Scribblers: Overload

Scribblers

"Overload"

by Steffan Alun

1 EXT. THE PIT – Day 3. 0800. 1

AMITY, CHRONAL, LYRIC and WRAITH are on the sofa, playing cards. A SUPERHERO materialises in the room, wearing a navy costume and a red peaked cap, a sack of letters in his hand.

AMITY

Hi, Post-Man.

POST-MAN

Morning, guys. Three for Finesse – can someone sign for them? And one for you, Amity.

AMITY

Cheers.

Chronal takes the parcels for Finesse as Amity receives a blue envelope. She sits back down to open and read it.

WRAITH

Why is it only ever Finesse and Amity who get post?

CHRONAL

Amity's the only one who sends letters. Finesse is the leader, so she gets what's known in the trade as bumf.

LYRIC

I order loads of stuff, though. I'm still waiting for my anatomy textbooks.

Chronal peels a glove back to examine his hands. The new skin is still pink.

CHRONAL

That'd be handy. The more you know the better.

(beat)

Oh, wait. That came on Tuesday. I put it in your shed.

LYRIC

Mate.

CHRONAL

Sorry.

Lyric glares and marches out.

CHRONAL

I'd better take these to Finesse before I forget.

He leaves.

WRAITH

Who's the letter from? Sorry – don't answer that.

AMITY

I don't mind. It's from Kyle, an old mate from home. I try to meet up with him when I can, and he says he can come and meet me in town!

WRAITH

Cool. Does he know you're a superhero?

AMITY

Absolutely. Once, when I was just starting to develop my powers, I accidentally made myself cry for an hour. He found me, and managed to calm me down.

WRAITH

Wow.

AMITY

He's great like that. He's so happy – he can cheer people up better than I can!

SHIFT enters.

SHIFT

Who's this?

AMITY

My mate Kyle. He's coming to visit me soon. Actually ... I'd like you all to meet him.

SHIFT

Ooh, new people.

WRAITH

Can we not bring him here? Last time we had guests, Chronal had me concealing everything embarassing.

AMITY

That's fine. I was thinking of taking him to La Batte's – shall I get a table for seven?

SHIFT

Yay, meal! I might wear a dress.

WRAITH

We'll need to be anonymous.

SHIFT

I'll wear it with a mask.

CUT TO:

2 EXT. PIT BALCONY – Day 3. 0805. 2

FINESSE is surveying the land. CHRONAL enters with three parcels.

CHRONAL

Parcels for you.

FINESSE

Brilliant!

She opens them – they contain various engine parts.

FINESSE

I tracked down as many parts for the Trans-Jet as I could from indie dealers.

CHRONAL

Good idea.

FINESSE

I'm trying to get hold of a full set of plans for Lyric to memorise, but Mr Arden was very protective of his patents.

CHRONAL

I'm still trying to get in touch with him. I'm sure it'll be fine.

FINESSE

This is horrible. We really can't afford to leave the Trans-Jet in storage.

CHRONAL

It's survived this long. It's very reliable.

FINESSE

People know Arden's gone now. It won't be long until criminals start targetting our ship. God, how did you manage when things went wrong?

CHRONAL

I handed leadership over to you.

FINESSE

I'll check to see if Amity's interested.

CUT TO:

3 EXT. LA BATTE'S - Day 3. 1900. 3

Posh restaurant – like the Ritz – in an upmarket area full of trendy wine bars and expensive flats.

CUT TO:

4 INT. LA BATTE'S DINING AREA – Day 3. 1900. 4

AMITY, CHRONAL, FINESSE, LYRIC, SHIFT and WRAITH enter, wearing posh dinnerwear versions of their costumes. The restaurant is full of SUPERHEROES. They are greeted by LA BATTE – a French waiter crossed with Batman.

LA BATTE

Ah! Scribblers! Welcome back.

FINESSE

Lovely to see you again, La Batte. How are the kids?

LA BATTE

They are magnificent! My youngest, she wants to be just like you.

CHRONAL

So sweet. Showing any powers yet?

LA BATTE

Alas, not yet. The boy, he has started flying in his sleep. I must tie him down!

AMITY

Tell them we said hello.

LA BATTE

Thank you. It will mean much to them. I will take you to your table now.

He leads them to a large round table by an enormous window with a view of the huge Llyn Dinas lake. They take their seats, leaving one empty.

LA BATTE

I shall give you a moment.

He leaves, and the Scribblers take their seats.

AMITY

Kyle won't be long.

SHIFT

That's fine. Gives us more time to choose.

She takes the menu, and La Batte returns with two bottles of wine – one white, one red.

LA BATTE

Courtesy of Super Skeleton.

(to Lyric)

To thank you for the team-up incident, he says.

LYRIC

Pass on my thanks. Although, Super Skeleton is female.

LA BATTE

I am humiliated! What an error.

He marches off to apologise to SUPER SKELETON, who's wearing a crown and cape. At the door, KYLE arrives – dressed to the nines, permanently grinning.

AMITY

Kyle!

KYLE

Hi guys! I can't believe I'm meeting the Scribblers.

They all say their hellos and shake hands –

- but Finesse frowns, and closes her eyes, as though trying to hear a faint sound.

KYLE

Amity's told me a bit about you.

He takes the spare seat.

WRAITH

Even me?

KYLE

Of course! You're amazing! I wish I could become invisible. That'd be literally the best thing ever. Literally! Well, okay, proverbially! It'd be amazing, though!

CHRONAL

Wow, nice to see someone enthusiastic about powers! We get a lot of angsty villanous types in these parts.

KYLE

I love heroes! My friends are so jealous I know Amity. Got to be careful not to give anything away, of course.

FINESSE

No powers of your own, then, Kyle?

KYLE

Nope, not me! I'm just completely ordinary.

FINESSE

I wouldn't say that. You're extremely jolly.

KYLE

Oh, I know! I wind people up, I know I do.

LYRIC

Maybe that's your power. You could be called "the Key".

Kyle laughs ferociously. Struggles to breathe as he speaks.

KYLE

The Key! Because I wind people up! That's amazing. That's the funniest thing I've ever heard.

LYRIC

Seriously?

Finesse nudges Amity.

FINESSE

Excuse me one moment. Just popping to the loo.

Amity looks confused, but gets up too.

AMITY

I'll keep you company.

CUT TO:

5 INT. LA BATTE'S BATHROOM – Day 3. 1910. 5

FINESSE is leaning against a sink, AMITY against a toilet cubicle.

FINESSE

There's something wrong with that guy.

AMITY

He's lovely.

FINESSE

Amity. He's damaged. He's not right.

AMITY

He has some learning difficulties, but he's fine. He gets on with everyone, he enjoys life.

FINESSE

He doesn't have learning difficulties. Amity, I could see the damage using your powers. How can you not see it yourself?

AMITY

I know, I know. He has unusually high seratonin levels. But that's what he's always been like.

FINESSE

He's high on it. And ... Well, why would his seratonin levels be so high?

AMITY

He was born like that. Produces too much.

FINESSE

Amity.

AMITY

It's fine. He's great. He's an amazing bloke. Always happy.

FINESSE

Always? As long as you can remember?

AMITY

He's upset sometimes.

FINESSE

And when did you last see him upset?

AMITY

He's happy now.

FINESSE

In school?

AMITY

Maybe.

FINESSE

Before you developed your powers.

Amity avoids eye contact. Then glances up.

Finesse places an hand on her shoulder.

FINESSE

I know what it's like. You've been affecting him without realising it. Subconsciously cheering him up when he's upset. Everyone wants their friends to be happy.

AMITY

I didn't know.

FINESSE

He got too much too early. It's damaged his brain. It's hindered his cognitive development.

AMITY

But he's fine! He's great company, he's got a steady job ...

FINESSE

He has powers. Did you know that? They've never activated, but the gene is there. Dormant.

AMITY

Can we fix him?

Finesse smiles, and gives Amity a hug.

FINESSE

Of course we can.

CUT TO:

6 INT. LA BATTE'S DINING AREA – Day 3. 1920. 6

SHIFT is mid-story, CHRONAL, LYRIC, WRAITH and KYLE laughing.

SHIFT

He was there for literally twenty minutes, thinking I was the ghost of his dead cat. Tried getting me to come out for Kit-e-Kat!

WRAITH

I didn't know that stuff was still around!

AMITY and FINESSE arrive back, taking their seats.

SHIFT

Thing is, this was around the time they recalled loads of pet food because of the renal failure thing. No way was I eating his creepy food.

LYRIC

What did you do in the end?

SHIFT

When he looked away, I changed into a calico. Skulked away, and he just froze, looking like an idiot.

CHRONAL

Bless him.

SHIFT

My back-up plan was to become a dove in front of him and fly away.

Kyle bursts out laughing, his face red, tears streaming down his face.

Amity looks at him sadly.

Kyle keeps laughing, laughing, pounding the table.

CUT TO:

7 EXT. ORMAN COTTAGE – Day 4. 1200. 7

An idyllic cottage, complete with straw roof and ivy, surrounded by lawns and trees. KAYLEIGH is outside, in her lab coat. The TRANS-JET lands on the wide lawn, and out walk AMITY and KYLE, followed by FINESSE, CHRONAL, LYRIC, SHIFT and WRAITH.

KAYLEIGH

Hi, all.

AMITY

Hi, Kayleigh. How are you?

KAYLEIGH

Great, thanks. Desparate for a paned, though.

LYRIC

Lead on, McDuff.

She leads the way through the front door of the cottage ...

CUT TO:

8 INT. ORMAN LABORATORY – Day 4. 1200. 8

... into a glossy, modern laboratory, full of plants, with tables full of equipment and plenty of seats. KAYLEIGH enters, followed by KYLE, AMITY, FINESSE, CHRONAL and LYRIC.

KAYLEIGH

Kitchen's through here.

She leads the way, followed by all except Kyle, Amity and Finesse.

They reach a security door, Kayleigh typing in the code.

KAYLEIGH

Bit of a faff, sorry – security’s tight here.

AMITY

Even the kitchen?

KAYLEIGH

Especially the kitchen! Someone could steal the tea!

AMITY

God, you’re right.

The door slides open, and they enter.

FINESSE

Let's sit, guys.

They take their seats, Finesse directly opposite Kyle, with Amity by his side. Kyle still grinning constantly.

FINESSE

I'm going to talk you through the procedure. I need you to concentrate, because we'll need your consent.

KYLE

It all sounds great to me!

FINESSE

Well, yes, but it's a tough decision, and I'm not sure you're in the best position to judge.

KYLE

Fair enough. Go ahead.

FINESSE

We're going to be depleting your seratonin levels. Slowly, and in stages – we'll need to monitor your progress carefully, because it'll be a bit like giving up drugs. Your brain will change. Your emotions will change.

KYLE

Sounds exciting.

AMITY

I'm really sorry, Kyle. This is my fault, and ... well, with such high seratonin, it makes it trickier to decide not to do things. You don't get the negative reinforcement that most people do, because you're chemically incapable of being upset.

KYLE

All the more reason to fix me, then!

FINESSE

There's another thing. You have powers, Kyle.

KYLE

Seriously? That's incredible.

FINESSE

Most people discover their powers when they're teenagers – like Amity. Activiating yours this late might be a bit of a shock.

AMITY

We're all here for you.

KYLE

Do you know what my powers are?

FINESSE

Yes, actually. Comes with the manipulating-powers thing. Want to know?

KYLE

Ooh, like knowing the gender of your baby. Go on then!

FINESSE

You have energy manipulation. You can increase and multiply power levels exponentially.

KYLE

And what does that mean?

FINESSE

You'll be able to make light bulbs brighter, energise people who feel tired, speed up vehicles ... endless possibilities.

KYLE

Amazing.

AMITY

With ... adult learners, we usually pair them off with a mentor who possesses similar powers.

KYLE

A superhero mentor! Fantastic! Who'd be mine, then? Who else has energy manipulaion.

FINESSE

That'd be me.

CUT TO:

9 INT. ORMAN OPERATING THEATRE – Day 4. 1330. 9

KYLE is lying on a table, attached to monitors and devices. AMITY, FINESSE and KAYLEIGH are standing in preparation.

FINESSE

We’ll be conducting this operation purely through Amity’s powers.

KAYLEIGH

The machinery’s just in case of problems.

AMITY

There won’t be any problems.

KAYLEIGH

But if there is, you’re safe.

KYLE

Sounds great.

Finesse nods to Amity, who places her hand on Kyle’s forehead.

FINESSE

We’re going to be as gentle as we can. I’ll be keeping an eye on your powers - in case of surprises.

AMITY

You’re going to be fine, Kyle.

KYLE

When will I actually get my powers?

FINESSE

You’ve always had them. They’ll probably kick in at random after the operation.

KYLE

Like Amity’s when she was young.

Amity looks pained. Finesse gives her a smile.

FINESSE

I think we’re ready to start now.

AMITY

Alright, I’m taking hold. I’m in.

FINESSE

I’ve got you.

AMITY

Lowering seratonin levels.

Kyle flinches and moans.

AMITY

Oh, god, I’m so sorry.

KYLE

It’s fine. Feels strange.

FINESSE

We can stop if you want. Leave it there for now.

KYLE

No, it’s fine. I can take it.

AMITY

I’ll take it really slowly.

She closes her eyes in concentration.

AMITY

Hang on. That's not right.

FINESSE

Let me see.

Finesse crosses over, places a hand on Amity's arm.

Suddenly, Kyle’s eyes are wide open –

- his fists clenching -

- and a spark flies from his mind to Finesse’s!

Finesse cries out –

- snapping her arm back from Amity -

- who grips Kyle’s head hard.

KAYLEIGH

His seratonin’s right down!

Kyle starts to bellow in agony.

FINESSE

Son of a –

AMITY

What happened?

FINESSE

I overloaded! Hang on – I’ll sort it out.

She reaches out for Amity –

- but a spark shoots from Kyle’s mind to a light bulb above -

- which shatters, raining glass below.

KAYLEIGH

His mind’s a mess, guys.

AMITY

Kyle, can you –

KYLE

No stop make it stop go away it hurts stop it get away.

Sparks shoot from his mind, causing instruments to explode and break.

LYRIC and CHRONAL enter.

LYRIC

What’s going on?

CHRONAL

We need a minute here.

The action slows down –

- Chronal remaining at normal speed, glancing around quickly.

Kyle slowly turns his head, seeing Chronal –

- and a spark shoots from Kyle’s head to Chronal’s -

- speeding up the action, like a CD skipping.

KYLE

(voice skipping)

Yo – pl – ya – but – do – coo –

Chronal holds his hands up –

- and the world slows down to normal.

LYRIC

I’m really sorry for this, Kyle.

He starts to mutter –

- and he’s hit by a spark from Kyle -

- which blows up a hole in the wall.

AMITY

Wait, Kyle.

Kyle’s running for the hole –

- jumping, desperate -

- and away.

CUT TO:

10 INT. ORMAN CORRIDOR – Day 4. 1215. 10

FINESSE, AMITY, KAYLEIGH, CHRONAL and LYRIC are in a corridor, waiting for a security door to open.

FINESSE

Okay, bullet points. He can boost our powers, in short, sharp bursts.

AMITY

That’s what he did to you?

FINESSE

Yes. That’s why I pushed you too hard.

CHRONAL

We’ll have to be careful with our powers, then. Especially you.

He indicates Finesse.

CHRONAL

You’ve already got a terrifying power. No need to make it worse.

AMITY

I’ll have to stand back too. His mind’s a mess – I can’t risk making it worse.

The security door slides open; they dash to a door on the opposite side.

LYRIC

There’s something we really have to do if we’re going to take this guy. We need to move the Trans-Jet.

FINESSE

Good call, Lyric. Amity and I will move the jet. We’ll contact Wraith and Shift on the way.

AMITY

And guys – be careful with him. His brain is full of rage, and he hasn’t experienced negative emotions in nearly a decade.

The security door opens, and they’re through.

CUT TO:

11 EXT. ORMAN COTTAGE – Day 4. 1220. 11

KYLE is on the lawn, clutching his head, various SCIENTISTS observing, keeping back. KAYLEIGH, CHRONAL and LYRIC leave the cottage, along with FINESSE and AMITY who run straight for the Trans-Jet.

KAYLEIGH

I’ll get the evacuation started, then meet you back here.

CHRONAL

Sounds good.

Kayleigh dashes towards the scientists as Chronal and Lyric approach Kyle slowly.

LYRIC

Kyle? Do you mind coming back inside with us?

KYLE

It hurts.

LYRIC

You're injured, of course it hurts. We can make you better.

KYLE

How can you stand it? How can the world stand it?

He stands, shakily.

Lyric steps forward, but Kyle lifts a hand to stop him.

A blast of wind blows around Kyle -

- Lyric and Chronal blown back -

- Kyle lifted into the air.

KYLE

Look what I can do.

CHRONAL

That's really good, Kyle. We can help you develop those powers.

KYLE

By breaking my mind again? Happiness makes me weak.

Kyle opens his mouth to speak again, but is overcome by the pain. He SCREAMS.

CHRONAL

You're still broken. We can make you better.

KYLE

But ... people, other people feel like this sometimes?

LYRIC

Yes. Some people do, and they get through it. Counselling can help.

KYLE

Counselling?

He holds up his hand -

- and Chronal is blown to the ground.

KYLE

I like this feeling.

LYRIC

It's hurting you.

KYLE

God, yeah. Hurting so much.

He's grinning through the pain.

Behind him, vines are gowing upwards, silently, from the ground -

- Lyric looks back and spots Kayleigh, keeping her distance.

KYLE

When I was twenty, I was mugged. I didn't care. I let it happen. Now I can fight back.

The vines grow rapidly around his ankles and wrists.

KYLE

Get the hell off me!

He struggles, as Kayleigh walks forwards.

KAYLEIGH

I'm sorry. I really need you to come back inside.

The wind dies down, and Kyle falls to the ground -

- more vines growing around him.

Chronal puts his hand to his ear.

CHRONAL

Finesse? Kayleigh's got him under control.

INTERCUT WITH:

12 EXT. SKY ABOVE BATTLE FIELD - Day 4. 1222. 12

FINESSE and AMITY are travelling in the Trans-Jet.

FINESSE

Good work. Be really careful - you need to gather as many scientists without powers as possible. Any power is a weapon he can use against you.

CHRONAL

As you know better than anyone.

FINESSE

He can use his powers tied down, remember. He has to co-operate on his own terms.

Behind Chronal, the vines are starting to glow purple.

CHRONAL

Quickly, then - what do I need to know? He can boost people's powers, yes?

FINESSE

He can also convert energy. No refinement - but he can take energy and use it to cause explosions.

KAYLEIGH

Guys, some help please.

Chronal turns, walking towards the glowing vines.

CHRONAL

Right - he used Lyric's words to blow up the wall.

FINESSE

I don't think he can direct the explosions -

The vines around Kyle are suddenly absorbed into his body -

CHRONAL

Got to go!

- and an explosion from Battle Field shakes the Trans-Jet.

AMITY

That was down on the field.

Amity's hit by overwhelming pain.

AMITY

Someone's hurt! Really, really badly.

FINESSE

I'll take us down. Hang on - I can feel him. Just vaguely. It's someone with powers.

The Trans-Jet heads down.

CUT TO:

13 INT. The Pit - Day 4. 1225. 13

The furniture in the pit has been rearranged like an obstacle course - chairs in a row, delicately balanced pyrmids of tins on tables, big webs made of tinsel.

WRAITH is standing on one end, wearing his hover boots, with SHIFT holding the stopwatch.

WRAITH

Three, two, one -

A beep in his ear. His face falls.

WRAITH

Hello.

CHRONAL

Wraith, we need you this second at Orman Cottage.

WRAITH

Don't tell me. Something's gone wrong, and now you're in trouble.

CHRONAL

Well, yes.

WRAITH

I really hate medical stuff.

CHRONAL

Fine - come right now, and I won't make us watch Casualty any more.

WRAITH

Wins!

SHIFT

That's fine. We'll just have to agree that my time is clearly unbeatable.

WRAITH

No! Loses!

A beep in Shift's ear. She frowns.

SHIFT

Hello?

FINESSE

Hello, I'm okay, how are you, oh good - we need you to get the medical room ready.

SHIFT

We've just had a message from Chronal asking for help at Orman labs.

FINESSE

Send Wraith. You don't want to get animal powers involved with that fight.

SHIFT

Sad. Okay, see you in a second.

CUT TO:

14 EXT. BATTLE FIELD - Day 4. 1226. 14

FINESSE standing in a damaged part of the field. In front of her, AMITY is attending to a MAN, seriously injured - we don't see much for the sake of decency.

AMITY

It's really bad. He's lost an arm and both feet, he's lost the skin on his chest and a few ribs ... How on earth is he still alive?

Finesse is visibly upset.

FINESSE

He's using his powers. This is complicated. Looks like he's ... keeping himself in place.

AMITY

Then we can move him?

FINESSE

We have to.

Amity slowly turns him over, and picks him up. His face is covered in a red mask made of heavy cloth. His eyes are open wide, looking at Finesse.

FINESSE

This is going to be complicated.

CUT TO:

15 EXT. ORMAN COTTAGE - Day 4. 1230. 15

CHRONAL and LYRIC are on the lawn, watching KYLE fly on the winds above their heads.

LYRIC

You know what? I'm really not interested in villains who can fly.

CHRONAL

We've got Wraith on the way. I really hope Kyle gets tired soon. This must be taking a lot out of him.

LYRIC

Hope so. But if he can just create energy ...

CHRONAL

I don't reckon he can. He just uses energy that already exists. I don't think he can use that to energise himself.

LYRIC

We'll need to work out the nerdy details as soon as possible.

KAYLEIGH walks out of the cotage, holding a chunky black-and-silver sci-fi gizmo.

KAYLEIGH

New plan - I grow some moss to cushion his fall -

LYRIC

Tell me that's not a transendence oscillator.

KAYLEIGH

It's an emergency.

LYRIC

Nobody should have transendence oscillators.

CHRONAL

What does it do?

LYRIC

It makes the body think it's under attack. It can make you vomit or pass out -

KAYLEIGH

Which we obviously won't do.

LYRIC

But if you've got powers, it can make your body use all that energy to try fixing the problem.

KAYLEIGH

He won't be able to use his powers.

LYRIC

And he could rupture something. He's powerful, Kayleigh.

KAYLEIGH

He's a danger to himself and others.

She holds out a hand, and the lawn grows longer, longer, flowers and moss growing with it.

She turns on her device, placing it on the ground.

LYRIC

This really isn't on.

KAYLEIGH

He'll hurt people. He can't help it.

LYRIC

He's far too strong. Maybe even as strong as Finesse.

KAYLEIGH

And if Finesse was a danger to the public, I'm sorry, but I'd use this in a second.

Suddenly, Kyle falls from the sky.

The grass and plants beneath him grow tallers still as he falls -

- landing softly in the foliage.

KAYLEIGH

Let's get him inside.

CUT TO:

16 INT. PIT MEDICAL ROOM - Day 4. 1235. 16

An operating table has been set up, and SHIFT is preparing monitors and instruments. FINESSE marches in, helping AMITY carry the INJURED MAN. They take him to the table.

AMITY

We need Lyric as soon as possible.

Finesse is not herself - she's distant, unclear.

FINESSE

For now, we'll have to treat the wounds as permanent. We'll assume we can't replace the limbs, and work from there. Survival's the most important thing.

AMITY

Gotcha.

Shift puts a hand on Finesse's shoulder, pulling her to one side.

SHIFT

What's going on?

FINESSE

There was an explosion -

SHIFT

You're not happy.

FINESSE

Of course not.

SHIFT

You're really not happy. Tell me what's going on.

FINESSE

The basics? This guy's a superhero. He can't talk, but in the Trans-Jet, he managed to write a few basic messages. He said people wouldn't trust him. He intends to leave as soon as we've helped him. And one more thing - his superhero name. It's "the Monk".

Shift removes her hand from Finesse's shoulder, frowning.

CUT TO:

17 INT. ORMAN LABORATORY - Day 4. 1240. 17

KYLE is in a bed set up in the middle of the lab, KAYLEIGH keeping an eye on the sci-fi gizmo. LYRIC is standing back, sulky. CHRONAL is checking monitors.

KAYLEIGH

Kyle - we want to turn the device off.

KYLE

It's making me feel ill.

KAYLEIGH

I know. Help us, and we can turn it off.

KYLE

I always liked being ill. A personal challenge to overcome. But illness isn't like that, is it? It feels like I'm rotting.

CHRONAL

Can we chain him up?

LYRIC

Damn straight. We're turning that thing off now.

KAYLEIGH

Not yet. He'll be full of energy. Bear in mind it's going into him now.

LYRIC

Great. What a brilliant piece of kit.

CHRONAL

Wait. You need to turn it off.

KAYLEIGH

Like I said -

CHRONAL

Right now. Before -

Dawning realisation on Kyle's face.

KYLE

It works on energy.

CHRONAL

Turn it off!

KYLE

So I can change it.

He sits up, and purple sparks surround his head.

WRAITH floats in on his hover boots.

WRAITH

Hey, losers.

Purple lightning strikes him down -

- fade to white.

FADE TO:

18 INT. PIT MEDICAL ROOM - Day 4. 1241. 18

SHIFT and FINESSE are still mid-discussion, AMITY is attending to the MONK.

SHIFT

The Monk doesn't exist, though. Amity and I searched everywhere.

FINESSE

It doesn't matter. I know he's trustworthy.

SHIFT

We've known each other long enough - if you trust this guy, he must be fine. But the others will need a reason. Especially after Spoiler Man told us the Monk would lead us to destruction.

FINESSE

New rule - we do the opposite of what evil soldiers from the future tell us to do.

AMITY

Guys.

Amity is looking through the window.

AMITY

You need to see this.

Shift and Finesse join her, looking out.

FINESSE

Jesus.

SHIFT

That's where the labs were.

FINESSE

More than just the labs. That's half the city.

We look out of the window. Half the city has been replaced by an enormous crater, completely empty.

FINESSE

Half the city's disappeared.

Cymru - Chapter 24

AERONA

The Union was more like the Archipelago than just in appearance; in content it could easily rival a City in order to cater for the people who lived and trained in it. Most of the important crafts trained their highest apprentices there, metal workers and blacksmiths and leather crafters and druidic healers, and so accordingly there were levels that contained shops and taverns and restaurants. The result was that, as Aerona moved happily up the Spiral Stairs to the Shrine, she finally started to feel genuinely at home among the bustle of people moving about between their jobs and recreational areas of choice for the night, happy and angry and tired and everything in between. A tailor nodded amiably to her in passing; a blacksmith joked merrily with her about the climb up the stairs; three blue-rank druids smiled as she passed their floor. It was all perfectly lovely, in Aerona’s opinion. Everyone was so nice, and pleasant, even amid the ever-present background tension for the up-coming Archwiliad. She almost wished she’d brought the children, although admittedly, she’d have needed a lead for Siona.

After what Aerona’s legs assured her was twenty years’ worth of climbing more Stairs finally stopped appearing above her head and the Shrine opened out, filtering the light down in reds and greens and golds. The central column produced branches that swept out in great arcs around her as she gratefully reached the top step, several forming archways along the wide flag-stoned path that led away from her and up to the pool set beneath the centre of the glass ceiling in front of the statue. Aerona loved the statue. It was woven out of willow and alder and assorted pieces of drift wood, into the form of a great meraden, wings flung out to either side as it reared up. Reverentially, Aerona moved forward to the pool.

“Good evening, Rider,” a voice said gently. A white-robed druid fell into step beside her, frail and thin. He was incredibly old beneath his hood, Aerona noticed; the hair she could see was pure white and wispy, and this shoulders were thin and bowed. He smiled at her as she turned, skin pale enough to be almost translucent around kind eyes. She bowed.

“Good evening, Derwydd,” Aerona returned happily, and offered him an arm that he gratefully took. “I wasn’t sure anyone would be here by now.”

“I shouldn’t be,” the druid smiled, his eyes doing that charming twinkly thing that venerable old people did. Aerona was rather looking forward to being old, if for no other reason than having twinkly eyes. “I imagine there is work to be done before the Archwiliad. But I’m an old man who gets tired, while Rhiannon never sleeps.” He smiled. “And this, to my more religious viewpoint, is the more important work, Rider. Does your mind need purifying?”

“Well, it could always do with a bit of a wipe,” Aerona said. The druid chuckled. “But I’m a Tutor. Usually the worst things I see are where six-year-old boys put their hands without washing.”

“Harrowing indeed,” the druid smiled. They reached the pool and Aerona helped him sit on the marbled edge, where he shifted his robes and nodded contentedly. “But, if I may; you’ve fought recently?”

A flash of the Saxons on the border came to her, the children’s faces in the airbus windows, the Saxons’ faces as her knives slid into their throats. She sighed.

“Yes,” she said sadly. “Yes, you’re right. It’s been a busy day or so, I can barely even remember if it was today or yesterday.”

“Come.” He held up his arms to her, gesturing to the poolside with withered hands. “The fault is not yours, Rider. Let us purify you.”

“Thank you.” She knelt down at the pool’s edge, watching the enamelled mosaic beneath the water as it swirled in the light, the spiralling, shimmering colours already nagging at her mind and demanding her attention. She felt the druid’s kind hands brush her shoulders, and let herself relax. The purification ritual, she thought, suddenly feeling peaceful. She liked this one. It was lovely.

“Watch the water,” the druid whispered, soothingly. The gentle tinkling of water on water played in Aerona’s ears as the colours played in her eyes, snatching her concentration away. The patterns they made were so beautiful, she thought dreamily. They danced and swirled before her, laughing and pulling at her to open up, and she so wanted to, so wanted to dance with them but she couldn’t; her hands were stained and filthy and she wasn’t clean, wasn’t pure enough to blend…

Dimly Aerona was aware of fingers gently but firmly fastening about her wrists, moving them down to the pool, and she watched the process in mute horror. She couldn’t touch it! It was so beautiful, so sublime, the dance of greens and blues and golds whirling beneath her fingertips, her skin almost black with the blood that coated and polluted them, but she couldn’t pull away, couldn’t make her body obey her. The water closed about her hands in an icy grip that bit to the bone and suddenly, the patterns around her bled to reds that roared and churned and twisted in a frenzy of change and the meraden above her seemed to move, suddenly, its wings spreading wide –

- and the pool flowed back to blue and green, the patterns spinning merrily around her hands as they accepted her and washed away the blood in her mind. A thick, peaceful calm settled on Aerona like a quilt, completely suffusing her senses and leaving her contentedly detached. Everything was lovely and good and pleasant. There was no urgency, no worry. Slowly her eyes closed, sleep drawing her close in feathered arms.

“Awaken, Rider,” the druid’s voice instructed softly. Aerona blinked, her mind springing free and looked down. The pool was simply a pool. She smiled at the echo of the warm, peaceful feeling, and wondered, as she always did, why there seemed to be tears on her cheeks.

“Thank you!” Aerona repeated happily, drawing her hands back out of the water and rubbing them on the cloth the druid handed her. “I really enjoyed that. I should do it at bedtime one day, and get someone to just carry me away.”

The druid smiled. “That would be terribly indulgent,” he said. “I’ve done it many times. It is a good tonic for old bones. And now; I presume you came to pray?”

“Oh, yes,” Aerona nodded. “Do you know, I almost forgot? Now I’ll have to actually do some work, I suppose.”

The praying was, in its own way, more relaxing than the ritual had been, although the lingering feeling of calm, happy peace clung to her still and so probably was a factor. But Aerona enjoyed praying in the Great Shrine anyway; normally temples and such were set on the ground, meaning the ambulatory around the central shrine, although partially open to the world outside still, had far less of an effect than the one twenty storeys over a mountaintop. Up here, it was almost like flying; the gathering wind swept in ahead of the rain clouds to the west, swiftly working cold fingers inside her uniform and chilling her skin as she threw the handfuls of herbs outwards. The metallic smell of rain mingled with the fresh, sweet scent of evening, and below her Cymru stretched out in all directions beneath a darkening sky. It felt like genuinely joining with the world around her, merging her spirit with the gods.

Aerona sighed as the last handful of thyme and hazelnuts danced away on the wind and smiled. They’d find Owain. They would. There would be plenty in the Archives to go on, and Awen would find out about Flyn, and Dylan would pull together whatever else was needed from whichever other Sovereigns were necessary and, if they were really lucky, that delightful system that Lord Gwilym’s father had invented with Lady Marged would go ahead and everything would be splendid.

She almost skipped down the Spiral Stairs.

********

It was a strange experience, going down as far as the Archives. For one thing, she was going so far down that Aerona had gone past the Detention and Interrogation Area, which was almost always kept at the bottom of any City or Residence that Aerona had ever heard of. For another, an awful lot of Guard Riders suddenly appeared at each floor, checking her permit before letting her descend to the next. And that was just surreal; most of them had no idea what they were guarding from her, while Aerona knew very well.

This far down she was into the Union’s foundations, cellars so deep it was impossible to tunnel into them. The walls were lined with enclosed oil lamps on the Stairs, although inside the Archives fire was normally strictly forbidden; they were lit solely with sun-pipes, long ceramic pipes that ran from the nearest roof-tops and were lined with a complicated system of small angled mirrors to beam the sunlight from the outside to the inside. Since it was night-time, though, or about to be, Aerona was going to have to break the rules. Sun-pipes only worked during the day. And these were safety lamps, it would be difficult for her to commence a career in arson with one unless she was really motivated.

Finally the Stairs stopped winding down into the earth, and Aerona stepped off the last intricate stone-and-marble beam and onto the bare earthen floor, her foot-falls instantly muffling. Around her stood a series of plain and unremarkable wooden doors set into the circular wall, scrubbed clean but unadorned. Each was labelled with a small bronze plaque, and Aerona ran her eye across them; “Sewer Entrance” and “Main Furnace” she ignored and looked instead across Storerooms A, B, G, D and E. Four were genuine. One was not.

A pair of Guard Riders sat at a table to the side of the Stairs, and Aerona smiled as brightly at them as she could. She got the feeling she was starting to look manic, but it was habit. She liked being excessively friendly to strangers. It made them inclined to do the same. And it seemed to pay off now; one, a short red-headed girl with a few fingers missing, looked up and smiled warmly back, although an exchange of glances at each other’s beads confirmed Secret Club Membership.

“Good evening, Rider!” the girl said merrily. Her accent implied Southlander, but Aerona couldn’t pinpoint where. “Or I think it’s evening by now, anyway. Permit and destination?”

“Storeroom Delta, please,” Aerona grinned, showing the permit. “And yes, it’s evening. Long shift?”

“Not awful.” The girl pulled a face as she pulled out a keyring. “We do two shifts a day at four hours each, to stay fresh, which is great for not getting bored, but I hate being away from windows. Makes me edgy.”

“I can imagine,” Aerona nodded sympathetically as the door was duly unlocked and a safety lamp handed to her. “I’m the same if I’m away from the sea for too long, actually. I’m told it’s just Archipelagan fussing, though. Mostly by cruel people.”

The Guard Rider laughed, and slid the door open.

“Happy hunting,” she said, and Aerona stepped reverentially through into the Archives.

They were vast. The ceilings seemed impossibly high, a good three storeys above where they should have been, and supported by pillars that looked suspiciously like the roots of the Spiral Stairs’ central tree-column. Here and there was the occasional desk; during the day there could be anywhere between three and fifteen Riders working at them, copying and cataloguing every report, memo, letter, list, log and receipt the Intelligencers could lay their hands on and submit, up and down the country, and sorting them into the different files and folders necessary. It was probably the single biggest secretarial undertaking in the entire world, and therefore Aerona often wistfully felt that it was a shame it was completely secret. Especially since the sheer amount of paper, parchment and bark tablets amassed like it did. The enormous caverns of the Archives were completely filled with it, all neatly filed away into the incredibly tall ladder-mounted bookcase-like contraptions that marched away into the darkness, lines and rows and beacons of order. It smelled of paper. It was cold.

Fortunately, thoughtful Riders had considered that visitors might not have remembered the temperature considerations of the Archives, and a long stand of fur coats stood to one side of the door. Gratefully Aerona slipped one off its hanger – bearskin by the feel of it – and pulled it on. It was heavy, but warm. She took a moment to adjust it comfortably, and then moved on.

Even more fortunately, there were handy maps on each desk. They were even more vital than the coats. The Archives also contained files on everyone deemed to be ‘Of Interest’, whether they had true political power or not, and in many cases whether they were still alive or not. Navigation was important.

Aerona scanned the key beside the map by the light of her lamp. The Casnewydd Wings were far and away her best bet, since every single tiny mention of Owain by everyone who’d ever thought to mention him would be in his file. She checked the number of rows and turnings she’d have to make, suppressed a groan at the distance, and set off.

It took around six minutes of walking, but rather proudly Aerona only got lost once. Eventually she reached the right area, and then had to consult a further more detailed map to find the current active Wings, and then a list of Wing designation names. Another minute brought her to two full rows of the incredibly tall shelves, the plaque nailed to them reading ‘Masarnen’. Halfway down she finally found Owain’s ‘file.’

Naturally, it was somewhat more than a mere file. Sighing, Aerona slid the ladder into place, climbed to the top and pulled down the first box. Hopefully, she thought, the comfy-looking chair by the nearby desk would live up to its appearance, because she had a lot to get through.

The lamp flickered in the cold as Aerona settled down to read.

******

Diary Entry of Lady Marged of Caerleuad, 16th D 7thM 876. (excerpt)

I love Riders!! Especially ones who aren’t mine. Oh, obviously I love mine – Mair’s brilliant, so she is, although it’s such a shame about that bard, poor dear – but when you get to meet others it’s all special. They’re different, see, especially the ones from the mainland, because that’s not the same as the Archipelago. Oh, dear. I think I’m drunk!

Flyn’s not. I don’t think he bothers much. He’s ever so good at faking being happy and casual that one, but it’s all scheming, so he doesn’t do drunk. He’s not that fun. His Wing, though! Lovely. Well, partly. Well, no, mostly, actually. The big one – Caradog? – he’s excellent fun! Very big, mind, unfair advantage when drinking, and Riders and drinking and that, but they knew so many games for it and he led them. Brilliant! And the girl with the bird! She let me hold it and fly it! It came back to my wrist! I’m so excited! And their leader is great. A bard, lovely voice. But their Deputy is awful, simply dreadful.

Oh, I’m doing this wrong. Hello, diary. Yes; Flyn arrived, and was all snooty and strange, although that’s quite normal. He didn’t like my cat. Anyway; we went off to do the political discussion bit, and Flyn was – well, normal Flyn, you know, all attentive and polite on the surface and carefully barbed comments – and then the Casnewydd Leader, Awen, came to stand in to make sure we weren’t trying to do something illegal, you know, as she’s supposed to, and Flyn got all weird and possessive. He makes her kneel too long. Mair raised an eyebrow. I can always tell when she disapproves, she does that. Anyway. Then we had a party! Or ‘formal dinner’, although it wasn’t, so there. I’m very drunk, diary. Very very drunk.

Oh, yes, anyway, we all got dressed up, that was fun, I went and found the visiting Riders and got ready with them because I wanted to see if they were fun and they were and I flew a bird. And they were nice and lovely, and all looked good, all smart, did a lovely job on each other. But their Deputy was weird. They had banter, you know, it’s normal. They definitely included Awen, and she didn’t mind, but the Deputy boy did, if they said anything to him his face went all still and he looked like he was pretending not to be angry, and when he answered back he was more mean. And then he got that fisherman’s gel they put on their hair and slicked it back, without asking anyone to do it for him, and he looked like a tit, frankly, fringe like two slugs. Horrible. I told him he shouldn’t, since he can’t see himself, and he looked all angry, and then he started giving the others orders all the time. It was weird. They don’t like him, I think. I’m drunk. Anyway, he did this for a few minutes, and every order he gave the others would look at Awen, but she was doing that thing where you back each other up in public, and so kept quiet, and then she told him to go and check to see if he could find something in the bags they’d brought from Casnewydd, and then ten seconds later went after him, and then everyone looked all significant at each other. And then they came back and he wasn’t ordering anymore, and he kept looking at her funny. Strange look. I couldn’t work it out. Angry a bit, resentful like, but also like children look at puppies. Longing. Flyn looked at her funny, too, but he’s just weird.

Goodness I’m drunk! Anyway…


Marged was even crazy in her own diary entries. Aerona was trying hard not to giggle, given the seriousness of the situation. Well; it backed up Adara’s assessment of the Awen/Owain dynamic, anyway, and came from a rather less biased source. And there were others on the same theme, various witnesses who’d occasionally seen the Wing during their leisure time and recorded the bizarre animosity between them and their own Deputy. Interestingly, it seemed to have always been a feature of the Wing dynamic.


Rider Development Report
Tutor: Huw Onnen
Subjects: Masarnen Wing, leadership studies.
Age Group: Eight-year-olds.

The Masarnen Wing continues to show exceptional promise, with all members displaying at the very least the basic skill-sets and abilities to become an active Wing and most already being far above this level. The last report indicated five potential Leaders for the Wing, namely: Llyr, Meurig, Awen, Adara and Owain, with both Tanwen and Caradog being additional possible candidates for Deputy status. Unusually, considering the high number of extroverted personalities and naturally dominant tendencies, overall Wing interaction is good, all members seeming to bond well with others. However, occasional power struggles have started to surface, so it is my recommendation that trial leadership studies are advanced to as soon as possible. They all have great loyalty to one another; my feeling is that once they are given an individual to follow they will accept them, and all power struggles will cease.

As such, I am submitting my reviews and recommendations now. Even at this early stage, Awen, Llyr and Owain show exceptional aptitude for the role, both within social dynamics and the tactical scenarios the Wing has so far experienced. Awen in particular stands out: she has a natural gift for exploring and memorising her Wing-mates’ strengths and weaknesses, a gift she is fast honing into a formidable talent almost without any coaching from myself or any other Tutor. Furthermore, she shows tremendous skill at applying these strengths and weaknesses to tactical situations, and does so both diplomatically and effectively. She naturally possesses a manipulative streak which she uses to great effect and to the benefit of the whole Wing, never herself; it’s clear that if she wished she could fairly easily finesse her way into being in a leader role in any given situation, but she does not, favouring instead a slier approach that gets the job done without undermining others’ authority. Additionally, Awen has perfect understanding already of how to juggle morale and motivation, and can skilfully do so. Her Wing-mates naturally enjoy following her, a valuable asset for a leader. Her battle tactics thus far are promising.

Owain is my next choice. Like Awen he possesses a certain natural gift for manipulation, but unlike Awen he applies this entirely to tactical situations, and never to his Wing-mates. There are strengths and disadvantages to this approach. Certainly of all the Wing his tactical abilities have tested highest, and in almost every area; battle, recon and survival all being his strongest suits. I should stress that it’s still early stages for combat skills, but nonetheless Owain is naturally gifted with projectile weapons, the crossbow in particular, and is very good at thinking on his feet during hand-to-hand combat. He is very strong at gauging his Wing-mates’ physical talents and utilising them effectively, much like Awen; but, unlike Awen, he lacks a proper understanding of their mental and emotional abilities. He has an overly-strong tendency to assume that everyone thinks like him but less intelligently, the result of which being that he is frequently prone to misinterpretation. This can lead to a degree of friction between him and others in the Wing. This is the main reason that I am recommending Awen’s candidacy over Owain’s; much though they are fairly evenly matched in all other respects, Awen’s sympathetic and adept handling of people means she effortlessly commands loyalty and likeability, whereas I get the feeling Owain will be hard-pressed to earn it.

Llyr is my third choice, since like Awen he is skilled at social interaction…


“He has an overly-strong tendency to assume that everyone thinks like him but less intelligently.” That, Aerona thought as she looked for the next report, was a deeply significant sentence, noting a deeply significant character flaw. Of course, little Owain Masarnen had been all of eight years when Huw Onnen had written those words, which gave him plenty of time to learn a bit about human nature, but it was very possible that this was an early indication of mild narcissism. It suggested he was naturally self-centred at the very least, and frankly that was unusual in Riders of any age. Even eight.


Rider Development Report
Tutor: Huw Onnen
Subjects: Masarnen Wing, leadership studies.
Age Group: Nine to Ten-year-olds.

I am pleased to report enormous success within the Masarnen Wing; as hoped, almost all power struggles have ceased, and the overall Wing dynamic is one of increasingly strong cohesion. Awen has occupied the Leader role since the start of the trials, and although unusual my recommendation is for her to stay there; authority and responsibility fit her better than her own skin, and both she and the whole Wing have gone from strength to strength with her at the head. I remain fully confident of Masarnen Wing’s eventual ascension to active status.

There are still several possibilities for the Deputy candidacy, however. Llyr would be valuable as a second in command, since his diplomatic prowess is still rivalled only by Awen’s, but it must be said that his tactical thinking suggests that he may ultimately prove unsuitable for command in a battle situation. Caradog seems to be the complete opposite, meanwhile; his battlefield prowess seems superb, but his conversational skills are simple and direct, and I feel he may simply be too honest for the job. Adara would in all likelihood excel in the role, but she is not confident of her own leadership skills in the event that she needs to take over from Awen, which makes her an impractical choice. Owain’s tactical brilliance remains truly excellent, and by now has been bolstered by additional traits: he has an edge of ruthless cunning that will be extremely valuable in a fighting Wing, one which, I might add, Awen is rather adept at exploiting. Their teamwork, in fact, is remarkably good considering the subjects are ten. These factors make me favour Owain as Deputy over the others.

In the interests of fairness I should note Owain’s weaknesses, however. He has become better at handling people, but I feel he is no better at truly understanding them, making his interactions a pale imitation of Awen’s. Of all of the Wing members, he is probably the single greatest source of friction. When not Deputy, he constantly seeks to undermine whoever is; when he is Deputy, he is prone to bouts of ‘flaunting authority’, where he seems to feel the need to impress himself upon the others. Interestingly, he never turns this upon Awen, a fact I attribute to her skills rather than his respect. It remains to be seen how this relationship will develop.

An additionally interesting point on this theme, in fact, and worthy of note, are the childrens' choices for their specialist areas. As perhaps we could have expected, many of them seem to be leaning towards some unusual choices; Adara, for example, has shown a wonderful aptitude with the falconers in the Residence, and is expanding this area by learning as many different methods of trapping as she possibly can. Opposing this is Meurig, who informs me that his dearest wish is to be 'competently accomplished in everything.' Awen looks set to be a bard, as music is a natural gift to her and one of very few pasttimes she'll actually try to partake in that isn't Rider-related. Naturally, the others enjoy listening to her. I suspect it's for this reason that Owain seems to be trying to follow the same course...



Rider Development Report
Tutor: Mererid Criafolen
Subjects: Masarnen Wing, Internal Wing Dynamics
Age Group: Fifteen
Overall the inter-personal relationships of the Wing are strong and appropriately positive, with no individual truly standing out. A weak link in this chain is Owain, however, or I should say a potential weak link. I feel his ascension to full-time Deputy status was the correct choice, as he and Awen make a formidable team in command, but his enjoyment of his authority over other Wing members is occasionally disconcerting; it may not be a cause for alarm yet, but it is a possible area for concern. He is, I would suggest, fractionally too self-aware as a Rider, and certainly I would prefer to see a little more humility, but thus far this is a tendency that is under control.
His popularity within the Wing is the lowest of all members, doubtless owing to his slight megalomania. Intriguingly, however, he isn’t actively disliked by anyone, probably owing to Awen’s influence. He is dependent on her for acceptance from the others, something that he seems to recognise on some level, since she alone is spared any power displays on his part. She rather intelligently maintains her dominance over him, reprimanding him only in private to spare his ego and never indulging in any relationship with him beyond the professional or fraternal. I suspect this final point bothers him, however; any further relationship with her is a goal beyond his reach, something which Owain will inherently therefore desire.
Evidence for this seems to lie in his clashes with specific Wing members, most notably Adara and Caradog; both Riders who are very close to Awen. This may need further observation.

On a side note, all members have now chosen their specialisms. Until very recently Owain was still attempting bardic status, but has now settled into the role of Medic. I can't help but wonder if this has more to do with power than preference; the others are now, in some extra way, dependent on him, and moreso than if he'd been the second of two bards.



“Awen thought it was power as an Aphrodisiac, you know,” Aerona recalled. Well, it seemed she had been right. In fact, it seemed according to the official reports that Awen had rather capably had the measure of Owain, yet she hadn’t seen his defection coming. That was odd. And, the more Aerona read of Awen in the reports it became stranger still, since even at the tender age of – Aerona double checked the early RDR – eight, she’d been touted as an expert judge of character.

Remember that the watcher may be watched.

It was a fundamental rule taught to Intelligencers, right at the point they were taught to observe without giving away anything they didn’t want to. Awen was an expert judge of character. But she judged too much. She was an Intelligencer and an Alpha Wingleader, two incredibly demanding and important roles that she was required to combine, and this was in a border City that required constant fighting.

Ultimately her own Wing had proved too close for her to keep watching. She’d watched Owain, yes, but somewhere, in some way, he’d watched her back. He’d worked out how to get around her.

Aerona considered that as she pulled out the next documents. Exactly how intelligent was he, then? Cunning was how the RDRs had described him, and it fit the bill. “Ruthless cunning.”

What she needed, of course, was the full Rider Evaluation Report from the point when the Wing were installed to active duty. That would contain a helpful and professional assessment of the adult Owain, rather than the developing child Owain. The file, when she found it, was thick.


Rider Evaluation Report
Subject: Owain Masarnen
Status: Deputy Wingleader (Approved)
Author: Mererid Criafolen

Owain is showing an exceptional talent for -


Something creaked in the darkness beyond her lamplight, and Aerona was instantly alert, instinct moving one hand to the dagger on her belt and the other to the lamp. Had that been a footstep? How far away? It had sounded like it was on the other side of the shelf to the right, in which case they might not be able to see her yet...

Silently, Aerona rose from the comfy chair, left the lamp where it was and stole around the bookcase behind her, out of view. Her hand itched to draw the blade it held, but she resisted. Metal being drawn was a sound that tended to whisper to trained fighters, and much though someone clearly knew she was there - the lamp was a bit of a clue - they hopefully didn't know exactly where she was.

Only a Rider could get in, though. Only a Rider with clearance could get in. So there were three options: it was someone trying to do a bit of late-night filing who completely innocently walked nearby; someone who was working with Owain and wanted to stop her research, or, and this one was important, it was someone very high up, a position on the Council let's say for example, who knew she was there and in the name of high-spirited fun had decided to test her -

Aerona ducked and kicked behind her in time for some sort of club or cosh to swing through the space her head had until recently occupied and her foot to connect with someone's leg. It was a short-lived victory, though. As she leapt to spring away a hand caught her wrist, and before she could break its fingers she was suddenly on the floor on her stomach with one arm twisted just the right side of painful between her shoulder blades and someone sitting on her back. She sighed, and forced herself to relax.

"I yield," she said wearily. Rhydian laughed.

"Excellent!" he said. "Although slightly less fun than I was hoping for. I thought you'd have stabbed me. Good job on realising where I was, mind."

"Thanks," Aerona said, and fell into teacher mode without really thinking. "Although if you hadn't creaked that floorboard I wouldn't have known at all," and then she managed to bite her tongue before "What do we do? Stick to the sides, that's right" could leave her mouth. Rhydian just laughed again.

"It was more a test to see if you'd go towards it," he said merrily. "Or turn the lamp off. But you did well! What do you give your children when they do well? Gold star, is it?"

"Yes," Aerona said, and threw some of her caution to the wind. "Also I stop sitting on them, although I admit I don't usually start."

"Oh, yes," Rhydian said, sounding vaguely disappointed. "I thought maybe you giving in was a cunning ruse before you stabbed me. You're good with a pair of daggers, as I recall."

"Thank you, Councillor," Aerona said, controlling the wince as he let go of her wrist and climbed warily off her, apparently expecting bladed retaliation at any moment. It was psychotic. She could have tried fighting on, of course; there was a chance she'd even have managed to stab him, as he kept suggesting, but Aerona was under no illusions that then Rhydian would have retaliated and then she'd have been missing a hand, and Aerona really liked her hands. They were both so useful.

"Right," Rhydian said, rubbing his hands together as they returned to the table and perching imperiously on the edge. "You've had a good fifteen minutes in here now. What have you found?"

"You know I spent about eight of those getting here from the door, Councillor?" Aerona protested. "It's not been fifteen minutes of reading."

"I know," agreed Rhydian. "What have you found?"

Aerona sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. Her beads tickled the sides of her neck.

"Not a lot yet," she admitted. "I'm trying to get an idea of what Owain is like as a person, so that when I move on to potential Clues I'll actually recognise them. So far, I've learned that he was incredibly self-motivated and so even his own Wing members didn't really like him. Although that was when they were kids and weren't fighting together yet."

"They liked him once they were fighting," Rhydian said, staring at the shelves. "In the way that a lot of people feel about siblings I suppose. Love and hate at the same time. It certainly seemed to be Awen's take on him, anyway."

"That's a shame," Aerona said quietly. "I was really hoping that she'd never properly bonded with him, and thus would be entirely unaffected by this."

"She is." Rhydian glanced at her, an eyebrow raised. "She's breathtakingly well-trained. I've personally made sure of it. This won't get in her way."

"I didn't really mean her functionality, Councillor," Aerona said carefully. "Out of interest; why do you think she missed this?"

"Actually, I've been asking myself that," Rhydian frowned. "And I have no idea. I realise that I very often expect the impossible from that woman, but she has never once failed to deliver. And her own Deputy going rogue." He shook his head. "I'd have expected her to notice any Rider going rogue, but one of her own?"

"I think she spent so long accepting and forgiving him for being an idiot that when he was being an idiot with a purpose she didn't notice," Aerona said quietly. "I think she was far too busy watching Lord Flyn and fighting Saxons and doing everything else that she was required to do to watch her own Wing that closely, especially when they were meant to be the people she could most rely on."

"It's disappointing to be reminded that we're all just human," Rhydian mused. "And - hmm."

He looked at the Alpha Wing shelf for a moment, then got up without a word and vanished along it. Aerona blinked at his retreating back. Well, that was Councillors for you. Mad as hares and about as likely to share their thoughts with the rest of the class as a table. She turned back to the Evaluation Report and began reading.

Halfway down, the by-now familiar list of flaws surfaced again.



... Also, he has developed a superb understanding of how Awen's battle tactics work just as she understands his; in battle they can accurately predict each other's moves almost effortlessly, seeming to just know where to be at any given time. In fact, I've rarely seen such unity between commanders, and watching them is very nearly a privilege.

However, Owain's strengths are sadly paired with weaknesses. His battle-ruthlessness is extended to real life, to a point where I suspect he views all other people simply as things, tools for him to use to achieve his purpose. Ordinarily I would consider this no bad thing in a Rider, but for two points: firstly, he applies this thinking to non-Riders, occasionally even seeming to place himself above them; and secondly, he is capable of being motivated by his own gratification more than I'd like. This seems to be rare and mild, however, and is less of a problem than the first point.

Additionally, he considers himself to be slightly more intelligent than he genuinely is. Although this is rarely problematic, occasionally it merges with his tactical thinking with dangerous results. During one of the assessment scenarios, for example, Owain became convinced that one of the pathways laid down had been left as a trap, and the Wing would therefore be moving into a trap if they entered the woods at that point. He based this opinion on a rather fanciful conclusion drawn from the width of the pathway, considering it to be typical of Saxon movement. When other Wing members disagreed Owain's belief was that he was cleverer than them, and so could see what they could not. Ultimately, in order to avoid the 'ambush', while the rest of the Wing entered the woods Owain flew above, possibly entertaining a notion of saving them all should disaster strike. Instead, the Wing made it safely through until attacked by the assessors who had seen Owain flying above the tree-line, thus giving away the Wing's position.

I would expect this particular flaw to lessen with experience, though, and given how impressive he is in his role ninety-nine times out of a hundred my recommendation is not to hold him back because of it...


So. He was self-absorbed, jealous, saw people as tools and sometimes saw patterns that weren't there which he refused to not see on the erroneous grounds that he was the only one clever enough to understand. Aerona stared at the lamplight and thought.

Awen, back in Lord Gwilym's conference room, hadn't believed that Owain could be working for Lord Flyn directly. And they'd all agreed, because what Rider would turn rogue? Who would do that? He was megalomanic, Aerona could see that, and he thought he was better than everyone else; but no Rider could put themselves above Cymru. They just weren't capable of it. And since whatever Flyn was planning seemed to involve Saxons, which Owain must have known about...

Of course, how one defined 'Cymru' was possibly open to discussion. Or, maybe he'd seen Flyn's plan and thought there was some way of twisting it so it helped Cymru. Maybe ... Aerona paused, and thought of Awen.

If he just wanted me dead he didn't need to try to convince me to let Gareth run. All he had to do was cut my throat and have done with it.

And there was the important point. If he'd gone rogue he wouldn't have wasted a second trying to make Awen understand. He'd only have done that if he wanted her to agree, to trust him, to realise that he'd seen something with all of his cleverness that she hadn't. And according to all of these reports, he so badly wanted Awen. He wouldn't have killed her. He probably tried, yes, but he'd probably been banking on her stopping him.

So what was the plan? Carefully, Aerona went back to the shelf, stepping around Councillor Rhydian who was cross-legged on the floor and absorbed in a very long document, and retrieved a few boxes of 'Anything That Mentioned Owain'. It was going to take a while, probably, but these would at least be quicker to get through. And these might contain Clues, which would be like a game.


Diary of Heulwen ferch Dafydd, seven.
Y Fenni.
Excerpt.

The man was nice said his name was Owain, said he was okay because he didn't get caught up the mountain he did dig into the lower levels he was okay, he was nice and a Rider. I seen him at the bottom this morning and I asked him what he seen and he said what he needed to seen.


Automatically Aerona found herself grinning fondly at Heulwen ferch Dafydd's incredibly cute entry until she caught herself and paid attention. Up a mountain? At night? By himself? Well; the mystery of How Owain Went To The Bad was solved, then, because what idiot went alone up mountains at night? What had he been thinking? Was this part of his trying to be a bard phase? Well, it must have been. But they'd all gotten unlucky, because what had come down was neither a poet nor dead, and that only left one option.

Aerona sighed, and carried on sifting through the documents.


Diary of Dafydd mab Meleri, Blue Rank.
Druid in the Temple to Lleu, Casnewydd.
Excerpt.

I finished just as the doors slammed back, so I hurried into the main chamber to see what was going on. There were two Riders, Alpha Wing - the Wingleader and the Deputy, in fact! There in front of me! Except it was less exciting at the time, because Awen was injured, a massive wound going from just beneath her ribs to halfway down her thigh on the left, and it was bleeding bad and Owain was supporting her almost entirely. We got her into one of the side chambers and I started setting up to do the Rituals for her while he grabbed our medkits and started to clean her up. Fortunately she was just about conscious, enough to swallow what I gave her anyway, which made everything easier. We went through almost our entire stock of betony. I must get more.

I asked Owain what happened, but he just glared at me and kept working. Worried, obviously. He kept talking to her, though, muttering sort of, at first I thought it was to keep her awake but I don't think she could hear anything he was saying, she was too busy focusing on staying conscious. I think he was mostly talking to himself. He kept asking her why, over and over. At one point he said, "he wasn't worth it. You're so much more than him. Why did you?" Towards the end once he'd stitched her back together and got her into the circle for me to start the Rituals he sat by her head, stroking her hair - I think she was unconscious by then. He said "This has to stop. I'm going to stop this."

It was strange, but amazing to see how close Riders are first-hand. I was just finishing when another Rider came in, curly hair, Meurig his name was, same Wing. He didn't speak at first; just looked at us all like he was memorising, and then crouched down by Awen as I finished and put his hand on her forehead. Owain just watched. Didn't stop glaring. Then he picked her up and carried her out, and Meurig thanked me, and then hugged me. I asked what happened, and he said she'd jumped between an axe and a six-year-old child in the raid, but he'd killed the Saxon slowly so it was okay...


Verbal Report, Gruff ap Bryn, Butcher, Cas-Gwent.
Taken by Mair Derwen.

The children seem to be having the same nightmare since Dewi went missing; obviously, there's some grain of truth there that people aren't believing and dismissing. Apparently -


Could she find the original report of 'Dewi' going missing? Not without an hour to spare, probably. Aerona looked back down at the paper.


Apparently the day he vanished they all refused to speak anyway, scared of or traumatised by whatever happened. Once they found the body of course and realised it was a bear that had caught him no one thought much more of it. But that was six months ago, and although they talk normally in the daytime now they have this nightmare. Gruff's son finally told his mam about some of it, who told the other parents, who asked their children, who confirmed it.

They dream that they're blackberry picking in the woods when the bear comes, but it's black and walks on hind legs. The fur around its neck looks like a Rider's collar; after careful questioning one of the girls described it, and it sounds like a Deputy Alpha collar. The bear walks at them, grinning, and they try to run, but the brambles are suddenly too thick and pen them in. The bear catches Dewi and roars at him, and the wind blows, and they hear the words, "You weren't worth it." Then Dewi is torn apart in front of them, and the bear looks at them, and they know that if they tell they'll be next.

They usually wake up them. My feeling is that if they've seen Rider Owain, the Alpha Deputy, fighting in the woods in the same place during a raid then a child's mind could easily conflate the two, since an active Rider is a traumatic thing for a child to witness. Alternatively, although far less likely, is that there genuinely was someone involved in poor Dewi's death, who either dressed himself as Rider Owain or simply told the children he was and then disguised his actions as a bear attack. Either way, there's too little to go on here. Since the children are remembering the attacker as a bear we've got no description to go on, and the evidence for the attack being genuinely that of a bear was overwhelming. Perhaps druidic help would be best for them.


Aerona froze, staring at the neatly written report. "You weren't worth it"? After Owain's muttered diatribe partly to Awen and mostly to himself in the Temple to Lleu? After she'd taken an axe strike for a six-year-old boy? Which Owain described as not worth it, when she was so much more than him?

It wasn't evidence. It wasn't definite. But it didn't need to be. Aerona could spot patterns, too.

She fought down the horror, and tried to think past the automatic fucking gods a Rider has murdered a Cymric child response. Come on. What was important here? What clues were staring at her from the story? It was Cas-Gwent, not a million miles from Magwyr. Significant? Probably. A good Saxon meeting place once everyone thought a bear lived there, since no one would now stumble through accidentally. What else? Well, he'd kept the children from talking...

The dream, though. They have the same nightmare. All of them saw Dewi's death again, but in the abstract, and in the same way. That wasn't natural. And within the dream - within their memory of it - the brambles were suddenly too thick for them to escape, both of which suggested -

Realisation dawned like a bucket of cold water. It was druidic. Something had got inside their minds and infected them, changing their memories and haunting them, night after night for months on end. Something had trapped them in that wood, with an angry, vengeful, insane Rider, to watch him tear their friend apart. And something, lest anyone forget, something was delaying the gods damned border warnings for Wrecsam and that had nearly got her children killed as they learned to build dens.

Being a Rider had its uses. Aerona could swear like a sailor when required.

No gig but a poster at the least.

I think looking at contempory illustration and graphics books is influencing me a bit. Which is weird because this up there is an old style of Graphic design. The kind you see all the London hipsters doing when they're not dicking about with the smokers or talking on their phones in librarys. Goddamn.

Cymru - Chapter 23

Since there's nothing for Madog to do just yet, I thought I'd use him as a contrivance to explain some smaller aspects of the world they live in via a Shiny New Character. I was tempted to just go "Fuck it, let's make it teh pr0nz, lol!!!!" but then remembered my sister reads these, so explicit material was removed.

Anyone wanting the graphically written scene in question, mind, should email me privately. If desired, I will even include the word 'mancream'. My money is on Jom asking.


MADOG

Archipelagan taverns, Madog had decided years ago, were Something Else. It was something to do with the way the Cities were built, all piled up on top of themselves and with nowhere for the people to go outwards. They were claustrophobic and strange, and bred people who were hard workers but never felt the rain or sun, who only got their food through passing sailors and trading, who never got the chance to truly leave. The downshot was the slightly restless edge that permanently affected the people. The upshot was the taverns. Archipelagans liked to party.

This one was no exception. A small group of three or four bards seemed to have decided to pool their talents for the night and were playing a fast and complex hornpipe in the corner on two crwths, a pibgorn and a bodhran that had more than a few people dancing in any free space they could find, including the odd tabletop. Tankards were being enthusiastically waved, causing the sweet smells of mead and whiskey to mingle with the dried heather in the rafters, sweat from the patrons and wood smoke from the somewhat extraneous fire opposite the bar. And the people were the most mixed bunch Madog had ever seen in a tavern; since traders were so vital to Tregwylan life they were joyfully welcomed, leading to a beautiful tableaux of all the different colours humans were available in. Two or three tall blond men sat at one table, moustaches and beards long and plaited in the style that sat up and screamed ‘Viking!’ to anyone who looked; a group of Celtiberians sat behind them, happily throwing some bone dice about on the tabletop between the feet of a pair of possible Greeks who twirled obliviously to the music; at the bar beside Madog a tiny woman with honey-coloured skin and black hair waited to be served, her clothes suggesting she was from the Indo-Greek empire; and Phoenicians were everywhere, their tall, elegant frames made startlingly obvious by their rich black skin, their eyes almost gold. Celts of all kinds wove among them all, Cymric and Erinnish and Alban and Gallic. The combined noise of at least ten different languages merrily competing with the music made a protective barrier around Madog, blocking him out from the world. It was fine by him. He was Thinking.

The rest of the Wing were wisely and accordingly leaving him alone. Dylan had cashed in his IOU for a beer from Menna, who was now dancing somewhat meanly in front of the Vikings with Glesni and Bronwen and commanding a rapt audience as they went. The others looked to have started a card game with some Egyptians and a handful of locals, commanding a different sort of audience. If he’d wanted, he could have joined them. He didn’t.

Everything felt… surreal. Having your world view changed did that to you, he supposed glumly. Well, having it changed for the worse, anyway. Probably having it changed for the better made you somewhat jolly. Probably. It would have been nice to know for definite.

He looked thirty, or so Madog was told, but that was merely the effect of the Gwales Ritual. He was actually around forty somewhere, although he wasn’t sure where precisely; Riders didn’t bother to keep count of that sort of thing. But even so, forty years give-or-take-one was a long time to have done a job – to have done a job you believed you’d mastered – and to have actually been doing it wrong. The gods only knew how they’d have survived all this time without Dylan, but despite what Dylan said it was Madog who should have been paying attention. Being told that you performed a still-vital but basically inferior role was little consolation when you were meant to be the Alpha bloody Wingleader.

There was movement beside him as the tiny Indo-Greek woman left, and a Phoenician stepped into the gap. Madog paid no attention, watching the mead swirl in the splitting wooden tankard in his hands. He wished he could get drunk faster. The letter from Gwenda kept swimming past his vision, tempting him to give it to Dylan to open, and that very temptation was distressing him. It felt… wrong. It would be wrong. But should he anyway? Was that what he was supposed to do? Was that what Dylan would do in his place? Was it what Awen would do? And why was inebriation eluding him so badly just when he wanted some sort of release?

Well; the Gwales Ritual was why. But knowing the answer was hardly conducive to developing a sunny disposition.

“Traditionally,” a velvety-rich voice said conversationally beside him, “you have to drink it before you get drunk, my friend.”

Madog glanced sideways. The Phoenician was leaning one elbow casually on the bar, smiling at him with a hint of amusement. Madog snorted and looked back at the mead.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “I’m familiar with the mechanism. Sadly I’m gifted with superb liver function, though.”

“Ah, yes.” The Phoenician stroked his short, pointed beard thoughtfully, his palms a flash of pale skin against his face. “You are a Rider. I’ve come across that complaint before.”

“Really?” Madog asked wearily. He was in no mood to talk, as nice as the Phoenician seemed to be. A brief glimmer of white indicated the man’s grin.
“Oh yes,” he said calmly. “I come to your country often. I like it here. And I have experience with Riders."

"Experience?" Madog asked. The Phoenician smiled, an easy-going smile that almost managed to pierce Madog's malaise.

"I've met a few," he said warmly. "And, indeed, I am here with others presently to ask an audience at your Archwiliad. My name is Hannibal,” he added. “And yours… let’s see, let’s see. Wrecsam livery, and your collar, in the manner of your people, denotes your rank. Alpha Wingleader, in this case, so you must be... Madog Helygen.”

Madog turned, and looked at Hannibal properly. He was definitely Numibian Phoenician in appearance; he was tall and broad across the shoulders, his skin so dark it had an almost purple sheen to it in the lamplight, his eyes the typical black-and-gold. His nose was broad and flat above beautifully full lips and beneath a strong brow, and his face was framed by long black hair that had been completely braided down his back, each individual plait finishing in a small gold hoop. His ears had been pierced repeatedly, as had his nose, more gold evident in each. His clothes were robes, richly coloured and patterned and wrapped about his broad frame.

None of it suggested any prior link with Cymru. His Cymric was flawless, admittedly, but most of the Phoenician traders were skilled polyglots, and his words in any case were steeped in his native accent, rounded and lilting. He grinned again at Madog now, teeth starkly white against his skin, apparently waiting for the questions he knew would come.

“Hannibal?” Madog asked, skipping the obvious ones for now. Hannibal laughed, the sound almost deep enough for Madog to feel the vibrations in the bar top.

“Ah! Yes. My parents liked history.”

“Do you?” Madog asked, and wondered why. Hannibal nodded.

“Absolutely,” he said, accepting a drink from the barman as it finally came and sliding a Phoenician coin across in payment. “It is important. Mistakes, you see, are how children learn to be adults. History is how humans, as a race, do the same.”

Well, that struck a chord. Madog stared at Hannibal for a few seconds, turning it over in his mind.

“So,” he said slowly, “you would see a child as someone who… hasn’t made a mistake?”

“Yes.” Hannibal looked thoughtful. “Or not enough of them, perhaps. Or perhaps not; perhaps I simply see an adult as one who has made enough, and learned from them all. Philosophy is also my passion, I fear.”

“It’s a good one.” Madog stared at the mead, and decided to file it away for later. “I’ve met people who could work out my name before, but our Wing designation is unusual.”

“Your Wing designation would be, your second name?” Hannibal asked, swirling his tankard slightly. “What we would call your family name? Your surname?”

“Yes,” assumed Madog. Hannibal nodded.

“As I say,” he smiled, “I like your country. You have many lovely social structures absent from most others. Good traders learn the cultures and customs of their customers anyway; it is a sort of itinerant politics, I suppose. But I made an extra effort with this country. Your people are proud of you, my friend. You are a great protector, a great god to them. I find it fascinating.”

Madog nearly choked on the mead.

“A god?” he repeated. “They do not. We’re warriors, not –”

“We have different concepts of the word,” Hannibal said apologetically. “To us, gods are more like people than they are to you. Yours are more like… forces, or concepts. Have you ever been told of the Egyptian Pharoahs of old?”

“Probably not,” Madog allowed cautiously. Hannibal nodded, apparently having expected such ignorance in Rider training.

“They believed, once upon a time, that their Pharoahs were gods on earth,” he explained. “They followed them for this reason. The gods spoke through them, and they could do no wrong. Accordingly, they would marry brother to sister to maintain the royal line. I realise this is an abhorrent concept to you.”

“Yes,” said Madog. “I’m wondering how this relates to me apparently being a god, now, and if we’re going to have to have a fight to defend my honour. Not to mention my sister’s honour, and I’ve never even met her if she indeed exists.”

“I would not survive it. Merely the concept of being a god, not the practices,” Hannibal grinned. “A god in human flesh. In this nation, there is no war. I think perhaps you take this for granted, my friend. You probably don’t see it that way, you see. To you, there is very often fighting, and bloodshed, and death. But to the people of this country, there is no war. Ever. You keep it from them.” He shook his head, gracefully, apparently marvelling at Cymru’s impressive social features. “This is a beautiful thing you give your people, my friend. And so they think of you accordingly. You are god-like to them.”

It was too alien a concept. Madog drained the tankard and signalled for another, shaking his head.

“They’re grateful, yes,” he said. “But divinity is a bit of a step up from there, I’m afraid. Druids, now; I’d see what you meant. Or even bards when you hear a good song. But not Riders. We’re just warriors.”

“Yes,” said Hannibal, his voice slightly odd. “You are not the first Rider to tell me that. This I find most interesting of all. You cannot see yourselves, can you? Literally or figuratively. It is forbidden, and you are incapable. Tell me, my friend, and do be honest; if you needed to kill me, right now, right at this very second without even standing up; could you?”

Madog looked at him levelly.

“Yes,” he said blandly. Hannibal nodded.

“If this entire roomful of people suddenly drew blades from beneath the tables and bows from the rafters and aimed for you, could you beat them all?”

“Still without standing?”

Hannibal’s mouth twitched.

“I’d be very much interested to know the answer if I said yes,” he said wryly, “but you may stand for this hypothetical.”

“Then yes,” Madog said simply. “I could.”

“And yet,” Hannibal mused, “with all of this self-confidence, all of this understanding of your own skill and efficacy; you have no self-worth. You consider yourselves lower than all who live in your society. Most interesting.”

Madog bit back the automatic ‘Well, we are’ that threatened to jump out of his mouth. It would just prove Hannibal’s point in his eyes, regardless of its accuracy. He accepted a new drink from the barman instead, and drank half as he tried to work out where to go from there.

“You say you've met a few Riders,” he said after a while. Hannibal grinned.

“I have,” he nodded. “I like Riders. I like complex.”

“Thanks.” Madog rubbed a hand across his eyes. He was starting to get the vague feeling that this conversation was going somewhere vaguely significant in a vague sort of way, but there were too many vagues and he was already feeling jumbled. “You said you liked philosophy?”

“Also complex,” Hannibal smiled. “But a different ‘like’, I confess. Yes.”

“Philosophically speaking,” Madog said carefully, “or hypothetically or whatever; let’s say there is a choir of bards. One is the leader of the choir. They sing very complicated music, eight-part harmonies and more, you know?”

Hannibal nodded elegantly. Madog carried on.

“Let’s say that this piece of music has a very complicated, technically demanding and difficult descant,” Madog said, watching Hannibal. “So difficult that most singers would loathe even trying it, but without it, the piece doesn’t work. That ought to be the choir leader’s job, really, shouldn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Hannibal paused, stroking his beard again. “Perhaps. It would be logical in an ideal world, certainly. But there are many variables there that are too important to ignore. A choir, after all, is a team of bards blending together, functioning as one. The leader in this case, I should think, is the one who facilitates this functioning, not necessarily the one who sings the best. If this choir contains an individual who has great skill and competence, but too much individual spirit, then they should not be leader; but logically, they should sing your descant. I have said something good?”

“Perhaps.” Madog grinned at the mead, feeling lighter than he had for a while. “More helpful than you could probably imagine, at any rate. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Hannibal said, giving him a slight bow that was probably normal for Phoenicians but unnerved Madog slightly. No one bowed to Riders. “I enjoy helping out Riders. There are... so many small ways to do so.”

The subtext of the conversation finally surfaced enough to give Madog a hint, and he laughed out loud.

“Really?” he chuckled to Hannibal’s unabashed grin. “I’m trying very hard not to ask you what those are.”

“A shame. I’d be happy to tell,” Hannibal purred. Madog shook his head.

“Aren’t Phoenicians meant to be more conservative about sex?” he asked. “Or… ah. This is one of our lovely social structures absent from other countries?”

“Indeed!” Hannibal said merrily. “As I say, I like your country. Certain preferences are normal here that are not elsewhere. And you have such different attitudes to the act itself! To your people, it is important to pleasure one another, as this is how you… join, how you connect, with other humans. This is how you remind yourselves that you are not alone in the world, that you all have problems.” Hannibal shook his head. “This is also a beautiful thing, my friend. It is sacred, and special. Not so in the rest of the world. Elsewhere, who you do it with and for what purpose are the important factors. Never visit the Graecian Empires, my friend! They would not welcome you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t leave Cymru,” Madog shuddered. “I can barely take the idea of visiting Erinn. It just wouldn’t be right.”

“Yes, another god-like aspect of Riders,” Hannibal smiled. “You are quite firmly attached to your country and worshippers. But this subject makes you uncomfortable. So were the others.”

Madog glanced at him, amused.

“Is this your usual tactic?” he asked. “Mentioning your previous partners to imply prowess?”

“You wound me, my friend,” Hannibal laughed. “No no. Only with Riders. It is to let you know that I understand both the risks and the procedures associated with causing a being who is pure killing instinct to lose control in some way.”

There was a slight pause.

“That’s forthright,” Madog commented. Hannibal nodded.

“It is best,” he said impishly, his eyes gleaming. “And the best part is, I am a sailor. I bring my own rope.”

Cymru - Chapter 22

AWEN

Night had finally dropped on the world outside the windows by the time they approached the lavishly ornate doors of the Grand Hall, and judging by the mingled sound of conversation and background music drifting through dinner was being served. Probably being finished, in fact, considering the time; a tall, old-fashioned grandfather clock opposite the doors in the entrance hall clanged nine as Awen drew to a halt in front of the guards. Traditionally, the doors stayed closed from the start to the end of a meal, but Riders tended to be a law unto themselves.

"Good evening," Awen smiled politely. The nearest guard gave her a slightly awed look as he fumbled for the handle.

"Good evening, Riders," he returned with a nervy smile. "They've just finished the final course, I'm afraid, but -"

"That's fine. We're sadly not after the food." Adara sighed wistfully behind her, and Awen grinned. "Not yet, at any rate."

He pulled the door open and his companion stepped smartly through ahead of them.

"Rider Awen, Alpha Wingleader," he intoned. "And Rider Adara, Alpha Wing."

And what a boring drone that man had, Awen thought idly as she swept up the room, between the long tables of gentryfolk watching her passing. It was strange, almost like he'd been carefully trained to remove any and all inflections and intonations from his tone before announcing any name. Actually, it was possible he had; certainly it was a good way to avoid bias towards anyone. It was just a shame he made everyone assume you were boring.

And then there was no more time to think on it as she came under the gaze of Lord Flyn.

Once, years and years ago now, before the Wars and the Union and the establishment of the border warnings and certainly before Cymru had been unified, the noble families along the border had made an... arrangement with the newly formed Celto-Saxons to the east. Cymric civilisation was still barely evolved beyond tribal law, only held together by the druids, and everyone invaded everyone else constantly. The same was true among the Saxons. Each clan distrusted the rest, each struggled to retain the lands they'd taken against the dwindling native population, and none of them liked the Jutes or the Angles to the east and north. Against that backdrop, it became important when seizing or defending one's throne to claim a greater entitlement to it, to keep the armies on side if nothing else. And so the arrangement had been made. If hereditary rule was law, then that should mean something. That should be the case for a reason.

The result was breeding farms, for people. The socially highest families from both cultures put forward 'good examples' of their bloodlines, and the resulting children were said to have been perfectly bred for leadership. They now had the greatest claims to the thrones, because no one else would ever do as well.

It had ended a long time ago, and everyone did their best to forget about it. Cymru finally forged itself properly into one country, the border was closed, the Union was formed. These days not many people remained who actually knew emphatically that they were decended from the Old Families. Lord Flyn did.

And it was evident in his features. His bone structure was broader and stronger than the classic Cymric mold, which could generally put elves to shame, but his chin was narrower and more pointed than the average Saxon's. His nose was a thin blade of Cymric width but Saxon length, making his face longer than most. His cheekbones were high, but stronger than normal; his brow was strong and framed grey eyes. His hair was a pale blond that didn't often turn up west of the border. And Lord Flyn was tall; at least six foot three in bare feet, and he carried himself proudly enough to convey every inch of it even when sitting down. If the eye wasn't paying attention, it was easy to think he was a head taller than the nobles sitting to either side of him at the Top Table.

Mostly, though, his height pervaded people's perceptions because it was a reflection of Lord Flyn's mental state. He believed that he was born better than everyone else. He believed that he was the only possible choice to be Sovereign on the grounds of his breeding. He knew that no one else near him had such an impeccable pedigree. He even had a copy of his family tree on the wall at the back of the Grand Hall. And it all showed in those disturbingly piercing grey eyes; Lord Flyn looked down on the world, and he found it wanting. He saw the flaws in everything but generally deigned not to notice, because it wasn't the world's fault that he wasn't allowed to steer it to the perfection he no doubt would have delivered.

His eyes watched now as Awen strode up the Hall and paused metres away from the Top Table, going easily onto one knee. As ever, something flickered in Lord Flyn's eyes as she did so. As ever, Awen pretended not to notice.

"My lord," she said clearly. She knew what would happen. Courtesy demanded that the next words out of his mouth should be 'Rise, Rider', but -

"Welcome home, Leader," Lord Flyn said, his voice smoothly devoid of any emotional response. "I trust your journey was a pleasant one?"

And they were once again playing the game of 'How long can the Sovereign keep the Rider on the floor?' Lord Flyn defined the term 'megalomaniac.' You could tell by the constant tacit power struggles with her and the way in which he wasn't otherwise given to suicidal tendencies. Also he called her 'Leader'. All the time.

"As pleasant as it could be, my lord," Awen returned neutrally. The Hall had fallen quiet except for the soothing background noice of the harp. Adara stood like a statue behind her, spared the effort of bowing by her Leader doing it for her.

"Excellent," Lord Flyn said, carefully putting a smile onto his lips. It didn't affect his eyes. "Although, my understanding was that your Wing wouldn't be returning yet?"

"They haven't, my lord," Awen said. "Unfortunately, a somewhat more pressing matter requires my attention." And she was fed up of being on the floor still. "Could I drag you away to fill you in?"

"Of course." Lord Flyn stood quickly, flashing a smile to the nobles around him. "Rise, Leader. We'll adjourn."

Awen stood, taking care not to spring to her feet while pointedly shaking out her legs, and nodded to Adara. They followed Lord Flyn's confidently striding figure out of one of the Hall's side doors as the conversation hesitantly returned to the room behind them, undercut by the gentle lilting of the harp. The bard was good, Awen thought absently, whoever it was. That was encouraging. Probably not an unwillingly murderous adolescent. And she was stroking her scar again, she had to stop doing that. It was almost as obvious as just thumping a fist into her palm. Any further down that route and she'd be twitching an eye whenever people suggested conspiracies.

They ended up in one of Lord Flyn's insanely comfortable offices, a rectangular room almost as lavishly furnished as the Riders' Quarters with an enormous carved wooden desk and leather armchair at one end, and various padded wooden chairs in front of it. He strode to the desk and sat in the armchair with the same air he used when taking his throne in court, waving a hand graciously to motion them to sit. Awen did so, trying not to get too comfortable. It wasn't difficult. The seats may have been padded, but the wooden chair backs were unyielding on the spine.

"And what troubles you, Leader?" Lord Flyn asked calmly, leaning his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. I care about your problems, his body language said. Please share with me, so I may help you.

"My Deputy has gone rogue," Awen said without preamble, and studied his reaction out of the corner of her eye. "Yesterday. I've got orders from the Union to find him and deal with him. Hopefully, I'll have done so by the Archwiliad, but since people with hefty prices on their heads and swords at their backs rarely act to convenient schedules, I can't guarentee this."

"No," Lord Flyn agreed. He'd gone quite still, although it was such a subtle change Awen suspected only her highly-trained eyes would have picked it up. His face gave nothing away, the perfect politician's mask of mild sympathy for her loss. His eyes watched her. "I understand, Leader, although it'll be a shame not to have you there."

I'll bet, Awen thought. "It's kind of you to say so, my lord," she said mildly. "But I'm hardly integral to the proceedings. Adara here will have Acting Deputy status for a while, though, and she'll be watching over you for the next few days."

"Watching over me?" Lord Flyn raised an eyebrow. "Am I at unusual risk?"

"We honestly don't know, my lord," Awen lied. "We learned about Owain through the medium of an arrow aimed at Lord Gwilym's throat. The would-be assassin only knew the target, not the motive. We're therefore improving the guard on all Sovereigns, to be safe."

His expression didn't falter. He nodded.

"Very well," he said, smiling smoothly at Adara. "I'm grateful for the attention, Rider. And I hope you catch him soon, Leader. It must have been hard for you both."

"It'll be harder for him," Awen said, her tone fractionally darker than it had been. Lord Flyn smiled again.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said. "I trust Lord Gwilym is well?"

"He is, my lord," Awen said. "He wasn't hit."

"The bowman had a thankfully poor aim?"

"I'd have classed it as 'distressingly good', actually," Awen said wryly. "But the arrow was caught, so no harm done."

"Caught?" Lord Flyn raised an eyebrow again, this time in a mild astonishment that was just fractionally too sincere. "By whom?"

"By me, my lord," Awen said indifferently. Well, clearly he'd already heard this, then. "The bowman is in custody in Aberystwyth, awaiting trial. No one important."

"You caught an arrow," Lord Flyn stated quietly, and a very slightly hungry look edged through the carefully constructed expression, finally pushing at his self control. "May I see, Leader?"

If he'd been Lady Gwenda, Awen would have carefully dodged the question with a brief "The arrow? I didn't keep it." If he'd been Lady Marged or Gwilym - Lord Gwilym - she'd have made a joke about Sovereigns developing macarbre interests. As it was, it was inescapable. Acting stupid would instantly have been seen as an act, and the sense of humour she'd carefully cultivated in Lord Flyn's presense over the years wasn't bold enough to deflect this sort of thing. But that was fine. Awen had learned, a long time ago, how to handle Lord Flyn. Under the pretence of being self-effacing she'd worked in the lie about 'the bowman', while Lord Flyn would now not think to question it because -

Well. Because Lord Flyn was obsessed with power. He loved the idea of powerful people bending the knee to him. It was why he called her 'Leader' instead of 'Rider', why he liked to keep her bowing as long as he could, and why he was now suddenly transfixed by the concept of her carrying out a marginally glamourous aspect of her job.

"Certainly, my lord," Awen said blandly, and held out her right hand across the desk. In this uniform her hand was again ungloved, and the healing scar ran in a jagged pink line clearly across her palm. Lord Flyn watched it like an adder watching a mouse, and then very softly took her hand in both of his, his long, broad fingers holding it carefully still.

"Incredible," he murmured, very quietly. Awen shrugged.

"Any Rider could do it, my lord," she said neutrally. "In any event, the Wing will be returning either tomorrow or the day after, I should think, so there's no hold up before the Archwiliad."

"Hmm." Lord Flyn looked up at her, his grey gaze penetrative. He didn't let go of her hand, his thumb pressing the scar. It was oddly intrusive. "Although they are, of course, talking to many Sovereigns without you."

"Yes, my lord," Awen said, giving him a quick smile. "I've already spoken personally to any who required additional diplomacy, however."

He nodded, satisfied with the response.

"Very well," he said, and looked at Adara. "And are you content with being a bodyguard for the time being, Rider?"

"As keen as a bee, my lord," Adara said in her mild voice. Awen snorted.

"Ah," she said, looking at Lord Flyn. "I can only apologise, my lord. Adara is cursed with the ability to sound sarcastic even when being deeply sincere. It may take you a day or so to learn to tell the difference."

Lord Flyn's smile gave nothing away.

"I'm sure there won't be a problem, Leader," he said jovially. "Very well. Thank you for reporting, Leader."

"My Lord." It was only just the right side of awkward, trying to bow on one knee while her hand was still up on the desk, but she managed it with what she felt was a fair amount of poise given the circumstances. There was a pause that went on a fraction too long, and then her hand was released.

"Rise, Leader," Lord Flyn said, and Awen did so, giving Adara an apologetic smile as she left for the door. Later, Adara was going to shout at her. A lot. It couldn't really be helped.

*********

Gareth's family were first, but they were almost going to be the most problematic. Lord Flyn was acutely aware of a large portion of Owain's recent activities, what with them involving him, so Awen had to act without appearing to have noticed any connection between the two. She therefore went straight back to the Riders' Quarters and then went the back way down to the dungeons and interrogation rooms, praising the Residence's hidden network of passages and crawl-spaces. The only people who'd see her here would be mice. And maybe the odd Intelligencer.

At this time of night the lichtors had gone home, leaving only the odd pair of guards to stand by various pairs of doors. There were none in the main offices of the interrogation rooms, so Awen started there, dropping to the carpet as soundlessly as she could and padding to the desks. From Gareth's non-specific description of events, his family's arrest had to have been official on some level or other, which meant that there should in theory have been an entry into the main log books. Silently, Awen slid the top drawer open on the duty desk and lifted out the leather-bound tome from within. The paper inside spelled of wood-pulp and ink, each thick page seperated by blotting paper. Awen glanced at the door and the thin crack of light bleeding beneath it. The guards nearest would be at the other end of the corridor, twenty feet away, blocking the entrance - or exit, depending on your view of drinking-vessel volume - to the dungeons themselves. If she lit a lamp in here, would they notice? Probably not, since the distance would lower any real chance of seeing a faint crack of light in a well-lit corridor that they'd had, but even so...

Awen was a bard. They knew a lot of history, the bards, all wrapped up in songs, and according to one or two there had been a place called Atlantis once. As far as Awen could make out it sounded basically like Greece had once been when it was still united, except it had apparently sunk or something and everyone seemed rather hazy on how to happen across maps of it. But apparently, in Atlantis, they'd had a lot of very clever druids who had learned how to do something very clever indeed with fire. It was said that it couldn't be put out; whatever it hit would carry on burning, and it could even burn underwater.

Awen was a warrior more than a bard. The very idea of a Saxon getting hold of Atlantean fire was enough make her wake up screaming even more than normal, so she was generally rather happy that the damned place had sunk and no one had thought to even compose a short limerick on how to make it. But it really would have been useful to have some in a jar or something, for times like this.

She sighed, and carried the book over to the window. The moon was bright tonight, and currently sailing between the cloud banks working their way east, so light was actually less of a problem than she'd thought it might be. The size of the writing remained a challenge, though. As a result, it took her a few wrong turns in navigation before she found the right dates, and then a few more minutes before she could find the word 'Magwyr', but finally she found the right entry at the top of a new page, just after an entry on three visiting farmers who seemed to have gotten into a spot of bother over a sheep in the cattle market. Awen checked the names carefully.

Iona Morgannwg, 48, Magwyr. Colluding with Saxon forces.
Nerys Morgannwg, 65, Magwyr. Colluding with Saxon forces.

Well, they definitely had been here, then. That was a good start. The inclusion of their names in the Prisoners Received book would make for a lovely bit of side-evidence when telling the Union about Flyn's many crimes, too; but this was a book that only made a log of who had been brought in and on what charge. It wouldn't tell her what had become of them.

Awen was just starting to close the book when she noticed the symbol in the margin beside their names, and stopped. It was the mark used by the good clerks who were conscientious about their jobs to denote that someone else had been brought in as part of the same case later on. Awen narrowed her eyes at the tiny date beside it, and then turned the pages onward.

Two days later, apparently. Iona and Nerys Morgannwg had been arrested in the morning, Gareth pulled in front of Lord Flyn on the same day. He'd have been on the road either that night or the very next morning, but a day afterwards someone else had been arrested for apparently being involved in the same Saxon tea party. It couldn't have been Gareth though. So... why? Surely bringing in anyone else was beyond unnecessary? Flyn's intention had been to have Gareth killed on the road, and the boy was already gone, anyway, so there was no need -

Alis Morgannwg, 21, Magwyr. Colluding with Saxon forces.

"You son of a bitch," Awen breathed. He'd done it anyway. He'd threatened Gareth with turning his sister into a concubine, and then he'd gone and done it anyway.

Carefully, Awen closed the book and inserted it into the hole into the crawlspace. The books were often taken by other clerks to copy up the contents, so no one was likely to miss it. She moved softly to the next desk, and started the search anew.

It took another ten minutes to find the Interrogation Logs, and longer again to work through the reports until she found the right ones. Unlike the Prisoners Received book this one was still waiting to be written up even for the first time by a clerk, meaning that although the writing was helpfully normally-sized it was also mostly written by lichtors who had a poor grasp of the art at the best of times. Grimly, Awen leafed through the reports until she reached the right ones.

Subject: Iona Morgannwg of Magwyr, 48.
Charge: Colluding with Saxon forces.
Interrogating Officer: Deputy Wingleader Owain Masarnen, Alpha Wing.

It was all Awen could do not to swear visciously enough to bring the guards running in, but somehow she managed it.

Subject brought in early, before dawn. High pain threshold; in spite of various interrogative techniques maintained innocence. After receiving stronger evidence interrogation intensity was upgraded to level 4, after which injuries sustained were as follows: loss of fingernails from left hand, loss of fingers from right hand, broken bones in right hand, two fractured wrists, right elbow dislocated, broken right collarbone, fractured jaw, three broken ribs, burns to torso and neck, various others. Confession obtained nine and a half hours later. Subject detained in cell 5. Awaiting trial.

Well. Owain had been a determined lad. It wasn't easy to dislocate an elbow, since the joint wasn't really meant to work that way.

A quick check of Nerys' record revealed that she'd somehow lasted longer even than her daughter, and nine and a half hours was a bloody long time to go under torture of that intensity. It was a stupid level; Awen never went that far simply because false confessions were inevitable when the body was faced with that much pain, but then Awen was usually looking for a legitimate suspect, so the rules were probably different. These women were intended to die under questioning. Given the severity of their injuries, how long they'd had them - just over a week - and the fact that Owain had merrily thrown them both into a pit afterwards meant they were unlikely to still be alive. After storing the Interrogation Logs with the Prisoners Received book, she stealthily tracked down the trial lists.

As expected, Nerys and Iona Morgannwg weren't scheduled to appear before a court for another three weeks. That gave them plenty of time to die and be forgotten about. Depressingly, it also meant they were probably still in Cell 5, which was little more than a hole in the ground with a grill over it and a set of steps leading in. The guards generally just dropped food into it. There probably weren't rats, but only because rats had standards.

But this gave her a whole new headache. Nerys and Iona were probably dead, but if they weren't Awen could hardly drag them back through the crawlspaces the way she'd come in when they had so many injuries they couldn't quite make a whole human being between them. So how on earth could she get them out? No matter what excuse she gave, if Flyn found out he'd suspect she might know something, and he'd probably cover up whatever already well-covered tracks he had.

Unless everyone thought they were dead, of course. Hmm.

Five minutes later Awen was creeping into one of the interrogation rooms via a well-oiled sliding ceiling panel, which brought her into the same long corridor as the cells. A pair of guards were not far from the room she stood in; she could tell by the gigglingly drunk conversation and the smell of whiskey on the air. There probably wouldn't be any more guards in this stretch, since the Casnewydd cell doors were probably the strongest in the land. Awen crept towards the door of the interrogation room and stopped, listening.

"was a six," a voice mumbled. "Look! I definitely rolled six, then."

"Ha! You're blind," a second answered, slurring slightly. "Look, that one's five, look, it's on the crack inthe stones..."

"Said six," grumbled the first voice. "I think it's a six."

"I think it's a four," Awen offered helpfully. Two guards, bleary eyed, big strapping men, looked up at her from where they were sat on some crates, the whiskey bottle on the stone floor between them and a set of dice scattered about. One smiled brightly, the edges of his plaited moustache lifting as he did so.

"Excellent!" he said brightly. "I win!"

"Is it a four?" the second asked wonderingly. He had eyebrows apparently full enough to need trimming in their own right. "Oh. Might be at that. Hang on," he added, in the voice of a man whose brain was very slowly doing some sums, "how're you here - ?"

"I'm a Rider," Awen said knowingly. "We're all around. Can I have your keys? We need to do a quick check of the cells, find out who's dead and who isn't, how much space we have. Unofficially."

"Unofficially?" Eyebrow Guard said blankly as his colleague fumbled vaguely with his keys. "Why unofficially?"

"Don't ask," Moustache Guard said firmly. "It's a Union thing, checking on everything, right? They have to make sure Sovereigns are behaving, right?"

"Exactly," Awen smiled. She took the keys off the slightly wavering fingers. "Can't have Sovereigns misbehaving. But this means you can't tell anyone about this, understand?"

It was the work of moments to change her voice and stance for that sentence, and suddenly both guards were staring at her, mild terror sinking through the whiskey. They nodded.

"Good." She flashed them a smile. "Keep playing. The other die is behind that crate."

The sounds of the bone dice rattling together and against the flagstones followed her as she went down the corridor, undercut with light laughter and a murmured arguing of numbers and the swishing of a whiskey bottle. Awen marched straight past the cell doors on either side of her, ignoring the sounds coming from within and moving straight to the end of the long corridor. The grating was locked firmly in place on the floor by a heavy padlock, its lack of rust the only thing that marred its stereotypical image. Awen crouched in front of it and unlocked it on the third key before pulling it free and taking it with her in accordance with the laws of paranoia. No one was locking her down there.

Then she unhooked a lamp from the wall, turned up the wick and carefully picked her way down the steps.

Actually, the steps weren't as bad as she thought they'd be, probably because the guards knew how difficult it was to haul prisoners and corpses up badly-maintained staircases, but the smell more than made up for it. Something was definitely dead down there. Awen lifted the lamp halfway down the steps and looked around the cell below her.

There were no lights other than the one Awen carried, and no windows at all other than the hole in the ceiling that led back out. The walls were stone, and damp, a very slow trickle of water having caused some sort of mildew to grow down one side of the cell. A thin, greasy mat of straw had covered the floor, but someone had very practically pulled it all together into a corner, making a thick bed of it away from the small gutter that ran along the opposite wall. She could make out a shape on the straw, mostly a dark heap but with the odd flash of pale flesh reflected in the lamp light. Awen sighed, feeling suddenly weary. If they were dead, she was going to have to kill someone. Preferably Flyn.

"Nerys?" she said, quietly. "Iona? Are either of you -?"

The heap on the straw stirred, and Awen got a move on down the steps. Closer up, the darkness she could see seemed to be an impromptu blanket made of sack cloth, possibly thrown down by a guard. As she neared a face, drawn and pale and covered in dried blood and grime, looked out at her.

"Who's there?" it croaked, the defiant fear almost completely masking the tiny seed of hope in the voice. "Who -? Why are you -?"

"My name is Awen," Awen said gently. It was odd. She hadn't had to say her own name in quite a while. There was usually a man for this sort of thing. "I'm the Alpha Wingleader here. Are you both still alive?"

"I don't know," the woman said quietly. "Mam hasn't woken up for a while, and I can't tell if she's colder than she was." She laughed bitterly. "What would be the difference? I wouldn't even know by smell. It already smelled like this when we came down here. Are you here to torture us some more?"

"No," Awen said, gently but firmly. "I'm here to get you out. Can I check your mother?"

Wordlessly, the woman nodded, and Awen set the lamp carefully beside her before crouching down and pulling back the blanket from the other shape -

- and dropping it again before Iona could see. No one should have to see another human being like that. Especially not someone they knew.

"She's gone," Awen said quietly. Iona stared up at the ceiling, her face emotionless but for the tightening around her jaw. "Iona -"

"Don't tell me you're sorry, Rider," she said, her voice low and venomous. "Don't. She wasn't your mother. Or if she was you wouldn't know, would you?"

It actually made her catch her breath. In her entire life, no one had ever taunted Awen about that. Riders were given to the Union as babies, never to meet their real parents again. Some didn't have any, of course; but even the best, most thoroughly trained of Riders, especially as children, would yearn for real parents at some point. It was a subject no one raised around them, therefore. And no one tried to hurt a Rider anyway, unless they were a Saxon.

"No," Awen said, after a moment. "No, I wouldn't. And I won't apologise to you, because I've got too much to apologise to your family for, and if I start now I won't stop. I found Gareth, though. He's safe."

"He's -?" Iona looked at her, her eyes suddenly wide and filled with an almost desperate pleading. "You're sure? You're sure he's safe? They said -"

"I've put him in the Union," Awen said, stepping cautiously back to the lamp and laying a hand gently on the blanket over Iona. "He couldn't be safer. Can I see your injuries?"

"I - yes," Iona said, nodding. "Alis? What about Alis? Do you know if she's still okay?"

"Not yet," Awen lied, carefully peeling back the blanket and keeping the instant desire to swear firmly inside her head and away from her tongue. "Can you still feel the pain?"

"Not like I could," Iona said. She looked at Awen, her eyes sharp and almost sneering again. "Am I dying, therefore?"

"I've seen worse," Awen said candidly. "Not by much, but I've seen worse. You're lucky."

"Really?" Iona said. "It's a good job you're armed, Rider girl, or I'd have thumped you then."

"I'll bet," Awen said levelly. "But your legs are unharmed and the gangrenous flesh that was building up around your right hand and the various burn wounds has been cleaned away by maggots, so yes, you've been pretty lucky. Also you still have two eyes. That's not to be sniffed at."

Iona stared at her a second, then grinned. A few teeth were broken.

"Mam would have liked you," she said, quietly approving. "You bite back. She always did like a girl who bites back. How are you getting me out, then?"

"By pretending you're dead and then carrying you both out on stretchers," Awen said. "And then I'm going to bandage you up as best I can and sneak you onto a carriage to get you off to the Union. Once you're gone I'm going to find Alis and send her on to you."

"Sounds good," Iona said, her head falling back and her eyes closing. "Wake me when you're done, then."

"Sorry, can I just check?" Awen asked. "You are related to Gareth, yes? Quiet lad, incapable of answering anything back?"

Iona chuckled.

"The very same," she said, her croaking voice betraying her affection. "Takes after his dad, that one. Wet boy, really, but he has his good points. Hurry up and get me out."

"Hurry up and die, then," Awen threw back, and she left to threaten some guards.