nothing strong, but prevailing. And it's stronger now than a couple of days ago."
So, the energy fields were out of line and now the weather was changing. An arc, Gwyn had said, but where you got arcs nine times out of ten you got circles; in which case, Cymru was at the centre of a gathering cyclone.
"Anyway," Gwyn said, waving a hand. "We were waiting for it to die down, but it hasn't, so we're braving it today before it gets unsailable. Probably a storm coming."
"Probably," Saeran smiled weakly. "Have you asked a druid?"
"Aye," Gwyn said. "Or, well, I tried. Seems finding one to talk to nowadays is harder than navigating the Archipelago, though. A storm was the general implication, though. But we're going, anyway. Thought I'd say goodbye, or see if you needed a lift."
That druid in Aberystwyth had talked to her. What was it he'd said? He was reporting what he knew to the Urdd, then going home to... Llangors. Maybe he'd talk to her again; it was always worth a try.
"I'd love one!" Saeran said enthusiastically. "Thank you. Where are you headed?"
"Abertawe," Gwyn smiled. "I couldn't say how long it'll take, mind, not with the weather all funny, but gods willing making it to Aberdaugleddau won't even take a day with the winds like this."
"Lovely." Saeran carefully wrapped up the remainder of her bread and cheese and stored it in her rations bag. "Let's go!"
As they climbed back aboard the Manawydan Saeran could feel the strange wind, mild but steady and blowing down from the north. It wasn't strictly north, actually; it felt more like it was blowing in from Ynys Môn, which was more northeast. Her scarf moved lazily in the breeze, lifting about an inch or so off her shoulder and staying there. If nothing else, that was odd; no wind should just steadily blow without stopping, in Saeran's opinion. She settled onto the sheltered seat Gwyn directed her to uneasily, and watched the seagulls ghosting inland.
Since Aberdaron was at the very tip of the Lleyn Penninsula it was in no way sheltered from the sea currents, which meant as soon as they left the wooden jetty they were straight into the stream of the wind. Gwyn remembered his promise to her, and two minutes into the voyage he called Saeran over to the mast to teach her how to run up the sail. It was harder than it looked, in Saeran's view; the canvas was heavy, both with its own weight and the added addition of the water that covered it and the massive ropes. The ropes themselves were rough and bit into Saeran's hands, reminding her none too gently that she'd been using a hoe only a few days before and her skin still hadn't forgiven her for that. Nonetheless, with a lot of help from Gwyn and a lot of encouragement from the sailors she finally got the sail securely up, and suddenly they were flying over the waves, the strange wind gently propelling them on.
"I remember my first time with a sail," an old woman said from the prow. She was clearly a seasoned sailor, Saeran noted; either that or she'd gone to great personal lengths to appear it. She was missing one eye and a leg below the right knee, and her gnarled fingers were deftly weaving a net. Saeran clambered over to her. "I was about twelve, or thereabouts. Bolshy, I was; I insisted I could do it by myself with no help. Nearly sliced my own fingers off with the pulley."
"Really?" Saeran giggled. "I'm glad I didn't. I need my fingers."
"So you do." The woman grinned, revealing a few broken teeth. It was a nice grin, slightly cheeky but kind nonetheless. "You'll play an old woman a song as she works, won't you?"
"Don't bother her, Mam," Gwyn scolded, but Saeran shook her head.
"It's fine," she said earnestly. "It's what I'm here for. I'm Saeran, by the way," she added as she pulled the harp out. The woman nodded.
"Eirian," she said. Her fingers moved astonishingly quickly over the strands of the net. Saeran wondered if she'd ever played a harp. "Let's hear the Ballad, then, girl. You can't go wrong if you start with the Ballad."
And so they sang the Ballad of Cantre'r Gwaelod, which, typically, began with everyone just joining in on the choruses and finished with everyone singing the whole thing as they dipped fishing nets over the side, scrubbed the decks, fiddled with the sails and ultimately danced a quick jig on the cabin roof. Which was fair. You couldn't go wrong if you started with the Ballad.
As it finished Gwyn called over the applause.
"We'll have to work on our song at some point, Singer," he said, coiling ropes by the cabin door. "Lovely tune, that was."
"Ah," Eirian sighed contentedly. "I always hoped he'd be a bard, you know. I do love a song. Has he been tuning?"
"Yes, on the way up," Saeran smiled. "It was lovely. We've no words to go with it, though."
"Let's hear it," said Eirian. Obligingly, Saeran stroked the harp strings back into life, and she and Gwyn hummed their way through it. Eirian nodded slowly.
"Beautiful," she said approvingly as they finished, and Saeran saw Gwyn's small smile as he got back to the ropes. "Well done! Reminded me a bit of one we used to sing when I first joined the boats, just the rhythm."
"Really?" Saeran asked, fascinated. The rhythm had come together from the boat rocking on the journey north. She wondered if Eirian's song had. "What was it like?"
"Oh, you know," Eirian shrugged, her thin shoulders rising and falling rapidly. "It was one they used to sing to new sailors. An old one. I never much cared for the tune, though. Yours is better."
"Sing it to ours, then, Mam," Gwyn said. He would have made a good bard, Saeran thought. Music was in his blood, clearly, and he was appropriately curious about new songs. Eirian chuckled.
"Aye," she said. "I suppose I could."
"Excellent!" Saeran began the introduction again. "We'll just hum the harmonies."
Saturday, 15 November 2008
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 12
Copy and paste, copy and paste, copy and paste...
Also, no personality for Lorcan still. None at all. Not even a gimick, look.
GWILYM
“So!” Marged said brightly as she starting digging through her enormous basket of knitting. As one of the top balls of wool fell it was caught in mid-air by the most psychotic-looking alley cat Gwilym had ever seen, who proceeded to tear the wool into tiny fibres. “Your first Archwiliad coming up! How exciting! Are you looking forward to it?"
"With a feeling of barely-controlled panic, yes," Gwilym mused. "I'm fairly sure I'll say something terribly wrong and get beaten up by a Rider before drinking all the mead to console myself and trying to sleep with Lady Ienifer." He glanced down at the straggly, psychotic thing on the rug nervously. "Er, should he be doing that?"
Marged glanced down. As she saw the scarred and mental animal on the rug her face lit up, and before Gwilym could protest she bent down and scooped it up, pinning it for her mighty bosom. The cat froze, apparently in shock.
“Oh, isn’t oo a sweetie?” Marged cooed. “He’s so beautiful! Who’s beautiful? You are!”
The cat turned evil yellow eyes on Gwilym and Lorcan. It felt distinctly like a never-mention-this-again threat. Gwilym stared at the ex-ball of wool and swallowed.
“Yes, he’s fine,” said Marged affectionately as she placed the cat back on the floor and turned back to her knitting basket. It fled under the nearest sofa and vanished. “Anyway, dear, you were saying about Ienifer. She'd absolutely sleep with you, you know, she never turns down a free invitation."
Lorcan almost choked. Gwilym had expected it.
"So I hear," he said mildly. "Anyway; on the subject of the Archwiliad we'd like to ask a favour."
Marged glanced up, one eyebrow raised. Gwilym shook his head.
"Nothing like that," he said. "It's innocent. Lorcan here is visiting Cymru for a reason, you see. He and my uncle are wanting to unite Erinn in much the same way that Cymru is, so Lorcan is looking at all aspects of Cymric culture to see how they could be adapted. Obviously, though, the most important part - "
"Is the Archwiliad," Marged nodded. A pair of children's socks fell out of the basket, and Gwilym found himself bracing for the cat. "Well, I can't see you being allowed in on the big decisions, but I imagine you could sit around for the boring bits. It's the same level of interaction, just about boring things. I'd be quite happy with you there!"
"Thank you," Lorcan said, and Marged shushed him.
"No, no!" she said. "It's nothing. Really, though, if you want a working system you'll need an equivalent of the Riders. You should meet some Riders. Have you met any Riders?"
"A few," Lorcan smiled, nervously. Apparently Alaw's eyes could follow you when she wasn't even there.
"He's met some of mine," Gwilym offered. "And the odd visitor. We had the Alpha Wingleader from Casnewydd the other day."
He still couldn't quite shake the memory of her, either. Maybe it had just been the contrast between her and Alaw, but Awen had stunned him.
"Meeting full Wings is a good idea," Marged nodded. "Although they vary; the Alpha Wing in Tregwylan is a bit dreadful."
“I’ve not met them yet,” Gwilym admitted. He mentally marked them as “No Fun.”
“Hardly an experience to look forward to,” Marged sniffed disdainfully. “They’re all so… stiff, you know? They don’t smile, they don’t sit down, they don’t wear their scarves. Llangefni are usually a riot, though!”
“Yes,” Gwilym said, with feeling. “I think three of our taverns had to be redecorated the next day. They sang lots of songs about mead.”
“Those are the ones!” Marged chuckled. She pulled a single green glove out of the mass of wool and regarded it sadly before searching for its mate. “I do like Llangefni. They taught me a fascinating new way to drink mead, actually, in these tiny little glasses. At the end of the evening, though, it turned out they’d been giving me brandy! What scamps, eh?”
What scamps. It truly disturbed Gwilym that they were Llangefni’s premiere defence in the instance of war; they seemed like the reject Wing, where all the Riders who’d failed at the intelligence tests had been sent on the grounds that no one cared about Llangefni.
“Have you met the full Wing from Casnewydd?” he asked cautiously. Marged straightened for a moment, looking thoughtful. The cat’s yellow eyes reappeared under the sofa like some kind of goblin.
“Casnewydd,” Marged repeated. “Once or twice, yes. They’re a bit of a mixed bunch, actually. Or is that fair? Most of them are jolly nice. I like the girl with the bird; she showed me how to fly it and all sorts! It sat on my shoulder! I didn’t sleep for a week, Gwilym, magical it was.”
The cat leaped forwards and reclaimed the remains of the wool, dragging it back under the sofa before Marged saw.
"And their Wingleader is lovely," Marged continued. "Lovely singing voice, and she was quite happy to tell jokes with me all evening. Oh, and such beautiful hair! It's a shame Riders aren't allowed to wear more colours. Although," Marged frowned, again pausing in her knitting basket overhaul. "I met her when I was visiting Casnewydd, so I met her with Flyn. He's a bit... odd around her."
"Oh?" There was always a chance it was just Marged, of course, but that sounded slightly sinister. "How so?"
"He liked it to be clear that she was sworn to him," Marged said. "Which possibly makes sense in a way, because all of my Riders tell me she's reknowned for being really very good, and when you live constantly under threat of Saxons the last thing you want is a poor Alpha Wingleader. A matter of pride for Flyn, I think. I didn't like it, though. It was like he saw her as a scarf."
"A scarf?" Gwilym echoed.
"Mind you, I think he sees everyone as scarves," Marged said diffidently. "Odd man, Flyn."
Gwilym chose not to look at the knitting needle in Marged's hair. Everyone had their own definition of odd.
"Oh, here we are!" Marged said happily. She spun around, holding up two green fingerless gloves triumphantly. Gwilym grinned, and took them from her.
“Thank you,” he said pulling one on. “You didn’t have to.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Marged beamed, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ll be needing them this winter.” She sank into the armchair across from Gwilym’s and leaned forward, her manner theatrically conspiratorial suddenly.“Tell you what, though,” she said, her voice attempting to be low, “I never thought much of one or two of the Casnewydd Wing. That funny boy with the fringe… There was a big dinner while I was there, and they were all dressed up formally and looking lovely except him. I mean, he’d made the effort, but he’d managed to get hold of that terrible hair jelly the fishermen use, and his fringe looked like two slugs. Disgusted, I was.”
Gwilym laughed out loud. He could just imagine Marged’s reaction. The cat, startled, fled from under the sofa towards the door, pausing half-way and looking angrily at them.
“I told him he might not want to bother next time,” Marged continued. “Got all sullen, he did, face like he’d been slapped. He spent the rest of the meal telling the others what to do. I think he’s their Deputy. I didn’t like him.”
"I'll keep an eye out for him," Gwilym grinned. Marged started digging in her knitting basket again.
"So, what have you got planned for that City of yours?" she said, pulling at some red wool. "Are you ready to make your post-Archwiliad changes?"
"No," Gwilym groaned, and Lorcan laughed the laugh of someone who wasn't yet responsible for the lives of a few thousand people and didn't care. He did care, of course, but Gwilym wasn't one to waste a good moment of bitterness on trivial details. Uncaring bastard. "I don't know. I had all of my clerks do a big review for me of exactly how much tax we get and what services we offer, but there's a discrepancy somewhere, I'm sure of it. Or maybe they just really don't like my ideas for free clinics for the poor."
"I doubt they do," Marged sniffed, pulling out a pair of red gloves and handing them to Lorcan. "No, no! Don't thank me. Anyway; clerks generally think only of profits, Gwilym. They only think of poor people as a sadly necessary burden in order to get food and things. I generally find it's best to ignore them and do as you please."
Well, yes, but Caerleuad had no economy outside of what Aberystwyth gave it.
Also, no personality for Lorcan still. None at all. Not even a gimick, look.
GWILYM
“So!” Marged said brightly as she starting digging through her enormous basket of knitting. As one of the top balls of wool fell it was caught in mid-air by the most psychotic-looking alley cat Gwilym had ever seen, who proceeded to tear the wool into tiny fibres. “Your first Archwiliad coming up! How exciting! Are you looking forward to it?"
"With a feeling of barely-controlled panic, yes," Gwilym mused. "I'm fairly sure I'll say something terribly wrong and get beaten up by a Rider before drinking all the mead to console myself and trying to sleep with Lady Ienifer." He glanced down at the straggly, psychotic thing on the rug nervously. "Er, should he be doing that?"
Marged glanced down. As she saw the scarred and mental animal on the rug her face lit up, and before Gwilym could protest she bent down and scooped it up, pinning it for her mighty bosom. The cat froze, apparently in shock.
“Oh, isn’t oo a sweetie?” Marged cooed. “He’s so beautiful! Who’s beautiful? You are!”
The cat turned evil yellow eyes on Gwilym and Lorcan. It felt distinctly like a never-mention-this-again threat. Gwilym stared at the ex-ball of wool and swallowed.
“Yes, he’s fine,” said Marged affectionately as she placed the cat back on the floor and turned back to her knitting basket. It fled under the nearest sofa and vanished. “Anyway, dear, you were saying about Ienifer. She'd absolutely sleep with you, you know, she never turns down a free invitation."
Lorcan almost choked. Gwilym had expected it.
"So I hear," he said mildly. "Anyway; on the subject of the Archwiliad we'd like to ask a favour."
Marged glanced up, one eyebrow raised. Gwilym shook his head.
"Nothing like that," he said. "It's innocent. Lorcan here is visiting Cymru for a reason, you see. He and my uncle are wanting to unite Erinn in much the same way that Cymru is, so Lorcan is looking at all aspects of Cymric culture to see how they could be adapted. Obviously, though, the most important part - "
"Is the Archwiliad," Marged nodded. A pair of children's socks fell out of the basket, and Gwilym found himself bracing for the cat. "Well, I can't see you being allowed in on the big decisions, but I imagine you could sit around for the boring bits. It's the same level of interaction, just about boring things. I'd be quite happy with you there!"
"Thank you," Lorcan said, and Marged shushed him.
"No, no!" she said. "It's nothing. Really, though, if you want a working system you'll need an equivalent of the Riders. You should meet some Riders. Have you met any Riders?"
"A few," Lorcan smiled, nervously. Apparently Alaw's eyes could follow you when she wasn't even there.
"He's met some of mine," Gwilym offered. "And the odd visitor. We had the Alpha Wingleader from Casnewydd the other day."
He still couldn't quite shake the memory of her, either. Maybe it had just been the contrast between her and Alaw, but Awen had stunned him.
"Meeting full Wings is a good idea," Marged nodded. "Although they vary; the Alpha Wing in Tregwylan is a bit dreadful."
“I’ve not met them yet,” Gwilym admitted. He mentally marked them as “No Fun.”
“Hardly an experience to look forward to,” Marged sniffed disdainfully. “They’re all so… stiff, you know? They don’t smile, they don’t sit down, they don’t wear their scarves. Llangefni are usually a riot, though!”
“Yes,” Gwilym said, with feeling. “I think three of our taverns had to be redecorated the next day. They sang lots of songs about mead.”
“Those are the ones!” Marged chuckled. She pulled a single green glove out of the mass of wool and regarded it sadly before searching for its mate. “I do like Llangefni. They taught me a fascinating new way to drink mead, actually, in these tiny little glasses. At the end of the evening, though, it turned out they’d been giving me brandy! What scamps, eh?”
What scamps. It truly disturbed Gwilym that they were Llangefni’s premiere defence in the instance of war; they seemed like the reject Wing, where all the Riders who’d failed at the intelligence tests had been sent on the grounds that no one cared about Llangefni.
“Have you met the full Wing from Casnewydd?” he asked cautiously. Marged straightened for a moment, looking thoughtful. The cat’s yellow eyes reappeared under the sofa like some kind of goblin.
“Casnewydd,” Marged repeated. “Once or twice, yes. They’re a bit of a mixed bunch, actually. Or is that fair? Most of them are jolly nice. I like the girl with the bird; she showed me how to fly it and all sorts! It sat on my shoulder! I didn’t sleep for a week, Gwilym, magical it was.”
The cat leaped forwards and reclaimed the remains of the wool, dragging it back under the sofa before Marged saw.
"And their Wingleader is lovely," Marged continued. "Lovely singing voice, and she was quite happy to tell jokes with me all evening. Oh, and such beautiful hair! It's a shame Riders aren't allowed to wear more colours. Although," Marged frowned, again pausing in her knitting basket overhaul. "I met her when I was visiting Casnewydd, so I met her with Flyn. He's a bit... odd around her."
"Oh?" There was always a chance it was just Marged, of course, but that sounded slightly sinister. "How so?"
"He liked it to be clear that she was sworn to him," Marged said. "Which possibly makes sense in a way, because all of my Riders tell me she's reknowned for being really very good, and when you live constantly under threat of Saxons the last thing you want is a poor Alpha Wingleader. A matter of pride for Flyn, I think. I didn't like it, though. It was like he saw her as a scarf."
"A scarf?" Gwilym echoed.
"Mind you, I think he sees everyone as scarves," Marged said diffidently. "Odd man, Flyn."
Gwilym chose not to look at the knitting needle in Marged's hair. Everyone had their own definition of odd.
"Oh, here we are!" Marged said happily. She spun around, holding up two green fingerless gloves triumphantly. Gwilym grinned, and took them from her.
“Thank you,” he said pulling one on. “You didn’t have to.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Marged beamed, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ll be needing them this winter.” She sank into the armchair across from Gwilym’s and leaned forward, her manner theatrically conspiratorial suddenly.“Tell you what, though,” she said, her voice attempting to be low, “I never thought much of one or two of the Casnewydd Wing. That funny boy with the fringe… There was a big dinner while I was there, and they were all dressed up formally and looking lovely except him. I mean, he’d made the effort, but he’d managed to get hold of that terrible hair jelly the fishermen use, and his fringe looked like two slugs. Disgusted, I was.”
Gwilym laughed out loud. He could just imagine Marged’s reaction. The cat, startled, fled from under the sofa towards the door, pausing half-way and looking angrily at them.
“I told him he might not want to bother next time,” Marged continued. “Got all sullen, he did, face like he’d been slapped. He spent the rest of the meal telling the others what to do. I think he’s their Deputy. I didn’t like him.”
"I'll keep an eye out for him," Gwilym grinned. Marged started digging in her knitting basket again.
"So, what have you got planned for that City of yours?" she said, pulling at some red wool. "Are you ready to make your post-Archwiliad changes?"
"No," Gwilym groaned, and Lorcan laughed the laugh of someone who wasn't yet responsible for the lives of a few thousand people and didn't care. He did care, of course, but Gwilym wasn't one to waste a good moment of bitterness on trivial details. Uncaring bastard. "I don't know. I had all of my clerks do a big review for me of exactly how much tax we get and what services we offer, but there's a discrepancy somewhere, I'm sure of it. Or maybe they just really don't like my ideas for free clinics for the poor."
"I doubt they do," Marged sniffed, pulling out a pair of red gloves and handing them to Lorcan. "No, no! Don't thank me. Anyway; clerks generally think only of profits, Gwilym. They only think of poor people as a sadly necessary burden in order to get food and things. I generally find it's best to ignore them and do as you please."
Well, yes, but Caerleuad had no economy outside of what Aberystwyth gave it.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 11
This excerpt is very similar to the last one, methinks, but that's because the rest of this chapter is otherwise all plot-based fun and games, and I'm trying not to go giving too much plot away, especially for things I've not posted the set-up for. Anyway, though. Have some more of the same.
DYLAN
Night was fast approaching as Dylan finally made his way into Glyncorrwg, the river beside the road unusually swollen for this time of year with the meltwater coming down from the Bannau. It was the last outpost before the Bannau, really; the village itself was elegantly huddled into the foothills, a network of houses, taverns, schools and temple sites threaded through with roads that led between the mountains, following the valley floors. Lone farmhouses stood on the hills, and if Dylan squinted against the dusk he could just about make out a few hafod buildings up on the mountains themselves. The wind was blowing the wrong way, he realised as he passed the first few houses. It should have been blowing up the valley from Cymer and beyond, towards the Bannau; instead it blew down from the mountains to the north-east, random gusts that froze and blew the drooping leaves on the trees into a brief, ecstatic frenzy. Shutters on windows were all bolted shut here, and what could well have been every branch of every hawthorn tree had been nailed over every door and window. As Dylan passed Glyncorrwg's Twmpath Chwarae he glanced at the maypole and stopped dead, staring at it. The ribbons hung from it in tatters, blowing in the irregular gusts of wind like broken fingers, reaching desperately for something that wasn't there.
Glyncorrwg was wrong. Not in such an unyieldingly broken way as Llangors, maybe, but in a way that was almost worse, a deeply horrifying edge to everything. Dylan could almost taste the presence of something underlying the world, but he resisted the urge to try and feel for it. The way things were going at the moment it would be just his luck to make things worse than they already were, and every time he tried to use the pendant he seemed to do just that. It gave him a headache and left him with his vision swimming. He needed more information.
Inns, Dylan was quickly coming to learn, were really the central hub of any community for news, so he made a beeline for the first one he saw, a rough-hewn stone building with an ominously creaking sign over the door that screamed in the wind. Cautiously he tried the door handle. It was locked.
He was going to write it off and move on to the next one, but there was the sudden sound of a key being hastily scraped in a keyhole and then Dylan was, for the second time in his life, nose-to-tip with a crossbow bolt. This one was held by a man who could have been in his fifties but looked older, his eyes wide and staring and three days of stubble covering his chin, clothes stained and filthy. He was shaking, Dylan noted absently in the part of his brain still capable of absorbing details from the outside world. The crossbow was waving in front of Dylan's face wildly, swinging back and forth. The man's breathing was laboured, breath catching in his throat on every exhalation. He was crying, Dylan's brain saw. Well, that was fair. If he didn't lower that crossbow Dylan would be in a minute, too.
"Not..." the man said, staring. "You're not... you're..."
"I'm here to help," Dylan said, his voice sounding remarkably calm to the functioning part of his brain. "My name is Dylan; I'm a druid. I've been sent to find out what's going on, and help if I can."
Why wasn't he this eloquent the rest of the time? Although Dylan supposed he shouldn't complain. Staring death in the face was a superb situation to find hitherto unknown prolixity.
"To help," the man repeated. The crossbow waivered, lowering to the area of Dylan's stomach and groin. It wasn't much better. "You've come... to help..."
"Then get him in!" A voice snarled tightly from inside the building, and a grey-haired woman with grey eyes and a grey, faded dress shoved the man aside. "He mustn't stay out! In, Derwydd, quickly! The night is coming!"
And Dylan was hauled into the building, the door slammed and bolted behind him against the gathering winds. The inside was blazingly bright, and it took him a few seconds of rapid blinking to accustom his eyes to the light before he realised why.
About twenty people were crammed into the inn, on chairs, wooden crates and, in a few cases, the floor. Candles covered every other available space, transforming the tavern into a glittering jewel of light from every angle that illuminated every surface until there were no shadows left in there. The fire roared fiercely, but no one sat beside it; in fact the fire guard had been erected a good two metres away, and no one crossed the barrier. More hawthorn was attached to the chimney, petals wilting in the heat. Twenty pairs of eyes were staring at him.
Dylan turned back to the woman who'd pulled him in, now gently taking the crossbow from the man's hands.
"My name's Dylan," he said, hoping to set off a helpful chain reaction of introductions. Mercifully, it worked; she nodded at him, and put the crossbow aside.
"Alis," she said tightly, pushing the man onto a tall stool by the bar. "This is my son, Ianto. We run this inn."
"I know this isn't going to be easy to answer," Dylan said awkwardly, "but I need to ask -"
"What's happened to us?" Alis broke in. She walked around the bar and poured out a tankard of mead, sliding it across the bartop to him. "Aye. I'll tell you Derwydd. Sit yourself down first."
"Thank you," he said quietly. Apparently he was still the most interesting thing in the room because twenty pairs of eyes still watched him, but the novelty had already worn off for the more desperate people present if the quiet whimpering from the corner was anything to go by. Carefully he pulled out a spare stool from the bar and settled, sipping the mead. It tasted wrong.
"Where to start?" Alis murmured as she busied herself behind the bar. "Well, it was Noson Calan Mai, I suppose. We saw the ceremony in Port Talbot, Derwydd. No dead came through. Very strange. And that weather! Snow up on the Bannau. We had to bring the sheep down."
Dylan said nothing. It seemed Alis just needed to talk, so he forebore trying to steer her. And any detail could be important, of course.
"Calan Mai itself, we danced around the maypole and sang as usual except Dai and Bryn went up the hafod to bring the sheep down." Alis had found a bowl and a bread roll, and seemed to be ladling stew into it for him. "Bryn came back down. Dai didn't, and Bryn hasn't spoken since."
She put the bowl in front of him, not hearing his thanks.
"That was the start, I think. I think it was, even though it was day. And then the night came, and the shadows."
The wind howled at the shutters, making the candles flicker. A woman in the corner quietly put her hands over her ears and rocked on her chair, humming to herself. Others looked nervously at the windows.
"The shadows move now," Alis said, fixing him unnervingly with her grey gaze. "They dance by themselves, and they do things. They steal food from the kitchens, and kill the livestock and break things. Did you see the maypole, Derwydd? It was like that by the morning. They hide in the shadows, so you can't always see them. Only in bright moonlight, and the half-light between dusk and dawn."
"Tell him the rest," Inato said dully. "Tell him all of it. Tell him about Betsan, last night."
"Betsan was my grand daughter," Alis said, busy again as she tried to clean the already clean tankards and things. "She was twenty years old last night, and in labour with her first child. I was going to be a great-grandmother. It would have been such an honour..."
"What happened?" Dylan asked, horror rising in his throat. Belatedly he remembered the woman in Cymer, screaming about the children as the innkeeper had forced the flagon between her lips. In the name of the gods, what were these things doing?
"She's gone," Ianto said, his throat tight with barely-controlled hysteria. "She's gone, Derwydd, snatched by them, child and all. We'd gone out to give her rest and suddenly she was screaming, and we ran back in and Betsan wasn't Betsan anymore."
"She wasn't - ?" Dylan tried to grasp the meaning behind that. "What do you mean?"
"There was a thing in the bed instead of her," Ianto said, tears starting down his cheeks. "A thing made of flesh with her clothes, but it wasn't her. Its face was wrong, like it had been drawn on in charcoal, and it laughed and laughed and laughed - "
DYLAN
Night was fast approaching as Dylan finally made his way into Glyncorrwg, the river beside the road unusually swollen for this time of year with the meltwater coming down from the Bannau. It was the last outpost before the Bannau, really; the village itself was elegantly huddled into the foothills, a network of houses, taverns, schools and temple sites threaded through with roads that led between the mountains, following the valley floors. Lone farmhouses stood on the hills, and if Dylan squinted against the dusk he could just about make out a few hafod buildings up on the mountains themselves. The wind was blowing the wrong way, he realised as he passed the first few houses. It should have been blowing up the valley from Cymer and beyond, towards the Bannau; instead it blew down from the mountains to the north-east, random gusts that froze and blew the drooping leaves on the trees into a brief, ecstatic frenzy. Shutters on windows were all bolted shut here, and what could well have been every branch of every hawthorn tree had been nailed over every door and window. As Dylan passed Glyncorrwg's Twmpath Chwarae he glanced at the maypole and stopped dead, staring at it. The ribbons hung from it in tatters, blowing in the irregular gusts of wind like broken fingers, reaching desperately for something that wasn't there.
Glyncorrwg was wrong. Not in such an unyieldingly broken way as Llangors, maybe, but in a way that was almost worse, a deeply horrifying edge to everything. Dylan could almost taste the presence of something underlying the world, but he resisted the urge to try and feel for it. The way things were going at the moment it would be just his luck to make things worse than they already were, and every time he tried to use the pendant he seemed to do just that. It gave him a headache and left him with his vision swimming. He needed more information.
Inns, Dylan was quickly coming to learn, were really the central hub of any community for news, so he made a beeline for the first one he saw, a rough-hewn stone building with an ominously creaking sign over the door that screamed in the wind. Cautiously he tried the door handle. It was locked.
He was going to write it off and move on to the next one, but there was the sudden sound of a key being hastily scraped in a keyhole and then Dylan was, for the second time in his life, nose-to-tip with a crossbow bolt. This one was held by a man who could have been in his fifties but looked older, his eyes wide and staring and three days of stubble covering his chin, clothes stained and filthy. He was shaking, Dylan noted absently in the part of his brain still capable of absorbing details from the outside world. The crossbow was waving in front of Dylan's face wildly, swinging back and forth. The man's breathing was laboured, breath catching in his throat on every exhalation. He was crying, Dylan's brain saw. Well, that was fair. If he didn't lower that crossbow Dylan would be in a minute, too.
"Not..." the man said, staring. "You're not... you're..."
"I'm here to help," Dylan said, his voice sounding remarkably calm to the functioning part of his brain. "My name is Dylan; I'm a druid. I've been sent to find out what's going on, and help if I can."
Why wasn't he this eloquent the rest of the time? Although Dylan supposed he shouldn't complain. Staring death in the face was a superb situation to find hitherto unknown prolixity.
"To help," the man repeated. The crossbow waivered, lowering to the area of Dylan's stomach and groin. It wasn't much better. "You've come... to help..."
"Then get him in!" A voice snarled tightly from inside the building, and a grey-haired woman with grey eyes and a grey, faded dress shoved the man aside. "He mustn't stay out! In, Derwydd, quickly! The night is coming!"
And Dylan was hauled into the building, the door slammed and bolted behind him against the gathering winds. The inside was blazingly bright, and it took him a few seconds of rapid blinking to accustom his eyes to the light before he realised why.
About twenty people were crammed into the inn, on chairs, wooden crates and, in a few cases, the floor. Candles covered every other available space, transforming the tavern into a glittering jewel of light from every angle that illuminated every surface until there were no shadows left in there. The fire roared fiercely, but no one sat beside it; in fact the fire guard had been erected a good two metres away, and no one crossed the barrier. More hawthorn was attached to the chimney, petals wilting in the heat. Twenty pairs of eyes were staring at him.
Dylan turned back to the woman who'd pulled him in, now gently taking the crossbow from the man's hands.
"My name's Dylan," he said, hoping to set off a helpful chain reaction of introductions. Mercifully, it worked; she nodded at him, and put the crossbow aside.
"Alis," she said tightly, pushing the man onto a tall stool by the bar. "This is my son, Ianto. We run this inn."
"I know this isn't going to be easy to answer," Dylan said awkwardly, "but I need to ask -"
"What's happened to us?" Alis broke in. She walked around the bar and poured out a tankard of mead, sliding it across the bartop to him. "Aye. I'll tell you Derwydd. Sit yourself down first."
"Thank you," he said quietly. Apparently he was still the most interesting thing in the room because twenty pairs of eyes still watched him, but the novelty had already worn off for the more desperate people present if the quiet whimpering from the corner was anything to go by. Carefully he pulled out a spare stool from the bar and settled, sipping the mead. It tasted wrong.
"Where to start?" Alis murmured as she busied herself behind the bar. "Well, it was Noson Calan Mai, I suppose. We saw the ceremony in Port Talbot, Derwydd. No dead came through. Very strange. And that weather! Snow up on the Bannau. We had to bring the sheep down."
Dylan said nothing. It seemed Alis just needed to talk, so he forebore trying to steer her. And any detail could be important, of course.
"Calan Mai itself, we danced around the maypole and sang as usual except Dai and Bryn went up the hafod to bring the sheep down." Alis had found a bowl and a bread roll, and seemed to be ladling stew into it for him. "Bryn came back down. Dai didn't, and Bryn hasn't spoken since."
She put the bowl in front of him, not hearing his thanks.
"That was the start, I think. I think it was, even though it was day. And then the night came, and the shadows."
The wind howled at the shutters, making the candles flicker. A woman in the corner quietly put her hands over her ears and rocked on her chair, humming to herself. Others looked nervously at the windows.
"The shadows move now," Alis said, fixing him unnervingly with her grey gaze. "They dance by themselves, and they do things. They steal food from the kitchens, and kill the livestock and break things. Did you see the maypole, Derwydd? It was like that by the morning. They hide in the shadows, so you can't always see them. Only in bright moonlight, and the half-light between dusk and dawn."
"Tell him the rest," Inato said dully. "Tell him all of it. Tell him about Betsan, last night."
"Betsan was my grand daughter," Alis said, busy again as she tried to clean the already clean tankards and things. "She was twenty years old last night, and in labour with her first child. I was going to be a great-grandmother. It would have been such an honour..."
"What happened?" Dylan asked, horror rising in his throat. Belatedly he remembered the woman in Cymer, screaming about the children as the innkeeper had forced the flagon between her lips. In the name of the gods, what were these things doing?
"She's gone," Ianto said, his throat tight with barely-controlled hysteria. "She's gone, Derwydd, snatched by them, child and all. We'd gone out to give her rest and suddenly she was screaming, and we ran back in and Betsan wasn't Betsan anymore."
"She wasn't - ?" Dylan tried to grasp the meaning behind that. "What do you mean?"
"There was a thing in the bed instead of her," Ianto said, tears starting down his cheeks. "A thing made of flesh with her clothes, but it wasn't her. Its face was wrong, like it had been drawn on in charcoal, and it laughed and laughed and laughed - "
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 10
SAERAN
To Saeran's surprise, there was a Rider sitting at the bar, nursing a tankard of something in one hand and staring down into it, apparently lost in thought. Her face from this angle was mostly hidden behind the wall of long hair, dark auburn that glimmered gold in the candlelight and fell to her elbows, worn in the elaborately plaited style most Riders favoured. She was a Southlander, it looked like; as Saeran neared she did a double-take as she saw the insignias on her shoulders, partly hidden under her hair.
She was an Alpha Wingleader. Just casually sitting in a Northlander City inn, alone, having a drink. Saeran edged closer to check the liveries. It was Casnewydd as far as she could tell. So not just a Southlander; this Rider was a Border Southlander sitting in an inn at the opposite end of the country, as far from home as she could be without flying out to the Archipelago.
Was that what it meant? The Rider of the land? Maybe this was her. Well, Saeran reasoned, if nothing else she could make a new friend. It was lovely making new friends.
"Good evening, Rider," she said pleasantly as she slid onto the stool beside her. The Rider stirred and looked up, fixing Saeran with a pair of dark green eyes that contined the strangest expression she'd ever seen. She looked young; about Saeran's age, maybe, although you could never tell with Riders. She smiled after the briefest moment of what was probably assesment and looked back at her drink.
"Good evening, Singer," she responded, and Saeran wondered what her singing voice would be like. It was deep and fluid, rich and lilting. Her accent was Casnewydd, though, which was a shame. "Are you playing tonight?"
"I certainly hope so," Saeran laughed. "I'd be a poor bard if not. Just water, please," she added to the barman as he crossed to them.
There was a pause as Saeran accepted her water and the barman refilled the Rider's tankard before bustling away. Saeran wondered what to say next that wouldn't be too intrusive when the Rider spoke and saved her the bother.
"Where safer than by a Rider?" she smiled wryly, glancing at the instrument in its case that Saeran had automatically put between their stools. "I learned to play a harp, once. My Father was a bard before he met my Mother."
"Good for him!" Saeran said enthusiastically. "Does he still play?"
"I've no idea," the Rider confessed. "I don't see them often."
It was a curious statement, simply for the sadness inherent in it. For an Alpha Wingleader to be this far from home - especially from the Border - she had to be on leave. So why wasn't she with her family? Why was she sitting in an inn in Aberdaron?
"What did he teach you?" Saeran asked. The Rider smiled.
"Some incredibly basic chord sequences for the Ballad," she said reminiscently. "Some love song or other that was bloody depressing and no one liked. A couple of eulogies... oh, and a weird one about shadows that used to scare me as a child."
Saeran pulled the harp up and out of its bag as she spoke, carefully checking the tuning.
"Scare you?" she said. The Rider laughed.
"Yes," she said drily. "Me, a Rider, being scared. It happens, you know."
"I always rather assumed you were hewn out of the ground at some rockface somewhere," Saeran said, mock-wonder in her voice. "I'm Saeran, by the way."
The Rider looked up, and again Saeran was struck by the odd expression. It was a searching look, as though she didn't look at things so much as she watched them; a hunter waiting to see her prey move.
"Awen," she said. "It's nice to meet you, Saeran. Not many people casually try to talk to me nowadays."
"Oh, that's because you're incredibly intimidating," Saeran said, waving a hand. Awen chuckled. "To be honest, though, you look like you need cheering up."
"Ah." Awen drained the mead in her tankard. "You're right, there. What have you got?"
"A harp," Saeran said decisively. "And I know Music."
"Astounding," Awen said mildly. "It's like you're a bard or something."
"Isn't it?" Saeran grinned happily. "Show me the chords, though."
Awen snorted but took the harp gently. It was strange, Saeran thought, to see it being held so delicately by hands that were much more used to gripping swords and reins, the callouses and network of scars over Awen's flesh standing testament to her violent occupation. She held the harp correctly, though, and her long fingers bent elegantly to the strings.
The chords themselves were clever, easily-played simplified versions of the official rendition. Awen played them confidently, her sense of rhythm satisfyingly strong. Saeran found herself approving of this unnamed Father. He'd taught her very well.
As Awen finished both Saeran and the bartender clapped. She smiled and shook her head, the Rider beads in her hair swaying and clicking against the bar top as she did, and held the harp back out to Saeran.
"Easy version," she said. "And now I shall return this to you so as not to show myself up any further in a field I have no profficiency in."
"I liked it!" Saeran said enthusiastically. "It's a good version, actually. Your Father must be good."
"He certainly was once upon a time," Awen mused. "I don't know. Is it a skill that stays with you?"
"I like to think so," Saeran nodded. "What's his name? I may have heard of him."
"Rhydian ap Gwynfor," Awen said. Saeran felt her jaw drop to her knees.
"Seriously?" she asked. "He's a legend in bardic circles! The first tune I ever learned was composed by him!"
"Me too," Awen said. "Although, you know, that's more expected in my case, I suppose."
Of course, Rhydian ap Gwynfor was a legend for more than just his tuning prowess. Saeran bit her lip. What had Awen said he'd taught her? A depressing love song? Some eulogies? And a song about shadows that had scared even a Rider.
"The depressing love-song he taught you," Saeran asked as casually as she could. "I don't suppose you remember the names of the people in it?"
"Oh, gods." Awen stared into her tankard for a moment. "Now you're asking. Something monosyllabic, I think. Pedr? And... Mair. Maybe."
Saeran's mind reeled at the coincidence. Pedr and Mair? It had taken her the better part of a year to piece that one together, and here sat this Southlander Rider in an inn in Aberdaron who just casually knew the damn thing from her Father.
But that was the point, wasn't it? Rhydian ap Gwynfor was a legend. He knew exactly what he was doing. Riders weren't just given to any old families to be raised; the potential Parents had to meet strict requirements and then volunteer their services. He'd Fathered a Rider and taught her all the right songs, knowing she would come to this moment.
Awen was watching her. Saeran smiled.
"I know that one," she said weakly. "Not many do, though. What else did you say he taught you?"
"Three eulogies and a creepy song about shadows," Awen said, and stopped the barkeeper with a hand over her tankard. "Singer, might I drag you out on a walk?"
"Of course," Saeran said. It was terrifying. It wasn't like she could have said no; suddenly she was painfully aware that she'd just been pumping a Rider for information. Covert information. From a woman born and trained to hunt down potential conspirators against the country. And, lest anyone forget, to kill people.
Awen drained the tankard and stood, passing a few coins over to the barkeeper as Saeran replaced the harp in its case. Awen waited patiently as she did, and then led them both out of the inn door, her stride free of the nerves that Saeran felt. Outside the world had turned to night, the stars covering the sky like dandelion seeds over a field and a nearly-full moon illuminating the buildings around them. It was cooler now and Saeran shivered slightly, the harp nestling into her back as she hurried to keep up with Awen's much longer stride. They walked along the houses to the sea front, turning at the harbour to get down to the beach. Awen said nothing as they walked, her face hidden in the dark.
They stopped in the middle of the beach near the water's edge, where Awen turned to face Saeran and the City behind her. It was an odd position, or so Saeran thought at first; if one wanted to make sure no one could overhear she'd have thought the end of the beach by the rocks might be better, but actually the beach was exposed enough that anyone close enough to hear would be close enough to see, and Awen was watching for it.
"So," she said to Saeran conversationally. "I'm going to stand here quietly as you explain what that was about."
"That could take a while," Saeran smiled nervously. "What do you know about Cantre'r Gwaelod?"
The question apparently threw her slightly, although since she was a Rider she was thrown in a suave, warrior-like way that merely caused her to raise an eyebrow.
"Cantre'r Gwaelod?" she repeated. "The same as everyone else, I should think. It was a druidic civilisation that formed the template for modern Cymric society until it fell."
"Yes," Saeran said quietly. "It's how it fell, though."
"It flooded."
"And none of the druids stopped it."
The wind blew, mingling with the cries of the oystercatchers. Awen closed her eyes and ran one hand through her hair wearily.
"Go on," she said through gritted teeth. It probably wasn't a good sign; she didn't seem to be taking the news well.
"It was forseen," Saeran said. "I should mention here that it's all top secret, incidentally. Anyway; they saw it coming, in the final Ysbrydnos before the Sea. It, and all the things they had to do afterwards. I don't know why, yet, but they didn't stop it happening because they knew they weren't to do so."
"They just... let it happen?" Awen's eyes were wide and disbelieving in the moonlight. Saeran shook her head.
"No," she said. "They planned for it. The Archipelago exists now because of it, the Cities weren't raised before. They were flat, on the same level as the surrounding lands. As far as I can tell the people were all sent to the Cities when the storm hit, the Cities were raised up and the rest of the land drowned."
Awen seemed lost in thought for a moment, digesting that.
"So how do you know?" she asked inevitably. "If this is all secret how do you know all of this?"
"There are records," Saeran sighed. "But they're hidden. You have to look to see the patterns but they're there, hidden in all of the really old songs. And not just about what happened to Cantre'r Gwaelod." She paused, twisting her hands nervously. It was a safe bet that Awen was really going to hate this part, although potentially not as much as she would hate being kept waiting, so it was probably for the best if she just dived straight in. "About what's happening now, and what's going to happen soon. Things are happening, Awen. Things are going wrong."
Awen stared at her, expression sharp, and Saeran wondered if she believed her.
"What things?" she asked, voice low.
"Have you spoken to any druids lately?" Saeran asked. "Although they won't admit it all; the magic is failing."
"What?"
"Unseasonably cold for this time of year, isn't it?" Saeran said. "Something happened on the Ysbrydnos, and now the energy fields are going haywire. I met a druid in Aberystwyth with full sensory perception who was on his way to the Urdd; they had no idea what was happening. The day before I finally managed to piece together the last lines of Pedr and Mair. They fortell the magic failing."
"How," Awen asked slowly, "is it even remotely possible I didn't know about that?"
"I couldn't say, actually," Saeran admitted. "You'd have to ask the druids. They really should have told the Union. Maybe they're trying to work it out."
Awen pinched the bridge of her nose.
"What else?" she asked. "What else is happening? Or will happen."
"You," Saeran said. "I think. You're important. And possibly me, but you more. I think you're the Rider of the land."
"The what?" Awen asked, slightly blankly.
"The Rider of the Land," Saeran repeated. "I'm not a hundred percent sure what that means, mind, but I'm going to assume you have some deep connection to the country. But, you're also the only person below seventy I've ever met who knew Pedr and Mair, and it was taught to you by a man I know saw a lot of these patterns himself once. You're important."
Awen looked away, and Saeran was uncomfortably aware that she was probably changing her relationship with her Father.
"For it to be hidden like this," Awen said eventually, "there has to be a reason. Someone it's hidden from, for example."
"Yes," Saeran agreed. "I expect so."
Awen swore, the vicious kind of word that only those who regularly risked their lives on frontlines knew. Saeran smiled wryly. It was like seeing her brothers again.
"He taught you some very specific songs, Rider," she said gently. "I doubt the others aren't significant."
"If those bloody shadows are important," Awen muttered, and sighed.
"The darkness comes before the light
Returns to darkness once again;
The circle spirals ever on
The river ever runs to rain.
The balances are ever kept,
The links ever forged anew;
Though absent light is present shadow
Light's own shadow is light too.
Beware the children who are lost
To darkness irretrieveably;
Their shadows hiss and whisper and
Writhe so inconceiveably.
Their circles have been broken down,
Their souls entombed in shadow cloaks
Whose yearning, burning hunger feeds
And forms inescapable yokes.
Beware those living shadows, who
Whisper in the darkest hours
With clever tongues and clever minds
Ideas that ever overpower.
Beware that rustling darkness, that
Watches all without need for eyes
That feasts its myriad teeth upon
Souls born and raised on lies.
Beware their spread, their corruptive reach,
Their rise to greater prominence.
Beware; they bring the country's fall to
Darkness and pestilence.
Beware the shadow fingers sinking
In, creating people magnified;
But mostly, beware their effigies
And wish, oh wish that they had died."
"Wow," Saeran breathed, absorbing the lyrics. "I can see why you didn't like it."
"It's worse if you sing it," Awen said distantly. "Really worse. It's creepy enough as a poem, but I think I was about fourteen before I stopped having nightmares about the music."
"Living shadows," Saeran said quietly. "And circles being broken."
"Yes," Awen said steadily. "Much like the magic, I expect. So? What does it mean?"
To Saeran's surprise, there was a Rider sitting at the bar, nursing a tankard of something in one hand and staring down into it, apparently lost in thought. Her face from this angle was mostly hidden behind the wall of long hair, dark auburn that glimmered gold in the candlelight and fell to her elbows, worn in the elaborately plaited style most Riders favoured. She was a Southlander, it looked like; as Saeran neared she did a double-take as she saw the insignias on her shoulders, partly hidden under her hair.
She was an Alpha Wingleader. Just casually sitting in a Northlander City inn, alone, having a drink. Saeran edged closer to check the liveries. It was Casnewydd as far as she could tell. So not just a Southlander; this Rider was a Border Southlander sitting in an inn at the opposite end of the country, as far from home as she could be without flying out to the Archipelago.
Was that what it meant? The Rider of the land? Maybe this was her. Well, Saeran reasoned, if nothing else she could make a new friend. It was lovely making new friends.
"Good evening, Rider," she said pleasantly as she slid onto the stool beside her. The Rider stirred and looked up, fixing Saeran with a pair of dark green eyes that contined the strangest expression she'd ever seen. She looked young; about Saeran's age, maybe, although you could never tell with Riders. She smiled after the briefest moment of what was probably assesment and looked back at her drink.
"Good evening, Singer," she responded, and Saeran wondered what her singing voice would be like. It was deep and fluid, rich and lilting. Her accent was Casnewydd, though, which was a shame. "Are you playing tonight?"
"I certainly hope so," Saeran laughed. "I'd be a poor bard if not. Just water, please," she added to the barman as he crossed to them.
There was a pause as Saeran accepted her water and the barman refilled the Rider's tankard before bustling away. Saeran wondered what to say next that wouldn't be too intrusive when the Rider spoke and saved her the bother.
"Where safer than by a Rider?" she smiled wryly, glancing at the instrument in its case that Saeran had automatically put between their stools. "I learned to play a harp, once. My Father was a bard before he met my Mother."
"Good for him!" Saeran said enthusiastically. "Does he still play?"
"I've no idea," the Rider confessed. "I don't see them often."
It was a curious statement, simply for the sadness inherent in it. For an Alpha Wingleader to be this far from home - especially from the Border - she had to be on leave. So why wasn't she with her family? Why was she sitting in an inn in Aberdaron?
"What did he teach you?" Saeran asked. The Rider smiled.
"Some incredibly basic chord sequences for the Ballad," she said reminiscently. "Some love song or other that was bloody depressing and no one liked. A couple of eulogies... oh, and a weird one about shadows that used to scare me as a child."
Saeran pulled the harp up and out of its bag as she spoke, carefully checking the tuning.
"Scare you?" she said. The Rider laughed.
"Yes," she said drily. "Me, a Rider, being scared. It happens, you know."
"I always rather assumed you were hewn out of the ground at some rockface somewhere," Saeran said, mock-wonder in her voice. "I'm Saeran, by the way."
The Rider looked up, and again Saeran was struck by the odd expression. It was a searching look, as though she didn't look at things so much as she watched them; a hunter waiting to see her prey move.
"Awen," she said. "It's nice to meet you, Saeran. Not many people casually try to talk to me nowadays."
"Oh, that's because you're incredibly intimidating," Saeran said, waving a hand. Awen chuckled. "To be honest, though, you look like you need cheering up."
"Ah." Awen drained the mead in her tankard. "You're right, there. What have you got?"
"A harp," Saeran said decisively. "And I know Music."
"Astounding," Awen said mildly. "It's like you're a bard or something."
"Isn't it?" Saeran grinned happily. "Show me the chords, though."
Awen snorted but took the harp gently. It was strange, Saeran thought, to see it being held so delicately by hands that were much more used to gripping swords and reins, the callouses and network of scars over Awen's flesh standing testament to her violent occupation. She held the harp correctly, though, and her long fingers bent elegantly to the strings.
The chords themselves were clever, easily-played simplified versions of the official rendition. Awen played them confidently, her sense of rhythm satisfyingly strong. Saeran found herself approving of this unnamed Father. He'd taught her very well.
As Awen finished both Saeran and the bartender clapped. She smiled and shook her head, the Rider beads in her hair swaying and clicking against the bar top as she did, and held the harp back out to Saeran.
"Easy version," she said. "And now I shall return this to you so as not to show myself up any further in a field I have no profficiency in."
"I liked it!" Saeran said enthusiastically. "It's a good version, actually. Your Father must be good."
"He certainly was once upon a time," Awen mused. "I don't know. Is it a skill that stays with you?"
"I like to think so," Saeran nodded. "What's his name? I may have heard of him."
"Rhydian ap Gwynfor," Awen said. Saeran felt her jaw drop to her knees.
"Seriously?" she asked. "He's a legend in bardic circles! The first tune I ever learned was composed by him!"
"Me too," Awen said. "Although, you know, that's more expected in my case, I suppose."
Of course, Rhydian ap Gwynfor was a legend for more than just his tuning prowess. Saeran bit her lip. What had Awen said he'd taught her? A depressing love song? Some eulogies? And a song about shadows that had scared even a Rider.
"The depressing love-song he taught you," Saeran asked as casually as she could. "I don't suppose you remember the names of the people in it?"
"Oh, gods." Awen stared into her tankard for a moment. "Now you're asking. Something monosyllabic, I think. Pedr? And... Mair. Maybe."
Saeran's mind reeled at the coincidence. Pedr and Mair? It had taken her the better part of a year to piece that one together, and here sat this Southlander Rider in an inn in Aberdaron who just casually knew the damn thing from her Father.
But that was the point, wasn't it? Rhydian ap Gwynfor was a legend. He knew exactly what he was doing. Riders weren't just given to any old families to be raised; the potential Parents had to meet strict requirements and then volunteer their services. He'd Fathered a Rider and taught her all the right songs, knowing she would come to this moment.
Awen was watching her. Saeran smiled.
"I know that one," she said weakly. "Not many do, though. What else did you say he taught you?"
"Three eulogies and a creepy song about shadows," Awen said, and stopped the barkeeper with a hand over her tankard. "Singer, might I drag you out on a walk?"
"Of course," Saeran said. It was terrifying. It wasn't like she could have said no; suddenly she was painfully aware that she'd just been pumping a Rider for information. Covert information. From a woman born and trained to hunt down potential conspirators against the country. And, lest anyone forget, to kill people.
Awen drained the tankard and stood, passing a few coins over to the barkeeper as Saeran replaced the harp in its case. Awen waited patiently as she did, and then led them both out of the inn door, her stride free of the nerves that Saeran felt. Outside the world had turned to night, the stars covering the sky like dandelion seeds over a field and a nearly-full moon illuminating the buildings around them. It was cooler now and Saeran shivered slightly, the harp nestling into her back as she hurried to keep up with Awen's much longer stride. They walked along the houses to the sea front, turning at the harbour to get down to the beach. Awen said nothing as they walked, her face hidden in the dark.
They stopped in the middle of the beach near the water's edge, where Awen turned to face Saeran and the City behind her. It was an odd position, or so Saeran thought at first; if one wanted to make sure no one could overhear she'd have thought the end of the beach by the rocks might be better, but actually the beach was exposed enough that anyone close enough to hear would be close enough to see, and Awen was watching for it.
"So," she said to Saeran conversationally. "I'm going to stand here quietly as you explain what that was about."
"That could take a while," Saeran smiled nervously. "What do you know about Cantre'r Gwaelod?"
The question apparently threw her slightly, although since she was a Rider she was thrown in a suave, warrior-like way that merely caused her to raise an eyebrow.
"Cantre'r Gwaelod?" she repeated. "The same as everyone else, I should think. It was a druidic civilisation that formed the template for modern Cymric society until it fell."
"Yes," Saeran said quietly. "It's how it fell, though."
"It flooded."
"And none of the druids stopped it."
The wind blew, mingling with the cries of the oystercatchers. Awen closed her eyes and ran one hand through her hair wearily.
"Go on," she said through gritted teeth. It probably wasn't a good sign; she didn't seem to be taking the news well.
"It was forseen," Saeran said. "I should mention here that it's all top secret, incidentally. Anyway; they saw it coming, in the final Ysbrydnos before the Sea. It, and all the things they had to do afterwards. I don't know why, yet, but they didn't stop it happening because they knew they weren't to do so."
"They just... let it happen?" Awen's eyes were wide and disbelieving in the moonlight. Saeran shook her head.
"No," she said. "They planned for it. The Archipelago exists now because of it, the Cities weren't raised before. They were flat, on the same level as the surrounding lands. As far as I can tell the people were all sent to the Cities when the storm hit, the Cities were raised up and the rest of the land drowned."
Awen seemed lost in thought for a moment, digesting that.
"So how do you know?" she asked inevitably. "If this is all secret how do you know all of this?"
"There are records," Saeran sighed. "But they're hidden. You have to look to see the patterns but they're there, hidden in all of the really old songs. And not just about what happened to Cantre'r Gwaelod." She paused, twisting her hands nervously. It was a safe bet that Awen was really going to hate this part, although potentially not as much as she would hate being kept waiting, so it was probably for the best if she just dived straight in. "About what's happening now, and what's going to happen soon. Things are happening, Awen. Things are going wrong."
Awen stared at her, expression sharp, and Saeran wondered if she believed her.
"What things?" she asked, voice low.
"Have you spoken to any druids lately?" Saeran asked. "Although they won't admit it all; the magic is failing."
"What?"
"Unseasonably cold for this time of year, isn't it?" Saeran said. "Something happened on the Ysbrydnos, and now the energy fields are going haywire. I met a druid in Aberystwyth with full sensory perception who was on his way to the Urdd; they had no idea what was happening. The day before I finally managed to piece together the last lines of Pedr and Mair. They fortell the magic failing."
"How," Awen asked slowly, "is it even remotely possible I didn't know about that?"
"I couldn't say, actually," Saeran admitted. "You'd have to ask the druids. They really should have told the Union. Maybe they're trying to work it out."
Awen pinched the bridge of her nose.
"What else?" she asked. "What else is happening? Or will happen."
"You," Saeran said. "I think. You're important. And possibly me, but you more. I think you're the Rider of the land."
"The what?" Awen asked, slightly blankly.
"The Rider of the Land," Saeran repeated. "I'm not a hundred percent sure what that means, mind, but I'm going to assume you have some deep connection to the country. But, you're also the only person below seventy I've ever met who knew Pedr and Mair, and it was taught to you by a man I know saw a lot of these patterns himself once. You're important."
Awen looked away, and Saeran was uncomfortably aware that she was probably changing her relationship with her Father.
"For it to be hidden like this," Awen said eventually, "there has to be a reason. Someone it's hidden from, for example."
"Yes," Saeran agreed. "I expect so."
Awen swore, the vicious kind of word that only those who regularly risked their lives on frontlines knew. Saeran smiled wryly. It was like seeing her brothers again.
"He taught you some very specific songs, Rider," she said gently. "I doubt the others aren't significant."
"If those bloody shadows are important," Awen muttered, and sighed.
"The darkness comes before the light
Returns to darkness once again;
The circle spirals ever on
The river ever runs to rain.
The balances are ever kept,
The links ever forged anew;
Though absent light is present shadow
Light's own shadow is light too.
Beware the children who are lost
To darkness irretrieveably;
Their shadows hiss and whisper and
Writhe so inconceiveably.
Their circles have been broken down,
Their souls entombed in shadow cloaks
Whose yearning, burning hunger feeds
And forms inescapable yokes.
Beware those living shadows, who
Whisper in the darkest hours
With clever tongues and clever minds
Ideas that ever overpower.
Beware that rustling darkness, that
Watches all without need for eyes
That feasts its myriad teeth upon
Souls born and raised on lies.
Beware their spread, their corruptive reach,
Their rise to greater prominence.
Beware; they bring the country's fall to
Darkness and pestilence.
Beware the shadow fingers sinking
In, creating people magnified;
But mostly, beware their effigies
And wish, oh wish that they had died."
"Wow," Saeran breathed, absorbing the lyrics. "I can see why you didn't like it."
"It's worse if you sing it," Awen said distantly. "Really worse. It's creepy enough as a poem, but I think I was about fourteen before I stopped having nightmares about the music."
"Living shadows," Saeran said quietly. "And circles being broken."
"Yes," Awen said steadily. "Much like the magic, I expect. So? What does it mean?"
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 9
Ha ha, I am Mistress of passages with no clear end. And I don't care! Hahahahaha!
AWEN
Tregwylan was stunningly beautiful. It was Awen's first thought as she guided Brân down towards the Landing Tower below, giving her a superb view of the City from above. The rain harvesters were gleaming in the sunlight, all gold and bronze and funnels to direct the excess water away to the choppy sea below, while the inner courtyards shone in verdant contrast to the open hydroponic tanks of growing vegetables. Almost every window sported window boxes of growing onions, many accompanied by billowing sheets left out to dry. Far below a long wooden harbour jutted out into the sea, accepting the trading vessels from the mainland bringing flour and meat. Cormorants with ringed necks swooped in and out of the fishing towers at each corner, carrying their catches back to their handlers.
At the runway Brân sort of dropped the final metre, simply folding his wings and letting them fall before they landed neatly on the carpet. He tossed his head petulantly as Awen sighed and reined him in. He was such an embarrassment.
A pair of stable hands bustled out, robes impeccable. Awen noted it instantly.
"Rider," said one, a woman with thick, wavy blonde hair that had been carefully pulled into a neat arrangement at the back of her head. "Welcome to Tregwylan! My name is Carys. May I assist you?"
"Thank you," Awen said. "My meraden thinks he's a dog. Be warned."
Carys laughed vacantly, and led her in. Brân kept trying to dance sideways as they went, and Awen let him. If she was expected, as it looked like she was, then really they should have been warned of Brân's behaviour. Also it put Awen into a distinctly uncharitable mood, and this 'Carys' had a stupid laugh.
Once inside they undid her harness for her on the top level, and Awen obligingly hopped off for Brân to be led into one of the top stables. She understood the message. She wasn't impressed. As the other stable hands clustered around Brân Carys turned to her and smiled.
"This way please, Rider," she said, and set off down the ramp without a backwards glance. Awen followed, looking around for further clues of her expected arrival. Every corner of the tower had been brushed and cleaned, but that in itself may have meant nothing this soon after a festival. There was a notable absence of the usual organised chaos of a Landing Tower, however, which definitely was out of the ordinary. At the bottom Carys pushed open the massive door to the City and led them through.
Inside Tregwylan was even more beautiful than out. The corridor-streets were wide and stone paved, supported at regular intervals by twisting pillars carved to look like waves and the walls decorated with coloured glass and enamel in greens and blues. Periodically pipes from the rain harvesters could be seen travelling down the walls, carrying the water to the lower level streets. A few shops were set off the streets, bakeries, chandleries and expensive-looking cobblers that occasionally gave way to the courtyards Awen had seen from above. Carys walke calmly through it all, not pointing out anything. She made a poor guide.
They were just turning onto a particularly elaborate corridor which Awen suspected led to the Sovereign's Residence when a Rider materialised in front of them, Deputy Alpha Wing status emblazoned across her arm and a yellow poppy behind her ear. She smiled at Awen, a genuine smile that lit up her face, and Saluted.
"Rider!" she said happily. "Welcome to Tregwylan! First time?"
Awen Saluted back. "First time," she smiled. "I don't get out much. It's beautiful, though."
"Ah, you're saying that," the Rider said, waving a hand, "but you're only looking at the rich bit. The lower levels don't look like this, I can tell you. Would you like a tour?"
"I'd love one," Awen grinned. Carys cleared her throat firmly.
"I'm afraid, Rider," she began. The Rider cut across her.
"Oh, shut up, Carys. I'll get her to wherever she needs to be, go back to the stables. I'm Talar, by the way," she added to Awen as Carys slowly backed off, given them both a deeply uncertain look. "And you're Awen, I know. Casnewydd Alpha Wingleader."
"Should I be worried?" Awen asked bluntly as Carys rounded the far corner and left them alone in the street. Talar gave her a wry smile.
"I doubt it, from what I've heard. No," she shook her head as Awen opened her mouth. "I know what you meant. Come this way."
She led them out of the street, across a courtyard through children playing and bards singing, past more shops and down a ramp that led to the next level. It didn't look so different until three levels later, when they hit the top of the poorer areas. The streets were suddenly crowded with peasants going about their lives, trading from market stalls in the middles of the corridors and darting in and out of much cheaper-looking shops. Talar led them to a harness-makers in a dark corner; inside, she nodded to the owner and slipped past a curtain into the back. Awen followed. This didn't look good. This suggested conspiracy.
Inside it was tiny and surprisingly warm. Talar perched on the small desk and motioned Awen to the room's only seat, which she took and folded her arms.
"Well?" she asked quietly. Talar smiled.
"You're right," she said. "Lady Gwenda knew four days ago to expect someone important; presumably she knew it was you, I don't know. When did you know you'd be coming?"
"Yesterday," Awen sighed. "Any idea how she knew? I ask with particular reference to either Casnewydd or Caerleuad."
AWEN
Tregwylan was stunningly beautiful. It was Awen's first thought as she guided Brân down towards the Landing Tower below, giving her a superb view of the City from above. The rain harvesters were gleaming in the sunlight, all gold and bronze and funnels to direct the excess water away to the choppy sea below, while the inner courtyards shone in verdant contrast to the open hydroponic tanks of growing vegetables. Almost every window sported window boxes of growing onions, many accompanied by billowing sheets left out to dry. Far below a long wooden harbour jutted out into the sea, accepting the trading vessels from the mainland bringing flour and meat. Cormorants with ringed necks swooped in and out of the fishing towers at each corner, carrying their catches back to their handlers.
At the runway Brân sort of dropped the final metre, simply folding his wings and letting them fall before they landed neatly on the carpet. He tossed his head petulantly as Awen sighed and reined him in. He was such an embarrassment.
A pair of stable hands bustled out, robes impeccable. Awen noted it instantly.
"Rider," said one, a woman with thick, wavy blonde hair that had been carefully pulled into a neat arrangement at the back of her head. "Welcome to Tregwylan! My name is Carys. May I assist you?"
"Thank you," Awen said. "My meraden thinks he's a dog. Be warned."
Carys laughed vacantly, and led her in. Brân kept trying to dance sideways as they went, and Awen let him. If she was expected, as it looked like she was, then really they should have been warned of Brân's behaviour. Also it put Awen into a distinctly uncharitable mood, and this 'Carys' had a stupid laugh.
Once inside they undid her harness for her on the top level, and Awen obligingly hopped off for Brân to be led into one of the top stables. She understood the message. She wasn't impressed. As the other stable hands clustered around Brân Carys turned to her and smiled.
"This way please, Rider," she said, and set off down the ramp without a backwards glance. Awen followed, looking around for further clues of her expected arrival. Every corner of the tower had been brushed and cleaned, but that in itself may have meant nothing this soon after a festival. There was a notable absence of the usual organised chaos of a Landing Tower, however, which definitely was out of the ordinary. At the bottom Carys pushed open the massive door to the City and led them through.
Inside Tregwylan was even more beautiful than out. The corridor-streets were wide and stone paved, supported at regular intervals by twisting pillars carved to look like waves and the walls decorated with coloured glass and enamel in greens and blues. Periodically pipes from the rain harvesters could be seen travelling down the walls, carrying the water to the lower level streets. A few shops were set off the streets, bakeries, chandleries and expensive-looking cobblers that occasionally gave way to the courtyards Awen had seen from above. Carys walke calmly through it all, not pointing out anything. She made a poor guide.
They were just turning onto a particularly elaborate corridor which Awen suspected led to the Sovereign's Residence when a Rider materialised in front of them, Deputy Alpha Wing status emblazoned across her arm and a yellow poppy behind her ear. She smiled at Awen, a genuine smile that lit up her face, and Saluted.
"Rider!" she said happily. "Welcome to Tregwylan! First time?"
Awen Saluted back. "First time," she smiled. "I don't get out much. It's beautiful, though."
"Ah, you're saying that," the Rider said, waving a hand, "but you're only looking at the rich bit. The lower levels don't look like this, I can tell you. Would you like a tour?"
"I'd love one," Awen grinned. Carys cleared her throat firmly.
"I'm afraid, Rider," she began. The Rider cut across her.
"Oh, shut up, Carys. I'll get her to wherever she needs to be, go back to the stables. I'm Talar, by the way," she added to Awen as Carys slowly backed off, given them both a deeply uncertain look. "And you're Awen, I know. Casnewydd Alpha Wingleader."
"Should I be worried?" Awen asked bluntly as Carys rounded the far corner and left them alone in the street. Talar gave her a wry smile.
"I doubt it, from what I've heard. No," she shook her head as Awen opened her mouth. "I know what you meant. Come this way."
She led them out of the street, across a courtyard through children playing and bards singing, past more shops and down a ramp that led to the next level. It didn't look so different until three levels later, when they hit the top of the poorer areas. The streets were suddenly crowded with peasants going about their lives, trading from market stalls in the middles of the corridors and darting in and out of much cheaper-looking shops. Talar led them to a harness-makers in a dark corner; inside, she nodded to the owner and slipped past a curtain into the back. Awen followed. This didn't look good. This suggested conspiracy.
Inside it was tiny and surprisingly warm. Talar perched on the small desk and motioned Awen to the room's only seat, which she took and folded her arms.
"Well?" she asked quietly. Talar smiled.
"You're right," she said. "Lady Gwenda knew four days ago to expect someone important; presumably she knew it was you, I don't know. When did you know you'd be coming?"
"Yesterday," Awen sighed. "Any idea how she knew? I ask with particular reference to either Casnewydd or Caerleuad."
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 8
So, I forgot to post this excerpt because I'm sadly very stupid. Therefore, we all get bonus Awen today, and hopefully one more Saeran before the end. Enjoy, bitches.
Also, this one just ends. Actually, it just starts as well. I don't care.
AWEN
As promised, it wasn't long before Awen was found. On Elin's recommendations after she'd conferred with the other stable hands Awen had made her way to the Orangery, a vast converted merchant trading hall made of domed glass, with strange fruit trees growing inside. Awen was fascinated by them; she'd never seen a tree growing inside before. The owner, a dark man who apparently had been a trader for years before settling in Cymru to raise a family ("Call me Dai! No one can say my name so I have new name!"), happily explained the process to Awen; the sunlight filtered through the glass to keep the trees warm, and he fetched water for them. It was both bizarre and outstandingly fantastic; especially when he plucked a ripe specimen from one of the trees, a globe in a bright vibrant orange that gave rise to the name, and carefully sliced it into quarters with a knife.
"Be careful," he warned merrily, beetle-black eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's a very sharp flavour if you've not tried it before. There is much juice inside, also."
"Do you eat the skin?" Awen asked, peering at the chunk he handed her. It was thick, with a white pith between it and the flesh. Dai shook his head.
"No no!" he said. "It is very bitter, and not for eating. Only the flesh; not like your apples."
Cautiously Awen bit into it. It was a bit like an explosion in her mouth; an acid so sharp it actually brought tears to her eyes, and yet it was so sweet she didn't want to stop. It made her think of sunshine and sand, imagine some alien country - the texture was like biting into hundreds of tiny, juice-filled vessels that burst under her teeth, totally different to apples or pears. There was no core, either, which was an entirely new experience. In spite of the warning, the sheer quantity of juice came as a shock, some escaping her mouth and forcing her hand up to her chin, laughing to wipe it clean. Dai laughed with her.
"Wow," Awen said, wiping the tears the orange had brought to her eyes at the same time. "That's incredible."
"Very different, I think," Dai said happily. "I'm glad you like! Next year we may have enough for a harvest if we have luck. For now, we have only a few dozens. Lunch?"
The lunch was a plate of venison cuts with pork sausage, a few slices of cheese and some onion chutney from the biggest glass jar Awen had ever seen. It was beautiful, and she was just finishing it off when the apparently predictable arrival of Alaw occured.
Straight away Awen could see that something was slightly weird about Alaw; probably the barely-concealed hostility in her too-pale eyes as she looked at Awen, sizing her up from the Orangery's doorway and wearing her full Rider uniform, all insignias and status symbols on show. She was quite short, possibly a head below Awen, her chin-length hair such a dark blonde that 'brown' became a better description around a heart-shaped face and wide-set eyes. A pair of curved swords, her weapons of choice, were strapped to her back, but not into their sheathes. It sent out a bad message, and Awen briefly wondered how she'd ever made Alpha Wingleader.
"Rider," Awen said from her seat at the counter, throwing out the Rider-to-Rider Salute. Alaw gave her what was probably meant to be a smile and Saluted back.
"Welcome to Aberystwyth," Alaw said, coming closer. "Are you here to see Lord Gwilym?"
"Oh, no," Awen lied easily. "I'm on a message run, and I thought I'd give my meraden a rest along the way. I haven't been to Aberystwyth in a few years, so it seemed like a good choice."
"I see," Alaw said, leaning against the counter. For some odd reason the gesture made Awen want to double-check on the wristblades. "Well, intentions to do so or not, my Lord has humbly requested you see him. He likes meeting visiting Riders."
It was tiny, but Awen saw the flash, the spark of bitterness, in Alaw's eyes. Awen smiled.
"Well, I'm in no real hurry," she said, handing her clean plate to a beaming Dai, who actually bowed to her before whisking it away. "I could spare an hour or so. Would that be sufficient?"
"Yes," Alaw said, her smile just the right side of sour. "That would be fine. Shall we?"
Awen rose and laid her money on the counter.
"Don't protest, Dai," she called. "I'm paying you." She ignored his protests from the backroom and left the shop, Alaw trailing closely behind her.
The Sovereign's Residence was much as Awen remembered it from Lord Alun's day; the only real changes were the tapestries, obviously put up for the festival the day before, and the sheer number of aides scurrying quietly about. Alaw led them imperiously through the industrious civil servants and up an incredibly grand flight of stairs to a long corridor of audience chambers, each fitted with solid oaken doors and a clerk. Occasionally another Alpha Wingrider would watch them pass, an odd expression as they did, and Awen wondered if it was intended for her or Alaw. Alaw was definitely odd.
They reached the final door of the corridor, still bedecked in hawthorn boughs from the day before and Alaw knocked. A man with a nose that looked remarkably like a spout opened it, saw Alaw and with spectacular self-control didn't cringe before pulling the door open to allow them access. A fanfare blared from somewhere, almost making Awen extend a wristblade. Gods she needed a holiday.
"Leader Alaw of the Aberystwyth Alpha Wing, and Leader Awen of the Casnewydd Alpha Wing," he intoned. His voice was remarkably boring, oximoronically. It was impressive; he must work at it. Awen stepped into the room, best hospitable smile in place.
Somehow, although later she couldn't for the life of her work out how, Awen noticed Price Lorcan before Lord Gwilym. He was young, about eighteen to twenty years old maybe; Awen would have suspected the latter given the slightly lanky look to him, like he'd reached his final height but would naturally be broader in the shoulder by the time he was done. His features were classically Erinnish, from the black hair and green eyes to the broad cheekbones and slightly aquiline nose. He stood as they entered - six feet, thereabouts? - and bowed in an unfamiliar style Awen guessed was Erinnish. The cut of his tunic was different, too; although he wore a golden torque at his throat much like Cymric Sovereigns. His eyes showed wonder over weariness. Awen wondered what was happening in Erinn as she bowed back the Cymric way, standard Rider-to-Sovereign.
"Prince Lorcan," she smiled, the unfamiliar title almost tripping on her tongue. She turned to Lord Gwilym, also now on his feet, and with the most heroic effort she'd ever produced managed not to react.
"Whose face is that?"
"Providence."
The face she'd been shown on the road to her family's house; the Erinnish-Cymric mix of colouring and build, the hairstyle and beard, right down to the Caerleuad green brocade and the long waxed boots. He'd shown her Lord Gwilym. Mentally, Awen exercised the full lexicon of swear words she'd amassed as a fighter and some creative new ones she invented herself on the spot. Outwardly, Awen bowed.
"Sovereign," she said pleasantly.
"Rider," he smiled back. It was a smile that animated his features. "Welcome to Aberystwyth. Sorry about the fanfare; I've been trying to find whoever's doing it, but no such luck. I think they're hiding as a statue."
"Threaten to redecorate with a mad gleam in your eye and a large blunt object," Awen said. "The moving ones are your culprits."
"My mad eye gleam still needs work," Gwilym said morosely. "People just think I'm crying, I suspect. I hope you had a good flight?"
"Superb, thank you, Sovereign," Awen said as he waved her to an armchair. "It's been a while since I've had the chance to just fly without having a battle on the end."
Also, this one just ends. Actually, it just starts as well. I don't care.
AWEN
As promised, it wasn't long before Awen was found. On Elin's recommendations after she'd conferred with the other stable hands Awen had made her way to the Orangery, a vast converted merchant trading hall made of domed glass, with strange fruit trees growing inside. Awen was fascinated by them; she'd never seen a tree growing inside before. The owner, a dark man who apparently had been a trader for years before settling in Cymru to raise a family ("Call me Dai! No one can say my name so I have new name!"), happily explained the process to Awen; the sunlight filtered through the glass to keep the trees warm, and he fetched water for them. It was both bizarre and outstandingly fantastic; especially when he plucked a ripe specimen from one of the trees, a globe in a bright vibrant orange that gave rise to the name, and carefully sliced it into quarters with a knife.
"Be careful," he warned merrily, beetle-black eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's a very sharp flavour if you've not tried it before. There is much juice inside, also."
"Do you eat the skin?" Awen asked, peering at the chunk he handed her. It was thick, with a white pith between it and the flesh. Dai shook his head.
"No no!" he said. "It is very bitter, and not for eating. Only the flesh; not like your apples."
Cautiously Awen bit into it. It was a bit like an explosion in her mouth; an acid so sharp it actually brought tears to her eyes, and yet it was so sweet she didn't want to stop. It made her think of sunshine and sand, imagine some alien country - the texture was like biting into hundreds of tiny, juice-filled vessels that burst under her teeth, totally different to apples or pears. There was no core, either, which was an entirely new experience. In spite of the warning, the sheer quantity of juice came as a shock, some escaping her mouth and forcing her hand up to her chin, laughing to wipe it clean. Dai laughed with her.
"Wow," Awen said, wiping the tears the orange had brought to her eyes at the same time. "That's incredible."
"Very different, I think," Dai said happily. "I'm glad you like! Next year we may have enough for a harvest if we have luck. For now, we have only a few dozens. Lunch?"
The lunch was a plate of venison cuts with pork sausage, a few slices of cheese and some onion chutney from the biggest glass jar Awen had ever seen. It was beautiful, and she was just finishing it off when the apparently predictable arrival of Alaw occured.
Straight away Awen could see that something was slightly weird about Alaw; probably the barely-concealed hostility in her too-pale eyes as she looked at Awen, sizing her up from the Orangery's doorway and wearing her full Rider uniform, all insignias and status symbols on show. She was quite short, possibly a head below Awen, her chin-length hair such a dark blonde that 'brown' became a better description around a heart-shaped face and wide-set eyes. A pair of curved swords, her weapons of choice, were strapped to her back, but not into their sheathes. It sent out a bad message, and Awen briefly wondered how she'd ever made Alpha Wingleader.
"Rider," Awen said from her seat at the counter, throwing out the Rider-to-Rider Salute. Alaw gave her what was probably meant to be a smile and Saluted back.
"Welcome to Aberystwyth," Alaw said, coming closer. "Are you here to see Lord Gwilym?"
"Oh, no," Awen lied easily. "I'm on a message run, and I thought I'd give my meraden a rest along the way. I haven't been to Aberystwyth in a few years, so it seemed like a good choice."
"I see," Alaw said, leaning against the counter. For some odd reason the gesture made Awen want to double-check on the wristblades. "Well, intentions to do so or not, my Lord has humbly requested you see him. He likes meeting visiting Riders."
It was tiny, but Awen saw the flash, the spark of bitterness, in Alaw's eyes. Awen smiled.
"Well, I'm in no real hurry," she said, handing her clean plate to a beaming Dai, who actually bowed to her before whisking it away. "I could spare an hour or so. Would that be sufficient?"
"Yes," Alaw said, her smile just the right side of sour. "That would be fine. Shall we?"
Awen rose and laid her money on the counter.
"Don't protest, Dai," she called. "I'm paying you." She ignored his protests from the backroom and left the shop, Alaw trailing closely behind her.
The Sovereign's Residence was much as Awen remembered it from Lord Alun's day; the only real changes were the tapestries, obviously put up for the festival the day before, and the sheer number of aides scurrying quietly about. Alaw led them imperiously through the industrious civil servants and up an incredibly grand flight of stairs to a long corridor of audience chambers, each fitted with solid oaken doors and a clerk. Occasionally another Alpha Wingrider would watch them pass, an odd expression as they did, and Awen wondered if it was intended for her or Alaw. Alaw was definitely odd.
They reached the final door of the corridor, still bedecked in hawthorn boughs from the day before and Alaw knocked. A man with a nose that looked remarkably like a spout opened it, saw Alaw and with spectacular self-control didn't cringe before pulling the door open to allow them access. A fanfare blared from somewhere, almost making Awen extend a wristblade. Gods she needed a holiday.
"Leader Alaw of the Aberystwyth Alpha Wing, and Leader Awen of the Casnewydd Alpha Wing," he intoned. His voice was remarkably boring, oximoronically. It was impressive; he must work at it. Awen stepped into the room, best hospitable smile in place.
Somehow, although later she couldn't for the life of her work out how, Awen noticed Price Lorcan before Lord Gwilym. He was young, about eighteen to twenty years old maybe; Awen would have suspected the latter given the slightly lanky look to him, like he'd reached his final height but would naturally be broader in the shoulder by the time he was done. His features were classically Erinnish, from the black hair and green eyes to the broad cheekbones and slightly aquiline nose. He stood as they entered - six feet, thereabouts? - and bowed in an unfamiliar style Awen guessed was Erinnish. The cut of his tunic was different, too; although he wore a golden torque at his throat much like Cymric Sovereigns. His eyes showed wonder over weariness. Awen wondered what was happening in Erinn as she bowed back the Cymric way, standard Rider-to-Sovereign.
"Prince Lorcan," she smiled, the unfamiliar title almost tripping on her tongue. She turned to Lord Gwilym, also now on his feet, and with the most heroic effort she'd ever produced managed not to react.
"Whose face is that?"
"Providence."
The face she'd been shown on the road to her family's house; the Erinnish-Cymric mix of colouring and build, the hairstyle and beard, right down to the Caerleuad green brocade and the long waxed boots. He'd shown her Lord Gwilym. Mentally, Awen exercised the full lexicon of swear words she'd amassed as a fighter and some creative new ones she invented herself on the spot. Outwardly, Awen bowed.
"Sovereign," she said pleasantly.
"Rider," he smiled back. It was a smile that animated his features. "Welcome to Aberystwyth. Sorry about the fanfare; I've been trying to find whoever's doing it, but no such luck. I think they're hiding as a statue."
"Threaten to redecorate with a mad gleam in your eye and a large blunt object," Awen said. "The moving ones are your culprits."
"My mad eye gleam still needs work," Gwilym said morosely. "People just think I'm crying, I suspect. I hope you had a good flight?"
"Superb, thank you, Sovereign," Awen said as he waved her to an armchair. "It's been a while since I've had the chance to just fly without having a battle on the end."
Monday, 10 November 2008
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 7
DYLAN
The promised inn seemed like a good place to start. Dylan found it without too much trouble or too many guests; when he opened the door the bar keeper actually levelled a crossbow at him, which seemed an unwise business strategy.
"I'm sorry," Dylan said, freezing. "You don't want guests. I'll go."
"No," the innkeeper said, her face strained and unsmiling. "Stay. But turn around first. Let me see all of you."
Nervously, Dylan did as he was told. One twitch of her finger on the trigger and he was a dead man. He did a full rotation on the spot, slowly with his hands up, and then met her eye. She stared at him for a few moments more before nodding and, to Dylan's eternal relief, lowering the crossbow.
"You're clean," she said, and put the weapon under the bar. Dylan wondered if anyone had ever tried to rob this place. It seemed ill-advised. "Welcome in, Derwydd, although you may not want to stay. What brings you here?"
Dylan cautiously walked nearer to the bar. Now that he wasn't staring at potential crossbow-related termination he could see the room properly; a woman sat huddled in blankets by the fire, eyes blank and trained entirely on the flames. Closer was a wooden table that smelled of beer and metheglin around which sat three men, fully armed and watching him with unfriendly eyes. An old man sat at the bar itself, grey head bowed and staring into his drink. The innkeeper herself was rubbing a filthy cloth around a tankard, watching him. She looked to be in about her forties or fifties, her brow heavily-lined but her hair still surprisingly red.
"Um," Dylan said. "Whatever's gone wrong. I mean... the Urdd sent me to find out whatever happened on the Ysbrydnos." Why was he so poor at expressing himself?
The innkeeper stopped and stared at him, and Dylan was uncomfortably aware of himself becoming the sole focus of the room.
"It's happening elsewhere?" she whispered. Dylan nodded.
"Yes," he said. "That is... something has. We don't know what. I'm - "
"But it's not just us?" one of the men at the table said. He had a beard Dylan probably could have hidden in. "It's not just happening to us?"
"I... no." Dylan wished he was better with social nuances. There was a question here that these people weren't quite asking, and he was rather afraid of answering it wrongly. He had no desire to see that crossbow again. "I mean, I don't know exactly what's happening, but the energies are wrong everywhere. Across all of the ley lines. More in some places."
"The energies are wrong," the man said. He stood up and crossed over to Dylan, gripping his arm tightly. "Tell me, Derwydd. Tell me it wasn't us."
"Oh, gods no!" Dylan exclaimed. So that was what they were worried about. "No, it wasn't anything any of you did. It - "
"But how can you know?" whispered a broken voice from the fire. The innkeeper cursed and grabbed a flagon of something, hastening to the woman sitting there, her eyes still transfixed on the flames. "If you don't know what happened how can you know it wasn't us? How can you know our children - ?"
The innkeeper reached her and gently slipped the flagon between the woman's lips. She drank thirstily, and when she stopped she was quiet again.
"It came from the void," Dylan said. "Whatever it is. It came from between the worlds, between here and Otherworld, and it wanted to get through. I think it has for a while."
"You mean 'they'," the innkeeper said, crossing back to the bar. Dylan blinked.
"I'm sorry?" he said. The man still gripping his arm answered.
"'They' wanted to get through," he said, eyes hollow. "Not 'it'. There are so many, Derwydd, every night."
There was more than one now? How? Why couldn't he sense that? Was that why the pendant made it all splinter? What was happening?
"I'm sorry," Dylan said quietly, trying his hardest to pick his words carefully. "I'm so sorry. But I need to ask you all for details, if you have them. What has happened here?"
"They came," the woman by the fire whispered. Her eyes looked suddenly manic, glued still to the fire. "They came through the flames, dancing and laughing, the Beautiful Ones and they stole us and stuck to us," her voice rose rapidly while everyone present was suddenly up on their feet and rushing to her, "and they laughed and laughed and they're claiming us one by one for our sins, they have to make us pure and beautiful like them and they're in the fire, in the flames - "
She was cut off as the innkeeper finally got the flagon back in her mouth, three burly men holding her down and one old man holding another flagon ready. Dylan, though, leaped to his feet and all but ran to the fire, dropping to his knees in front of it and closing his eyes -
- purity, there must be purity, the forms are wrong and we're not quite there -
The signal fractured and Dylan lost the focus, his eyes snapping open. Hands in the flames flickered and were gone. He swore. The world was breaking, and he was losing the ability to do the one thing that could have saved it.
The promised inn seemed like a good place to start. Dylan found it without too much trouble or too many guests; when he opened the door the bar keeper actually levelled a crossbow at him, which seemed an unwise business strategy.
"I'm sorry," Dylan said, freezing. "You don't want guests. I'll go."
"No," the innkeeper said, her face strained and unsmiling. "Stay. But turn around first. Let me see all of you."
Nervously, Dylan did as he was told. One twitch of her finger on the trigger and he was a dead man. He did a full rotation on the spot, slowly with his hands up, and then met her eye. She stared at him for a few moments more before nodding and, to Dylan's eternal relief, lowering the crossbow.
"You're clean," she said, and put the weapon under the bar. Dylan wondered if anyone had ever tried to rob this place. It seemed ill-advised. "Welcome in, Derwydd, although you may not want to stay. What brings you here?"
Dylan cautiously walked nearer to the bar. Now that he wasn't staring at potential crossbow-related termination he could see the room properly; a woman sat huddled in blankets by the fire, eyes blank and trained entirely on the flames. Closer was a wooden table that smelled of beer and metheglin around which sat three men, fully armed and watching him with unfriendly eyes. An old man sat at the bar itself, grey head bowed and staring into his drink. The innkeeper herself was rubbing a filthy cloth around a tankard, watching him. She looked to be in about her forties or fifties, her brow heavily-lined but her hair still surprisingly red.
"Um," Dylan said. "Whatever's gone wrong. I mean... the Urdd sent me to find out whatever happened on the Ysbrydnos." Why was he so poor at expressing himself?
The innkeeper stopped and stared at him, and Dylan was uncomfortably aware of himself becoming the sole focus of the room.
"It's happening elsewhere?" she whispered. Dylan nodded.
"Yes," he said. "That is... something has. We don't know what. I'm - "
"But it's not just us?" one of the men at the table said. He had a beard Dylan probably could have hidden in. "It's not just happening to us?"
"I... no." Dylan wished he was better with social nuances. There was a question here that these people weren't quite asking, and he was rather afraid of answering it wrongly. He had no desire to see that crossbow again. "I mean, I don't know exactly what's happening, but the energies are wrong everywhere. Across all of the ley lines. More in some places."
"The energies are wrong," the man said. He stood up and crossed over to Dylan, gripping his arm tightly. "Tell me, Derwydd. Tell me it wasn't us."
"Oh, gods no!" Dylan exclaimed. So that was what they were worried about. "No, it wasn't anything any of you did. It - "
"But how can you know?" whispered a broken voice from the fire. The innkeeper cursed and grabbed a flagon of something, hastening to the woman sitting there, her eyes still transfixed on the flames. "If you don't know what happened how can you know it wasn't us? How can you know our children - ?"
The innkeeper reached her and gently slipped the flagon between the woman's lips. She drank thirstily, and when she stopped she was quiet again.
"It came from the void," Dylan said. "Whatever it is. It came from between the worlds, between here and Otherworld, and it wanted to get through. I think it has for a while."
"You mean 'they'," the innkeeper said, crossing back to the bar. Dylan blinked.
"I'm sorry?" he said. The man still gripping his arm answered.
"'They' wanted to get through," he said, eyes hollow. "Not 'it'. There are so many, Derwydd, every night."
There was more than one now? How? Why couldn't he sense that? Was that why the pendant made it all splinter? What was happening?
"I'm sorry," Dylan said quietly, trying his hardest to pick his words carefully. "I'm so sorry. But I need to ask you all for details, if you have them. What has happened here?"
"They came," the woman by the fire whispered. Her eyes looked suddenly manic, glued still to the fire. "They came through the flames, dancing and laughing, the Beautiful Ones and they stole us and stuck to us," her voice rose rapidly while everyone present was suddenly up on their feet and rushing to her, "and they laughed and laughed and they're claiming us one by one for our sins, they have to make us pure and beautiful like them and they're in the fire, in the flames - "
She was cut off as the innkeeper finally got the flagon back in her mouth, three burly men holding her down and one old man holding another flagon ready. Dylan, though, leaped to his feet and all but ran to the fire, dropping to his knees in front of it and closing his eyes -
- purity, there must be purity, the forms are wrong and we're not quite there -
The signal fractured and Dylan lost the focus, his eyes snapping open. Hands in the flames flickered and were gone. He swore. The world was breaking, and he was losing the ability to do the one thing that could have saved it.
Friday, 7 November 2008
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 6
I actually decided I liked all parts of this chapter, so you get to read it all. It's not as long as any others, so actually it's excerpt length anyway. Warning: it contains more frazzled brain attempts at poetry. Eventually it will be better, I promise.
SAERAN
Hilariously, it took Saeran a couple of minutes to recognise who the two men were, standing in the back of the crowd and watching her play the Ballad. Afterwards she comforted herself with the fact that it clearly wasn't her fault; she hadn't been to Aberystwyth's coronation the year before, and no one had seen Lord Gwilym properly for years since he seemed to have spent much of his time in Erinn. As such, Saeran simply assumed a pair of visiting Erinnish noblemen had come to see the festival.
What tipped her off that this probably wasn't the case was the Cymric edge to Lord Gwilym's features. His colouring was Erinnish but his cheekbones were too high, bearded chin too pointed, especially by contrast to his cousin next to him who seemed entirely Erinnish to an almost parodical extent. After she'd noticed that and pondered it, Saeran saw the excited looks the locals cast them as they passed, the occasional bow sent Lord Gwilym's way, although the slightly embarrassed wave of his hand with which he acknowledged them was wildly endearing in Saeran's opinion. Finally, after she'd finished the final, rousing chorus and everyone cheered he lifted his chin, displaying the golden torque around his neck, and everything fell into place. Saeran was glad she hadn't realised before; it would have been distinctly awkward to have realised she was singing to a Sovereign while halfway through the Ballad.
Further in the City the clocktower struck, and Saeran held up her hand to show she was finished. Flatteringly most of the onlookers groaned in protest.
"One more!" and old woman at the front said, a six-year-old boy perched on her lap. She wore a silver brooch pin on her shawl shaped like a stylised running horse, wings arced around it. "It wouldn't take long."
"I'm afraid if I don't stop now I never will, Mother," Saeran laughed, bowing to her. "And I do need to feed myself at some point today or I'll be collapsing all over my harp. I'll be back later, though."
"Better had, girl," the Mother grinned. "Or you'll have a riot on your hands."
"Thank you, Mother," Saeran said; and then, feeling daring, she bowed to the men behind her. "Sovereign."
"Singer," Lord Gwilym returned easily. He had a beautiful voice, all deep and sonorous in his throat. Probably a baritone, Saeran thought. "I don't suppose you're booked for tonight?"
"Not as of yet, Sovereign," Saeran said. In spirit she crossed every part of her anatomy she feasibly could and then some.
"Well," he smiled, " I would be honoured to give you a Chair tonight at the feast on the condition that you return here first this afternoon to prevent Mother here from inciting the masses to violence, which it seems she will."
"That I will," the Mother cackled. She looked at Saeran, mischief in her milky blue eyes. "He's a good Sovereign, this one, see? Knows whom to listen to."
"So it seems," Saeran grinned. "In which case, might I add another condition, Sovereign?"
Lord Gwilym managed to construct the best put-upon expression Saeran had ever seen.
"You see?" he told the man with him; although he looked about eighteen now that Saeran could see him properly. "You give an inch in this job, they take a mile. Although, what is the condition? Because if it's something that I don't have to do then I'll stop complaining."
"I'd like to visit the Great Library," Saeran said, and Lord Gwilym beamed.
"Excellent!" he said happily. "Yes, of course you can. It's slightly intimidating, as a warning; the chap who works behind the desk suspects everyone of trying to eat the books or something and so will probably find endless excuses to lurk at you from behind pillars, but otherwise it's lovely. You'll know him when you see him, he looks a bit like a rat."
Saeran giggled. Lord Gwilym seemed to have the same eminently personable aura as Lady Marged, albeit without the eccentricities and cats.
"Thank you, Sovereign," she said politely. "I shall keep an eye out for him. And now, if you'll all excuse me, I really must go and grab some lunch."
"Certainly" Lord Gwilym said grandly. "I'll see you at the feast." And he bowed her away.
****
The chance to visit the Library fitted in neatly between her afternoon stint along the sea front and the evening's feast in the Residence; there was a gap of about three hours which she otherwise would have spent wandering from tavern to tavern like a waif looking for a free drink. Instead, she skipped merrily up the hill to the Sovereign's Residence, emblazoned across the hillside and overlooking Aberystwyth. Beyond it she could see the imposing barrier of the Great Darkgate, looming ominously in the dusking light of the slowly setting sun behind Caerleuad. As physical warnings went, the Great Darkgate definitely did what it was designed to do; Saeran felt incredibly intimidated by it, and she wasn't trying to wage a war on Aberystwyth.
She turned right at the grandiose entrance to the Residence and continued along the short stretch of road to the Library. Since the Library was built of white stone and marble the effect in the sunset was remarkable; it looked like solid fire, every window aflame and every flourish in the decor forged and burning. It was beautiful, and intimidating like the Great Darkgate, but in such a different way. Eagerly, Saeran stepped up the pace and hastened inside.
The lighting inside was far cosier, the dark wooden interiors illuminated softly by chandeliers and mirrors that made the place look like a maze. Directly in front of her was a polished wooden desk that almost dwarfed the tiny, pointed man sitting primly behind it; as Saeran approached he looked up, almost annoyed at the presence of a visitor, and put his pen pointedly in its holder to give the impression of being disturbed. If she hadn't been partly warned by Lord Gwilym Saeran probably would have run away but as it was she put on her most blinding be-friendly-to-strangers smile and stepped right up to his desk.
"Hello!" she said brightly before he could intone the inevitable snooty 'Can I help you?' "I've come to browse the Library. Would that be okay?"
It seemed he was slightly taken aback by such hostile amity, but nonetheless it only took him a moment or two to recover.
"Yes," he said cautiously. "But I'm afraid there are some rules. You'll have to leave all bags, overcoats, hats and writing equipment here. No naked flames, no lanterns unless authorised and no touching the manuscripts," he pulled out a pair of what looked like mole-skin gloves, "without these. No running, dancing, skipping or moving at any pace other than a steady walk. No pets. No hand jewellery, no belt buckles and," and here he paused, leaning forward to fix Saeran with intense, pale grey eyes, his voice dropping to a hiss, "No defiling of the manuscripts."
That done he sat back, glaring at her. There was a brief silence as Saeran waited to make sure he was finished. It seemed he was; he continued to glare at her.
"Okay!" she said brightly after a second. Carefully she slipped the harp in its case off her back and placed it reverentially on the desk; to his credit, the clerk lifted it behind as gently as he could, giving the instrument obvious respect. The plain ring, the belt and the cloak she passed him he merely threw into a cupboard to the side, however, maintaining his glare. It was actually very impressive. Saeran wondered who he practised on.
"Take these," he intoned, once it became clear she had nothing illicit left to give him. He held up the gloves, and Saeran took them gently.
"Thank you!" she told him cheerfully, and he gave her a sour look before waving her off down the isles, taking his pen back out of its holder and resuming whatever it was he'd been doing. Firmly dismissed, Saeran headed off into the Library.
By the time she'd gone even a hundred steps, scanning the labels on the shelves for reference, Saeran realised two things about the Library. The first was that it was the most magical place she'd ever been or ever hoped of imagining. The second was that it was vast, and she had no idea where to go.
She wandered back to the clerk's desk. This time, the look he gave her was venomous.
"Yes?" he asked, voice deadly.
"I don't suppose you have a map of the Library I can look at, do you?" Saeran asked, keeping her own voice as amicably polite as she could. He glared at her and handed her a folded piece of paper, slightly yellowed with age. Saeran thanked him, and tried to ignore the feeling of his glare burning a hole through her skull as she walked back down the isles.
It took her almost twenty minutes of walking, but finally Saeran found the Ancient Manuscripts section right at the back of the Library, apparently as far from the front doors as possible. There were no windows there; four enormous chandeliers, each individual flame almost smothered in glass, provided the only illumination. A large wooden table with a raised central dais for resting the manuscripts stood in the centre of the room, tall stools set about it for the readers and scholars to use. The edges were the shelves, and the drawers, filled with knowledge just waiting to be learned.
It didn't take long to find what she was looking for; all poetry composed after the final Ysbrydnos before the fall of Cantre'r Gwaelod. It was a comparitively small section; not much had survived for obvious reasons, and the sea had taken it back not long after the Ysbrydnos anyway. But it was remarkably comprehensive in its subject matter nonetheless. Saeran grinned, carefully extracted the first, and began to read.
The clerk did lurk about as promised, but he didn't disturb her and Saeran barely noticed, absorbed in her task. The prohibition of writing materials was entirely not a problem, since Saeran was a bard. As she read the passages slipped into her head, neatly lined up in her memory for her to take out and peruse later. She read them all; eulogies, laments, englynion, cywyddau, the joys of dancing, the joys of music, the joys of Riders, the joys of joy itself and all other philosophies, myths, legends, rumours, complete poems, first drafts, crossed-out phrases and new words. Saeran absorbed each word, each lyric, each clue.
She finished just in time to leave and get to the feast, making sure she was doubly nice to the clerk as she left. She wondered if he was going to have her killed.
****
The tables were packed with gentryfolk and trades people of all kinds who were probably on their twentieth cup of mead that day. Saeran didn't mind overmuch. She was up on a raised dais in the corner of the room behind the Top Table, seated on Aberystwyth's beautiful bardic Chair. The tapestries lining the walls of the hall were vibrantly coloured, depicting the battle between Summer and Winter from start to finish, Summer winning. Occasionally, the Alpha Wingleader gave Saeran an odd look, but on closer inspection the woman seemed to do it to everyone, including Lord Gwilym, so Saeran didn't let it concern her overmuch. She simply played tunes as they ate; there was no point in singing yet when no one was going to hear, much less join in.
She pondered some of the poems she'd just learned as she did, her mind casually composing melodies for them as she did. Some of them were odd; there were more than a few children's poems, and a few that were clearly composed by apprentice bards learning their way around Conveying A Message, the balance between art and story not quite right still. Saeran loved them. One had been an odd little cautionary tale, maybe composed at the start of the Union cementing Cymru's borders; no poems tried to tell Riders how to behave nowadays. Mentally, Saeran sang through it, her fingers caressing the chords aloud.
Go fifth to the table to have no say;
Forth to be in a druid's way;
Now third is fine, but only with a
Bard to bring attention hither.
With second comes risk of always being
Fated to look, yet e'er unseeing.
Hand your attention to the one who is first
And listens to others with honest thirst;
Find your support and lend it to
The speaker of wisdom, clear and true.
Rider, oh Rider, always beware
Of throwing your lot in with nary a care.
The fate of the world may rest on you;
Land, sea and sky and all things through.
It did, however, fit the pattern of bad choices again. Saeran's brow creased as she thought about it. It was an odd one, certainly; all the other poems she'd collated so far had been very professional, slick affairs, whereas this one... wasn't. There was no real craft to this one at all, as though it had been written in a lesson and then forgotten about; but it fit both the time period and the pattern.
Well... the relevant parts to these poems usually came after the theme of the 'Bad Choice', but in this case the whole poem was about choosing. The preoccupation with numbers at the start? Did that mean something? The only three social groups named were the Druid, the Bard and the Rider. It had an elegance to it, Saeran had to give it that.
Attention was mentioned twice. Support once. And 'throwing in your lot', which counted. Someone needed to support someone else? In which case, who? The poem seemed almost to be aimed specifically at a Rider, so presumably not.
Closing her eyes, Saeran tried to imagine the poem in her head and its image presented itself neatly to the back of her eyelids. It was a messy hand that wrote it, onto paper that had a shopping list on the back and several mistakes throughout it. The letters were largely uneven, a broken scrawl that only really bucked the trend at the start of each line where the letters were inordinately large, almost as though the bard had really wanted to -
- to make a point.
First letters? GFNBWFH... well, that already wasn't working. Worth a try.
Saeran almost stopped playing, sitting bolt upright in the Chair. First letters were no good, but the first words were -
Go Forth Now Bard With Fated Hand And Find The Rider Of The Land.
SAERAN
Hilariously, it took Saeran a couple of minutes to recognise who the two men were, standing in the back of the crowd and watching her play the Ballad. Afterwards she comforted herself with the fact that it clearly wasn't her fault; she hadn't been to Aberystwyth's coronation the year before, and no one had seen Lord Gwilym properly for years since he seemed to have spent much of his time in Erinn. As such, Saeran simply assumed a pair of visiting Erinnish noblemen had come to see the festival.
What tipped her off that this probably wasn't the case was the Cymric edge to Lord Gwilym's features. His colouring was Erinnish but his cheekbones were too high, bearded chin too pointed, especially by contrast to his cousin next to him who seemed entirely Erinnish to an almost parodical extent. After she'd noticed that and pondered it, Saeran saw the excited looks the locals cast them as they passed, the occasional bow sent Lord Gwilym's way, although the slightly embarrassed wave of his hand with which he acknowledged them was wildly endearing in Saeran's opinion. Finally, after she'd finished the final, rousing chorus and everyone cheered he lifted his chin, displaying the golden torque around his neck, and everything fell into place. Saeran was glad she hadn't realised before; it would have been distinctly awkward to have realised she was singing to a Sovereign while halfway through the Ballad.
Further in the City the clocktower struck, and Saeran held up her hand to show she was finished. Flatteringly most of the onlookers groaned in protest.
"One more!" and old woman at the front said, a six-year-old boy perched on her lap. She wore a silver brooch pin on her shawl shaped like a stylised running horse, wings arced around it. "It wouldn't take long."
"I'm afraid if I don't stop now I never will, Mother," Saeran laughed, bowing to her. "And I do need to feed myself at some point today or I'll be collapsing all over my harp. I'll be back later, though."
"Better had, girl," the Mother grinned. "Or you'll have a riot on your hands."
"Thank you, Mother," Saeran said; and then, feeling daring, she bowed to the men behind her. "Sovereign."
"Singer," Lord Gwilym returned easily. He had a beautiful voice, all deep and sonorous in his throat. Probably a baritone, Saeran thought. "I don't suppose you're booked for tonight?"
"Not as of yet, Sovereign," Saeran said. In spirit she crossed every part of her anatomy she feasibly could and then some.
"Well," he smiled, " I would be honoured to give you a Chair tonight at the feast on the condition that you return here first this afternoon to prevent Mother here from inciting the masses to violence, which it seems she will."
"That I will," the Mother cackled. She looked at Saeran, mischief in her milky blue eyes. "He's a good Sovereign, this one, see? Knows whom to listen to."
"So it seems," Saeran grinned. "In which case, might I add another condition, Sovereign?"
Lord Gwilym managed to construct the best put-upon expression Saeran had ever seen.
"You see?" he told the man with him; although he looked about eighteen now that Saeran could see him properly. "You give an inch in this job, they take a mile. Although, what is the condition? Because if it's something that I don't have to do then I'll stop complaining."
"I'd like to visit the Great Library," Saeran said, and Lord Gwilym beamed.
"Excellent!" he said happily. "Yes, of course you can. It's slightly intimidating, as a warning; the chap who works behind the desk suspects everyone of trying to eat the books or something and so will probably find endless excuses to lurk at you from behind pillars, but otherwise it's lovely. You'll know him when you see him, he looks a bit like a rat."
Saeran giggled. Lord Gwilym seemed to have the same eminently personable aura as Lady Marged, albeit without the eccentricities and cats.
"Thank you, Sovereign," she said politely. "I shall keep an eye out for him. And now, if you'll all excuse me, I really must go and grab some lunch."
"Certainly" Lord Gwilym said grandly. "I'll see you at the feast." And he bowed her away.
****
The chance to visit the Library fitted in neatly between her afternoon stint along the sea front and the evening's feast in the Residence; there was a gap of about three hours which she otherwise would have spent wandering from tavern to tavern like a waif looking for a free drink. Instead, she skipped merrily up the hill to the Sovereign's Residence, emblazoned across the hillside and overlooking Aberystwyth. Beyond it she could see the imposing barrier of the Great Darkgate, looming ominously in the dusking light of the slowly setting sun behind Caerleuad. As physical warnings went, the Great Darkgate definitely did what it was designed to do; Saeran felt incredibly intimidated by it, and she wasn't trying to wage a war on Aberystwyth.
She turned right at the grandiose entrance to the Residence and continued along the short stretch of road to the Library. Since the Library was built of white stone and marble the effect in the sunset was remarkable; it looked like solid fire, every window aflame and every flourish in the decor forged and burning. It was beautiful, and intimidating like the Great Darkgate, but in such a different way. Eagerly, Saeran stepped up the pace and hastened inside.
The lighting inside was far cosier, the dark wooden interiors illuminated softly by chandeliers and mirrors that made the place look like a maze. Directly in front of her was a polished wooden desk that almost dwarfed the tiny, pointed man sitting primly behind it; as Saeran approached he looked up, almost annoyed at the presence of a visitor, and put his pen pointedly in its holder to give the impression of being disturbed. If she hadn't been partly warned by Lord Gwilym Saeran probably would have run away but as it was she put on her most blinding be-friendly-to-strangers smile and stepped right up to his desk.
"Hello!" she said brightly before he could intone the inevitable snooty 'Can I help you?' "I've come to browse the Library. Would that be okay?"
It seemed he was slightly taken aback by such hostile amity, but nonetheless it only took him a moment or two to recover.
"Yes," he said cautiously. "But I'm afraid there are some rules. You'll have to leave all bags, overcoats, hats and writing equipment here. No naked flames, no lanterns unless authorised and no touching the manuscripts," he pulled out a pair of what looked like mole-skin gloves, "without these. No running, dancing, skipping or moving at any pace other than a steady walk. No pets. No hand jewellery, no belt buckles and," and here he paused, leaning forward to fix Saeran with intense, pale grey eyes, his voice dropping to a hiss, "No defiling of the manuscripts."
That done he sat back, glaring at her. There was a brief silence as Saeran waited to make sure he was finished. It seemed he was; he continued to glare at her.
"Okay!" she said brightly after a second. Carefully she slipped the harp in its case off her back and placed it reverentially on the desk; to his credit, the clerk lifted it behind as gently as he could, giving the instrument obvious respect. The plain ring, the belt and the cloak she passed him he merely threw into a cupboard to the side, however, maintaining his glare. It was actually very impressive. Saeran wondered who he practised on.
"Take these," he intoned, once it became clear she had nothing illicit left to give him. He held up the gloves, and Saeran took them gently.
"Thank you!" she told him cheerfully, and he gave her a sour look before waving her off down the isles, taking his pen back out of its holder and resuming whatever it was he'd been doing. Firmly dismissed, Saeran headed off into the Library.
By the time she'd gone even a hundred steps, scanning the labels on the shelves for reference, Saeran realised two things about the Library. The first was that it was the most magical place she'd ever been or ever hoped of imagining. The second was that it was vast, and she had no idea where to go.
She wandered back to the clerk's desk. This time, the look he gave her was venomous.
"Yes?" he asked, voice deadly.
"I don't suppose you have a map of the Library I can look at, do you?" Saeran asked, keeping her own voice as amicably polite as she could. He glared at her and handed her a folded piece of paper, slightly yellowed with age. Saeran thanked him, and tried to ignore the feeling of his glare burning a hole through her skull as she walked back down the isles.
It took her almost twenty minutes of walking, but finally Saeran found the Ancient Manuscripts section right at the back of the Library, apparently as far from the front doors as possible. There were no windows there; four enormous chandeliers, each individual flame almost smothered in glass, provided the only illumination. A large wooden table with a raised central dais for resting the manuscripts stood in the centre of the room, tall stools set about it for the readers and scholars to use. The edges were the shelves, and the drawers, filled with knowledge just waiting to be learned.
It didn't take long to find what she was looking for; all poetry composed after the final Ysbrydnos before the fall of Cantre'r Gwaelod. It was a comparitively small section; not much had survived for obvious reasons, and the sea had taken it back not long after the Ysbrydnos anyway. But it was remarkably comprehensive in its subject matter nonetheless. Saeran grinned, carefully extracted the first, and began to read.
The clerk did lurk about as promised, but he didn't disturb her and Saeran barely noticed, absorbed in her task. The prohibition of writing materials was entirely not a problem, since Saeran was a bard. As she read the passages slipped into her head, neatly lined up in her memory for her to take out and peruse later. She read them all; eulogies, laments, englynion, cywyddau, the joys of dancing, the joys of music, the joys of Riders, the joys of joy itself and all other philosophies, myths, legends, rumours, complete poems, first drafts, crossed-out phrases and new words. Saeran absorbed each word, each lyric, each clue.
She finished just in time to leave and get to the feast, making sure she was doubly nice to the clerk as she left. She wondered if he was going to have her killed.
****
The tables were packed with gentryfolk and trades people of all kinds who were probably on their twentieth cup of mead that day. Saeran didn't mind overmuch. She was up on a raised dais in the corner of the room behind the Top Table, seated on Aberystwyth's beautiful bardic Chair. The tapestries lining the walls of the hall were vibrantly coloured, depicting the battle between Summer and Winter from start to finish, Summer winning. Occasionally, the Alpha Wingleader gave Saeran an odd look, but on closer inspection the woman seemed to do it to everyone, including Lord Gwilym, so Saeran didn't let it concern her overmuch. She simply played tunes as they ate; there was no point in singing yet when no one was going to hear, much less join in.
She pondered some of the poems she'd just learned as she did, her mind casually composing melodies for them as she did. Some of them were odd; there were more than a few children's poems, and a few that were clearly composed by apprentice bards learning their way around Conveying A Message, the balance between art and story not quite right still. Saeran loved them. One had been an odd little cautionary tale, maybe composed at the start of the Union cementing Cymru's borders; no poems tried to tell Riders how to behave nowadays. Mentally, Saeran sang through it, her fingers caressing the chords aloud.
Go fifth to the table to have no say;
Forth to be in a druid's way;
Now third is fine, but only with a
Bard to bring attention hither.
With second comes risk of always being
Fated to look, yet e'er unseeing.
Hand your attention to the one who is first
And listens to others with honest thirst;
Find your support and lend it to
The speaker of wisdom, clear and true.
Rider, oh Rider, always beware
Of throwing your lot in with nary a care.
The fate of the world may rest on you;
Land, sea and sky and all things through.
It did, however, fit the pattern of bad choices again. Saeran's brow creased as she thought about it. It was an odd one, certainly; all the other poems she'd collated so far had been very professional, slick affairs, whereas this one... wasn't. There was no real craft to this one at all, as though it had been written in a lesson and then forgotten about; but it fit both the time period and the pattern.
Well... the relevant parts to these poems usually came after the theme of the 'Bad Choice', but in this case the whole poem was about choosing. The preoccupation with numbers at the start? Did that mean something? The only three social groups named were the Druid, the Bard and the Rider. It had an elegance to it, Saeran had to give it that.
Attention was mentioned twice. Support once. And 'throwing in your lot', which counted. Someone needed to support someone else? In which case, who? The poem seemed almost to be aimed specifically at a Rider, so presumably not.
Closing her eyes, Saeran tried to imagine the poem in her head and its image presented itself neatly to the back of her eyelids. It was a messy hand that wrote it, onto paper that had a shopping list on the back and several mistakes throughout it. The letters were largely uneven, a broken scrawl that only really bucked the trend at the start of each line where the letters were inordinately large, almost as though the bard had really wanted to -
- to make a point.
First letters? GFNBWFH... well, that already wasn't working. Worth a try.
Saeran almost stopped playing, sitting bolt upright in the Chair. First letters were no good, but the first words were -
Go Forth Now Bard With Fated Hand And Find The Rider Of The Land.
Thursday, 6 November 2008
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 5
DYLAN
Around two minutes into the flight, Dylan decided he hated the airbus. Pulled by merod or not, if the giant canvas balloon above him tore or exploded or something they were going to be making an interesting splatter pattern all over the pretty Bannau Brycheiniog for the wolves to clean up. Unless they landed on the wolves, of course, in which case Dylan would be sad to miss just how interesting the pattern would be. But maybe he was being macabre. Siân said he was macabre.
Around twenty minutes in his already limited ability to stay positive had died out, and in an attempt to distract himself from the air beneath him (or, more specifically, the air and then the earth) Dylan was sitting stiffly, eyes closed, sensing out the web of energies around him. The ley lines, mercifully, were all intact still; whatever had pushed out of them wasn't strong enough to move them, obviously, for which Dylan was profoundly grateful. Unfortunately, nothing else was still intact.
The energy fields were just... wrong. Where they should have have interlocked they no longer touched; where they should have been parallel they were stretched; where they should have merged they repelled each other. It was like a bruise effect - the 'wound' was centred around the Bannau, in Llangors, where the energy fields were so warped and distorted there was almost a hole in the fabric of the world, but the damage spread outwards from it like a jagged circle, tearing at the villages, towns and cities indiscriminately. Worryingly, Port Talbot was affected. Dylan hoped it wasn't as bad as it seemed; Port Talbot's population was mostly comprised of prisoners in its work camps. Although at least it wouldn't be as bad as Llangors.
When he'd left, everything had still been unmoving, as though it was stuck in a place forgotten by the world. The lake surface was no longer forming a wall around the City, which was definitely a bonus, but it had gone back to resembling a mirror. No wind stirred there, the air thick and stifling; and although Siân had finally, in a feat that was testament to just how strong her weather magic was, managed to stop the snow the thin grey clouds remained, the snow itself refusing to melt away. The fires had all gone out, and no amount of coaxing or manipulation would make them rekindle. Everyone had been subdued, watching Dylan with scared, hollow eyes.
The world was warping, out of all that was natural. What could possibly cause that?
Forty minutes into the journey Aberystwyth appeared, not so much on the horizon as over the hills. Dylan almost wanted to lean out of the window to watch it near. It was vast; so much bigger than Llangors, a covering of buildings lining the bowl of the valley it lay in and tumbling down to the sea's edge. He could see the market-place, packed with people as they buzzed about, the Calan Mai celebrations in full swing as they danced about the maypoles; further down the harbour gleamed, an armarda of fishing boats coming and going between the Archipelago and the towns inland. Up the hill on the right the Sovereign's Residence, the Great Library to its side, shone white in the sunlight, a beacon for all to see; and beyond it, darkly brooding, stood the Great Darkgate. About a mile into the bay opposite Aberystwyth Dylan could see its twin, the glittering fortress-City of Caerleuad. Even from this distance it all looked overwhelming. Dylan had only ever left Llangors to visit the nearby villages and, once, to Port Talbot. Port Talbot had been filthy, the buildings thick with soot from the massive pyres and its denizens scurrying from place to place, eyes down and unsmiling at the rats in the broken streets. Aberystwyth looked like civilisation. Dylan wondered if the other Great Cities were like it.
Ten minutes later they were landing smoothly on the Landing Tower, and Dylan started to breathe again. He hated flying.
The Neuadd wasn't quite in the City proper, which would have been a shame if they hadn't landed in the middle of the City anyway. Dylan thanked the Driver and left, clutching the map he'd been given tightly to his chest. He didn't really need it; the energy fields weren't so bad here, and he could feel the intersecting of the ley lines up on the cliff to the north, which automatically answered where the Urdd would have built their head quarters, but nonetheless just having it made Dylan feel slightly safer, as though now he had a shield that would let everyone know he was a visitor. He wasn't really sure if it worked or not; certainly as he pushed his way through Aberystwyth's tall stone streets no one jostled him intentionally or shouted at him for Doing It Wrong, but they could have just been naturally friendly and besides, it was a festival. Everyone was happy.
He passed a place called the Downtown Vaults, which Dylan supposed was an underground tavern judging by the smell of mead and woodsmoke and the sound of bardic presense emanating from the steps that led down beneath the streets. Dancers whirled past him, a bard with some kind of pipe leading them at a frenetic, lilting pace. At the end of the street he paused, sensing out the lines again for confirmation and double-checking his map. The streets were a bit packed, but the sea-front looked wider. If nothing else, it would be less over-whelmingly claustrophobic. He turned left, and headed seawards.
He was right. The throng of people was much the same, as was the dizzying procession of entertainers and revellers, but the street was only housed on one side; the other opened straight out onto the beach and the sea. The smell of salt water met Dylan's nostrils, mixing with the scents of honey and fresh bread and hawthorn and the ever-present wood-smoke, and the sound of the gulls overlaid the harps and laughter. A maypole was in use, away to his left, but Dylan turned right towards the cliffs. He could see the Neuadd on top, almost shrouded in hawthorn boughs. He swallowed nervously.
A little way along he came across another bard, surrounded by a group of people, most of them either very old or very young. Dylan blinked as he looked at her. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, and she had the darkest complexion he'd ever seen, skin like honey and hair like bark, rich and dark and swirling in waves that danced in the breeze to the tune as she sang. Her voice was clear and well-schooled, a pure-sounding soprano that made him think of water. There was something about her that Dylan couldn't quite place, and he didn't think it was her colouring; although how she'd gotten that was a question in and of itself. They had dark hair in Erinn, he knew, but traditionally they still had pale skin, and green eyes. This bard looked far more exotic. Maybe she was part Phoenician. They got Phoenician traders in Aberdaugleddau all the time, and Aberystwyth had a big enough harbour for them. A Phoenician father, perhaps.
He was about to move on anyway when he realised what she was doing. The song she was singing harmonised with the sea beside her, with the gulls wheeling above her, the breeze that gusted gently. Every crescendo came with the waves, every descant with the birds, every hummed bridge played with the breeze. It was an extraordinary talent; she had to be composing it on the spot for it to work, and yet she'd still produced a hummed tune to function as a chorus than her audience happily joined in with, taking their cues from her for their dynamics and easily developing their own harmonies. It was, hands down, the most beautiful piece of music Dylan had ever heard.
He wanted so badly to open his mind to it, feel it soaring with the energies around them, but the second he tried he couldn't. They clashed and crashed against it dischordantly, and Dylan swallowed a wave of bitter disappointment. The world was shattering. He had to move on.
Reluctantly, Dylan tore himself away from the crowd who by now were swaying and pressed on towards the cliff path. There was an odd contraption running up it, a pair of rails with a large metal box at either end big enough for several people to sit comfortably inside. He could feel the water all around it, running in small, carefully built reservoirs. He wondered what it was.
"They call it a funicular," a voice said behind him. Dylan turned, and found himself looking into the insanely friendly face of the bard he'd just been listening to. She smiled brightly. "It takes you up the top of the cliff."
"Really?" Dylan turned back and stared at the rails. "How?"
"The two cars are attached to one long rope," the bard said, drawing level with him and pointing upwards. She was quite short, Dylan realised; the top of her head reached his eyebrows, and he wasn't exactly tall. "They release stored water at the top into tanks under the top car; that makes it heavy enough to pull the other one up as it goes down, nice and slowly. It's an incredibly old design."
Dylan stared, fascinated, as the cars began to move. It looked far safer than flying; if nothing else, it was considerably lower to the ground.
"I'm Saeran, by the way," the bard added as they watched. "You're a visitor?"
"Dylan," Dylan said. "Yes, I am. How did you know?"
"The map," Saeran said, nodding to the paper still clutched in his hand. "Also, you have the mildly traumatised look of a druid in a new place for the first time. Is this your first time away?"
"I - yes," Dylan said, slightly bemused. People could tell that sort of thing? "Well, sort of. I live in Llangors, and I've been to Port Talbot once."
"Oh, bad luck," Saeran giggled. "Actually I shouldn't say that. The people there are lovely once they open up, they're just a bit wary of strangers."
Dylan wasn't sure what to say to that. He'd spent the whole time reciting the words for protection spells in his head in case of emergencies, but Saeran seemed astonishingly genuine about her conclusions. It was probably because she had the word LOVELY stamped across her forehead, though.
"I liked your music," he said instead, and decided that he probably said the most retarded things in the world to strangers and should only ever be allowed to speak to the residents of Llangors ever again. "I mean, the song you were just singing."
Actually, she'd hummed most of it. Was 'song' the wrong word in bardic terms? Saeran, however, beamed at him, which helped to put Dylan at ease to no end.
"Thank you!" she said happily. "It's tricky to do, that kind of thing. One of my tutors was a druid, and she always used to encourage me to try. It's not been working quite so well at the moment, though."
"No," Dylan agreed, and suddenly realised she was looking at him, chewing her lower lip. Had he just insulted her? Maybe he'd insulted her.
"I mean," he said, trying to make amends, "it's not your fault. Everything's a bit... weird at the moment."
Saeran closed her eyes for a moment, and sighed.
"I'd hoped I was wrong," she said quietly. "But I'm not, am I? That's why there are practically no druids about today, the weird cold weather last night."
"You're not wrong," Dylan said. "Er... I'm not sure you're meant to know, though."
"Oh, I won't tell," Saeran said earnestly, turning to meet his eye. "Honestly. I won't. The last thing we need is for everyone to start panicking. How bad is it?"
"Bad." Dylan glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "Something happened last night, during the Ysbrydnos, except it's all routed in life and mind energies, and not many people can feel those. I can but I'm really poor at using them. So I'm here to tell the Urdd, so they can get someone on it."
"You can feel life magics?" Saeran looked openly admiring. Dylan almost squirmed.
"Yeah, but, I can't do anything with them."
"I'm sure you'll be able to one day," Saeran said encouragingly. Again, she seemed disarmingly genuine about it. "Just being able to feel them is already an achievement."
"Maybe," Dylan said doubtfully. Saeran shook her head.
"You will," she said confidently. "Anyway; your carriage awaits."
She gestured to the funicular, opening its doors and spilling its passengers onto the promenade. Dylan nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Well, it was nice to meet you."
"And you," Saeran smiled brightly. "I'll be along here for most of today, though, so if you want to chat or sing before you go, come and find me!" And then she was gone amongst the crowd, too petite for his eyes to follow. Surprisingly, though, he was sorry she was going. Even if it wasn't true it was nice to have someone tell him he wasn't completely useless for a bit.
Around two minutes into the flight, Dylan decided he hated the airbus. Pulled by merod or not, if the giant canvas balloon above him tore or exploded or something they were going to be making an interesting splatter pattern all over the pretty Bannau Brycheiniog for the wolves to clean up. Unless they landed on the wolves, of course, in which case Dylan would be sad to miss just how interesting the pattern would be. But maybe he was being macabre. Siân said he was macabre.
Around twenty minutes in his already limited ability to stay positive had died out, and in an attempt to distract himself from the air beneath him (or, more specifically, the air and then the earth) Dylan was sitting stiffly, eyes closed, sensing out the web of energies around him. The ley lines, mercifully, were all intact still; whatever had pushed out of them wasn't strong enough to move them, obviously, for which Dylan was profoundly grateful. Unfortunately, nothing else was still intact.
The energy fields were just... wrong. Where they should have have interlocked they no longer touched; where they should have been parallel they were stretched; where they should have merged they repelled each other. It was like a bruise effect - the 'wound' was centred around the Bannau, in Llangors, where the energy fields were so warped and distorted there was almost a hole in the fabric of the world, but the damage spread outwards from it like a jagged circle, tearing at the villages, towns and cities indiscriminately. Worryingly, Port Talbot was affected. Dylan hoped it wasn't as bad as it seemed; Port Talbot's population was mostly comprised of prisoners in its work camps. Although at least it wouldn't be as bad as Llangors.
When he'd left, everything had still been unmoving, as though it was stuck in a place forgotten by the world. The lake surface was no longer forming a wall around the City, which was definitely a bonus, but it had gone back to resembling a mirror. No wind stirred there, the air thick and stifling; and although Siân had finally, in a feat that was testament to just how strong her weather magic was, managed to stop the snow the thin grey clouds remained, the snow itself refusing to melt away. The fires had all gone out, and no amount of coaxing or manipulation would make them rekindle. Everyone had been subdued, watching Dylan with scared, hollow eyes.
The world was warping, out of all that was natural. What could possibly cause that?
Forty minutes into the journey Aberystwyth appeared, not so much on the horizon as over the hills. Dylan almost wanted to lean out of the window to watch it near. It was vast; so much bigger than Llangors, a covering of buildings lining the bowl of the valley it lay in and tumbling down to the sea's edge. He could see the market-place, packed with people as they buzzed about, the Calan Mai celebrations in full swing as they danced about the maypoles; further down the harbour gleamed, an armarda of fishing boats coming and going between the Archipelago and the towns inland. Up the hill on the right the Sovereign's Residence, the Great Library to its side, shone white in the sunlight, a beacon for all to see; and beyond it, darkly brooding, stood the Great Darkgate. About a mile into the bay opposite Aberystwyth Dylan could see its twin, the glittering fortress-City of Caerleuad. Even from this distance it all looked overwhelming. Dylan had only ever left Llangors to visit the nearby villages and, once, to Port Talbot. Port Talbot had been filthy, the buildings thick with soot from the massive pyres and its denizens scurrying from place to place, eyes down and unsmiling at the rats in the broken streets. Aberystwyth looked like civilisation. Dylan wondered if the other Great Cities were like it.
Ten minutes later they were landing smoothly on the Landing Tower, and Dylan started to breathe again. He hated flying.
The Neuadd wasn't quite in the City proper, which would have been a shame if they hadn't landed in the middle of the City anyway. Dylan thanked the Driver and left, clutching the map he'd been given tightly to his chest. He didn't really need it; the energy fields weren't so bad here, and he could feel the intersecting of the ley lines up on the cliff to the north, which automatically answered where the Urdd would have built their head quarters, but nonetheless just having it made Dylan feel slightly safer, as though now he had a shield that would let everyone know he was a visitor. He wasn't really sure if it worked or not; certainly as he pushed his way through Aberystwyth's tall stone streets no one jostled him intentionally or shouted at him for Doing It Wrong, but they could have just been naturally friendly and besides, it was a festival. Everyone was happy.
He passed a place called the Downtown Vaults, which Dylan supposed was an underground tavern judging by the smell of mead and woodsmoke and the sound of bardic presense emanating from the steps that led down beneath the streets. Dancers whirled past him, a bard with some kind of pipe leading them at a frenetic, lilting pace. At the end of the street he paused, sensing out the lines again for confirmation and double-checking his map. The streets were a bit packed, but the sea-front looked wider. If nothing else, it would be less over-whelmingly claustrophobic. He turned left, and headed seawards.
He was right. The throng of people was much the same, as was the dizzying procession of entertainers and revellers, but the street was only housed on one side; the other opened straight out onto the beach and the sea. The smell of salt water met Dylan's nostrils, mixing with the scents of honey and fresh bread and hawthorn and the ever-present wood-smoke, and the sound of the gulls overlaid the harps and laughter. A maypole was in use, away to his left, but Dylan turned right towards the cliffs. He could see the Neuadd on top, almost shrouded in hawthorn boughs. He swallowed nervously.
A little way along he came across another bard, surrounded by a group of people, most of them either very old or very young. Dylan blinked as he looked at her. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, and she had the darkest complexion he'd ever seen, skin like honey and hair like bark, rich and dark and swirling in waves that danced in the breeze to the tune as she sang. Her voice was clear and well-schooled, a pure-sounding soprano that made him think of water. There was something about her that Dylan couldn't quite place, and he didn't think it was her colouring; although how she'd gotten that was a question in and of itself. They had dark hair in Erinn, he knew, but traditionally they still had pale skin, and green eyes. This bard looked far more exotic. Maybe she was part Phoenician. They got Phoenician traders in Aberdaugleddau all the time, and Aberystwyth had a big enough harbour for them. A Phoenician father, perhaps.
He was about to move on anyway when he realised what she was doing. The song she was singing harmonised with the sea beside her, with the gulls wheeling above her, the breeze that gusted gently. Every crescendo came with the waves, every descant with the birds, every hummed bridge played with the breeze. It was an extraordinary talent; she had to be composing it on the spot for it to work, and yet she'd still produced a hummed tune to function as a chorus than her audience happily joined in with, taking their cues from her for their dynamics and easily developing their own harmonies. It was, hands down, the most beautiful piece of music Dylan had ever heard.
He wanted so badly to open his mind to it, feel it soaring with the energies around them, but the second he tried he couldn't. They clashed and crashed against it dischordantly, and Dylan swallowed a wave of bitter disappointment. The world was shattering. He had to move on.
Reluctantly, Dylan tore himself away from the crowd who by now were swaying and pressed on towards the cliff path. There was an odd contraption running up it, a pair of rails with a large metal box at either end big enough for several people to sit comfortably inside. He could feel the water all around it, running in small, carefully built reservoirs. He wondered what it was.
"They call it a funicular," a voice said behind him. Dylan turned, and found himself looking into the insanely friendly face of the bard he'd just been listening to. She smiled brightly. "It takes you up the top of the cliff."
"Really?" Dylan turned back and stared at the rails. "How?"
"The two cars are attached to one long rope," the bard said, drawing level with him and pointing upwards. She was quite short, Dylan realised; the top of her head reached his eyebrows, and he wasn't exactly tall. "They release stored water at the top into tanks under the top car; that makes it heavy enough to pull the other one up as it goes down, nice and slowly. It's an incredibly old design."
Dylan stared, fascinated, as the cars began to move. It looked far safer than flying; if nothing else, it was considerably lower to the ground.
"I'm Saeran, by the way," the bard added as they watched. "You're a visitor?"
"Dylan," Dylan said. "Yes, I am. How did you know?"
"The map," Saeran said, nodding to the paper still clutched in his hand. "Also, you have the mildly traumatised look of a druid in a new place for the first time. Is this your first time away?"
"I - yes," Dylan said, slightly bemused. People could tell that sort of thing? "Well, sort of. I live in Llangors, and I've been to Port Talbot once."
"Oh, bad luck," Saeran giggled. "Actually I shouldn't say that. The people there are lovely once they open up, they're just a bit wary of strangers."
Dylan wasn't sure what to say to that. He'd spent the whole time reciting the words for protection spells in his head in case of emergencies, but Saeran seemed astonishingly genuine about her conclusions. It was probably because she had the word LOVELY stamped across her forehead, though.
"I liked your music," he said instead, and decided that he probably said the most retarded things in the world to strangers and should only ever be allowed to speak to the residents of Llangors ever again. "I mean, the song you were just singing."
Actually, she'd hummed most of it. Was 'song' the wrong word in bardic terms? Saeran, however, beamed at him, which helped to put Dylan at ease to no end.
"Thank you!" she said happily. "It's tricky to do, that kind of thing. One of my tutors was a druid, and she always used to encourage me to try. It's not been working quite so well at the moment, though."
"No," Dylan agreed, and suddenly realised she was looking at him, chewing her lower lip. Had he just insulted her? Maybe he'd insulted her.
"I mean," he said, trying to make amends, "it's not your fault. Everything's a bit... weird at the moment."
Saeran closed her eyes for a moment, and sighed.
"I'd hoped I was wrong," she said quietly. "But I'm not, am I? That's why there are practically no druids about today, the weird cold weather last night."
"You're not wrong," Dylan said. "Er... I'm not sure you're meant to know, though."
"Oh, I won't tell," Saeran said earnestly, turning to meet his eye. "Honestly. I won't. The last thing we need is for everyone to start panicking. How bad is it?"
"Bad." Dylan glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "Something happened last night, during the Ysbrydnos, except it's all routed in life and mind energies, and not many people can feel those. I can but I'm really poor at using them. So I'm here to tell the Urdd, so they can get someone on it."
"You can feel life magics?" Saeran looked openly admiring. Dylan almost squirmed.
"Yeah, but, I can't do anything with them."
"I'm sure you'll be able to one day," Saeran said encouragingly. Again, she seemed disarmingly genuine about it. "Just being able to feel them is already an achievement."
"Maybe," Dylan said doubtfully. Saeran shook her head.
"You will," she said confidently. "Anyway; your carriage awaits."
She gestured to the funicular, opening its doors and spilling its passengers onto the promenade. Dylan nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Well, it was nice to meet you."
"And you," Saeran smiled brightly. "I'll be along here for most of today, though, so if you want to chat or sing before you go, come and find me!" And then she was gone amongst the crowd, too petite for his eyes to follow. Surprisingly, though, he was sorry she was going. Even if it wasn't true it was nice to have someone tell him he wasn't completely useless for a bit.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
The Singing - Excerpt 2
"Remember that Spock toy I bought you when we were ten?" Russ asked, lying back on the bonnet. "The one from the Motion Picture when he had the blue uniform with the thing on his belly."
"The thing, one could only assume, was a communicator." Dai addended with a wave and a laugh.
"Of course."
"I never quite got around to getting you that one of Kirk." Dai said quietly.
"I always preferred the uniforms from Wrath of Khan onwards. I liked the way the lapels – "
" – opened up."
"It looked like it was a real uniform, you know? It looked like they were real officers."
"Star Trek Two's the best though." Dai stated, starting to count off his points against his fingers, "The best kind of sci-fi – about, you know, new beginnings. Project Genesis is like an analogy for the whole film. It may as well be the beginning of Trek post the Original Series, but also brilliant because it ties it in the old. Instead of a really vague, enigmatic high concept they made the characters grounded and human."
"'Frankly, I find that... insulting!'" Russ countered gleefully, putting on his best Nimoy drawl.
"Nicely done!" Dai said, sitting up.
**
"Where else has this town got to offer? Nowhere too rough, mind." Alice muttered, "I'm a girl of delicate sensibilities."
Russell laughed. "There's the Annwfn, Coedcae way. It's a Double Dragon pub so the beer's like piss but it should be nice and dingy."
"Annwfn, like the Underworld, Annwfn?" Alice asked.
"Aye." Dai nodded, wondering how she knew.
"Oh. Right. Just so I know what I'm getting myself into."
**
The beings took Vaddi's hand and led him into the bower that waited at the centre of the oasis, a golden path lined with trees that glowed vibrantly. As they moved Vaddi could see the two beings clearly from the corners of his eyes. One male, one female. They were both teasing him with their smiles and the way their eyes shimmered with light.
He felt his resistance melting. This, surely, was rapture. Bliss awaited him at the end of the path, be it death or enlightenment, both or neither. He could not know. But he walked willingly into the light. Refusing guilt. Refusing shame. He gave all of himself without question.
And they laughed, long and cold as the world passed out of order and Vaddi with it.
"The thing, one could only assume, was a communicator." Dai addended with a wave and a laugh.
"Of course."
"I never quite got around to getting you that one of Kirk." Dai said quietly.
"I always preferred the uniforms from Wrath of Khan onwards. I liked the way the lapels – "
" – opened up."
"It looked like it was a real uniform, you know? It looked like they were real officers."
"Star Trek Two's the best though." Dai stated, starting to count off his points against his fingers, "The best kind of sci-fi – about, you know, new beginnings. Project Genesis is like an analogy for the whole film. It may as well be the beginning of Trek post the Original Series, but also brilliant because it ties it in the old. Instead of a really vague, enigmatic high concept they made the characters grounded and human."
"'Frankly, I find that... insulting!'" Russ countered gleefully, putting on his best Nimoy drawl.
"Nicely done!" Dai said, sitting up.
**
"Where else has this town got to offer? Nowhere too rough, mind." Alice muttered, "I'm a girl of delicate sensibilities."
Russell laughed. "There's the Annwfn, Coedcae way. It's a Double Dragon pub so the beer's like piss but it should be nice and dingy."
"Annwfn, like the Underworld, Annwfn?" Alice asked.
"Aye." Dai nodded, wondering how she knew.
"Oh. Right. Just so I know what I'm getting myself into."
**
The beings took Vaddi's hand and led him into the bower that waited at the centre of the oasis, a golden path lined with trees that glowed vibrantly. As they moved Vaddi could see the two beings clearly from the corners of his eyes. One male, one female. They were both teasing him with their smiles and the way their eyes shimmered with light.
He felt his resistance melting. This, surely, was rapture. Bliss awaited him at the end of the path, be it death or enlightenment, both or neither. He could not know. But he walked willingly into the light. Refusing guilt. Refusing shame. He gave all of himself without question.
And they laughed, long and cold as the world passed out of order and Vaddi with it.
NaNoWriMo Excerpts - Cymru 4
Right: I love Gwilym, sadly his plot line is paper thin at the moment through me not thinking about it enough before this month. Ultimately he will be better, currently he's a bit plotless. And his cousin somehow has LITERALLY NO PERSONALITY. But it doesn't matter, because these are only excerpts, and it will be sorted by the time I am a famous author.
GWILYM
As the ship sailed serenely into Aberystwyth's harbour, accompanied by the ever-present fanfares that Gwilym had yet to catch, he felt inordinatly guilty that he hadn't simply gone and fetched his cousin himself in an airbus. Lorcan didn't mind sea travel, but Gwilym knew for a fact that quite aside from the time and safety difference between an airbus and a ship that Lorcan really wanted a go at flying at some point; or at least, so Gwilym had interpretted from every time he'd ever visited in Erinn. Either that or Lorcan had, in fact, been brain-damaged in a terrible accident involving a horse-drawn cart, a ramp and some chickens leading to his terrible obsession with merod, but to save the family name they'd just not told Gwilym. Which wouldn't be completely beyond all likelihood. Uncle Dara was Mental.
The ship drifted to a careful halt, and the trumpeters, wherever they were, outdid themselves in the field of shredding eardrums with sheer dischordant audio death. Gwilym hoped someone disrespectful in the crowd would pitch them into the harbour. Sadly, they didn't, and Gwilym cursed the unpredictability of peasants. To his right, Watkins cleared his throat with the practised subtlety of a political aide, and Gwilym somehow managed to wipe the wince off his face while wishing fervently that someone would pitch Watkins into the harbour; because really, no one had the right to be able to cough that obsequiously. Or look that much like a kettle.
The boarding plank went down, the fanfare went up, Gwilym stepped smartly up to the edge and briefly wished someone would push him in, and then Lorcan was at the other end, gliding as ceremonially down the plank as he could, official torque in Erinnish gold glinting at his throat and cloak impeccably positioned over his still-slightly-lanky shoulders. It was impressive how confident he looked; Mental Uncle Dara would definitely have been nagging him about giving a good impression of Erinn whilst in Cymru, which would have been added stress that left Gwilym even more mental than Mental Uncle Dara. Although that said, Lorcan didn't have Watkins to deal with.
Gwilym smiled and pushed the thought away as Lorcan reached him and bowed carefully. It was the Erinnish bow, monarch-to-monarch, which Gwilym returned before it had even occured to him that the Cymric one might have been the proper choice. He ignored Watkins. It was generally for the best to do so, Gwilym found.
"Prince Lorcan," Gwilym said grandly. "Welcome to Cymru! I hope your stay will be enjoyable."
"I'm sure it will be, Sovereign," Lorcan answered. His Cymric had improved in leaps and bounds, Gwilym noted; it was probably just as well. "I've been very much looking forward to this."
Gwilym had planned on actually responding to that, but clearly he either wasn't meant to or Watkins didn't trust him to do so without knocking Lorcan out with an oar or something, because suddenly the fanfare was back and the official aides that seemed to hang about like fleas were parting, allowing them both access to the Sovereign's Coach. Gwilym smiled brightly and gestured for Lorcan to proceed to it, which he did. The whole thing felt utterly ridiculous, as though they were about six years old again and playing some big elaborate game that was for some macabre and inexplicable reason being watched by hoardes of vaguely interested people. At least the people were cheering, though. If not they probably would have pushed Lorcan in, and that would have set a dangerous precedent.
GWILYM
As the ship sailed serenely into Aberystwyth's harbour, accompanied by the ever-present fanfares that Gwilym had yet to catch, he felt inordinatly guilty that he hadn't simply gone and fetched his cousin himself in an airbus. Lorcan didn't mind sea travel, but Gwilym knew for a fact that quite aside from the time and safety difference between an airbus and a ship that Lorcan really wanted a go at flying at some point; or at least, so Gwilym had interpretted from every time he'd ever visited in Erinn. Either that or Lorcan had, in fact, been brain-damaged in a terrible accident involving a horse-drawn cart, a ramp and some chickens leading to his terrible obsession with merod, but to save the family name they'd just not told Gwilym. Which wouldn't be completely beyond all likelihood. Uncle Dara was Mental.
The ship drifted to a careful halt, and the trumpeters, wherever they were, outdid themselves in the field of shredding eardrums with sheer dischordant audio death. Gwilym hoped someone disrespectful in the crowd would pitch them into the harbour. Sadly, they didn't, and Gwilym cursed the unpredictability of peasants. To his right, Watkins cleared his throat with the practised subtlety of a political aide, and Gwilym somehow managed to wipe the wince off his face while wishing fervently that someone would pitch Watkins into the harbour; because really, no one had the right to be able to cough that obsequiously. Or look that much like a kettle.
The boarding plank went down, the fanfare went up, Gwilym stepped smartly up to the edge and briefly wished someone would push him in, and then Lorcan was at the other end, gliding as ceremonially down the plank as he could, official torque in Erinnish gold glinting at his throat and cloak impeccably positioned over his still-slightly-lanky shoulders. It was impressive how confident he looked; Mental Uncle Dara would definitely have been nagging him about giving a good impression of Erinn whilst in Cymru, which would have been added stress that left Gwilym even more mental than Mental Uncle Dara. Although that said, Lorcan didn't have Watkins to deal with.
Gwilym smiled and pushed the thought away as Lorcan reached him and bowed carefully. It was the Erinnish bow, monarch-to-monarch, which Gwilym returned before it had even occured to him that the Cymric one might have been the proper choice. He ignored Watkins. It was generally for the best to do so, Gwilym found.
"Prince Lorcan," Gwilym said grandly. "Welcome to Cymru! I hope your stay will be enjoyable."
"I'm sure it will be, Sovereign," Lorcan answered. His Cymric had improved in leaps and bounds, Gwilym noted; it was probably just as well. "I've been very much looking forward to this."
Gwilym had planned on actually responding to that, but clearly he either wasn't meant to or Watkins didn't trust him to do so without knocking Lorcan out with an oar or something, because suddenly the fanfare was back and the official aides that seemed to hang about like fleas were parting, allowing them both access to the Sovereign's Coach. Gwilym smiled brightly and gestured for Lorcan to proceed to it, which he did. The whole thing felt utterly ridiculous, as though they were about six years old again and playing some big elaborate game that was for some macabre and inexplicable reason being watched by hoardes of vaguely interested people. At least the people were cheering, though. If not they probably would have pushed Lorcan in, and that would have set a dangerous precedent.
NaNoWriMo - Cymru 3
This is actually taken from half-way through Saeran's bit, hence no proper set-up at the start there. It's set earlier in the same day of Dylan's bit, which is the day before Awen's bit. The next thing I write will either be before or after these three, and everything after that will be in normal order. This is largely because I is retard megalolz!!! and have now written twelve and a half thousand words in five days. It's not enough...
SAERAN
"Hello Sioned," Saeran grinned, hugging the blonde girl tightly. "And haven't you all grown? Working the fields, I see."
Twenty faces beamed up at her.
"And I helped with the lambs this year," Morgan said, sticking his hand in the air. "And last winter we all helped pick the leaves for the animals."
"Did you really?" Saeran asked. "How lovely! I suppose you're all too old for songs, now, then."
There was a slightly deafening chorus of 'no', and then Saeran's hands were both seized by at least five children each and she was pulled forwards towards the village. As they arrived at the houses Saeran looked up and smiled to see Mari, leaning against the doorframe with three-year-old Ceri on her hip and looking almost exactly the same as when Saeran had seen her last almost two years ago. As they neared Mari put Ceri down and waded her way through the children, shooing them out of the way.
"Oi! Sion, let go of her, she'll lose her hand like that. You too, Morgan. Now come here, you," and Saeran was enveloped in a hug that left her lightly dusted with the flour from Mari's trousers to add to the muddy fingerprints on both arms. "There's well you're looking, Saeran!"
"You too," Saeran grinned. "Didn't have the heart to cut off your hair after all, then?"
"Ach, no." Mari flicked said long hair over one shoulder, a small cloud of flour flying away as she did, and Saeran noted that she'd actually grown it; it came down to her elbows now. "I couldn't, I'm a coward. Anyway, I'm glad you're here. There's work to be done."
"Of course," Saeran grinned, and they walked back up to the fields together, the children flocking around excitedly as they begged plaintively for a song. Mari snorted, and shooed them away.
"Later," she told them. "If, and only if, we finish this particular field, and at present it's only half done; so get going." The children dispersed faster than Saeran could blink.
"So how's Twm?" Saeran asked as she got to work, the rough handle of the hoe digging into her palms. Her callouses were only on her fingertips; she could already foresee the blisters. Mari sighed, jabbing the hoe slightly more viciously into the ground than she'd intended.
"Worse," she said glumly. "And gods he's hard now. Some days he thinks I'm Mam; those are the worst. Especially when he then thinks Sioned is me."
"I'm sorry," Saeran said quietly. Mari shook her head, hair cascading into her face.
"It's not your fault," she said. "And he has good days still. He'll just suddenly be lucid and clear, and everything's lovely. He has triggers that do it, you know? Things that remind him of stuff, and suddenly he's not lost anymore."
"Well, that's good," Saeran said positively. "Have you tried talking to any druids about it?"
"Aye. Had one come through the other week." Mari paused, leaning on her hoe. "Nothing he could do, but he did say he's been seeing a few cases like it this Half."
"Really?" Saeran tried to keep her voice casual. "Just this Half?"
"Well," Mari waved a hand, "obviously Tad isn't the first who's had their mind go. But this druid said it was going in a different way to normal. A few people have; but just this Half."
"So they can't do anything," Saeran said, her heart aching for Mari. Mari shook her head.
"No," she said. "I mean, it would have been difficult anyway, since there aren't many as can use the right energies, but with it being different and all..."
"The chances become slim to none," Saeran finished. "From a druidic perspective anyway. If he still has triggers, though, where his mind returns, maybe he'll get better."
"Well, I'll be thankful if he does," Mari nodded. "But I'm not hopeful, Saeran. It's easier to accept this way. And it's not so bad," she shrugged. "Iago and Gwen take him for me sometimes, give me a bit of a break. He's fine with it."
"I can try some older poems on him," Saeran said carefully. "Things he'd know from his own youth. If nothing else he might like the music."
"Please," Mari said, looking up and meeting Saeran's eye. "Please do. The one constant is that he still loves music. I like to see him smile."
****
The house was in mild disarray, the evidence of Mari's bread-making earlier still sprawled across the kitchen table and unbaked. The milk in the pail stood waiting to become cheese; the dried bunches of herbs hung slightly tattered from the ceiling; a pile of linen, possibly made from last year's flax crop, was roughly folded into a corner, ready to become clothes. The hearth was burning low but brightly, not to hot while what smelled like hare-meat drifted out of a pot set over it. A large, woven willow chair, covered in plump cusions and a thick woolen blanket, revealed the grey-haired figure of Twm, snoozing in the warmth.
Saeran pulled the harp out of its case, and sat in the chair opposite. Even in his fullest mind Twm had never liked to be woken abruptly, so she simply started playing the chords delicately, her fingers light and gentle on the strings in pleasant counterpoint to the calling of the field martins drifting in from outside. She didn't sing yet.
He smiled first, but didn't open his eyes. Carefully, Saeran led the melody away from the absent-minded country tune and into the relevant area; still no minor chords, not yet, so transposing as she went into major, a graceful, elegant tune. It didn't sound half bad in major, actually. Twm sighed contentedly, so Saeran began humming a harmony softly to herself.
Outwardly, it was a love song, one of many that had been all but lost during the Wars for its sad end; it had only been sung by people in their darker moments, when the fighting had become especially bleak, and peace a long-forgotten pipe dream. Afterwards no one had sung it anymore. In times of new hope and laughter no one wanted to remember the despair. It had taken Saeran a while to find even as much of it as she now knew.
Twm opened his eyes, staring into the fire as it quietly cracked and spat, throwing orange light across the woolen blanket over his legs. Saeran debated throwing the song into minor key to help jog his memory, but decided against it. She couldn't risk it. If Mari was right and his mind got stuck places sometimes, the last thing Saeran could do was leave his mind in the Wars. No one should have to see that again.
So she left it, and sang the words in major.
"A pair of doves, they fell in love,
And nestled in that golden glove
They sought a life for both of them entwining;
But Pedr's father wore the crown
And laughing he beat Pedr down
For dreaming he could be with Mair, shining."
Twm's eyes almost misted over, a slow focus appearing in his eyes as his mind sharpened. If she hadn't been singing Saeran would have held her breath. This was such a long shot; she wasn't even sure she had the words right, the ones she did have.
"It mattered not though; for what
Pedr's father had forgot
Was the glamour of an action now forbidden;
So Mair dreamed and Pedr planned
To seize their bonding by its hand
And flee the king for lands where they'd be hidden."
And suddenly, Twm was humming along, his voice carefully forming around certain words, slowly growing in strength. This was it, then. Saeran only had three lines left to sing. She crossed her toes.
"But Pedr knew the nest he flew;
He knew but still he would be true"
And Twm sang, joing in properly.
"To Mair and that golden love still kindling,"
Saeran switched to simply humming an easy descant, listening carefully and praying he'd keep singing. It was a risk; there was every chance he'd stop without her, although hopefully the presense of the harmony would be enough to keep him going. He raised his chin, and his volume.
"They fled, they ran and they were gone;
But so wrong had flowed their Rubicon
And suddenly that magic light was dwindling."
Saeran beamed, and Twm sighed as she played out the final instrumental.
"You play that well, girl," he said, staring at the fire. "We used to sing that in the Wars. Never did after, which was a shame, because I liked it. It sounds better when you play it."
"I put it into major," Saeran said gently. "It's surprising the difference it can make."
"That it is." Twm stared a few moments more, and then turned, looking back at the doorway. "Mari! Is the bread done? We'll be wanting it tonight."
"Not quite yet, Tad," Mari said, entering the house. Saeran hadn't noticed her; although now she could see the tears Mari was pushing aside, an oddly proud expression on her face as she moved to the fire and hugged Twm. "I'll do it with you now, if you'd like."
"That would be nice," Twm agreed. "If Saeran accompanies us."
"I'd be honoured," Saeran smiled, and she sat quietly in the corner playing the songs as Twm hummed along and Mari chattered to no one in particular. It took little thought to do, for which Saeran was grateful; it gave her time to ponder Twm's final lines.
They fled, they ran and they were gone;
But so wrong had flowed their Rubicon
And suddenly that magic light was dwindling.
A poor decision leading to... what, exactly? Suddenly that magic light was dwindling. Was the use of the word 'magic' metaphorical? If so then the light itself would have been the important element in the sentence, but Saeran doubted it. The light was probably metaphorical, but it also featured elsewhere in the song, in 'shining' and 'glamour' and the multiple 'golds'. The magic didn't, though. The magic was only used at the end, only after the tell-tale bad decision that Saeran had come to be able to identify in her sleep, and only in conjunction with the light actually -
Failing.
The magic failing.
Saeran's fingers nearly caught in the strings; she managed to catch herself just in time. Twm didn't notice, singing softly to himself. Mari chattered on.
Saeran hoped she was wrong.
SAERAN
"Hello Sioned," Saeran grinned, hugging the blonde girl tightly. "And haven't you all grown? Working the fields, I see."
Twenty faces beamed up at her.
"And I helped with the lambs this year," Morgan said, sticking his hand in the air. "And last winter we all helped pick the leaves for the animals."
"Did you really?" Saeran asked. "How lovely! I suppose you're all too old for songs, now, then."
There was a slightly deafening chorus of 'no', and then Saeran's hands were both seized by at least five children each and she was pulled forwards towards the village. As they arrived at the houses Saeran looked up and smiled to see Mari, leaning against the doorframe with three-year-old Ceri on her hip and looking almost exactly the same as when Saeran had seen her last almost two years ago. As they neared Mari put Ceri down and waded her way through the children, shooing them out of the way.
"Oi! Sion, let go of her, she'll lose her hand like that. You too, Morgan. Now come here, you," and Saeran was enveloped in a hug that left her lightly dusted with the flour from Mari's trousers to add to the muddy fingerprints on both arms. "There's well you're looking, Saeran!"
"You too," Saeran grinned. "Didn't have the heart to cut off your hair after all, then?"
"Ach, no." Mari flicked said long hair over one shoulder, a small cloud of flour flying away as she did, and Saeran noted that she'd actually grown it; it came down to her elbows now. "I couldn't, I'm a coward. Anyway, I'm glad you're here. There's work to be done."
"Of course," Saeran grinned, and they walked back up to the fields together, the children flocking around excitedly as they begged plaintively for a song. Mari snorted, and shooed them away.
"Later," she told them. "If, and only if, we finish this particular field, and at present it's only half done; so get going." The children dispersed faster than Saeran could blink.
"So how's Twm?" Saeran asked as she got to work, the rough handle of the hoe digging into her palms. Her callouses were only on her fingertips; she could already foresee the blisters. Mari sighed, jabbing the hoe slightly more viciously into the ground than she'd intended.
"Worse," she said glumly. "And gods he's hard now. Some days he thinks I'm Mam; those are the worst. Especially when he then thinks Sioned is me."
"I'm sorry," Saeran said quietly. Mari shook her head, hair cascading into her face.
"It's not your fault," she said. "And he has good days still. He'll just suddenly be lucid and clear, and everything's lovely. He has triggers that do it, you know? Things that remind him of stuff, and suddenly he's not lost anymore."
"Well, that's good," Saeran said positively. "Have you tried talking to any druids about it?"
"Aye. Had one come through the other week." Mari paused, leaning on her hoe. "Nothing he could do, but he did say he's been seeing a few cases like it this Half."
"Really?" Saeran tried to keep her voice casual. "Just this Half?"
"Well," Mari waved a hand, "obviously Tad isn't the first who's had their mind go. But this druid said it was going in a different way to normal. A few people have; but just this Half."
"So they can't do anything," Saeran said, her heart aching for Mari. Mari shook her head.
"No," she said. "I mean, it would have been difficult anyway, since there aren't many as can use the right energies, but with it being different and all..."
"The chances become slim to none," Saeran finished. "From a druidic perspective anyway. If he still has triggers, though, where his mind returns, maybe he'll get better."
"Well, I'll be thankful if he does," Mari nodded. "But I'm not hopeful, Saeran. It's easier to accept this way. And it's not so bad," she shrugged. "Iago and Gwen take him for me sometimes, give me a bit of a break. He's fine with it."
"I can try some older poems on him," Saeran said carefully. "Things he'd know from his own youth. If nothing else he might like the music."
"Please," Mari said, looking up and meeting Saeran's eye. "Please do. The one constant is that he still loves music. I like to see him smile."
****
The house was in mild disarray, the evidence of Mari's bread-making earlier still sprawled across the kitchen table and unbaked. The milk in the pail stood waiting to become cheese; the dried bunches of herbs hung slightly tattered from the ceiling; a pile of linen, possibly made from last year's flax crop, was roughly folded into a corner, ready to become clothes. The hearth was burning low but brightly, not to hot while what smelled like hare-meat drifted out of a pot set over it. A large, woven willow chair, covered in plump cusions and a thick woolen blanket, revealed the grey-haired figure of Twm, snoozing in the warmth.
Saeran pulled the harp out of its case, and sat in the chair opposite. Even in his fullest mind Twm had never liked to be woken abruptly, so she simply started playing the chords delicately, her fingers light and gentle on the strings in pleasant counterpoint to the calling of the field martins drifting in from outside. She didn't sing yet.
He smiled first, but didn't open his eyes. Carefully, Saeran led the melody away from the absent-minded country tune and into the relevant area; still no minor chords, not yet, so transposing as she went into major, a graceful, elegant tune. It didn't sound half bad in major, actually. Twm sighed contentedly, so Saeran began humming a harmony softly to herself.
Outwardly, it was a love song, one of many that had been all but lost during the Wars for its sad end; it had only been sung by people in their darker moments, when the fighting had become especially bleak, and peace a long-forgotten pipe dream. Afterwards no one had sung it anymore. In times of new hope and laughter no one wanted to remember the despair. It had taken Saeran a while to find even as much of it as she now knew.
Twm opened his eyes, staring into the fire as it quietly cracked and spat, throwing orange light across the woolen blanket over his legs. Saeran debated throwing the song into minor key to help jog his memory, but decided against it. She couldn't risk it. If Mari was right and his mind got stuck places sometimes, the last thing Saeran could do was leave his mind in the Wars. No one should have to see that again.
So she left it, and sang the words in major.
"A pair of doves, they fell in love,
And nestled in that golden glove
They sought a life for both of them entwining;
But Pedr's father wore the crown
And laughing he beat Pedr down
For dreaming he could be with Mair, shining."
Twm's eyes almost misted over, a slow focus appearing in his eyes as his mind sharpened. If she hadn't been singing Saeran would have held her breath. This was such a long shot; she wasn't even sure she had the words right, the ones she did have.
"It mattered not though; for what
Pedr's father had forgot
Was the glamour of an action now forbidden;
So Mair dreamed and Pedr planned
To seize their bonding by its hand
And flee the king for lands where they'd be hidden."
And suddenly, Twm was humming along, his voice carefully forming around certain words, slowly growing in strength. This was it, then. Saeran only had three lines left to sing. She crossed her toes.
"But Pedr knew the nest he flew;
He knew but still he would be true"
And Twm sang, joing in properly.
"To Mair and that golden love still kindling,"
Saeran switched to simply humming an easy descant, listening carefully and praying he'd keep singing. It was a risk; there was every chance he'd stop without her, although hopefully the presense of the harmony would be enough to keep him going. He raised his chin, and his volume.
"They fled, they ran and they were gone;
But so wrong had flowed their Rubicon
And suddenly that magic light was dwindling."
Saeran beamed, and Twm sighed as she played out the final instrumental.
"You play that well, girl," he said, staring at the fire. "We used to sing that in the Wars. Never did after, which was a shame, because I liked it. It sounds better when you play it."
"I put it into major," Saeran said gently. "It's surprising the difference it can make."
"That it is." Twm stared a few moments more, and then turned, looking back at the doorway. "Mari! Is the bread done? We'll be wanting it tonight."
"Not quite yet, Tad," Mari said, entering the house. Saeran hadn't noticed her; although now she could see the tears Mari was pushing aside, an oddly proud expression on her face as she moved to the fire and hugged Twm. "I'll do it with you now, if you'd like."
"That would be nice," Twm agreed. "If Saeran accompanies us."
"I'd be honoured," Saeran smiled, and she sat quietly in the corner playing the songs as Twm hummed along and Mari chattered to no one in particular. It took little thought to do, for which Saeran was grateful; it gave her time to ponder Twm's final lines.
They fled, they ran and they were gone;
But so wrong had flowed their Rubicon
And suddenly that magic light was dwindling.
A poor decision leading to... what, exactly? Suddenly that magic light was dwindling. Was the use of the word 'magic' metaphorical? If so then the light itself would have been the important element in the sentence, but Saeran doubted it. The light was probably metaphorical, but it also featured elsewhere in the song, in 'shining' and 'glamour' and the multiple 'golds'. The magic didn't, though. The magic was only used at the end, only after the tell-tale bad decision that Saeran had come to be able to identify in her sleep, and only in conjunction with the light actually -
Failing.
The magic failing.
Saeran's fingers nearly caught in the strings; she managed to catch herself just in time. Twm didn't notice, singing softly to himself. Mari chattered on.
Saeran hoped she was wrong.
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