Cymru - Chapter 48

No plot ahoy.


AWEN

There was something soothing about tuning harps, Awen found, something vaguely exciting. It was like the instrument was promising you something; if you looked after it, it was going to look after you. Once you were done, it would purr for you. Until then, good luck not wanting to sacrifice your own eardrums to any passing god to make the horrendous sound go away.

It was all part of how alive they were, of course. The harp was the body, the music was the soul. Tuning them, oiling them, dusting them, it was all like feeding them properly so the music would fly. They played to themselves when you didn't, Awen felt. It wasn't audible, but it was like the opposite of sound. Not silence; silence was no sound. A harp left to itself played minus sound, the memory of music, heard only by itself but felt by everyone else. And it was impossible not to want to join in when you could feel it, Awen found. Suddenly, she'd have this urge to fit the soundboard to her shoulder and her fingers to the strings, and then it all just progressed from there. The music poured out, and the harp sang.

Particularly triple harps. Awen could play a lot of different instruments by now, but the triple harp was such a visual mess of strings it basically blinded you, demanding that you learned to feel it instead. It didn't want to be plucked; it wanted to be played. It was difficult to say no.

She'd never meant to actually like playing. She'd turned to music to strip the medium of every additional skill she could, to make herself useful, but she'd been sucked in. The music had become… something else for her. When she sat at the harp, she wasn't quite the same anymore. It was like taking off the cloak that was Awen, that was her life, and just hanging it up for a while. Everything could wait. The responsibility could wait, the danger, the frustration, the pain. The harp let her be something else, if only for a while. It was addictive.

She plucked a final string and the sound rang out, clear and sweet. Awen smiled and sat, letting her mind unfocus and her fingers move. The music cascaded around her, caressing her as gently as the night-time breeze from the open window.

"You're beautiful when you play," Gwilym said softly behind her.

"Thank you," Awen murmured. The fire to the side warmed her, contenting her. "When did you arrive?"

"Just now." He sat carefully on the chair behind her, his thighs pressed against hers, and slid one arm around her waist, the other drawing her hair back over her shoulder. The music mellowed and grew, the liquid flow of triple harp notes strengthening. "Favourite instrument?"

"Definitely," Awen smiled. "It's like a river, hear that?"

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment, listening to the stream of the music.

"How does it do it?" he asked wonderingly after a moment, apparently thinking about it for the first time. "Crwths can't do that. What makes it do that when other instruments can't?"

"The strings," Awen said. "The outer two rows are tuned together, and the style of play is to play identical notes either together or just after each other. It means you get two tunes at once. Constant music, see? For the greedy of hearing."

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"That's beyond impressive," Gwilym told her, one hand firmly taking hold of her beads, his chin resting on her shoulder. The music changed slightly again, her fingers dancing up the treble. "Do you know you're playing your emotions?"

"Yes," Awen laughed. "Sorry. I can't help it."

"Don't be," Gwilym said earnestly. "Really. It's beautiful."

The music swirled and danced happily, filling the room, and they lapsed into silence, listening to it. It was strange how safe she felt, sandwiched between Gwilym and the harp, feeling the vibrations of one and the warmth of the other. After a while he snorted softly, his breath tickling her neck.

"You were transposing into minor before," Gwilym murmured, his smile audible. "Now you're doing it the other way around. That's the Doleful King of the Ghosts you're playing."

"I like a challenge," Awen said. "And now I have brought joy to a deeply unhappy ruler of the dead. That, my friend, is the product of a winning personality."

"You're right," Gwilym nodded. "Now he is positively doleless. I might even push the boat all the way out and use the word 'elated', you know."

"I like the word 'elated'," Awen mused. "It sounds golden, like summer."

"You sound crazy, like my uncle," Gwilym said mildly. "But that's okay. Bards are supposed to be."

He paused, and then slipped both hands up to her face, covering her eyes. Awen smirked, the music unchanging.

"I meant it," she grinned as Gwilym laughed. "Looking at triple harps is more confusing. You just have to learn your way around them -"

She broke off as his lips closed on the nape of her neck, the sensation heightened by her lack of sight and making her shiver, her head automatically bowing forwards to give him better access. He kissed her gently, her heart hammering, and then chuckled quietly, the sound deep in his throat.

"Sorry," he said, standing up behind her. "Couldn't resist. But I'm going to blindfold you, there's something I want to do."

"I'm not having sex with you," Awen said quickly, her hands freezing on the strings.

"Oh good gods it's just like being seventeen again," Gwilym said. "Sioned ferch Hafren, behind the fishing sheds on the harbour. I swear that was the only sentence she ever said to me, and I heard it so many times."

"Shut up," Awen laughed, holding the soundboard. "I'm just -"

"No, it's fine," he said morosely. One hand slid around to cover both of her eyes, the other vanishing briefly before the soft slide of cloth replaced both. "I know the drill. It's not me, it's you. One day I'll meet the right person. You're just not ready to settle down yet, or stomach touching me in any way."

Oh, damn, it had never been more tempting to sleep with him, though. There was something powerfully erotic about him blindfolding her, which Awen could in no way explain given that she generally had problems trying to give control to other people. But suddenly her heart was racing at the touch of the cloth, her fingers gripping the harp rigidly as Gwilym gently tightened the blindfold while merrily jabbering on, apparently oblivious to his effect.

"And then there was the 'No, Gwilym, the thought of you seeing me naked is giving me a rash' answer," he was saying cheerfully, tying a knot at the back of her skull that somehow didn't catch any hairs. "And the 'I'm only not reporting you to a Rider because you're the Sovereign's son'. Oh, and 'Fuck off Gwilym or I'll dropkick you downstairs', but in all fairness that one was just my sister on a bad day when I happened to walk past, she was quite indiscriminate."

"Some days I seriously consider punching you, Sovereign," Awen said, reaching back and catching his hands. He squeezed them back. "In the stomach, so it wouldn't show. What are you going to do?"

"Ah!" Gwilym said happily, his tone that of an excited scientist about to test a pet theory. "Well, let me ask you something first -"

"Oh, I see," Awen said, as realisation dawned. "You're using your 'I've been thinking hard about you, Rider, and I've just realised an exciting new way in which you're emotionally deficient' voice."

"Yes!" Gwilym said, taking hold of her shoulders and pulling up lightly. Awen stood, suddenly uncertain with the vulnerability. "You see, I've been thinking hard about you, Rider, and I've just realised an exciting new way in which you're emotionally deficient. We're going to the sofa. This way."

"This is weird," she said, unnerved as he guided her to the sofa beside the fire, clutching his tunic for support. He sat her down and suddenly was next to her, both arms around her, his presense solid and reassuring.

"I know," Gwilym said softly. "You're doing well, though. Thank you for trusting me."

"I don't trust you," Awen declared, although she didn't let go. "You're an enormous liability. Are you about to sell me to a Phoenician?"

"Absolutely!" Gwilym beamed. He turned her on the sofa so she was leaning her back against the arm, legs crossed, her feet still touching him. "Now. It's not so much an emotional deficiency as a sort of social one, actually. What's your favourite food?"

So many of his questions threw her. Awen blinked.

"What?" she said blankly.

"What's your favourite food?" Gwilym repeated. He sounded like he was grinning. "Mine's lemons, but we can't get them here. They grow in northern parts of Phoenicia. What's yours?"

"What are lemons?" Awen asked, vaguely bewildered, and his hands were suddenly on her wrists, running up and down her arms.

"No," he said, voice gentle again. "Don't do that. You're changing the subject. Third time: what's your favourite food?"

"I don't know," Awen said, slightly nervous for no reason she could fathom. The feeling of his hands on her bare skin was soothing, a reassuring comfort. "I don't really have one."

"Okay," Gwilym said. "Next question: can you remember the last time you ate something that you really, really enjoyed? Savour-every-mouthful kind of enjoyed?"

"No," Awen said, non-plussed. "Why?"

"All in good time!" Gwilym said grandly. "Next: how often do you eat? Generally?"

"I don't know," Awen said, and then belatedly realised the effect that statement might have on someone with a normal metabolism and a three-meals-a-day regime. "The Gwales Ritual means we don't need to eat as often," she explained hastily. "We only really get hungry if we've been injured."

"Do you eat when you're hungry?"

It was difficult to tell without being able to see his face, but his voice didn't seem disapproving, so she seemed to have gotten away with that one.

"Yes," Awen said. "And when I remember. I don't know how often."

"That's what I thought," Gwilym said, satisfied. His hands left her arms, her skin still tingling with the tactile after-image. Gently, he raised one of her hands, kissing the knuckles in a move that made her heart dance again. "Okay! Open your mouth. I swear this isn't a deviant sexual practice I'm foisting upon you."

"Are you sure?" Awen asked suspiciously. She wished she could see his face. "I've heard that one before. What are you going to do?"

"You," Gwilym said happily, "are going to exercise your bardic way with words. I want you to describe a flavour."

He leaned forward, one hand cupping the side of her face delicately, his thumb stroking her chin.

"Open," he said softly. Something brushed her lips and Awen automatically obeyed.

It was bread, and then, quite suddenly, it wasn't. The taste went from 'bland' to 'intense' faster than she could blink, the flesh velvet-smooth and flavoured like the scent of the evening air, the crust a firm, chewy shell that was sweet and floral, glazed with honey. She inhaled sharply through her nose as her tongue rolled over and admitted defeat under the onslaught, barely able to process it all. It was sensational. Literally. And that was as far as words would carry her. Bardic training hadn't prepared her for such arcanely delicious bread. Who the hell had made it, a faerie?

"Thing is, you see," Gwilym said conversationally over her rapture, and his grin was definitely audible, "food is more of a habit to Riders than a necessity, so you forget to taste it. And you have such a busy life it's all about when you can remember and spare two minutes. You've forgotten how to actually enjoy it."

"I see," Awen managed, swallowing. "You don't actually want me to describe that, do you?"

"Well guessed!" Gwilym laughed, kissing her forehead and sitting back. "No. I just wanted you to pay attention. And now I'm going to make a list. How did you like the bread?"

"I loved the bread," Awen said weakly. "The bread can come again. Is there more?"

"No," Gwilym said thoughtfully. "I only brought a morsal of everything. You get to try lots of things. Here, this one's next…"

The texture, Awen felt, was reminiscent of sand too close to the sea, so wet it formed an almost liquid compound that you couldn't dig. It was a sort of paste, cool on her tongue and delicate, so delicate in flavour; meaty but sweet at the same time, with a very faintly acrid tang. And mint, just a hint of it, refreshing and complimentary -

"Pâte!" Gwilym announced. "How did it do? Did you like it? More or less than the bread?"

"More," Awen said distractedly. "Much more. Is there more of it?"

"I'm afraid it counted under the broad category of 'everything'," Gwilym said. There was the sound of tearing paper, and then his fingertips were brushing her mouth again. "Next!"

Next was a bite of sausage, mouth-wateringly complex and yet heartily simple all at once, which actually made her moan and went over the pâte; after that was a cube of cheese, rich and tangy and creamy and rating just below the sausage; after that was yoghurt with honey drizzled into it, a dazzling meeting of acridly sour and cloyingly sweet. The raw onion she nearly spat out, but cooked into soup she loved; the butter she found a pointless waste of good bread; the carrot sticks were beautifully crunchy, sweet in a savoury way, and when dipped into some incredible soft-cheese-and-leeks concoction she was sorely disappointed to finish them. The raisins she refused to finish; the celery she threw at the fire; the peas she happily ate straight from the pod. Gwilym made a note of all of them, his voice almost dementedly cheerful over the tearing paper.

"Okay!" he said at last, to Awen's enormous disappointment. "That's all of it. How was it for you, darling?"

"Immensely enjoyable, honey," Awen grinned, stretching and leaning back against the arm of the sofa. "How did I do? Do I like weird things?"

"Yes," Gwilym declared. "You ate three spoons and a coaster, you freak. No; according to my re-assemble-able list on scraps of paper, it's mostly meat and dairy products for you. And you seem to have a bit of a sweet tooth."

"And there's definitely no more?" Awen asked, without any real hope. Gwilym's weight shifted, his arms closing around her waist and she was pulled gently but firmly down flat onto her back on the sofa cushions, grinning. His fingers began work on the knot for the blindfold. "No more spoons or coasters? I can't nibble on the corner of a tray?"

"Sorry," Gwilym said contentedly. "It all counted under the umbrella heading of 'everything', you see. It was quite a broad, but in this case accurate, description. Close your eyes."

They were anyway, but Awen obediently kept them that way as he slid the cloth from her face, catching her breath as he very delicately placed a kiss to each eyelid.

"You know this is pointless," she murmured quietly, her hands finding his waist and clinging on. "I have days left at best -"

"Oh, stop it," Gwilym said fondly, his hands lining her eyes. "If that turns out to be the case, I'm making every one count. Stop trying to convince me otherwise."

"I'm not," Awen sighed. "I just want to make sure you realise it."

"I do." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Open your eyes."

She did. The lighting at this time of night was far from bright, but it was still a good thing Gwilym was shielding her vision from the firelight as she readjusted from the dark again. Awen blinked, and looked up at him.

"You have beautiful eyes," Gwilym said happily. "And that's a point - if you've never seen your own face, do you know what colour your eyes are?"

"Grey," Awen smiled. "We all told each other when we were children."

There was a slight pause.

"They're green," Gwilym said, clearly suppressing a laugh. "Dark green. They're only grey when it's cloudy or night."

"Oh." She laughed, squeezing his waist. "Green then. Well, we were about four, in all fairness. I always wanted green eyes, actually."

"I remember that," Caradog's voice proclaimed as its occupant entered the room. Awen grinned. "We told Owain his were brown, but they were blue. I wonder how he felt when he saw them?"

"Repulsed, I should think," Gwilym said, earning a guffaw from Caradog. "Although probably not by his eyes as much as his nose."

"Looked like he'd been hit in the face with a spade," Caradog agreed merrily. "Come to think of it, he might have been. Anyway; can I have a minute, Leader?"

"I'll go," Gwilym said, sitting up, but Awen was faster. She knocked his supporting elbow out from under him and pulled him down, rolling on top of him as Caradog snorted and threw himself onto the floor, his back against the sofa beside them.

"What do you mean, you'll go?" she asked blankly. "Do you want him to go, Caradog?"

"No, don't be daft," Caradog said dismissively, and then abruptly sighed. "I keep dreaming."

"Congratulations," Awen said mildly, settling on Gwilym's chest and gripping Caradog's shoulder. He held her hand tightly, leaning one scratchy, unshaven cheek against it. "That's what adults do at night."

"Yeah, and why is that?" Caradog asked gloomily. "What's the point of dreaming, anyway? If it's good you wake up disappointed, if it's bad you wake up screaming."

"Well, it's because sleeping is boring," Gwilym said sagaciously. "That's how it works. Everyone goes to bed and keeps their eyes tightly closed until they pass out from boredom and hallucinate wildly to entertain themselves."

"Ha!" Caradog grinned merrily. "If your time in bed is that boring, Sovereign, it's a good job you have a girlfriend now!"

"Oh, look, this conversation is fun," Awen said. "What are you dreaming about that's distressing you so, Caradog?"

He sighed again, threading her fingers through his.

"Owain," he said at last, quietly; although 'quietly' for Caradog meant 'normal volume'. "I keep dreaming about him. All the time. It's weirding me out."

"Ah," Awen said softly. "What do you see him doing?"

"It changes." Caradog tipped his head back and looked up at the ceiling, his eyes clouded. "The first night was… sort of… well, I was angry, like. I killed him."

"Well, we've all been there," Gwilym said knowingly and somewhat surprisingly, Awen felt. "Next night?"

"Was bloody weird," Caradog declared. "You know the nightmare where they're hunting you? And you're just running, but you can't go fast enough, and they're in the shadows?"

"No," Gwilym said.

"Yes," Awen said. Gwilym's hand stroked her ribs, once.

"Like that, but lots of Owains," Caradog said angrily. "That one annoyed me. I could wrap him around one hand, for gods' sakes."

"And frequently have," Awen smiled. "Well, there's no mystery so far. You were angry with the betrayal on the first night, reacting to the relationship on the second. He was your Deputy. A commander. There's a strong element of security involved, which he took away."

"Cock," Caradog muttered. "Yeah, alright, I can take those. But every night since - a bloody week - I keep dreaming about him as though it hasn't happened. Like, one night we were all just having a party, nothing else. One, we were fighting, and he died, and I actually woke up bloody crying, Leader. Crying!"

"Oh," Awen said. She exchanged a look with Gwilym, understanding dawning. "That's not -"

"He tried to kill you!" Caradog snarled, suddenly venomous. One enormous hand gripped her wrist, the fingers of the other running across the scar on her palm. "He tried to kill you! I swear to you, I haven't forgiven him, Leader, but then I have all these dreams, and I don't -"

"It's okay," Awen said gently, leaning down and hugging his shoulders. Gwilym stroked her back; it was a strange gesture, like he was backing her up, giving her strength while she gave it to Caradog, and stranger still, it was exactly what she wanted. "Seriously, it's okay. That's what I see, too."

"You what?" Caradog grabbed her forearms, holding her tightly. "You do?"

"I know!" Awen said, grinning. "Insane, isn't it? But it makes sense, when you think about it."

She glanced back at Gwilym. He was giving her the strangest look, a soft smile that was almost… proud, somehow, his pale eyes tenderly expressive.

"We miss the person we thought he was," Awen said, watching Gwilym as the impact of the same words he'd told her on the mountain-top finally hit home. "The Owain we knew. He's dead now, and we're grieving him. See?"

Caradog was silent, watching his own knees, lost in thought. Awen let him. She'd long found that the trick to Caradog was just to point his head in the right direction and then ask for a summary at the end to make sure he'd reached the right point; he was a man who enjoyed making up his own mind. She watched Gwilym's curious smile instead, and realised that he had hold of her beads in his free hand. He was rubbing a thumb against them contentedly, absent-mindedly, the colours glimmering through. Awen looked away. The blindfold had been bad enough. That really wasn't helping.

"Son of a bitch," Caradog muttered at last, squeezing her wrists. "Gods damn it! Oh, leave it to Owain to make sure we'll all pine for him after he fucks us over. Are we allowed to see him yet?"

"Yes," Awen said. "But -"

"Awesome!"

Caradog swung forward to jump to his feet, but from that position Awen had just enough leverage still to haul back on his shoulders and pull him back down, tipping his head back to meet her eyes upside down.

"But," she repeated sternly, "you are only allowed to see and talk to him, understand? That's all. And you can only talk to him if he's awake."

"Yes, Leader," Caradog said solemnly, and Awen grinned and let go.

"Good boy," she said, settling back on Gwilym's chest, who wrapped both arms around her securely. "Run along, now. And stop guilt tripping yourself; it's Owain's fault, not yours."

"Yes, Leader." Caradog paused for a moment, bending down from his massive height and gripping her shoulder tightly, unspeaking; and then he stood and stretched casually. "I'm going to go and shout at him if I can. You going to bed? You haven't slept in days."

"Yes I have," Awen lied seamlessly, making herself sound amused. "Just not at normal times."

"Cool," Caradog said, ambling away to the door and Owain. "Later."

"You're a very good liar, aren't you?" Gwilym marvelled once the door closed behind Caradog's massive back. "That's really very impressive."

"The fact that you can tell creeps me out more than anything else in the world," Awen told him mildly. "Really. It's shaking my faith in my own existence. I'm no longer convinced I'm real."

Gwilym laughed, the sound reverberating through his chest. Awen smiled, spreading her fingers over his heart.

"It's just logic," Gwilym said, one hand playing with her beads again idly. "You're unpurified, you must be having nightmares every time you blink. And, sometimes, when you let your shields go down, I can see you properly."

"Say what?"

"You look exhausted," Gwilym said. His free hand slipped to her lower bank, rubbing firmly at the muscles to either side of her spine, and Awen melted. "And not just physically. It's this weariness that goes bone-deep, the kind stressed people who don't get a holiday for years end up with. And the funny thing is, it makes you look both younger and older at the same time."

"That's paradoxical," Awen murmured, almost purring. Gwilym chuckled.

"Yes," he said affectionally. "But true. You are older than you look anyway, by nearly a decade. But you've also the same thing most child soldiers get. They stop aging at the point they first kill. And I can see it in you sometimes. When I confuse you, usually. Suddenly, there's a six-year-old looking out through your eyes."

"How old do I look?" Awen asked interestedly, and Gwilym burst out laughing.

"Or," he said, amused, "you could just ask me how old you are, you complete Rider."

Good gods, so she could. He'd read her file. That was crazy.

"I hadn't even thought," she said wonderingly, turning to look at him. "How old -?"

"Happy birthday," Gwilym smiled. Awen's jaw dropped. "You're thirty-four today. And you look about twenty-five."

"It's my birthday today?" she repeated, astonished. It wasn't that she hadn't realised, objectively, that she must have one. It was just that birthdays happened to other people. "Seriously?"

"Yes," Gwilym said, stroking her hair back from her face. "Well, sun's gone down, so technically it's now tomorrow and your birthday was yesterday; but I subscribe to the it's-not-a-new-day-until-you-wake-up school of social dating, so whatever. And as a gift I gave you the sense of taste, because Riders are difficult to buy for."

And abruptly that was too much.

It was overwhelming. Awen stared at him, almost horrified by the amount of thought he'd wasted on her. It was just too much; the letter sat between them, only the thickness of a tunic hiding it, and in Awen's mind it had never meant more. He'd found out her birthday, and spent fifteen minutes feeding her things to make her enjoy a small part of her life again, and all the while -

"Oh, don't you dare," Gwilym broke in, watching her expression, and his arms abruptly tightened around her, pinning her to him. "Listen, and listen very carefully, Awen. Because of the way your mind works, because of the way your life is, some things will mean more to you than me, yes? And the other way around, too. Yes?"

"Yes," Awen said, numbly. Gwilym nodded, his eyes stern, urgent.

"To me," he said firmly, "in my social world, it's nothing, understand? It's just a birthday, and not a particularly good present. I know it means more to you. I know that. But not to me. You don't get to start using this as a further tool with which to flagellate yourself. Understand?"

Good point. That was a good point. If he opened the letter tomorrow and left her in disgust he'd be able to look on this gratefully as a cheap present given on technically the day after her birthday. Awen clung to the logic with a death-grip, and tried to ignore just how important the last half hour would always be to her for as long as she lived.

"I understand," she said quietly, and felt Gwilym relax slightly beneath her. She sighed, pressing her forehead against his chest and over the letter. "You realise the deadline is the end of the trial? Tomorrow? Today, technically."

"I know."

His hands went to her lower back again, and resumed the massage. Really, it was like enforced relaxation; she lost the ability to be in any way on edge when he did it, as though his fingers just sucked the tension out of her muscles. She melted into him again, her eyes sliding closed.

"I'll lose you tomorrow," she murmured.

"We'll see," he said neutrally. "I'm staying tonight."

She let herself drift in the guilty happiness of that for a while, riding the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. It was supremely confortable there. She was starting to wonder if he was ergonomically designed.

"If you've read my file," Awen said sleepily at last, "do you know why we were given 'Masarnen'?"

"No," Gwilym smiled. "Random designation, I should think. Do you like it?"

"Owain and I always wanted 'Ywen'," Awen said. "For hilarious purposes. And Adara did, but mostly when she was a slightly morbid teenager and thought yews were edgy."

"My brother wanted to change his name to Seamus Mac Sorcha for a while when we were kids," Gwilym grinned. "He went through a hardcore Erinnish phase. Actually, he was a bit of an idiot, my brother, got to be honest."

"I used to wonder if I've got brothers and sisters," Awen said. The tiredness was fast catching up with her, between the luxuriously comfortable position and the amazing things Gwilym was doing with his hands and her back. "Like, biological ones, you know? I've got real ones, obviously."

"Hmm." Gwilym sounded thoughtful. "Odds are you do, I suppose. Union babies are usually either orphans or an unwanted extra in a big family, aren't they?"

"Or children of other Riders," Awen mumbled. "Not allowed to keep them."

She didn't remember falling asleep, but several days of exhaustion were queuing up to cash in what she owed, and Gwilym had intentionally made it as easy as possible for her. The first she knew of it was slowly waking up as she became dimly aware of a sussurration of voices and several hands trying to gently move her. Wearily she moved her head, looking for Gwilym, too tired to open her eyes, and she felt him tenderly kiss her forehead.

"It's okay," he whispered. "Go back to sleep, Awen."

Her brain translated it as an order, so she didn't protest.

"I got to call him some terrible things, though, so it was okay."

That sounded like Caradog. Actually whispering. Caradog never whispered.

"Never a wasted trip," Gwilym agreed. "What do the druids think?"

"They're now hopeful he'll wake up," Caradog was saying. A blanket had been put over Awen, and someone was carefully tucking it under her, as though preparing to move her and it. "Some time tonight, they reckon, or early tomorrow. And Dylan was there, throwing bits of wet rolled up paper at him, so I helped."

"Very magnanimous," Gwilym whispered back, the grin somehow shining through. "He's definitely going to wake up, though? I was worried Awen might have broken his brain."

"I think a mountain did that," said a new voice, approaching. "Because he's a congenital stupid."

"Well, a whole flock of druids were there," Caradog whispered. Gently, very gently, Awen was moved sideways in Gwilym's arms as he sat up, the others apparently helping him to stand. "Or whatever we call a group of druids. A chant? A murmur?"

"A circle?"

"A beard? Only describes half, mind."

"A robe? Ooh, a washing line!"

"A washing line of druids?"

"Well, as soon as you say it skeptically nothing sounds good," Gwilym whispered, rising to his feet. "Fine. What about a whinge?"

"Isn't that heretical?"

"And I swear it's more appropriate for Sovereigns, anyway," Gwilym answered. "Or a conspiracy of Sovereigns. Or a gossip. Or a sex attack, which happens far more commonly than I was warned about unless you get to dinner early and move the place cards."

They were moving, away from the fire and into the corridor leading to the bedrooms. Awen gripped the collar of Gwilym's tunic contentedly with one hand, and he snorted softly.

"Go to sleep, Awen," he repeated, and she was too tired to answer.

"In here," Adara whispered. "And she's already in pyjamas, look, what a helpful. Do you want some? I think you're about the same size as Llŷr or Meurig, I could get some."

"No, that's fine." She was being settled onto the bed now, the mattress cold but still inviting. The quilt was pulled over her, forming a nest, and then the bed dipped beside her as Gwilym climbed in too. "I get a perverse thrill out of making Watkins sniff."

"Do you love her?"

"Of course I do."

"Good answer."

"Night, Sovereign," Adara whispered. "Get out, Caradog, you social experiment."

She smiled at that, and didn't stop as Gwilym pulled her into his arms, pressing her back against his chest and holding her tightly.

And then, for once, she slept.

Cymru - Chapter 47

MADOG

"Oh, gods," Caeron said tonelessly, getting up abruptly and heading for the comb box as Madog sauntered into the lolfa. "You can't go like that. Your hair is now a horrendous mess. What have you been doing?"

"Resting," Madog said casually, ignoring Hannibal's snort behind him. "I was horizontal, anyway. Go where?"

"Councillor Rhydian came by," Menna said absently, shifting her feet from the chair Madog was being firmly guided into before replacing them on his lap. She seemed to be reading a book of anatomical illustrations. "You're to go to some big Wingleader meeting in fifteen minutes with Dylan."

"Although he'll meet you there," Caeron added, selecting his comb of choice and tugging gently at Madog's hair with his fingers. "With Aerona, I think. Did you know about him and her?"

"Yes," said Madog, who hadn't until a few hours ago. "Don't doubt my sterling leadership skills. Do you approve?"

"Definitely," Menna yawned. "In Casnewydd she technically saved both him and you. I'm considering her deification. And the gods only know the boy needs grounding."

"I greatly enjoy the affected disdain you all have for Dylan," Hannibal smiled, settling gracefully onto the sofa and resting his foot against Madog's. "Is this common among Riders of your calibre?"

Madog snorted.

"Riders of any calibre are disdainful of Dylan," he said wryly. "It's a natural gut reaction, like a fear of the dark and falling down instead of up."

"When you say calibre," Menna began, her eyes on the ceiling, and Hannibal laughed, his voice deep.

"Level, perhaps," he grinned, teeth flashing white. "My apologies. Far be it from me to ascribe prowess to an Alpha Wing."

"I should think not," Madog said sternly. "This one contains Dylan. Anyway: what's this meeting for? Why am I going?"

"He didn't say," Menna said, stretching. "Only that it was some meeting of Alpha Wingleaders, but Dylan needed to go too. Oh, and we're to tell you: you owe Awen for your Deputy. Didn't say what he meant."

"I owe Awen for Dylan?" Madog said blankly. "That's seems unfair. It's hardly her fault."

"Is this as fun for you without him present?" Hannibal asked, amused, and Madog sighed.

"No," he said. "But I'm going to remember these insults and work them into conversation with him later. Are you done, Caeron?"

"Of course not," Caeron said, his eye-roll audible from the back of Madog's head. "Your resting was exuberant, Leader. This will take a few minutes. Fewer if Menna would bother to help."

"It's like he doesn't know how to just ask," Menna said conversationally, throwing the book to the sofa cushions beside her and rolling neatly to her feet. "He has to get snippy, you see that? What would you like me to do, Caeron?"

"Check his face, sort that out," Caeron said. "I'm entirely occupied back here."

"It's like he can't ever do a job without exaggerating, either," Menna said, putting her own face five inches from Madog's and examining him. "Because, you know, neither your face nor your hair look that bad to me."

"A meeting of Alpha Wingleaders," Caeron intoned. "He must look perfect. And apparently I need to be harsh for that."

"Oh, you're right," Menna said, slightly sarcastic. She slipped a pair of scissors out of the box, fitting them to her fingers like an expert. "Well, in that case: Leader, the thing on your chin is supposed to resemble a goatee, not a goat. Present it for pruning. This will take at least an hour, so we'd better get started."

"I hate you, Menna," Caeron told her as Madog laughed. "More than you can know. Anyway; I'm braiding this back. We have about thirteen minutes, but it'll take a few for you to walk there, so let's say ten."

"I frequently wonder why you aren't in charge, Caeron," Madog said. "Almost as frequently as I thank the gods that you aren't in charge. Where's everyone else?"

"They went for a picnic somewhere," Menna said, the slim blades of the scissors weaving neatly back and forth along his jaw. Madog didn't so much as blink. "One of the courtyards. And I think Emyr asked the Casnewydd Wing, since we've all been getting along so well."

"He should invite them to a sleepover," Madog said sardonically. "Then Caeron could do everyone's hair. Tell me, how much of his motivation was to see Llio again?"

"He didn't mention her," Menna said. "All of it, I should think."

"I like the girl with the bird," Caeron said. "Although she's scary."

"Beheads people with cheesewire," Madog grinned. "Astonishing. Are we done yet? This is boring."

"My friend," Hannibal said slyly. "Have we not yet conquered that impatient streak of yours?"

"You'll notice I'm free to kick you now," Madog told him firmly as Menna chuckled. "Quiet. I already command no respect at all amongst this Wing, you don't need to add to it."

Someone knocked at the door and Madog pointed to it.

"Watch this, now," he said. "Menna, go and answer that."

She didn't even bother to speak. She just ignored him, serenely navigating his top lip. Hannibal laughed, and stood.

"I see your point," he said. "Never fear! I shall answer it for you, my friend. Perhaps my activity shall in some way shame them into greater obedience. One never knows."

"That's a pleasing fantasy," Madog declared darkly as Hannibal moved over to the door. "Seriously. Both of you are a disgrace. You've let me down, you've let the Wing down, but most of all, you've let yourselves down."

"Oh, Leader," Menna said, shaking her head. "That one never worked. There. Your beard is trimmed. It seems my previous estimate of an hour was wildly incorrect. I cannot think why."

"It seemed so accurate," Madog agreed, and grinned at Caeron's huff. "Is my hair done yet?"

"No," Caeron said as Menna went to join him. "But we still have time, it's fine. You'll thank me once you're in there, you know."

"My friend!" Hannibal said merrily from the doorway. "It is a pleasure to see you once more! I shall refrain from bowing. It did not go down well last time."

"How culturally sensitive of you," Awen grinned, bowing to him regardless. "I heard your Audience went well? Congratulations."

"You did?" Hannibal sounded pleasantly surprised as she slipped inside and closed the door. "We have not yet heard any indications."

"Then it must be entirely guesswork on my part, I'm sure," Awen said, giving him a sly smile. Hannibal looked like he'd never wanted to bend at the waist more. "Oh, well. Hi guys, how's life?"

"Well, it was great," Menna said. "But now Caeron's seen what you look like he's going to nag me like a slave driver for the next ten minutes."

"Eight," Caeron snapped. "Move!"

"You look chirpy," Madog said drily as Awen dropped into the sofa Menna had occupied earlier. "Almost as chirpy as a woman who got to beat her traitorous ex-Deputy to within an inch of his life a few hours ago."

"You know, it's funny you should mention that," Awen smiled languidly. "Although it's now a bit uncertain as to whether or not he'll actually wake up again. He'd already had druidic attention on his brain last night, it seems."

"True or false," Madog offered. "Owain's unconscious state has made no difference to his brain power."

"Oh, false," Awen said earnestly. "He's silent now. It's a blessed relief. Thank you, by the way."

"You're welcome," Madog snorted. "You did me a favour, actually; Dylan gets bored in peacetime. You gave him a chance to run around. And find a girlfriend."

"Who nearly died," Awen said morosely, pinching the bridge of her nose. "That's so embarrassing. Next time I'm just going myself."

"Terrible idea," Madog grinned. "They have songs about you, Dylan tells me. They know who you are."

"Your fame does precede you, my friend," Hannibal said casually. "Everyone has heard of you. Both of you, and Leader Llywelyn, of course; but yourself especially. It is astonishing to many cultures to hear of a woman in battle. Even more so one who commands, and who is still alive after several years."

"I hope they've also heard of my sparkling charm and excellent gardening skills," Awen said with considerable elan given the circumstances. Madog laughed.

"And your staggering linguistic repertoire," he said. "But I'm going to save you. Or possibly not. I demand to know every detail about you and Lord Gwilym. Begin."

"Argh." Awen rubbed her hands through her hair. "It's a long story. And basically revolves around his corrosive effect on my willpower whenever I get within a foot of him."

"He can touch you," Madog grinned. "I saw. And he actually had you in his arms in front of the High Council earlier. How is that possible?"

"We're Union sanctioned," Awen said, astonishingly. "Yeah, I don't know, either. I think maybe he promised Rhydian Aberystwyth's unconditional support for the rest of his life or something, I have no idea."

"Are you together now?" Menna asked, her voice bright with interest. "You and a Sovereign?"

"In spite of my perfectly reasonable objections," Awen said sourly, "yes, it seems so."

"That is a scandal unparallelled by anything I've ever heard," Madog declared. "Well done. Have you slept with him yet?"

"No," Awen said firmly. "And nor shall I, until I'm certain I'm not likely to instantly behead him or something. I'm not taking that risk."

Well, that was understandable, but Madog was certain there was no risk. She jumped with everyone else; she froze with Lord Gwilym. Maybe she had another reason.

"Might I ask?" Hannibal's deep voice broke in gently. "Why did you object to this union?"

"Oh, where to start?" Awen sighed. "He's now told me twice that he loves me. I can never say that back. I can never use his name without putting a title in front of it. I can't give him children, which as a Sovereign he will need. I can't even live in the same place as him. I'd be a constant danger to him in close quarters anyway. I'm an emotional retard. And it will, therefore, be an entire relationship built on him trying to prop me up and me never learning to stand up myself. I don't think he realises yet how hard that's going to get."

"Perhaps he does, and considers you to be worth the effort," Hannibal suggested carefully. "My friend, all relationships involve supporting one's partner when they cannot support themselves. Sometimes this is a strain, yes. But this works both ways. You would support him when he could not, yes?"

"Yes," Awen said, "but -"

"If he loves you, my friend," Hannibal said gently, "then he will not feel that strain. And it seems he does."

"He thinks he does," Awen said darkly. "I've known him for a week. That's not love, that's an infatuation born of sexual attraction."

"He's a very good judge of character, though," Madog mused, ignoring her pointed look. "He seems to know you inside out."

"Love begins somewhere, my friend," Hannibal smiled. "And if nothing else you have a strong basis for it. Time will tell, in any case."

"I don't have time," Awen muttered, and twitched as Hannibal sat up and leaned forward.

"Ah!" he said. "Is this why you agreed to this relationship? You know you will soon be gone?"

There was a pause, Awen watching Hannibal.

"I don't think so," she said after a moment. "I was going to say no. I was saying no, actually. But I find it hard to keep it up when I'm actually with him."

"So would I," Madog said. "Pretty lad."

"You're a public menace, Leader," Caeron said emotionlessly. "Hold that, Menna."

"He makes you happy?" Hannibal smiled softly. "He makes you feel better?"

"Stop it," Awen said evenly. "I don't love him, either. It's been a week."

"We call this denial," Madog grinned. "And anyway, it's too late. He's already tricked you into a relationship using the deplorably underhand tactic of asking you while you're both in love with each other, so it'll only get better. And I bet you a pint he gets you purified."

"No," Awen said archly. "Because if I won it would be irrelevant, I couldn't drink it. Let's talk about something else."

"Fine," Madog said, rolling his eyes. "We're going to a meeting - oh. Apparently you're to blame for Dylan?"

"He's older than me, I can't be," Awen said, apparently automatically, and then blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"Councillor Rhydian came by to tell us about the meeting," Menna said behind Madog. "He told us to tell Madog that he owes you for Dylan, or something."

"Ah." Awen rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand. "That. I can't tell you why for reasons of national security, but he tried to attack Councillor Eifion earlier."

The sudden burst of fear gripped his heart like a fist, his limbs going cold and his mouth going dry. Madog sat bolt upright in the chair, pulling clean away from Menna and Caeron, neither of whom spoke or tried to stop him. He stared at Awen, mind blank. Tell me you're lying, he thought in horror.

"What happened?" his training asked calmly. Awen's smile was wry.

"Nothing," she said. "Which is why you owe me. Quick on his feet, isn't he? And my wrist will be feeling it for a while."

Nothing. Nothing happened. It was alright. And Councillor Rhydian had said - he'd implied that everything was fine, so…

"Thank you," Menna breathed. Awen shook her head.

"You're welcome," she said. "I did the same thing today. I suspect the next person to threaten Councillor Eifion's well-being will be skinned, though, so just make sure it's none of you."

"What a fearsome-sounding man," Hannibal murmured, blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation. Madog exchanged a glance with Awen.

"I do believe you'd genuinely hate him," he said. "Since you have this odd aversion to Riders feeling pain."

"Do you?" Awen asked him, surprised. "You're weird, Hannibal."

"That's what I tell him," Madog said absently. Adrenaline was still hammering at his heart, slowly wearing off. "Is Dylan okay, then?"

"Fine." Awen grinned. "He's with Aerona. How are we for time?"

"We have three minutes," Caeron said, pulling Madog back into the chair properly by his shoulder and resuming work on his hair. "But we're nearly done. Make-up, Menna."

"Do yours fuss this much?" Madog asked Awen, aggrieved. "It's like I'm not allowed to leave anymore without looking like I've been attacked by a horde of barbers."

"Mine haven't stopped since Owain," Awen said gloomily. "It's a devil on my schedule, I'll tell you that. Llio and Adara have started setting aside times in the day when they can get Gwilym there to keep me still."

"Speaking of which," Menna said, appearing in front of him with a jar of foundation. "Keep still, Leader. I have no desire to make you look like a clown. It would only be funny until Caeron disembowelled me."

"Which I certainly would," Caeron said. The release of pressure on Madog's scalp suggested his hair was done, a hypothesis that became a theory moments later when Caeron appeared to the side of him with a cloth and started to very carefully polish his beads. "Under his eyes."

"Yes, Caeron, I'm completely stupid," Menna said, rolling her eyes. "Thank gods you're here to explain this to me."

Her thumb brushed gently beneath his eyes as Caeron snorted.

"I'm missing a picnic for this, you know," he grumbled.

"You can catch up in two minutes," Madog told him. "And then if you're feeling brave you can ask Adara out."

"No one's that brave," Awen grinned. "Even I've never been that brave. And she's coming to the meeting, anyway."

"Is she your new Deputy now?" Madog asked as Menna's fingers swept across his cheeks. Awen shrugged.

"No idea," she said. "I keep offering it to people, but no one wants the job. I suspect I'm not selling it well enough. It's probably my track record with them, everyone's scared I'll break their face."

"Done," Caeron announced, seizing a second pot of foundation. "Move over, I'll do this side."

"I can see that you need better marketing for the job, certainly," Hannibal grinned. "Have you tried promising not to inflict bodily harm on suitable candidates?"

"No," Awen said. "The reason being, I can't make that promise. It's alright; I'll just wait until I'm fed up of them all turning me down and then order someone to do it. That's the great beauty of the chain of command."

"It is a miniturised dictatorship," Hannibal nodded. "I can see its benefits, certainly."

"Alright," Menna said, putting the lid back on the pot and surveying Madog critically. "I'd say you're done. Caeron probably doesn't."

"No, that's fine," Caeron said, moving back. "You have six minutes to get there. Go."

"Goodness, he's efficient," Awen remarked, rising to her feet. Opposite her Hannibal mirrored the movement. "Adara would like you, actually."

"I'll see you later?" Madog asked Hannibal. "Unless you want to introduce your ropes to someone else, in which case I recommend the training courtyards on the tenth level."

"I will see you later, my friend," Hannibal said. "Go to your meeting! You will be late."

"I really don't understand that man," Madog said as they left the room. A careful press of his fingers revealed that Caeron had woven his hair back into a braided knot that ran down the back of his head, surprisingly elaborate given that he'd done it in eight minutes. Awen laughed.

"He likes you!" she said, amused. "Rider fetish, remember? We are eternally fascinating to such people. And you're an Alpha Wingleader, you're a good vintage."

"But you'd have thought he'd have moved on by now," Madog said pensively. "I mean, this is the Union. The Union. A man with a Rider fetish."

"Alpha Wingleader," Awen shrugged. "And you have a rugged charm, you know."

"Don't tell him that!" Dylan's voice chirped, preceding the man himself around the corner. "Then his ego will grow and he'll think he's all big and clever and he's not. Look! It's Aerona!"

It was indeed. Dylan seemed to have been towing her down the corridor by one wrist, and now he held it up, as though presenting a treasured possession for inspection. Aerona giggled. Madog found himself checking Dylan over for injuries instead. Attacking Eifion? And not getting dissected? It was too good to be true, and yet he seemed fine; he was uninjured, anyway, the only change being the red bead on his left braid. Which was weird. Madog wasn't used to Dylan actually committing to people. He was far too private.

"Put her down, Dylan," he said out loud wearily. "You'll wear her out. Sorry, Aerona. I feel it's my duty to inform you that you've made a terrible choice in partner."

"He plays games!" Aerona said brightly. "He doesn't even realise it! Which for me is largely perfect."

"Ha!" Dylan crowed. "In your face! I'm perfect, Madog! Hello Awen. Does your hand still work?"

"I tested it out extensively on a harp," Awen nodded. "It's fine, thanks for asking."

"And just what did you do that makes you ask that?" Madog said plaintively. "I swear, I let you out of my sight for three minutes and you're crippling people."

"Why assume it was me?" Dylan said, tucking a few loose strands of Madog's hair back behind his ear and studying him for a second before ambling away towards the meeting room. "That hurts, dude. Maybe it wasn't me. Have you considered that? Maybe it was Aerona and I stopped her."

"Hey!" Aerona giggled.

"Mostly because you're a reprobate," Madog told the back of his head, and turned to Awen. "What did he do to you?"

"Remember I told you my wrist would be feeling it for a while?" Awen smiled. "Now Dylan is convinced my hand will become gangrenous and take leave of my body."

Madog sighed. It was no good. This Councillor Eifion thing was creeping him out.

"Can you really not tell me why he did it?" he asked. "With Eifion?"

"Actually, I couldn't tell the others," Awen said quietly, her eyes going hard. "You won't like it."

"Really?" Madog watched Dylan and Aerona as they pulled ahead, marching on to the meeting room's double doors at the end of the corridor. "Why not?"

"He was protecting you," Awen said softly, the words upending a bucket of ice over Madog's stomach. "Do you remember the conversation we had in the bar, first night here? You had a theory."

Madog stopped dead, staring at her. Awen turned to face him, her expression serious but sympathetic.

"You're about to get full details," she said neutrally. "That's what this meeting is about. It's being called because of you, and that conversation."

"You said I wasn't supposed to know," Madog said hollowly. "That there was a reason I didn't."

"Yes," Awen said, her eyes darkening slightly again. "Well, Eifion was displeased, anyway. You know what he's like."

"I know," Madog said numbly.

"It's not going to happen," Awen said carefully, watching him. "But his suggestion for dealing with you knowing was to execute you. He said this in front of Dylan."

"Dylan," Madog said, breathing out through his nose. "I might actually throttle him."

Awen smiled empathetically and looked away.

"So would I," she said, her fingers lightly touching his forearm in shared understanding, and Madog wondered if her Wing had standing orders to never come between her and Eifion too. "Come on, though. You instigated this meeting. Now you have to sit through it."

"How angry am I likely to be at this?" Madog asked as he followed her to the door. "I mean, am I going to need to chain myself to the chair, or will I just be resignedly testy?"

"Well, you've basically come to terms with the concept," Awen shrugged, pushing the door open. "I can't imagine the details will be that incendiary by contrast."

She looked over at one of the windows inside, seeing Adara and Llŷr sitting on the wide ledge, and sighed.

"Mine, on the other hand," she muttered, "may not forgive me. See you later."

Gods. Alpha Wingleader and… whatever else she was. He hated that he'd been right about her, however much it explained. It was just cruel. Madog turned, and saw Dylan.

Aerona's Wingleader had arrived, it seemed. Either that or she was being rather blatantly stolen away from Dylan right in front of him, and he was taking it freakishly calmly. The new arrival was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose build reminded Madog much of a bear, but his grin was charmingly genuine. He'd scooped Aerona up into a hug that left him standing up straight and her feet hanging contentedly about a foot off the ground while he talked to a happily grinning Dylan. Madog smiled, and wandered over.

"…just find it incredible!" the man was saying. "Aerona, in Saxonia! That's mental!"

"Couldn't have done it without her," Dylan said indifferently. "She made a Saxon tell her all his secrets, too. Oh, Madog, this is Geraint. Geraint this is Madog, he's a loser. I mean Leader."

"Yes, I'm responsible for this degenerate mass of hair," Madog said, Saluting. "Can I advise you to impel her to choose someone else? I can't stress strongly enough what an appalling catch he is."

"Ha!" Geraint Saluted easily back, proving once and for all that Aerona weighed about the same amount as a pixie, since he didn't put her down. "I would, but so's she. After two weeks of being asked to play tag he'll either run away or glass her."

"Hey!" Aerona squeaked indignantly. "I rarely play tag!"

"She doesn't!" Dylan agreed, lifting Aerona out of Geraint's arms and into his own. "And she's an excellent catch! Come on, Aerona. We know when we aren't wanted."

"Underlings, eh?" Madog said, shaking his head. Geraint nodded.

"Gang up, don't they?" he agreed. "Nah, he seems alright. It was him who sent me the letter about her, so it's a good first impression anyway. I don't want to spit in his face, like, in any case."

"You're one of three people," Madog told him, but the rest of the sentence was over-ridden by Councillors Rhydian and Gwenllian striding into the room and up to the chairs and table on the dais at the end. Everyone ambled vaguely into seats. As Madog dropped into a chair by Dylan he glanced across, and noted that Awen had carefully ensconsed herself in one of the deep windowsills to avoid touching anyone accidentally. She'd also pulled her knees up to her chest and had her arms around them, chin resting on them morosely while Adara and Llŷr watched Rhydian obliviously. Madog went to follow their gaze, but was stopped by Dylan's hand on his arm, his gaze unusually focused.

"Um," Dylan said. "Don't be too angry?"

Madog regarded him for a second, and then dropped a hand onto his shoulder, turning back to the dais.

"It won't be with you," he said neutrally. "I think that's the best I can offer, though."

"Madog," Dylan started, but was cut off as Rhydian began to speak.

"Right," he said, his voice silencing any lingering conversations. "Hello, thanks for coming, etc."

"I love it when you say that like they had a choice," Gwenllian said contentedly. Rhydian smacked her shoulder without looking and carried on.

"The reason you're all here," Rhydian said seriously, "is because you're all about to be briefed on the single most top-secret aspect of the Union's work. You are not permitted to talk about this with anyone else at all. Wingleaders, look at the one person you have here from your own Wing."

"Except you, bach," Gwenllian said, pointing at Awen. "In your case, you two look at her."

There was a brief pause as everyone noted their Riders. Aerona shifted awkwardly, giving Geraint a slightly strained smile. Dylan looked at the floor silently, his eyes for once immobile.

"You will never discuss what you are about to hear unless given permission to do so by the person you are currently looking at," Rhydian continued, his voice hard. No one spoke, because of Training, but Madog could feel the wave of confused astonishment. Dylan took Aerona's hand and held it tightly. "If you do, it will be considered a violation of your Oaths. That's how serious this is."

"We wouldn't be telling you all," Gwenllian said casually. "But Madog's a tit and worked it out."

"Gwen," Rhydian said, pained, and turned back to the silent assemblage. "Right. It's called the Intelligencer Network. You all have specialisms, different roles, you all know how that works. But there's an extra one that one Rider in every Wing in the country has; we call them Intelligencers. Their job is to keep an eye on all of the covert, back-room deals going on in the City-state, on every level of society, and then report it all back to us so we know what's going on in the country at any given time. As the clever of you will have gathered, the magic member of your Wing with this job is sitting next to you."

The silent astonishment was so tangible it was taking up breathing space. Half the room was staring open-mouthed at the other half, who were generally slumped into miserably awkward positions that suggested their dearest wish was currently to be able to sink through floors. Madog put his hand back on Dylan's shoulder wordlessly, watching the Councillors.

"Now," Rhydian went on. "The reason for the secrecy is because if no one knows Riders do this, if everyone thinks we're entirely above board, they're far more lax about hiding the evidence of their plots and schemes. Your Intelligencer has been trained since they were about eleven or twelve to hide their motives and keep their activities secret. You, on the other hand, have not. You're all going to have four weeks of training here to learn how to not arouse suspicion - and, of course, how best to use your Intelligencer."

The silence filled the room, then finally gained sentience and left.

"Eleven or twelve?" Llywelyn asked from behind Madog, his voice dangerous. "You made one of my Riders keep a secret from me this important for thirty years?"

The expressions of half the room agreed. The other half winced.

"Well, the point of secrecy," Rhydian began, but someone cut him off. To Madog's astonishment, it was Madog.

"And what about them, Councillor?" he asked quietly, fingers tightening on Dylan's shoulder. "Keeping any sort of secret from someone you love would be hard enough. You've asked them to keep something astonishingly important about both themselves and their lives from everyone they love since they were children. What's the strain of that like?"

"High," Rhydian nodded, his voice professionally shorn of emotion. "Which is why -"

"And it's not just everyone he loves," Madog said tightly. The anger was suddenly welling up inside him, gripping his throat, clenching his fists. "We aren't just family. We fight together. Almost every day recently, facing Saxons together, trusting each other, and you made him lie to us?"

"Leader -"

"Did you bother to give him anyone he could tell?" Madog snarled. He was on his feet, only his hand on Dylan's shoulder anchoring him, holding him back. "Did you give him any outlet to relieve that pressure? Did you deign to give him even the small comfort of telling a random from the Union about how hard it was from time to time?"

"Madog," Dylan started. "It's not -"

"Shut up," Madog said levelly, watching Rhydian, and Dylan obeyed the order. "Well, Councillor?"

"No," Rhydian said carefully. "Not anymore. They get it when they start, though."

"You think you outgrow psychological support?" Llywelyn snapped, rising to his feet as well, hands balled into fists beside him. "There's a reason we don't stop needing purification, Councillor!"

"No," Rhydian said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How can I put this? The importance of secrecy means that Intelligencers could, until now, only talk to each other. And there's only one in each Wing, so -"

"There's a hierarchy?" Madog almost shouted, horrified. "You're telling me they talk to whoever ranks above them? Dylan is not only trying to perform the role of Deputy Alpha Wingleader on the frontlines, he's also doing some additional incredibly important top secret work alone while listening to the problems of everyone below him?"

"Oh my gods," Llywelyn muttered.

"Until now," Rhydian pointed out with spiteful calm. "And it's not quite as damaging as you're making it sound -"

"That," Madog snarled, finally letting go of Dylan and taking a step forward, "is because I haven't mentioned Awen yet!"

Rhydian sighed and looked down at the table as finally the horrified muttering broke out across the room. That, Madog reflected, was something an Alpha Wingleader could really relate to. The idea of doing their job and this one on top of it was genuinely repellent to them. Awen glanced at him wearily from the window, looking over an incensed Adara's shoulder.

"Madog," she began; but he wasn't in the mood to hear any sort of reason, it seemed.

"You know you were betrayed twice?" he told her flatly. "Once by Owain and once by them." He gestured at the Councillors, who simply watched him, gravely. "You've been giving yourself on at least two fronts for a long, long time. You had no chance of seeing Owain. And they never bothered to help you see him. How old did you say he was, Aerona? When he went up that mountain?"

"Fifteen," Aerona said nervously. Madog nodded.

"Fifteen," he said bitterly. "While you were already being trained to hide yourself. Of course he learned to hide himself. So why the hell weren't you watching him, Councillors?"

"Very good question, actually," Gwenllian mused. "That was in the Archives and everything, wasn't it? Why didn't we notice that?"

"Oh, because Madog's right," Rhydian said. "We left it all up to Awen because it was a terrible system. But."

He stood up, putting his authority back on like a cloak, and waved his hand at them all. Madog sat back down automatically.

"But," Rhydian repeated. "This is why we're changing it. As Wingleaders you need to monitor your Riders' mental wellbeing anyway, so we're adding this as something you need to help them with. And, as I say, they form an extra weapon in your arsenal. You will be trained in how to effectively deploy the skills they possess, although since you've all been doing so for years without realising it anyway, that won't take long."

"That's true," Madog muttered, grinning. "I think you've been deploying me for years."

"You made it easy," Dylan shot back. "Who's the ingrate now, hmm?"

"Subsequent system changes," Rhydian carried on, examining a piece of paper in front of him, "will include having two Intelligencers per Wing rather than one, neither of whom will be the Wingleader if at all possible. And we're going to have additional liaison officers in each City to co-ordinate all of the Intelligencers in each state and to help monitor them. They'll probably be Low Councillors who were Intelligencers themselves, since their presense can be easily explained."

"Ooh, that's a good one!" Gwenllian said. "Did you just think of that one?"

"No," Rhydian said, pained. "This is all planned, Gwen, stop interrupting. We'll look unprofessional. Let's see, what else? Oh - don't be surprised to learn that your Intelligencer has a few extra skills they've never told you about. They can probably speak more languages than you, for example. And they can pick locks."

"You can pick locks?" Madog asked with mock-horror. "We'll never be safe again."

"Oh, Madog," Dylan said, sitting back. The quiet banter had helped him relax, although he was still clearly unhappy. "I'm not the sex pest. The only reason you've never been sectioned is because you're only a threat to half the world."

"I object to your prejudiced statements," Madog said drily.

"Of course you do, you're gay."

"Well, yes."

"We're going to look into training Intelligencer-only Wings," Rhydian continued. "Who will be used on foreign soil. And, since it's come up - Leader Awen. We're offering you an official apology on the subject of Owain, because Madog was right. That's on us, not you."

Awen stared at him, momentarily taken aback.

"Thank you, Councillor," she said, glancing at Adara, who grinned back. "There's no need."

"Of course there is, girl," Gwenllian snorted. "It's messed your head up, look."

"Anyway," Rhydian said. "That covers the general briefing, your Intelligencer can explain details to you and my door is otherwise open if you want to shout at me some more. Although if you could refrain from trying to cause me actual bodily harm I'd greatly appreciate it."

"So," Madog said, leaning back in his chair as Rhydian and Gwenllian left, the conversations starting all around them. "Eleven or twelve? Know which you were?"

"I'm sorry I lied," Dylan said edgily, leaning his elbows onto his knees. "When you asked. We were told they would have to eliminate anyone who ever found out, although now they aren't, so maybe they lied, but I didn't want -"

"Dylan," Madog sighed. "It's fine. Listen to me. I'm not angry with you, okay? And I don't blame you. You had to do it, and you've done it well. It's been years."

"But you can't trust me now?" Dylan's eyes met Madog's for a moment before sweeping on, flickering over the dais and its furniture. "Because, you know, you're right. I'm not entirely the person you thought I was, and we don't have a job that really supports that. That's an ugly table."

"Of course I trust you," Madog said bluntly. "I don't agree. You're exactly the person I thought you were, but now with more evidence to prove it. If anything I have an even higher opinion of you now, but I don't intend to tell you that because out loud I hate you."

Dylan snorted.

"So's your face," he said indifferently, and glanced sideways. "Seriously though. You're just okay with this?"

"No," Madog said, rolling his eyes. "I'm okay with you, you complete retard. I am pissed off beyond words with the situation, because even aside from how horrendously you've been treated, if I'd known all these years you could have done a better job."

"I will never say this again," Dylan said sternly. "And if you ever mention it again I will deny it happened. But you're awesome, Madog."

"I know," Madog grinned smugly. "Same deal: so are you."

"Well obviously," Dylan said, his tone that of an irritating child explaining something to a stupid person. "I'm excellent. Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Madog mused. "But now we've kissed and made up I'm going to see how Awen is doing first."

"I'm going to see how Aerona is doing," Dylan declared. He turned in his chair. "Hello Aerona. How are you doing?"

"Fine," Aerona said happily as Madog stood. She was sitting on Geraint's lap, wrapped in his arms. "He was shocked! I thought he would be. He thinks I play tag a lot."

"It's mental!" Geraint marvelled. "How do you fit that in around teaching, anyway?"

Madog moved past them and walked on to the window.

"But seriously!" Adara was saying frustratedly. "Why haven't you melted? It's lunacy!"

"You grow up with something, you get used to it," Awen shrugged, a small smile playing around her lips. "I don't know. I cope. Mostly."

"Until now," Llŷr said sadly. "This is what Gwenllian meant, isn't it? It's messed up your head. You've had too much responsibility, so you think you're to blame for everything."

"Not entirely," Awen sighed, and saw Madog. "Hey. How's Dylan?"

"Fine," Madog smiled, stretching. "I think it might take me a few more goes before he properly accepts that I'm not angry with him, though. Have yours forgiven you?"

"There was nothing to forgive, because we aren't psychotic crazies," Adara told him, her gaze nonetheless pointed at Awen. "I mean, we always knew she did extra stuff because of being a Wingleader, so from our perspective we're just finding out what."

"I always assumed you talked about it with Owain, though," Llŷr said. "It's quite upsetting to know you were alone all that time."

"Good gods," Adara said suddenly, and burst out laughing. "No wonder Dylan laughed at him! Owain! He said you were all unsubtle and incapable of acting covertly!"

Which was suddenly hilarious, and all four of them promptly dissolved, happily enough including Awen. They laughed so hard, in fact, that three seconds later Dylan was poking Madog in the ribs plaintively, unspeaking but waiting to be filled in. Madog giggled, and fought himself under control, wiping tears away.

"Owain," he managed, and was off again, apparently taking Adara with him. Dylan blinked at him and turned to Awen.

"You apparently already know," she chuckled. "Owain thinks I'd be a terrible spy."

"Ha! Yes!" Dylan grinned. "Guy's a massive tool. I know this story, I'm going again."

He wandered away, and Madog fought himself back into some semblance of solemnity.

"Sorry," he said, sobering. "For once, Dylan's right. Owain is a massive tool. Are you okay?"

"Fine," Awen giggled. "It's fine. I beat him hollow today. I'm good."

"After the apology, though?" Madog asked gently. "You're not now spiralling into a deeper pit of grief and self-hatred or anything?"

"No," Awen smiled, looking out of the window. She was silent for a moment, thinking. "No," she repeated, sounding faintly surprised. "I'm not, actually. I think… I think I'm coming to terms with not noticing Owain's mental breakdown, I don't know."

She twirled a bead between her fingers, eyes on the mountains below.

"What he did is another matter," she said uncertainly. "I'm not sure where I stand on that still. But him actually turning to the dark side…"

"Wow," Madog murmured quietly, impressed. "Lord Gwilym, eh? He's done you a world of good."

"Hasn't he?" Llŷr sighed, wistfully. "Shame he's not a Rider, he's brilliant. I'd want him as a replacement, I think."

"Only because he said you were his favourite, you saddo," Adara sniffed. "And having now encountered his crazy relatives, I understand why he'd think it."

"You're just jealous because you glared and it scared him and now he hasn't chosen you," Llŷr told her. Adara glared.

"Am not!" she said. "And anyway, I'm preferable to you in the minds of all non-weirdos. Madog, do you prefer me or Llŷr?"

"Oh, gods, look at that," Madog said. "I'm leaving. See you later, Awen."

"You have no solidarity," she called after him as he left, and Madog laughed. Everything felt like it was looking up, he thought. He knew about Dylan properly now, Awen actually seemed to be improving against all odds, and Hannibal seemed to be good for one more encounter at least.

So something bad was definitely going to happen tomorrow to ruin it all. That was a shame. Especially as Flyn's trial was tomorrow.

space space man man

Cymru - Chapter 46

Spot the point this post became slightly indulgent and waved goodbye to the plot.


EDITED! I now hate it less. Wins.


GWILYM

"People only ever seem to want to talk to me about tax breaks," Lady Erys said wearily, dropping into her seat beside Lord Iestyn and sighing. "Why is this? This is meant to be a holiday. Entertain me, Gwilym, what's that you're building?"

"A house of cards," Gwilym admitted abashedly. "Well, a pyramid. So you know your taxes?"

"No! Enough!" she laughed. Iestyn poured out a glass of wine for her, and she gave him a soft smile. "I fear I shall scream. Who are we sitting with today?"

"Well," Iestyn said pleasantly, pointing out seats. "Gwenda and Flyn will be there, and Ienifer seems to be right down that end, can't think why. And Marged will be there, between Gwilym and Gir - Ieuan."

"What a pleasant arrangement," Erys grinned, and Gwilym pointedly refused to catch her eye. "I'm sure lunch will be ever so lovely. Should we avoid asking you about this morning, by the way, Gwilym?"

"Oh," he sighed. Yes, his second near-death experience in a week. Gods, no one gossiped like politicians. Maybe they'd all worked in kitchens at some time. "No, I suppose not. I still don't have any brilliantly disgusting wounds to show for the whole thing, though."

"Be grateful," Iestyn said, shaking his head. "I imagine a wound from a Rider would be particularly painful. So? Any word on why this time?"

"You know, I think he thinks I'm my father," Gwilym frowned, carefully placing the top cards and trying to balance them. "Which is frankly irritating. If I'm going to be killed, I'd at least like it to be something I've genuinely done that's instigated such harsh retribution."

"Try cutting your hair," Erys suggested. "Then you'll look less like -"

"Gwilym!"

Marged had such a distinctive shriek. It wasn't just high, and it wasn't just loud; it seemed to be at precisely the right frequency to vibrate along his auditory nerves and activate his limbs, which explained why Gwilym was suddenly holding two cards in the air over the collapsed corpse of his card pyramid. He met Erys' eye, who was laughing without remorse, and sighed, dropping his hands back to the table.

"Hello, Marged," Gwilym began, and was cut off by her hugging him from behind tightly enough that she was apparently embarking on a spirited attempt to remove his head.

"Oh, your poor thing!" she said with noisy compassion. "Again! Honestly, what did you do to the man?"

"Spat in his eye and told him his mother was a Saxon, I think," Gwilym said, prising her forearm away from his windpipe. "Accidental, like. You know how these things happen."

"Oh, you," Marged said gaily, letting go and plonking herself firmly into her seat. "The things you get yourself into! What did - ? Flyn! You three! Over here! Really though, Gwilym, did he say why this time?"

"Not really," Gwilym complained, aware that he sounded slightly sulky over the scraping of chairs that heralded the arrival of other Sovereigns. "It's always the same. He aims arrows at me and doesn't give me a proper reason. I think he objected to Dad, and thought I was the same."

"Really?" Flyn asked, his eyebrows raised as he sank into his chair, and belatedly Gwilym realised just how interested Flyn was likely to be in what Owain had to say to him. And, indeed, Gwenda was looking at him sidelong from the seat to his right. "I rather liked your father. Anything specific?"

"Democracy, sounded like," Gwilym sighed glumly. "I think Dad was trying to invent it for Cymric society but phrased it so horrifically badly it sounded like war profiteering or something. Reading between the lines."

"Well, it's good to see you alive and well," Ienifer said, leaning from the other side of Gwenda, her voice sultry as she let the blonde curls fall onto the table before her. "And how are you coping with the shock, Gwilym?"

"Oh, good heavens, Ienifer, don't offer," Marged beamed. "Your competition now includes an Alpha Wingleader! Never mind, eh, Flyn?"

And suddenly the atmosphere was mighty charged, as could be expected from mentioning three things that weren't really supposed to be said out loud in a group accustomed to dancing around such things.

"You're a public menace," Gwilym told her as Flyn impassively sipped his wine, his eyes on Gwilym. "Really. I can't believe you're allowed to socialise."

"Nor can most of us," Gwenda smiled thinly over Marged's oblivious chuckle. "Do we assume it's true, then, my lord? Yourself and Leader Awen?"

"No," Gwilym smiled, and reflected on how much he wished it weren't the case. "Her Deputy wants me dead, though, so we meet up a lot, compare notes, that sort of thing."

"What's democracy?" Erys asked thoughtfully. Everyone looked at her. "You said democracy, Gwilym. Am I saying that right?"

"As far as I can tell," Gwilym grinned. "I read it in a book. It's what the Greeks practise in peacetime, in the Western Empire. It's where the populace functions as the government; they all meet up and vote on new laws and legislation and such. And there are Indo-Greek states that do it, but there they vote in a leader and make them do all the work."

Flyn's pose and demeanour became so casual Gwilym absently wondered if he was a waiter disguised as him polishing silverware. Erys leaned forward.

"Fascinating," she said, wonderingly. "They choose their leaders?"

"Ooh, that sounds lovely!" Marged said happily. "That's exactly how it should be, look! Then there's no risk of, what was her name, Sovereign in the Wars who cut people's ears off and fed them to each other when they were under siege…"

"Grandmother Eurlys," Gwilym sighed. Marged snapped her fingers.

"Yes!" she said. "Yes, that was the one. I thought you looked a bit like her, Gwilym!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Flyn said with dangerous calm, swirling his wine, "but the risk of voting in such a person is considerably higher than simply inheriting one."

"That seems to be the case to me," Gwenda said. "There would be more of them wishing to be elected, would there not? And since this system reduces politics to a popularity contest…"

"How does the voting work?" Iestyn asked interestedly. "I mean… can anyone vote? How many times?"

"Oh, I don't know that many details," Gwilym grinned. "Not everyone - citizenship is a tricky thing over there. You have to be decended from Greeks on both sides of your family, you have to have been free from birth, you can't be definitely crazy and, of course, since this is Greece -"

"No women," Iestyn said, rolling his eyes.

"But how do they police that?" Gwenda said, doubt riddling every syllable. "That must be simple enough to cheat. And surely people could be coerced into voting for someone they didn't want?"

"I'd imagine so," Gwilym agreed, shrugging. "As I say, I don't remember that much about it. I was learning a lot at the time." And then, because he was feeling slightly spiteful, he added, "Although if it was over here it would be easier wouldn't it? Make the vote secret, have Riders guard it."

Gwenda looked sour. Flyn looked at the ceiling, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Marged clapped her hands.

"Ooh, very good!" she said. "Good at thinking up solutions, aren't you?"

"Well," Gwilym said, and just managed to stop himself in time from saying "That one was Awen's idea, actually," and making everyone's lives considerably more complicated. Fortunately, Flyn spoke.

"I regret that I still see problems," he said carefully. "Quite a few, in fact. Would I be right in assuming that these elected officials have a fixed term of office?"

"I think so," Gwilym said, scrabbling to remember. It was four years ago, and one book among many. Really, if he'd known there was going to be an exam, he'd have taken notes. "I don't remember how long. A few years, maybe?"

"It strikes me that a few years simply isn't enough time to get anything done properly," Flyn said. "If you establish some new scheme or legislation that will take a while to pay off, but be fairly unpopular at first…"

"That's true," Iestyn mused. "And, I suppose, if the next person coming in changes everything back, and then the next person changes them back again… Nothing would ever get done. You'd stagnate."

"Which the Greeks largely have, of course," Flyn said with quiet satisfaction. "Also, what stops a potential leader from promising to give four grams of gold to every citizen on being elected and then not delivering?"

"Intelligence from the electorate," Gwilym said. "Who, hopefully, will have enough common sense to ask someone making such a wild promise where in the names of the gods they're getting all this gold and why they aren't spending it on public services that will bring long-term benefit. Otherwise, I sort of think it's their fault."

"Good point!" Erys laughed. "I suppose this democracy has that in its favour, anyway. If it all goes horribly wrong, you can always tell the people you're their fault."

"Exactly!" Gwilym beamed; and then, because he was still feeling spiteful, added: "But, again, easier here isn't it? We could just get the Union to make sure everyone fulfils their election promises."

"I suppose a twelve-year term might do the trick," Iestyn said pensively. "I mean, if something isn't paying off within twelve years, or at the very least showing obvious eventual benefit, then it's probably not working."

"Ah," Flyn smiled. "But what if the only candidates are unsuitable to rule? Is there any way of choosing none of them?"

"Oh, Flyn," Marged scolded good-naturedly. "Think! That's the same risk as inheritance!"

"I suppose in many bloodlines that's true," Flyn nodded graciously and scandalising half the table. Gwenda recovered first.

"A further point, also," she said. "Part of ruling is balancing the needs of a whole society. The people who would be voting are unlikely to consider the needs of sectors they have no connection to. A fisher would vote for someone who promised more funding to the fishing industry at the expense of weavers, regardless of whether this would harm their society overall. I don't think workers could be trusted to choose the right candidate."

It was the first time in a while that Gwilym had actually turned his body in his chair to stare at someone, open-mouthed. Marged squeezed his wrist sympathetically. He didn't turn around.

"You do know that workers are capable of thinking, yes?" he asked Gwenda slowly. She sniffed, waving a hand dismissively.

"Naturally," she said. "But not in the right ways. They don't understand how to think outside of their own worlds, you see. They aren't built for it."

"Built or educated?" Gwilym said, his eyes narrowed.

"Bred," Flyn shrugged casually. "And such is the purpose of social hierarchy. The thinkers, by necessity, live in the higher echelons and produce more thinkers. Those more designed for physical tasks, shall we say, perform the important functions that a society needs. The two don't mix."

"Really," Gwilym said quietly. Flyn smiled.

"It works from both sides, of course," he said lightly. "I wouldn't be capable of fishing! Or farming, or weaving, or pottery or any number of such jobs. But this is fine, because I understand where my place is. And actually, the same is true the other way around. I treat my workers well, and they are happy where they are. I honestly think that confusing them with the complications of politics would be… cruel."

"Well said," Gwenda chimed in, and Gwilym reined in the desire to break her face. That definitely wouldn't go down well.

"And you think this is all down to genetics?" he asked instead. Flyn nodded serenely.

"Certainly," he said. "I could show you my family tree to prove it!"

"Could you show me theirs?" Gwilym asked. "Have you checked everyone in your City-state? Can you prove that their 'breeding' isn't quite up to scratch?"

"No," Flyn said, his slight smile condescending. "But -"

"Do you live in the same country as me?" Gwilym interrupted. Bugger. He was getting Angry. This was what his sister's life must have been like, all the time, and thank gods she wasn't here to throw plates at Flyn's nose. "The Union, the Urdd, the Gorsedd. Riders, druids, bards. Over half of the intakes of all three are made up of abandoned babies from the working class, families who couldn't afford to keep them and so gave them over for adoption. They become druids! That's a damn sight more thinking right there!"

"Many fail the training in all three," Flyn said calmly. "Without knowing -"

"Sorry, have you met a failed druid who was only capable of cleaning tables?" Gwilym snapped. "Have you met a bard who wasn't quite capable of Prifardd level who therefore had to make nets forever more? And I'm not even starting on Riders!"

"That's a good point," Iestyn murmured. "And bards and druids do need considerable intellectual prowess. They do seem to cope, Flyn."

"But an irrelevant debate," Flyn said smoothly, his tone perfectly tinged with regret. "After all, these are opinions. We cannot prove our perspectives either way, can we, my lord?"

"I can," Gwilym said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "Ask me again in five years."

"Your university?" Erys asked with interest. "It'll be open to everyone?"

"Definitely," Gwilym said, and wondered if he'd mentioned this to Watkins yet. If not, the man was in for a shock. "From every class, regardless of parentage. What will matter is intellectual ability. And if they don't have it, they won't get in. Regardless of parentage."

"Based on merit," Marged said approvingly. "Ooh, Gwilym, how lovely! Can I go?"

"I believe he said intellectual ability mattered," Flyn said sourly, his finesse suddenly gone in the face of his world view being tested. Marged laughed.

"Oh, Flyn!" she said gaily. "You're just upset because he's got the girl. Without having to force her to kneel in front of him for hours, too. Oh, and here she is now! Goodness, they look grave."

It was strange how somehow he knew what was about to happen. Technically, the appearance of Awen was nothing unusual; the appearance of Awen with Rhydian and Gwenllian even less so. It was probably the additional presense of five more High Councillors and the ten Guard Riders that tipped him off, though. That, and the focus in all of their eyes. They were here for a Reason. It was Serious. They were Unimpressed.

Gwilym grinned.

"Now look," Rhydian was saying. "Lots of witnesses. So you definitely can't go attacking him, understand."

"Yes, Councillor," Awen said wearily.

"Although if you do, avoid his mouth," Gwenllian chimed in. "Because, you see, we'll need him to be able to talk."

"Yes, Councillor."

"Don't, though," Rhydian said, glaring at Gwenllian. "Since this isn't a spectator sport."

"No, Councillor."

Awen stopped in front of Flyn's chair, and studiously ignored the muttered argument that carried on behind her.

"Well, I know that, I'm just saying…"

"Lord Flyn," Awen said neutrally. Flyn smiled briefly.

"Good afternoon, Leader," he said, his voice edged. "I see your fight with Owain has injured your legs in some way."

"No, Sovereign," Awen returned. "I'm just not bowing to you."

"Oh, dear," Erys said quietly.

"You're encouraging her to -"

"Indeed?" Flyn said sharply, rising to his feet. Gwilym raised an eyebrow. It was hardly a clever move; he seemed to be trying to use his height as an advantage over Awen, his near six-and-a-half feet towering over her given that there were maybe eight inches between them, and she was famously likely to attack anything that moved right now. But she stayed completely motionless, surveying him calmly, the force of her authority somehow equalling out the image. Gwilym smiled. It was a funny thing to feel proud of someone for just standing still.

"I'm not encouraging her! I'm just doing damage limitation if -"

"You're under arrest," Awen stated, and the entire room fell silent apart from her and the quietly bickering Councillors. "Bear with me, mind, there are a lot of charges, I might forget some. But: conspiracy against the country, conspiracy to subvert the Union, Saxon collusion, murder, subverting a Rider, perverting the course of justice, arresting an innocent family, ordering the tortore of known innocents, possession of a concubine and repeated counts of rape."

The last word practically echoed around the hall, ringing off the silverware. Iestyn leaned away and stared up at Flyn, aghast. Ienifer actually stood up partially, one hand covering her mouth. Gwenda appeared to have frozen. Awen looked thoughtful.

"I swear there's something else," she said absently. "Hard to keep track with this many…"

"By saying it you're suggesting it's fine as long as -"

"Well," Flyn said tightly. "It's good to see -"

"Wait," Awen said. "I remember. Colluding with mentally subnormal druids, failure to report mentally subnormal druids, arranging for the border warnings around Wrecsam to be delayed and arranging for increased Saxon activity around there. Is that it?"

Iestyn got up and walked out without a word. Erys watched him go, apparently in two minds about whether to follow him or not.

"I am not! It's just covering every base, that's -"

"Oh, mass murder, therefore," Awen said, apparently thinking; then she looked up and gave Flyn an even smile. "I think that's it. Sorry, I may be forgetting some, though."

"Quite the array," Flyn said. "Except that this is ridiculous, Leader. I have done none of this."

Awen cocked her head to one side, watching him.

"Are you arguing with me?" she asked neutrally.

It was the single most dangerous question Gwilym had ever seen a Rider ask. The entire hall caught its breath, frozen in the moment but for Rhydian and Gwenllian's whispered argument in the background, everyone's eyes glued on Flyn and Awen. Say yes, Gwilym's inner child begged silently. Argue with her! Seal your fate!

"You're behaving like a child! This isn't -"

"I'm protesting my innocence," Flyn said sharply. "Which I am entitled to do! I think it's clear that your Deputy has said whatever he can to avoid his sentence."

"Unlikely," Awen said helpfully. "He's still unconscious, and knows there's nothing he can say to avoid his sentence."

"Clearly he's given some sort of evidence," Flyn said, his voice raising. "And it is wrong! I have never -"

"You seem to be arguing with me," Awen said blandly. Flyn almost snarled.

"You're my Alpha Wingleader!" he snapped. "It's your job to expose these kinds of lies for what they are, and here you stand -"

It was the single most impressive punch Gwilym had ever seen. Flyn went from being on his feet, leaning forward slightly and shouting to sprawled halfway over the table, his head by Marged and one arm covering his face while the other scrabbled vaguely at the cloth. Marged carefully poured her wine into his ear. Gwilym glanced up.

"Oh," Rhydian said testily, stepping forward in the new silence and folding his arms beside Awen, who had closed her eyes and was pinching the bridge of her nose. "Perfect. In front of everyone. Well done."

"Sorry," Awen said tiredly.

"We knew it was a risk, Rhydian," Gwenllian chided, moving past them and peering at Flyn. "And she got his eye rather than his mouth, look! Well done."

"She wasn't supposed to get anything," Rhydian snapped. "Not unless he resisted, remember?"

"I saw him resist," Erys said, rising to her feet, business-like. "Didn't you, Gwilym?"

"Definitely," Gwilym grinned. "She asked him twice, too, but in a sufficiently intimidating way that it felt like a warning."

"Sounds good to me!" Gwenllian said brightly. "Let's take him."

"Fine," Rhydian said, rolling his eyes. Erys brushed past him, presumably going to find Iestyn. "Take him away then, guys. Just escort him to the cells, Leader, don't - Lady, would you stop doing that?"

"Yes," Gwilym blinked, clocking her activity. "That's my wine."

"Oh, it's all in the name of fun," Marged said, but her normally cheery voice had gone hard. "Rape, eh? Whatever is the world coming to?"

"Hang on," Rhydian frowned. "That's three glasses you've poured into his ear. Why isn't he moving?"

"Do you think I killed him?" Awen asked, slightly hopefully. Gwilym poked Flyn's neck, and after a moment shook his head.

"Sorry," he grinned at her. "Still got a pulse. Next time, don't try not to kill him, that'll do the trick."

"Concussed, then," Gwenllian sniffed. "Men had thicker skulls in my day. Right, you lot, get him out, then we can have lunch."

"Try not to drop him," Rhydian said sourly as three burly Guard Riders stepped forward and lifted Flyn off the table. "Anyway: my apologies, Sovereigns. Enjoy your meals."

"Well, that was fun!" Marged said cheerfully, redistributing wineglasses as the small complement of Riders left the hall again, a low murmur springing up instantly among the tables of Sovereigns. "We'll need a new cloth, look. And more wine. Well! Did you know about that, Gwilym?"

"Some of it," he said thoughtfully. "Actually, most of it. It sounds a lot more when the individual charges are read out. Do you think Iestyn is going to cope without punching a servant or something?"

"Oh, probably, probably," Marged said, waving a hand. "If Erys has anything to do with it, anyway! Ooh, and here's lunch! Famished, I am."

And that seemed to be it for Marged's interest in the matter. Gwilym wished he could be content with the world by pouring wine in people's ears.

***********

Post-Prandial Fun Exploration was rendered less so by Watkins.

"Watkins, no."

"I simply feel, my lord," Watkins said, scurrying slightly to keep up with Gwilym's Purposeful Stride, "that if an attempt has been made on your life twice in one week increasing your security is only… prudent."

"It was the same man, Watkins," Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. "And he doesn't have a prayer of escaping to try again now. There's no need."

"But what would you lose?" Watkins wheedled, trying for a Reasonable Tone. "Surely on the subject of your life we cannot be too careful?"

"Privacy," Gwilym said, throwing his arms wide. A few bards exiting a classroom to one side ducked under his crazily flung hand. "Happiness! Sanity! No, Watkins. I'm no less safe now than I was a week ago."

"Would the phrase 'better safe than sorry' mean anything to you, sire?" Watkins asked, his tone switching to Long-Suffering. "If you are right, then there is no issue. But if I am right, you will be dead."

Gwilym sighed. It turned out that having Watkins' concerned support was even more tiresome than his tacit hatred. Suddenly the disdainful sniff had been replaced by short lectures on health and safety. He stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned to face his aide, who hastily slid to a halt and stood up straight.

"Watkins," Gwilym said sternly. "One man has tried to kill me. One man. He is now extremely unconscious and extremely incarcerated, and soon he will be extremely butchered. I think I'll be fine."

"My lord," Watkins said. "You do realise that you are a Sovereign without an heir? If you are killed -"

"Hey," Gwilym warned. "I can hear subtext, you know. I'm a politician. That's not up for discussion."

"Of course, my lord," Watkins bowed, unabashed. Oh, soon, the movement promised. Soon it will be up for discussion. You don't get to dodge that one forever, Sovereign or not. A harp rippled to life somewhere nearby, the haunting melody of the Ballads transposed into minor quietly weaving itself into the background. "Could I not arrange for Leader Alaw to be present in your schedule more often, at least? That wouldn't be so intrusive."

"Hmm." Gwilym considered it for a moment, the mournful notes dancing softly on the air. "Perhaps. I'm having her eating on the Top Table during the rest of my life anyway as an arrow repellant. Oh, let her arrange a schedule, though. I don't want to force her to spend all day every day following me and never doing anything else. She has a life too."

"I'll meet with her," Watkins nodded, making a note on his pad in a way that somehow conveyed satisfaction, and then bowed again. "Thank you, sire. Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you, Watkins," Gwilym smiled. "That's all. Go and enjoy your afternoon."

There was a brief and comical moment in which Watkins gave him a blank look at the concept of enjoyment before bustling away along the corridor, threading between the occasional bards still standing around and chatting to each other in the late-afternoon after-lesson lull. Gwilym shook his head, and ambled on.

It was possible, of course, that he was being blind. That was the depressing thing. That both he and Watkins were right; Owain was now successfully in the past in Gwilym's view, since he'd now forcibly accepted accomodation in a spruce Union dungeon and Riders took a dim view of allowing traitors to their world to leave before their welcome had ended, but Owain wasn't the only person who'd ever tried to assassinate a Sovereign. It happened a lot, Gwilym was given to believe. And he was proposing some fairly radical changes in Aberystwyth. Much though they seemed perfectly reasonable to him, there were plenty who could disagree in a regrettably terminal manner. Eventually, he probably was going to have to start making use of body guards and things. Or dancing ninjas at the very least. Maybe Awen would know some he could hire. Or Hannibal might, Phoenicians sold everything.

It was just so sad thinking that anyone might actually want him dead, though. That had always been the pleasant part of being the youngest of three; he had hardly been a target for anyone with serious career ambitions or revolutionary social objections. Apparenty he had to consider this sort of thing now. It was just… upsetting.

Although his gloomy thoughts appeared to have their own backing track. As Gwilym approached the end of the corridor the quiet music became slightly louder, emanating from one of the classrooms to the side. It was fairly depressing music, he felt. The Ballad of Cantre'r Gwaelod was already a fairly miserable story without a key change that induced instant tears in the listener. This bard must have been having a bad day.

Whoever it was had an interesting style, though. Cymric culture left even the tonedeaf with a healthy understanding for the nuances of musical skill, which meant that Gwilym could hear how unusually good they were for a classroom. The transposition was both elegant and flawless, not a single note out of place, already an impressive feat on the triple harp but in this case also complete with some fairly complicated layers being included over the standard harmonies. Bards in training went on external apprenticeships a while before that level. But; it couldn't have been a tutor. While very good, and definitely good enough to play in a Court, the unseen musician wasn't a Prifardd. The piece was sensitively played, but not sensitively enough; it didn't have the ingrained affinity for the instrument, the natural finesse that came with having your life dedicated to the myriad ways in which to pluck a string that only bards who'd hit the top of the profession possessed. It was unusual.

Although not unusual enough to be bizarre. Gwilym wasn't going to think any more of it, but as he passed the classroom he glanced inside automatically, and suddenly it all clicked into place. Bards trained extensively, a lifetime of study. But if being a bard was only a secondary occupation…

"Are you following me?" Awen asked calmly, not looking up. Her fingers on the strings bent as gracefully as a dancer, the fluid elegance of her fighting style evident as she perched on the end of a bench before the instrument, the lighting turning her hair a deeper red. Gwilym smiled softly and leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

"No," he admitted. "I think I've just cheered up a god or two recently. And anyway, I could argue it's the other way around. You're always turning up when I need you, all ready to save the day."

"I was here first," Awen grinned. The harp keened under her hands, the sound beautiful. "And I have an obvious purpose for being here. Why are you prowling the classrooms of the Union, Sovereign?"

"Because I love listening to children murdering violins," Gwilym declared. "It's like listening to the primal sound of the universe being born, and thus of enormous interest to my scientific mind. Or, you know, because I wanted to explore."

"You generally do, I think," Awen said thoughtfully. "I think that's the key to you, isn't it, Sovereign? You like exploring, geographically and mentally. That's why you like learning. Science. It's pushing back another boundary."

"I suppose," Gwilym blinked. He'd never really thought about it before. "I've never really thought about it before."

The music changed, twisting seamlessly into an educational song about sheep farming that Gwilym remembered from the halcyon days of three years old, now apparently available in fashionable minor key. Awen's smile was wry.

"You aren't the only one who can read people," she said. "Although I think you do it with more distressing bluntness. Do you see the problem, though? You like to explore, to travel far and wide. I like to stay, and defend."

"Nice try," Gwilym snorted, crossing his arms. "You like to find reasons to make me run. That's not the same thing. Your job is all about exploration, Awen. You're looking to find the truth in everything, especially where it's hidden. The only difference is that you look with a goal in mind. I just look for fun."

"True," she said, and completely caught him out. He'd expected her to argue the point. Maybe she was evolving a way of handling him; he'd have to watch that. She glanced briefly across, her fingers not missing a note. "Close the door? It's soundproof, on account of violin-murdering children."

"Sensible," Gwilym marvelled, pushing it shut. Awen grinned briefly.

"Isn't it?" she agreed. "A mercy of engineering. I asked Rhydian if I could kill Flyn."

"What a truly distressing sentence to put on the end of a conversation about children," Gwilym remarked mildly. "Did he say yes?"

"He said -" Awen stopped, both talking and playing, dropping her hands to her knees and looking at them. "I offered to do it subtley. Just, break his neck and push him down a flight of stairs. It would be easy enough. It would look accidental."

And would solve a few problems, but that was an uncomfortable thing to think, so Gwilym veered away from it and focused instead on the fact that something was wrong here. There was too much forced calm in the conversation, too much not-quite-indifference.

"Did he say yes?" Gwilym asked again softly.

"No." Awen stayed frozen for a moment, watching her hands, and then stood abruptly and moved to the window. "No, he didn't. It's not allowed because I asked."

"Asking makes it official?" Gwilym guessed critically. He really Disapproved of the amount of tacit conversation the Union seemed to run on. Awen nodded.

"Yes," she said, and now Gwilym could hear the slight edge in her voice that suggested she was clamping down on an emotional response with both hands. "If I'd just done it he'd have accepted it as me exercising my better judgement and retroactively sanctioned it. But because I asked he'd now have to put it to the rest of the High Council for approval, and they'd just want to hear all of the same evidence as they'll hear at a trial, so…"

"No point now," Gwilym said quietly. "Awen, what's -?"

"It means I had a way to end it myself," she said, turning her head sideways and smiling bitterly. Her shoulders were tense, angry. "It means if I'd made that decision myself rather than wanting the Council to do it for me, I could have removed a monster. Do you see? You see what I've done?"

"What you were trained to do?" Gwilym asked, bewildered. "Sorry, I'm not seeing your fault."

"I got scared," Awen said forcefully, turning to look at him, the bitter smile burning. "As I always do, Sovereign. You're right, you see? You're right. I'm a product of my training, which is to defer to authority, not to think. I had a chance today to sort out the whole situation; I've arranged for everything to be in place if Flyn goes, I have entire back-up plans to put into play ready, and I could have done it and fixed the whole thing, but I can't handle the responsibility of the decision. I can't cope with acting without orders. I'm scared of not being directed by someone else, aren't I?"

"Everyone is scared of the unknown," Gwilym said, taking a step forward, and Awen moved away, prowling the edge of the room restlessly, her arms wrapped around her ribs. Keeping him at arm's length, Gwilym noted. She was not happy with herself right now.

"Doesn't help, though, does it?" she said roughly, her eyes sliding over the walls, the tears just starting to grip her throat and twist her voice. "It doesn't help if it's understandable, Sovereign, because it still means that I am demonstrably the last person to be in this situation, but I've nonetheless put myself there! Right now, you're holding the other chance to get Flyn executed, if only I could make up my gods damned mind! Read it or burn it, that's all I have to choose, so why can't I? Why haven't I yet?"

"Which do you want to choose?" Gwilym asked carefully. Awen snorted self-derisively, throwing her hands into the air.

"I don't know!" she said harshly. "I did want you to read it, but now? Now I don't know! Because you've gone and bloody complicated things!"

"Me?" Gwilym asked blankly. Awen made a frustrated noise, running her hands through her hair, her pacing becoming more frantic.

"Have you not been paying any attention?" she said, agonised. "There is a reason you're never going to want to see me again after you read it, Sovereign! And this isn't some selfish, personal point! It will hurt you."

"Right." Gwilym stepped forward and caught her wrist before she could dance out of reach, pulling her back and into his arms. It was probably the first time in her life anyone who wasn't a Saxon had tried to physically force her to do something, and so bore the colossal risk of disembowlment; but fortunately Awen froze as ever the second his fingers made contact, and stayed immobile as he pinned her back to his chest. She didn't seem to breathe, either. It was probably shock.

"Whether it hurts me or not is irrelevant," Gwilym murmured into her ear. "Understand? And I will be the judge of my potential but unlikely hatred for you. You don't let my feelings on the subject get in the way, Awen. I'm not a factor in this."

"Yes you are," she breathed, but he tightened his arms briefly and she fell silent.

""No," he said. "I'm not. You need to judge this objectively, and compared to the needs of an entire country, my emotional state is irrelevant. Agreed?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," Awen said reluctantly. Gwilym nodded.

"Good," he said. "Now, we're going to make a list. Two, actually. One is a list of reasons I should read that letter, one is a list of reasons I should burn it. Okay?"

"I don't -"

"Okay?"

She tipped her head wearily back against his shoulder, eyes closed, and sighed.

"Reasons you should read it," Awen said, her voice completely neutral. "If you do, you personally can send Flyn down. He will be executed. This is without question."

"That definite?"

"That definite," Awen said. "Everything else will be irrelevant."

Maybe it was a letter from the gods themselves explaining their immediate claim on Flyn's life. It seemed fairly serious.

"Alright," Gwilym said. "Anything else?"

"That largely covers it," Awen sighed. "That would be justice. That would be… right. It's what the Union is supposed to do. I don't know."

"We'll come back to it, then," Gwilym said, rubbing his thumb against her ribs. "Let's start on the next list. Why should I burn it?"

"Removing Flyn leaves us hoping that an incredibly dangerous situation in Saxonia can be resolved by a Saxon woman who would have to fight tooth and nail just to get her throne back, much less make any changes," Awen stated. "Which I believe is possible, but far from certain. That's point one."

"Point two?"

"Given the gravity of the situation," Awen said, giving a brief, humourless smile, "whether to remove Flyn from power or not is an issue that will be voted on by the assembled might of the Full Council, the Senedd, the Urdd and the Gorsedd. That's the voice of the country. I'm sworn to that. I - I have to let it speak."

Not to mention that every trained, ingrained instinct she possessed was telling her to trust that voice, and let it decide. Gwilym nodded.

"Point three?" he asked gently.

"Point three," Awen said emotionlessly. "If they decide that the Saxon issue is sufficiently great a threat that Flyn has to stay, who am I to disagree? Who's to say they're wrong and I'm right? Four: I can't tell if I'm this strongly opposed to him because I personally want him out, and am putting that over my professional opinion. Five."

She looked down, her breathing suddenly forcibly steady.

"Five," she said again. "I cannot express in words what they could conceivably do to me if I have you read that and reverse their ruling. Although I'm dying anyway, that should probably go on the other list. Although it would in no way be quick and painless, that should go on this one."

There was another pause, and Gwilym realised he'd tightened his arms around her again to a likely-painful degree. He closed his eyes.

"I hadn't thought of that," he said quietly. "My new opinion is that I'm burning it."

"On those grounds?" Awen asked, aghast. "That's definitely putting myself before my professional opinion! No. Worst comes to the worst I'll just jump off a runway, it's fine."

Argh. Loving a Rider: hardest thing he'd ever done. Marged was right. He kissed the side of her head and sighed.

"Burning it is winning at the moment, anyway," he tried, without much hope, and Awen shook her head.

"Only in quantity of bullet points," she said. "Not quality. And I'm not done. I have moral responsibilities to the people of this country as well. From that perspective, Flyn shouldn't be allowed to walk the earth any longer. And I have the ability to make that the case."

"I don't want them to hurt you," Gwilym said morosely. "Sorry, but if the choice is between Flyn or you, I know which way I'm leaning."

"Sovereign," Awen said wearily. "You won't care when you read it, it's fine."

"I just can't imagine what could possibly make me hate you that much," Gwilym said, shaking his head. "Because the only thing is if you tell me that it was actually you who threw my toy cart into the butter sacks when I was seven, and I'm relatively certain that was my brother. Is this some Rider-thing? Is it something Flyn did that you couldn't stop, so you're blaming yourself and think I will too?"

And even as he said it he knew it was true, although not the bit about the toy cart. He wouldn't have put it past Awen to have actually done some terrible deed under orders for the good of Cymru, of course; but it wasn't the case. She shifted in his arms and again he instictively tightened them, holding her close.

"I wouldn't blame you for that," Gwilym said urgently. "I don't think that way, Awen, you do. This isn't going to make me hate you."

"Promise me something," Awen commanded, her voice hard. "If I ask you to read that letter, Sovereign, you'll follow it through. I imagine you will anyway; but promise me. I need to know you'll do this if I need you to."

"I promise," he said. "I won't hate you."

"Yes you will," Awen said, her tone not changing. "Because I'm genuinely considering the idea of not disclosing that letter. And as soon as you fully understand the implications of that, it doesn't -"

"I love you."

The silence reigned sumpreme in its dictatorship. Gwilym smiled. Awen stared at the opposite wall.

"No, you -"

She broke off as he gently lifted the beads of one braid, rolling the glass and amber between his fingers. She watched, barely breathing.

"Yes I do," Gwilym said, quietly happily. "And you can't do anything about it, Awen, so deal with it. I love your Wing, too, it's a good match. Caradog said he'd teach me how to wrestle, and Llŷr said he'd save me from Caradog."

Awen laughed, the sound slightly strangled, and turned around in his arms to hug his waist. Gwilym grinned, stroking her hair with his free hand.

"I wish you didn't," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I'm going to hurt you, sooner or later."

"Tough," Gwilym said contentedly.

"I know."

They stayed like that for a minute, Awen's eyes fixed tiredly on his hand as he toyed with the beads, the only sound coming from the occasional gull outside. It was incredibly pleasant just holding her, feeling her hands gripping the fabric on his back in fistfulls again. Idly, Gwilym wondered how close she was to being purifiable again now.

"I don't understand you," she said sleepily. Gwilym snorted.

"We don't choose whom to love," he said softly. "Sorry. You're stuck with me thinking you're insanely brilliant and following you around like a one-man cheering section. You can think I'm mentally deficient it if helps, I won't mind."

"I do."

"Oh." He considered that. "Well, fair enough. You've met my family, it's not like it isn't in my genes. You have to believe me, though. That's important. I do think you're incredible. Do you believe me?"

She glanced at the beads in his hand and nodded.

"Yes," she said. "This relationship will be catastrophically unfair on you. Do you believe me?"

He raised the hand holding the beads and tipped her chin back, bringing her mouth against his, unable to fight the smile. She froze in his arms, lips parting slightly.

"But we're having a relationship?" Gwilym grinned, and kissed her.

The adrenaline was what he remembered most afterwards. His heart rate seemed to triple, apparently even more excited than Gwilym himself at his romantic progress, and suddenly he was aware of every inch of Awen's body pressed against him, the grip of her fingers, the vice of her arms, the slide of one hand up his spine, the urgency of her mouth. She was good, the functioning part of Gwilym's brain mused. Well, Riders got the practice. The rest of his brain just cheered.

He broke it off, heart hammering in his chest and Awen froze again, watching him-

- and grinned.

"That's unfair," she chided. "Seriously. Playing dirty, we call it."

"I'm a politician," Gwilym said, elation flooding him. "See? You're not the only dangerous one in this relationship."

Oh, what a glorious word that was. Blue tits and squirrels seemed to dance around the room as he said it.

"It won't work out," Awen said matter-of-factly. "I want you to remember I told you this. This is happening on your insistence against my better judgement, Sovereign."

"I shall remember," Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. "Hey, can I tell Owain?"

"It's funny how you think I'm letting you within a mile of him," Awen grimaced. "Adara can. She likes tormenting him."

"Awen, you're as bad as Watkins," Gwilym complained. "Owain is chained to a wall inside a cage in a locked room. He's not going to glare me to death."

"You wanted this," Awen shrugged. "I told you it wouldn't work out. But you didn't listen, and now the cracks appear. Oh, how I told you."

"I love you," Gwilym grinned, and Awen groaned and put her head on his shoulder, settling into his arms.

"Stop saying that," she said. "I can't handle that yet, you're going to have to work up to it more slowly."

"I find you passable."

"Yeah, that'll do." She sighed as his fingers found their way to her neck muscles and began massaging. "Teach me something."

Gwilym grinned.

"Teach you something?" he repeated. "Like what? Madog tells me you know everything."

"Yes," Awen snorted. "The last few days have been hard on Madog's world view. He was nearly sentenced to death for it before lunch. I don't, though. Teach me something you learned exploring the world."

"Covers a lot of ground," Gwilym said, but he was hopefully excited anyway. No one had asked him this before. He'd die a happy man if he could run through Arabic mathematics with her.

"What, exploring the world?" Awen grinned. "Yes, literally I should think. But you told me you spent a year in a library, Sovereign, and then wanted to start a university. Clearly you know exciting and forbidden secrets of the universe now."

"I do!" he said excitedly. "We'll need paper and a pen. What's your maths like?"

"I can count like a champion," Awen declared, reluctantly detangling herself from his arms and moving to a desk in the corner laden with stationary while he sat happily back on the bench. "And, you know, add numbers together, take numbers away from each other, split numbers between other numbers, all that stuff. I'm quite the expert."

"I'm deeply impressed," Gwilym grinned as she returned with three sheets and a pair of pencils. "There should be awards. Okay, firstly: I need to teach you a new number. It's called 'zero'."

"How exciting," Awen said, fascinated, as he hastily scribbled down a number line. "It - hang on, it goes before one?"

"It means 'nothing'," Gwilym nodded. "So it's sort of an anti-number. I'm not sure what a good analogy would be -"

"Silence," Awen shrugged. "Sometimes in music you go silent for a few beats. The notes are still there, the music's still going, but there's no sound."

"Excellent!" Gwilym said. "We need Aerona's gold stars. Have one in spirit. Right, these are minus numbers. These are sort of like when numbers are owing. Like… I have four apples, but Madog needs six to make a pie."

"I doubt Madog can make pies," Awen murmured, and giggled as Gwilym tapped her on the nose with his pencil.

"This is hypothetical," he said sternly. "He's reading it out of a book, okay? Now; I have four apples, he needs six. But he can't ask anyone else, right?"

"Why -?"

"He's imprisoned in my kitchens in one of my mad dictator moments."

"Ah." Awen nodded, rather too understandingly, Gwilym felt. "Go on."

"Right. So, he tells me that as soon as his apple supplier gets here he'll pay me back the apples, yes? But I now owe him six apples, despite only having four. So, I borrow two apples from you and give him six apples."

"Okay," Awen said. "Although I can't imagine why I'm helping you."

"Because I smiled at you nicely," Gwilym said. "Now, Madog makes the pie -"

"Any good?"

"A passable first attempt," Gwilym said. "Were you this bad growing up?"

"I suppose you'd have to ask my Tutors," Awen mused. "Sorry. Go on."

"The pie is made," Gwilym said sternly. "Using six apples. Four were mine, two were yours. So, technically, I now have no apples, right?"

"Zero apples," Awen said thoughtfully, looking at the number line. Gwilym resisted the urge to hug her.

"Yes!" he said excitedly. "Except I don't. I've lost four and I owe two. So actually -"

"You've got…" Awen traced the number line with one long, scarred finger. "You've got minus two apples?"

"Yes!" He did hug her this time. Teaching was fun, actually. Maybe he could get the university set up, establish democracy in Aberystwyth and become a lecturer. Awen laughed in his arms.

"Okay!" she said, gently fending him off. "Okay, I think I get it. I don't think this is really applicable to real life, mind. You've got to be a bit conceptual."

"You have," Gwilym agreed happily, running his fingertips down the side of her face. She ignored him, her eyes looking grey as they ran over the number line, analysing the sequence. "And I'm glad you said that, because it's going to make the next bit easy."

"Really?" Awen put the number line down, fixing her attention onto him. "What's the next bit?"

Gwilym grinned.

"Have you ever heard of algebra?" he said.