Communal Psychic Part 4

At a run-down abandoned factory. Lyric and Wraith are standing by their motorbike, alert and on their guard. Coming down the track is the Scribbler’s car, Finesse in the driving seat.

LYRIC: Time to find out if that Barkeep is as good as the money we paid him.

Chronal and Amity climb out of the car, followed shortly by Finesse who’s still pulling on her boots, and form a loose circle with the other two.

FINESSE: Ok, let’s do this by-the-book everyone. We’re down one Scribbler, which is never a great start. We still don’t know much about this Antihero, so be prepared for anything.

AMITY: Can you sense anything, Finesse?

FINESSE: You know, it’s odd, but I can’t. There can’t be anyone with powers anywhere near.

AMITY: I can’t feel anyone either. But there is something about this place… it doesn’t feel right.

LYRIC: I know what you mean. And I’m not even an empath.

FINESSE: Ok. Let’s do a sweep and search. Everyone, be on your guard.

They enter the run-down factory.

…

Shift is walking down the darkest alleys of inner Dinas. There is something indolent in her walk, casually brushing her fingertips against things she passes. She is humming under her breath. A slovenly man is collapsed in the filth of the street. He staggers to his feet as she approaches.

SLOVENLY DRUNK: Wass a pretty girl like yew doing in a place like thiss?

Still humming under her breath, Shift ambles past.

SLOVENLY DRUNK: Cor… you’ve got a luverly arse.

She pauses, flexing her shoulder muscles and turns to focus on the Slovenly Drunk, narrowing her eyes. Quick as a snake, she lashes out with one arm, smashing into his head so hard he flies backwards against the wall with a crunch. Resuming her humming, she skips a few paces down the street, a smile on her face.

The Slovenly Drunk lies where he fell, blood trickling from his contorted face. Nearby a pair of beady eyes watches the whole scene, then scuttles away into the darkness.

…

Inside the run-down factory.

FINESSE: Getting anything Amity?

AMITY: No. And it’s horribly frustrating because I really feel that I should.

FINESSE: I know what you mean. There’s something intangible about this place. I can’t put it into words.

CHRONAL: Guys, I don’t feel right. I feel all… slow.

WRAITH: And I feel more… visible than usual.

LYRIC: A power dampener?

FINESSE: It would fit the specs.

WRAITH: Lame.

CHRONAL: We still out number him.

LYRIC: Let’s just hope he doesn’t have goons.

FINESSE: From what I’ve read, that wouldn’t be his style.

CHRONAL: No. He’s a bit of loner, but he’ll definitely be trying to split us up.

AMITY: So let’s all stay together then!

WRAITH: Did anyone order a rat-to-go?

FINESSE: What’s that?

AMITY: Oh, look! There’s a little brown rat watching us.

SKYEA: Squeak.

LYRIC: Anyone speak rat?

FINESSE: Typical. The one time we need a rat-translator and Shift isn’t even here.

SKYEA: Squeeeak. Squeak.

The rat scampers away into a crack in the wall.

CHRONAL: That was odd.

FINESSE: We’ll ask Shift about it later.

WRAITH: Anyone remember what he said?

CHRONAL: No. But I’ve recorded it on my Dictaphone.

FINESSE: Good thinking!

The Scribblers continue through a big doorway into an empty, circular chamber.

AMITY: This room is hideous. I can’t feel anything in here.

She turns and walks back out the door, shivering slightly.

FINESSE: What happened to sticking together?

AMITY: I’ll be by the door. I can’t stay in that place. It’s… empty.

FINESSE: Ok, but take Chronal with you for back up. Nobody’s going off on their own today. Apart from Shift, of course. And come to think of it, where’s Wraith gone?

WRAITH: (from behind) I’m behind you.

FINESSE: Ok, us three will check this big, creepy room and make sure there are no villains lurking in the corners. Although, admittedly circles don’t have corners.

CHRONAL: It could be argued that a circle has an infinite number of corners.

LYRIC: Really?

CHRONAL: No.

FINESSE: If you don’t have anything helpful to say…

CHRONAL: I wouldn’t say that that was unhelpful. As such.

WRAITH: Where’s Amity?

All Scribblers look around in vague confusion.

FINESSE: Amity?

There is a silence. Lyric pulls out his communicator.

LYRIC: Amity? Are you reading me?

There is a crackly noise.

CHRONAL: That was a response. She’s activating her speaker.

LYRIC: Amity? Respond.

ANTIHERO (over the comlink): Amity is not available to answer your call. Please leave a message after the tone.

He laughs maniacally.

WRAITH: What a tool.

LYRIC: I’ll leave you a message, you…

ANTIHERO: I shall have you all for my collection: you cannot escape the ANTIHERO!

FINESSE: Dramatic, much?

CHRONAL: Power-inhibiting, hero-collector. Right! There's an obvious weakness there!

The room grows suddenly darker and a long shadow stretches from the one entrance to the room.

ANTIHERO: I have no weaknesses!

He is easily over eight feet tall, clad in heavy, gothic armour and carrying and enormous sword and shield.

LYRIC: Jesus, Christ!

FINESSE: Just look at that armour...

WRAITH: Its an IronKnuckle2.0.

CHRONAL: Look, if this guy's collected a lot of heroes, that's a lot of powers we could use to our advantage! We just have to keep him out of the way!

LYRIC: My sword's still here! So things I've already made must still work!

ANTIHERO: Silence! I weary of your noise!

ANTIHERO stamps one heavy, iron foot, sending a pulse of energy rippling through the room. It hits the Scribblers with a tremendous force, knocking them from their feet.

SHIFT enters Da Pit, still humming softly under her breath. She skips into the kitchen, opens the fridge and scans the contents. She pulls out a big leg of raw meat and examines it, her eyes becoming narrower and yellowing around the edge. Bearing sharp, feline teeth, she rips into the flesh, her hands becoming increasingly claw-like, until she drops to the floor, fully formed cheetah and shreds the meat from the bone.

A sudden sharp ping makes her jump and stare around. A red light is blinking over on the main console in the next room. She pads into the other room, licking her lips.

SHIFT transforms back into human, wearing a flowing red dress, her hair curling up into a twist of its own accord.

SHIFT: Play message.

CONSOLE: Automated message! Distress beacon activated!

SHIFT: Show beacon.

A screen lights up with a satellite map, showing a bleeping light over the disused factory.

SHIFT blinks and shakes her head, leaning suddenly against the console as if for support.

SHIFT: (shakily) Beacon Identity.

CONSOLE: Amity!

SHIFT starts to shake, her skin begins to ripple, as if numerous minute changes were rolling beneath her skin.

SHIFT: So tired... got to wake up...

With a tremendous effort, SHIFT changes into her superhero colours, throwing her head back with a gasp.

SHIFT: (gasping) What even was that?

SHIFT looks herself over, checking for injuries. She glances over at the console.

SHIFT: Amity! Distress Beacon! I've got to get out of here.

She shifts quickly into a peregrine falcon and prepares to swoop out the window, when a small brown rat scuttles across the window frame and stops to stare at her.

SKEE: Squeak!

SHIFT pauses mid-flight and lands next to the rat, quickly transforming herself into one.

SKEE: Where've you been? Anyway, never mind that. Do you have chocolate for me?

SHIFT: I don't have time for this! My friends are in danger.

SKEE: We have the information you wanted.

SHIFT: Power set?

SKEE: Mars Bar?

SHIFT: Wait here.

SHIFT changes into a falcon again and swoops upstairs. She returns moments later carrying a Mars Bar in her claws and drops it by the rat. She quickly shifts back.

SHIFT: Ok, now tell me!

SKEE: Power inhibitor. Superhero powers get weaker the closer you get to him. Some kind of power pulse. Big armour. Big ego.

SKEE rips at the wrapper and begins to devour the chocolate within.

SHIFT: Thanks! Tell Sqeyke he'll get his share later.

SHIFT transforms back into a falcon and swoops out the window.

***

Cymru - Chapter 27

AERONA

One of Aerona's favourite things to do was to look outside the Union windows. The world below was a sea of cloud, thick and drifting, broken only by the deep viridian peaks of the mountains that stood like islands in an ocean all around them. She loved being above the clouds. It was like a calling, a natural blood reaction to altitude of being a Rider; but more than that, the view like this looked like home, the mountains comfortingly reminiscent of the Archipelago.

She opened the window as far as she could and leaned out on the stone. It had been gently warmed by the rising sun, her window facing east as it did, and it felt strangely comfortable on her elbows and forearms as she gazed out towards the border. Somewhere in that direction, unseen beneath the clouds and distance, lay Saxonia. Somewhere out there, over the mountains and to the left a bit was Wrecsam; Aerona wondered how it was this morning, whether it was peacefully waking to the sunrise or beseiged by another raid, the Riders slowed by the late warnings. Wearily, she sighed. Sometimes, she reflected, she did not have a happy job.

She stayed for a minute or two, just breathing in the metallic smell of morning after the rainstorm and basking in the strengthening sunlight, and then pushed reluctantly away. The Council would have seen her report by now; probably the entire High Council, given the severity of the situation. It was anyone's guess what would come next. Aerona wasn't necessarily the best choice to go chasing this up, since her usual activities only extended as far as stealing paperwork, but it was possible they'd want to involve as few people as they could. Otherwise... back to Tregwylan, she supposed.

A knock at the door made her freeze cautiously, but Rhydian was unlikely to have knocked if he wanted to attack, so Aerona opened it. A Messenger Rider stood outside, a short girl with dark hair and grey eyes, with the kind of weary expression that suggested she'd been flying very early that morning. Aerona beamed at her.

"Hello!" she said cheerily, Saluting. "You look tired! Do you want some tea?"

"No, thank you." The girl smiled, Saluting back. "But cheers for the offer. Most people don't."

Archipelago, Aerona thought automatically. Messengers weren't sworn to Cities, but they were stationed between two or three; accent was generally the only clue to telling where. This one, to Aerona's ear, sounded northern Archipelago.

"A few letters for you, Rider," it said now, handing them over. "You're popular! Could you sign?"

"Of course!" Aerona hastily slid the letters onto the dresser beside the door and signed the proffered parchment while the Messenger pulled a mini saftey lamp off her belt and opened it to insert a wax stick. By the time Aerona handed the parchment back the wax was ready; a small mass was dropped next to the signiture, and Aerona pressed a bead into it. The Messenger nodded, satisfied.

"Thank you very much!" she smiled, tiredly. "And now I'm going to bed. Enjoy your letters."

"I'm sure I will," Aerona grinned, and turned to them as she closed the door.

They were two seperate letters, from Awen and Dylan. Aerona locked the door carefully - a force of habit, she was hardly unsafe in the Union - and pulled out the one from Awen. She laid it face-down on the dresser-top, found a pencil in the top drawer, held it so the lead was almost lying on its side and meticulously shaded in the entire back of the letter.

It was a standard intelligencer trick. The message in ink on the front was simple and friendly, a suggestion for songs that Aerona had allegedly wanted to teach the children; the sort of thing a bard might well write a tutor. The genuine message had been written on another piece of paper over the top of this one, leaving its legacy in the faint indentations appearing under Aerona's pencil. Considerately, Awen had even written it backwards onto the front, so that it was more legible by the time Aerona was finished. She smiled. You had to like someone like that. Even while imparting top secret world-changing information she looked to see if she could make your life slightly easier.

Although it also went a long way to explaining some things about Awen. Not for the first time, Aerona was glad that she wasn't an Alpha Wingleader.

Gareth's mother is arriving tonight, ought to be at the Union by sunrise; keyword is 'mahogany'. Her name is Iona. Injuries severe, may not survive. Grandmother dead. Both confessed to collusion under Owain.

It was expected, but even so... Aerona paused in her reading for a minute, lowering the letter and staring blankly at the fire. Really it was a miracle Iona was even alive, she supposed. She wondered how soon she could reunite the woman with Gareth, and then wondered how he'd take it all. Well, it was a bridge to cross when they got there.

She looked back at the letter, and her jaw dropped. What Awen had written was a full report, in shorthand, of meeting a group of Saxons - actual, genuine Saxons - living in Casnewydd who had seen their former leader meeting both Owain and Flyn. Aerona stared. Owain? Owain had been talking to Saxons? What the hell for? She wished Awen had included some sort of subjectivity in the report, but it was professionally cold, and devoid of opinion.

Her mind reeling, Aerona pulled Dylan's letter out of its envelope.

Hey loser.

Madog tells me I need to socialise more, so I'm writing you a letter like normal people do. He tells me I need to make more friends. Will you be my friend, Aerona?I give you cash money and you be my friend.

Madog is also telling me to say sorry for calling you a loser. He wants me to cross it out, but then the letter would look untidy, so he says I have to say sorry.

Sorry.

From Dylan.

P.S. Your Sovereign isn't as good as my Sovereign. Ha ha.

P.P.S. Sorry.

Aerona giggled as she liberally applied the pencil to the back. It was almost tempting to write him a letter back solemnly accepting his friendship with absolutely no covert information, but she decided against it. It was a good format to save for when she needed it.

Dylan's secret message was the right way around, but he'd written it onto the back, meaning it was harder to read because the indentations were sunken rather than raised. Fortunately it was a shorter message than Awen's, so Aerona didn't have to study it for as long.

Have you noticed the loophole in the Tregwylan trade agreement? She's selling weapons to Saxonia. Phoenician trade logs and shipping manifests will prove it. Cheers.

No, Aerona thought. She hadn't noticed. But it was perfect; a genuinely punishable and proveable crime that could therefore provide a foundation for the many others they couldn't quite prove. She grinned at the letter for a second, and then the smile faded as she looked at the other one, Awen's neatly and eloquently short-handed report.

'Mahogany.'

She got dressed.

**********

Gareth was being kept on one of the lower levels, through the labyrinthine passages that were almost all the security required even without the Guard Riders at almost every corner and the trick doors. Once Aerona reached him she found he'd been given what was actually a very comfortable room; there was a bed in the corner next to a small chest of drawers, with a desk and a chair against the wall opposite and a battered armchair to one side that Gareth was curled up in. As Aerona entered he looked up, a desperate hope evident on his face. She sighed, and closed the door.

"Hello Gareth," she smiled warmly. He stood up quickly, wringing his hands.

"Rider," he said nervously. "Have you heard anything? About Mam? And -?"

"Good news and bad news," Aerona said and placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently back into the chair. "Sit, and listen."

She knelt on the floor in front of him as he sat tensely on the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes searching her face with trepidation.

"Leader Awen found your mother and grandmother," Aerona said, her voice grave. "But there are problems. Firstly, your grandmother didn't make it. I'm sorry."

Gareth's hand flew to his mouth and he froze, eyes wide. Aerona stroked his other hand on the arm of the chair and plunged on.

"Now, your mother was still alive yesterday when Leader Awen found her, and she was brought here in the early hours of this morning. Right now she's in the medical centre under heavy guard, but..."

She looked into Gareth's immobile face.

"It's going to be touch and go if she pulls through," Aerona told him softly. "I can take you to see her if you want?"

"Please," Gareth whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the word. He lowered his hand from his mouth abruptly and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them he looked steadier. "Please," he repeated more strongly. "I'd like that."

"Okay." Aerona stood, pulling him up with her. "She's in a bad way, mind. Be prepared."

"I will," he nodded, a weak determination starting to seep into his features. Aerona smiled encouragingly at him.

"Good!" she said. "Now; we'll put you into her rooms with her while she recovers, you'll be just as safe there as here. Since you're both top security and no one is really meant to know you're here I'm going to pile your arms high with books and you need to look like a harrassed scribe or clerk, okay? Follow behind me or next to me, as though you're working with me and just focusing on keeping up. Okay?"

"Okay." Gareth hugged himself reflexively, and then offered a tiny smile. "It shouldn't be too hard, Rider. I am basically just focusing on keeping up."

"That's the spirit!" Aerona told him brightly. "Now; how much can you carry?"

A fair bit, as it turned out, which was handy, and actually Gareth did a good job at playing in a role, although he'd already proven that in Aberystwyth in more macabre fashion. They moved through the Union corridors neatly, Aerona talking animatedly enough to look as though she were enthusiastic about a project but not enough to draw undue attention, while saying the most boring sentences she could think of to discourage listeners. No one spared them a second glance as they moved to the other side of the Union and down two levels. This area was more the domain of the druids and it showed; there were shrines every ten feet set into the walls, one to every god known to Cymru, and more bunches of plants and things hanging from the ceiling. The large, arched doors of the medical centre soon reared up before them, a pair of Guard Riders leaning easily outside them. One, a thickly-built man in his forties with his beads prominently on show, threw her a casual Salute as she arrived. Aerona checked the wires, and confirmed Secret Club Membership.

"Morning, Rider!" he grinned as she Saluted back. "And where might you be going on a fine day like today?"

"To visit ill people and bring them joy with my trusty assistant here," Aerona said cheerfully, pulling out her all-areas pass. The Guard laughed as he took it. "Well, perhaps not. We need to double-check a few interrogation reports, one in particular."

"Rather you than me," the Guard grimaced. "Nothing too... in-depth, I hope?"

"Fortunately not," Aerona smiled. "Just a few small details look to be out, that's all. You know; was the cloak red or blue? Was the chair oak or mahogany? That sort of thing."

The Guard gave absolutely no indication whatsoever of understanding the hidden meaning. He handed her back the pass and smiled.

"That's alright, then," he said with feeling. "I hate going into that part. Speaking of which; much though it's my turn..."

"Yes, it is," his friend grinned, a woman with dark hair who looked to be about the same age. "And no, I hate it in there too, so go on. Sorry Rider," she added to Aerona. "Nothing personal."

"Oh, I understand," Aerona giggled as the first Guard sighed theatrically and opened the door. "I'd have done the same... Come on, Gareth."

Immediately inside the doors was the ambulatory, so they missed the main body of the medical centre itself as the Guard led them sideways along it, right to the end and through a door that took them to another corridor. More doors branched off it, each housing a small room with a scrubbed stone floor; these were the treatment rooms, where the medics worked ahead of the druids. At the end was another set of Guard Riders who simply let them through at their escort's nod, and they found themselves going down three steps into another corridor, this one almost entirely undecorated. These were the interrogation cells for the prisoners who would need serious medical attention during questioning. Aerona instinctively loathed them.

They were empty except for one, right at the end and around a corner slightly. As they approached a grim-looking druid stepped out carefully, the cheerful ginger of her hair contrasting beautifully with the woad-blue of her robes. She was surprisingly young, Aerona noted as she looked up at them; around late twenties, certainly no older. Her expression darkened as she saw them approach, and she fixed the Guard with a lancing stare.

"And exactly what was doing that meant to achieve?" she spat, stepping forward - rather boldly, Aerona felt - into his personal space. Her accent was west Southlander somewhere. "Precisely where is your guarentee it wasn't a false confession? What -?"

"I didn't do it, Derwydd," the Guard said wearily, holding up his hands. "All I know is what I've told you. This is Haf," he added to Aerona. "She's been briefed on the situation, but she bites, so mind out. Doesn't like torture."

"Trust me, nor do I," Aerona shuddered. "That won't be an issue."

Abruptly the druid stepped forward and, before Aerona could leap back or do anything, had plucked her beads in one hand and studied them. Aerona froze.

"Hmm," she said critically, eyeing the wiring. "Woodscraft. Good for you," and she dropped the beads again, turning to Gareth as though she hadn't just violated a societal norm.

"Also she has no understanding of personal space," the Guard added. "It's a mercy she hasn't met an active Rider yet. Anyway; I need to get back. Good luck."

"Thank you." Aerona returned his Salute, watched him leave and then turned back to Haf. She had hold of Gareth's chin over the stack of books and was examining his face in minute detail, while he stared at her in awe.

"You're her son, then, clearly," Haf said, and sighed, dropping her hand. The hard, slate-blue eyes softened slightly. "I won't lie. She's not well. Nine and a half hours she took, and then a good five days in a hole in the ground with no medical attention. And it's not pretty."

"But she's alive?" Gareth asked hopefully. Haf nodded shortly.

"For the now," she said, and Gareth smiled.

"Then she'll be fine," he said quietly. Haf gave him a narrow look.

"Just maybe," she said. "Strong woman. Come on in," and she turned and led the way into the room, Gareth close on her heels. Aerona followed in some trepidation.

There was a fake cell behind the door, which Haf led them straight through to the one set in the wall opposite. Clearly, she was one of the very few non-Rider Intelligencers that the Union employed; there were only around twenty or thirty in the entire country, and they only used the best, which suggested Haf had prodigal talent in healing. It was sort of exciting, actually, but Aerona was ignoring that reaction. It was a Serious Situation. This was not time for games.

The door revealed, finally, the room Iona had been given to heal. The bed was right in the middle where healers or medics could get to it from either side, and had a proper sprung mattress rather than a stuffed one. A cabinet beside it held a jug of water and a glass with a small selection of books beneath, and a large window to their right offered a beautiful view of Eryri, easily seen from the bed. A sort of table on wheels that could be pulled over the bed to serve as a desk or tray stood against a wall.

And in the bed lay Iona.

It was almost impossible to tell her age, since the abuse had aged her so, but she was probably somewhere between forty and sixty-five; given that she'd successfully produced a fourteen-year-old son, though, she couldn't really have been much more than fifty. Her torso was propped up on a board covered with pillows at a forty-five degree angle, the blankets around her armpits, giving them full view of her heavily plastered and bandaged arms lying awkwardly at her sides and her lined, drawn face, eyes closed, sunken and pale against the pillows. The bandages had been carefully wound around her head too - supporting the jaw, if Aerona was any judge. Gareth froze, staring at her, his hands clamped around the books going suddenly white at the knuckles. Haf stepped over to the bed, her manner suddenly surprisingly gentle and compassionate.

"Iona?" she said, her voice soft. "Your son is here."

Iona's eyes flew open, one filled with blood around the iris, and she stared at Gareth.

"Gareth?" she said, voice tight with pain, and then smiled, the expression heart-breaking. "Well well," she said, more or less to herself. "She wasn't lying, then. Here you are, boy. Put those books down and stop standing there, lad, you're in the way."

"Mam," Gareth whispered. He stared for a second more, then very carefully placed the entire stack on the floor and knelt beside the bed, his fingers hesitantly touching her left arm above the elbow. It seemed to be the only unbandaged place. "I thought you were dead, I... does it hurt?"

"Of course it does," Iona said, exasperated. "I'll never use my right arm again, and I'm told I only don't have gangrene because of the maggots. And I have a broken jaw and ribs, so it hurts to breathe. But. I'm alive."

"Half the battle won, that, in my experience," Haf smiled. "We'll arrange for Gareth to stay here, then, and give you some time together. Rider?"

"Certainly." Aerona gave the pair by the bed an encouraging smile and turned to follow Haf, who was already at the door.

"Rider?" She glanced back at Gareth, who was staring at her now, his expression intense. "Thank you," he said, quietly. "I... thank you."

"You're welcome," Aerona said softly, and followed Haf out.

Who was waiting for her.

"Well?" she demanded once the door was closed. "Who did it? That woman has no fingers on her right hand anymore, and that is not the least of her injuries."

"Oh gods." Aerona closed her eyes in horror. "Please don't give me a list. Owain Masarnen, the Deputy at Casnewydd."

"The ex-Deputy," Haf nodded. "Well, that makes sense. I hope he's being hunted down, because I'd rather like to be one of the people taking a swing at him while someone holds him down."

"You'll be in a very long line," Aerona said darkly. "You wouldn't believe what else he's been doing."

She looked at the closed door briefly and sighed, running a hand through her hair. This long away from her Wing it was anyone's guess how presentable she looked. Well, hers, anyway. Everyone else could just see.

"What are her chances?" Aerona asked quietly. "Really?"

"Slim." Haf shrugged. "I've seen worse pull through, mind, but... she'll never be the same again. That right arm?" Haf shook her head, her eyes like granite. "No fingers, three bones broken in the hand, both bones broken in the wrist, one in two places, the other in five, dislocated elbow, upper arm fracture and a dislocated shoulder that can't be relocated until the collar bone mends. And that's not including the burns."

"Right," Aerona said carefully. "You know how I asked you not to give me a list?"

"I'm not, either." Haf crossed her arms in front of her chest, chin high. "Because, you see, the list would include what he did to the rest of her too. I'm mentioning this lot because there's a good chance we'll have to amputate. If we don't, even if she pulls through, she'll be in constant pain for the rest of her life. If we do... well, it's an amputation. It diminishes the chance of survival somewhat."

"How is she aside from the physical injuries?" Aerona asked heavily. Haf smiled.

"Bitchy and resistant," she said. "She's the Union's loss. Would have made a fantastic Rider. Must be something about Casnewydd, I think; breeds them strong."

Aerona thought of Owain, and Awen's neutrally written report, and Adara's cold-burning fire, and Flyn's ambition.

"Yes," she said. "You may be right."

**********

It was mid morning by the time Aerona was finally allowed into the Council Chambers. She generally hated going in; the architect of the Chambers had known, with great wisdom and cunning, that the true purpose of a room used by the organisation that ran the country for officially speaking to the public was intimidating said public and leaving them in no doubt as to who held the power in said room. It was a large room, with a domed glass roof that gave way down the walls to carved oaken pillars disguised as trees in a similar way to the central column of the Spiral Stairs, the grain of the wood inlaid with gilt and enamel, covering deep red walls. Metalwork embellishments of the kind of quality that would have made their Brythonic ancestors weep a happy tear adorned the room periodically. Tiered oaken seating, enough to seat all thirty members of the Low Council, was built along the walls either side of the marble floor, giving the Councillors a good view of whoever was trembling in awe below them. To one side sat an impressive table for any visitors who had been invited to actually sit and discuss things, currently filled with - Aerona bowed carefully - the Archdruids of the Urdd in full white robes. And in front of her...

In front of her, on the raised dais behind a table so large and long it was basically a counter, sat the ten High Councillors. It seemed they'd taken Aerona's findings Very Seriously Indeed. It wasn't common to convene all members of both Councils.

Aerona smiled as brightly as she could, Saluted, and thought of a few choice words for Rhydian. He smiled at her serenely as he stood.

"Rider Aerona," he greeted cordially, Saluting back. "Thank you for coming. Can you confirm that this list is indeed the one you gave me last night?"

He handed down a sheet of paper, which was given to a clerk, who gave it to Aerona. She scanned it, and the by-now familiar names of druids presented themselves for her consideration.

"Yes, Councillor," she said, handing it back to the clerk. Rhydian nodded.

"Excellent," he said, merrily. "Well, the other Councillors have a few questions -"

"Indeed," Eifion said sharply, and Aerona's heart didn't so much sink as plunge.

He was, among Riders, probably the most hated man in the country, beaten only by Saxons and maybe in the last few hours Owain. It was all part of the education system; Riders were trained, not raised. It was intensive training, done for every second of childhood and a large portion of adulthood and very often strict, but Riders required a very special kind of training. The aim wasn't to produce a machine, after all, because machines killed indiscriminately, and humans didn't work that way safely. Sooner or later a human like that would put themselves above the people they were meant to be protecting, or demand recognition. Riders were meant to see their service as a privilege, an honour. They were meant to be as compassionate as a healer towards Cymru, only becoming machines against Cymric threats.

Which meant that Rider training, particularly in childhood, was a very complicated system of rewards and punishments, conditioning them into what they were supposed to be. The rewards were lovely. Aerona's role was to provide them.

But, therefore, the punishments had to be severe, and that had been - and frequently still was - Councillor Eifion's job.

He leaned forward now on his withering elbows, long, thin hair greyed to white swinging forward around his sharply pointed and lined chin, and as Aerona met his pale blue eyes something inside her mind remembered, and tried frantically to hide.

"So," he began, his reedy voice like a whip. "You were in the Archives last night, this is correct?"

"Yes, Councillor," Aerona said, and mentally congratulated herself. Her voice was completely steady.

"For what?" Eifion queried. Automatically, Aerona found herself holding her hands behind her back to hide them.

"I was hoping to find something that could give me an idea of where Owain Masarnen might be, Councillor," she said. His chin thrust upwards slightly, mouth set in its permanently turned-down curve.

"Is that so?" he said, eyes boring into her. "You considered this your responsibility, did you?"

"Yes Councillor," she heard herself saying calmly back. "I consider it the responsibility of every Rider in this country, much less every Intelligencer, and I felt it would be best to make a start as soon as possible. Since I don't have any pressing responsibilities before the Archwiliad -"

"Very well." Eifion's chin thrust again, just fractionally. "Were you successful?"

"Maybe." Aerona glanced at Rhydian briefly, who picked up and scanned another piece of paper. "After Owain came back down that mountain he was certified sound by Twm ap Llywelyn, by now a white-rank druid in Cwmbrân. After his fight with Leader Awen in Aberystwyth Owain had several injuries, not least of which was a partially-severed finger. He'd have needed to go somewhere to get them seen to."

"Twm ap Llywelyn is not a healer," Eifion said, just the barest edge of contempt in his voice, but fortunately that was the moment Councillor Gwenllian chose to speak.

Gwenllian was very slightly mental. She was a Northlander of about fifty, although like a lot of Riders she'd aged youthfully. In her case it was partly helped by the fact that she used the same red hair dye that Lady Gwenda used, but in streaks with a black that made her look like one of her parents had been a particularly alternative tiger, and hid any grey hair she might have had. She'd also had the long redundant tattoos refreshed and painted up her neck and over her jaw, just visible along her hairline. If she hadn't been a Rider Aerona would almost have thought she'd been aiming for a particular look; as it was, it spoke volumes about her popularity amongst her former Wing.

"But," she said now, giving Councillor Eifion a pointed look, "I imagine that it occured to Rider Aerona, much as it has occured to me, that Twm ap Llywelyn is probably aquainted with a healer, what with his profession being druidic. He may well have known who to call in."

"Sharp thinking," Rhydian said placidly. "Could we return to topic, Councillors?"

"What made you notice the druids, Rider?" Gwenllian asked. Aerona gratefully addressed her, trying not to notice Eifion's eyes boring into her.

"Owain's trip up that mountain, actually," she said. "I wouldn't have thought too much of it, but I think it's relatively clear now that Owain Masarnen isn't..."

"A poet," Rhydian smiled wryly, and someone sniggered among the Low Council. "Agreed. Go on."

"I knew he'd been cleared though, which made no sense," Aerona continued, fighting the sudden urge to giggle. "And then I found the entry from Cas-Gwent, about the children there sharing the same dream -"

"Paper Delta," Councillor Dyfan said further down the table, and there was a general rustling of paper.

"It references another account I found," Aerona explained. "Of Leader Awen being injured in Cas-Gwent for an unnamed child the same age as the one killed -"

"Hang on, that's here somewhere," Dyfan muttered. "Paper Epsilon, everyone."

"The dialogue matched," Aerona concluded. If they had both accounts they'd clearly read them, she didn't need to recount it.

"And this list of names is?" Eifion asked sharply, holding it up between an aged thumb and forefinger.

"The names of any druids I could find who have an Old Family connection, or any other link to Casnewydd or Lord Flyn," Aerona said clearly. The urge to giggle had evaporated as quickly as it had come under the stony blue gaze. "Also, I followed the chain from Twm ap Llywelyn upwards for who certified whom as sound, and found there's a circle of six of them, all doing the certifications for each other. Then I cross-referenced it all with the druids performing the border warnings up in Wrecsam for the past six months, since they started coming late. The names in red are what I got."

There was a stirring among the tiers to Aerona's left, and Low Councillor Hefin raised his hand. He was the newest Councillor, Aerona knew; until a month ago he'd been the Beta Wingleader in Aberdaron before his Wing's retirement, and he'd known about Intelligencers only since his first day as a Councillor, in his very first briefing. Politics had turned out to be far more complicated for him than he'd thought.

"How long have we known about the border warnings being delayed?" he asked now, addressing it as a general question to the room. Rhydian, lifelong Intelligencer and head of the network, leaned forward.

"The first reports of it came around four months back," he said neutrally. "But sporadically, and it's not unheard of, so we didn't think much of it. It's only been obvious in the past couple of weeks."

"Which we think is the fault of Lord Flyn," Hefin said, staring at one of the papers in his hand.

"We think there may be a connection," Rhydian said casually. "Nothing more at this stage. He may not even be aware of it."

"Of course he is," Gwenllian muttered, not quite quietly enough for no one to hear. "The man's a tool."

"There's no evidence," Rhydian pointed out reasonably, and Eifion sniffed, a noise that made Aerona's heart leap.

"Nor will there be," he said poisonously. "Since we're trusting the aquisition of evidence to a network headed by a woman who didn't spot her own Deputy's insanity."

"A subject for another time," Rhydian said, pulling out the list of names in a business-like manner, but Eifion clearly wasn't finished. He could smell the blood, the cynical, normally silent part of Aerona's mind said clinically. He'd seen a weakness in a big prize.

"I disagree," he said, looking around at the assembled Councillors imperiously. "It seems to me that we need facts from Casnewydd right now, and there's no guarentee we'll get them. The Archwiliad is -"

"With respect, High Councillor," a voice said, and surprisingly enough it was Hefin. "I may still know very little about the role of Intelligencers, but it strikes me as an incredibly high-pressure job. When combined with that of Alpha Wingleader -"

"Councillors," Rhydian repeated, and this time there was a solid edge to his voice. "This is a matter for another time. For now I think it's probably safe to say that Owain Masarnen is hardly going to go rogue again in the next few days, so we can assume Leader Awen will be operating at peak efficiency. Now let us move on."

He looked to the side to the Archdruids. All three were old and clad in full white robes, the two men of them watching with grave interest. The woman had her eyes closed, her hands cupped around something on the table.

"Derwyddon," he said respectfully, bowing his head. "I am assigning Riders to this, but obviously it'll be a faster resolved situation if we collaborate -"

"We agree." The central Archdruid was tall and thin, probably in his sixties, and at first glance seemed to be almost as stern as Eifion except for his twinkling eyes. Right now, though, he looked grave. "The druids of Cymru are at your disposal. We have only one request."

The woman to his side waved one hand over the top of the other and finally sat back, revealing the stub of a perfectly ordinary-looking lit candle on the tabletop. The central Archdruid held his hand over the flame, a dark, gritty powder sprinkling down from his thin fingers. The flame flickered for a second, and a thin line of black smoke drifted lazily up from it.

"And your request is?" Rhydian asked. The Archdruid smiled as the smoke wound itself around his fingers, and then he flicked it into the room where it tumbled languidly through the still air to Aerona.

"We should like Rider Aerona to have some part in the investigation," he said, as the smoke settled around her in a vague ring before diffusing slowly. Aerona stayed completely still, watching it. Rhydian nodded.

"Granted," he said, flashing Aerona a quick smile. "I never argue with smoke."

Cymru - Chapter 26

MADOG

Ta da! Remember that sex scene I took out of chapter 23? I've adapted it! So here you go. One adapted sex scene into harmless pillow talk that only requires a 12a rating, rather than the 18 it had before. My money is still on Jom asking for the original.

The intermittent sounds of happily raised voices filtered in from behind the door, mingling with the husky panting of two people trying to catch their breath and Madog's own heart beat hammering from his chest to his ears. The blindfold around his eyes had completely cut off his vision, making the rest of his senses work overtime; the harness of ropes that Hannibal had wound around his torso and groin tightened with every laboured inhale, making him tremble with over-stimulation, and the feeling of Hannibal's chest against his back and arms holding him close seemed to form the entire world. He shivered as Hannibal's fingers stroked his throat gently. Madog had seriously underestimated the amount of casual affection likely to be given by a Phoenician sailor. It was strange; especially when contrasted with Hannibal's clearly incredible expertise with rope-based kinks. Or there again, perhaps skill with ropes and knots was to be expected from sailors.

"Impressive as that was," Madog said wearily after a few minutes as his heart-rate fell back to normal, "if the ropes don't come off now I shall hate you and have to scream, Hannibal."

"Hmm, yes." Hannibal sounded contented, like a well-fed cat in front of a fire. One hand dropped from around Madog's chest and moved to his back. "I will be as gentle as I can, but you had best brace yourself, perhaps."

"I thought so." Madog willed his reluctant muscles into holding him as still as possible. But it wasn't quite as bad as he'd expected; he'd changed size somewhat since the ropes had gone on, so there was significantly less agonisingly teasing contact. He waited patiently while Hannibal adroitly reversed his handiwork, and removed the harness in considerably less time than it had taken to put it on.

"Do you do that to everyone, then?" Madog asked as Hannibal carefully undid the blindfold. Considerately, he left one hand partially over Madog's eyes, helping him readjust to the light again. "Is this standard practice?"

"With variations." He felt the broad chest behind him rise and fall in a shrug. "It is a creative medium. If I am blessed with a second time with you, I will show you."

Madog blinked. "Shouldn't that be the other way -" he began, and was cut off by Hannibal's snort.

"Riders," he said drily. "Honestly, my friend. I'm unsure of the greater tragedy; that you don't understand, or that you never will."

He removed his hand finally and wrapped his arm back around Madog's ribs and bound arms, lowering him to the bed onto his back as though he were the most precious thing in the world, and kissed him deeply full on the mouth.

"That's an unfair way of ending a conversation," Madog protested when he could. "Especially as I'm still tied up, which I say pointedly with much raising of my eyebrows to give you a hint."

"You look better this way," Hannibal grinned, and laughed as Madog gave him a Wingleader Look.

"I've mentioned I hate you?" he said archly. Hannibal's eyes gleamed.

"Very well," he mock sighed, and rolled Madog gently over onto his stomach, fingers moving to his thigh. "Far be it from me to upset an Alpha Wingleader. Especially since I hear the rest of your Wing out there now, and they would probably come running if you called."

"My Deputy wouldn't," Madog said morosely. "I threatened to drop him off a Landing Tower today, and he bears a grudge over that sort of thing. And anyway, he's an ingrate."

"How unfortunate," Hannibal said mildly. The rope came off and he stretched Madog's leg out carefully for him. "And in a Deputy, too. You must be so disappointed."

"I cry myself to sleep," Madog said solemnly. "And I met the Alpha Wingleader of Casnewydd again today. Her Deputy obeyed her when all she did was knock on the table. Life is so unfair."

"Hmm." Hannibal plucked delicately at the knots holding Madog's other ankle to his thigh. "Awen Masarnen, yes? And... Owain."

"Her acting Deputy," Madog corrected, as his leg was stretched out to join the other. "Adara, at the moment. Do you know every name in the Alpha Wings?"

"Most," Hannibal nodded. He straddled the small of Madog's back elegantly to begin work on his wrists. "As I say, I like Riders. But there are very many names to learn. I know most of the Archipelagan Wings, since we have a lot of trade with them; I know most along the western coasts for much the same reason, especially Aberystwyth and Milford Haven and such. Fewer inland, and only the Leaders in places like Trallwng."

"Wow." Madog thought about that. "How many have you actually met?"

"A few," Hannibal said, pausing in the untying for a second to run an affectionate hand across the swirling blue tattoos on Madog's shoulder. It was disconcerting. "Fewer than I'd like. None from the east, in fact, I've yet to be on a ship on those trade routes. Until you, of course."

Madog glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

"Really?" he asked, surprised. "So I'm the first you've met from the border?"

"Yes," Hannibal said, his eyes oddly tender as he stroked his fingertips over the scars and tattoos on Madog's back. Madog shivered. "You are the first, my friend."

"You're weird, Hannibal," Madog said, shaking his head. "You have a Rider fetish. No one normal has a Rider fetish."

"You would truly be amazed," Hannibal said quietly, and then shook his head and pulled the last of the rope free. He kept hold of Madog's wrists with one hand, running his fingers along his spine with the other. "You truly would, my friend. People speak of you in lands so far away you haven't heard their names; the winged warriors of Cymru, whose souls are stored in their mountains and who never fear death, and yet who consider themselves less than human."

He unfolded Madog's arms one by one and laid them on the bed beside his head, his movements almost reverential. Madog hesitated, and then rolled over between Hannibal's thighs, looking up at him.

"That's not true," he said quietly. "You're making it sound wrong -"

"It's okay," Hannibal said softly, pressing a finger to Madog's lips. "I know you can't understand. I'll stop."

Outside the window the wind blew the rain in a splatter against the glass, the sea a muted roar at the base of the city walls. The sky had lost all light, the only illumination in the room comming from the softly flickering oil lamps that cast Hannibal's night-dark skin into shades of deeper black. Madog stared up at him, trying to decipher the fond smile, the soft humming of an unfamiliar tune, the affectionate tracing of scar tissue and ink and muscle.

"You're wrong," he said again, unnerved. Hannibal's smile developed an edge of sadness.

"It's okay," he repeated. "I'll stop."

There was another pause. Hannibal's fingers found the streaks of arrow-scars on Madog's arms, apparently oblivious to his mental discomfort. Madog stared.

And finally, he sighed.

"I don't hate you," he said quietly. Hannibal froze for a second, their eyes locked together as the rain tapped at the windows and the shadows danced; and then he leaned down, his smile beaming, and kissed Madog's forehead.

"I know," he whispered.

They stayed like that for a while, Madog with his eyes closed, listening to the combined sound of the rain blowing past outside and Hannibal's quiet, contented humming, feeling the gently moving fingers roving over his body.

"You said you were here for the Archwiliad," Madog murmured finally.

"Yes," Hannibal agreed. "Hopefully, anyway. If we are chosen. It would be a great honour."

"Hmm." Madog smiled. "You'd get to go to the Union. Lots of Riders."

"Yes." He could hear the happiness and longing in Hannibal's voice. "A dream come true! I rather feel I could die happy then. But, we shall see. We are... what is the expression? An outside chance."

"Why?" Madog asked lazily. Hannibal's fingers were running along his collar bones, and for such a simple gesture it felt amazing.

"Only one group is ever chosen from each... nation, or group of nations, represented." The palms of his hands came into play, and Madog resisted the urge to arch like a cat. "The Union chooses based on a few factors; chiefly among them, which questions it feels it most needs to answer, and how much support each group has from back home, which represents their political importance. And we are neither Carthaginian nor Tyrian. We are Numibian, which is not a central part of Phoenicia."

"I've never paid all that much attention to the Audiences," Madog admitted. Hannibal chuckled.

"Of course not, my friend!" he said merrily. "They are of little concern to Riders. Yours is to be involved with Cymru herself, and her internal dealings. The Audiences are foreign, and not a threat. It is understandable."

"What will you ask for, if you can?" Madog asked. Hannibal snorted.

"Trading things," he said wryly. "As a Phoenician it occupies my whole world! I could explain, but I am unconvinced you want full details."

"What do the others want?" Madog asked, opening his eyes. "Surely they -?"

"Trade as well, yes," Hannibal said, cautiously. "But... of nothing that I approve of. Something you may not realise, my friend, is that many Phoenician trading companies still deal in slaves."

"Seriously?" Madog stared at him. "Slaves?"

"Yes," Hannibal sighed. "So, obviously, it is generally the case that the Union chooses to grant these groups an Audience, in order to publically deny them."

They lapsed into silence again, contented and quiet. Despite Madog's tiredness Hannibal was showing no signs of flagging, apparently absorbed in following the dark, swirling tattoos over Madog's skin, and the scar tissues that lay beneath. Oddly, he seemed equally fascinated by both, which Madog wasn't entirely sure how to take. Who the hell liked looking at scar tissue? Battle tattoos were beautiful, yes, but... scars?

"I don't understand you," he said eventually. His speech slurred slightly as sleep snatched at him. Hannibal sighed, a touch sadly, Madog felt.

"No, I know," he said, and there was definitely a melancholic edge there. "You won't, either. You can't, my friend. You're truly incapable of it. The one weakness of the Riders is understanding yourselves. You're so used to never considering yourselves that you forget how."

"That's not a weakness," Madog said.

"Everyone has a breaking point, my friend," Hannibal murmured. "Everyone. But you'd never notice yourself reaching yours."

"I wouldn't need to." Madog stretched, his arms above his head. Given that a large Phoenician man was sitting on his stomach he was surprisingly comfortable. "That's why we're in Wings. They'd notice. Dylan would definitely notice."

"That's fine, then," Hannibal said wryly. "And it only leaves the problem you're currently facing, my friend, which is that you don't understand my really very simple motivations."

"You won't explain them," Madog protested, aware that he sounded slightly sullen. Hannibal smirked.

"I believe you'll find that I did," he said. "You just didn't accept them."

"You know," Madog said, opening his eyes and giving Hannibal a mock glare, "I was in that tavern and trying to get drunk so that I didn't have to think about stuff that was making me uncomfortable."

"So you were," Hannibal smiled, trailing a finger almost lovingly across the long-healed scar on Madog's forehead. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Love to," Madog muttered. "Except I can't really. I just..."

He trailed off, watching the shadows nudge and whisper their way across the ceiling. How on earth could he explain it? How did he put it into words? He felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under his feet. He felt like he'd spent forty years mastering an incredibly important job only to find out he'd been doing it wrong. He felt like the only reason he'd gotten away with it was because his Deputy had been clever enough to pick up the pieces...

... and even as he thought it, something that had been nagging at Madog's subconscious for a few hours now sidled into the forefront of his mind.

Why had Dylan never told him?

Madog stared, unseeing, at Hannibal's calmly contented face. It was such a small thing, and with anyone else, any other Rider in the Wing, he wouldn't have stopped to question it. After all, in a manner of speaking, Dylan had been telling him for years; he'd never made any secret of his conveniently helpful information, or his theories on events, or his, thinking about it, uncannily good sense of whom to trust with what information...

Wow. Exactly how much had Madog missed, here?

"Are you well, my friend?" Hannibal trailed his fingers down Madog's temples, looking faintly concerned. "Something bothers you, I see."

"I think," Madog said carefully, "that I've made a serious misjudgement of someone."

Because with anyone else in the Wing, this would have been enough. But not Dylan. Dylan always, without fail, told him if he thought Madog was being a tit about something. He wasn't shy about it. He saw it as a privilege of being a Deputy. And if he genuinely thought that someone in the Wing needed to covertly learn political information... Dylan just wasn't arrogant enough to take that on by himself while never telling Madog. Even if he honestly thought he'd be better at it - which, clearly, he was - he would have said. Even if he did genuinely believe that it was necessary for Madog to act as though the world was all beautifully and neatly black and white - he would have said.

"Of anyone important?" Hannibal asked seriously.

"Very," Madog murmured, almost wonderingly.

You don't seem to realise that being a Rider is about more than you, Madog.

The words echoed back to him, Dylan's suddenly furious expression anchoring his usually wandering eyes to Madog's inside his head.

You've got this idealistic idea as to what being a Rider is. You're wrong, Madog. Being a Rider is about being whatever this country needs. There's nothing else.

He'd been angry. Genuinely, fully angry. Dylan had never been angry with him before. In fact, he'd never been that angry at anything as far as Madog could remember. Even the gods damned border warnings coming late hadn't made him that angry.

Above him Hannibal had gone quiet, his nimble fingers lightly massaging the muscles on Madog's chest, apparently giving him room to think. Madog appreciated it.

Leader Awen is gifted with being able to see the bigger picture.

Dylan had been angry in Awen's defence. He'd been getting testy until that point, but that had been what made him snap. Defending Awen, for playing the same role that he did. To him, he'd been defending himself.

"Oh, shit," Madog muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing at them with his fingers as he tried to think. They had the same role. Assume that assertion was correct, and where did it lead? Well; Dylan's main skill set was his ability to gain information, and his suspiciously strong talent for picking the right people to trust. Now that Madog thought about it, that usually meant which Riders to trust. Only yesterday, in fact, when they'd only just met her he'd picked Aerona -

- who was remarkably happy to be running round the country diving head-first into conspiracies that, given her rank as a tutor, had nothing to do with her. Who had, in fact, apparently tracked down Awen to Aberystwyth just to tell her in person about the border warnings. Whom Dylan had blithely suggested as a good candidate for garnering all evidence on Gwenda's ill-deeds, on the grounds that "she'd be able to amass more than us".

Adara? No. Adara hadn't known about Flyn's plans. Awen had kept it from her. Madog had got the impression she'd kept it from Owain, too. Awen had, apparently, told none of her Wing about their Sovereign's evil schemes. But she'd told Aerona, and Dylan and Madog, Riders who weren't even from her City, in Lord Gwilym's meeting room; something she wouldn't tell her own Wing, but merrily let them in on after only that brief hesitation -

- in which she'd looked at Dylan.

You've got this idealistic idea as to what being a Rider is. You're wrong, Madog. Being a Rider is about being whatever this country needs. There's nothing else.

There was authority behind those words. That wasn't a snapped, angry come-back. That was a deeply held, ingrained belief. Madog recognised those. The Union was very good at instilling them.

"Our time is over, isn't it?" Hannibal asked softly. Madog blinked, looking up at him.

"What?" he asked, as his brain ran to catch up. "No."

In one smooth movement he reached up and rolled, and in barely the time it took to blink he was on all fours over Hannibal, who was lying on his back, grinning from ear to ear and idly stroking his chest where Madog's beads were now resting.

"No," Madog repeated. "It's... well, I've just worked out something potentially massive that I absolutely in no way can tell you about, but... it can also absolutely wait until the morning." After all, Dylan had been doing this for years. Years and years. And clearly to the benefit of all. Madog was only going to be chasing this up for his own peace of mind, and that could wait for a few hours. He wouldn't have Hannibal for much longer than that.

"Stay?" he asked, his voice sounding slightly more pleading than he'd intended. Hannibal gave him one of his addictively tender smiles and carefully caught the beads in one fist, making Madog catch his breath. In Rider terms it was a startlingly intimate gesture; but obviously, Hannibal knew it.

"Of course," he agreed softly, and Madog kissed him as deeply as he was able.

**********

"Ooh, you did well last night." Dylan's voice chirped brightly, lancing through Madog's happily sleeping mind and hauling him unceremonially back to the land of the waking. Madog groaned.

"One day, Dylan," he murmured, not opening his eyes, "you will either learn not to waltz into my bedroom when I've expressly told you not to the night before or I shall throw you out of the window."

"But who would you cry to then?" Dylan quipped back. "Hello. I'm Dylan. If you tell me Madog's really bad in bed I'll pay you."

"Oh good gods," Madog muttered. Beside him, Hannibal laughed his incredibly deep laugh and tightened his arms around Madog's torso beneath the blankets.

"I'm afraid you cannot tempt me, my friend," he said, mercifully amused. "For one thing I must give him top marks, and for quite another I am Phoenician. I am already rich."

"No you aren't," Dylan said indifferently. "Because that's a stereotype, and my mam always told me not to believe stereotypes."

"You don't even know who your mother is," Madog said wearily.

"That hurts, dude," Dylan sniffed. "Nor do you. Hey, if you're rich and that stereotype is true, are you also staggeringly well-hung?"

Madog's eyes slammed open.

"Would you like to see?" Hannibal purred, and Dylan laughed from - Madog's eyes narrowed - his crouched perch on the nightstand.

"I like it," Dylan grinned. "You should come again! Which you ought to have if Madog's genuinely as good as you say, anyway."

"I hate you," Madog sighed. "Why, that's all I want to know. Why was I given you? You're an ingrate. Didn't I say he was an ingrate?"

"You did," Hannibal said, his thumb stroking Madog's hipbone. He tried not to shudder.

"Well so's your mam," Dylan said decisively. "And since you don't know her I could very well be right. Can we go now? I don't like cormorants. They look like they want a hug."

"And he just gabbles." Madog propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Hannibal's merry face. "Do you see that? Starts on one topic and finishes on another. Get out, Dylan. And we're going nowhere before breakfast."

"Yeah, I wonder what yours will be," Dylan smirked, and leapt nimbly off the nightstand as Madog threw a pillow at him. "Fine. Caeron owes me a beer, anyway."

He left, making a point of shutting the door behind him, and Madog sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm so sorry. Even I can't take him this early in the morning. No one should have to be confronted with that."

"I like Riders," Hannibal shrugged, his easy smile firmly in place. The grey morning light filtering in through the small window dulled the gold in his nose and ears, but somehow made his skin seem even deeper than it had in the shadows the previous evening. "This definitely includes interactions. And I've never been part of a Wingleader and Deputy interacting before! It is a privilege, my friend."

"You're bloody weird, Hannibal," Madog said, shaking his head. "You see, I thought you were anyway, what with your Rider fetish, but no one sane and normal considers Dylan a privilege. And gods, please don't judge all Wingleader/Deputy interactions on that. Everyone else has intelligent professionalism."

He sat up, kneeling on his heels in much the same position as Hannibal had tied him in the night before, and stretched. Hannibal grinned.

"You mean you are not sold on his exuberant sense of humour?" he asked, trailing his fingers up Madog's knee, and laughed at the look he received. "I see not. Still; he has good ideas..."

Madog froze as Hannibal's hand moved abruptly higher.

"Ah," he said. "Yes, well, it's his first..."

Well, he was the Wingleader. They could spare an hour or so.

********

"Good job it's Marged now, you know," Dylan shouted across to him over the wind as they swept down towards Caerleuad. "She won't mind the rope burns."

"I don't have any rope burns, you pleb," Madog shouted back. "Shut up or I'll stab you."

"You and your threats, Madog," Dylan called. "I'm just happy my little boy is growing up."

"Hey, Lady Marged is waving at us!" Glesni shouted, and Madog squinted down at the runway of the Landing Tower. Sure enough, the small figure of Lady Marged was bouncing up and down excitedly, waving both arms enthusiastically. Madog shook his head.

"Sovereigns," he muttered, waving back. It seemed to excite her all the more; by the time they swept in to land Lady Marged was positively bouncing on her heels still, clapping her hands and grinning one of the most infectious grins Madog had ever seen. And if nothing else, you could say this for Lady Marged: unlike Gwenda, you knew that when she put on a welcoming party it was because she was genuinely thrilled at your arrival. There was none of Tregwylan's excessively and unrealistically cleaned splendour, none of its incredulous polish. The area he could see through the Landing Tower archway was neat but functional, straw swept to the sides but floor unscrubbed, the odd cobweb in the rafters full of dust. There was, however, a quintet of bards playing a merry jig and a slightly bemused-looking man with a tray of buttered honey-bread. Madog knew which approach he prefered.

And, of course, there was the Sovereign herself. He was quite willing to bet that she had the usual spring of some flowers or other wrapped around her torque, but he couldn't tell just yet on the grounds that she was wearing half a scarf over the top. Only half, because she seemed to still be knitting it; currently she'd stored the loaded knitting needles in her cleavage in order to clap, while a cheerful stable hand was holding her ball of wool for her.

As Calon's hooves landed neatly on the runway carpet - a green carpet here, of course - Lady Marged stepped forward, arms spread joyfully wide.

"Riders!" she said merrily. "Welcome to Caerleuad! Ooh, exciting, isn't it? Only a day or so to go!"

"That little already?" Madog smiled in spite of himself. "Time flies. I'm -"

"Madog, I remember, of course!" Lady Marged put out a hand hopefully and Calon nuzzled it; from the look on Marged's face it was like she was celebrating her birthday. "Oh, lovely! She's so beautiful. As are you all, of course. Come in! And there's bread for you."

"Thank you, Sovereign," Madog grinned, and in the general shuffling aside of bards, servants and stable hands a space was made for them all to ride in. Unsurprisingly, Lady Marged followed next to him, followed by her wool-holder. She ran a hand down Calon's neck.

"Beautiful, she is," she repeated happily. "What's her name? How old is she?"

"Calon," Madog answered. Calon whickered beneath him. "And... about thirteen now, I think. We've had two foals from her, and they're both active now, so that makes sense."

"How lovely!" Marged beamed. "Riders aren't good at counting years, I find. What are her foals like?"

Madog turned in the saddle as a stable hand drew him to a halt and began undoing the flying harness.

"Three merod back, the gelding by the pitchforks, just folding his wings. See him? He was her first."

"And he's in the same Wing!" Marged said happily. "Clever mare! Can I do this side?"

"I'd be honoured, Sovereign," Madog said pleasantly as the stable hand moved to Lady Marged's side to show her how with a resigned expression. Clearly, he'd been expecting it.

It didn't take long; the harnesses were designed to be easily put on and removed in a hurry, and so basically comprised a few clips on each side attaching Rider to meraden. Once Madog was down Lady Marged wanted to see how the harness came off the meraden on the ground, so he ended up spending a few minutes leaning against the stable door eating a slice of the honey bread while Calon chewed at a hay net happily and completely ignored the Sovereign and the stable hand very slowly removing her harness.

"Hey loser," Dylan's voice said companionably in his ear. Madog glanced back at him. He was leaning his forearms along the top of the door diffidently, watching the proceedings with Bronwen and Caeron standing just behind him, all with obligatory slices of bread.

"Everyone done?" Madog asked. Bronwen grinned.

"Yeah, but we have bread, so it's good," she shrugged. "Oh, and Glesni is pestering one of the bards to play his harp. Doing well, there, Sovereign!" she added. Lady Marged beamed.

"Such fun!" she giggled. "Maybe if I retire as Sovereign I'll become a stable hand. She's so lovely, Leader!"

"She is," Madog agreed with absent affection. Calon's head turned in his direction, looking at him for a moment with her gentle eyes, before turning back to her hay net. Madog glanced back at Dylan. "Are you all set? Flying leathers fine, harness unbroken, brain as present as it's ever going to be?"

"Moreso than yours," Dylan retorted as Marged giggled. "But as it goes, they did an awful job in Tregwylan, so no, I need to re-wax my flying leathers."

"That's a shame," Lady Marged said sincerely as she unclipped the final strap holding the harness behind Calon's wings. "There's cake, you know."

"Oh, Sovereign, you temptress," Dylan grinned as Marged giggled. "How well you know the way to my otherwise manly and stony heart. But sadly, no. Madog?"

"Sod off, then," Madog told him, jerking his head over his shoulder. "Know that you're a disgrace to all, go on."

"You're a loser," Dylan told him indifferently. "Later."

He pushed himself off the door and wandered away past Menna, who promptly moved in to take his place. Madog looked at her.

"What," he asked, "no complaints this time? No requests to join him?"

"Nah." Menna settled down, contentedly watching Lady Marged slowly sliding the harness up and over Calon's head and neck. "I'm in it for the cake."

*********

"... proper trade links with Alba," Lady Marged was saying an hour and a half later, still knitting her scarf. Caeron was now holding her wool. "Because Alba and Erinn are getting along nicely, and I think that's lovely. Also the Erinnish exchange rate is nice right now. And Alba likes to buy our dyes; they like to use it in Fortriu, apparently. Although they do keep asking me to ask the Union to sell merod."

She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, oblivious to the nine wide-eyed stares she was getting around the table, and then shook her head.

"But they're good sorts if you pay that no mind," she said merrily. "I wonder if Gwilym's relatives ask him the same thing? Probably not, though, I hear his uncle is a bit crazy. People say that about me! Anyway, where were we?"

"Alba keep asking you to ask the Union to sell merod?" Madog repeated, and Lady Marged shook a hand dismissively.

"Oh, and Erinn, and Phoenicia, and Celtiberia... the list goes on!" She knitted a few more stitches. "Celtiberia regularly ask me how much I'd charge for mercenary Riders, actually. And the Graeco-Egyptians keep asking how much I charge just for Riders; they don't distinguish you from slaves, you see. Bless them."

Phoenicia. Ha. The trading that Hannibal disapproved of; no wonder he didn't think he'd get granted the Phoenician Audience.

"How long have -?" Madog started, but she waved a knitting needle again, making Caeron leap forward with the wool and Glesni dodge hastily.

"Oh, years and years!" she said merrily. "It's all you get as a Sovereign if you agree to meet envoys. Any country with a war on will ask."

"All Sovereigns?" Madog asked, his head spinning. "Really? Has anyone told the Union?"

"We don't like to, really," Marged said thoughtfully. "They might be offended, and anyway, we all say no. We don't have the power to agree to any of it, after all. Except asking the Union, and they clearly wouldn't agree. Oh, maybe they should know, though. Well, there. I've told you. Now you can tell them. Really nice, these cakes are, I should have them again."

No one met each other's eye. Bronwen was staring at the table top with the intense expression that meant she was trying not to laugh. Beside Madog Glesni's breathing was just audible as trembling slightly. Caeron was studying the wool in his hands, fighting the quirking muscle in the corner of his mouth. Madog took a deep breath, and hoped to every god listening that Marged would speak first.

Mercifully, she did.

"Anyway, where were we?" she said happily. "Oh, yes. Better protected trade routes through Cymric waters. It won't be anything fancy, don't worry, and I only think through our waters, not the whole route. But I think we could work out a good system, especially along the Archipelago. Might take some negotiation, mind. What else? Let's see..."

She looked down at the dossier in front of her, trailing the points of her needles down it.

"Another holiday!" Lady Marged said brightly. "I do love them so."

And this, Madog reflected, was Flyn's scape-goat for evil. The world had never felt more insane.

Cymru - Chapter 25b

Sorry guys; this should have been on the end of the last chapter, but my IQ sadly only reaches double figures and only by the skin of its teeth, so I'm hastily including it here. I'm re-posting it from a bit before the end of the last post to make it flow a bit better.

"I used to have five sons," Breguswid said quietly. "But the others all marched on the border. Two were dragged there with their father," and she spat the word with venom, "one went after they were killed, and one went after his father finally died. And for that, Rider," Breguswid smiled thinly, "I owe you personally my thanks."

"I killed him?" Awen asked calmly.

"That you did," Breguswid nodded. "My brother saw you. He told us all about it. You ran him through on his own sword. Well done."

There was a pause.

"Right," Awen said. "But, in spite of me killing your husband, whom you clearly hated, and very possibly your other sons, and, oh, maybe even your brother -"

"He's still alive," Breguswid said darkly.

"- and despite your culture demanding that you attempt to wreak bloody vengeance upon me, you in fact are here because you want to do no such thing. Am I right?"

"Yes," Breguswid said. "Well, partly-"

"You want social change for your people, not least of which is the ceasation of a pointless war against Cymru that only results in innocent people and Saxons dying," Awen interrupted. "And, if your role here is anything to go by, gender equality. But, owing to your society being violently opposed to evolution, someone has tried to stop you. I guess... your brother."

"Very good," Breguswid said quietly. "My brother is what we call a thane - a lord. My husband was king of our kingdom. I chose to marry him because I thought I might be able to convince him to see things as I did. Obviously I failed."

She hugged herself, eyes lost in memory, and Awen wondered what he'd done to her.

"Anyway," Breguswid sighed, and looked up. "You overstated things, earlier, although I do understand. But Saxon women aren't quite slaves. We have certain rights; lands, titles and posessions we have before a marriage we get to keep, we can't be forced to marry, and if we have husbands with titles who die we're expected to take over the running of the lands."

"So after your husband died you should have inherited the kingdom?" Awen asked. Breguswid nodded. "But... your brother, who could get support because he's your blood relative, drove you out to stop you from taking over and changing anything."

"Yes." Breguswid looked at her hands. "I also had a daughter. I had a lot of things, once."

"Rider?"

The voice was polite, satiated with deferential subservience, and came from the still-empty doorway. Awen twitched and glanced at it, Breguswid stiffening and looking between her and the bedroom. There was a pause.

"Yes?" Awen asked.

"Is it okay if I come in?" the voice asked. As far as Awen could remember, it sounded like Saberct. "I'll stay across the room from you. I want to see Mother."

"Just you," Awen warned. "And don't move too quickly. I'm afraid I'm quite jumpy."

"I understand." He came back into the room, movements steady, and sat in a chair next to Breguswid, putting a hand on her shoulder. She didn't even look at him, sitting with her upright hauteur again.

"So what are you planning?" Awen asked. Breguswid smiled.

"Ah," she said, interlocking her fingers and leaning her chin on them. "Well, now, that's a good story..."

"As if she didn't know," a voice spat, and Awen twitched again, glancing at the bedroom doorway. The argumentative man, Hengist, was standing there, arms crossed belligerently across his broad chest. It didn't help that he was a well-muscled man and tall with it; even small movements from him would have made her jumpy, but in an agressive state her hind-brain was jumping up and down, screaming for her to listen. Awen sighed.

"Look," she said, her voice coming out even sharper than she'd intended. "I have not had a good week. In - gods, two, maybe three days' time, maybe less by now, I'm not even sure - the most important date in my social calendar is rolling around, so I'm what you might call stressed. I don't remember the last time I properly ate or slept, and after all of this is over, I need to hunt down someone I was, until two days ago, extremely close to. These factors are not aiding my mental well-being, as you might expect. On top of that, I live on my instincts, which right now have spotted that you bear an uncanny resemblance to what I recognise as the ultimate threat to my world, and now you are waltzing in here with your hackles raised and doing nothing to help me not murder you where you stand, which both legally and physically I could easily do right now." She paused, flexing her fingers at her sides. "I am, however, trying very hard not to. You might like to increase your chances."

"You're not exactly displaying non-threatening behaviour to me," Hengist said, eyes narrowed.

"I am at no risk from you," Awen shot back levelly. "And I'm sitting down. That's more than you should possibly expect from a Rider, Saxon."

"Actually," Saberct's deferential voice cut in, "you're not. Sorry," he added.

Awen glanced down. She was indeed on her feet again.

"Ah," she said, blinking. "So I'm not. And I didn't even notice. There's a clue, there."

"Sit down or get out, Hengist," Breguswid said irritably, but Hengist shook his head, his mane of blond hair flying.

"This is a trick," he snarled. "For gods' sakes, Breguswid! A Rider, coming here alone? Who knew enough to find us, but doesn't know anything about us? We saw that Rider with your brother! They know what's happening!"

Time seemed to freeze around the sentence.

"What?" Her underlying emotion must have leached in, because all three of them looked at her suddenly apprehensively, even Hengist. "What Rider? When?"

"About a year ago," Breguswid said carefully. "In the forest between our kingdom and the border. He came a few times, in secret. That any of us saw, anyway. A month or two back I found a few more refugees who'd just arrived, looking for us. It seems that after we left he started being received more openly in the main hall, although not often. Only at night, too."

She shouldn't have been surprised. She really shouldn't have been surprised. She just... hadn't expected the betrayal to be so deep that Owain had been personally to Saxonia, to personally speak with a Saxon king.

"Was he blond?" Awen asked, her voice eerily calm. "Blue and gold beads, strange fringe, uniform a lot like mine?"

"That sounds like him," Saberct offered. "His collar looked a lot like yours, but... less ornate."

"Yes," Awen said, more or less to herself. "Okay. Did your brother, either personally or through an emissary, ever meet with anyone else from Cymru?"

"Several times," Breguswid nodded. "He went himself while my husband was alive - thanks again - and then messengers after that, usually. He said it was to meet with a Sovereign. Saba saw him once."

"He looked - not completely Cymric," Saberct said carefully. "I couldn't work out who it was for a while. Cymric clothes, but his face was almost Saxon. Thinner than a Saxon's. More pointed."

"That's Lord Flyn," Awen said quietly.

"And this is his Alpha Wingleader," Hengist growled, voice low. "She's making you both say it, but she knows this, all of this. She's playing a game."

"Blood ties," Awen murmured, ignoring him, and winced. "Oh, dear. You're Old Family. He's related to you."

"That's what I suspected," Breguswid nodded. "I doubt my brother would have bothered otherwise."

"Do you know what their bargain was?" Awen asked thoughtfully. Hengist snorted. Breguswid shook her head.

"No - shut up, Hengist - although something that gave them both power would be a safe bet, I imagine," Breguswid said. "He's ambitious, my brother. I do know that he's already been taking advantage of the in-fighting at the moment and seized three kingdoms north of ours. Almost the whole border is his, now. And from what I hear -"

"He's redirected the troops north," Awen said, thinking of Madog and the late border warnings. "Which coincides. What in-fighting?"

Breguswid smiled, in humourless, grim satisfaction.

"Part of my story, actually," she said. "I'm not the only Saxon to grow weary of our 'changeless perfection' and push for change." The sarcasm had teeth. "Part of my travelling to find other refugees is for news; if you can find land-traders through Saxonia these days, they can tell some of it too. But people have had enough, Rider. I told you, we've no real patriotism. Even away from the border, kingdoms still pointlessly fight each other, ridiculous power struggles that bring no benefit at all."

She rubbed her eyes wearily, and Awen felt a pang of empathic tiredness.

"These days, the world is smaller," Breguswid went on. "These days, cultures fuse, and people see what clearly works and what doesn't. The Phoenicians rule the world on an empire grown on the sea, and they believe that men and women are equal. If you ever chose to, and Riders were dispatched to the four corners of the world to conquer every civilisation you found, you would rule within a week, and no one would ever stop you. You believe that change is strength, something to accept, to embrace. The Graecian Empires have invented such technologies as to be interchangeable with magic, and they believe in learning, in the aquisition of wisdom. Saxons? What do we offer?"

"Off-beat humour," Saberct interjected solemnly, and Awen laughed out loud in spite of herself. He smiled quietly.

"My point," Breguswid said, giving her son a dry look, "is that even Saxons have eyes. Sooner or later we'll all question ourselves, as I already have. And I'm not alone. It's causing... tensions."

A small silence spread and Awen sat back down slowly, thinking about it.

Flyn wanted Cymru. Flyn wanted all of Cymru, himself as Monarch or whatever he was planning on calling it, which he was aiming to get at this Archwiliad by using Marged as a scape-goat. Flyn was also using Breguswid's brother for this, to help put pressure on Lord Iestyn up in Wrecsam to vote for him. But that didn't entirely make sense. Flyn didn't need to use Breguswid's brother at all; yet he had to be offering something in return, something he would give once he was Monarch. So why bother? Why run up that debt?

Unless...

Unless it was something that would suit them both. Such as... ruling Saxonia? Breguswid's brother had already started, pushing to unite the Saxon kingdoms under himself; Flyn as Monarch could lend Riders to his cause, probably on the grounds that once Saxonia was under one ruler, a ruler he had an agreement with, there would be no more attacks on Cymru. That way he could convince the Union that using Riders in such a way was for the good of Cymru. Which almost made a twisted sort of sense. Was that why Owain was involved? It had to be, really. Riders didn't turn traitor.

Except... Awen knew Flyn. He had a god complex, a sense of grandiose entitlement that even actual gods probably stopped short at, including those psychotic Greek ones. There was no way short of rewriting his entire personality that he'd be content to rule just one country when he could so easily take another, especially Saxonia; he believed in his parentage giving him the right to rule both. And he craved power. Once the country was united he'd simply remove Breguswid's brother and install himself as Monarch of both. And then where would he stop? Would he start on Alba? Covertly instigate an attack by them, so he could once again conquer a country "in Cymru's best interests"? What about Erinn? What about Gaul? The Norselands? Celtiberia? Germania?

If you ever chose to, and Riders were dispatched to the four corners of the world to conquer every civilisation you found, you would rule within a week, and no one would ever stop you.

"Oh, gods," Awen muttered. "Your brother has no idea what he's unleashing."

"Indeed?" Breguswid asked. "Then I'll laugh myself to sleep tonight."

"I wish I could." Awen swallowed. "I'll probably be crying. Your brother, what's his name?"

There was a very slight pause, the type that suggested some cultural toes were being trodden on.

"We don't speak his name," Hengist snarled, and Breguswid sighed, looking wretched.

"It's... a custom," she said, throwing Hengist a warning look. "When we break ties to family it's a big thing. We fully disown them. Names are part of it."

"Then I'm honoured to be a small part of your Cymric re-education when you tell me," Awen said pointedly. Hengist's face twisted, his fists clenching, but Saberct spoke before the larger man had a chance to do much more.

"Coenred," he said, Breguswid placing a hand on his wrist and squeezing in the first maternal gesture Awen had seen her make all night. "His name is Coenred."

"This is ridiculous," Hengist snapped abruptly, standing up so suddenly that Awen had again mirrored him before even realising it. Breguswid rolled her eyes frustratedly and sat back, apparently giving up on him. "We're Saxon, not stupid!"

"That's actually become quite an ironic statement when you say it," Saberct murmured.

"You must know all of this!" Hengist snarled, planting his knuckles on the table and leaning forward. "You're the Alpha Wingleader! You can't not know this! What's your game? Why are you playing with us?"

The battle-rage was back; suddenly the large hunched figure behind the table was becoming the focus of the entire world, her senses slamming into overtime and shifting her weight subtly to the balls of her feet. To the side, Breguswid very slowly edged herself away from Hengist, her movements as smooth and deliberate as she could make them, Saberct following.

"Sit down," Awen said, her voice low and even. "I'll not tell you again."

"Just tell us what you want!" he hissed, leaning closer. "Is this fun for you? Is that it? Just make your move, Rider! You know what -"

She didn't find out what she apparently knew, though, because that was the moment Hengist chose to stab a finger in her direction with a level of wisdom Awen usually associated with frogs, and before the situation fully registered her hand had closed around his fingers and twisted, the bones snapping inside before she yanked them towards her, gripping the back of his head as Hengist lurched forward with a bellow and slamming his forehead into the tabletop -

- and then the silence bloomed as Hengist slumped unconsciously to the floor, Saberct deftly catching his head on his foot before it hit the flagstones. Awen carefully let herself freeze in place. In the doorway of the sleeping quarters five extra faces had now appeared, three women, a man and a child watching in mute immobility; in the doorway opposite she recognised the angry man from the tavern, although, he seemed far less angry now and far more watchful, his eyes trained on her impassively. Breguswid snorted after a moment, and rubbed her eyes.

"Sorry," she said wearily. "He really is an idiot. His brain agrees with me, but his heart doesn't. Is he still alive?"

"Of course." Awen glanced at her, startled. "He'll only be out for an hour or so. And he'll have a headache."

"Thank you very much," Breguswid grinned. "And well done. Remarkable self-control, given that even I wanted to thump him. But I imagine you don't get to Alpha Wingleader with anything less."

"No," Awen said blandly. "Now, I'm trying not to look, hence my fixed staring at you - sorry about that - but how many people are now surrounding here? And, for the record, I'm counting the rather large gentleman in the doorway scanning me for weapons as five people."

"Sorry," the man broke in as Breguswid smiled. "I could hear Hengist shouting, but I see you've saved me the bother and knocked him out for me. Would it be easier if I stood with the others? Left this doorway clear?"

"Much." Awen backed up to the wall again and leaned against it, next to her chair. Her nerves were jangling far too much for her to sit down anymore, and suddenly she wanted the feeling of a solid wall against her back. "Go ahead. Keep a distance, though."

"Try to look about half the size, too," Saberct interjected solemnly as the man moved carefully into the living space that was far too small for them all. Awen snorted. In the bedroom doorway there was a shuffled moving of children and adults to make room. "In the least aggresive or accusative way possible though, Rider, I do agree that it's... strange... that you seem to not know this already."

"No it's not," Breguswid said, her eyes steady and strangely compassionate as they locked with Awen's. "She said earlier that she's going to be hunting down someone close to her. That's the Rider in our kingdom, yes? Whatever the plan is between your Sovereign and my brother, your Union has not approved it."

Mentally, Awen swore at herself. She was, she reflected, going to have to stop underestimating Saxons. This one, at any rate. She was clever.

"Something like that," Awen said neutrally. "And luckily for you, eh?"

"Yes." Breguswid grinned, and for the first time her haunted eyes were gleaming. "I thought you might say that."

***********

By the time Awen finally got back to the Wing quarters she was ready to collapse where she stood, exhaustion making her fingers fumble on the door handle. Inside, the fire in the grate had understandably gone out, but the curtains still hung open, the moonlight picking out the room surprisingly efficiently in silver. The gwyddbwyll board shone, the metal pieces still arranged halfway through the game Tanwen and Meurig had been playing before they'd left. On the back of a sofa Adara's travelling cloak lay in a rumpled heap where she'd carelessly thrown it down earlier, a dark, twisted shadow against the paler upholstery. Books were on most surfaces not designed for seating, neatly stacked on the dresser where Cei had tidied them, propped open on a chair arm beside Llio's usual seat, on the floor where Caradog had finished reading and just dropped it. The harp in the corner hummed silently to itself, the strings vibrating the memory of music into the room. Awen swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly thick, and wondered why.

Her own bedroom felt empty. That was weird. Objectively, Awen was quite aware that it basically was empty, since its furniture totalled a bed, a dresser, a wardrobe and a shrine in the alcove, and it contained the usual complete absense of personal touches found in Riders' rooms. Subjectively... she'd never cared. Ever. It was just somewhere to sleep and store her clothes, and a secret route out of the quarters and into the rest of the Residence. The lolfa and the bathrooms were the parts that were home. But for some reason, tonight, the room was oppresively, distressingly empty, a mocking void taunting her for something she couldn't understand.

Methodically, Awen annointed the shrine. It made her feel marginally better; enough to clime into bed at any rate, but the softly comforting feeling faded almost as soon as she had, replaced with the emptiness. The echoes of an absent Wing filtered into the room. It was stupid, Awen told herself. They basically made no audible noise at this time of night normally anyway. There should have been no difference.

And her room was next to Owain's - in the back of her mind Awen could feel the lurking, squatting presense of the mirror, grinning its blank seduction into an empty wardrobe. How often had he looked in it? Everytime he'd used the wardrobe? Or had there been a routine, once a week?

But there was no point in speculating. Owain could have been looking into that mirror every bloody day and Awen wouldn't have known. He'd been negotiating with Saxons and she hadn't known, for gods' sakes. He could have had a small army of Saxon warriors in his sock drawer for all the use she'd been. He'd betrayed them. All of them. Everyone.

And still all she could ask herself was why.

Hesitantly, and not really understanding why, she grabbed her quilt, padded back to the lolfa and huddled up on the sofa.