The story so far: we have established that Dan's best friend and mentor, a 91 year-old woman called Esme, has died. Her funeral was today. Dan has slipped back to his office to be alone and think about her. He has poured a single shot of sherry into a tea mug in order to toast her, but got interrupted before he could drink it. He's also brought the funeral Order of Service with him.
Scene 2
Dan collects himself, then puts away the Order of Service: the moment’s passed. He picks up a pile of notes, and starts working his way through them, not really getting anywhere.
Beat.
A light momentarily fills the room. It could almost be from a car’s headlights except it’s the wrong shade. Possibly a sound also accompanies this. If so, it too should be something almost ordinary, like a car horn heard from a distance, but not quite: something to make you notice it as strange, but easily dismiss it again.
Dan doesn’t perceive any of this.
He takes out the Order of Service again, looking at the photo. Bleak.
Beat.
Another knock at the door.
Esme walks tentatively through the door. She is in her latest twenties, and dressed respectably for office work in 1948.
He turns to look at her.
Beat.
Dan Esme.
He approaches her. Total, hopeless delight.
Esme Hello.
Dan looks again at the funeral order of service, which shows Esme as a young woman, then back at Esme.
Dan I’m hallucinating.
Esme Possibly. Is that all right?
Dan walks over to her, hesitantly holds her arms, her hands, stares at her.
He suddenly pulls her into a tight hug, holds her for a few seconds, desperately, then lets her go.
Dan You can’t be here.
Esme No. Good point.
Dan You’re not real.
Esme Not exactly.
Dan turns away from her, faces the audience.
She approaches and puts a hand on his shoulder. He responds to her touch.
Pause.
Dan Please be real.
Pause.
Esme I’ll put the kettle on.
Esme goes over to the cupboard, takes out the tea and starts making two cups.
Dan Is it you?
Esme Not quite. I’m a shadow, that’s all. Sorry.
Dan You’re young.
Esme I’m at the age when I look the most like me, I think.
Dan Esme, you’re gone. Do you know?
Esme In a way. I’m two things. I know I died, I know you loved me. But mostly I’m me, here. I’m 29, just starting my career, just back from a horse riding trip through Italy. Do you understand?
Dan No.
Esme You’re right. It’s metaphysical nonsense. Sorry.
Dan I’m going mad.
Esme Possibly.
Dan What happens now?
Pause.
Dan You sit down. I’ll make it.
Dan goes over to the kettle, picking up the mug on the way, and Esme sits down.
He has nowhere to pour the sherry, so he downs it surreptitiously.
The sherry makes him cough dramatically. Esme runs over and pats him on the back. He’s eventually OK.
Dan Down the wrong way.
Esme You haven’t made it yet.
She spots the sherry bottle, but says nothing.
Dan gets on with boiling the kettle.
He doesn't look at her.
Esme I’m sorry, Dan. It must be hard that I’m here.
Dan Hard?
Pause.
Dan Do you still...sugar? I only keep it for you. Kept it.
Esme I know. This isn’t like you, Dan. I’m back from the dead. Your best friend. You should be doing what you do: experimenting, asking me personal questions, testing your eyesight.
Dan I can’t. (Pause.) It’s like...all right, can you remember what it feels like to wake up from a dream? Or, not even quite wake up. The dream’s still wrapped around you but you’re just conscious enough to understand how precious it is and you know if you push it, if you try to control what happens, if you ask too many questions...and you can’t go back.
Esme No questions, then.
Dan Thanks.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Cymru - Chapter 38
AERONA
"Next!" Aerona called merrily as the sun set behind them in Cymru. The forests beneath them were flattening out, the mountains levelling to hills as they dropped to just above the tree-tops, hiding themselves with the lower altitude and the gathering dusk. "One last game! I can buy... apples!"
"I want to kill you," Dylan said flatly. "Why? Why was I cursed with you?"
"Can I buy apples?" Adara asked. Dylan glared at her as Aerona tried to clap, and remembered she was holding reins.
"Yes! You can!"
"Hey, betraying our united front, there, pickle," he said pointedly, and Adara rolled her eyes.
"Last game, Dylan," she said. "I'm not some sort of unreasonable. Not when the end is so tantalisingly in metaphorical sight. Can I buy carrots?"
"Um... no," Aerona said. Dylan sniffed.
"Can I buy an apple?" he asked, his tone long-suffering enough to suggest he'd been tortured into a week of vegetable peeling. Since he was still playing, however, Aerona was relatively certain he was actually enjoying it, really. Relatively certain.
"I'm afraid not," she said regretfully, and Dylan snorted.
"Oh," he said. "Oh, I see. Like that, is it? You can buy apples, and Adara can buy apples, even though she clearly deserves no apples - she's a bad one, that one - but I can't. I see."
"It's because you're a Northlander," Adara supplied unhelpfully.
"Oh, what are you, ten?" Dylan said, pained. "Fine. Can I buy a carrot, Aerona, unreasonable guardian of the treasures?"
"Yes, actually," Aerona said brightly, and Dylan almost crowed.
"Ha!" he said wickedly. "Take that, you Southlander heathen!"
"Wait," Adara said thoughtfully. "Can I buy a carrot?"
"No, we've been over this," Dylan said sternly. "You've been told."
"I'm sure 'no means no' is a desperate mantra in your world, Dylan," Adara said serenely. "But the rest of us got the hang of it when we were six."
"You can buy a carrot," Aerona giggled, and then laughed at Dylan's look of outraged reproach.
"What?"
"A carrot but not carrots," Adara said thoughtfully. "But apples, while not an apple. Something to do with plurals?"
"Number of letters," Dylan intoned, his voice bored. "Is that it, Aerona? Say yes. If we have to keep playing this game as ranking officer I'm going to be forced to bite off your eyelids as punishment."
"Correct!" Aerona said happily. "The word has to contain an even number of letters."
"That is so unfair," Adara declared darkly. "I did all of the deductive work there, and Dylan just sweeps in at the end like a freeloader."
"Hey, I worked out the rule!" Dylan protested. Adara snorted.
"Yeah, after I'd done the hard work in Aerona's extremely bizarrely discriminatory shop, which seems to be owned by a crazy," she said. "And, for the record, I'm never entering any shop you might have any part in in the future, Aerona."
"Seconded, my sister," Dylan grinned. "And I want it known that much though your eyelids may be safe, I'm still going to punish you somehow. I'm considering making you kiss Madog."
Aerona laughed.
"Somehow," she grinned, "I don't think I'm his type, Dylan."
"You're not, at that," Dylan muttered. "Bugger. I'll think of something."
"You can't think," Adara said gaily, as though joining in with a joke Dylan had already made to that effect. "What a one you are."
"Oh, ganging up, now," Dylan said, mock-miserably. "Well fine. Both of you it is. Are we there yet?"
"Have we stopped yet?" Adara threw back witheringly, studying a page carefully in the air currents. "Um... nearly. This way."
She turned them slightly north, moving into point position without any word from any of them, and five minutes later they dropped into a clearing at the top of a river valley, a Saxon settlement of some kind nestled at the opposite end of the hills, about twenty minute's walk away by the looks of it. Briallu snorted, satisfied, as they dropped to the grassy floor of the clearing, hidden from view by the surrounding trees, and Aerona bit her lip guiltily. Briallu didn't do much extended flying normally. In the last few days she'd flown the distance of about five trips around Cymru. Not that she seemed much worse for the experience; as Aerona unclipped the harness and hopped down the mare seemed mostly interested in grazing, her tail swishing contentedly.
"Right," Dylan said, hitting the floor and stretching, reins in one hand. "Courtesy of your boy Owain we know that no one walks up here, and there are no paths to challenge him, so we'll tether the merod here. Adara, go and find dinner. Aerona, go and make shelter. Me, go and sort merod. Chop chop."
"Get the fire going," Adara grinned, opening the door of the small cage hanging in place of a saddlebag on one side of her harness and withdrawing the hooded kite inside. She transferred the bird to her wrist and slipped the hood off its head. "We'll be back in a bit, like the efficients we are."
"Me will handle fire, also," Dylan nodded sagaciously as Adara left. "You just find us beds."
"Your allocation of labour is both fair and just, oh wise one," Aerona offered, grinning. She ran a practised eye over the undergrowth; water of some kind was presumably that way, the prevailing winds were that way...
"Hey, yeah, loving your effort and everything, but revenge will be mine, old friend," Dylan said, deadpan. "It will be swift, and unexpected, and I shall enjoy it so greatly I will regale Madog with tales of it until he has to force me to shut up."
"He doesn't have to anyway?" Aerona called back, moving into the trees. Flat ground here, the tree branches forked just right, mark the distances... "How much of a palace do you want me to build, by the way? One each, or one to share?"
"You two can share," Dylan called dismissively from the clearing. "I require mine to be the size of a Residence. And inlaid with marble. Or, you know; we can all share. Far be it from me to be an unreasonble."
"Very magnanimous," Aerona giggled, eyeing a bank of moss. "One it is. And I can't stretch to marble, I'm afraid, but I can offer you triple insulation or more and an elevated floor."
"Yeah?" Dylan asked, impressed. "Deal. The bags are down, take what you need."
She'd planned ahead, and packed a ball of strong twine and an oiled leather sheet, both of which Aerona pulled out of a saddlebag now before setting them aside and starting the hunt for branches. Predictably, Dylan joined her after about five minutes, looking for firewood.
"One sheet and one string," he said, loading sticks into the increasing bundle on one shoulder. "That's all. But you reckon you can offer me triple insulation and an elevated floor."
"Do you see this sash?" Aerona asked, amused. "And these beads? Of course I can. I only brought those because they make things slightly easier."
"And you didn't bring extra equipment like a normal human being because... you're some kind of enormous loser?"
"Because we wanted to travel light and needed the space for other things," Aerona giggled, dragging at a long branch entwined in the brambles. "Like cooking equipment. How do you have any friends, Dylan?"
"Ah, young one," Dylan said, his tone fatherly as he gripped the branch with her and pulled. "The time is not yet right for you to learn my secrets. Their burden is too great for one such as you. And now, confess. Why else did you bring nothing else for the shelter, hmm?"
"Well, aren't you sharp? Gold star!" Aerona grinned. The branch slid free, and she stood it upright next to Dylan. It ended just over half a metre above his head. "Perfect. Um... because if you make it out of whatever you find around you it's more like a game."
"Now, Aerona," Dylan said, his voice a parody of a lecturer. "Survival is not a game, it is serious -"
"You," Aerona accused, stabbing him in the chest with one finger, "play games while you fight, Dylan! I'm not that weird!"
"Does that keep the nightmares away?" Dylan grinned. His eyes were particularly intimidating in the gloom. "Of course you are. Your shop-keeping is psychotic. Will there be rules to who gets to sleep in the shelter, Aerona? Am I going to have a problem?"
"Yes," she giggled, carefully gathering up her branches and starting to trudge back to her chosen campsite. After a second the wood lightened as Dylan picked up the ends behind her, sharing the weight. "But it's only that your name has to contain an alpha, so it's alright."
Building the shelter was enjoyable work. Aerona ignored Dylan's raised eyebrow and spread the oiled sheet over the cleared ground rather than using it as roofing, planting a forked branch at one end and laying the long branch between the fork and the floor. The shorter branches were next, leaned against the long branch all the way down to form a frame. Aerona finished, and eyed up the width.
"Will three fit in there?" she asked critically. Dylan looked up from adding stones to the steadily growing fire, glancing at the shelter frame.
"Ought to," he sniffed, rising from his crouch and wandering over. "Looks good. Do you think Adara will hunt us some cake?"
"I don't think Saxonia is that foreign," Aerona giggled, lashing the branches in place with the string. "But hares could be on the menu."
"Do you think she'll hunt us a cow?"
"With a bird?"
"Maybe she'll hunt us a bear."
"With a bird?"
"Madog says I expect too much sometimes."
"I can't imagine why."
The thinner branches were next, piled neatly on until there were no gaps left, and then the insulation began. She opted for bracken first, followed by a layer of dry leaves; after some careful searching she found some muddy ground not far away, so the next layer was leaves covered in wet mud. More sticks next, then more bracken...
"Basically we get to look like giant beavers," Dylan said chirpily, setting down a container of water, and then glared at Aerona as she looked hopefully up. "No. Foot down, no. I'm not six, petal, and I'm not pretending to be a bloody beaver."
"People are so cruel," Aerona said sadly. "This is why I prefer the company of six-year-olds, you know. They're so much more accomodating than thirty-year-olds."
"Thirty?" Dylan snorted. "I'm forty five by my count."
"Really?" Aerona asked. "Do you know? I think I'm twenty seven."
"Deduction," Dylan shrugged. "About that. I could be wrong, but I doubt it, because my skills are immense and I'm excellent."
"Yes," Aerona said thoughtfully. "Modesty is one of the more difficult skills for you, though, isn't it?"
"Madog says I must practise very hard," Dylan said morosely. "And then one day I might learn. Ooh, cool shelter! Now they'll never see us."
"And triple insulated," Aerona said proudly, stepping back. The shelter looked very much like a long, wedge-shaped, overgrown bank. "And it's water-proof. I'm doing the floor and then it's done."
"Just as well," Dylan said reflectively, his restless eyes darting upwards to the canopy above them. The sun had set fifteen minutes before, the surrounding trees filtering out a lot of the weak dusk light, and the world had bled to a monochrome tableau of greys and shadows beyond the golden, comforting glow of their firelight. Bats flew past above them, and somewhere into the trees an owl called. "You won't be able to see it soon. Wonder if Adara will fall into a ditch?"
"I doubt it," Aerona giggled, starting to strip moss off the bank she'd seen earlier. "She seems fairly sensible, you know."
It was a small shelter, so it only took five minutes to fill the floor with ten inches of browse, more than enough to keep them so far off the ground the rising cold would never reach them. Carefully, Aerona topped it off with moss and bracken, and then climbed in on hands and knees as the sky above faded to a rich, deep blue, the stars sailing out. It was beautifully springy inside, and noticeably warmer.
"I'm done!" she called happily. "Elevated floor! For all your outdoor comfort needs."
"Not all of them," Dylan's voice grinned craftily from just behind her, and suddenly his arm snaked around her waist and flung her down onto her back. Aerona squealed, and giggled as he leaned over her on all fours, his beads hanging down just far enough to tickle her jaw.
"Dylan," Aerona scolded, grinning. "We're in the middle of Saxonia!"
"Madog says I'm a punishment by myself," he said, his lips just brushing hers. "So I'll have to do, as payback for three days of playing that bloody game."
"We were only flying for an hour and -"
He kissed in much the same manner as he entered rooms, as though he owned the place and was instantly at home, expecting to be welcomed. It wasn't, strictly speaking, dominance, although clearly he had his own measure of that. It was more like... authority. A certainty that he wouldn't be challenged.
"An hour and a half," Aerona finally managed when he'd let her. Above her Dylan settled down, his body pressing against hers, all hard muscle and strength. "That's not -"
He pressed one finger to her chin, tipping her head to the side.
"You're beautiful, you know," he whispered into her ear, making her shiver. "You probably haven't worked that out, because you hang out with bantam humans. But you are."
"Bizarrely enough," Aerona said softly, "so are your eyes."
She cupped his face with both hands, holding him obediently still as she ran her thumbs gently across the black, scarred skin beneath his eyes.
"Thank you for saving me," Dylan said, his voice suddenly intense, gaze locked onto hers for once. Aerona squirmed.
"It's fine," she said, awkwardly. "I mean, thanks for going in first and not letting me be blinded and such, it was thoroughly decent, you know? It could have gone either way."
"Oh, take a compliment, would you?" Dylan grinned, and pressed one powerful thigh between her legs without warning, grinding into her. Aerona bit back a moan, arching into the touch. "You did well, I still have my mind. No jokes, please, flower, I get enough from Madog."
"Wouldn't dream of it," she panted, threading her fingers into his hair. "Er... Adara will - "
"If she's quick, she can join in," Dylan grinned. "I don't mind sharing you."
He was the same in bed as he was kissing; the same as he was with everything, it seemed, and Aerona decided it was very much a Deputy thing. Dylan was a man totally accustomed to giving orders, totally at home being in charge. But, of course, in a sexual context she was treated to the other side of the Wingleader coin; the whole experience was about her, not him. This was Dylan taking care of her. This was a reward, not a punishment. It was thoroughly charming.
Gods, he didn't shut up, though. There was, apparently, a switch somewhere inside Dylan's head that he didn't have access to. It was probably just as well that Adara still wasn't back once they'd finished. There was a good chance it would have been the chattiest night of her life between the two of them. And he kept getting bored in one position, until Aerona threatened him with a round of 'I-Spy' unless he stayed still for more than thirty seconds.
Finally they lay contentedly against each other in the dark, her back against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around her.
"Do you think we'll find Owain?" Aerona asked once they'd caught their breath. She was wide awake and hungry, now. "Here in Saxonia?"
"Yeah," Dylan said languidly. He had hold of one set of her beads between his fingers, rotating them gently. "Guy's a tool, and thinks he's accomplishing something here. It makes sense."
"What do you think he thinks he's doing?"
"Is this about to be a riddle?" Dylan asked. His eyes were still closed, voice sleepy. "Is the real question going to be what do you think I think Madog thinks I think he thinks Awen thinks he's doing?"
"Ooh, good question!" Aerona said happily, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself up half on her elbows, half on Dylan's chest. "It's like a really complicated game."
"Which we're not playing," Dylan said sternly. "Countrywide stability? I don't know. You're the expert now. What do you think he thinks you think he thinks he's doing?"
"Oh," Aerona said. "Well. He's not a Rider. He's self-motivated. He's bought into Flyn's plan because it feeds his ego and gives him a chance to show Awen that he's cleverer and a better Wingleader than her."
"Say that again?"
Adara appeared at the entrance to the shelter in a crouch, a brace of hares in one hand. She was silhouetted against the fire, her face lost to darkness, but her voice was dangerous. Aerona sighed, and Dylan's arm tightened around her slightly, seemingly involuntarily. He otherwise didn't move.
"He's wrong, obviously," Aerona offered. "But I think that's why -"
"Of course it is," Adara spat, turning her head to the trees, but Aerona knew the rancour wasn't directed at her. "Because never mind all evidence to the contrary, never mind that she led him for over twenty years, never mind that she loved him anyway, and now she's - "
She broke off, pausing a moment, and stood abruptly.
"Adara," Dylan said quietly. "Come in here."
"No," Adara said, her voice being forced back to calm. "It's okay, I'm just -"
"In," Dylan repeated, and this time it was very subtly an order. And that was a Wingleader gift, Aerona marvelled. His tone was still completely non-confrontational, non-demanding, still tinged with sleepiness, still compassionate; but now it was an order. Adara was still for a moment more, and then dropped down again, moving into the shelter. Aerona rolled away from Dylan, ignoring the pleasant loss of warmth, and they pulled her down between them.
"We're going to catch him," Dylan said matter-of-factly, pulling Adara into his arms. Aerona hugged her on the other side, the leather uniform cold against her skin. "He's a loser. In the history of living creatures losing stuff, no one has ever lost at everything this badly. Guy's going to get lost on his way to the afterlife, even. We'll catch him."
"I really, really hope so," Adara said, quietly bitter. "I want to render him. More than my oh so pretty words can convey. But even more than that, I want to take him back to the Union entirely unharmed and drop him in chains in front of Awen for her to render."
"He'll be here somewhere," Aerona said, her heart aching for her. She found one set of Adara's beads in the dark and closed her fist around them. "And we'll find him. He's here fairly brazenly, the people will know something. It'll be unusual for them to encounter a Rider."
"What's the real problem, though?" Dylan asked, stroking a hand calmly up and down Adara's side. "You can tell Aunty Dylan."
"I don't want her to die," Adara said wearily, sounding lost. "Not like this. No battle, no illness, she's just... fading away, nothing we can do. And it's his fault! Him, and Flyn, and..."
And you can't hold her, Aerona thought. And you can't fully avenge her if Flyn stays where he is. And he probably will.
"It's funny," Adara said tiredly. "On our way home from Aberystwyth, I told Awen that bad luck comes in threes, and she'd had all three. She said she only counted two. And now this."
"What were they?" Aerona asked quietly, running her fingertips across Adara's scalp. "All three?"
"Flyn being an odious," Adara sighed, leaning into Aerona's hand slightly. "Owain being a big oily freak with the morals of a bear. And, the one she hadn't counted; Lord Gwilym."
"Epic fail," Dylan muttered. "I was hoping I hadn't seen that."
"So was I," Aerona said sadly. "They were so cute together."
"Oh, yes," Adara said miserably. "She smiled with him. Her genuine smile, not her for-the-outside-world-only smile."
"So, you seem to know all about Owain now?" Dylan broke in suddenly.
"What?" Aerona asked, taken aback. "Well, not all about. I mean, it's mostly guesswork on my part."
"That's fine," Dylan said. "Life is obviously mostly guesswork on his, the loser. Why did he want Lord Gwilym dead?"
"Ooh, scandalous question!" Adara murmured. "Let's gossip like kitchen staff."
"He didn't," Aerona said. She'd thought hard about this. "It was a cover. He wanted Awen to join him. He set that up to display the seriousness of the situation to her."
"But..." Adara paused. "Why?"
"Because he - " Aerona paused. "Look. He's an idiot. Let's all agree on that now. He thought about himself more than the country, he clearly had appalling social skills and I'm told he wasn't an incredibly attractive person."
"There's a mild description," Adara remarked sourly. "There have been more attractive fleas."
"Hey, I know some mighty fine fleas," Dylan said mock-indignantly.
"Very well," Adara said. "I shall rescind my comments re: fleas. You have my full apologies."
"I accept and appreciate that," Dylan said, mollified. Aerona giggled. "Anyway, yes, boy had his arse where his face should have been, let's move on. I believe we're on: why?"
"Well," Aerona said, fighting her imagination not to supply an image, "in spite of all that, you see, he does sort of think like a Rider. Not properly," she added hastily, in case either of them errupted at the sacrilege. "He's not a Rider, never was. But in some ways he thinks like one. So, firstly, whatever the truth of the matter, he genuinely thinks he's helping Cymru. That this work is important."
"Tool," Dylan said. "Oh. I appear to have inadvertantly said the word 'tool' aloud. I can't think why."
Wonderfully, it made Adara laugh. Aerona grinned in the dark, and hugged her tighter.
"And secondly," she continued, "Awen was his Wingleader. Madog was right, back in Aberystwyth; it's a complicated relationship. You can not get on with them, hate them even, as much as you want; but at the end of the day if they give an order you follow it-"
"Sometimes Madog orders me to kill myself so he can have peace," Dylan said. "I never do, though."
"Clearly," Adara said, "you have a special relationship, you weirdo."
"Except they don't, you see?" Aerona said earnestly. "Because even you, Dylan, deeply cynical though you are; if you do something and Madog praises you for it, deep down, some part of you will always clap its metaphorical hands and be pleased, won't it? Like a dog with its master. We all do that. Wingleaders are important."
"Don't make me admit to that," Dylan said, alarmed. "My cool, hard reputation will crumble."
"Oh, Dylan," Adara said lightly and mock-sympathetically, patting his hand. "You don't have one."
"A Saxon thought I was a demon, I'll have you know," Dylan sniffed. "Hey, is this true of Deputies too? Does anyone want me to pat them on the head?"
"Of course not," Adara said. "You have germs."
"Yes it is," Aerona giggled. "To a lesser extent, admittedly, but yes. Although possibly not for Adara."
"Owain never praised us, really," Adara shrugged. "He would sometimes, but it never felt sincere. More like he was doing it because Deputies Say Nice Things. It was always Awen we wanted to hear it from."
"I imagine your Wing like getting back-handed compliments from you, Dylan," Aerona said thoughtfully. "Since that's generally how you communicate."
"What, like, 'Oh well done, you didn't mess it up'?" Dylan asked. "I hope so. That's what I tell them."
"Even when they do mess it up?" Adara grinned, and Dylan snorted.
"No," he said. "Then I smack them upside the head and tell them they owe me a pint. Oh, I rock so hard at leadership, baby."
"We've sailed wildly off-topic," Adara said, turning to Aerona. "Like mapless verbal sailors. Where were we? Owain thinking a bit like a Rider and so liking Awen telling him how intelligent and well-endowed he was."
"Yes," Aerona agreed. "Which is the whole point, see? He spent all those years plotting away with Flyn and thinking he was delivering Cymru unto her salvation from forces unnamed, but ultimately -"
"Ah!" Adara said. "He needed Awen to validate it. Even though he thought he should be Wingleader, it made no difference because she was his."
"Gold star!" Aerona said happily. "Or - well, maybe not, since you're not six-"
"So I can't have a gold star?" Adara asked, disappointed. "My life just isn't working out right now."
"So he didn't want to kill Lord Gwilym?" Dylan asked, apparently stuck on the idea. Adara snorted.
"Are you listening at all?" she demanded. "No. It was a creepy Awen thing. I have no trouble believing this, either."
"I don't think so, anyway," Aerona shrugged. "I could be wrong. Although I don't think he actually cared if Lord Gwilym died or not. He's not politically important to Flyn one way or the other, since he wasn't involved in Lady Marged's crazy scheme of win and kittens and Aberystwyth is nowhere near the border. Alive he's useful, but not vital. Dead he's no great loss."
"And that's the end of the mystery," Dylan said, his voice sing-song. "Right! Dinner time! And then we're going out, boys and girls."
The reason for Adara's lateness back to camp became swiftly apparent; she'd already skinned and partly butchered the hares and had managed to find a few wild leeks from somewhere, which Aerona found wildly impressive. As expected, though, years of being in Alpha Wings had left neither Dylan nor Adara with any skill at actually cooking beyond making-the-meat-not-be-raw, so Aerona took over and made kebabs that she drizzled with a little bit of honey from her own supply. They also had the added bonus of being far faster to cook than a stew, leaving them with plenty of time to plan.
"Right," Dylan said, rubbing his palms together with mock-enthusiasm in the firelight. "So! Aerona. You look Phoenician. Still got that sugar?"
"Are those things related or are you just rambling?" Adara asked mildly, and dodged a clip around the ear from Dylan.
"Yes," Aerona giggled. "What's my cover?"
"Anything you like," Dylan shrugged. "But take the sugar, because it adds to the idea that you're a trader. You're approaching head on, because if our boy Owain sees you he won't suspect you. Find a tavern, be a weary traveller. Ask around. If you think people don't want to talk about Owain, ask about Coenred, and vice versa, understand?"
"Whereas you're going in sideways?" Aerona asked. Dylan grinned.
"I'm lateral," he said. "The world cannot understand me. I will be unseen. If anyone does see me, I'll be a demon."
"What about me?" Adara asked doubtfully. "I don't look Phoenician or a demon. And I've never had to be stealthy."
"You look Celtic," Aerona said thoughtfully, inspecting Adara's face. "As far as I know the Saxons are friends with Dál Riada. Can you speak any Erinnish? Alban?"
"Bits, that's all," Adara said, pulling a face. "I can get by in Punic, but..."
"Well then, pickle," Dylan said, stretching. "It's up to you. You can either go with Aerona and try to pass as a retarded trader or you can stay with the merod and kill anyone who may accidently stumble across them. I like honey."
"I want to be there if you find him, though," Adara said wretchedly. "As painful as it is to admit, he can actually fight very well."
"We're not taking him tonight," Aerona said earnestly. "We're just finding him now. We'll plan once we have. And we have at least four more 'cities' to try after this one."
"True," Adara sighed. "I'll guard the merod, then."
"Awesome," Dylan said, standing. "In that case, let's get Aerona changed and go. Oh, and remember: the name not to mention in these parts is Madog."
**********
Culture shock struck as she entered the tavern; there were no bards. A brief glance around for the bar revealed no bards standing and waiting to play, either, but there was a slowly roasting pig over the fire that a man was turning on a spit. And the gender balance was thrown. As Aerona threaded her way to the bar she observed the high number of men around her, drinking in small groups loudly. There were women there, fortunately, stopping her from standing out from the crowd too much, but most of them were of some race other than Saxon. The conversation buzzed around her, paying her no heed.
In fact, most of the women looked Celtic, their clothes Dál Riadan, strongly suggesting that they were land traders. The Saxons around them threw them suspicious glances occasionally, which Aerona noted she wasn't getting. They trusted Phoenicians, it seemed. They were less keen on Cymric look-a-likes.
And then there was the fact that she was surrounded by Saxons. She thanked every deity listening that Adara hadn't come. Even Aerona was feeling suddenly twitchy, ingrained instincts and teachings raging at her, telling her she had to fight her way free. Adara fought them all the time. It would have been a far stronger urge for her.
"What'll it be, friend?" the barman asked in Punic, and Aerona looked up. He was in his fifties, and missing an arm and an eye. She forced herself to smile.
"A mead if you have one, thank you," she said. "It is hard to come by back home. I look forward to my trips here mostly for the drink!"
"Aye," the man grinned, pulling out a tankard from beneath the bar and placing it onto a small metal shelf beneath the barrel to pour one-handed. "You're not the first I've heard say so. Nothing like a local delicacy to bring in tourists, I find."
"It's certainly helpful," Aerona agreed, watching the tankard fill, and carefully weighed her options. Barkeeps were excellent sources of information if you asked them just right. The trick was to get onto their wavelength; the risk was missing it. "How late are you open until, my friend?"
"Oh, a few hours yet," he smiled over his shoulder. "No rush. You been travelling a while?"
"It sometimes feels that way," Aerona said wryly, and he laughed. "Mostly, I am simply finding this trip a strange experience. I have visited Saxonia before, of course, but it is changed from my last journey. It has been exhausting simply learning the new social boundaries."
"Aye," the barman nodded. "For us as well, if I'm honest, friend. We've always fought, kingdoms between each other like. But we've never..."
"Conquered?" Aerona suggested. The barman snorted.
"That's about the extent of it," he nodded, and for the tiniest, briefest of moments, Aerona saw him wrinkle his nose, and found her way in. "That's four kingdoms on the border under one king, now. Three more inland. One king. Never known it before."
"It is a sizable undertaking," Aerona nodded. "And yes, very different, so I thought. I found it very unexpected in Saxonia."
"And then some," a large man beside Aerona growled, and she fought tooth and nail to control her impulse to attack him. "It's not Saxon, you know."
"Ah," the barman sniffed, bringing the mead over to Aerona. She carefully selected a Phoenician coin to pay with. "Pay him no attention, friend. He's traditional."
"Indeed?" Aerona asked politely, sipping the mead. The man sniffed, glaring at the barman.
"You know how many generations back I can trace my family tree?" he asked sourly. "Fifteen. And until our new Great King," he raised his tankard in mock-salute, "I lived in the same way each of them did. That's Saxon, Phoenician. That's what we are."
All of which was utterly, wildly abhorrent to Aerona's cultural and religious views. She hastily reminded herself that Breguswid was different, and didn't knife him.
"So your people are displeased with your new state?" Aerona asked instead. The barman picked up a dirty rag, wiping it along the bar top.
"Well, there it gets complicated," he said, his plaited moustache quirking over his smile. "Some are, some aren't. And of those who aren't, opinions differ."
"Yes, I received this impression elsewhere," Aerona said as wryly as she could. "This makes the trading climate uncertain! So... you and others disapprove, because your new life is different from your old one?"
"It's against everything we've held dear for generations," the large man spat, draining his tankard and throwing it to the barman, who caught it one handed. Aerona nodded, and didn't knife him.
"I see," she said. "Then, some are happy with this change, and like your new king very much. And some disapprove because...?"
She let it trail off in the barman's direction as he poured out more beer for the large angry man.
"Some of us," he said very carefully, "much like the ones who are happy now; some of us feel that maybe Saxonia could be greater than she currently is."
"For fuck's sake," the angry man muttered, but he said no more because he wanted his beer. The barman gave him an impassive glance.
"The fact is, what worked once will not work forever more," he said. "We have a rich heritage, no doubt about it. But that should mean we are making our mark upon the world. We are not. And in the war against Cymru we are going nowhere as we are."
"They can't fight us off forever," the angry man snorted, and Aerona didn't knife him.
"No," the barman said shortly. "But before they lose they'll march on us here. Trust me on this one. We're alive through their generosity. And believe me, I know."
His bitterness was like a lance. Aerona struggled with herself, and lost.
"May I ask?" she said quietly. "Your wounds? They are from your border conflicts?"
"Oh, aye," the barman said darkly. "I went with three brothers that day. And around eighty others. I was left alive to carry a message back home. Not that the words mattered," he added scornfully. "I was a message myself. The only survivor from eighty men against one single Wing of Riders."
"A single Wing?" Aerona asked, wrestling the glee out of her tone to leave it sympathetically fascinated. The barman nodded, carrying the beer back to the angry man.
"The Alpha Wing," he said, smiling with his mouth only. "His lord and highness Alpha Wingleader Madog. By his sword I lost my arm and eye, and by his grace I was allowed home."
He picked up his rag and resumed his spreading the dirt more thinly around the bartop.
"But I learned the lesson," he went on grimly. "I've no love for Cymru, I'll happily admit, but he taught me a lesson that day. We've lost our honour. They've not taken it. We've thrown it away. We march against them again and again, futile every time, and it's embarrassing. We've become an embarrassment, haven't we, Phoenician? What does the rest of the world say about us?"
"The rest of the world?" Aerona asked carefully. "It is... bemused, my friend. We do not laugh at you, please do not misunderstand me, but we do not understand you."
"We're protecting our heritage," the angry man snarled, and Aerona didn't knife him.
"We're drowning in it," the barman said flatly. "The world has changed while we have remained. We've been left behind."
"This is generally the ouside view," Aerona nodded mildly. "You are not a joke. But you are a curiosity."
"Ha!" The barman grinned his broken grin. "Well put. I think we need to change, friend, and I'm a long way from being the only one. And uniting under one ruler... could conceivably work, I feel. But not, I think, this one."
"And we agree on that," the angry man grinned, swaying slightly. Aerona wondered how much he'd had to drink.
"Agreement is a fine thing," she smiled instead. "For what reasons do you dislike your king, then?"
"He shouldn't be a king," Angry Man laughed roughly. Aerona didn't stab him.
"In fact, he shouldn't," the barman said. "I think our society needs some adapting, but rules of kingship should remain, and his claim on his own throne is now false. He was only a thane in his kingdom. His sister was the wife of the king. After the king was torn limb from limb with his own sword she became queen, and herself wanted to adapt her kingdom. As her brother he exiled her for this -"
"Ah," Aerona said, and her brain cheered wildly. "But having exiled her he then did the same thing himself by uniting your kingdoms."
"Exactly!" Angry Man said angrily, thumping the bar top. "He's got no more right to rule than I have. We might as well have the woman. No offense, Phoenician."
"Ah, none taken!" Aerona said, and didn't knife him. "So, which was his kingdom? Originally?"
"South of here," the barman nodded. "Most southerly kingdom along the border. Not that he seems to be there much. He's usually up in this end of his empire these days with that pet Rider of his."
Don't react, Aerona ordered herself. Because that was massive news. And there was no way she wouldn't have heard it already as a land trader, and would react with anything other than gossipy fascination.
"Ah, yes!" she said, sipping the mead. "Yes, so I hear! Dare I ask what your opinion of this is?"
"I don't have the words, Phoenician," the barman said, his mutilated face suddenly filled with furious loathing. "The stupidity - the arrogance of it. They will come for that Rider. They will come for him and they won't leave a brick standing, and we won't have a Saxonia left to adapt or maintain."
"What does this Rider do here?" Aerona asked, genuinely curious. "Does he ever leave your king's side?"
There was a pause as both men glanced at each other and Aerona wondered if she'd overstepped the mark when the barman leaned in close, a move that would have failed the Intelligencer test for him.
"There are rumours," he said quietly. Angry Man leaned in too, his face grave. "It's said he stays with King Coenred at all times but... well. They move around Saxonia, as I say, travelling between towns. And wherever they go, it's said that people are found dead the next day. People who were speaking out against the king. In Hereford it was a roomful of twenty, door bolted from within, and half of them grown men."
"Could be just lies and stories," Angry Man said darkly. "But there's grains of truth to things. That Rider's a traitor; I reckon he'll do whatever the king tells him to stay here."
"A shame he won't be able to fight off the combined Wings of the border when they come," the barman spat. "I tell you. An arm and an eye, I lost. I don't like to think of what he'll lose before they're done with him."
Well, that was true enough. So many people were after Owain's head.
"But for now he kills the enemies of the king," Aerona murmured. "But you have told me yourself this evening, my friends, that you do not support your king? Does this not concern you?"
"Ha!" Angry Man said contemptuously, sitting up again. Aerona didn't knife him. "If he killed every man not supporting them there would be precious few Saxons left! No. We disagree; we are not dissidents. We'll start no social revolutions against him!"
"Ah," Aerona nodded. "But there are those who would challenge him, and these he kills."
"There are a lot of them, too," the barman said quietly. He hadn't leaned back with Angry Man. "So I hear. It's why the Rider has to kill them; they're a very real threat. Especially since, with a unified kingdom now, they can meet up more easily than they could before."
"This is why I don't worry so much!" Angry Man said. "The king will bring about his own downfall, as will whoever comes next. Ultimately, true Saxonia shall prevail. It always has."
"Have you had the chance to meet them yourselves yet?" Aerona asked as Angry Man enthusiastically finished his drink. "The king and his Rider?"
"Not yet," the barman smiled thinly. "But soon. He's scheduled to be arriving here in five days. He's on tour, you might say. On his way north."
And that, Aerona reflected, was just about all she needed to know here; because now it would be a simple matter of checking the map and working out where they would be tomorrow. Angry Man hammered the bar with his fist for his next drink, and Aerona didn't knife him.
"Next!" Aerona called merrily as the sun set behind them in Cymru. The forests beneath them were flattening out, the mountains levelling to hills as they dropped to just above the tree-tops, hiding themselves with the lower altitude and the gathering dusk. "One last game! I can buy... apples!"
"I want to kill you," Dylan said flatly. "Why? Why was I cursed with you?"
"Can I buy apples?" Adara asked. Dylan glared at her as Aerona tried to clap, and remembered she was holding reins.
"Yes! You can!"
"Hey, betraying our united front, there, pickle," he said pointedly, and Adara rolled her eyes.
"Last game, Dylan," she said. "I'm not some sort of unreasonable. Not when the end is so tantalisingly in metaphorical sight. Can I buy carrots?"
"Um... no," Aerona said. Dylan sniffed.
"Can I buy an apple?" he asked, his tone long-suffering enough to suggest he'd been tortured into a week of vegetable peeling. Since he was still playing, however, Aerona was relatively certain he was actually enjoying it, really. Relatively certain.
"I'm afraid not," she said regretfully, and Dylan snorted.
"Oh," he said. "Oh, I see. Like that, is it? You can buy apples, and Adara can buy apples, even though she clearly deserves no apples - she's a bad one, that one - but I can't. I see."
"It's because you're a Northlander," Adara supplied unhelpfully.
"Oh, what are you, ten?" Dylan said, pained. "Fine. Can I buy a carrot, Aerona, unreasonable guardian of the treasures?"
"Yes, actually," Aerona said brightly, and Dylan almost crowed.
"Ha!" he said wickedly. "Take that, you Southlander heathen!"
"Wait," Adara said thoughtfully. "Can I buy a carrot?"
"No, we've been over this," Dylan said sternly. "You've been told."
"I'm sure 'no means no' is a desperate mantra in your world, Dylan," Adara said serenely. "But the rest of us got the hang of it when we were six."
"You can buy a carrot," Aerona giggled, and then laughed at Dylan's look of outraged reproach.
"What?"
"A carrot but not carrots," Adara said thoughtfully. "But apples, while not an apple. Something to do with plurals?"
"Number of letters," Dylan intoned, his voice bored. "Is that it, Aerona? Say yes. If we have to keep playing this game as ranking officer I'm going to be forced to bite off your eyelids as punishment."
"Correct!" Aerona said happily. "The word has to contain an even number of letters."
"That is so unfair," Adara declared darkly. "I did all of the deductive work there, and Dylan just sweeps in at the end like a freeloader."
"Hey, I worked out the rule!" Dylan protested. Adara snorted.
"Yeah, after I'd done the hard work in Aerona's extremely bizarrely discriminatory shop, which seems to be owned by a crazy," she said. "And, for the record, I'm never entering any shop you might have any part in in the future, Aerona."
"Seconded, my sister," Dylan grinned. "And I want it known that much though your eyelids may be safe, I'm still going to punish you somehow. I'm considering making you kiss Madog."
Aerona laughed.
"Somehow," she grinned, "I don't think I'm his type, Dylan."
"You're not, at that," Dylan muttered. "Bugger. I'll think of something."
"You can't think," Adara said gaily, as though joining in with a joke Dylan had already made to that effect. "What a one you are."
"Oh, ganging up, now," Dylan said, mock-miserably. "Well fine. Both of you it is. Are we there yet?"
"Have we stopped yet?" Adara threw back witheringly, studying a page carefully in the air currents. "Um... nearly. This way."
She turned them slightly north, moving into point position without any word from any of them, and five minutes later they dropped into a clearing at the top of a river valley, a Saxon settlement of some kind nestled at the opposite end of the hills, about twenty minute's walk away by the looks of it. Briallu snorted, satisfied, as they dropped to the grassy floor of the clearing, hidden from view by the surrounding trees, and Aerona bit her lip guiltily. Briallu didn't do much extended flying normally. In the last few days she'd flown the distance of about five trips around Cymru. Not that she seemed much worse for the experience; as Aerona unclipped the harness and hopped down the mare seemed mostly interested in grazing, her tail swishing contentedly.
"Right," Dylan said, hitting the floor and stretching, reins in one hand. "Courtesy of your boy Owain we know that no one walks up here, and there are no paths to challenge him, so we'll tether the merod here. Adara, go and find dinner. Aerona, go and make shelter. Me, go and sort merod. Chop chop."
"Get the fire going," Adara grinned, opening the door of the small cage hanging in place of a saddlebag on one side of her harness and withdrawing the hooded kite inside. She transferred the bird to her wrist and slipped the hood off its head. "We'll be back in a bit, like the efficients we are."
"Me will handle fire, also," Dylan nodded sagaciously as Adara left. "You just find us beds."
"Your allocation of labour is both fair and just, oh wise one," Aerona offered, grinning. She ran a practised eye over the undergrowth; water of some kind was presumably that way, the prevailing winds were that way...
"Hey, yeah, loving your effort and everything, but revenge will be mine, old friend," Dylan said, deadpan. "It will be swift, and unexpected, and I shall enjoy it so greatly I will regale Madog with tales of it until he has to force me to shut up."
"He doesn't have to anyway?" Aerona called back, moving into the trees. Flat ground here, the tree branches forked just right, mark the distances... "How much of a palace do you want me to build, by the way? One each, or one to share?"
"You two can share," Dylan called dismissively from the clearing. "I require mine to be the size of a Residence. And inlaid with marble. Or, you know; we can all share. Far be it from me to be an unreasonble."
"Very magnanimous," Aerona giggled, eyeing a bank of moss. "One it is. And I can't stretch to marble, I'm afraid, but I can offer you triple insulation or more and an elevated floor."
"Yeah?" Dylan asked, impressed. "Deal. The bags are down, take what you need."
She'd planned ahead, and packed a ball of strong twine and an oiled leather sheet, both of which Aerona pulled out of a saddlebag now before setting them aside and starting the hunt for branches. Predictably, Dylan joined her after about five minutes, looking for firewood.
"One sheet and one string," he said, loading sticks into the increasing bundle on one shoulder. "That's all. But you reckon you can offer me triple insulation and an elevated floor."
"Do you see this sash?" Aerona asked, amused. "And these beads? Of course I can. I only brought those because they make things slightly easier."
"And you didn't bring extra equipment like a normal human being because... you're some kind of enormous loser?"
"Because we wanted to travel light and needed the space for other things," Aerona giggled, dragging at a long branch entwined in the brambles. "Like cooking equipment. How do you have any friends, Dylan?"
"Ah, young one," Dylan said, his tone fatherly as he gripped the branch with her and pulled. "The time is not yet right for you to learn my secrets. Their burden is too great for one such as you. And now, confess. Why else did you bring nothing else for the shelter, hmm?"
"Well, aren't you sharp? Gold star!" Aerona grinned. The branch slid free, and she stood it upright next to Dylan. It ended just over half a metre above his head. "Perfect. Um... because if you make it out of whatever you find around you it's more like a game."
"Now, Aerona," Dylan said, his voice a parody of a lecturer. "Survival is not a game, it is serious -"
"You," Aerona accused, stabbing him in the chest with one finger, "play games while you fight, Dylan! I'm not that weird!"
"Does that keep the nightmares away?" Dylan grinned. His eyes were particularly intimidating in the gloom. "Of course you are. Your shop-keeping is psychotic. Will there be rules to who gets to sleep in the shelter, Aerona? Am I going to have a problem?"
"Yes," she giggled, carefully gathering up her branches and starting to trudge back to her chosen campsite. After a second the wood lightened as Dylan picked up the ends behind her, sharing the weight. "But it's only that your name has to contain an alpha, so it's alright."
Building the shelter was enjoyable work. Aerona ignored Dylan's raised eyebrow and spread the oiled sheet over the cleared ground rather than using it as roofing, planting a forked branch at one end and laying the long branch between the fork and the floor. The shorter branches were next, leaned against the long branch all the way down to form a frame. Aerona finished, and eyed up the width.
"Will three fit in there?" she asked critically. Dylan looked up from adding stones to the steadily growing fire, glancing at the shelter frame.
"Ought to," he sniffed, rising from his crouch and wandering over. "Looks good. Do you think Adara will hunt us some cake?"
"I don't think Saxonia is that foreign," Aerona giggled, lashing the branches in place with the string. "But hares could be on the menu."
"Do you think she'll hunt us a cow?"
"With a bird?"
"Maybe she'll hunt us a bear."
"With a bird?"
"Madog says I expect too much sometimes."
"I can't imagine why."
The thinner branches were next, piled neatly on until there were no gaps left, and then the insulation began. She opted for bracken first, followed by a layer of dry leaves; after some careful searching she found some muddy ground not far away, so the next layer was leaves covered in wet mud. More sticks next, then more bracken...
"Basically we get to look like giant beavers," Dylan said chirpily, setting down a container of water, and then glared at Aerona as she looked hopefully up. "No. Foot down, no. I'm not six, petal, and I'm not pretending to be a bloody beaver."
"People are so cruel," Aerona said sadly. "This is why I prefer the company of six-year-olds, you know. They're so much more accomodating than thirty-year-olds."
"Thirty?" Dylan snorted. "I'm forty five by my count."
"Really?" Aerona asked. "Do you know? I think I'm twenty seven."
"Deduction," Dylan shrugged. "About that. I could be wrong, but I doubt it, because my skills are immense and I'm excellent."
"Yes," Aerona said thoughtfully. "Modesty is one of the more difficult skills for you, though, isn't it?"
"Madog says I must practise very hard," Dylan said morosely. "And then one day I might learn. Ooh, cool shelter! Now they'll never see us."
"And triple insulated," Aerona said proudly, stepping back. The shelter looked very much like a long, wedge-shaped, overgrown bank. "And it's water-proof. I'm doing the floor and then it's done."
"Just as well," Dylan said reflectively, his restless eyes darting upwards to the canopy above them. The sun had set fifteen minutes before, the surrounding trees filtering out a lot of the weak dusk light, and the world had bled to a monochrome tableau of greys and shadows beyond the golden, comforting glow of their firelight. Bats flew past above them, and somewhere into the trees an owl called. "You won't be able to see it soon. Wonder if Adara will fall into a ditch?"
"I doubt it," Aerona giggled, starting to strip moss off the bank she'd seen earlier. "She seems fairly sensible, you know."
It was a small shelter, so it only took five minutes to fill the floor with ten inches of browse, more than enough to keep them so far off the ground the rising cold would never reach them. Carefully, Aerona topped it off with moss and bracken, and then climbed in on hands and knees as the sky above faded to a rich, deep blue, the stars sailing out. It was beautifully springy inside, and noticeably warmer.
"I'm done!" she called happily. "Elevated floor! For all your outdoor comfort needs."
"Not all of them," Dylan's voice grinned craftily from just behind her, and suddenly his arm snaked around her waist and flung her down onto her back. Aerona squealed, and giggled as he leaned over her on all fours, his beads hanging down just far enough to tickle her jaw.
"Dylan," Aerona scolded, grinning. "We're in the middle of Saxonia!"
"Madog says I'm a punishment by myself," he said, his lips just brushing hers. "So I'll have to do, as payback for three days of playing that bloody game."
"We were only flying for an hour and -"
He kissed in much the same manner as he entered rooms, as though he owned the place and was instantly at home, expecting to be welcomed. It wasn't, strictly speaking, dominance, although clearly he had his own measure of that. It was more like... authority. A certainty that he wouldn't be challenged.
"An hour and a half," Aerona finally managed when he'd let her. Above her Dylan settled down, his body pressing against hers, all hard muscle and strength. "That's not -"
He pressed one finger to her chin, tipping her head to the side.
"You're beautiful, you know," he whispered into her ear, making her shiver. "You probably haven't worked that out, because you hang out with bantam humans. But you are."
"Bizarrely enough," Aerona said softly, "so are your eyes."
She cupped his face with both hands, holding him obediently still as she ran her thumbs gently across the black, scarred skin beneath his eyes.
"Thank you for saving me," Dylan said, his voice suddenly intense, gaze locked onto hers for once. Aerona squirmed.
"It's fine," she said, awkwardly. "I mean, thanks for going in first and not letting me be blinded and such, it was thoroughly decent, you know? It could have gone either way."
"Oh, take a compliment, would you?" Dylan grinned, and pressed one powerful thigh between her legs without warning, grinding into her. Aerona bit back a moan, arching into the touch. "You did well, I still have my mind. No jokes, please, flower, I get enough from Madog."
"Wouldn't dream of it," she panted, threading her fingers into his hair. "Er... Adara will - "
"If she's quick, she can join in," Dylan grinned. "I don't mind sharing you."
He was the same in bed as he was kissing; the same as he was with everything, it seemed, and Aerona decided it was very much a Deputy thing. Dylan was a man totally accustomed to giving orders, totally at home being in charge. But, of course, in a sexual context she was treated to the other side of the Wingleader coin; the whole experience was about her, not him. This was Dylan taking care of her. This was a reward, not a punishment. It was thoroughly charming.
Gods, he didn't shut up, though. There was, apparently, a switch somewhere inside Dylan's head that he didn't have access to. It was probably just as well that Adara still wasn't back once they'd finished. There was a good chance it would have been the chattiest night of her life between the two of them. And he kept getting bored in one position, until Aerona threatened him with a round of 'I-Spy' unless he stayed still for more than thirty seconds.
Finally they lay contentedly against each other in the dark, her back against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around her.
"Do you think we'll find Owain?" Aerona asked once they'd caught their breath. She was wide awake and hungry, now. "Here in Saxonia?"
"Yeah," Dylan said languidly. He had hold of one set of her beads between his fingers, rotating them gently. "Guy's a tool, and thinks he's accomplishing something here. It makes sense."
"What do you think he thinks he's doing?"
"Is this about to be a riddle?" Dylan asked. His eyes were still closed, voice sleepy. "Is the real question going to be what do you think I think Madog thinks I think he thinks Awen thinks he's doing?"
"Ooh, good question!" Aerona said happily, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself up half on her elbows, half on Dylan's chest. "It's like a really complicated game."
"Which we're not playing," Dylan said sternly. "Countrywide stability? I don't know. You're the expert now. What do you think he thinks you think he thinks he's doing?"
"Oh," Aerona said. "Well. He's not a Rider. He's self-motivated. He's bought into Flyn's plan because it feeds his ego and gives him a chance to show Awen that he's cleverer and a better Wingleader than her."
"Say that again?"
Adara appeared at the entrance to the shelter in a crouch, a brace of hares in one hand. She was silhouetted against the fire, her face lost to darkness, but her voice was dangerous. Aerona sighed, and Dylan's arm tightened around her slightly, seemingly involuntarily. He otherwise didn't move.
"He's wrong, obviously," Aerona offered. "But I think that's why -"
"Of course it is," Adara spat, turning her head to the trees, but Aerona knew the rancour wasn't directed at her. "Because never mind all evidence to the contrary, never mind that she led him for over twenty years, never mind that she loved him anyway, and now she's - "
She broke off, pausing a moment, and stood abruptly.
"Adara," Dylan said quietly. "Come in here."
"No," Adara said, her voice being forced back to calm. "It's okay, I'm just -"
"In," Dylan repeated, and this time it was very subtly an order. And that was a Wingleader gift, Aerona marvelled. His tone was still completely non-confrontational, non-demanding, still tinged with sleepiness, still compassionate; but now it was an order. Adara was still for a moment more, and then dropped down again, moving into the shelter. Aerona rolled away from Dylan, ignoring the pleasant loss of warmth, and they pulled her down between them.
"We're going to catch him," Dylan said matter-of-factly, pulling Adara into his arms. Aerona hugged her on the other side, the leather uniform cold against her skin. "He's a loser. In the history of living creatures losing stuff, no one has ever lost at everything this badly. Guy's going to get lost on his way to the afterlife, even. We'll catch him."
"I really, really hope so," Adara said, quietly bitter. "I want to render him. More than my oh so pretty words can convey. But even more than that, I want to take him back to the Union entirely unharmed and drop him in chains in front of Awen for her to render."
"He'll be here somewhere," Aerona said, her heart aching for her. She found one set of Adara's beads in the dark and closed her fist around them. "And we'll find him. He's here fairly brazenly, the people will know something. It'll be unusual for them to encounter a Rider."
"What's the real problem, though?" Dylan asked, stroking a hand calmly up and down Adara's side. "You can tell Aunty Dylan."
"I don't want her to die," Adara said wearily, sounding lost. "Not like this. No battle, no illness, she's just... fading away, nothing we can do. And it's his fault! Him, and Flyn, and..."
And you can't hold her, Aerona thought. And you can't fully avenge her if Flyn stays where he is. And he probably will.
"It's funny," Adara said tiredly. "On our way home from Aberystwyth, I told Awen that bad luck comes in threes, and she'd had all three. She said she only counted two. And now this."
"What were they?" Aerona asked quietly, running her fingertips across Adara's scalp. "All three?"
"Flyn being an odious," Adara sighed, leaning into Aerona's hand slightly. "Owain being a big oily freak with the morals of a bear. And, the one she hadn't counted; Lord Gwilym."
"Epic fail," Dylan muttered. "I was hoping I hadn't seen that."
"So was I," Aerona said sadly. "They were so cute together."
"Oh, yes," Adara said miserably. "She smiled with him. Her genuine smile, not her for-the-outside-world-only smile."
"So, you seem to know all about Owain now?" Dylan broke in suddenly.
"What?" Aerona asked, taken aback. "Well, not all about. I mean, it's mostly guesswork on my part."
"That's fine," Dylan said. "Life is obviously mostly guesswork on his, the loser. Why did he want Lord Gwilym dead?"
"Ooh, scandalous question!" Adara murmured. "Let's gossip like kitchen staff."
"He didn't," Aerona said. She'd thought hard about this. "It was a cover. He wanted Awen to join him. He set that up to display the seriousness of the situation to her."
"But..." Adara paused. "Why?"
"Because he - " Aerona paused. "Look. He's an idiot. Let's all agree on that now. He thought about himself more than the country, he clearly had appalling social skills and I'm told he wasn't an incredibly attractive person."
"There's a mild description," Adara remarked sourly. "There have been more attractive fleas."
"Hey, I know some mighty fine fleas," Dylan said mock-indignantly.
"Very well," Adara said. "I shall rescind my comments re: fleas. You have my full apologies."
"I accept and appreciate that," Dylan said, mollified. Aerona giggled. "Anyway, yes, boy had his arse where his face should have been, let's move on. I believe we're on: why?"
"Well," Aerona said, fighting her imagination not to supply an image, "in spite of all that, you see, he does sort of think like a Rider. Not properly," she added hastily, in case either of them errupted at the sacrilege. "He's not a Rider, never was. But in some ways he thinks like one. So, firstly, whatever the truth of the matter, he genuinely thinks he's helping Cymru. That this work is important."
"Tool," Dylan said. "Oh. I appear to have inadvertantly said the word 'tool' aloud. I can't think why."
Wonderfully, it made Adara laugh. Aerona grinned in the dark, and hugged her tighter.
"And secondly," she continued, "Awen was his Wingleader. Madog was right, back in Aberystwyth; it's a complicated relationship. You can not get on with them, hate them even, as much as you want; but at the end of the day if they give an order you follow it-"
"Sometimes Madog orders me to kill myself so he can have peace," Dylan said. "I never do, though."
"Clearly," Adara said, "you have a special relationship, you weirdo."
"Except they don't, you see?" Aerona said earnestly. "Because even you, Dylan, deeply cynical though you are; if you do something and Madog praises you for it, deep down, some part of you will always clap its metaphorical hands and be pleased, won't it? Like a dog with its master. We all do that. Wingleaders are important."
"Don't make me admit to that," Dylan said, alarmed. "My cool, hard reputation will crumble."
"Oh, Dylan," Adara said lightly and mock-sympathetically, patting his hand. "You don't have one."
"A Saxon thought I was a demon, I'll have you know," Dylan sniffed. "Hey, is this true of Deputies too? Does anyone want me to pat them on the head?"
"Of course not," Adara said. "You have germs."
"Yes it is," Aerona giggled. "To a lesser extent, admittedly, but yes. Although possibly not for Adara."
"Owain never praised us, really," Adara shrugged. "He would sometimes, but it never felt sincere. More like he was doing it because Deputies Say Nice Things. It was always Awen we wanted to hear it from."
"I imagine your Wing like getting back-handed compliments from you, Dylan," Aerona said thoughtfully. "Since that's generally how you communicate."
"What, like, 'Oh well done, you didn't mess it up'?" Dylan asked. "I hope so. That's what I tell them."
"Even when they do mess it up?" Adara grinned, and Dylan snorted.
"No," he said. "Then I smack them upside the head and tell them they owe me a pint. Oh, I rock so hard at leadership, baby."
"We've sailed wildly off-topic," Adara said, turning to Aerona. "Like mapless verbal sailors. Where were we? Owain thinking a bit like a Rider and so liking Awen telling him how intelligent and well-endowed he was."
"Yes," Aerona agreed. "Which is the whole point, see? He spent all those years plotting away with Flyn and thinking he was delivering Cymru unto her salvation from forces unnamed, but ultimately -"
"Ah!" Adara said. "He needed Awen to validate it. Even though he thought he should be Wingleader, it made no difference because she was his."
"Gold star!" Aerona said happily. "Or - well, maybe not, since you're not six-"
"So I can't have a gold star?" Adara asked, disappointed. "My life just isn't working out right now."
"So he didn't want to kill Lord Gwilym?" Dylan asked, apparently stuck on the idea. Adara snorted.
"Are you listening at all?" she demanded. "No. It was a creepy Awen thing. I have no trouble believing this, either."
"I don't think so, anyway," Aerona shrugged. "I could be wrong. Although I don't think he actually cared if Lord Gwilym died or not. He's not politically important to Flyn one way or the other, since he wasn't involved in Lady Marged's crazy scheme of win and kittens and Aberystwyth is nowhere near the border. Alive he's useful, but not vital. Dead he's no great loss."
"And that's the end of the mystery," Dylan said, his voice sing-song. "Right! Dinner time! And then we're going out, boys and girls."
The reason for Adara's lateness back to camp became swiftly apparent; she'd already skinned and partly butchered the hares and had managed to find a few wild leeks from somewhere, which Aerona found wildly impressive. As expected, though, years of being in Alpha Wings had left neither Dylan nor Adara with any skill at actually cooking beyond making-the-meat-not-be-raw, so Aerona took over and made kebabs that she drizzled with a little bit of honey from her own supply. They also had the added bonus of being far faster to cook than a stew, leaving them with plenty of time to plan.
"Right," Dylan said, rubbing his palms together with mock-enthusiasm in the firelight. "So! Aerona. You look Phoenician. Still got that sugar?"
"Are those things related or are you just rambling?" Adara asked mildly, and dodged a clip around the ear from Dylan.
"Yes," Aerona giggled. "What's my cover?"
"Anything you like," Dylan shrugged. "But take the sugar, because it adds to the idea that you're a trader. You're approaching head on, because if our boy Owain sees you he won't suspect you. Find a tavern, be a weary traveller. Ask around. If you think people don't want to talk about Owain, ask about Coenred, and vice versa, understand?"
"Whereas you're going in sideways?" Aerona asked. Dylan grinned.
"I'm lateral," he said. "The world cannot understand me. I will be unseen. If anyone does see me, I'll be a demon."
"What about me?" Adara asked doubtfully. "I don't look Phoenician or a demon. And I've never had to be stealthy."
"You look Celtic," Aerona said thoughtfully, inspecting Adara's face. "As far as I know the Saxons are friends with Dál Riada. Can you speak any Erinnish? Alban?"
"Bits, that's all," Adara said, pulling a face. "I can get by in Punic, but..."
"Well then, pickle," Dylan said, stretching. "It's up to you. You can either go with Aerona and try to pass as a retarded trader or you can stay with the merod and kill anyone who may accidently stumble across them. I like honey."
"I want to be there if you find him, though," Adara said wretchedly. "As painful as it is to admit, he can actually fight very well."
"We're not taking him tonight," Aerona said earnestly. "We're just finding him now. We'll plan once we have. And we have at least four more 'cities' to try after this one."
"True," Adara sighed. "I'll guard the merod, then."
"Awesome," Dylan said, standing. "In that case, let's get Aerona changed and go. Oh, and remember: the name not to mention in these parts is Madog."
**********
Culture shock struck as she entered the tavern; there were no bards. A brief glance around for the bar revealed no bards standing and waiting to play, either, but there was a slowly roasting pig over the fire that a man was turning on a spit. And the gender balance was thrown. As Aerona threaded her way to the bar she observed the high number of men around her, drinking in small groups loudly. There were women there, fortunately, stopping her from standing out from the crowd too much, but most of them were of some race other than Saxon. The conversation buzzed around her, paying her no heed.
In fact, most of the women looked Celtic, their clothes Dál Riadan, strongly suggesting that they were land traders. The Saxons around them threw them suspicious glances occasionally, which Aerona noted she wasn't getting. They trusted Phoenicians, it seemed. They were less keen on Cymric look-a-likes.
And then there was the fact that she was surrounded by Saxons. She thanked every deity listening that Adara hadn't come. Even Aerona was feeling suddenly twitchy, ingrained instincts and teachings raging at her, telling her she had to fight her way free. Adara fought them all the time. It would have been a far stronger urge for her.
"What'll it be, friend?" the barman asked in Punic, and Aerona looked up. He was in his fifties, and missing an arm and an eye. She forced herself to smile.
"A mead if you have one, thank you," she said. "It is hard to come by back home. I look forward to my trips here mostly for the drink!"
"Aye," the man grinned, pulling out a tankard from beneath the bar and placing it onto a small metal shelf beneath the barrel to pour one-handed. "You're not the first I've heard say so. Nothing like a local delicacy to bring in tourists, I find."
"It's certainly helpful," Aerona agreed, watching the tankard fill, and carefully weighed her options. Barkeeps were excellent sources of information if you asked them just right. The trick was to get onto their wavelength; the risk was missing it. "How late are you open until, my friend?"
"Oh, a few hours yet," he smiled over his shoulder. "No rush. You been travelling a while?"
"It sometimes feels that way," Aerona said wryly, and he laughed. "Mostly, I am simply finding this trip a strange experience. I have visited Saxonia before, of course, but it is changed from my last journey. It has been exhausting simply learning the new social boundaries."
"Aye," the barman nodded. "For us as well, if I'm honest, friend. We've always fought, kingdoms between each other like. But we've never..."
"Conquered?" Aerona suggested. The barman snorted.
"That's about the extent of it," he nodded, and for the tiniest, briefest of moments, Aerona saw him wrinkle his nose, and found her way in. "That's four kingdoms on the border under one king, now. Three more inland. One king. Never known it before."
"It is a sizable undertaking," Aerona nodded. "And yes, very different, so I thought. I found it very unexpected in Saxonia."
"And then some," a large man beside Aerona growled, and she fought tooth and nail to control her impulse to attack him. "It's not Saxon, you know."
"Ah," the barman sniffed, bringing the mead over to Aerona. She carefully selected a Phoenician coin to pay with. "Pay him no attention, friend. He's traditional."
"Indeed?" Aerona asked politely, sipping the mead. The man sniffed, glaring at the barman.
"You know how many generations back I can trace my family tree?" he asked sourly. "Fifteen. And until our new Great King," he raised his tankard in mock-salute, "I lived in the same way each of them did. That's Saxon, Phoenician. That's what we are."
All of which was utterly, wildly abhorrent to Aerona's cultural and religious views. She hastily reminded herself that Breguswid was different, and didn't knife him.
"So your people are displeased with your new state?" Aerona asked instead. The barman picked up a dirty rag, wiping it along the bar top.
"Well, there it gets complicated," he said, his plaited moustache quirking over his smile. "Some are, some aren't. And of those who aren't, opinions differ."
"Yes, I received this impression elsewhere," Aerona said as wryly as she could. "This makes the trading climate uncertain! So... you and others disapprove, because your new life is different from your old one?"
"It's against everything we've held dear for generations," the large man spat, draining his tankard and throwing it to the barman, who caught it one handed. Aerona nodded, and didn't knife him.
"I see," she said. "Then, some are happy with this change, and like your new king very much. And some disapprove because...?"
She let it trail off in the barman's direction as he poured out more beer for the large angry man.
"Some of us," he said very carefully, "much like the ones who are happy now; some of us feel that maybe Saxonia could be greater than she currently is."
"For fuck's sake," the angry man muttered, but he said no more because he wanted his beer. The barman gave him an impassive glance.
"The fact is, what worked once will not work forever more," he said. "We have a rich heritage, no doubt about it. But that should mean we are making our mark upon the world. We are not. And in the war against Cymru we are going nowhere as we are."
"They can't fight us off forever," the angry man snorted, and Aerona didn't knife him.
"No," the barman said shortly. "But before they lose they'll march on us here. Trust me on this one. We're alive through their generosity. And believe me, I know."
His bitterness was like a lance. Aerona struggled with herself, and lost.
"May I ask?" she said quietly. "Your wounds? They are from your border conflicts?"
"Oh, aye," the barman said darkly. "I went with three brothers that day. And around eighty others. I was left alive to carry a message back home. Not that the words mattered," he added scornfully. "I was a message myself. The only survivor from eighty men against one single Wing of Riders."
"A single Wing?" Aerona asked, wrestling the glee out of her tone to leave it sympathetically fascinated. The barman nodded, carrying the beer back to the angry man.
"The Alpha Wing," he said, smiling with his mouth only. "His lord and highness Alpha Wingleader Madog. By his sword I lost my arm and eye, and by his grace I was allowed home."
He picked up his rag and resumed his spreading the dirt more thinly around the bartop.
"But I learned the lesson," he went on grimly. "I've no love for Cymru, I'll happily admit, but he taught me a lesson that day. We've lost our honour. They've not taken it. We've thrown it away. We march against them again and again, futile every time, and it's embarrassing. We've become an embarrassment, haven't we, Phoenician? What does the rest of the world say about us?"
"The rest of the world?" Aerona asked carefully. "It is... bemused, my friend. We do not laugh at you, please do not misunderstand me, but we do not understand you."
"We're protecting our heritage," the angry man snarled, and Aerona didn't knife him.
"We're drowning in it," the barman said flatly. "The world has changed while we have remained. We've been left behind."
"This is generally the ouside view," Aerona nodded mildly. "You are not a joke. But you are a curiosity."
"Ha!" The barman grinned his broken grin. "Well put. I think we need to change, friend, and I'm a long way from being the only one. And uniting under one ruler... could conceivably work, I feel. But not, I think, this one."
"And we agree on that," the angry man grinned, swaying slightly. Aerona wondered how much he'd had to drink.
"Agreement is a fine thing," she smiled instead. "For what reasons do you dislike your king, then?"
"He shouldn't be a king," Angry Man laughed roughly. Aerona didn't stab him.
"In fact, he shouldn't," the barman said. "I think our society needs some adapting, but rules of kingship should remain, and his claim on his own throne is now false. He was only a thane in his kingdom. His sister was the wife of the king. After the king was torn limb from limb with his own sword she became queen, and herself wanted to adapt her kingdom. As her brother he exiled her for this -"
"Ah," Aerona said, and her brain cheered wildly. "But having exiled her he then did the same thing himself by uniting your kingdoms."
"Exactly!" Angry Man said angrily, thumping the bar top. "He's got no more right to rule than I have. We might as well have the woman. No offense, Phoenician."
"Ah, none taken!" Aerona said, and didn't knife him. "So, which was his kingdom? Originally?"
"South of here," the barman nodded. "Most southerly kingdom along the border. Not that he seems to be there much. He's usually up in this end of his empire these days with that pet Rider of his."
Don't react, Aerona ordered herself. Because that was massive news. And there was no way she wouldn't have heard it already as a land trader, and would react with anything other than gossipy fascination.
"Ah, yes!" she said, sipping the mead. "Yes, so I hear! Dare I ask what your opinion of this is?"
"I don't have the words, Phoenician," the barman said, his mutilated face suddenly filled with furious loathing. "The stupidity - the arrogance of it. They will come for that Rider. They will come for him and they won't leave a brick standing, and we won't have a Saxonia left to adapt or maintain."
"What does this Rider do here?" Aerona asked, genuinely curious. "Does he ever leave your king's side?"
There was a pause as both men glanced at each other and Aerona wondered if she'd overstepped the mark when the barman leaned in close, a move that would have failed the Intelligencer test for him.
"There are rumours," he said quietly. Angry Man leaned in too, his face grave. "It's said he stays with King Coenred at all times but... well. They move around Saxonia, as I say, travelling between towns. And wherever they go, it's said that people are found dead the next day. People who were speaking out against the king. In Hereford it was a roomful of twenty, door bolted from within, and half of them grown men."
"Could be just lies and stories," Angry Man said darkly. "But there's grains of truth to things. That Rider's a traitor; I reckon he'll do whatever the king tells him to stay here."
"A shame he won't be able to fight off the combined Wings of the border when they come," the barman spat. "I tell you. An arm and an eye, I lost. I don't like to think of what he'll lose before they're done with him."
Well, that was true enough. So many people were after Owain's head.
"But for now he kills the enemies of the king," Aerona murmured. "But you have told me yourself this evening, my friends, that you do not support your king? Does this not concern you?"
"Ha!" Angry Man said contemptuously, sitting up again. Aerona didn't knife him. "If he killed every man not supporting them there would be precious few Saxons left! No. We disagree; we are not dissidents. We'll start no social revolutions against him!"
"Ah," Aerona nodded. "But there are those who would challenge him, and these he kills."
"There are a lot of them, too," the barman said quietly. He hadn't leaned back with Angry Man. "So I hear. It's why the Rider has to kill them; they're a very real threat. Especially since, with a unified kingdom now, they can meet up more easily than they could before."
"This is why I don't worry so much!" Angry Man said. "The king will bring about his own downfall, as will whoever comes next. Ultimately, true Saxonia shall prevail. It always has."
"Have you had the chance to meet them yourselves yet?" Aerona asked as Angry Man enthusiastically finished his drink. "The king and his Rider?"
"Not yet," the barman smiled thinly. "But soon. He's scheduled to be arriving here in five days. He's on tour, you might say. On his way north."
And that, Aerona reflected, was just about all she needed to know here; because now it would be a simple matter of checking the map and working out where they would be tomorrow. Angry Man hammered the bar with his fist for his next drink, and Aerona didn't knife him.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Cymru - Chapter 37
MADOG
"So," Madog said with weary levity as he slid onto the bar stool by Awen. "How's your day been, darling?"
"Dreadful," she said. Her voice was muffled, a by-product of having her head resting on the bar top between her arms. "How was yours, honey?"
"Better, but not by much," Madog smiled, signalling the barman. "Although my life is quieter with Dylan gone."
"I can insult you if you like," Awen offered. "It'll be like he never left."
"That's very kind of you," Madog said thoughtfully. "But no thanks. More importantly; what have you decided on to settle the oncoming pain?"
"Peach brandy," Awen smiled, sitting up. Or raising herself to her elbows, at least. She was already stiffening, he could tell. "I have no clue where they've imported it from, but it's bloody strong. I have high hopes for blissful oblivion."
"Really? Something you don't know?" He laughed at the look she gave him, shaking his head. "Oh, come on. You know the import percentages of Cities that aren't yours. You've clearly memorised the addresses of all public figures in Casnewydd. You even speak Saxon. And you don't know the origin of this fine peach brandy?"
"Well," Awen shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. "Phoenicia somewhere, obviously, it's just a large range. And shut up."
"What she's having, thanks," Madog told the barman, a broad, middle-aged fellow with a kind face. The man gave a smile that showed he'd clearly been expecting the order and bustled off. "Do you speak any others?"
"My Cymric's pretty good," Awen grinned, and then winced. "Sorry. I've been talking to politicians too much. I've started dodging perfectly normal questions. Yes, a few."
"Which?" Madog asked, fascinated. He accepted his drink from the barman as Awen pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking.
"Germanian," she said. "Gaulish. Erinnish. Pictish. Phoenician, both Punic and Nubian. Um... Greek, obviously. Norse."
She trailed off, staring into the brandy. Madog stared at her.
"How - ?" he began.
"Bits of Egyptian and Latin," Awen said. "Oh, Celtiberian. And I can say "Welcome to Cymru" in Sanskrit. That's about it."
Madog paused to make sure. She seemed to be finished.
"Right," he said. "So that's... eleven you're fluent in? And three you can pass the time of day in."
"Oh, I can't pass the time of day in Sanskrit," Awen grinned. "Seriously. Just 'Welcome to Cymru'. If they just need welcoming, bring them to me. If they want the time, give them a clock."
"But," Madog said, vaguely astonished. "How? Genuinely, how have you learned this many?"
"I'm a bard," Awen smiled, playing with one set of beads. "Languages are part of the training. And I found them sort of addictive once I'd started, but... well. When I was growing up I was quite... focused on training to be a Rider. I imagine you were the same."
"Yes," Madog admitted. It wasn't a confession. Alpha Wingleaders didn't get their station by luck. Awen nodded.
"I wanted to learn everything," she said reminiscently. "Everything I could, anything that could make me more useful. My tutors got worried about me because I used to spend my spare time practising instead of having fun by painting Owain's clothes like everyone else. So when I decided to give music a go they all but chained me to a harp. And I wasn't going to stick with it, until I realised there was a whole extra skill set I could get from bardic training that I could use. Not that I admitted it," she added with a grin. "I let them think it was just artistic and intellectual interest. I mean, I don't think they'd have stopped me, but..."
"You didn't want to worry them," Madog nodded. "I understand."
"Thought you might," she grinned, sipping the brandy. "Anyway. The thing about bards, aside from the music, is what they're actually singing. It's history. It's this great big manual of how to do things and what works, just there and waiting for you to learn it. Someone else has already made the mistakes, now the lessons are there for the taking. I was Leader in our Wing from the start to the end of our Trials, so it was extremely useful from a military standpoint."
"Really?" Madog asked, raising his eyebrows. "From start to finish, just you?"
"I'm not sure why," Awen mused, puzzled. "But yes. Almost everyone else got to try being Deputy, but it was only me... Anyway. I realised fairly quickly that learning all this history was offering me another potentially invaluable weapon, which was cultural understanding. If you know how people think, you know how to handle them. So I asked for bardic tutors from other countries as well as here, and learned the languages."
She shrugged stiffly, swirling the brandy with one hand.
"It's easy after a while," she said dismissively. "You get the hang of it, I think. I also learned to lip-read."
"Lip-read?"
"It's what deaf people do," Awen nodded. "You learn the positions of people's mouths when they speak, so if you're across the room from them but can see their face you know what they're saying."
"Good gods, that's clever," Madog marvelled. "Damn! I should have trained as a bard. I went for medic on the grounds that I thought it would be the most useful. And then specialised in animal medicine so I could help with the livestock around Wrecsam. I think yours was the better choice."
"The grass is always greener," Awen laughed. "No. You're old for a border Wingleader, Madog, and you still have ten in your Wing. Whatever choices you've made... clearly, they were right."
"I don't know," Madog said quietly. He thought of Dylan, and his secret-Rider-caste theory, and Awen's incredible breadth of knowledge. "Can I ask you something?"
"What is it?" She looked up at him, giving him her full attention, and Madog went for broke.
"Is there," he asked carefully, "some sort of extra role, very political, that some Riders have but is kept secret from the rest?"
She blinked.
"If it's secret," she began blankly, and Madog overrode her.
"I think you're one of them," he said firmly, watching her.
"Oh," she grinned, looking back down at her brandy. "Yeah, totally. It's a Southlander thing, we do things differently."
Madog stared at her for a moment, letting the pause stretch out until she looked back up, surprise entering her eyes.
"What, you're serious?" she asked. "I'm -"
"Fascinating," Madog interrupted, shaking his head. "This is exactly how Dylan reacted. Exactly the same order: blankly dodge the question first, jokingly admit to it second, and then earnestly deny it. All that's changed is the dialogue."
"Wait, what?" Awen said, astonished. "You think Dylan is doing some kind of politics that you don't know about?"
"I almost know he is," Madog shrugged. Awen stared at him, incredulous.
"This isn't because of Owain, is it?" she asked at last, hesitantly. "You're not just-?"
"Fantastic," Madog smiled wryly. "Well done. That's the same way he ended the conversation, too."
Awen sighed and turned away, running her hands through her hair.
"Madog," she said wearily. "I have no clue at all what you're talking about. Can we go back to the first question? What is it exactly you think this... 'extra political role' entails?"
"No," Madog smiled. "Because I've seen you in action when you need to lie, remember? You're phenomenal at it. And you're denying it, so clearly you'll just give me an incredibly convincing performance about how I'm wrong."
"Oh," Awen said, giving him an odd look. "You've already decided, then. In that case, why on earth did you bother asking me?"
"I wanted to see your reaction," Madog said thoughtfully. "And it was identical to Dylan's. I think I'll ask Aerona next."
"Aerona?" Awen repeated, eyebrow raised. "I thought you said political? She's a Tutor."
"Who's crossed the country several times in the past few days involving herself in things that really aren't teaching children how to not eat belladonna," Madog nodded, and decided to use Hannibal's tactic as Awen opened her mouth. "No, it's okay. I'll stop talking about it. Clearly you aren't allowed to admit to it."
"Fine," Awen said slowly. "But you suspecting Dylan concerns me, Madog."
"Oh, don't get me wrong," he said, catching and holding her gaze. "Really. I don't think he's a traitor of some kind. Nor you, nor Aerona, nor anyone else involved; far from it. It's Union sanctioned, I think. In which case it's incredibly important. I've not mentioned it to anyone else for that reason. But."
He shook his head, watching her intently.
"If I'm right," he said quietly, "then I'm worried about him. About you, all of you. There must be an astonishing amount of extra stress involved, and he can't tell me about it. That's a difficult thing to take as a Wingleader."
She regarded him steadily, her eyes full of empathy, and then looked back down at her drink, twitching it in her fingers.
"Do you think there's one in every Wing?" she asked, haunted. "Do you think I've got one? That I haven't - gods."
Madog sighed. It was genuinely believeable, especially given how broken Awen was at the moment; but she was that good. He knew she was.
"Either that's a deeply unfair guilt-trip to shut me up," he said, "or you can stop blaming yourself right now. Because if there is one in every Wing, clearly they've been taught by the Union how to hide it and cover their tracks. But, I think it's a guilt-trip."
He laid his hand on the bar top beside hers, palm up. Awen regarded it for a moment and then took it, her fingers clinging tightly.
"There's something you've not considered," she said quietly. "And you quite possibly need to."
"Which is?" he asked gently. Awen glanced up at him, eyes serious.
"If you're right about this," she said, her gaze unwavering, "and the Union has been keeping it secret from us... then there's a reason. And if we aren't supposed to know, and they don't want us to know, it might be a good idea not to let on that we know."
Madog held her gaze for a second, and nodded.
"Good advice," he said neutrally, and raised his glass. "How strong is this, did you say?"
"I believe I classified it as 'bloody strong'," Awen said, smiling. "Try it and see. Just sip it at first, though. It's very sweet."
"Will this melt my eyebrows?" Madog asked suspiciously, sniffing it. The dichotomous scents of ripe fruit and raw-smelling alcohol met him. Awen snorted.
"If you hold it near your face for too long," she grinned. "Try it, or I shall start hammering the bar top and chanting, and then the entire room will want you to drink."
"Alright," Madog said, rolling his eyes, and he swallowed a mouthful.
Well, she'd been right. Sweet and strong were the overwhelming descriptors as Madog's tongue and throat were set on fire, the liquid scorching a path down to his stomach, the aftertaste of exotically unfamiliar fruit dancing in his nose. He grinned as he set the glass back on the bar top.
"Well," he said happily, trying not to let his voice sound too strained. "There's an experience. Tomorrow promises to be a happier time."
"Doesn't it?" Awen agreed. "I'm strongly considering slipping an extra condition into the Casnewydd import plans to include this. You should ask your Phoenician to sell it here."
"Hannibal?" Madog laughed. "We're already asking him to be a witness. And anyway, we have to stop calling him my Phoenician. Particularly now he's here."
"A man with a Rider fetish in the Union," Awen mused, and laughed. "Paradise, I should think. Even so, though? You've no plans to find him, start Round Two?"
"No," Madog smiled. "I mean, if it happens I'll be thrilled, seriously, but he has the chance to meet so many more Riders here. I don't want to get in the way of his exciting journey of notching his bedpost so many times it falls off."
"'More knots, and he's honoured'," Awen said, more or less to herself. "That's what Dylan said. What did that mean?"
"Ah," Madog said, and Awen laughed at his expression. "Yes. He had... a way with a rope. He called it... something beginning with 's', I think. Adapted from a far eastern practice of tying prisoners for torture."
"Was it... shibari, by any chance?" Awen asked, looking at the ceiling. Madog laughed and clapped.
"Very good!" he said, taking another mouthful of the brandy. "And I'd dearly love to hear the song you learned that in. Yes, it was. And the prospect of more knots is... daunting."
"And wildly appealing," Awen said, eyebrow raised. "Don't lie. You're practically salivating, man."
"I am," Madog chuckled. "Yeah. Like I say, I'd be thrilled."
"And he'd be honoured," Awen murmured, throwing him a sly glance. "That's quite the impression you left."
"Oh, he wouldn't," Madog said, squeezing her hand. "He just thinks he would be."
"I think he'll find you, you know," Awen said thoughtfully. "Do you know what he wants the Audience for?"
"No," Madog said, finishing the brandy and signalling for another. "I asked, but he said it was trading things and I wouldn't care. It's not slaves, though. He doesn't approve."
"Excellent!" Awen nodded decisively. "Well, he sounds brilliant. Oh, hey, on the subject of slaves and sex: Flyn asked me if he could see Alis earlier."
"You're joking?" Madog looked at Awen incredulously. Her expression had darkened, her eyes in the artificial light iron-grey. "And you didn't remove an eye?"
"I'm a good girl," Awen said, her smile humourless. "No. I told him since she was his assassin he didn't get to step within a mile of her. He tried to argue the point."
"Seriously?" Madog nearly choked on his refill. "And you still didn't take an eye?"
"I know," Awen agreed. "My willpower astonishes even me. I was debating manufacturing some situation in which I got to touch him and therefore accidentally kill him, but fortunately enough Lord Gwilym was there."
"Very fortunate," Madog said, with deliberate care. There was a pause, and then Awen turned and threw him a look.
"Because he pulled the conversation away," she told him reproachfully. "Don't start, you're not Adara."
"You called him 'Gwilym' in Casnewydd," Madog told her neutrally. "In front of Flyn, just before you found Alis. So he didn't notice, but... you know. Watch that."
Awen swore under her breath, rubbing her eyes with her free hand.
"It's been a great week," she said wearily. "It really has. I was considering jumping off a runway tomorrow, but then I remembered I won't be able to move and no one is likely to throw me off even if I ask nicely. Oh, and I told Adara I'd be here when she got back."
Madog sighed, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb.
"You can't have given up," he said, almost pleadingly. "Surely the druids are working on some way to - ?"
"It's never happened before," Awen shrugged tonelessly. "This is my endgame, I think. I imagined it would be more dramatic, really, but I suppose it'll hurt less this way."
"Not if you jump off a runway," Madog said sternly, and Awen grinned.
"No," she said. "Perhaps not. Although - hmm."
She turned, glancing at the door behind them, a mischievous smile lingering over her lips.
"Your Phoenician," she said, carefully unlocking their fingers and withdrawing her hand. "Incredibly tall Nubian? Long hair? Delighted smile on seeing you?"
Madog turned, and sure enough there was Hannibal crossing the tavern towards them, tailed by two more Nubians, a man and a woman. It seemed they'd pulled out all of the stops to dress for the occasion; their robes were dazzlingly bright against their black skin, and a slim gold chain linked from their right earlobes to their right nostrils, elegant and exotic. And Awen hadn't lied. Hannibal's face had lit up as he made a beeline for Madog, moving gracefully through the throng.
"Your outside chance paid off, then?" Madog grinned as they reached them, and Hannibal's deep laugh underpinned the general background chatter.
"Thanks to you, I am thinking," he said, spreading his arms wide; and he bowed before Madog could stop him. Awen actually recoiled, partially standing up from the tall stool. "You do not know what this means to us, my friend! We thank you."
"It was actually Dylan's idea," Madog said, waving a hand at Awen to sit her back down again. "Which makes it his second good idea ever. He's on a roll. Oh, this is -"
"Alpha Wingleader Awen Masarnen, if I'm not mistaken," Hannibal smiled, his black eyes sweeping over Awen's uniform. "It is a great honour, my friend. I would bow again, but you have just produced the strongest reaction I have ever seen to my doing so."
"Sorry," Awen said, mildly. "No one's ever done that to me before. I'm going to assume you're Madog's Phoenician, then?"
"What did I just say?" Madog asked wearily as Hannibal laughed again, the sound rich and deep. "I'm sorry. I think Awen has been consorting with Dylan too much and has learned the art of trying to ruin my life at every turn."
"I don't believe he minds overmuch," the woman said behind Hannibal. She smiled at Madog wryly. "He will be flattered to think of himself as yours."
"My trading partner Ezana," Hannibal said, gesturing to the third Nubian. "And my trading partner and sister, Amanitore."
"Hannibal and Amanitore?" Awen asked interestedly. "Were your parents historians?"
"They were," Amanitore said. Her voice was husky, and gentle. "Our father is a griot. A... bard, you would say."
"Did you study under a griot?" Madog asked Awen, who flashed him an amused look.
"Of course," she said. "They have some superb instruments."
Hannibal cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtfully at Awen.
"Kitka gelgelosuannon Iisusi manyan trika?" he asked, both Ezana and Amanitore turning to look. Awen snorted.
"Dolle polgara pessna papo iskoelimme ikka," she returned, her tone dry, and Hannibal's laugh was of slightly disbelieving delight.
"How very unusual," he murmured, moving to the bar on Madog's other side. Madog could feel his fingers stroking his bare arm. "I have never met a Rider with knowledge of Nubian language and history before."
"I'm a bard," Awen shrugged absently, her eyes on the door again. "Sorry, I see one of my Riders. I'll be back in a second."
Llio was moving across the room to them, threading neatly between drunken patrons. Awen slipped off her stool, her movements to Madog's trained eyes hindered by the gathering stiffness he could feel mirrored in his own body, and went to meet her. Madog recognised the body language. It was the 'We're worried about you, Leader' stance. He sighed, and turned back to Hannibal.
"She's exactly your type, actually," he told him, finishing the peach brandy and signalling for another. "Incredible Rider - really incredible, too - but horrendously damaged. You'd think you'd died and gone to the afterlife of your choice if it were possible for you to touch her."
"Yes," Hannibal said quietly, his black-and-gold eyes somber as he looked back at Awen. "We were warned to stay clear of her when we arrived. Perhaps you see her more clearly than I, but... I would not have known. She seems calm enough. Content."
"Well, she doesn't want to upset anyone," Madog shrugged. "And her acting is breath-takingly good. But she's twitchy. Any sudden movements, any physical contact she's not prepared for, she flinches."
He glanced back in time to see his point proven. Llio made an expansive gesture with one hand and a ripple ran through Awen's back, her hands raising slightly, her weight shifting forward, and then she moved back again, Llio's expression of previously-hidden worry leaping into full view. Awen reached out and squeezed Llio's wrist, and Madog winced. The desperate desire of both parties to be able to embrace each other fully was, to him, written in letters ten feet tall over their heads. He looked back, and started on his new brandy.
"I see," Hannibal said sorrowfully. "Even her own Riders. Why is this?"
"We have a Purification Ritual," Madog said gloomily. "It's used on Riders to... clean your mind, I suppose. But Awen's mind has closed down, they say. It's not working on her."
"Riders," Hannibal sighed quietly, and turned back to the barman. "Mead, please, my friend. Could this happen to you?"
"I have no idea," Madog said, continuing on his happy path to peach brandy oblivion. "Theoretically, I suppose. Ezana and Amanitore have gone to sit down."
"I'm happy here," Hannibal smiled slyly. "Since coming here, my friend, I am hearing a story about you."
"Really," Madog said evenly, shifting on the stool. He was going to have to pick up the drinking pace; the fully-body ache was starting to intensify. "Anything to do with a Saxon raid, perchance? Or has Dylan just been making stuff up again?"
"Ha! Not that I am aware of," Hannibal said, amused. "No. It was indeed of your heroics in the face of a full - ah. My apologies. I have chosen the wrong word, and made you choke."
"That," Madog managed, his eyes watering as the brandy set his lungs on fire, "was unfair."
"Perhaps," Hannibal grinned as he accepted the mead from the barman, passing across a Phoenician coin. "I see things differently, we have discussed this before. But - truly a full raid? Just you both?"
"No," Madog said awkwardly. "We just held them off, that was all. They were only defeated once the Wings turned up."
"Indeed?" Hannibal said, reaching out and gently tucking a braid behind Madog's ear. "And how long did you hold off these three hundred Saxons?"
"Oh, I don't know," Madog muttered, waving a hand. "Five minutes? Maybe more? Not long. Stop making it sound - "
"Would you care to know how many other individuals the world contains who could hold three hundred warriors at bay for even a minute?" Hannibal asked, one eyebrow raised. Madog snorted.
"Plenty," he said. "Welcome to Cymru. And anyway, I wasn't alone. Awen was there. And did most of the work."
"I did not!" Awen said fervently to his left, reclaiming her stool. "You did far more than I did. Which part of you is hurting most, by the way? It's my back."
"Ribs," he said mournfully. "It's just starting to get painful to sit, I'm having to force myself not to slouch."
"You are both in pain?" Hannibal asked, looking mildly horrified. "Why is this? I thought you had both received medical help?"
"That's the problem," Madog said, pulling a face. "If a druid does muscular healing you stiffen up like a bitch after a day or two."
"Which is why we're frantically drinking this incredibly strong and exotic tasting liquor in a desperate attempt to forego our nerve endings," Awen nodded sagaciously, downing the remains of hers and signalling the barman. "We reckon if we drink enough we don't need to wake up until about mid-afternoon tomorrow, by which time we ought to just about be mobile."
"That's the plan," Madog grinned. "We're Wingleaders, you know. It's our job to produce such exemplary tactical thinking."
"It's masterful," Hannibal said merrily. "But I feel compelled to highlight its flaws. Correct me, of course, if I am mistaken my friends, but in spite of your legendary healing abilities, you can still feel the after-effects of drink, can you not?"
"Dammit!" Madog said theatrically, sitting up. Awen twitched, her expression staying resolutely cheerful. "He's right. Quick, Awen, let's brainstorm."
"Okay," she said determinedly. "How about, the barman gives us a full bottle each and we don't stop drinking long enough to sober up until tomorrow evening at the earliest?"
"Wow, that's good," Madog muttered, impressed. "Yeah, let's do that."
"At which point, of course, you will feel it all the more," Hannibal murmured.
"He's right," Awen said gloomily, and then threw them a sly look. "For me, at any rate. Tell me, Hannibal; if you can do shibari you must be able to do Greek massage?"
"Exemplary thinking indeed," Hannibal laughed. "I can, of course."
"There you are, then," Awen said triumphantly, drinking about half of her glass in one go. "You're sorted, Madog. You only need to drink enough for tonight. I'll take your bottle."
"What's a Greek massage when it's at home?" Madog asked blankly. Hannibal smiled.
"A medical technique," he explained. "It is Graeco-Egyptian, to be precise. Their doctors made great studies of musculature several centuries ago. It is a fairly firm massage, the aim being to stimulate the muscles rather than the skin. Very effective."
"I'm going to recommend it to the Union," Awen said, her fingers brushing over her left shoulder - which, Madog recalled, had been stiff in Aberystwyth. Presumably she'd found someone there who could do this rather incredible sounding massage. "Every Wing should know how to do it. It needs to be on the syllabus from birth."
"Surely that'll take a while, though?" Madog said doubtfully. "To do someone's entire body? You don't want to -"
"I very much want to," Hannibal corrected him, giving him one of his slightly sad smiles. "It will be my pleasure. And, in honesty, yours."
"It really will be," Awen murmured. Madog gave her a narrow look.
"Right," he said. "And how do you know about this, Leader, hmm? I want details."
"Lord Gwilym," she grinned, very deliberately avoiding his eye. Her voice was perfectly casual. "I move and I shake."
"A celebrity lifestyle indeed," Hannibal chuckled. "Might I ask what was wrong?"
"Oh, my shoulder picked a fight with a stone floor," Awen said dismissively, and Madog tried not to wince. That would have been one of Owain's injuries, then. "Astonishingly enough, it lost. But I'd just saved Lord Gwilym's life, as it happened, and he felt appropriately grateful."
"I imagine he did," Hannibal said, but whatever else he'd been about to say next was lost as the door to the tavern slammed back, admitting Lady Erys and Lord Gwilym, towed by Lady Marged, in turn led by Councillor Gwenllian. Awen sprang off the stool, her eyes alert and posture tense, and Madog just had time to bark a quick, quiet 'Stand down, Rider' to freeze her in place before Gwenllian's eyes swept the room and saw them, her smile widening. She started pushing blithely through the people.
Awen exhaled slowly and climbed back onto the stool, wincing slightly.
"Thanks," she said quietly. Madog nodded and put his hand back on the bar top beside her, and Awen took it instantly, her grip tight.
"You're welcome," he said neutrally. Beside him Hannibal watched sorrowfully, and Madog reflected that it was possibly some kind of torture for him. He remembered their first meeting in the tavern in Tregwylan, the shy smile, the admittance that he liked 'helping Riders'. Awen needed help. Hannibal couldn't give it to her.
"Leaders!" Gwenllian said joyfully, reaching them both and dropping a hand onto their shoulders each. Madog could feel the tremor through Awen's hand. They all pretended not to notice. "Medicating, are we? Good on you. What have you found?"
"Peach brandy," Awen said, her voice professionally smooth as she raised her glass, swirling the clear liquid. "And I feel quite light-headed. I think it's starting to work."
"Really?" Madog said, disappointed. "It hasn't for me yet, why - ?"
"You started after me," Awen grinned. "Catch up."
"Yes, do," Gwenllian said, turning to the Sovereigns behind her. "That's an order. Marged? Do you have the cards?"
"Ooh, yes, dear," Lady Marged's jolly voice trilled happily. "Somewhere, anyway; you know pockets, always extra things in them... Erys dear, could you hold that for a moment?"
Madog grinned up at Hannibal as the muttered sounds of three Sovereigns being laden with wool began, undercut with Gwenllian calling for the barman.
"Sorry," he said. "It looks like were about to be forced into a drinking game. I'll understand if you don't want to stick around for this bit."
"Of course I do," Hannibal said, his eyes alight. He leaned down, tipping Madog's chin up with two fingers and kissing his forehead tenderly. "I have a limited time with you, my friend. And someone will need to carry you back."
"Ooh, he'll have a good night, too!" Marged said happily. "You see, Gwilym? You should have encouraged Ienifer and Ieuan. You'd have had a smashing time."
"Yes, when they started throwing things at each other," Lord Gwilym said sardonically, pushing his way to the bar beside Awen -
- who froze. Madog could feel it through her hand, a sudden stilling of her entire body that Gwenllian must have felt through her shoulder, judging by the way her head whipped around from the card-hunting Sovereigns to Awen. Madog blinked. From his angle he couldn't quite tell, but he wasn't sure that Lord Gwilym was even touching her. And instead of jumping, instead of her body arming up... it had simply gone still.
Gwenllian's expression flashed calculating for a second, and then she hid it with her carefree smile.
"Cards!" she said merrily, taking them from Marged and dropping them onto the bar top. "Excellent! Get Madog caught up, Gwilym, I'll get the drinks; barman seems to be hiding from me, can't think why..."
"I'm starting to wish I hadn't taught her this game," Lord Gwilym said reflectively. "I think she's a bit too keen. Sorry, I need to reach around you."
"Go ahead," Awen said easily, swaying backwards out of the way. "Madog, I really think you should get a bottle and run."
"And abandon you?" he grinned. "Anyway, I was just given an order. I can't."
"Oh, yeah." Awen shook her head as Hannibal chuckled. "Oh; Hannibal, this is Lord Gwilym of Aberystwyth; Sovereign, this is Madog's Phoenician, whose name is Hannibal because his parents were historians."
"Gods damn it, Awen," Madog muttered, dropping his head into one hand. He'd have smacked her if it wouldn't have caused her to freak out and slaughter them all. Hannibal's rich laugh reverberated through the bar top.
"It's a pleasure," Lord Gwilym said, his tone jolly as he shuffled the cards. "Oh, don't bow, it makes me feel like a heel."
"Oh, that won't work," Madog said, looking up. "He even bows to Riders. I think he just likes being at a right angle."
"I merely find it a privilege to be among you, my friend," Hannibal said, amused. He leaned his tall frame against the bar, drink in one hand, the other dropping to and resting on Madog's thigh. "And now. You have an order you must comply with! And I am fascinated by what this game shall be."
"It's been oversold to you, then," Lord Gwilym declared. "Which is rare for a Phoenician, I suspect. Anyway; red or black, Madog?"
"What?"
"Choose!" Gwilym grinned. He was holding the cards in one hand still in their pack, the top card held ready between thumb and forefinger. "What do you reckon this card will be? Red or black?"
"Black," Madog said warily. The card was laid triumphantly on the bar top, clearly red. "Oh. Do I drink?"
"You do!" Gwilym said happily. "Next; which suit?"
"Circles?"
"Swords! Drink!"
"This is already a game I will have to ban Caradog from learning," Awen observed. Hannibal nodded gravely.
"Many of my sailors as well," he agreed.
"What's this card?" Gwilym asked, holding one up. "Say the eight of circles."
"The eight of circles?" Madog repeated, bewildered. Gwilym placed the card. It was indeed the eight of circles.
"Correct!" Lord Gwilym said. "Pick someone to drink."
"Now that," Madog grinned, "is more like it. Get to it, Awen."
"I'm not even under orders," she grumbled half-heartedly, drinking. Lord Gwilym held up another card.
"Higher or lower than an eight?" he asked. "Ace is always high."
"Higher," Madog said. "Awen," he added as the ace dropped onto the pack.
"Ace is lower for this round," Gwilym declared. "Higher or lower than an ace?"
"Higher," Madog said, and Gwilym shook his head with mock-regret as he dropped a six onto the bar.
"Ace is always high," he said solemnly, as Awen burst out laughing. "Drink. What's this card? Say the three of cups."
"The three of cups," Madog repeated, hastily swallowing down the brandy. "And I want to thump you."
"Correct!" Gwilym said. "About the three of cups. But that was an inverted round, so you have to drink anyway. What's this?"
He picked up the next card and flashed it towards Madog for a second before holding it hidden again, expectant. Madog blinked.
"The druid of leaves," he said, and watched in vague disbelief as Lord Gwilym deliberately put the card to the bottom of the pack and pulled out another random one.
"No," he said cheerfully. Both Awen and Hannibal were laughing by now. "It's the three of leaves, I'm afraid. What about this one?"
He flashed the next card as Madog drank.
"The ten of circles," Madog said. He was starting to grin uncontrollably. "Although I suspect it won't be."
"It's not," Lord Gwilym said happily, pulling the first card back from the bottom of the pack and placing it. "It was the druid of leaves, you should have stood firm. Higher or lower?"
"Lower?"
"Correct!" Gwilym said grandly. "Choose someone to drink!"
"Awen-"
"Incorrect, I'm afraid," Gwilym said. "It was Hannibal. Now you all drink."
"Dylan is absolutely never allowed to learn or play this," Madog said flatly. "In case he ever asks any of you. Be aware."
"A clue for the next one!" Gwilym said. "Think of Awen."
"The bard of swords," Awen said levelly, watching her drink, and was proved right as Gwilym dropped the bard of swords onto the bar top.
"Correct!" he said, and Madog laughed at her wry look. "Drink, Madog. Higher or lower?"
"Lower," Madog said, amused, and then everything got a bit hazy after that.
"So," Madog said with weary levity as he slid onto the bar stool by Awen. "How's your day been, darling?"
"Dreadful," she said. Her voice was muffled, a by-product of having her head resting on the bar top between her arms. "How was yours, honey?"
"Better, but not by much," Madog smiled, signalling the barman. "Although my life is quieter with Dylan gone."
"I can insult you if you like," Awen offered. "It'll be like he never left."
"That's very kind of you," Madog said thoughtfully. "But no thanks. More importantly; what have you decided on to settle the oncoming pain?"
"Peach brandy," Awen smiled, sitting up. Or raising herself to her elbows, at least. She was already stiffening, he could tell. "I have no clue where they've imported it from, but it's bloody strong. I have high hopes for blissful oblivion."
"Really? Something you don't know?" He laughed at the look she gave him, shaking his head. "Oh, come on. You know the import percentages of Cities that aren't yours. You've clearly memorised the addresses of all public figures in Casnewydd. You even speak Saxon. And you don't know the origin of this fine peach brandy?"
"Well," Awen shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. "Phoenicia somewhere, obviously, it's just a large range. And shut up."
"What she's having, thanks," Madog told the barman, a broad, middle-aged fellow with a kind face. The man gave a smile that showed he'd clearly been expecting the order and bustled off. "Do you speak any others?"
"My Cymric's pretty good," Awen grinned, and then winced. "Sorry. I've been talking to politicians too much. I've started dodging perfectly normal questions. Yes, a few."
"Which?" Madog asked, fascinated. He accepted his drink from the barman as Awen pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking.
"Germanian," she said. "Gaulish. Erinnish. Pictish. Phoenician, both Punic and Nubian. Um... Greek, obviously. Norse."
She trailed off, staring into the brandy. Madog stared at her.
"How - ?" he began.
"Bits of Egyptian and Latin," Awen said. "Oh, Celtiberian. And I can say "Welcome to Cymru" in Sanskrit. That's about it."
Madog paused to make sure. She seemed to be finished.
"Right," he said. "So that's... eleven you're fluent in? And three you can pass the time of day in."
"Oh, I can't pass the time of day in Sanskrit," Awen grinned. "Seriously. Just 'Welcome to Cymru'. If they just need welcoming, bring them to me. If they want the time, give them a clock."
"But," Madog said, vaguely astonished. "How? Genuinely, how have you learned this many?"
"I'm a bard," Awen smiled, playing with one set of beads. "Languages are part of the training. And I found them sort of addictive once I'd started, but... well. When I was growing up I was quite... focused on training to be a Rider. I imagine you were the same."
"Yes," Madog admitted. It wasn't a confession. Alpha Wingleaders didn't get their station by luck. Awen nodded.
"I wanted to learn everything," she said reminiscently. "Everything I could, anything that could make me more useful. My tutors got worried about me because I used to spend my spare time practising instead of having fun by painting Owain's clothes like everyone else. So when I decided to give music a go they all but chained me to a harp. And I wasn't going to stick with it, until I realised there was a whole extra skill set I could get from bardic training that I could use. Not that I admitted it," she added with a grin. "I let them think it was just artistic and intellectual interest. I mean, I don't think they'd have stopped me, but..."
"You didn't want to worry them," Madog nodded. "I understand."
"Thought you might," she grinned, sipping the brandy. "Anyway. The thing about bards, aside from the music, is what they're actually singing. It's history. It's this great big manual of how to do things and what works, just there and waiting for you to learn it. Someone else has already made the mistakes, now the lessons are there for the taking. I was Leader in our Wing from the start to the end of our Trials, so it was extremely useful from a military standpoint."
"Really?" Madog asked, raising his eyebrows. "From start to finish, just you?"
"I'm not sure why," Awen mused, puzzled. "But yes. Almost everyone else got to try being Deputy, but it was only me... Anyway. I realised fairly quickly that learning all this history was offering me another potentially invaluable weapon, which was cultural understanding. If you know how people think, you know how to handle them. So I asked for bardic tutors from other countries as well as here, and learned the languages."
She shrugged stiffly, swirling the brandy with one hand.
"It's easy after a while," she said dismissively. "You get the hang of it, I think. I also learned to lip-read."
"Lip-read?"
"It's what deaf people do," Awen nodded. "You learn the positions of people's mouths when they speak, so if you're across the room from them but can see their face you know what they're saying."
"Good gods, that's clever," Madog marvelled. "Damn! I should have trained as a bard. I went for medic on the grounds that I thought it would be the most useful. And then specialised in animal medicine so I could help with the livestock around Wrecsam. I think yours was the better choice."
"The grass is always greener," Awen laughed. "No. You're old for a border Wingleader, Madog, and you still have ten in your Wing. Whatever choices you've made... clearly, they were right."
"I don't know," Madog said quietly. He thought of Dylan, and his secret-Rider-caste theory, and Awen's incredible breadth of knowledge. "Can I ask you something?"
"What is it?" She looked up at him, giving him her full attention, and Madog went for broke.
"Is there," he asked carefully, "some sort of extra role, very political, that some Riders have but is kept secret from the rest?"
She blinked.
"If it's secret," she began blankly, and Madog overrode her.
"I think you're one of them," he said firmly, watching her.
"Oh," she grinned, looking back down at her brandy. "Yeah, totally. It's a Southlander thing, we do things differently."
Madog stared at her for a moment, letting the pause stretch out until she looked back up, surprise entering her eyes.
"What, you're serious?" she asked. "I'm -"
"Fascinating," Madog interrupted, shaking his head. "This is exactly how Dylan reacted. Exactly the same order: blankly dodge the question first, jokingly admit to it second, and then earnestly deny it. All that's changed is the dialogue."
"Wait, what?" Awen said, astonished. "You think Dylan is doing some kind of politics that you don't know about?"
"I almost know he is," Madog shrugged. Awen stared at him, incredulous.
"This isn't because of Owain, is it?" she asked at last, hesitantly. "You're not just-?"
"Fantastic," Madog smiled wryly. "Well done. That's the same way he ended the conversation, too."
Awen sighed and turned away, running her hands through her hair.
"Madog," she said wearily. "I have no clue at all what you're talking about. Can we go back to the first question? What is it exactly you think this... 'extra political role' entails?"
"No," Madog smiled. "Because I've seen you in action when you need to lie, remember? You're phenomenal at it. And you're denying it, so clearly you'll just give me an incredibly convincing performance about how I'm wrong."
"Oh," Awen said, giving him an odd look. "You've already decided, then. In that case, why on earth did you bother asking me?"
"I wanted to see your reaction," Madog said thoughtfully. "And it was identical to Dylan's. I think I'll ask Aerona next."
"Aerona?" Awen repeated, eyebrow raised. "I thought you said political? She's a Tutor."
"Who's crossed the country several times in the past few days involving herself in things that really aren't teaching children how to not eat belladonna," Madog nodded, and decided to use Hannibal's tactic as Awen opened her mouth. "No, it's okay. I'll stop talking about it. Clearly you aren't allowed to admit to it."
"Fine," Awen said slowly. "But you suspecting Dylan concerns me, Madog."
"Oh, don't get me wrong," he said, catching and holding her gaze. "Really. I don't think he's a traitor of some kind. Nor you, nor Aerona, nor anyone else involved; far from it. It's Union sanctioned, I think. In which case it's incredibly important. I've not mentioned it to anyone else for that reason. But."
He shook his head, watching her intently.
"If I'm right," he said quietly, "then I'm worried about him. About you, all of you. There must be an astonishing amount of extra stress involved, and he can't tell me about it. That's a difficult thing to take as a Wingleader."
She regarded him steadily, her eyes full of empathy, and then looked back down at her drink, twitching it in her fingers.
"Do you think there's one in every Wing?" she asked, haunted. "Do you think I've got one? That I haven't - gods."
Madog sighed. It was genuinely believeable, especially given how broken Awen was at the moment; but she was that good. He knew she was.
"Either that's a deeply unfair guilt-trip to shut me up," he said, "or you can stop blaming yourself right now. Because if there is one in every Wing, clearly they've been taught by the Union how to hide it and cover their tracks. But, I think it's a guilt-trip."
He laid his hand on the bar top beside hers, palm up. Awen regarded it for a moment and then took it, her fingers clinging tightly.
"There's something you've not considered," she said quietly. "And you quite possibly need to."
"Which is?" he asked gently. Awen glanced up at him, eyes serious.
"If you're right about this," she said, her gaze unwavering, "and the Union has been keeping it secret from us... then there's a reason. And if we aren't supposed to know, and they don't want us to know, it might be a good idea not to let on that we know."
Madog held her gaze for a second, and nodded.
"Good advice," he said neutrally, and raised his glass. "How strong is this, did you say?"
"I believe I classified it as 'bloody strong'," Awen said, smiling. "Try it and see. Just sip it at first, though. It's very sweet."
"Will this melt my eyebrows?" Madog asked suspiciously, sniffing it. The dichotomous scents of ripe fruit and raw-smelling alcohol met him. Awen snorted.
"If you hold it near your face for too long," she grinned. "Try it, or I shall start hammering the bar top and chanting, and then the entire room will want you to drink."
"Alright," Madog said, rolling his eyes, and he swallowed a mouthful.
Well, she'd been right. Sweet and strong were the overwhelming descriptors as Madog's tongue and throat were set on fire, the liquid scorching a path down to his stomach, the aftertaste of exotically unfamiliar fruit dancing in his nose. He grinned as he set the glass back on the bar top.
"Well," he said happily, trying not to let his voice sound too strained. "There's an experience. Tomorrow promises to be a happier time."
"Doesn't it?" Awen agreed. "I'm strongly considering slipping an extra condition into the Casnewydd import plans to include this. You should ask your Phoenician to sell it here."
"Hannibal?" Madog laughed. "We're already asking him to be a witness. And anyway, we have to stop calling him my Phoenician. Particularly now he's here."
"A man with a Rider fetish in the Union," Awen mused, and laughed. "Paradise, I should think. Even so, though? You've no plans to find him, start Round Two?"
"No," Madog smiled. "I mean, if it happens I'll be thrilled, seriously, but he has the chance to meet so many more Riders here. I don't want to get in the way of his exciting journey of notching his bedpost so many times it falls off."
"'More knots, and he's honoured'," Awen said, more or less to herself. "That's what Dylan said. What did that mean?"
"Ah," Madog said, and Awen laughed at his expression. "Yes. He had... a way with a rope. He called it... something beginning with 's', I think. Adapted from a far eastern practice of tying prisoners for torture."
"Was it... shibari, by any chance?" Awen asked, looking at the ceiling. Madog laughed and clapped.
"Very good!" he said, taking another mouthful of the brandy. "And I'd dearly love to hear the song you learned that in. Yes, it was. And the prospect of more knots is... daunting."
"And wildly appealing," Awen said, eyebrow raised. "Don't lie. You're practically salivating, man."
"I am," Madog chuckled. "Yeah. Like I say, I'd be thrilled."
"And he'd be honoured," Awen murmured, throwing him a sly glance. "That's quite the impression you left."
"Oh, he wouldn't," Madog said, squeezing her hand. "He just thinks he would be."
"I think he'll find you, you know," Awen said thoughtfully. "Do you know what he wants the Audience for?"
"No," Madog said, finishing the brandy and signalling for another. "I asked, but he said it was trading things and I wouldn't care. It's not slaves, though. He doesn't approve."
"Excellent!" Awen nodded decisively. "Well, he sounds brilliant. Oh, hey, on the subject of slaves and sex: Flyn asked me if he could see Alis earlier."
"You're joking?" Madog looked at Awen incredulously. Her expression had darkened, her eyes in the artificial light iron-grey. "And you didn't remove an eye?"
"I'm a good girl," Awen said, her smile humourless. "No. I told him since she was his assassin he didn't get to step within a mile of her. He tried to argue the point."
"Seriously?" Madog nearly choked on his refill. "And you still didn't take an eye?"
"I know," Awen agreed. "My willpower astonishes even me. I was debating manufacturing some situation in which I got to touch him and therefore accidentally kill him, but fortunately enough Lord Gwilym was there."
"Very fortunate," Madog said, with deliberate care. There was a pause, and then Awen turned and threw him a look.
"Because he pulled the conversation away," she told him reproachfully. "Don't start, you're not Adara."
"You called him 'Gwilym' in Casnewydd," Madog told her neutrally. "In front of Flyn, just before you found Alis. So he didn't notice, but... you know. Watch that."
Awen swore under her breath, rubbing her eyes with her free hand.
"It's been a great week," she said wearily. "It really has. I was considering jumping off a runway tomorrow, but then I remembered I won't be able to move and no one is likely to throw me off even if I ask nicely. Oh, and I told Adara I'd be here when she got back."
Madog sighed, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb.
"You can't have given up," he said, almost pleadingly. "Surely the druids are working on some way to - ?"
"It's never happened before," Awen shrugged tonelessly. "This is my endgame, I think. I imagined it would be more dramatic, really, but I suppose it'll hurt less this way."
"Not if you jump off a runway," Madog said sternly, and Awen grinned.
"No," she said. "Perhaps not. Although - hmm."
She turned, glancing at the door behind them, a mischievous smile lingering over her lips.
"Your Phoenician," she said, carefully unlocking their fingers and withdrawing her hand. "Incredibly tall Nubian? Long hair? Delighted smile on seeing you?"
Madog turned, and sure enough there was Hannibal crossing the tavern towards them, tailed by two more Nubians, a man and a woman. It seemed they'd pulled out all of the stops to dress for the occasion; their robes were dazzlingly bright against their black skin, and a slim gold chain linked from their right earlobes to their right nostrils, elegant and exotic. And Awen hadn't lied. Hannibal's face had lit up as he made a beeline for Madog, moving gracefully through the throng.
"Your outside chance paid off, then?" Madog grinned as they reached them, and Hannibal's deep laugh underpinned the general background chatter.
"Thanks to you, I am thinking," he said, spreading his arms wide; and he bowed before Madog could stop him. Awen actually recoiled, partially standing up from the tall stool. "You do not know what this means to us, my friend! We thank you."
"It was actually Dylan's idea," Madog said, waving a hand at Awen to sit her back down again. "Which makes it his second good idea ever. He's on a roll. Oh, this is -"
"Alpha Wingleader Awen Masarnen, if I'm not mistaken," Hannibal smiled, his black eyes sweeping over Awen's uniform. "It is a great honour, my friend. I would bow again, but you have just produced the strongest reaction I have ever seen to my doing so."
"Sorry," Awen said, mildly. "No one's ever done that to me before. I'm going to assume you're Madog's Phoenician, then?"
"What did I just say?" Madog asked wearily as Hannibal laughed again, the sound rich and deep. "I'm sorry. I think Awen has been consorting with Dylan too much and has learned the art of trying to ruin my life at every turn."
"I don't believe he minds overmuch," the woman said behind Hannibal. She smiled at Madog wryly. "He will be flattered to think of himself as yours."
"My trading partner Ezana," Hannibal said, gesturing to the third Nubian. "And my trading partner and sister, Amanitore."
"Hannibal and Amanitore?" Awen asked interestedly. "Were your parents historians?"
"They were," Amanitore said. Her voice was husky, and gentle. "Our father is a griot. A... bard, you would say."
"Did you study under a griot?" Madog asked Awen, who flashed him an amused look.
"Of course," she said. "They have some superb instruments."
Hannibal cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtfully at Awen.
"Kitka gelgelosuannon Iisusi manyan trika?" he asked, both Ezana and Amanitore turning to look. Awen snorted.
"Dolle polgara pessna papo iskoelimme ikka," she returned, her tone dry, and Hannibal's laugh was of slightly disbelieving delight.
"How very unusual," he murmured, moving to the bar on Madog's other side. Madog could feel his fingers stroking his bare arm. "I have never met a Rider with knowledge of Nubian language and history before."
"I'm a bard," Awen shrugged absently, her eyes on the door again. "Sorry, I see one of my Riders. I'll be back in a second."
Llio was moving across the room to them, threading neatly between drunken patrons. Awen slipped off her stool, her movements to Madog's trained eyes hindered by the gathering stiffness he could feel mirrored in his own body, and went to meet her. Madog recognised the body language. It was the 'We're worried about you, Leader' stance. He sighed, and turned back to Hannibal.
"She's exactly your type, actually," he told him, finishing the peach brandy and signalling for another. "Incredible Rider - really incredible, too - but horrendously damaged. You'd think you'd died and gone to the afterlife of your choice if it were possible for you to touch her."
"Yes," Hannibal said quietly, his black-and-gold eyes somber as he looked back at Awen. "We were warned to stay clear of her when we arrived. Perhaps you see her more clearly than I, but... I would not have known. She seems calm enough. Content."
"Well, she doesn't want to upset anyone," Madog shrugged. "And her acting is breath-takingly good. But she's twitchy. Any sudden movements, any physical contact she's not prepared for, she flinches."
He glanced back in time to see his point proven. Llio made an expansive gesture with one hand and a ripple ran through Awen's back, her hands raising slightly, her weight shifting forward, and then she moved back again, Llio's expression of previously-hidden worry leaping into full view. Awen reached out and squeezed Llio's wrist, and Madog winced. The desperate desire of both parties to be able to embrace each other fully was, to him, written in letters ten feet tall over their heads. He looked back, and started on his new brandy.
"I see," Hannibal said sorrowfully. "Even her own Riders. Why is this?"
"We have a Purification Ritual," Madog said gloomily. "It's used on Riders to... clean your mind, I suppose. But Awen's mind has closed down, they say. It's not working on her."
"Riders," Hannibal sighed quietly, and turned back to the barman. "Mead, please, my friend. Could this happen to you?"
"I have no idea," Madog said, continuing on his happy path to peach brandy oblivion. "Theoretically, I suppose. Ezana and Amanitore have gone to sit down."
"I'm happy here," Hannibal smiled slyly. "Since coming here, my friend, I am hearing a story about you."
"Really," Madog said evenly, shifting on the stool. He was going to have to pick up the drinking pace; the fully-body ache was starting to intensify. "Anything to do with a Saxon raid, perchance? Or has Dylan just been making stuff up again?"
"Ha! Not that I am aware of," Hannibal said, amused. "No. It was indeed of your heroics in the face of a full - ah. My apologies. I have chosen the wrong word, and made you choke."
"That," Madog managed, his eyes watering as the brandy set his lungs on fire, "was unfair."
"Perhaps," Hannibal grinned as he accepted the mead from the barman, passing across a Phoenician coin. "I see things differently, we have discussed this before. But - truly a full raid? Just you both?"
"No," Madog said awkwardly. "We just held them off, that was all. They were only defeated once the Wings turned up."
"Indeed?" Hannibal said, reaching out and gently tucking a braid behind Madog's ear. "And how long did you hold off these three hundred Saxons?"
"Oh, I don't know," Madog muttered, waving a hand. "Five minutes? Maybe more? Not long. Stop making it sound - "
"Would you care to know how many other individuals the world contains who could hold three hundred warriors at bay for even a minute?" Hannibal asked, one eyebrow raised. Madog snorted.
"Plenty," he said. "Welcome to Cymru. And anyway, I wasn't alone. Awen was there. And did most of the work."
"I did not!" Awen said fervently to his left, reclaiming her stool. "You did far more than I did. Which part of you is hurting most, by the way? It's my back."
"Ribs," he said mournfully. "It's just starting to get painful to sit, I'm having to force myself not to slouch."
"You are both in pain?" Hannibal asked, looking mildly horrified. "Why is this? I thought you had both received medical help?"
"That's the problem," Madog said, pulling a face. "If a druid does muscular healing you stiffen up like a bitch after a day or two."
"Which is why we're frantically drinking this incredibly strong and exotic tasting liquor in a desperate attempt to forego our nerve endings," Awen nodded sagaciously, downing the remains of hers and signalling the barman. "We reckon if we drink enough we don't need to wake up until about mid-afternoon tomorrow, by which time we ought to just about be mobile."
"That's the plan," Madog grinned. "We're Wingleaders, you know. It's our job to produce such exemplary tactical thinking."
"It's masterful," Hannibal said merrily. "But I feel compelled to highlight its flaws. Correct me, of course, if I am mistaken my friends, but in spite of your legendary healing abilities, you can still feel the after-effects of drink, can you not?"
"Dammit!" Madog said theatrically, sitting up. Awen twitched, her expression staying resolutely cheerful. "He's right. Quick, Awen, let's brainstorm."
"Okay," she said determinedly. "How about, the barman gives us a full bottle each and we don't stop drinking long enough to sober up until tomorrow evening at the earliest?"
"Wow, that's good," Madog muttered, impressed. "Yeah, let's do that."
"At which point, of course, you will feel it all the more," Hannibal murmured.
"He's right," Awen said gloomily, and then threw them a sly look. "For me, at any rate. Tell me, Hannibal; if you can do shibari you must be able to do Greek massage?"
"Exemplary thinking indeed," Hannibal laughed. "I can, of course."
"There you are, then," Awen said triumphantly, drinking about half of her glass in one go. "You're sorted, Madog. You only need to drink enough for tonight. I'll take your bottle."
"What's a Greek massage when it's at home?" Madog asked blankly. Hannibal smiled.
"A medical technique," he explained. "It is Graeco-Egyptian, to be precise. Their doctors made great studies of musculature several centuries ago. It is a fairly firm massage, the aim being to stimulate the muscles rather than the skin. Very effective."
"I'm going to recommend it to the Union," Awen said, her fingers brushing over her left shoulder - which, Madog recalled, had been stiff in Aberystwyth. Presumably she'd found someone there who could do this rather incredible sounding massage. "Every Wing should know how to do it. It needs to be on the syllabus from birth."
"Surely that'll take a while, though?" Madog said doubtfully. "To do someone's entire body? You don't want to -"
"I very much want to," Hannibal corrected him, giving him one of his slightly sad smiles. "It will be my pleasure. And, in honesty, yours."
"It really will be," Awen murmured. Madog gave her a narrow look.
"Right," he said. "And how do you know about this, Leader, hmm? I want details."
"Lord Gwilym," she grinned, very deliberately avoiding his eye. Her voice was perfectly casual. "I move and I shake."
"A celebrity lifestyle indeed," Hannibal chuckled. "Might I ask what was wrong?"
"Oh, my shoulder picked a fight with a stone floor," Awen said dismissively, and Madog tried not to wince. That would have been one of Owain's injuries, then. "Astonishingly enough, it lost. But I'd just saved Lord Gwilym's life, as it happened, and he felt appropriately grateful."
"I imagine he did," Hannibal said, but whatever else he'd been about to say next was lost as the door to the tavern slammed back, admitting Lady Erys and Lord Gwilym, towed by Lady Marged, in turn led by Councillor Gwenllian. Awen sprang off the stool, her eyes alert and posture tense, and Madog just had time to bark a quick, quiet 'Stand down, Rider' to freeze her in place before Gwenllian's eyes swept the room and saw them, her smile widening. She started pushing blithely through the people.
Awen exhaled slowly and climbed back onto the stool, wincing slightly.
"Thanks," she said quietly. Madog nodded and put his hand back on the bar top beside her, and Awen took it instantly, her grip tight.
"You're welcome," he said neutrally. Beside him Hannibal watched sorrowfully, and Madog reflected that it was possibly some kind of torture for him. He remembered their first meeting in the tavern in Tregwylan, the shy smile, the admittance that he liked 'helping Riders'. Awen needed help. Hannibal couldn't give it to her.
"Leaders!" Gwenllian said joyfully, reaching them both and dropping a hand onto their shoulders each. Madog could feel the tremor through Awen's hand. They all pretended not to notice. "Medicating, are we? Good on you. What have you found?"
"Peach brandy," Awen said, her voice professionally smooth as she raised her glass, swirling the clear liquid. "And I feel quite light-headed. I think it's starting to work."
"Really?" Madog said, disappointed. "It hasn't for me yet, why - ?"
"You started after me," Awen grinned. "Catch up."
"Yes, do," Gwenllian said, turning to the Sovereigns behind her. "That's an order. Marged? Do you have the cards?"
"Ooh, yes, dear," Lady Marged's jolly voice trilled happily. "Somewhere, anyway; you know pockets, always extra things in them... Erys dear, could you hold that for a moment?"
Madog grinned up at Hannibal as the muttered sounds of three Sovereigns being laden with wool began, undercut with Gwenllian calling for the barman.
"Sorry," he said. "It looks like were about to be forced into a drinking game. I'll understand if you don't want to stick around for this bit."
"Of course I do," Hannibal said, his eyes alight. He leaned down, tipping Madog's chin up with two fingers and kissing his forehead tenderly. "I have a limited time with you, my friend. And someone will need to carry you back."
"Ooh, he'll have a good night, too!" Marged said happily. "You see, Gwilym? You should have encouraged Ienifer and Ieuan. You'd have had a smashing time."
"Yes, when they started throwing things at each other," Lord Gwilym said sardonically, pushing his way to the bar beside Awen -
- who froze. Madog could feel it through her hand, a sudden stilling of her entire body that Gwenllian must have felt through her shoulder, judging by the way her head whipped around from the card-hunting Sovereigns to Awen. Madog blinked. From his angle he couldn't quite tell, but he wasn't sure that Lord Gwilym was even touching her. And instead of jumping, instead of her body arming up... it had simply gone still.
Gwenllian's expression flashed calculating for a second, and then she hid it with her carefree smile.
"Cards!" she said merrily, taking them from Marged and dropping them onto the bar top. "Excellent! Get Madog caught up, Gwilym, I'll get the drinks; barman seems to be hiding from me, can't think why..."
"I'm starting to wish I hadn't taught her this game," Lord Gwilym said reflectively. "I think she's a bit too keen. Sorry, I need to reach around you."
"Go ahead," Awen said easily, swaying backwards out of the way. "Madog, I really think you should get a bottle and run."
"And abandon you?" he grinned. "Anyway, I was just given an order. I can't."
"Oh, yeah." Awen shook her head as Hannibal chuckled. "Oh; Hannibal, this is Lord Gwilym of Aberystwyth; Sovereign, this is Madog's Phoenician, whose name is Hannibal because his parents were historians."
"Gods damn it, Awen," Madog muttered, dropping his head into one hand. He'd have smacked her if it wouldn't have caused her to freak out and slaughter them all. Hannibal's rich laugh reverberated through the bar top.
"It's a pleasure," Lord Gwilym said, his tone jolly as he shuffled the cards. "Oh, don't bow, it makes me feel like a heel."
"Oh, that won't work," Madog said, looking up. "He even bows to Riders. I think he just likes being at a right angle."
"I merely find it a privilege to be among you, my friend," Hannibal said, amused. He leaned his tall frame against the bar, drink in one hand, the other dropping to and resting on Madog's thigh. "And now. You have an order you must comply with! And I am fascinated by what this game shall be."
"It's been oversold to you, then," Lord Gwilym declared. "Which is rare for a Phoenician, I suspect. Anyway; red or black, Madog?"
"What?"
"Choose!" Gwilym grinned. He was holding the cards in one hand still in their pack, the top card held ready between thumb and forefinger. "What do you reckon this card will be? Red or black?"
"Black," Madog said warily. The card was laid triumphantly on the bar top, clearly red. "Oh. Do I drink?"
"You do!" Gwilym said happily. "Next; which suit?"
"Circles?"
"Swords! Drink!"
"This is already a game I will have to ban Caradog from learning," Awen observed. Hannibal nodded gravely.
"Many of my sailors as well," he agreed.
"What's this card?" Gwilym asked, holding one up. "Say the eight of circles."
"The eight of circles?" Madog repeated, bewildered. Gwilym placed the card. It was indeed the eight of circles.
"Correct!" Lord Gwilym said. "Pick someone to drink."
"Now that," Madog grinned, "is more like it. Get to it, Awen."
"I'm not even under orders," she grumbled half-heartedly, drinking. Lord Gwilym held up another card.
"Higher or lower than an eight?" he asked. "Ace is always high."
"Higher," Madog said. "Awen," he added as the ace dropped onto the pack.
"Ace is lower for this round," Gwilym declared. "Higher or lower than an ace?"
"Higher," Madog said, and Gwilym shook his head with mock-regret as he dropped a six onto the bar.
"Ace is always high," he said solemnly, as Awen burst out laughing. "Drink. What's this card? Say the three of cups."
"The three of cups," Madog repeated, hastily swallowing down the brandy. "And I want to thump you."
"Correct!" Gwilym said. "About the three of cups. But that was an inverted round, so you have to drink anyway. What's this?"
He picked up the next card and flashed it towards Madog for a second before holding it hidden again, expectant. Madog blinked.
"The druid of leaves," he said, and watched in vague disbelief as Lord Gwilym deliberately put the card to the bottom of the pack and pulled out another random one.
"No," he said cheerfully. Both Awen and Hannibal were laughing by now. "It's the three of leaves, I'm afraid. What about this one?"
He flashed the next card as Madog drank.
"The ten of circles," Madog said. He was starting to grin uncontrollably. "Although I suspect it won't be."
"It's not," Lord Gwilym said happily, pulling the first card back from the bottom of the pack and placing it. "It was the druid of leaves, you should have stood firm. Higher or lower?"
"Lower?"
"Correct!" Gwilym said grandly. "Choose someone to drink!"
"Awen-"
"Incorrect, I'm afraid," Gwilym said. "It was Hannibal. Now you all drink."
"Dylan is absolutely never allowed to learn or play this," Madog said flatly. "In case he ever asks any of you. Be aware."
"A clue for the next one!" Gwilym said. "Think of Awen."
"The bard of swords," Awen said levelly, watching her drink, and was proved right as Gwilym dropped the bard of swords onto the bar top.
"Correct!" he said, and Madog laughed at her wry look. "Drink, Madog. Higher or lower?"
"Lower," Madog said, amused, and then everything got a bit hazy after that.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Cymru - Chapter 36
I swear this is the most boring chapter I've written yet. Fuck all happens. It's just lots of introductions with a loose approximation of story and no plot. And it just kind of ends. Sorry, guys.
GWILYM
The setting sunlight burnished the shining ornamentation in the hall, leaving Gwilym to feel as though he'd accidentally hibernated and woken up in time for autumn. A slightly harrassed-looking clerk showed him to his seat and bolted almost as soon as he'd touched it, the reason for which became apparent as soon as Gwilym looked at the name plates around him. For one thing, Marged was sitting to his left. For quite another, Flyn was opposite him. Clearly, someone at the Union had a sense of humour. Gwilym couldn't imagine two people it was less advisable to sit together. Hopefully there would be some Riders around, or the druids were going to be removing knitting needles from people's ears tonight.
"Well well, my lord Gwilym," Flyn's voice said smoothly, and Gwilym looked up. Flyn was sliding genteely into his chair, clad in a tunic that was indecently ornate and almost a quarter purple, the rest in turquoise and gold. His torque was so polished it gleamed, fully visible beneath the short-cropped sandy hair and permanently lifted chin, allowing the light flaring off it to blind the unwary. He smiled fluidly at Gwilym now, locking his long fingers together and resting said chin on them. "How delightful to see you at your first Archwiliad! And how is it treating you so far?"
"Surreally," Gwilym said, appropriately. Surely there should be failsafes in place to keep you from having to talk to people you knew were guilty of treason and murder and things? "I had to meet with all of the Alpha Wingleaders this morning. I don't think I've ever been in a room with that many people who could kill me without even standing up before."
Flyn laughed, the sound rich and charming, sipping from his glass.
"I know the feeling," he said, amused. "They can be intimidating, can't they? Particularly from the border, I find."
Oh, well, yours then, Gwilym thought, but managed not to roll his eyes because he was a Grown-Up now and Responsible and Knew Better.
"Madog," he nodded with private spite anyway. "The man is effortlessly suave, and thus is also socially intimidating. I feel like he could arrive at a dinner party looking better than me and then inhume me with my own pastry fork."
"Ha! Well put," Flyn said, swirling his wine. "Yes. While Llywelyn's size alone lends him an extra air of authority. Not to mention, of course, that he's rather thorough in his examination of a given topic."
"Yes, it was mostly him asking the questions this morning," Gwilym agreed. "Which I thought was impressive, given that he was clearly hung over. I'd have just lain there and twitched a bit."
"Ah, but they are trained to take pain," Flyn said, his eyes twinkling. He was such a politician; despite loathing the man, Gwilym was finding him oddly charming to talk to. It was like cleaning up the dismembered corpse of a bird and then finding an incredibly friendly and endearing cat climbing onto your lap; the connection between the two events seemed so distant. "More so than the rest of us mere mortals. So; Madog, Llywelyn... and then there's Awen."
His nonchalent look at his glass was fractionally too casual. Clearly someone was desperate to boast, as though Awen was some kind of status symbol along with his very purple tunic and painfully bright torque. But there again... it wasn't like Gwilym terribly minded discussing her. He let himself smile.
"And then there's Awen," he echoed carefully. "Almost terrifyingly likeable, I found."
"Hmm," Flyn smiled. "Oh, she's enchanting company, isn't she? Moreso than most Riders. And yet fights like a wolverine, I'm told. To the extent that she can defeat an entire Saxon raid almost single-handedly."
"Ah yes," Gwilym said graciously and moderately spitefully. "Another mark on Madog's resumé too, that. How on earth did they manage that?"
"An incredible amount of skill," Flyn smiled slightly. "Which - ah. My lady Ienifer."
"Lord Flyn!" Ienifer giggled, kissing the air in front of Flyn's cheeks as he rose to greet her. Judging by the vibrancy of her lips it was just as well, or Flyn would have been left looking like he'd caught a particularly strange skin disease. "How delightful to see you! You're looking well?"
"As I trust you are?" Flyn responded. His voice bore the tiniest edge of condescension. They both took their seats, Ienifer tossing her head far more than Gwilym thought she actually needed to in order to keep the impeccably styled blonde curls out of her face. "And have you met Lord Gwilym yet?"
"Not yet," Ienifer said, turning her attention to Gwilym, and her manner went from simperingly pleasant to vampishly sultry at a faster pace than a lightning strike. She actually batted her eyelashes. Gwilym swallowed, some sort of precognitive instinct screaming in horror inside. "But it's a pleasure, I assure you."
"Likewise," Gwilym said. Somehow, he managed to make his voice sound normal and not vaguely strangled. Flyn looked diplomatically into his glass, clearly hiding a smile, an act that made Gwilym hate him twice as much. "Are you enjoying the Archwiliad so far?"
"Oh, very much so," Ienifer purred, running a finger around the rim of her glass with practiced grace. "It's always a stimulating experience. And this is your first, of course. How are you finding it?"
She peered alluringly up at him through lowered lashes. Gwilym downed what was left in his wine glass.
"Basically terrifying," he said, to the faintest trace of wavering breath from Flyn indicating a stifled laugh, the bastard. He groped for a subject change that would sound sufficiently natural. "I met a lot of Riders earlier."
"Indeed," Flyn said jovially. "We were comparing the relative merits of Alpha Wingleaders."
"Tefion's rather dashing," Ienifer said, pressing a finger against her brightly-painted lips, considering. "In Milford Haven. It's those eyes, I think. So very suggestive. But, of course, from that perspective, one must consider all three from the border."
"Suggestive eyes?" Gwilym asked thoughtfully. He could see the point, actually; not suggestive in the sexual sense that Ienifer clearly liked, but there was something... different about the Riders from the border. Awen's analytical, watchful gaze hid depths that were never shown.
"There is that," Flyn smiled, pouring more wine into Gwilym's glass. "A stronger impression of hidden competence, would that be a fair description?"
"Alaw's like that, mind," Gwilym said morosely. "She has these eyes. It's like they look through you, as though she's just been painted. And she looks all neutral, but she sort of exudes disapproval."
"Oh, poor you!" Ienifer simpered, batting her eyelashes again. "That must be so hard!"
She put a distressing amount of innuendo onto the word 'hard'. Lord Flyn abrutly drank from his glass. Gwilym tried not to shudder.
"Unnerving," he said, strained, and followed Flyn's example and drank. Hopefully, someone else would arrive soon. Otherwise he was going to have to fake an injury of some kind and flee the hall.
"I imagine it must be," Flyn said carefully, throwing Gwilym into the bizarre position of being grateful to him. "I must say, she does seem - ah."
Flyn's grey eyes turned sharp, his face pasting itself into an otherwise bland smile of welcome. Gwilym looked up. Marged was happily making her way through the throng of people, her hair and make-up surprisingly stylishly done and therefore clearly done by someone else. She was wearing a long, corsetted tunic that was almost a dress over a pair of incredibly loose trousers, all in woven reds, oranges and blues, and all markedly more sophisticated than he was used to seeing her wear. Ordinarily Marged's dress-sense was far more similar to that of a strangely rich tramp, usually some sort of patchwork or hand-knitted ensemble designed to fit the description 'jolly comfortable'. She was talking enthusiastically to Councillor Rhydian who seemed to be wearing a fond smile, and belatedly the outdated Caerleuad liveries still on the man's shoulders waved a flag at Gwilym. He would have been Alpha Wingleader under Marged for most of the first half of her reign. Just after the Wars, too. They must have known each other well.
"And then it turned black and fell off!" Marged said merrily but alarmingly as they approached. "Such fun. Gwilym! Are we sitting together? Hooray!"
"Only if you make nothing of me turn black and fall off," Gwilym said mock-sternly. Marged almost hooted with laughter and hugged him, yanking him half out of his seat.
"Silly!" She giggled. "That's not for here, we'd need a druid to keep an eye out. Where are you, now, Rhydian?"
"Still on the Top Table," Rhydian told her as he pulled her seat out for her. It was an incredibly deferential gesture, especially considering that Rhydian was possibly the most important and powerful man in the country. "As I was the last three times you asked, Lady. Your promise of horrifying stories hasn't swayed me."
"You're not going to tell us them, are you?" Ienifer asked, alarmed, and Marged giggled.
"Bless you, no!" she said, taking the proffered chair with a squeeze of Rhydian's hand on the backrest. "Not the right disposition, really; I'll tell you them later, Gwilym. And you look as ravishing as ever, Ienifer!"
"Whoa, wait," Gwilym said, raising a hand. "Why do I have to be told? What have I done?"
"If you'd prefer, of course, I could tell you a few better stories later, Gwilym," Ienifer said, alluring smile fixed in place. She was raising her game, it seemed.
"It appears I'm pre-booked," Gwilym said weakly. Rhydian laughed.
"Well, enjoy the banquet," he said grandly. "Sovereigns! Lady."
He dropped to one knee in an elaborate version of the Rider-to-Liege bow, and Marged giggled and threw a napkin at him.
"Oh, you!" she said. "Behave!"
He rose with a grin and departed. Flyn smiled thinly.
"Still close, then," he said, completely neutrally, and Gwilym suppressed a sigh. Well, here they went. It was beginning so soon; like feeling the very first warning signs of a volcano and knowing you had to start gathering your possessions and going to visit some far-away relatives. Unfortunately, his only travelling companion would be Lady Ienifer, whom Gwilym would just as soon have left to the lava.
"Oh, he's a joker," Marged said affectionately. "Loves messing about, that one."
"And always did," Flyn nodded. Gwilym fought his jaw not to drop. "You must have had an enjoyable partnership."
"A pleasant thing to have," Ienifer said huskily, her eyes locked onto Gwilym. Marged snorted.
"Oh, Flyn," she said kindly. "It was wonderful. And who knows? You might manage it one day! Awen's still young."
Gwilym drank hastily. He'd had no idea - no idea - that Marged could be that cutting. Thank gods he'd only ever asked her for cheap dyes.
"That we are," Flyn agreed pleasantly, very slightly stressing the 'we'. In Gwilym's head a small crowd seemed to have gathered to cheer and boo at the relevant moments. "And she's highly skilled, as Gwilym and I were just discussing. I imagine we'll be around for a while yet."
"It's always good to meet someone skilled in a given field," Ienifer said, very deliberately stroking a finger down the stem of her wine glass. "You can learn such a lot."
"Yes, I remember when I felt I was going to live on forever," Marged said, dreamily reminiscent. "But we all have to grow up eventually."
"You look lovely, by the way, Marged!" Gwilym nearly shouted, desperate to halt Flyn from snidely remarking that Marged must be looking forward to growing up and Ienifer from commenting on the merits of growth. "Not your usual style?"
"A bit of a change!" Marged said merrily, apparently not in the least bit perturbed by the conversation shift or, indeed, Gwilym's sudden eagerness. And volume. "Rhydian's doing. It's an overlooked Rider skill you see, Gwilym. If you want to dress up and not look ridiculous, don't ask an aide; ask a Rider."
"Really?" Gwilym raised an eyebrow. "I'd have thought they'd be busy... I don't know, killing and that."
"Mostly," Flyn smiled. Apparently, he wanted to get to explain things too. "But it's an important part of Wing dynamics, to make each other look good. They are forbidden to see themselves, you'll recall?"
Gwilym nodded. His father had explained that once, when they were younger. A person who didn't know their own face thought of themselves far less as a person.
"Well, it means they rely on each other to look good, you see?" Marged said, pouring herself some wine. "Which has the knock-on effect of meaning that they display their affection for each other to the outside world by making each other look as good as possible. After all; if one Wing member is unpopular, the others can make them look daft and they'll never know, see?"
"At your meeting with the Alpha Wingleaders this morning," Flyn broke in, "you must have noticed how impeccably turned out they all were? It's a sign of their good standing. The Wings particularly want to display their respect for their Leaders, especially given that they're surrounded by each other. And after this business with our previous Alpha Deputy, Awen has certainly been looking twice as polished."
Which explained a lot. When he'd seen her this morning Gwilym had thought how staggeringly beautiful Awen had looked. And now that he thought of the others... Madog was a ruggedly handsome man anyway, but he'd looked particularly distinguished in that meeting given that he was recovering from extended physical trauma.
"They were glamorous," Gwilym nodded thoughtfully. Ienifer batted her eyelashes again.
"But surely you were Rider-styled tonight, Gwilym?" she asked sweetly. Marged saved him by planting a hand on his shoulder and turning him to face her.
"Ooh, it is a lovely tunic," she said approvingly. "Suits you; it makes your shoulders look lovely and broad. Probably why Ienifer has her eye on you."
"Amongst others," Ienifer said with a wink. Flyn smiled with his mouth.
"Yes, I'm sure you're also attracted to his superb sense of humour and all of the good work he does for charity," he said, fixing his gaze onto Gwilym. "A free clinic for the fishing sector, wasn't it? Most impressive."
There was a slight pause.
"It was," Gwilym said lightly. He was deeply unnerved. "Well, not just the fishers, but that was how it began."
"Your mother was very proud of you, you know," Marged said gently. "I remember her telling us about that. Of course, you weren't going to be Sovereign, then."
"I'm glad you are now," Ienifer inserted into the conversation, and Gwilym could only imagine it was her foot sliding up his shin and not Flyn's. Were you allowed to kick out wildly at another Sovereign? Probably not, unless you were a Rider. Again, Marged saved him, although this time more unintentionally.
"Ooh, Ieuan!" she squealed suddenly at another incoming Sovereign, and Gwilym 'jumped', withdrawing his legs. Ienifer looked disappointed. "You're over here! How are you dear?"
It became apparent in moments that Gwilym was not, however, saved by the newcomer. Girly Lord Ieuan minced over to their table joyfully, met by Marged's beam, Ienifer's narrowed eyes and Flyn's impassive mask.
"Marged!" he squealed, even more loudly than she had moments before. This time, Gwilym really did jump. Flyn met his eyes with a look that, despite showing no emotion whatsoever, somehow conveyed his feelings on the subject of Girly Lord Ieuan more completely than if he'd stood up and calmly poured his wine over the man's head. "Ooh, Archwiliad, so exciting! And - oh, hello."
He slid into his chair beside Gwilym, their thighs touching, and the reason for Ienifer's hostile look was suddenly abundantly clear.
"Lord Gwilym, I presume?" he asked, batting his eyelashes in the same way Ienifer had. It couldn't just be the tunic, Gwilym reflected. It had to be his age as well. He was twenty-six, which was a good ten years younger than the next Sovereign; but even so. Mentally, he vowed to burn the bloody tunic and dance upon its seductive ashes at his earliest convenience. "It's a delight to meet you."
"Just Gwilym," Gwilym said wearily. "And likewise."
"Ooh, careful, he's got his eye on you, too," Marged said in conspiratorial tone but oratory volume. "My advice is to take them both to bed. They aren't interested in each other, so it'd be a good night!"
"Good advice," Flyn said smoothly. "Lady Marged, of course, has experience with unusual pairings."
"Yes," Marged agreed. "It's a shame you missed your window, eh, Flyn? She's such a beautiful girl, too. Lovely singing voice."
Gwilym's jaw actually dropped that time. He didn't even notice the hand on his knee until it had reached mid-thigh, and then had to try not to panic. Well, screw it. Flyn could take one for the team here, he was a bastard anyway.
"His window?" he asked, deliberately sounding as confused as he could and twisting towards Marged, leaning forward. It dislodged Girly Lord Ieuan's hand. "What-?"
"Oh, it was all acceptable after the Wars," Marged said, waving a hand. "Different country still, see? The Alpha Wingleaders just had to make sure they kept an eye on us, and a lot of them found that regular sex worked rather well. Such fun! Not anymore, though."
"Really?" Gwilym asked, astonished. Well, that explained the casual affection between Rhydian and Marged, then. "And that worked out?"
"Oh yes," Marged said happily. "Stop pestering him, Ieuan, do. Yes, it was even a proper relationship for a while. Quite the strangest I've ever had, of course; they don't think like we do. It's always so hard to get on equal footing with someone convinced they're below you. They enter every situation with the viewpoint that you're better than them, see? Quite frustrating. Their priorities are different, too. Oh, and if it's an active Rider - and they all were back then, just after the Wars - then you have to get good at tying them down. They get fretful if they think they might hurt you. Can't bear the thought, bless them. Ienifer, dear, I can see your foot. Do leave him alone."
"That must have been a difficult relationship," Gwilym observed as Ienifer's foot mercifully withdrew from between his legs. Marged glanced up at the Top Table with a sad smile, where Rhydian was obliviously talking to Gwenllian.
"Yes," she said softly. "They crave affection - absolutely crave it - but they never ask for it. And you have to be prepared to be upset on their behalf, I found, because they won't be, see? They don't... file their emotions properly."
Awen, are you okay?
I'm just tired. It's been a long week.
"File their emotions?" Flyn asked calmly and fractionally disdainfully, one eyebrow raised. "And Ieuan, I imagine Lord Gwilym would appreciate having at least some sort of gap between his thigh and yours."
"Filing's a way of thinking of it," Marged said, watching Rhydian. Given how dappy she generally seemed she sparred remarkably well with Flyn. "They can feel positive emotions fine, see, but negative ones they file away in boxes and keep. They don't feel them properly. And then, when they fight, they take them out and use them as fuel. Very efficient for a warrior; terrible, though, terrible for a person. They don't really understand their own feelings. So you have to do it for them. And you have to do it knowing that they'll never change."
"Easier to go for a non-Rider, then," Ienifer purred, leaning forward onto her elbows. They were touching on the table top in front of her; the effect was to wildly exaggerate her cleavage. Girly Lord Ieuan sniffed.
"Yes, ultimately," Marged said, turning back towards the door. "But easier isn't necessarily - ooh, Erys! Are you over here, dear?"
It was funny how Marged seemed to just call everyone 'dear', regardless of age. Erys was presumably somewhere between her late forties and early fifties which wouldn't have made her much younger than Marged, but it seemed Marged was, as ever, a law unto herself. Erys smiled warmly as she approached them, the torque of Milford Haven an elaborate twist of gold at her throat.
"I'm told I am!" she said, a servant steering her to her seat on the other side of Flyn and then fleeing such an obvious timebomb. "Wonderful to see you all again. And a pleasure to have you here, Lord Gwilym. How have you found the experience so far?"
"Challenging," Gwilym said, managing a smile as two feet belonging to two separate people started a new attempt on his leg. "Er... just Gwilym's fine, too."
"I'm honoured," Erys smiled graciously. "Feel free to return the favour. So? Who else will be on this table?"
"Ooh, there's a question!" Girly Lord Ieuan said, clapping his hands excitedly and leaning to check the remaining place holders. Flyn watched him, his face completely impassive. "Mihangel and Iestyn, looks like. There's nice!"
"The whole border, then!" Gwilym grinned at Flyn, trying to shift his leg away. "Well, there we are. You can talk about your terrible experiences of Saxon attack while we all sit back and bitch about Phoenician trade rates and imagine it's the same."
"An evening to look forward to," Flyn laughed, swirling his glass. "Although, I must confess, not my normal chosen topic for dinner."
"Well, I'm certainly not discussing the Phoenician trade rates," Erys said emphatically. "I consider this a holiday from staring at rows of numbers. And I imagine Iestyn won't be up for much discussion of Saxons; I assume everyone's heard about the problems up in Wrecsam?"
"Oh, yes, poor things," Marged said, helping herself to more wine. "Almost five times a week, I heard. Madog was looking a bit stressed, I thought."
"You've not had that problem further south, then?" Gwilym asked Flyn casually. "Not unusually, anyway?"
"Not as of yet," Flyn said seriously. "And I'm praying it will continue, of course. We've three villages we're halfway through rebuilding at the moment. I shudder to think of the extra damage we could be facing."
Said with a perfectly straight face, sorrow tinging his features. From the man clearly responsible for the border warnings being delayed.
"Imagine the loss of life," Gwilym said. Flyn nodded, his grey eyes slightly haunted, no guilt, no shame.
"Indeed," he said. "And we lose enough. My fear, though, is that it is simply a matter of time for us. Clearly, something is making the Saxons restless."
"A rather grim prediction," Erys said thoughtfully. "Although I can't see the end being too catastrophic. The Union is rather good at - Iestyn! Mihangel! How wonderful to see you both again."
Particularly Iestyn, apparently, or so Gwilym's impression ran. Whereas Mihangel greeted everyone equally and amiably before settling down into his chair, Iestyn actually half-bowed to Erys specifically before claiming his own, earning himself a slightly shy smile from her. Gwilym wondered if they had some sort of history, too. They certainly seemed to be about the same age; Iestyn looked a bit like a slightly older Lord Flyn, the Saxon stamp to his features noticeable and with a similar colouring. Mihangel sort of had it too, although it was less obvious in his case by dint of him being about sixty, mostly grey and fairly wrinkled. He had the sort of wiry build that meant he was fairly strong despite his age, however, like someone's grandfather who still climbed a hill every day to tend the sheep before beating the village children at arm wrestling two at a time, but without the twinkly warmth.
And then their table was complete. Gwilym glanced around it. The assembled interests of Aberystwyth, Caerleuad, Llangefni, Wrecsam, Trallwng, Casnewydd, Caerdydd and Milford Haven floated intangibly in the air, unspoken and oddly oppressive, although admittedly the needs of Llangefni and Caerdydd promised to be sorted simply by him having sex with them, it seemed. Or, well, with Girly Lord Ieuan and Ienifer, at any rate. He was going to have to limber up considerably if he had to service the whole City-states. And now he was just thinking weird things.
"Sovereigns," Councillor Rhydian called from the raised Top Table, and the hall fell vaguely quiet. Rhydian smiled and spread his hands. "No, don't worry, the food is coming so I won't keep you long. But welcome to the Archwiliad! Thank you all for coming, it's greatly appreciated."
"I love that bit," Marged not-entirely-whispered to Gwilym. "As if we'd be allowed to not come, eh?"
"It's certainly a rule I like to enforce," Girly Lord Ieuan whispered distressingly sensuously into Gwilym's ear, making him jump. Marged considerately leaned around Gwilym and clipped Girly Lord Ieuan across the nose with a rolled-up napkin.
"Just a few announcements," Rhydian continued obliviously. "Firstly; you'll have all been told by now, but it's important, so I'll repeat it. Make sure you remain a metre away from Alpha Wingleader Awen at all times, especially if no other Rider is present. If you don't we accept no liability for you losing body parts or life."
There were a few nervous titters, the sort you got after deeply disturbing news delivered to a group of people who desperately wanted to lighten the mood and so latched onto tiny, incredibly unfunny jokes as though they were richly amusing. More than a few eyes turned to Lord Flyn, who simply sipped his wine serenely, watching Rhydian.
"Oh," Marged softly. "Well, never mind, Flyn."
"Secondly," Rhydian continued over Flyn's impassive glance, "there's been a short delay in selecting the Audiences this year, so we'll be a day or two late to get the Archwiliad proper underway. We'll be focusing on the smaller domestic requests first, therefore."
"Phoenicia and Erinn, it is," Marged not-whispered sagaciously. "Nubian Phoenicians this year, apparently."
"Really?" Ienifer whispered, perking up. Apparently, Gwilym was only an attractive prospect until the promise of large black men was made. Girly Lord Ieuan trailed his fingers over the back of Gwilym's hand on the table.
"Personally, I find home-grown is best," he purred.
"I'm half-Erinnish," Gwilym whispered back before he could stop himself. Erys made a choked noise into her wine-glass, shoulders shaking, while Marged smacked Girly Lord Ieuan's fingers off his arm. Iestyn smiled up at the ceiling, fixing his gaze studiously away.
"And finally," Rhydian said jovially, "I say it every Archwiliad; leave your Alpha Wingleaders alone as much as you can! They don't get holidays, remember. And... I think that's it. Enjoy yourselves!"
He sat down again to the assorted applause while the servants finally carried in the food and the bards in their corner started tuning up. Gwilym eyed them warily.
"How do they choose the bards?" he asked. None of them seemed to be wearing enormous cloaks, so that was a start. Marged gave one of her half-squeals.
"Oh, gracious!" she said, patting his arm. "I'd forgotten about that. Do you still have the arrow, dear? It's a cracking conversation piece!"
"I didn't think it would make for the best dinner topic," Gwilym admitted thoughtfully. Iestyn snorted.
"It's gossip," he said drily. "Politicians are worse than a whole fishing sector. Rest assured we all want details."
"The assassin was posing as a bard, I'm told?" Flyn asked casually, sipping his wine. "Do you know how they got in?"
"Ah, well," Gwilym said, just about managing to move his knee to block Ienifer's foot in time. "You know how your Alpha Deputy turned out to be evil?"
"Shocking state of affairs, that," Erys said quietly, shaking her head. "It took me a good ten minutes to fully explain it to Tefion after I got the message. I think he still sent off to the Union for confirmation."
"And it was him who got the assassin in?" Girly Lord Ieuan asked, his eyes wide. "How dreadful! What happened?"
"It was all a bit quick, really," Gwilym sighed. Which was true, but quick or not, he'd formed a perfect bloody memory of it. "We had the Casnewydd Wing at the time, and Awen was fortunately enough sitting next to me. Apparently the bards were playing the wrong notes, or something. She noticed, because she's also a bard, so when the one stood up and fired at me she was ready and caught the arrow."
"She caught it?" Mihangel asked, leaning forward. "Really?"
"Yes," Gwilym said. He was still frankly amazed by it. "It was barbed, too. Sliced her hand right open."
"I saw the scar," Flyn interjected. "It did a lot of damage."
"None lasting, I trust?" Erys asked, concerned. Three sentences and a stifled laugh probably wasn't enough data to make a properly informed decision on, but Gwilym decided he liked her anyway.
"It was healed by the time I saw it," Flyn nodded as a small bowl of soup was placed in front of him. "And she was then well enough to halt a full raid yesterday, so I imagine she's fully recovered."
"Although probably not after the raid now," Iestyn smiled, breaking a bread roll in half. "Madog was exhausted by the time he got back yesterday. Tomorrow they'll both be stiffer than ice, I should think."
"Usually how it works," Mihangel nodded gruffly. "Particularly if they needed full body healing. I assume they both did?"
"Oh, yes," Flyn said. Gwilym tried the soup. It was green, and surprisingly nice. "And treatment for blood poisoning."
"Nasty," Gwilym commented, mostly to himself, but it inadvertantly earned him attention anyway as Marged swung to look at him.
"Well, you're our resident medical expert!" she giggled. "So? How serious is that?"
"Blood poisoning?" Gwilym asked, his eyebrow raised. No one had ever asked him that before. Usually the title gave the game away somewhat. "Very, if it isn't cured almost instantly. It means the rest of your organs get infected and fail."
Flyn looked up and fixed him with a considering stare.
"I love a man who knows his way around the human body," Ienifer murmured salaciously. Girly Lord Ieuan giggled. Uncomfortably, Gwilym wondered if they were about to double team him; Marged probably didn't have a napkin big enough to keep them both at bay.
"Yes," he said as steadily as he could. "If you need your kidneys mapped out, I'm your man."
"Both recovered from the blood poisoning, though?" Erys said hastily. Gwilym definitely liked her. Flyn nodded.
"Certainly," he said, flashing her a quick smile. "They were treated quickly enough."
"I think Madog was rather glum about it all, though," Iestyn said. "He's been fighting almost daily for the last few months. I think he was hoping he might get a break while travelling."
"Yes, we heard about the increased raiding," Erys said, her face becoming grave. "Do you need any specific aid? Help with rebuilding, resources, anything like that?"
"I barely know where to begin." Iestyn rubbed a hand through his hair for a second, staring into the distance. "The Union are going to be rotating the Wings in from other Cities anyway, Gamma and down, so we'll have help rebuilding there. But... timber and stone, I think. We run low, obviously. And skilled thatchers, stone masons, builders, that sort of thing. The problem being, of course, that we can't guarentee their safety."
"Well, you can't anyway, surely?" Gwilym said, thinking it through. "And given the number of additional Wings you'll be having, I'd have thought they'd actually be safer in Wrecsam."
"He's right," Erys said, her glance at Iestyn compassionate. "We can arrange something. We often have too many skilled labourers and too little work for them in Milford Haven anyway; people congregate to the harbour."
"Thank you," Iestyn said, his smile tired. "But I doubt they'll be willing -"
"Incentives are all you need," Gwilym said, swirling his soup. "Although it would be best if it wasn't money, given that you need that to pay for things like food and houses."
"Yes." Erys leaned forward. "Jobs? A guarenteed placement somewhere afterwards? I'm not sure we could definitely find somewhere, though."
"Okay," Gwilym said slowly. "So, how about a country-wide scheme? Labourers who go to help Wrecsam at the moment get... er, a qualification? A shiny certificate? We'll come back to that - something to prove that they have, anyway. So then when they apply for jobs anywhere else they get priority over others."
There was a slight pause in which everyone stared at Gwilym, the wheels very clearly turning in Iestyn's head.
"Yes!" Marged said, clapping her hands. "Brilliant solution!"
"Very good!" Erys nodded approvingly. "Well, you've got the hang of the job."
"An elegant solution," Flyn smiled magnanimously. "It will, of course, require a contract for everyone to sign, and a fearsome amount of paperwork. The Council may well loathe you."
"Yes, I know," Gwilym said gloomily. "I'll keep a look-out for bards."
"Superb," Iestyn said quietly, shaking his head. "Thank you. It will be immeasurably helpful to us."
"It's only a shame we can't create some equally brilliant scheme to stop the raids," Flyn sighed. "As I say; something has clearly incited them. I think it's only a matter of time before we start seeing the same problem down south."
"We've increased our patrols to be on the safe side," Mihangel nodded. "Llywelyn tells me that we may have started getting more attacks just at the Northland border, although only for the last week and a half, so it's early to say."
Iestyn said nothing, his eyes hard, and Gwilym wondered how badly he was wanting to punch both men in the face. If their roles had been reversed he'd have been throwing soup by now, Responsible Grown-Up Behaviour be damned.
"If they do, though," Ienifer said uncertainly, in the first move to take part in the conversation rather than sexually harrass him thus far, "we'll ultimately be fine, won't we? The Union would put more Wings along the border."
"Certainly," Flyn said grimly. "But it depends on what's driving the Saxons, doesn't it? And ultimately, the Riders, for all their skills, are human. They can fall."
"There are more of them than us," Mihangel said, dropping his spoon into his now-empty bowl with a clatter. "The Saxons. Worth remembering. Imagine if they all chose to attack us. And imagine if they didn't just attack the border, eh? There's only a small channel they need to cross to get to the Southlands, and it's a short sail to the Northlands."
"Ooh, don't," Girly Lord Ieuan shuddered. "I can't bear the thought! Can't bear it!"
Gwilym could. Aberystwyth was the hardest place in Cymru for a Saxon to get to. It would have been mean to say so, though.
"That would bring Caerdydd right into the warzone!" Ienifer said, alarmed. "But that's terrible!"
"But not insurmountable," Flyn said, giving her a gentle smile that was, again, just fractionally condescending. "A firmly united Cymru would certainly be strong enough to resist a Saxon invasion."
Oh gods. Oh, gods, here it came. It was starting properly now. Maybe Gwilym could fake a condition that made him scream every time someone started speaking with heavy subtext? It would probably work on Ienifer and Girly Lord Ieuan too, maybe he couldn't go wrong here. But there again, he seemed to have made a good impression on Erys and Iestyn so far. Probably best not to scream like a suicidal bean sidhe in their faces for the next ten minutes.
"That's true," Mihangel grunted, pouring out more wine. "Stronger together and that."
The bards? Gwilym wondered. Could he fake a sudden and terrible panic at the sight of them? Probably not, since he'd been calm enough so far.
"Well, that's alright, then!" Girly Lord Ieuan interposed brightly, blithely oblivious of Flyn's careful look. "We'll be fine! Worrying for a second, I was. Thought I might need someone to help... calm me down..."
He rubbed his thigh suggestively against Gwilym's.
"I suspect that's impossible," Gwilym declared darkly, and bizarrely Flyn saved him.
Or rather, Flyn saved him bizarrely.
"Tell me more about blood poisoning," he said calmly. Everyone looked at him, Gwilym included.
"Do what now?" Gwilym asked blankly. Flyn smiled a neutral smile, his eyes nonetheless intense.
"Blood poisoning," he repeated nonchalently. "You are our resident medical expert," he nodded politely to Marged, "and you seem to know about it. Tell me precisely what it is. How it works."
Well, it was a ploy of some kind, it had to be. The trouble was, Gwilym couldn't exactly cross his arms, stick his nose in the air and refuse. He was a Grown Up now, and Responsible, and Knew Better.
"Well," he said slowly. "It's what you get when an infection gets into the blood stream, either from an external cut or from an infected organ inside the body or whatever. Then the blood carries the infection around the body and passes it on to the organs; kidneys and liver first, usually, but then the heart and lungs."
"How horrible," Ienifer said, glaring at Flyn. He ignored her.
"Mortality rates?"
"Extremely high," Gwilym admitted. "If it gets to that stage, anyway. Extremely low if you get druidic treatment within a day or two."
"What sort of infection?" Flyn asked serenly. "A particularly serious one, presumably?"
"Usually," Gwilym said, bewildered. "It can be quite mild, though, at the start."
"And yet it can still kill someone?" Flyn said, one eyebrow raised. Gwilym sighed. He was starting to get the feeling that some sort of political analogy was going to be drawn from this.
"Yes," he said as the servants appeared to remove the soup bowls and bring the next course. "Because it affects all of the organs. If only one is diseased then you've a chance of healing, but when every part of you isn't working properly the body just can't cope."
"How long does it take?" Flyn asked. Everyone was looking at him oddly now, Gwilym was relieved to note. Even Ienifer and Girly Lord Ieuan had stopped trying to molest him in favour of looking at Flyn.
"It varies," Gwilym said, wincing. "It can be weeks, it can be months, depending on how strong the infection is."
"Painful?"
"Very," Gwilym said with feeling. He'd seen three people die from blood poisoning. They weren't memories he wanted to relive.
"What about cut knees?" Erys broke in with the tone of someone determined to lighten the mood a bit. "What causes those?"
"Falling over because of childhood," Gwilym grinned. "Which is a terrible affliction, but fortunately enough it heals itself. It takes a while, though, you have to live with it for years."
"Honestly, Flyn, what has gotten into you?" Marged scolded. "It's dinnertime! We don't want to hear this."
"My apologies," Flyn murmured, still staring at Gwilym. "I find it... fascinating. How something so small, so insignificant as a mere infection could destroy the entire complex structure of the human body. With the right part infected, suddenly every system, all the infrastructures, every carefully designed procedure just... crumbles."
"Hmm." Mihangel smiled gruffly. "Not unlike politics, eh?"
"The wrong thing in the wrong place," Flyn said softly. "Indeed. And the trick is to catch it early."
"So how are you finding politics so far, Gwilym?" Iestyn asked abruptly. Clearly, Gwilym wasn't the only person bothered by Flyn's heavy subtext.
"Challenging," he smiled. "Although I've gotten better at it in the last few days. I think it's being shot at, it gives you impetus."
"I remember my first assassination attempt," Iestyn smiled fondly. "It was Madog's first act in office almost. We were moving in a procession through the streets and suddenly he tackled me to the ground, sat up and threw a sword at one of the rooftops. Took the man's arm clean off, apparently."
"Riders, eh?" Gwilym asked merrily. "Did you know why the man had tried to kill you?"
"We'd just re-opened the land trade routes over the border," Iestyn said reminiscently. "I think everyone had to duck a few times that year."
"Do you know why yours was?" Erys asked, carefully inspecting the fish on the plate in front of her. Gwilym grinned.
"Yes and no!" he said. "It was because - and you'll laugh, wait for it - I'm a pervasive influence."
"Really?" Erys asked with a smile as Iestyn laughed. "I had no idea."
"The mentally unstable, then," Iestyn nodded. "I've had a few of those, too."
"Ooh, yes," Marged said happily. "I had one once who thought I was secretly half-fish! Poor chap."
"Was he an ex-employee?" Flyn asked, with slightly less élan than before, Gwilym felt. Marged beamed.
"Bless you, no!" she said expressively. "Came from Casnewydd originally. Became a sailor, survived a shipwreck and went crazy."
"I had one once who couldn't bear the thought of not having a relationship with me," Ienifer said, her smile slightly smug as she looked up at Gwilym through her lowered lashes. "It seems I left too great an impression, poor soul."
"Great indeed, if he felt the need to end you," Girly Lord Ieuan said snidely. "I'll happily admit no one I've ever slept with has done so."
"No," Ienifer said sweetly. "I suppose we pick from different crowds, though, don't we? I always fall for people of more... discerning tastes."
"Which does rather explain your lower hit rate," Girly Lord Ieuan returned in the same voice, at which point Awen of all people saved the table from erupting in a cloud of fists and fish.
She'd slid unobtrusively into the hall already, quietly approaching the Top Table and handing what looked like a note over to Rhydian who simply scanned it and nodded as Gwilym glanced over. As she turned and started back down the hall to leave she met his eye and gave him a tired smile, the movement highlighting her cheekbones. He returned it wearily and she smirked, her eyes travelling to Ienifer and Girly Lord Ieuan. No doubt she knew exactly what hell his life had briefly become, the bitch.
Lord Flyn saw him looking over his shoulder and turned to see. He raised an arm, and Awen changed course instantly, heading over to their table instead, her expression one of pleasant tiredness. She reached them, her presence halting Ienifer's stinging retort, and dropped to one knee in front of Flyn. His face was completely impassive, watching her.
"My lord," Awen said mildly. Flyn smiled.
"Leader," he said, and then promptly violated all kinds of social codes by not telling her to get up. "I wondered; have we had any news on that poor girl from my quarters, yet?"
The one you raped? Gwilym thought incredulously, and then tried not to stare even more incredulously at Awen as she looked up at him hesitantly, nothing but regretful sympathy in her eyes. Despite, apart from anything else, still being on the floor. While injured.
"Not as of yet, my lord," Awen said gently, as though trying to break bad news while softening the blow. "To be honest, as I say, I'm not hopeful."
"No?" Flyn straightened, sighing. "A shame. I'd hoped that with the druids here... Well. Do you think I could see her?"
"Certainly not," Awen said, raising an eyebrow. "She was, in all likelihood, conditioned to kill you my lord. She's being kept as far away from you as I can physically station her, and under so many locks and keys we've had to send away for additional blacksmiths."
"I'm touched by your devotion to duty even here, Leader," Flyn smiled, a glint in his eye. "But she didn't seem much of a threat."
"Before or after she actually tried to attack me, my lord?" Awen rejoined, even putting in a slight edge of humour. "Because I can count on one hand the number of times that has ever happened to me where the perpertrator was neither Saxon nor insane."
"Wow," Gwilym threw in, putting on his best impressed voice. "Surely you don't need all fingers, either?"
"Not in this context," Awen grinned. Beside Gwilym, Marged leaned forward.
"Oh, for goodness' sake, Flyn!" she said. "You've made your point! Let the poor girl up! Gwilym, dear, are you eating that bread roll?"
"No," Gwilym said, trying not to giggle as Flyn raised his chin slightly and Awen moved back to her feet. "Help yourself. How's the hand, now?"
"Healed, thank you, Sovereign," Awen said, examining the scar on her palm. "You did a good job."
"Well, you know," Gwilym shrugged. "Since you tore it apart in my honour I thought I should probably bring my A-game to the task of sewing you back together. I still feel bad about it."
"It was only my hand," Awen said, rolling her eyes slightly. "Seriously. It could have been your throat."
"Yes," Gwilym said. "How's your throat, by the way?"
"Fine," Awen said, her smile challenging as she crossed her arms. "How's politics?"
"Going swimmingly," Gwilym grinned. "How's the shoulder?"
"Healed," Awen said, and then laughed. "Or it was, at any rate, but not anymore, so I'm going to stop playing. And anyway, this is childish. Shut up. I'm going to the pub. Sovereigns."
She bowed to them all, including an uncontrollably giggling Marged, and then dropped nimbly to one knee in front of Flyn again.
"My lord," she murmured. He smiled thinly.
"Rise, Leader," he said imperiously, and Awen left. And suddenly a lot of Sovereigns were staring at Gwilym.
"Terrifyingly likeable, hmm?" Flyn said, sipping from his glass as his eyes bored calculatingly into Gwilym's. Erys chuckled.
"So you had the honour of tending to a Rider?" she asked merrily. "Well done! Although I doubt she let you see it that way?"
"Of course not," Gwilym said sadly, shaking his head. "Her attitude was much as you just saw. Since her Deputy was her medic she wasn't even planning on having them stitched. I had to talk her into it."
"Lovely girl, that one," Marged said cheerfully as she calmed back down. "Beautiful voice. She taught me how to play a beginner's chord sequence for the Ballads once. Oh, and one of her Riders has a bird! She let me fly it! Magical, it was."
"Yes, I met that bird," Gwilym said nervously. "I managed to make it stop glaring at me, but it took a while."
"Anyway," Erys said with the air of a teacher who's just realised that half of the lesson has gone and the class have still done no work. "Sorry to drag everyone's minds back to politics and such, but we'll need to get this labourer scheme for Wrecsam sorted out. So? How will it work?"
The evening swept on, in a haze of wine and subtext.
GWILYM
The setting sunlight burnished the shining ornamentation in the hall, leaving Gwilym to feel as though he'd accidentally hibernated and woken up in time for autumn. A slightly harrassed-looking clerk showed him to his seat and bolted almost as soon as he'd touched it, the reason for which became apparent as soon as Gwilym looked at the name plates around him. For one thing, Marged was sitting to his left. For quite another, Flyn was opposite him. Clearly, someone at the Union had a sense of humour. Gwilym couldn't imagine two people it was less advisable to sit together. Hopefully there would be some Riders around, or the druids were going to be removing knitting needles from people's ears tonight.
"Well well, my lord Gwilym," Flyn's voice said smoothly, and Gwilym looked up. Flyn was sliding genteely into his chair, clad in a tunic that was indecently ornate and almost a quarter purple, the rest in turquoise and gold. His torque was so polished it gleamed, fully visible beneath the short-cropped sandy hair and permanently lifted chin, allowing the light flaring off it to blind the unwary. He smiled fluidly at Gwilym now, locking his long fingers together and resting said chin on them. "How delightful to see you at your first Archwiliad! And how is it treating you so far?"
"Surreally," Gwilym said, appropriately. Surely there should be failsafes in place to keep you from having to talk to people you knew were guilty of treason and murder and things? "I had to meet with all of the Alpha Wingleaders this morning. I don't think I've ever been in a room with that many people who could kill me without even standing up before."
Flyn laughed, the sound rich and charming, sipping from his glass.
"I know the feeling," he said, amused. "They can be intimidating, can't they? Particularly from the border, I find."
Oh, well, yours then, Gwilym thought, but managed not to roll his eyes because he was a Grown-Up now and Responsible and Knew Better.
"Madog," he nodded with private spite anyway. "The man is effortlessly suave, and thus is also socially intimidating. I feel like he could arrive at a dinner party looking better than me and then inhume me with my own pastry fork."
"Ha! Well put," Flyn said, swirling his wine. "Yes. While Llywelyn's size alone lends him an extra air of authority. Not to mention, of course, that he's rather thorough in his examination of a given topic."
"Yes, it was mostly him asking the questions this morning," Gwilym agreed. "Which I thought was impressive, given that he was clearly hung over. I'd have just lain there and twitched a bit."
"Ah, but they are trained to take pain," Flyn said, his eyes twinkling. He was such a politician; despite loathing the man, Gwilym was finding him oddly charming to talk to. It was like cleaning up the dismembered corpse of a bird and then finding an incredibly friendly and endearing cat climbing onto your lap; the connection between the two events seemed so distant. "More so than the rest of us mere mortals. So; Madog, Llywelyn... and then there's Awen."
His nonchalent look at his glass was fractionally too casual. Clearly someone was desperate to boast, as though Awen was some kind of status symbol along with his very purple tunic and painfully bright torque. But there again... it wasn't like Gwilym terribly minded discussing her. He let himself smile.
"And then there's Awen," he echoed carefully. "Almost terrifyingly likeable, I found."
"Hmm," Flyn smiled. "Oh, she's enchanting company, isn't she? Moreso than most Riders. And yet fights like a wolverine, I'm told. To the extent that she can defeat an entire Saxon raid almost single-handedly."
"Ah yes," Gwilym said graciously and moderately spitefully. "Another mark on Madog's resumé too, that. How on earth did they manage that?"
"An incredible amount of skill," Flyn smiled slightly. "Which - ah. My lady Ienifer."
"Lord Flyn!" Ienifer giggled, kissing the air in front of Flyn's cheeks as he rose to greet her. Judging by the vibrancy of her lips it was just as well, or Flyn would have been left looking like he'd caught a particularly strange skin disease. "How delightful to see you! You're looking well?"
"As I trust you are?" Flyn responded. His voice bore the tiniest edge of condescension. They both took their seats, Ienifer tossing her head far more than Gwilym thought she actually needed to in order to keep the impeccably styled blonde curls out of her face. "And have you met Lord Gwilym yet?"
"Not yet," Ienifer said, turning her attention to Gwilym, and her manner went from simperingly pleasant to vampishly sultry at a faster pace than a lightning strike. She actually batted her eyelashes. Gwilym swallowed, some sort of precognitive instinct screaming in horror inside. "But it's a pleasure, I assure you."
"Likewise," Gwilym said. Somehow, he managed to make his voice sound normal and not vaguely strangled. Flyn looked diplomatically into his glass, clearly hiding a smile, an act that made Gwilym hate him twice as much. "Are you enjoying the Archwiliad so far?"
"Oh, very much so," Ienifer purred, running a finger around the rim of her glass with practiced grace. "It's always a stimulating experience. And this is your first, of course. How are you finding it?"
She peered alluringly up at him through lowered lashes. Gwilym downed what was left in his wine glass.
"Basically terrifying," he said, to the faintest trace of wavering breath from Flyn indicating a stifled laugh, the bastard. He groped for a subject change that would sound sufficiently natural. "I met a lot of Riders earlier."
"Indeed," Flyn said jovially. "We were comparing the relative merits of Alpha Wingleaders."
"Tefion's rather dashing," Ienifer said, pressing a finger against her brightly-painted lips, considering. "In Milford Haven. It's those eyes, I think. So very suggestive. But, of course, from that perspective, one must consider all three from the border."
"Suggestive eyes?" Gwilym asked thoughtfully. He could see the point, actually; not suggestive in the sexual sense that Ienifer clearly liked, but there was something... different about the Riders from the border. Awen's analytical, watchful gaze hid depths that were never shown.
"There is that," Flyn smiled, pouring more wine into Gwilym's glass. "A stronger impression of hidden competence, would that be a fair description?"
"Alaw's like that, mind," Gwilym said morosely. "She has these eyes. It's like they look through you, as though she's just been painted. And she looks all neutral, but she sort of exudes disapproval."
"Oh, poor you!" Ienifer simpered, batting her eyelashes again. "That must be so hard!"
She put a distressing amount of innuendo onto the word 'hard'. Lord Flyn abrutly drank from his glass. Gwilym tried not to shudder.
"Unnerving," he said, strained, and followed Flyn's example and drank. Hopefully, someone else would arrive soon. Otherwise he was going to have to fake an injury of some kind and flee the hall.
"I imagine it must be," Flyn said carefully, throwing Gwilym into the bizarre position of being grateful to him. "I must say, she does seem - ah."
Flyn's grey eyes turned sharp, his face pasting itself into an otherwise bland smile of welcome. Gwilym looked up. Marged was happily making her way through the throng of people, her hair and make-up surprisingly stylishly done and therefore clearly done by someone else. She was wearing a long, corsetted tunic that was almost a dress over a pair of incredibly loose trousers, all in woven reds, oranges and blues, and all markedly more sophisticated than he was used to seeing her wear. Ordinarily Marged's dress-sense was far more similar to that of a strangely rich tramp, usually some sort of patchwork or hand-knitted ensemble designed to fit the description 'jolly comfortable'. She was talking enthusiastically to Councillor Rhydian who seemed to be wearing a fond smile, and belatedly the outdated Caerleuad liveries still on the man's shoulders waved a flag at Gwilym. He would have been Alpha Wingleader under Marged for most of the first half of her reign. Just after the Wars, too. They must have known each other well.
"And then it turned black and fell off!" Marged said merrily but alarmingly as they approached. "Such fun. Gwilym! Are we sitting together? Hooray!"
"Only if you make nothing of me turn black and fall off," Gwilym said mock-sternly. Marged almost hooted with laughter and hugged him, yanking him half out of his seat.
"Silly!" She giggled. "That's not for here, we'd need a druid to keep an eye out. Where are you, now, Rhydian?"
"Still on the Top Table," Rhydian told her as he pulled her seat out for her. It was an incredibly deferential gesture, especially considering that Rhydian was possibly the most important and powerful man in the country. "As I was the last three times you asked, Lady. Your promise of horrifying stories hasn't swayed me."
"You're not going to tell us them, are you?" Ienifer asked, alarmed, and Marged giggled.
"Bless you, no!" she said, taking the proffered chair with a squeeze of Rhydian's hand on the backrest. "Not the right disposition, really; I'll tell you them later, Gwilym. And you look as ravishing as ever, Ienifer!"
"Whoa, wait," Gwilym said, raising a hand. "Why do I have to be told? What have I done?"
"If you'd prefer, of course, I could tell you a few better stories later, Gwilym," Ienifer said, alluring smile fixed in place. She was raising her game, it seemed.
"It appears I'm pre-booked," Gwilym said weakly. Rhydian laughed.
"Well, enjoy the banquet," he said grandly. "Sovereigns! Lady."
He dropped to one knee in an elaborate version of the Rider-to-Liege bow, and Marged giggled and threw a napkin at him.
"Oh, you!" she said. "Behave!"
He rose with a grin and departed. Flyn smiled thinly.
"Still close, then," he said, completely neutrally, and Gwilym suppressed a sigh. Well, here they went. It was beginning so soon; like feeling the very first warning signs of a volcano and knowing you had to start gathering your possessions and going to visit some far-away relatives. Unfortunately, his only travelling companion would be Lady Ienifer, whom Gwilym would just as soon have left to the lava.
"Oh, he's a joker," Marged said affectionately. "Loves messing about, that one."
"And always did," Flyn nodded. Gwilym fought his jaw not to drop. "You must have had an enjoyable partnership."
"A pleasant thing to have," Ienifer said huskily, her eyes locked onto Gwilym. Marged snorted.
"Oh, Flyn," she said kindly. "It was wonderful. And who knows? You might manage it one day! Awen's still young."
Gwilym drank hastily. He'd had no idea - no idea - that Marged could be that cutting. Thank gods he'd only ever asked her for cheap dyes.
"That we are," Flyn agreed pleasantly, very slightly stressing the 'we'. In Gwilym's head a small crowd seemed to have gathered to cheer and boo at the relevant moments. "And she's highly skilled, as Gwilym and I were just discussing. I imagine we'll be around for a while yet."
"It's always good to meet someone skilled in a given field," Ienifer said, very deliberately stroking a finger down the stem of her wine glass. "You can learn such a lot."
"Yes, I remember when I felt I was going to live on forever," Marged said, dreamily reminiscent. "But we all have to grow up eventually."
"You look lovely, by the way, Marged!" Gwilym nearly shouted, desperate to halt Flyn from snidely remarking that Marged must be looking forward to growing up and Ienifer from commenting on the merits of growth. "Not your usual style?"
"A bit of a change!" Marged said merrily, apparently not in the least bit perturbed by the conversation shift or, indeed, Gwilym's sudden eagerness. And volume. "Rhydian's doing. It's an overlooked Rider skill you see, Gwilym. If you want to dress up and not look ridiculous, don't ask an aide; ask a Rider."
"Really?" Gwilym raised an eyebrow. "I'd have thought they'd be busy... I don't know, killing and that."
"Mostly," Flyn smiled. Apparently, he wanted to get to explain things too. "But it's an important part of Wing dynamics, to make each other look good. They are forbidden to see themselves, you'll recall?"
Gwilym nodded. His father had explained that once, when they were younger. A person who didn't know their own face thought of themselves far less as a person.
"Well, it means they rely on each other to look good, you see?" Marged said, pouring herself some wine. "Which has the knock-on effect of meaning that they display their affection for each other to the outside world by making each other look as good as possible. After all; if one Wing member is unpopular, the others can make them look daft and they'll never know, see?"
"At your meeting with the Alpha Wingleaders this morning," Flyn broke in, "you must have noticed how impeccably turned out they all were? It's a sign of their good standing. The Wings particularly want to display their respect for their Leaders, especially given that they're surrounded by each other. And after this business with our previous Alpha Deputy, Awen has certainly been looking twice as polished."
Which explained a lot. When he'd seen her this morning Gwilym had thought how staggeringly beautiful Awen had looked. And now that he thought of the others... Madog was a ruggedly handsome man anyway, but he'd looked particularly distinguished in that meeting given that he was recovering from extended physical trauma.
"They were glamorous," Gwilym nodded thoughtfully. Ienifer batted her eyelashes again.
"But surely you were Rider-styled tonight, Gwilym?" she asked sweetly. Marged saved him by planting a hand on his shoulder and turning him to face her.
"Ooh, it is a lovely tunic," she said approvingly. "Suits you; it makes your shoulders look lovely and broad. Probably why Ienifer has her eye on you."
"Amongst others," Ienifer said with a wink. Flyn smiled with his mouth.
"Yes, I'm sure you're also attracted to his superb sense of humour and all of the good work he does for charity," he said, fixing his gaze onto Gwilym. "A free clinic for the fishing sector, wasn't it? Most impressive."
There was a slight pause.
"It was," Gwilym said lightly. He was deeply unnerved. "Well, not just the fishers, but that was how it began."
"Your mother was very proud of you, you know," Marged said gently. "I remember her telling us about that. Of course, you weren't going to be Sovereign, then."
"I'm glad you are now," Ienifer inserted into the conversation, and Gwilym could only imagine it was her foot sliding up his shin and not Flyn's. Were you allowed to kick out wildly at another Sovereign? Probably not, unless you were a Rider. Again, Marged saved him, although this time more unintentionally.
"Ooh, Ieuan!" she squealed suddenly at another incoming Sovereign, and Gwilym 'jumped', withdrawing his legs. Ienifer looked disappointed. "You're over here! How are you dear?"
It became apparent in moments that Gwilym was not, however, saved by the newcomer. Girly Lord Ieuan minced over to their table joyfully, met by Marged's beam, Ienifer's narrowed eyes and Flyn's impassive mask.
"Marged!" he squealed, even more loudly than she had moments before. This time, Gwilym really did jump. Flyn met his eyes with a look that, despite showing no emotion whatsoever, somehow conveyed his feelings on the subject of Girly Lord Ieuan more completely than if he'd stood up and calmly poured his wine over the man's head. "Ooh, Archwiliad, so exciting! And - oh, hello."
He slid into his chair beside Gwilym, their thighs touching, and the reason for Ienifer's hostile look was suddenly abundantly clear.
"Lord Gwilym, I presume?" he asked, batting his eyelashes in the same way Ienifer had. It couldn't just be the tunic, Gwilym reflected. It had to be his age as well. He was twenty-six, which was a good ten years younger than the next Sovereign; but even so. Mentally, he vowed to burn the bloody tunic and dance upon its seductive ashes at his earliest convenience. "It's a delight to meet you."
"Just Gwilym," Gwilym said wearily. "And likewise."
"Ooh, careful, he's got his eye on you, too," Marged said in conspiratorial tone but oratory volume. "My advice is to take them both to bed. They aren't interested in each other, so it'd be a good night!"
"Good advice," Flyn said smoothly. "Lady Marged, of course, has experience with unusual pairings."
"Yes," Marged agreed. "It's a shame you missed your window, eh, Flyn? She's such a beautiful girl, too. Lovely singing voice."
Gwilym's jaw actually dropped that time. He didn't even notice the hand on his knee until it had reached mid-thigh, and then had to try not to panic. Well, screw it. Flyn could take one for the team here, he was a bastard anyway.
"His window?" he asked, deliberately sounding as confused as he could and twisting towards Marged, leaning forward. It dislodged Girly Lord Ieuan's hand. "What-?"
"Oh, it was all acceptable after the Wars," Marged said, waving a hand. "Different country still, see? The Alpha Wingleaders just had to make sure they kept an eye on us, and a lot of them found that regular sex worked rather well. Such fun! Not anymore, though."
"Really?" Gwilym asked, astonished. Well, that explained the casual affection between Rhydian and Marged, then. "And that worked out?"
"Oh yes," Marged said happily. "Stop pestering him, Ieuan, do. Yes, it was even a proper relationship for a while. Quite the strangest I've ever had, of course; they don't think like we do. It's always so hard to get on equal footing with someone convinced they're below you. They enter every situation with the viewpoint that you're better than them, see? Quite frustrating. Their priorities are different, too. Oh, and if it's an active Rider - and they all were back then, just after the Wars - then you have to get good at tying them down. They get fretful if they think they might hurt you. Can't bear the thought, bless them. Ienifer, dear, I can see your foot. Do leave him alone."
"That must have been a difficult relationship," Gwilym observed as Ienifer's foot mercifully withdrew from between his legs. Marged glanced up at the Top Table with a sad smile, where Rhydian was obliviously talking to Gwenllian.
"Yes," she said softly. "They crave affection - absolutely crave it - but they never ask for it. And you have to be prepared to be upset on their behalf, I found, because they won't be, see? They don't... file their emotions properly."
Awen, are you okay?
I'm just tired. It's been a long week.
"File their emotions?" Flyn asked calmly and fractionally disdainfully, one eyebrow raised. "And Ieuan, I imagine Lord Gwilym would appreciate having at least some sort of gap between his thigh and yours."
"Filing's a way of thinking of it," Marged said, watching Rhydian. Given how dappy she generally seemed she sparred remarkably well with Flyn. "They can feel positive emotions fine, see, but negative ones they file away in boxes and keep. They don't feel them properly. And then, when they fight, they take them out and use them as fuel. Very efficient for a warrior; terrible, though, terrible for a person. They don't really understand their own feelings. So you have to do it for them. And you have to do it knowing that they'll never change."
"Easier to go for a non-Rider, then," Ienifer purred, leaning forward onto her elbows. They were touching on the table top in front of her; the effect was to wildly exaggerate her cleavage. Girly Lord Ieuan sniffed.
"Yes, ultimately," Marged said, turning back towards the door. "But easier isn't necessarily - ooh, Erys! Are you over here, dear?"
It was funny how Marged seemed to just call everyone 'dear', regardless of age. Erys was presumably somewhere between her late forties and early fifties which wouldn't have made her much younger than Marged, but it seemed Marged was, as ever, a law unto herself. Erys smiled warmly as she approached them, the torque of Milford Haven an elaborate twist of gold at her throat.
"I'm told I am!" she said, a servant steering her to her seat on the other side of Flyn and then fleeing such an obvious timebomb. "Wonderful to see you all again. And a pleasure to have you here, Lord Gwilym. How have you found the experience so far?"
"Challenging," Gwilym said, managing a smile as two feet belonging to two separate people started a new attempt on his leg. "Er... just Gwilym's fine, too."
"I'm honoured," Erys smiled graciously. "Feel free to return the favour. So? Who else will be on this table?"
"Ooh, there's a question!" Girly Lord Ieuan said, clapping his hands excitedly and leaning to check the remaining place holders. Flyn watched him, his face completely impassive. "Mihangel and Iestyn, looks like. There's nice!"
"The whole border, then!" Gwilym grinned at Flyn, trying to shift his leg away. "Well, there we are. You can talk about your terrible experiences of Saxon attack while we all sit back and bitch about Phoenician trade rates and imagine it's the same."
"An evening to look forward to," Flyn laughed, swirling his glass. "Although, I must confess, not my normal chosen topic for dinner."
"Well, I'm certainly not discussing the Phoenician trade rates," Erys said emphatically. "I consider this a holiday from staring at rows of numbers. And I imagine Iestyn won't be up for much discussion of Saxons; I assume everyone's heard about the problems up in Wrecsam?"
"Oh, yes, poor things," Marged said, helping herself to more wine. "Almost five times a week, I heard. Madog was looking a bit stressed, I thought."
"You've not had that problem further south, then?" Gwilym asked Flyn casually. "Not unusually, anyway?"
"Not as of yet," Flyn said seriously. "And I'm praying it will continue, of course. We've three villages we're halfway through rebuilding at the moment. I shudder to think of the extra damage we could be facing."
Said with a perfectly straight face, sorrow tinging his features. From the man clearly responsible for the border warnings being delayed.
"Imagine the loss of life," Gwilym said. Flyn nodded, his grey eyes slightly haunted, no guilt, no shame.
"Indeed," he said. "And we lose enough. My fear, though, is that it is simply a matter of time for us. Clearly, something is making the Saxons restless."
"A rather grim prediction," Erys said thoughtfully. "Although I can't see the end being too catastrophic. The Union is rather good at - Iestyn! Mihangel! How wonderful to see you both again."
Particularly Iestyn, apparently, or so Gwilym's impression ran. Whereas Mihangel greeted everyone equally and amiably before settling down into his chair, Iestyn actually half-bowed to Erys specifically before claiming his own, earning himself a slightly shy smile from her. Gwilym wondered if they had some sort of history, too. They certainly seemed to be about the same age; Iestyn looked a bit like a slightly older Lord Flyn, the Saxon stamp to his features noticeable and with a similar colouring. Mihangel sort of had it too, although it was less obvious in his case by dint of him being about sixty, mostly grey and fairly wrinkled. He had the sort of wiry build that meant he was fairly strong despite his age, however, like someone's grandfather who still climbed a hill every day to tend the sheep before beating the village children at arm wrestling two at a time, but without the twinkly warmth.
And then their table was complete. Gwilym glanced around it. The assembled interests of Aberystwyth, Caerleuad, Llangefni, Wrecsam, Trallwng, Casnewydd, Caerdydd and Milford Haven floated intangibly in the air, unspoken and oddly oppressive, although admittedly the needs of Llangefni and Caerdydd promised to be sorted simply by him having sex with them, it seemed. Or, well, with Girly Lord Ieuan and Ienifer, at any rate. He was going to have to limber up considerably if he had to service the whole City-states. And now he was just thinking weird things.
"Sovereigns," Councillor Rhydian called from the raised Top Table, and the hall fell vaguely quiet. Rhydian smiled and spread his hands. "No, don't worry, the food is coming so I won't keep you long. But welcome to the Archwiliad! Thank you all for coming, it's greatly appreciated."
"I love that bit," Marged not-entirely-whispered to Gwilym. "As if we'd be allowed to not come, eh?"
"It's certainly a rule I like to enforce," Girly Lord Ieuan whispered distressingly sensuously into Gwilym's ear, making him jump. Marged considerately leaned around Gwilym and clipped Girly Lord Ieuan across the nose with a rolled-up napkin.
"Just a few announcements," Rhydian continued obliviously. "Firstly; you'll have all been told by now, but it's important, so I'll repeat it. Make sure you remain a metre away from Alpha Wingleader Awen at all times, especially if no other Rider is present. If you don't we accept no liability for you losing body parts or life."
There were a few nervous titters, the sort you got after deeply disturbing news delivered to a group of people who desperately wanted to lighten the mood and so latched onto tiny, incredibly unfunny jokes as though they were richly amusing. More than a few eyes turned to Lord Flyn, who simply sipped his wine serenely, watching Rhydian.
"Oh," Marged softly. "Well, never mind, Flyn."
"Secondly," Rhydian continued over Flyn's impassive glance, "there's been a short delay in selecting the Audiences this year, so we'll be a day or two late to get the Archwiliad proper underway. We'll be focusing on the smaller domestic requests first, therefore."
"Phoenicia and Erinn, it is," Marged not-whispered sagaciously. "Nubian Phoenicians this year, apparently."
"Really?" Ienifer whispered, perking up. Apparently, Gwilym was only an attractive prospect until the promise of large black men was made. Girly Lord Ieuan trailed his fingers over the back of Gwilym's hand on the table.
"Personally, I find home-grown is best," he purred.
"I'm half-Erinnish," Gwilym whispered back before he could stop himself. Erys made a choked noise into her wine-glass, shoulders shaking, while Marged smacked Girly Lord Ieuan's fingers off his arm. Iestyn smiled up at the ceiling, fixing his gaze studiously away.
"And finally," Rhydian said jovially, "I say it every Archwiliad; leave your Alpha Wingleaders alone as much as you can! They don't get holidays, remember. And... I think that's it. Enjoy yourselves!"
He sat down again to the assorted applause while the servants finally carried in the food and the bards in their corner started tuning up. Gwilym eyed them warily.
"How do they choose the bards?" he asked. None of them seemed to be wearing enormous cloaks, so that was a start. Marged gave one of her half-squeals.
"Oh, gracious!" she said, patting his arm. "I'd forgotten about that. Do you still have the arrow, dear? It's a cracking conversation piece!"
"I didn't think it would make for the best dinner topic," Gwilym admitted thoughtfully. Iestyn snorted.
"It's gossip," he said drily. "Politicians are worse than a whole fishing sector. Rest assured we all want details."
"The assassin was posing as a bard, I'm told?" Flyn asked casually, sipping his wine. "Do you know how they got in?"
"Ah, well," Gwilym said, just about managing to move his knee to block Ienifer's foot in time. "You know how your Alpha Deputy turned out to be evil?"
"Shocking state of affairs, that," Erys said quietly, shaking her head. "It took me a good ten minutes to fully explain it to Tefion after I got the message. I think he still sent off to the Union for confirmation."
"And it was him who got the assassin in?" Girly Lord Ieuan asked, his eyes wide. "How dreadful! What happened?"
"It was all a bit quick, really," Gwilym sighed. Which was true, but quick or not, he'd formed a perfect bloody memory of it. "We had the Casnewydd Wing at the time, and Awen was fortunately enough sitting next to me. Apparently the bards were playing the wrong notes, or something. She noticed, because she's also a bard, so when the one stood up and fired at me she was ready and caught the arrow."
"She caught it?" Mihangel asked, leaning forward. "Really?"
"Yes," Gwilym said. He was still frankly amazed by it. "It was barbed, too. Sliced her hand right open."
"I saw the scar," Flyn interjected. "It did a lot of damage."
"None lasting, I trust?" Erys asked, concerned. Three sentences and a stifled laugh probably wasn't enough data to make a properly informed decision on, but Gwilym decided he liked her anyway.
"It was healed by the time I saw it," Flyn nodded as a small bowl of soup was placed in front of him. "And she was then well enough to halt a full raid yesterday, so I imagine she's fully recovered."
"Although probably not after the raid now," Iestyn smiled, breaking a bread roll in half. "Madog was exhausted by the time he got back yesterday. Tomorrow they'll both be stiffer than ice, I should think."
"Usually how it works," Mihangel nodded gruffly. "Particularly if they needed full body healing. I assume they both did?"
"Oh, yes," Flyn said. Gwilym tried the soup. It was green, and surprisingly nice. "And treatment for blood poisoning."
"Nasty," Gwilym commented, mostly to himself, but it inadvertantly earned him attention anyway as Marged swung to look at him.
"Well, you're our resident medical expert!" she giggled. "So? How serious is that?"
"Blood poisoning?" Gwilym asked, his eyebrow raised. No one had ever asked him that before. Usually the title gave the game away somewhat. "Very, if it isn't cured almost instantly. It means the rest of your organs get infected and fail."
Flyn looked up and fixed him with a considering stare.
"I love a man who knows his way around the human body," Ienifer murmured salaciously. Girly Lord Ieuan giggled. Uncomfortably, Gwilym wondered if they were about to double team him; Marged probably didn't have a napkin big enough to keep them both at bay.
"Yes," he said as steadily as he could. "If you need your kidneys mapped out, I'm your man."
"Both recovered from the blood poisoning, though?" Erys said hastily. Gwilym definitely liked her. Flyn nodded.
"Certainly," he said, flashing her a quick smile. "They were treated quickly enough."
"I think Madog was rather glum about it all, though," Iestyn said. "He's been fighting almost daily for the last few months. I think he was hoping he might get a break while travelling."
"Yes, we heard about the increased raiding," Erys said, her face becoming grave. "Do you need any specific aid? Help with rebuilding, resources, anything like that?"
"I barely know where to begin." Iestyn rubbed a hand through his hair for a second, staring into the distance. "The Union are going to be rotating the Wings in from other Cities anyway, Gamma and down, so we'll have help rebuilding there. But... timber and stone, I think. We run low, obviously. And skilled thatchers, stone masons, builders, that sort of thing. The problem being, of course, that we can't guarentee their safety."
"Well, you can't anyway, surely?" Gwilym said, thinking it through. "And given the number of additional Wings you'll be having, I'd have thought they'd actually be safer in Wrecsam."
"He's right," Erys said, her glance at Iestyn compassionate. "We can arrange something. We often have too many skilled labourers and too little work for them in Milford Haven anyway; people congregate to the harbour."
"Thank you," Iestyn said, his smile tired. "But I doubt they'll be willing -"
"Incentives are all you need," Gwilym said, swirling his soup. "Although it would be best if it wasn't money, given that you need that to pay for things like food and houses."
"Yes." Erys leaned forward. "Jobs? A guarenteed placement somewhere afterwards? I'm not sure we could definitely find somewhere, though."
"Okay," Gwilym said slowly. "So, how about a country-wide scheme? Labourers who go to help Wrecsam at the moment get... er, a qualification? A shiny certificate? We'll come back to that - something to prove that they have, anyway. So then when they apply for jobs anywhere else they get priority over others."
There was a slight pause in which everyone stared at Gwilym, the wheels very clearly turning in Iestyn's head.
"Yes!" Marged said, clapping her hands. "Brilliant solution!"
"Very good!" Erys nodded approvingly. "Well, you've got the hang of the job."
"An elegant solution," Flyn smiled magnanimously. "It will, of course, require a contract for everyone to sign, and a fearsome amount of paperwork. The Council may well loathe you."
"Yes, I know," Gwilym said gloomily. "I'll keep a look-out for bards."
"Superb," Iestyn said quietly, shaking his head. "Thank you. It will be immeasurably helpful to us."
"It's only a shame we can't create some equally brilliant scheme to stop the raids," Flyn sighed. "As I say; something has clearly incited them. I think it's only a matter of time before we start seeing the same problem down south."
"We've increased our patrols to be on the safe side," Mihangel nodded. "Llywelyn tells me that we may have started getting more attacks just at the Northland border, although only for the last week and a half, so it's early to say."
Iestyn said nothing, his eyes hard, and Gwilym wondered how badly he was wanting to punch both men in the face. If their roles had been reversed he'd have been throwing soup by now, Responsible Grown-Up Behaviour be damned.
"If they do, though," Ienifer said uncertainly, in the first move to take part in the conversation rather than sexually harrass him thus far, "we'll ultimately be fine, won't we? The Union would put more Wings along the border."
"Certainly," Flyn said grimly. "But it depends on what's driving the Saxons, doesn't it? And ultimately, the Riders, for all their skills, are human. They can fall."
"There are more of them than us," Mihangel said, dropping his spoon into his now-empty bowl with a clatter. "The Saxons. Worth remembering. Imagine if they all chose to attack us. And imagine if they didn't just attack the border, eh? There's only a small channel they need to cross to get to the Southlands, and it's a short sail to the Northlands."
"Ooh, don't," Girly Lord Ieuan shuddered. "I can't bear the thought! Can't bear it!"
Gwilym could. Aberystwyth was the hardest place in Cymru for a Saxon to get to. It would have been mean to say so, though.
"That would bring Caerdydd right into the warzone!" Ienifer said, alarmed. "But that's terrible!"
"But not insurmountable," Flyn said, giving her a gentle smile that was, again, just fractionally condescending. "A firmly united Cymru would certainly be strong enough to resist a Saxon invasion."
Oh gods. Oh, gods, here it came. It was starting properly now. Maybe Gwilym could fake a condition that made him scream every time someone started speaking with heavy subtext? It would probably work on Ienifer and Girly Lord Ieuan too, maybe he couldn't go wrong here. But there again, he seemed to have made a good impression on Erys and Iestyn so far. Probably best not to scream like a suicidal bean sidhe in their faces for the next ten minutes.
"That's true," Mihangel grunted, pouring out more wine. "Stronger together and that."
The bards? Gwilym wondered. Could he fake a sudden and terrible panic at the sight of them? Probably not, since he'd been calm enough so far.
"Well, that's alright, then!" Girly Lord Ieuan interposed brightly, blithely oblivious of Flyn's careful look. "We'll be fine! Worrying for a second, I was. Thought I might need someone to help... calm me down..."
He rubbed his thigh suggestively against Gwilym's.
"I suspect that's impossible," Gwilym declared darkly, and bizarrely Flyn saved him.
Or rather, Flyn saved him bizarrely.
"Tell me more about blood poisoning," he said calmly. Everyone looked at him, Gwilym included.
"Do what now?" Gwilym asked blankly. Flyn smiled a neutral smile, his eyes nonetheless intense.
"Blood poisoning," he repeated nonchalently. "You are our resident medical expert," he nodded politely to Marged, "and you seem to know about it. Tell me precisely what it is. How it works."
Well, it was a ploy of some kind, it had to be. The trouble was, Gwilym couldn't exactly cross his arms, stick his nose in the air and refuse. He was a Grown Up now, and Responsible, and Knew Better.
"Well," he said slowly. "It's what you get when an infection gets into the blood stream, either from an external cut or from an infected organ inside the body or whatever. Then the blood carries the infection around the body and passes it on to the organs; kidneys and liver first, usually, but then the heart and lungs."
"How horrible," Ienifer said, glaring at Flyn. He ignored her.
"Mortality rates?"
"Extremely high," Gwilym admitted. "If it gets to that stage, anyway. Extremely low if you get druidic treatment within a day or two."
"What sort of infection?" Flyn asked serenly. "A particularly serious one, presumably?"
"Usually," Gwilym said, bewildered. "It can be quite mild, though, at the start."
"And yet it can still kill someone?" Flyn said, one eyebrow raised. Gwilym sighed. He was starting to get the feeling that some sort of political analogy was going to be drawn from this.
"Yes," he said as the servants appeared to remove the soup bowls and bring the next course. "Because it affects all of the organs. If only one is diseased then you've a chance of healing, but when every part of you isn't working properly the body just can't cope."
"How long does it take?" Flyn asked. Everyone was looking at him oddly now, Gwilym was relieved to note. Even Ienifer and Girly Lord Ieuan had stopped trying to molest him in favour of looking at Flyn.
"It varies," Gwilym said, wincing. "It can be weeks, it can be months, depending on how strong the infection is."
"Painful?"
"Very," Gwilym said with feeling. He'd seen three people die from blood poisoning. They weren't memories he wanted to relive.
"What about cut knees?" Erys broke in with the tone of someone determined to lighten the mood a bit. "What causes those?"
"Falling over because of childhood," Gwilym grinned. "Which is a terrible affliction, but fortunately enough it heals itself. It takes a while, though, you have to live with it for years."
"Honestly, Flyn, what has gotten into you?" Marged scolded. "It's dinnertime! We don't want to hear this."
"My apologies," Flyn murmured, still staring at Gwilym. "I find it... fascinating. How something so small, so insignificant as a mere infection could destroy the entire complex structure of the human body. With the right part infected, suddenly every system, all the infrastructures, every carefully designed procedure just... crumbles."
"Hmm." Mihangel smiled gruffly. "Not unlike politics, eh?"
"The wrong thing in the wrong place," Flyn said softly. "Indeed. And the trick is to catch it early."
"So how are you finding politics so far, Gwilym?" Iestyn asked abruptly. Clearly, Gwilym wasn't the only person bothered by Flyn's heavy subtext.
"Challenging," he smiled. "Although I've gotten better at it in the last few days. I think it's being shot at, it gives you impetus."
"I remember my first assassination attempt," Iestyn smiled fondly. "It was Madog's first act in office almost. We were moving in a procession through the streets and suddenly he tackled me to the ground, sat up and threw a sword at one of the rooftops. Took the man's arm clean off, apparently."
"Riders, eh?" Gwilym asked merrily. "Did you know why the man had tried to kill you?"
"We'd just re-opened the land trade routes over the border," Iestyn said reminiscently. "I think everyone had to duck a few times that year."
"Do you know why yours was?" Erys asked, carefully inspecting the fish on the plate in front of her. Gwilym grinned.
"Yes and no!" he said. "It was because - and you'll laugh, wait for it - I'm a pervasive influence."
"Really?" Erys asked with a smile as Iestyn laughed. "I had no idea."
"The mentally unstable, then," Iestyn nodded. "I've had a few of those, too."
"Ooh, yes," Marged said happily. "I had one once who thought I was secretly half-fish! Poor chap."
"Was he an ex-employee?" Flyn asked, with slightly less élan than before, Gwilym felt. Marged beamed.
"Bless you, no!" she said expressively. "Came from Casnewydd originally. Became a sailor, survived a shipwreck and went crazy."
"I had one once who couldn't bear the thought of not having a relationship with me," Ienifer said, her smile slightly smug as she looked up at Gwilym through her lowered lashes. "It seems I left too great an impression, poor soul."
"Great indeed, if he felt the need to end you," Girly Lord Ieuan said snidely. "I'll happily admit no one I've ever slept with has done so."
"No," Ienifer said sweetly. "I suppose we pick from different crowds, though, don't we? I always fall for people of more... discerning tastes."
"Which does rather explain your lower hit rate," Girly Lord Ieuan returned in the same voice, at which point Awen of all people saved the table from erupting in a cloud of fists and fish.
She'd slid unobtrusively into the hall already, quietly approaching the Top Table and handing what looked like a note over to Rhydian who simply scanned it and nodded as Gwilym glanced over. As she turned and started back down the hall to leave she met his eye and gave him a tired smile, the movement highlighting her cheekbones. He returned it wearily and she smirked, her eyes travelling to Ienifer and Girly Lord Ieuan. No doubt she knew exactly what hell his life had briefly become, the bitch.
Lord Flyn saw him looking over his shoulder and turned to see. He raised an arm, and Awen changed course instantly, heading over to their table instead, her expression one of pleasant tiredness. She reached them, her presence halting Ienifer's stinging retort, and dropped to one knee in front of Flyn. His face was completely impassive, watching her.
"My lord," Awen said mildly. Flyn smiled.
"Leader," he said, and then promptly violated all kinds of social codes by not telling her to get up. "I wondered; have we had any news on that poor girl from my quarters, yet?"
The one you raped? Gwilym thought incredulously, and then tried not to stare even more incredulously at Awen as she looked up at him hesitantly, nothing but regretful sympathy in her eyes. Despite, apart from anything else, still being on the floor. While injured.
"Not as of yet, my lord," Awen said gently, as though trying to break bad news while softening the blow. "To be honest, as I say, I'm not hopeful."
"No?" Flyn straightened, sighing. "A shame. I'd hoped that with the druids here... Well. Do you think I could see her?"
"Certainly not," Awen said, raising an eyebrow. "She was, in all likelihood, conditioned to kill you my lord. She's being kept as far away from you as I can physically station her, and under so many locks and keys we've had to send away for additional blacksmiths."
"I'm touched by your devotion to duty even here, Leader," Flyn smiled, a glint in his eye. "But she didn't seem much of a threat."
"Before or after she actually tried to attack me, my lord?" Awen rejoined, even putting in a slight edge of humour. "Because I can count on one hand the number of times that has ever happened to me where the perpertrator was neither Saxon nor insane."
"Wow," Gwilym threw in, putting on his best impressed voice. "Surely you don't need all fingers, either?"
"Not in this context," Awen grinned. Beside Gwilym, Marged leaned forward.
"Oh, for goodness' sake, Flyn!" she said. "You've made your point! Let the poor girl up! Gwilym, dear, are you eating that bread roll?"
"No," Gwilym said, trying not to giggle as Flyn raised his chin slightly and Awen moved back to her feet. "Help yourself. How's the hand, now?"
"Healed, thank you, Sovereign," Awen said, examining the scar on her palm. "You did a good job."
"Well, you know," Gwilym shrugged. "Since you tore it apart in my honour I thought I should probably bring my A-game to the task of sewing you back together. I still feel bad about it."
"It was only my hand," Awen said, rolling her eyes slightly. "Seriously. It could have been your throat."
"Yes," Gwilym said. "How's your throat, by the way?"
"Fine," Awen said, her smile challenging as she crossed her arms. "How's politics?"
"Going swimmingly," Gwilym grinned. "How's the shoulder?"
"Healed," Awen said, and then laughed. "Or it was, at any rate, but not anymore, so I'm going to stop playing. And anyway, this is childish. Shut up. I'm going to the pub. Sovereigns."
She bowed to them all, including an uncontrollably giggling Marged, and then dropped nimbly to one knee in front of Flyn again.
"My lord," she murmured. He smiled thinly.
"Rise, Leader," he said imperiously, and Awen left. And suddenly a lot of Sovereigns were staring at Gwilym.
"Terrifyingly likeable, hmm?" Flyn said, sipping from his glass as his eyes bored calculatingly into Gwilym's. Erys chuckled.
"So you had the honour of tending to a Rider?" she asked merrily. "Well done! Although I doubt she let you see it that way?"
"Of course not," Gwilym said sadly, shaking his head. "Her attitude was much as you just saw. Since her Deputy was her medic she wasn't even planning on having them stitched. I had to talk her into it."
"Lovely girl, that one," Marged said cheerfully as she calmed back down. "Beautiful voice. She taught me how to play a beginner's chord sequence for the Ballads once. Oh, and one of her Riders has a bird! She let me fly it! Magical, it was."
"Yes, I met that bird," Gwilym said nervously. "I managed to make it stop glaring at me, but it took a while."
"Anyway," Erys said with the air of a teacher who's just realised that half of the lesson has gone and the class have still done no work. "Sorry to drag everyone's minds back to politics and such, but we'll need to get this labourer scheme for Wrecsam sorted out. So? How will it work?"
The evening swept on, in a haze of wine and subtext.
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