AERONA
Awe-inspiring.
It was the only word that ever came to mind for most. The smooth stone walls rose out of the crests of Eryri, expressionless and grim and pitted with row upon row of windows, marking out fifteen, twenty, twenty-five floors above the rocky ground and casting long shadows down the steep mountain slopes to the lakes below. From around halfway up the walls the small teeth of landing runways jutted out every few floors, the specks of merod flying back and forth in the late afternoon light just visible from above. On the top two levels the bustle could be seen clearly as the landing runways became far bigger and far more elegant, designed for accomodating official carriages and entire Wings and presently being prepared for the fast-approaching Archwiliad, carpets plush and tapestries being cleaned and hung; and then, finally, on the roof the great swirls of coloured glass reared up in their intricate weave, catching the end of the day's light and gleaming in a dazzling array of hues that marked out the Great Shrine to Rhiannon, and proclaimed the entire structure's identity.
"By the gods," Gareth whimpered quietly as his head poked out of the window, allowing him to take in the whole spectacle below and before them. Aerona glanced over at his pale face and wide eyes, his body trembling in the cooling air.
"Welcome to the Union, Gareth," she smiled softly. He met her eyes, looking completely stunned, and Aerona laughed gently. "It's alright," she called over the hiss of the canopy valves as they started descending. "It takes everyone like this first time. Even the Sovereigns." Well, especially the Sovereigns, really, but that was the point. It was to remind them to stay in line.
"Are there - ?" Gareth broke off and swallowed, staring at the base of the massive squared edifice beneath them. "Are there... any doors? Down... at the bottom?"
"No," Aerona said. She wondered how he'd take that. Some people found the Union's impregnability from the ground reassuring, but someone without any access to flying transport of their own could well feel imprisoned there. "No, the only way in is by flight, and then you need to get through several levels of Riders. Even Sovereigns struggle." Even I will at first, she thought privately, but didn't share it. "You'll be safe there."
"They can't get me in there," Gareth said, his voice strained and eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching walls. "I'll be safe. But what... What about Mam? And -?"
"It's okay," Aerona said quickly. "Honestly. I can't - I can't promise you they'll still be okay right now, Gareth, but if they are then Leader Awen will find them and get them out safely. I can promise you that."
He nodded, his drawn face looking even younger than he had in the tiny cell in Aberystwyth, and Aerona's heart ached all over again.
"That's what I'm worried of," he said, his voice almost lost over the gas cannisters. "I keep thinking they're... that they're already..."
"Gareth," Aerona said firmly. "Listen. I know it's hard, believe me, but you can't accomplish anything by dwelling on that. All you can do at the moment is look after yourself, and that's the best thing you can do for your family too. And to do that you have to try to stay positive."
Gareth nodded miserably, and huddled back into the carriage, hugging his knees to his chest. Aerona sighed quietly, and nudged Briallu forward to being level with the Driver. She was a middle-aged woman, tough and weathered and apparently with the upper body build of a weight lifter, and she smiled slightly at Aerona as she moved in.
"Which runway, Rider?" she called out across the gap between them, necessitated by Briallu's outstretched right wing. "One of the carriage ones? They look like they're preparing them, mind. We could fit on a lower one."
"No," Aerona called back, screwing up as much of her courage as she could and trying to push the spiking adrenaline back down away from her heart. "The lowest carriage one. This is important."
Important enough that for once Aerona was going to get to actually legitimately use one of the Union's top entrances, and actually have an audience with the High Council. Like all Intelligencers she'd spoken to Councillor Rhydian plenty of times, but always covertly to deliver reports. Ordinarily she’d still have done this secretly, but the whole situation had moved forward sufficiently that they could be slightly more open now, or at least they could here. Nowhere was more secure than the Union.
They dipped down to the broad runway on the east side of the Union, the carriage canopy briefly gleaming in a dazzling array of red and blue as the dying light shone through the glass of the Shrine before the shadow of the walls fell across them. Aerona pushed Briallu forward in front of the carriage and watched nervously as the stablehands saw them and backed hurriedly off the runway, glancing at one another in obvious confusion at their arrival. Someone would have darted off to alert the Guard Riders, Aerona knew. It was a shame she wasn’t an Alpha Wingleader; they got to go wherever they pleased in the Union, whenever they liked. They also tended to actually speak to the High Council in person from time to time. And they had nerves of steel.
Although, Aerona taught six-year-olds, and arguably they were worse. She straightened her back as Briallu pulled into a hover and dropped gently to the runway carpet, and walked her forward firmly to meet the two Riders standing in the Landing Tower doorway.
“Welcome home, Rider,” one stated as Briallu halted, snorting. He was quite possibly the biggest human being Aerona had ever seen, with a roughly-squared jaw and more hair in his black eyebrows than Aerona probably had on her entire body. His voice was deep and rumbling, tone wary, but not unfriendly. That was a good start. “What brings you to the Union?”
And how to handle this? Normally it would have been a job for her brightest and most aggressive be-nice-to-strangers smile, but that would have belied the urgent tone. Mentally Aerona sorted through her box of smiles, cursed it for being a disorganised mess despite being imaginary and gave up in favour of an expression she hoped looked suitably ‘gravely urgent’.
“Aberystwyth state business,” she hedged, “but with a complication. I need to speak with High Councillor Rhydian immediately, and I need secure accommodation for one person.”
The guard Rider stood straighter, his eyebrows somehow managing to move even closer together, and he glanced at his companion who was suddenly stepping forward. She was a slender woman, around mid-thirties and with the same predatory grace Aerona had spent the day seeing in Awen and Madog, which probably meant ex-Wingleader. Her beads were the solid black and gold wires of Guard Riders, and Aerona briefly checked the wires on both of them. Her luck was against her. Neither were Intelligencers.
“Who’s with you?” the woman asked now, her grey eyes piercing. Aerona glanced back at the carriage.
“A witness,” she said, thinking fast. “And a would-be assassin. He needs guarding, for his own sake as well as ours. And I need to speak with Councillor Rhydian. Immediately.”
“About what?” the woman asked, but she flicked a hand at the enormous Rider who obediently vanished. “Councillor Rhydian is extremely busy with preparations for the Archwiliad at the moment.”
“I know,” Aerona said heavily, and a quick rummage produced her Ruefully Apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. And I’m not sure how much is for non-Riders to know.”
It worked. The Rider glanced at the stablehands in the tower behind her and the Driver in the carriage seat before nodding, dropping the questions.
“Very well,” she said, standing aside and gesturing forward the stablehands. A girl no older than seventeen stepped forward to gently take Briallu’s bridle. The Rider turned and shouted something over her shoulder and her massive counterpart reappeared, flanked by two more Guard Riders and accompanied by a pair of shackles. Aerona sighed as the stable hand led Briallu quickly into the Tower. Really, considering the week the poor boy had just had the last thing Gareth needed were more chains, but it couldn't be helped. As the harness was unhooked Aerona dropped down and turned back, in time to see Gareth meekly climb out of the carriage behind the massive Guard, hands pulled down with the weight of the shackles and eyes fixed on the floor.
"Be gentle with him," Aerona called back, unable to stop herself. "It's... complicated."
"So it seems." The ex-Wingleader gave her a searching look for a moment before inclining her head abruptly in a sharp follow-me gesture and marching away. She was fairly tall; Aerona had to jog the first few steps to catch up. "My name is Bethan, by the way."
"Aerona." And no Salute, Aerona noted. Apparently Bethan was not happy about the amount of secrecy. Which meant they would probably be taken to a discretely secure room somewhere to wait for Councillor Rhydian and carefully questioned some more. Still, it could have been worse; the Union itself was perfectly lovely, even if the 'Welcome home' she'd been thrown wouldn't apply to her until after she'd spoken to Rhydian.
Next time, Aerona thought idly, she was bringing the children. Nothing hurried people up more than a roomful of bored six-year-olds.
There was no slope down to the door of this Landing Tower, no sense of going lower. The doors were on the same level and opened into a broad corridor that did, actually, make Aerona feel very much at home, since they were so strongly reminiscent of Tregwylan. The rainwater pipes were familiar decorations, threading their copper roots through the marbled stonework of the walls and sometimes gurgling quietly as they passed. Internal windows opened onto courtyards and training rooms, the sills and frames edged with meraden motifs and all with proper glass panes to buffer against the wind. They passed meeting rooms and offices; libraries and classrooms; recreation rooms and testing rooms, almost all of them filled with at least one occupant, working dilligently away. Riders and clerks bustled past them as they wound their way through the maze, none sparing them even a second glance. The whole atmosphere seemed... busy. Which made sense, Aerona supposed. There was a lot to be done before an Archwiliad, in paperwork if nothing else.
They reached the end of their corridor after three turns and at least five hundred metres and Bethan shoved the ornate double doors in front of them open. They stepped through and Aerona found herself looking at the Spiral Stairs once again.
It was said there were none like them anywhere else in the world, and Aerona could easily believe it. The Spiral Stairs were huge, each step a good eight metres long and comprised of a solid slab of stone, overlaid with a stunning ceramic mosaic in jewel-bright greens and blues. The steps were fixed firmly into the outer wall of their spiral and danced their way around an intricately carved central stone column, its diameter so vast Aerona could have made all of the children spread their arms out to embrace it and their fingertips would only just have met. Its surface was grained to look like wood, as though it were the trunk of some colossal tree. Instinctively, Aerona looked up. The Stairs blocked her view to the floors above, but she knew that not so far above her head the central column divided and stretched into 'branches', forming the framework of the Great Shrine. And below them...
A long way below them its roots sank into the earth, and hid the Archives. That was going to be fun later.
"This way, Rider," Bethan said, striding across to move down the Stairs. "Since the situation is somewhat... unclear, I'll put you both in the same place for now until Councillor Rhydian can be found."
"That's fine, honestly," Aerona told her with her best Earnest Voice. It wasn't much of a struggle; she really did want to keep Gareth close by for now. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." Bethan gave her another odd look, and them they were making their way down the Stairs, everyone automatically moving into an orbit around the central tree-column that made the depth of the steps perfectly fit their stride. Aerona loved the Spiral Stairs. Tregwylan needed some. Maybe she could forge some Edicts in Lady Gwenda's name and get some made, although that was quite dishonest even for an Intelligencer, and she spent enough time trying to encourage honesty among the children to feel very guilty about the hypocrisy. And really, unless Tregwylan plonked another Great Shrine on top, it would probably be heretical in some way.
They only went down three floors, and then Bethan was leading them through some slightly-less-ornate doors and into a corridor that looked onto some deeper courtyards. It also looked into altogether more rooms containing weapons and diagrams of anatomy and such that Aerona remembered well from her childhood, and she really hoped Gareth didn't look. He also didn't need reminding of death and maiming right now. Although for that reason Aerona was very, very glad they weren't any deeper in the Union, where Riders like Awen learned how to interrogate prisoners. Those rooms weren't pretty.
Finally they stopped at a bend in the corridor, and Bethan pushed open a door to a room that was presumably a classroom normally. Apparently it was undergoing an Archwiliad-related transformation, though; most of the desks had been neatly stacked into a corner, ready to be removed, with only three or four left in the middle of the room arranged in a square. A few chairs remained around them, pushed carelessly aside. Aerona could hear Gareth shaking again, the heavy manacles clinking slightly as he did so, so she straightened her back and marched directly in, trying to look slightly more confident than she felt. Was it time for her Brightest Smile yet? Probably not.
"Sit," Bethan said, stopping in the doorway. "We've already sent for Councillor Rhydian; hopefully he'll be here soon."
"Thank you." Aerona pulled out a chair as the enourmous Rider guided Gareth in creditably gently, his two massive hands dwarfing Gareth's thin shoulders, and steered him towards the chair. He sat trembling, staring at the floor as the Guard Rider backed up against the wall beside the door, simply watching. Aerona pulled another chair up alongside Gareth's, and put a hand on his knee reassuringly.
"It's okay," she murmured quietly. "Really. You're safe here, even if it doesn't seem it now. Once I've spoken to Councillor Rhydian it'll be fine."
"You said a would-be assassin?" Bethan asked, her voice tinged with frustrated perplexity. Her eyes slid to the Tregwylan liveries. "And this is Aberystwyth state business?"
"Yes," Aerona nodded. How much could she say here? Well; the attempt on Lord Gwilym was hardly a secret. "He tried to kill Lord Gwilym yesterday."
Bethan's searching gaze intensified, looking over both of them alternatingly with one eyebrow raised. The enourmous Guard by the door tensed up, an automatic reaction. Aerona fought to stay calm, and offered a small smile.
"I did say it's complicated," she said apologetically. "I -"
"He tried to kill the Sovereign of Aberystwyth," Bethan said slowly and deliberately. "And now you've brought him here for safety. As a would-be assassin and... as a witness."
"Yes," Aerona sighed. "It's -"
"What could he possibly have witnessed other than his own attempt at murder?" Bethan asked. "Why is he here?"
"Well," Aerona started. "That's sort of why -"
"I mean, I understand that Lord Gwilym has so far been comparitively popular in Aberystwyth," Bethan continued. "As much as he can be in not quite a year in power, anyway. I'm not sure how many citizens are likely to be hammering down the cell doors to get to his killer, though. Unless you think Lord Gwilym himself is likely to be hammering down the doors?"
"Um," Aerona said. "You're not actually interested in an answer, are you?"
"No," the massive Guard chipped in from the wall. "She's not. She does this sometimes, don't worry."
"Idris," Bethan snapped, and he shrugged, smiling slightly as he pulled out a length of knotted string from a pouch on his belt.
"You do," he told her, pulling his hair back into a rough ponytail that his beaded braids fell straight out of and swung loose around his collar bones. He seemed almost nonchalent, although he was broadcasting his distrust of Gareth fairly clearly still. "Whenever you're irritated. It's -"
"Irritated?" Bethan said, appropriately irritated. "He tried to kill a Sovereign and we're -"
"Well, see, that's my point," Idris said, studiously re-knotting the string behind his head. "We don't know the situation -"
"No!" Bethan said, aggrieved. "We don't! Which is why - !"
"But you don't let them answer." Idris finished with his hair and dropped his hands back to his belt, looking at her mildly. "Doesn't strike me as the best way of learning what's going on, is all. You not listening to the answers."
"Outside," Bethan commanded darkly, and Idris sighed before trudging out of the door. Bethan glanced at Aerona and Gareth as she started to follow. "We won't be a minute," she said. "Are you okay with him?"
It was a somewhat redundant question, really, since even Siona wouldn't have had a problem with Gareth right now, but Aerona smiled her Encouraging Smile anyway and nodded.
"We'll be fine!" she said. "Do go on."
Bethan nodded curtly and then she was gone, the door clicking firmly shut behind her and not-quite-entirely muffling the angry conversation that began on the other side of the door. Aerona shifted her attention to Gareth instead. He was hunched miserably into his chair, hands clenched into fists and his chin almost touching his chest. A tear-track had stained one cheek, and closer inspection showed that his eyes were glassy and full. Aerona squeezed his knee where her hand still lay and sighed quietly.
"It's okay," she said gently. "Honestly. Once I've spoken to Councillor Rhydian everything will be fine, and he'll be here soon."
Gareth nodded, and sniffed.
"I didn't want to kill him," he said, almost mutely.
"I know," Aerona said. "And soon everyone else will know. And you didn't kill him, Gareth. His death isn't on your conscience."
He nodded again, eyes on the floor; and then, with an effort, he tried to sit up straighter and look around the room. It reminded Aerona of Morgan when he was down, but determined to pull himself back up again. She felt a swell of pride for him.
"It's so big here," Gareth said. Aerona followed his lead and smiled.
"Isn't it?" she grinned. "They say it was built at the same time as the Sixteen Cities, and it is similar. I'm from Tregwylan, but even we aren't as big as this. And we certainly don't have anything like the Great Shrine, or the Spiral Stairs."
"I went into Casnewydd once," Gareth offered. His eyes tracked the meraden motif carved into the stone work at the top of the room. "There's nothing like this there. I heard - I heard once one of the merchants saying about the Stairs. He said they were the hidden wonder of the world."
"It's been said," Aerona agreed. "Very few non-Riders get to come here even, much less non-Cymric people. If everyone could see the Stairs, I'm told, they'd be Wonder number eight."
"I liked them," Gareth said quietly, the echo of remembered awe in his voice. "They were so big."
"They are," Aerona agreed. They were. It was a fair assessment. Gareth looked thoughtful for a moment.
"They seemed different, though," he said, and looked quickly at Aerona. "I mean - I know they're bigger and that, and the tree in the middle and stuff, but normal twisty stairs... they're..."
Interesting, Aerona thought. It was a shame Gareth hadn't been Union raised. He had an observant streak that could have been beautifully honed.
"You're right," she said calmly. "Did you notice how they're different?"
"They go the wrong way," Gareth said, and then looked mildly horrified. "I mean - not wrong, I didn't -"
"It's okay," Aerona giggled. "I know what you mean. And yes, they do. It's about defence, you see? Normally spiral staircases go clockwise, so that right-handed swordspeople at the top have an advantage. Usually any invaders come from the bottom, see?"
"Oh," Gareth said. He thought for a second. "But there are no doors on the floor here..."
"Exactly!" Aerona beamed. "Well done! I'd give you a gold star, but I don't have any. And you're not six, I suppose. Yes; the Stairs are defended from the base."
Where the Archives were. The base of the Union was the realm of the Intelligencers, accessed from the Great Shrine of Rhiannon via the anti-clockwise Spiral Stairs. Aerona had never known whether the Intelligencer beading wires had been made anti-clockwise because of the Stairs or vice versa, and considering how long ago the Union had been founded it was unlikely they would ever know now. But to Aerona, the Stairs represented everything she was as a Rider and a human being, and everything her role should be.
"Are there -?" Gareth began, and then stopped as the voices outside abruptly stopped. The door bounced abruptly open and suddenly Aerona found herself on her feet with no conscious input from her brain and Saluting as Councillor Rhydian entered the room.
He was into his fifties, at least physically, but his obvious strength and vitality belonged to someone at least twenty years younger. In height he stood a bit shy of six feet - probably an inch or two off Lord Gwilym, if they'd been standing together - and his build was of wiry muscle, not too broad and not too slim. His hair was a faded red, thinning rapidly at the crown, and like all Councillors he wore a torque, a fairly simple metal circlet with coloured glass bands to represent the beads he no longer wore. His clothes otherwise were almost a standard Rider uniform, all comfortable worn-in leather and long coat, and he stubbornly still had the outdated Caerleuad liveries on them from when he'd been Alpha Wingleader there. His face was rugged and square-jawed, beard clipped short, with a long-healed white scar running from his left temple to just below his earlobe. His grey eyes crinkled merrily as he returned her Salute, a broad grin lighting up his cheeks.
Aerona wasn't fooled. She liked Councillor Rhydian, truly she did; but he was on the Union High Council. Assuming she survived her career on the active front line, which wasn't tremendously likely, this was what Awen would be some day. The High Council only took the best, and to be the best you needed to have a steel door somewhere behind your eyes where you could turn yourself off and do whatever had to be done. Aerona could see it already in Awen; she could see it doubly in Rhydian. This was a dangerous man.
"Rider Aerona!" he said happily as he gestured her vaguely towards her chair and shoved the door shut at the same time. "It's been a while! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"A number of things," Aerona said wearily as she sat. She put a hand on Gareth's shoulder and squeezed. "Firstly; the Casnewydd Alpha Wing. Have you been told about their Deputy?"
"By their Leader," Rhydian nodded, his expression switching to serious as abruptly as if he'd taken off a mask. "I got her report this morning."
Well, obviously. There was no way Awen would waste time falling to pieces about her traitorous Deputy, after all. That would involve taking time for herself. Aerona nodded.
"Right," she said. "Well, this is Gareth, who's from Casnewydd. He was the one-" who tried to kill Lord Gwilym? Assassinate him? Shoot him? "-with the bow in Aberystwyth last night. Deputy Owain gave it to him, and instructions on how to get into the hall."
"I see." Rhydian's face didn't move a muscle, his expression completely neutral. "Go on."
"We think Deputy Owain was -"
"Owain," Rhydian interrupted. "He's been stripped of that title at the very least. Carry on."
"We think he was acting entirely on his own initiative there," Aerona continued, glancing slightly at Gareth. "But before that he was taking orders from Lord Flyn."
"To do what exactly?"
"Well," Aerona sighed. "That's a bit complicated."
Although it didn't take long to explain. Rhydian sat impassively throughout it, studying her with slightly disconcerting intensity at a few parts but saying nothing, merely nodding here and there. Something hardened ominously in his eyes when Aerona reiterated Gareth's personal story and the plight of his family; only a small change, but it made Aerona's adrenaline jump again as it poked at her fight-or-flight response. She managed not to overly stress the point that Owain would probably want Gareth dead. He'd had enough for one day, really. Even a gold star couldn't compensate, especially when you weren't six and you'd not actually been given it, anyway.
"I see," Rhydian said again when she'd finished. He was looking at the ceiling, one scarred hand rubbing absently at his beard. "You did the right thing to come here, then."
"Thank you, Councillor," Aerona said. It helped to settle her slightly jittery nerves somewhat. He flashed a grin her way and then stood and strode to the door, knocking on it twice. Bethan opened it and Saluted.
"Councillor?" she asked. He threw out a Salute back and then turned and gestured to Gareth.
"This boy is to be unlocked and then made comfortable in secure accomodation," Rhydian ordered. It wasn't imperious, or even especially commanding, but it was another indicator of the type of person Rhydian was. It was the tone of a man who'd spent his entire life giving orders, and barely knew how to communicate any other way. When he spoke, he expected to be obeyed. "He is to be treated as a witness, not a criminal. He's been officially pardoned. Understood?"
"Understood, Councillor," Bethan Saluted, and then moved into the room to Gareth, her expression considerably softer than it had been not ten minutes before. "Come on. Let's get you settled, and then we can go and see what the chefs are serving."
"Really?" Gareth stood uncertainly, looking back at Aerona. She beamed at him.
"It's okay," she said happily. "Told you! You'll be fine. I'll be sticking around, don't worry; I'll see you later."
Gareth nodded and turned to Bethan, who put an arm round his shoulders and steered him to the door.
"Idris has the keys; we'll get those off now..." she said, and then Rhydian was pushing the door firmly shut behind her again and turned back to Aerona.
"Good work, Rider," he said quietly, and Aerona tipped her head.
"Thank you, Councillor," she said. He rummaged in the pocket of his coat for a second and withdrew a thin rectangle of wood, about the size of her palm, and handed it to her. She took it without a word and he nodded.
"Stay as long as you need," Rhydian said and paused, one hand on the doorhandle. "Although, be sure to report to me before you leave, understand?"
"I will, Councillor," Aerona promised, and after the customary exchange of Salutes he left, leaving Aerona to look at the slim wooden permit. On it, in beautifully looped writing, the words "All Area Access - permisson of Councillor Rhydian" had been carefully carved and burned into the wood. The back contained a single stylised rendering of a meraden, its wings arcing to form a circle around its body. Aerona sighed, and slid it carefully into a belt pouch.
It was time to pray to Rhiannon. And then she was going to the Archives.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Monday, 27 July 2009
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Cymru - Chapter 18
So, I'm still finding Madog incredibly hard to write, but less so that I was. The lateness of this chapter is entirely his fault, though. The points where he got really really hard to write can be easily spotted; I just inserted some scene-change asterisks and ran away. This is not the most coherent thing I've ever written therefore. Soz.
MADOG
As Calon's hooves landed neatly on the Tregwylan runway carpet Madog tried his hardest not to wince at the formal dress robes of the stable hands who marched confidently forward. They weren't that unusual. With the Archwiliad approaching every single Alpha Wing in the country would be passing through here within a week or so, and Lady Gwenda was certainly a Sovereign who liked to show off how well-kept her City was to foreigners. It wasn't completely atypical for them to be shown a Landing Tower in which the stable hands were in formal dress and - Madog looked closer - even the spokes on the wheelbarrows that mucked out the stalls had been polished until they gleamed. It wasn't a totally abnormal situation. Objectively, Madog knew this.
Subjectively it felt like Lady Gwenda was intentionally aiming it solely at him, and he was already fighting the urge to drop the bitch off the Landing Tower anyway. Madog strongly suspected the need to set a good example to Dylan would be the only thing that kept him from doing so. Dylan so desperately needed a good example. The man was a veritable liability.
A young stable hand with a few missing teeth stepped to Calon's head and smiled genuinely at him, an act that served to calm Madog down considerably. Calon snorted.
"Good afternoon, Leader," she said pleasantly. "Welcome to Tregwylan. My name is Carys; I'll be your stable hand for your stay if it pleases you."
"It does," Madog said, the standard response as automatic as blinking. "Thank you."
They'd somehow managed to remove every single cobweb from the rafters too, Madog noted sourly as he unbuckled the harness straps himself and leapt off. And every hinge in the place seemed to have been oiled. There were probably other details he was missing; he'd have to ask Dylan about it afterwards. Dylan's eye for details was truly formidable. Right now, details would probably depress Madog.
"Stop thinking, boy," Dylan's voice said adruptly into his ear. "It looks painful."
"Is that why you avoid it?" Madog quipped back. "It's actually not, you should try it."
"Oh, Madog," Dylan said expressionlessly, his quick eyes sweeping the stalls around them. "You and your wit. My leathers need rewaxing. Can I go?"
"Really?" They both drew into a corner as the stable hands pulled the merod into stalls around them, Wing Riders stretching and pulling off head gear and chatting away to form a useful cover of noise. Madog dipped his voice slightly lower. "You want to miss Lady Gwenda?"
Dylan glanced at him briefly before his visual attention was predictably swept away by nothing so much as air currents.
"Of course not, you square," he snorted. "But she'll only try to plot at you, not at all of us. I'll be missing Boring Official Stuff, not Interesting Treasonous Stuff."
Well, that was actually a very good point. Madog sighed, gloomily. He really wanted nothing less than to face Lady Gwenda alone.
But...
Dylan wasn't just good at seeing details. His ability to seek out useful information from the gods only knew where was both extraordinary and invaluable, and right now any sort of additional information on Tregwylan, Lady Gwenda or any other aspect of this whole tedious situation would be gratefully received.
"Fine," Madog sighed, putting on an affected air. "Go then. Wax your leathers, which should have been waxed in Aberystwyth. Don't worry, it's only the Archwiliad that's coming up. It's nothing important. We can all take care of it."
"You're a square," Dylan told him, Saluting. "Later."
"Where's Dylan going?" Madog glanced around at the mild voice and found Menna, watching Dylan's swiftly disappearing back as she tied her hair back with a knotted length of string, her beads swinging loose against her chin. "Aren't we meeting Lady Gwenda first?"
"Oh, that was the plan," Madog nodded. "But Dylan needs to re-wax his flying leathers, and I'm only his Wingleader. I have no authority to stop him."
"Wow." Menna looked wistful for a moment. "If I crack the wax off my leathers quickly, can I miss out on the boring political talk too?"
"Certainly not." Madog raised an arm and clicked his fingers above his head, and the rest of the Wing ambled vaguely over. "You have to set a good example, or this Wing will disintegrate around us and we'll all be murdered by Saxons in our beds. And I want to see you look interested," he added sternly. "There will be a test later."
"I make no promises, Leader," Menna said gravely. "Between Saxons and Sovereigns, I know which I'd rather pick."
That was fair. So would Madog.
****
In the end it was a miserable affair. Lord Gwilym had been fun to talk to, friendly and attentive and quite eager to have them all make jokes around the official lines, a bit like Lady Marged but without the added Crazy. Lady Gwenda was dry and snooty, with an unpleasant glint in her narrow eyes and a tone that occasionally bordered on supercillious. Madog opted for as neutral and professional a bearing as he possibly could and allowed the dialogue to trip off his tongue with the ease of long practice. The less he gave her, the less she could ask of him. Or so he hoped.
It didn't help that her hair really grated on Madog's nerves. It was probably just as well that Dylan wasn't present, or he and Menna might well have been fighting to suppress a few sniggers by now. Lady Gwenda appeared to have wanted to become a redhead, but the shade she'd become was 'garish' at best. Idly, Madog wondered how she'd done it. One of the Indo-Greek substances probably; Cymru certainly didn't produce anything up to this task.
"Well," Lady Gwenda purred finally, just as Madog was starting to consider retirement. "I believe that about wraps it up. Leader?"
"That's everything thank you, Sovereign," Madog returned politely as they all stood and did the bowing thing. Some days he really hated the bowing thing. Lady Gwenda smiled, a sharp smile that didn't really reach her eyes.
"Not at all," she returned. "Oh; although, I have a letter I'd like you to take to Lord Iestyn, if you could?" She gestured to an aid, who vanished. "It'll be brought here now. There's no need to keep your Wing, though; I imagine you're all tired."
Well, that was swish. Madog forced a gritty smile and nodded.
"Certainly," he said, and glanced at the others. "Go on. I'll be out in a minute."
They went, very carefully covering their relief by not cheering. Menna gave him an odd look as she passed that Madog couldn't quite decipher, but it was only fleeting; and then they were gone, the door clicking neatly shut behind them and leaving Madog alone with Lady Gwenda. She smiled again, and sat herself carefully back down. She leaned forward too much as she did; Madog was abruptly treated to an eyeful of her withering cleavage that he would have much preferred to have never seen.
"Do sit, Leader," Lady Gwenda said, slightly too sharp to be gracious. "We may as well be comfortable."
While we conspire, Madog thought beligerently, but he said nothing, and sat again. The more taciturn the better, he decided. If she wanted to play games she could bloody well work for it.
"Is this your first time to Tregwylan?" Lady Gwenda asked delicately. She was leaning forward again, the edge of the table carefully pushing up her already-elevated bust. Madog kept his eyes stonily on her face; although, he had to admit, it wasn't much of an improvement. He'd never seen so much make up on a living face before. "How do you like it?"
"I've been before, Sovereign," Madog said non-committally. "It's a beautiful City." Especially when it's been carefully scrubbed within an inch of its life.
"Thank you, Leader," Lady Gwenda all but simpered. Had she just batted her eyelashes at him? Madog wasn't sure. "I'm very proud of it. Archipelagan Cities are delicate things, you know. They aren't like mainland Cities."
She glanced out of the enormous north-facing window at the end of the room, running almost floor-to-ceiling, and Madog followed her gaze. The sea below was a grey, choppy expanse that stretched away, fishing boats bobbing tenaciously on the swirling Archipelagan currents. To the left and ahead of them, looming here and there above the waves stood more Cities, more Archipelago, squat, misshapen towers molded out of stone. To the right stretched the end of the Lleyn Penninsula, reaching its solitary arm out into the water, Aberdaron nestled, just visible, in its palm. From here it was clear that the weather was starting to change, the wind carrying the gulls towards Cymru and clouds just starting to gather away to the north west. Madog wondered if they'd have to stay tonight. He fervently hoped not.
"We have no real resources of our own, you see," Lady Gwenda said quietly, breaking his reverie. Madog looked back at her but her gaze was still lost out of the window, fixed on the gathering tide. "We have our fishing industries, of course, and salt. But no more. All other raw materials we have to import from others. Not that this is always a bad thing."
She smiled back at Madog briefly, that same sharp expression, before looking back to the glass.
"A drought in one place may destroy crops that were needed for sale," she continued. "Mines can be exhausted of ores. Floods can kill whole herds of livestock. A City with only natural resources, you see, will only prosper as long as those resources don't run dry. We don't have that problem. If Aberhonddu can't give us wheat, we can always get it from Bangor. If Glyn Ebwy can no longer produce iron ore we can go to Abertawe. We need only change our supplier."
"I can see the advantage," Madog said blandly. He wished she'd get to the point.
"The trade-off is the cost, of course," Lady Gwenda said thoughtfully. She was absent-mindedly twirling a strand of gaudily red hair around a finger, eyes hard and narrowed. "Which is why we have so many secondary industries. We buy ores, we sell weapons and pans and jewellery. We buy timber, we sell boats and furniture and more weapons. We buy flax, we sell clothes and ropes; we buy animals, and in addition to consuming the meat we make shoes and harnesses and instruments with the leather. These are more stable industries than many of those on the mainland, Leader. This is why we grow rich. But there is one thing that we do rely on, in the same way as you need the sun and the rain to appear in equal measure."
She looked away from the window and met Madog's eye fully, the predatory gaze of a politician, and he was reminded of just how much ruthless ambition Lady Gwenda was made of.
"Trade," Madog said. She nodded, her gaze intense.
"Indeed," she said. "Trade. Without trade, without a market to buy our wares, it doesn't matter how stable our industries are. They become worse than useless in fact; just an extra few hundred mouths to feed on food we don't have. This is why much of Archipelagan politics are based around trade agreements and exchange rates. Do you see?"
"I do, Sovereign," Madog said neutrally. Lady Gwenda didn't even blink. Her eyes bored into his unwaveringly.
"Imagine then, Leader, if you will," Gwenda said carefully, "an Archipelagan City whose economy was... somewhat less affluent than ours. There would be great hardship in a City like that. I imagine that there would even be enough hardship that its Sovereign might try to formulate some sort of plan. One that would ensure that all of the trade links would be open to them, but probably closed to others."
Madog said nothing. Punching Lady Gwenda would solve nothing, he reminded himself. And anyway, it would probably cause a scene.
"But that's merely hypothetical," Lady Gwenda continued, reattaching her creepy smile. "Where were we? Oh yes. Trade is important to us all, whether we're in the Archipelago or on the mainland. I think some Sovereigns understand that better than others."
"You may be right, Sovereign," Madog said, and finally, mercifully, the aide who'd scuttled off to fetch Lady Gwenda's letter opened the door and slipped inside the room with it. Lady Gwenda stood, and Madog followed suit.
"Here we are," Lady Gwenda said smoothly, taking the elegantly sealed parchment and holding it out to Madog. He managed to take it without punching her, and congratulated himself. "Please tell Lord Iestyn that it goes with our full blessing."
"I will Sovereign," Madog said and bowed, forcing his teeth not to grind. "Enjoy the Archwiliad."
He tried not to run as he left.
****
"I think you should calm down," Dylan said indifferently as he picked his way surprisingly fastidiously between the cormorant droppings on the fishing tower steps. Madog glared at his ascending back in front of him and wished fervently that he'd slip.
"I will not calm down," he snapped back. A cormorant squawked in alarm beside him, its neck ring bobbing as it flapped its outstretched wings. Madog gave it a sour look. "She sat there, right in front of my bloody face, and tried to manipulate me into manipulating Lord Iestyn. Me! A Rider! Who in the name of everything holy does she think she is?"
"A Sovereign, you retard," Dylan sniffed. He was still climbing the curving staircase, apparently bent on reaching the top of the tall tower. Madog was quite prepared to bet it was to satisfy his own curiosity. The man was like a kitten. "That's what politicians are meant to do. Just wait until we go to Casnewydd."
"Sovereigns are meant to try to manipulate each other," Madog contradicted harshly. "And other Nobles. And foreign dignitaries, and whoever else may cross their paths. Not Riders. That's the whole point of us. We're above this kind of politics."
"Not always," Dylan muttered. Madog looked up sharply at the back of Dylan's head, silhouetted above him in the dying light through the open tower windows. His hair was as wild as ever, bouncing in a corona of curls and beads around his scalp and toussled into a frenzy by the only mild wind. It gave no clues to that last statement; Madog wondered if he was supposed to have heard.
"Excuse me?" he asked pointedly. Dylan's stride didn't falter on the steps.
"Context, Madog," he said diffidently. "We're usually above this. Not always. Like right now. They have good boats, so why the cormorants?"
"Cormorants are safer in bad weather," Madog shrugged irritably. "Don't change the subject. Why is this happening? Why are we, right now, sneaking around fishing towers and discussing evil plans rather than just arresting everyone and taking them all to the Union?"
They finally reached the top of the stairs and stopped on the small landing, Dylan immediately settling himself on a stack of wooden crates that presumably contained food for the birds or something. Madog paced instead. He was far too angry to sit. Bloody politics.
"Because," Dylan said, giving Madog an unusually focused look, "this level of secrecy is what this situation requires. Stop being a square and think. Right now we have no evidence of anything except a few Caerleuad dissenters; only logic. Which, if I ran everything, would be enough, but sadly I don't. So instead, we have to get to the root of the problem, which we can only do if all of the lame little conspirators don't take their plots underground. Do you see?"
"No." His pacing was becoming almost frenetic he knew; it was a good job the rest of the Wing wasn't here. "Because if this was a genuine conspiracy, we wouldn't already know about it. They wouldn't already have been telling Riders. I only found out about this because it started killing people back home and I confronted Lord Iestyn. Do you see? I had to demand the information, because my Sovereign knows that he'd lose a gods damned kidney the second he tried to start scheming something with me."
The rush of anger was heady, and growing. Madog could feel his hands starting to shake with the tension and adrenaline, and he balled them into fists as he walked. Dylan said nothing. He carried on.
"So how do we know about this?" Madog continued, almost snarling. "Awen knew all about it, apparently because Flyn has been involving her in all of his plans. Apparently she's letting him use her as a messenger in everything. And not only that, she's gone and involved Lord Gwilym, another Sovereign entirely, for no evident reason! How has that happened? How has an Alpha Wingleader become nothing more than a pawn for a Sovereign to use in his political games? When did that become what being a Rider is about? And if that's the example she's setting, is it really any wonder that her Deputy has suddenly gone rogue?"
"You don't seem to realise that being a Rider is about more than you, Madog," Dylan said, his tone brittle, and Madog froze. It was like being savaged by a beloved pet sheep it was so unexpected. "Are you finished bitching? Because if you're ready to engage your brain again, answer me this: if Lord Iestyn genuinely was involved up to his eyelids in this conspiracy, how would you possibly know?"
The silence rang between them as Madog stared, shocked, at his Deputy. For once Dylan was completely still, his gaze solid and unflinching, a stern intensity filling his features that Madog had never seen before. Outside the wind was starting to gather in speed, a soft brushing undercut with the harsh screech of the occasional gull and the muted hiss of the waves lapping at the foot of the tower. The cormorants rustled. The pitch torches spat. The scents of salt and nearing rain mingled with pine resin and rope and animal. The world sat quietly around them, and still Madog stared.
"I wouldn't," he said at last, his voice blank and almost too loud now. Dylan nodded curtly.
"No," he said. "You wouldn't. Because he values both kidneys, and fortunately for us all Lord Iestyn isn't the kind of man to make grand designs on the country anyway. Lucky for us, yes?"
"Dylan - " Madog started, irritated, but apparently he'd really pissed Dylan off. It was fascinating. He'd never managed it before.
"Leader Awen is gifted with being able to see the bigger picture," Dylan said harshly. "She works under the most ruthless and ambitious man in the country, Madog. One who definitely would plan his lame little conspiracies to make his penis seem bigger under her radar if she strutted about outwardly eying up his kidneys. And so she's playing along, and acting like Flyn's messenger, and probably hating every second of it, because she knows that if she doesn't this country could well be headed straight back into round two of the Wars. Could you do that, Madog?"
Could he? There was a question. He wasn't convinced he could.
"No," Dylan sniffed. "I thought not. Because you've got this idealistic idea as to what being a Rider is. You're wrong, Madog. Being a Rider is about being whatever this country needs. There's nothing else."
There was another pause, heavy with the bizarre hostility and Dylan's unwavering, lancing stare, until Madog looked away out of the window. Dylan was right, of course. As much as it galled, he was right. In a perfect world Sovereigns could be instantly stopped by their vigilant Riders as soon as they held their first meeting in their first darkened room; but this wasn't that world. Nothing was that black and white. It was sort of astounding that he'd served so much of his career without realising it, actually; but then again, Dylan had always seemed to know the slightly seedier details of court life. How much had Madog been relying on that? Surely that ought to have been his job, as Wingleader? Possibly it was a minor miracle that it had been Owain who'd snapped rather than Dylan.
"Do I really strut while I eye up people's kidneys?" he asked the window. Dylan snorted, his tone abruptly back to its normal light indifference as though it had never changed.
"All the time, boy," he said. "Makes you look gay."
"I am gay," Madog reminded him, voice pained. "Why must we have this conversation so many times?"
"I'm a slow learner," Dylan shrugged. "Anyway. I come bearing much important information, if you're off your high horse. Or high meraden, I suppose."
"I am," Madog said solemnly. He leaned a shoulder against the stone windowsill and looked back at Dylan, who had resumed his customary spirited study of nothing so much as the brickwork around him. "Pray, continue."
"Trade logs." Dylan grinned. "And shipping manifests. Like she told you in her big elite members-only meeting, the popular fetish here is for secondary and tertiary industries, and their main customers are the Phoenicians."
"No surpirses there," Madog mused. Dylan linked his fingers behind his head - or possibly in his mass of hair - and leaned back casually against the wall.
"Don't interrupt, you cretin," he said irreverently. "What are you, six? No, no surprises there, but this is where a bit of background knowledge is useful. In this case, it's all about understanding which trade ships carry which cargoes where. The Phoenicians use set trade routes, see."
"Don't tell me you know what they are," Madog said disbelievingly. Dylan shrugged, now looking at a hundle of slightly self-conscious looking cormorants.
"I do now," he grinned. "Dispossessed sailors are even better than manifests. Anyway; the main focus of the industrial sector here is metalworking, of all kinds. Jewellery, stuff you put in kitchens to concoct food - "
"It's called 'cooking'," Madog supplied mildly.
"- and weaponry being the main things," Dylan continued, ignoring the interruption. "Now, they only get some of the ores from Cymric mines. The rest is filthy foreign muck. Not like our good stuff we used in my day."
"Faux xenophobia aside?" Madog pressed. Dylan waved a hand lazily.
"Their main customers are Phoenicians, like I say," he said, "but the important things here are who they then sell those things to. And buy the ores from originally. Now, I didn't have time to look beyond the last Half, but almost every ship they've sold to in that time has been listed as being on one of the same two routes."
"How do you know that?" Madog asked, impressed. This was sounding more and more mental by the second.
"Phoenician ships have serial numbers," Dylan shrugged. "It's all about the paperwork for them. We have Saxon troubles, they have pirate troubles. They get around it by a complicated system of paperwork and receipts and serial numbers and something called 'insurance'; it's not really important. Each ship gets listed by name and serial number in each port it arrives in, though, and the serial numbers contain the route numbers."
He should probably hand over Wingleadership to Dylan, Madog decided. Clearly he was better-equipped to being in charge. Apparently Madog was only good for pointing at Saxons and shouting 'Charge!' if the amount of work Dylan had achieved in an hour was anything to go by, and he was fairly certain even Calon could be trained to do that.
"And you know the route numbers," he said faintly. Dylan snorted.
"Of course not, you square," he said derisively. "What am I, Carthiginian? No. The dispossessed sailor knew. And he's a complete loser who's angry at his own government, so he told me."
Madog stared. "You made a Phoenician tell you the secrets of their trade routes?" He was definitely better equipped for leadership. They might as well just lock Dylan in a room with Flyn in that case, apparently everything would be sorted in an hour.
"No," Dylan snorted again. "What am I, divine? I just asked him where the routes go, not how to sail them. And I gave him a beer."
Oh. Well, that was actually sort of reassuring. For a second there, Madog had started to wonder if Dylan could secretly convince rain to fall upwards, which suggested all sorts of things about his heritage that Madog simply wouldn't have guessed, even if Dylan did have crazy hair.
"Go on," Dylan grinned suddenly, his tone the sort someone might use to try to tempt a cat or a stupid child. "Go on. Ask me the big question. You know you want to."
"Where do the ships go?" Madog asked dutifully, manfully resisting the urge to smack Dylan upside the head. Dylan sat up, his eyes alight with the information, and abruptly Madog knew the answer.
"Saxonia," Dylan said, with the air of a druid pulling a coin from behind someone's ear. "That's the previous stop for the ships that bring the ore shipments, almost every time, usually iron and tin. And it's the next stop for the outgoing ships carrying the jewellery and the kitchen stuff and -"
"The weapons," Madog finished quietly. He felt slightly sick, and tried to suppress the feeling of sudden, gnawing horror. "She's found a way around the trade embargo."
"Yes," Dylan nodded. "And it's not accidental. Everyone else in the Archipelago - well, and the mainland - all have signed agreements with the Phoenicians about where certain goods get sold afterwards. I mean, everyone sort of looks the other way like good little politicians about where the resources are sourced, and no one much cares if some Saxon loser dies wearing a Cymric brooch-pin, but weapons have to be signed for and assured for. I managed to get a look at Tregwylan's contract, though. It's differently worded from most. It's got loopholes."
Madog swore viciously. It didn't help. He tried again, but with the same result.
"I want nothing more than to go and arrest her right now," he ground out through gritted teeth. "With a copy of that trade agreement and the manifests and maybe even the weapons designs from here, and then I'll go and pluck one of those swords from a Saxon's cold dead hands and I might just behead her with it."
"I wouldn't," Dylan advised. "She's a small fish, remember? We want the bigger one. Also, we could only get hold of the evidence by making a big noisy fuss, and it might very well disappear then anyway. It would need to be a Rider from Tregwylan."
"Like Aerona," Madog said. The feeling of nausea wasn't abating. How many Cymric people had been killed by weapons from Tregwylan? How many Riders? How many villages burned down and ransacked? And why had no one noticed?
Because, a small voice in his head chimed in, you strut around eyeing up people's kidneys, remember? You see the whole world in black and white. You don't see the bigger picture. You leave that to other people to look at, and sort out, and regulate as best they can. And you're really not the only one.
"Like Aerona," Dylan agreed, snapping Madog back into the present. "She'll probably be able to amass far more than we could anyway."
"I should have seen all of this," Madog said quietly. The rain was moving in now, adding a muted whisper to the sounds around him and intensifying the metallic scent undercut with salt. The natural light from the window had gone grey, leaching all colour from the ocean and the stonework and the grim mountains of the Lleyn. It reflected his mood almost perfectly. "You're right. I think I'm living in this perfect world..."
"Actually, that's important," Dylan interrupted, his voice unusually somber. "You're not thinking again. If every Rider seemed happy to go along with anyone's conspiracies, literally no Sovereigns would ever stop conspiring. They need to be afraid of us. Most Riders need to be like you. Only a few are needed to be like Awen. Can you open wax without cracking it?"
"Can I what?" Madog looked back at Dylan who was standing again and stretching.
"Open wax without cracking it," he repeated. "On a letter. I want to know what Gwenda wants to tell Lord Iestyn."
"I can't, and if you tell me you can I'll cry," Madog said curtly. "To be honest, I'm just going to give it to Lord Iestyn and then badger him to tell me. Easier all round."
"Good idea," Dylan said mildly. "Can we eat now? I'm hungry, and Menna owes me a meddeglyn."
Sometimes, Madog truly envied Dylan's attention span.
MADOG
As Calon's hooves landed neatly on the Tregwylan runway carpet Madog tried his hardest not to wince at the formal dress robes of the stable hands who marched confidently forward. They weren't that unusual. With the Archwiliad approaching every single Alpha Wing in the country would be passing through here within a week or so, and Lady Gwenda was certainly a Sovereign who liked to show off how well-kept her City was to foreigners. It wasn't completely atypical for them to be shown a Landing Tower in which the stable hands were in formal dress and - Madog looked closer - even the spokes on the wheelbarrows that mucked out the stalls had been polished until they gleamed. It wasn't a totally abnormal situation. Objectively, Madog knew this.
Subjectively it felt like Lady Gwenda was intentionally aiming it solely at him, and he was already fighting the urge to drop the bitch off the Landing Tower anyway. Madog strongly suspected the need to set a good example to Dylan would be the only thing that kept him from doing so. Dylan so desperately needed a good example. The man was a veritable liability.
A young stable hand with a few missing teeth stepped to Calon's head and smiled genuinely at him, an act that served to calm Madog down considerably. Calon snorted.
"Good afternoon, Leader," she said pleasantly. "Welcome to Tregwylan. My name is Carys; I'll be your stable hand for your stay if it pleases you."
"It does," Madog said, the standard response as automatic as blinking. "Thank you."
They'd somehow managed to remove every single cobweb from the rafters too, Madog noted sourly as he unbuckled the harness straps himself and leapt off. And every hinge in the place seemed to have been oiled. There were probably other details he was missing; he'd have to ask Dylan about it afterwards. Dylan's eye for details was truly formidable. Right now, details would probably depress Madog.
"Stop thinking, boy," Dylan's voice said adruptly into his ear. "It looks painful."
"Is that why you avoid it?" Madog quipped back. "It's actually not, you should try it."
"Oh, Madog," Dylan said expressionlessly, his quick eyes sweeping the stalls around them. "You and your wit. My leathers need rewaxing. Can I go?"
"Really?" They both drew into a corner as the stable hands pulled the merod into stalls around them, Wing Riders stretching and pulling off head gear and chatting away to form a useful cover of noise. Madog dipped his voice slightly lower. "You want to miss Lady Gwenda?"
Dylan glanced at him briefly before his visual attention was predictably swept away by nothing so much as air currents.
"Of course not, you square," he snorted. "But she'll only try to plot at you, not at all of us. I'll be missing Boring Official Stuff, not Interesting Treasonous Stuff."
Well, that was actually a very good point. Madog sighed, gloomily. He really wanted nothing less than to face Lady Gwenda alone.
But...
Dylan wasn't just good at seeing details. His ability to seek out useful information from the gods only knew where was both extraordinary and invaluable, and right now any sort of additional information on Tregwylan, Lady Gwenda or any other aspect of this whole tedious situation would be gratefully received.
"Fine," Madog sighed, putting on an affected air. "Go then. Wax your leathers, which should have been waxed in Aberystwyth. Don't worry, it's only the Archwiliad that's coming up. It's nothing important. We can all take care of it."
"You're a square," Dylan told him, Saluting. "Later."
"Where's Dylan going?" Madog glanced around at the mild voice and found Menna, watching Dylan's swiftly disappearing back as she tied her hair back with a knotted length of string, her beads swinging loose against her chin. "Aren't we meeting Lady Gwenda first?"
"Oh, that was the plan," Madog nodded. "But Dylan needs to re-wax his flying leathers, and I'm only his Wingleader. I have no authority to stop him."
"Wow." Menna looked wistful for a moment. "If I crack the wax off my leathers quickly, can I miss out on the boring political talk too?"
"Certainly not." Madog raised an arm and clicked his fingers above his head, and the rest of the Wing ambled vaguely over. "You have to set a good example, or this Wing will disintegrate around us and we'll all be murdered by Saxons in our beds. And I want to see you look interested," he added sternly. "There will be a test later."
"I make no promises, Leader," Menna said gravely. "Between Saxons and Sovereigns, I know which I'd rather pick."
That was fair. So would Madog.
****
In the end it was a miserable affair. Lord Gwilym had been fun to talk to, friendly and attentive and quite eager to have them all make jokes around the official lines, a bit like Lady Marged but without the added Crazy. Lady Gwenda was dry and snooty, with an unpleasant glint in her narrow eyes and a tone that occasionally bordered on supercillious. Madog opted for as neutral and professional a bearing as he possibly could and allowed the dialogue to trip off his tongue with the ease of long practice. The less he gave her, the less she could ask of him. Or so he hoped.
It didn't help that her hair really grated on Madog's nerves. It was probably just as well that Dylan wasn't present, or he and Menna might well have been fighting to suppress a few sniggers by now. Lady Gwenda appeared to have wanted to become a redhead, but the shade she'd become was 'garish' at best. Idly, Madog wondered how she'd done it. One of the Indo-Greek substances probably; Cymru certainly didn't produce anything up to this task.
"Well," Lady Gwenda purred finally, just as Madog was starting to consider retirement. "I believe that about wraps it up. Leader?"
"That's everything thank you, Sovereign," Madog returned politely as they all stood and did the bowing thing. Some days he really hated the bowing thing. Lady Gwenda smiled, a sharp smile that didn't really reach her eyes.
"Not at all," she returned. "Oh; although, I have a letter I'd like you to take to Lord Iestyn, if you could?" She gestured to an aid, who vanished. "It'll be brought here now. There's no need to keep your Wing, though; I imagine you're all tired."
Well, that was swish. Madog forced a gritty smile and nodded.
"Certainly," he said, and glanced at the others. "Go on. I'll be out in a minute."
They went, very carefully covering their relief by not cheering. Menna gave him an odd look as she passed that Madog couldn't quite decipher, but it was only fleeting; and then they were gone, the door clicking neatly shut behind them and leaving Madog alone with Lady Gwenda. She smiled again, and sat herself carefully back down. She leaned forward too much as she did; Madog was abruptly treated to an eyeful of her withering cleavage that he would have much preferred to have never seen.
"Do sit, Leader," Lady Gwenda said, slightly too sharp to be gracious. "We may as well be comfortable."
While we conspire, Madog thought beligerently, but he said nothing, and sat again. The more taciturn the better, he decided. If she wanted to play games she could bloody well work for it.
"Is this your first time to Tregwylan?" Lady Gwenda asked delicately. She was leaning forward again, the edge of the table carefully pushing up her already-elevated bust. Madog kept his eyes stonily on her face; although, he had to admit, it wasn't much of an improvement. He'd never seen so much make up on a living face before. "How do you like it?"
"I've been before, Sovereign," Madog said non-committally. "It's a beautiful City." Especially when it's been carefully scrubbed within an inch of its life.
"Thank you, Leader," Lady Gwenda all but simpered. Had she just batted her eyelashes at him? Madog wasn't sure. "I'm very proud of it. Archipelagan Cities are delicate things, you know. They aren't like mainland Cities."
She glanced out of the enormous north-facing window at the end of the room, running almost floor-to-ceiling, and Madog followed her gaze. The sea below was a grey, choppy expanse that stretched away, fishing boats bobbing tenaciously on the swirling Archipelagan currents. To the left and ahead of them, looming here and there above the waves stood more Cities, more Archipelago, squat, misshapen towers molded out of stone. To the right stretched the end of the Lleyn Penninsula, reaching its solitary arm out into the water, Aberdaron nestled, just visible, in its palm. From here it was clear that the weather was starting to change, the wind carrying the gulls towards Cymru and clouds just starting to gather away to the north west. Madog wondered if they'd have to stay tonight. He fervently hoped not.
"We have no real resources of our own, you see," Lady Gwenda said quietly, breaking his reverie. Madog looked back at her but her gaze was still lost out of the window, fixed on the gathering tide. "We have our fishing industries, of course, and salt. But no more. All other raw materials we have to import from others. Not that this is always a bad thing."
She smiled back at Madog briefly, that same sharp expression, before looking back to the glass.
"A drought in one place may destroy crops that were needed for sale," she continued. "Mines can be exhausted of ores. Floods can kill whole herds of livestock. A City with only natural resources, you see, will only prosper as long as those resources don't run dry. We don't have that problem. If Aberhonddu can't give us wheat, we can always get it from Bangor. If Glyn Ebwy can no longer produce iron ore we can go to Abertawe. We need only change our supplier."
"I can see the advantage," Madog said blandly. He wished she'd get to the point.
"The trade-off is the cost, of course," Lady Gwenda said thoughtfully. She was absent-mindedly twirling a strand of gaudily red hair around a finger, eyes hard and narrowed. "Which is why we have so many secondary industries. We buy ores, we sell weapons and pans and jewellery. We buy timber, we sell boats and furniture and more weapons. We buy flax, we sell clothes and ropes; we buy animals, and in addition to consuming the meat we make shoes and harnesses and instruments with the leather. These are more stable industries than many of those on the mainland, Leader. This is why we grow rich. But there is one thing that we do rely on, in the same way as you need the sun and the rain to appear in equal measure."
She looked away from the window and met Madog's eye fully, the predatory gaze of a politician, and he was reminded of just how much ruthless ambition Lady Gwenda was made of.
"Trade," Madog said. She nodded, her gaze intense.
"Indeed," she said. "Trade. Without trade, without a market to buy our wares, it doesn't matter how stable our industries are. They become worse than useless in fact; just an extra few hundred mouths to feed on food we don't have. This is why much of Archipelagan politics are based around trade agreements and exchange rates. Do you see?"
"I do, Sovereign," Madog said neutrally. Lady Gwenda didn't even blink. Her eyes bored into his unwaveringly.
"Imagine then, Leader, if you will," Gwenda said carefully, "an Archipelagan City whose economy was... somewhat less affluent than ours. There would be great hardship in a City like that. I imagine that there would even be enough hardship that its Sovereign might try to formulate some sort of plan. One that would ensure that all of the trade links would be open to them, but probably closed to others."
Madog said nothing. Punching Lady Gwenda would solve nothing, he reminded himself. And anyway, it would probably cause a scene.
"But that's merely hypothetical," Lady Gwenda continued, reattaching her creepy smile. "Where were we? Oh yes. Trade is important to us all, whether we're in the Archipelago or on the mainland. I think some Sovereigns understand that better than others."
"You may be right, Sovereign," Madog said, and finally, mercifully, the aide who'd scuttled off to fetch Lady Gwenda's letter opened the door and slipped inside the room with it. Lady Gwenda stood, and Madog followed suit.
"Here we are," Lady Gwenda said smoothly, taking the elegantly sealed parchment and holding it out to Madog. He managed to take it without punching her, and congratulated himself. "Please tell Lord Iestyn that it goes with our full blessing."
"I will Sovereign," Madog said and bowed, forcing his teeth not to grind. "Enjoy the Archwiliad."
He tried not to run as he left.
****
"I think you should calm down," Dylan said indifferently as he picked his way surprisingly fastidiously between the cormorant droppings on the fishing tower steps. Madog glared at his ascending back in front of him and wished fervently that he'd slip.
"I will not calm down," he snapped back. A cormorant squawked in alarm beside him, its neck ring bobbing as it flapped its outstretched wings. Madog gave it a sour look. "She sat there, right in front of my bloody face, and tried to manipulate me into manipulating Lord Iestyn. Me! A Rider! Who in the name of everything holy does she think she is?"
"A Sovereign, you retard," Dylan sniffed. He was still climbing the curving staircase, apparently bent on reaching the top of the tall tower. Madog was quite prepared to bet it was to satisfy his own curiosity. The man was like a kitten. "That's what politicians are meant to do. Just wait until we go to Casnewydd."
"Sovereigns are meant to try to manipulate each other," Madog contradicted harshly. "And other Nobles. And foreign dignitaries, and whoever else may cross their paths. Not Riders. That's the whole point of us. We're above this kind of politics."
"Not always," Dylan muttered. Madog looked up sharply at the back of Dylan's head, silhouetted above him in the dying light through the open tower windows. His hair was as wild as ever, bouncing in a corona of curls and beads around his scalp and toussled into a frenzy by the only mild wind. It gave no clues to that last statement; Madog wondered if he was supposed to have heard.
"Excuse me?" he asked pointedly. Dylan's stride didn't falter on the steps.
"Context, Madog," he said diffidently. "We're usually above this. Not always. Like right now. They have good boats, so why the cormorants?"
"Cormorants are safer in bad weather," Madog shrugged irritably. "Don't change the subject. Why is this happening? Why are we, right now, sneaking around fishing towers and discussing evil plans rather than just arresting everyone and taking them all to the Union?"
They finally reached the top of the stairs and stopped on the small landing, Dylan immediately settling himself on a stack of wooden crates that presumably contained food for the birds or something. Madog paced instead. He was far too angry to sit. Bloody politics.
"Because," Dylan said, giving Madog an unusually focused look, "this level of secrecy is what this situation requires. Stop being a square and think. Right now we have no evidence of anything except a few Caerleuad dissenters; only logic. Which, if I ran everything, would be enough, but sadly I don't. So instead, we have to get to the root of the problem, which we can only do if all of the lame little conspirators don't take their plots underground. Do you see?"
"No." His pacing was becoming almost frenetic he knew; it was a good job the rest of the Wing wasn't here. "Because if this was a genuine conspiracy, we wouldn't already know about it. They wouldn't already have been telling Riders. I only found out about this because it started killing people back home and I confronted Lord Iestyn. Do you see? I had to demand the information, because my Sovereign knows that he'd lose a gods damned kidney the second he tried to start scheming something with me."
The rush of anger was heady, and growing. Madog could feel his hands starting to shake with the tension and adrenaline, and he balled them into fists as he walked. Dylan said nothing. He carried on.
"So how do we know about this?" Madog continued, almost snarling. "Awen knew all about it, apparently because Flyn has been involving her in all of his plans. Apparently she's letting him use her as a messenger in everything. And not only that, she's gone and involved Lord Gwilym, another Sovereign entirely, for no evident reason! How has that happened? How has an Alpha Wingleader become nothing more than a pawn for a Sovereign to use in his political games? When did that become what being a Rider is about? And if that's the example she's setting, is it really any wonder that her Deputy has suddenly gone rogue?"
"You don't seem to realise that being a Rider is about more than you, Madog," Dylan said, his tone brittle, and Madog froze. It was like being savaged by a beloved pet sheep it was so unexpected. "Are you finished bitching? Because if you're ready to engage your brain again, answer me this: if Lord Iestyn genuinely was involved up to his eyelids in this conspiracy, how would you possibly know?"
The silence rang between them as Madog stared, shocked, at his Deputy. For once Dylan was completely still, his gaze solid and unflinching, a stern intensity filling his features that Madog had never seen before. Outside the wind was starting to gather in speed, a soft brushing undercut with the harsh screech of the occasional gull and the muted hiss of the waves lapping at the foot of the tower. The cormorants rustled. The pitch torches spat. The scents of salt and nearing rain mingled with pine resin and rope and animal. The world sat quietly around them, and still Madog stared.
"I wouldn't," he said at last, his voice blank and almost too loud now. Dylan nodded curtly.
"No," he said. "You wouldn't. Because he values both kidneys, and fortunately for us all Lord Iestyn isn't the kind of man to make grand designs on the country anyway. Lucky for us, yes?"
"Dylan - " Madog started, irritated, but apparently he'd really pissed Dylan off. It was fascinating. He'd never managed it before.
"Leader Awen is gifted with being able to see the bigger picture," Dylan said harshly. "She works under the most ruthless and ambitious man in the country, Madog. One who definitely would plan his lame little conspiracies to make his penis seem bigger under her radar if she strutted about outwardly eying up his kidneys. And so she's playing along, and acting like Flyn's messenger, and probably hating every second of it, because she knows that if she doesn't this country could well be headed straight back into round two of the Wars. Could you do that, Madog?"
Could he? There was a question. He wasn't convinced he could.
"No," Dylan sniffed. "I thought not. Because you've got this idealistic idea as to what being a Rider is. You're wrong, Madog. Being a Rider is about being whatever this country needs. There's nothing else."
There was another pause, heavy with the bizarre hostility and Dylan's unwavering, lancing stare, until Madog looked away out of the window. Dylan was right, of course. As much as it galled, he was right. In a perfect world Sovereigns could be instantly stopped by their vigilant Riders as soon as they held their first meeting in their first darkened room; but this wasn't that world. Nothing was that black and white. It was sort of astounding that he'd served so much of his career without realising it, actually; but then again, Dylan had always seemed to know the slightly seedier details of court life. How much had Madog been relying on that? Surely that ought to have been his job, as Wingleader? Possibly it was a minor miracle that it had been Owain who'd snapped rather than Dylan.
"Do I really strut while I eye up people's kidneys?" he asked the window. Dylan snorted, his tone abruptly back to its normal light indifference as though it had never changed.
"All the time, boy," he said. "Makes you look gay."
"I am gay," Madog reminded him, voice pained. "Why must we have this conversation so many times?"
"I'm a slow learner," Dylan shrugged. "Anyway. I come bearing much important information, if you're off your high horse. Or high meraden, I suppose."
"I am," Madog said solemnly. He leaned a shoulder against the stone windowsill and looked back at Dylan, who had resumed his customary spirited study of nothing so much as the brickwork around him. "Pray, continue."
"Trade logs." Dylan grinned. "And shipping manifests. Like she told you in her big elite members-only meeting, the popular fetish here is for secondary and tertiary industries, and their main customers are the Phoenicians."
"No surpirses there," Madog mused. Dylan linked his fingers behind his head - or possibly in his mass of hair - and leaned back casually against the wall.
"Don't interrupt, you cretin," he said irreverently. "What are you, six? No, no surprises there, but this is where a bit of background knowledge is useful. In this case, it's all about understanding which trade ships carry which cargoes where. The Phoenicians use set trade routes, see."
"Don't tell me you know what they are," Madog said disbelievingly. Dylan shrugged, now looking at a hundle of slightly self-conscious looking cormorants.
"I do now," he grinned. "Dispossessed sailors are even better than manifests. Anyway; the main focus of the industrial sector here is metalworking, of all kinds. Jewellery, stuff you put in kitchens to concoct food - "
"It's called 'cooking'," Madog supplied mildly.
"- and weaponry being the main things," Dylan continued, ignoring the interruption. "Now, they only get some of the ores from Cymric mines. The rest is filthy foreign muck. Not like our good stuff we used in my day."
"Faux xenophobia aside?" Madog pressed. Dylan waved a hand lazily.
"Their main customers are Phoenicians, like I say," he said, "but the important things here are who they then sell those things to. And buy the ores from originally. Now, I didn't have time to look beyond the last Half, but almost every ship they've sold to in that time has been listed as being on one of the same two routes."
"How do you know that?" Madog asked, impressed. This was sounding more and more mental by the second.
"Phoenician ships have serial numbers," Dylan shrugged. "It's all about the paperwork for them. We have Saxon troubles, they have pirate troubles. They get around it by a complicated system of paperwork and receipts and serial numbers and something called 'insurance'; it's not really important. Each ship gets listed by name and serial number in each port it arrives in, though, and the serial numbers contain the route numbers."
He should probably hand over Wingleadership to Dylan, Madog decided. Clearly he was better-equipped to being in charge. Apparently Madog was only good for pointing at Saxons and shouting 'Charge!' if the amount of work Dylan had achieved in an hour was anything to go by, and he was fairly certain even Calon could be trained to do that.
"And you know the route numbers," he said faintly. Dylan snorted.
"Of course not, you square," he said derisively. "What am I, Carthiginian? No. The dispossessed sailor knew. And he's a complete loser who's angry at his own government, so he told me."
Madog stared. "You made a Phoenician tell you the secrets of their trade routes?" He was definitely better equipped for leadership. They might as well just lock Dylan in a room with Flyn in that case, apparently everything would be sorted in an hour.
"No," Dylan snorted again. "What am I, divine? I just asked him where the routes go, not how to sail them. And I gave him a beer."
Oh. Well, that was actually sort of reassuring. For a second there, Madog had started to wonder if Dylan could secretly convince rain to fall upwards, which suggested all sorts of things about his heritage that Madog simply wouldn't have guessed, even if Dylan did have crazy hair.
"Go on," Dylan grinned suddenly, his tone the sort someone might use to try to tempt a cat or a stupid child. "Go on. Ask me the big question. You know you want to."
"Where do the ships go?" Madog asked dutifully, manfully resisting the urge to smack Dylan upside the head. Dylan sat up, his eyes alight with the information, and abruptly Madog knew the answer.
"Saxonia," Dylan said, with the air of a druid pulling a coin from behind someone's ear. "That's the previous stop for the ships that bring the ore shipments, almost every time, usually iron and tin. And it's the next stop for the outgoing ships carrying the jewellery and the kitchen stuff and -"
"The weapons," Madog finished quietly. He felt slightly sick, and tried to suppress the feeling of sudden, gnawing horror. "She's found a way around the trade embargo."
"Yes," Dylan nodded. "And it's not accidental. Everyone else in the Archipelago - well, and the mainland - all have signed agreements with the Phoenicians about where certain goods get sold afterwards. I mean, everyone sort of looks the other way like good little politicians about where the resources are sourced, and no one much cares if some Saxon loser dies wearing a Cymric brooch-pin, but weapons have to be signed for and assured for. I managed to get a look at Tregwylan's contract, though. It's differently worded from most. It's got loopholes."
Madog swore viciously. It didn't help. He tried again, but with the same result.
"I want nothing more than to go and arrest her right now," he ground out through gritted teeth. "With a copy of that trade agreement and the manifests and maybe even the weapons designs from here, and then I'll go and pluck one of those swords from a Saxon's cold dead hands and I might just behead her with it."
"I wouldn't," Dylan advised. "She's a small fish, remember? We want the bigger one. Also, we could only get hold of the evidence by making a big noisy fuss, and it might very well disappear then anyway. It would need to be a Rider from Tregwylan."
"Like Aerona," Madog said. The feeling of nausea wasn't abating. How many Cymric people had been killed by weapons from Tregwylan? How many Riders? How many villages burned down and ransacked? And why had no one noticed?
Because, a small voice in his head chimed in, you strut around eyeing up people's kidneys, remember? You see the whole world in black and white. You don't see the bigger picture. You leave that to other people to look at, and sort out, and regulate as best they can. And you're really not the only one.
"Like Aerona," Dylan agreed, snapping Madog back into the present. "She'll probably be able to amass far more than we could anyway."
"I should have seen all of this," Madog said quietly. The rain was moving in now, adding a muted whisper to the sounds around him and intensifying the metallic scent undercut with salt. The natural light from the window had gone grey, leaching all colour from the ocean and the stonework and the grim mountains of the Lleyn. It reflected his mood almost perfectly. "You're right. I think I'm living in this perfect world..."
"Actually, that's important," Dylan interrupted, his voice unusually somber. "You're not thinking again. If every Rider seemed happy to go along with anyone's conspiracies, literally no Sovereigns would ever stop conspiring. They need to be afraid of us. Most Riders need to be like you. Only a few are needed to be like Awen. Can you open wax without cracking it?"
"Can I what?" Madog looked back at Dylan who was standing again and stretching.
"Open wax without cracking it," he repeated. "On a letter. I want to know what Gwenda wants to tell Lord Iestyn."
"I can't, and if you tell me you can I'll cry," Madog said curtly. "To be honest, I'm just going to give it to Lord Iestyn and then badger him to tell me. Easier all round."
"Good idea," Dylan said mildly. "Can we eat now? I'm hungry, and Menna owes me a meddeglyn."
Sometimes, Madog truly envied Dylan's attention span.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Cymru - Chapter 17
AERONA
Adara, Aerona decided, was less scary once she'd adopted you as some sort of ally, and fortunately she had fairly simplistic views on what qualified people as allies. Apparently, negative discussion of Owain was sufficient, and Aerona was quite happy to oblidge. The man seemed dreadful, and unfortunately possessing of one or two parallel traits with Morgan. She'd have to keep an eye on Morgan. Apparently the end game wouldn't be pretty.
"And he was one of those people," Adara was saying now as she adjusted the straps on her arm guards, "who had to look good, all the time, in front of everyone. You know? And I don't just mean physically." She sniffed, apparently disgusted at the memory. An apprentice cook scurrying past positively fled from her. Adara didn't seem to notice. "If ever anyone proved him wrong in anything, or mocked him for something - didn't matter how good-natured it was - he'd suddenly be sulking like a six-year-old and trying to order everyone about. And that was bad."
Aerona giggled. Adara also had a habit of explaining what your emotional response to an anecdote should be, a habit Aerona was finding wildly amusing.
"Oh, I know about six-year-old sulking," she nodded. "It's bad enough at that age."
"I know!" Adara said, aggrieved. "And he was twenty - hang on, how old am I? Twenty-something. But seriously! He was just this freakish man-child. He was a big inappropriate."
"Gods, yes," Aerona agreed earnestly. "And I mean, especially in an Alpha Wing, you really want someone to be a bit more mature than that, don't you?"
"Owain dreamed of maturity," Adara said darkly. "I think he just thought it was a word that applied to cheese, though. That's what Awen said once, anyway."
Oh? Aerona thought. That was interesting.
"To him?" she asked aloud. Adara grinned.
"Yes," she said reminiscently. They reached the ground floor and started down into the dungeons; Aerona tried not to shiver at the change in air quality. "We weren't supposed to see, of course; they never argued in public, not even in front of us."
"But they did?" Aerona pressed. Adara nodded, satisfied.
"Oh yes," she said happily. "If he started getting out of hand she'd take him off to one side to Have Words." Somehow, Aerona could actually hear the capital letters. "Very privately, of course, Awen knew how to handle him. At least one of us would try to follow, but Awen can always tell." Adara shook her head, apparently lost for a moment in admiration for her Wingleader's radar skills. "Anyway, I do remember the one time she didn't stop us. I think they must have been arguing all day, because she was so angry with him she didn't notice us for once."
"Wow." Useful information. They paused at the first set of gates for a guard to let them through. "How did he feel about her?"
"Complicated." Adara glanced at Aerona, something irrepressively expressive in her eyes. She was really enjoying laying into her former Deputy here. It reminded Aerona a bit of Carys and Morgan. "He never liked being Deputy, certainly; he wanted to be Leader so he could be all famous and bossy. That was always a problem for him. But he also liked her."
"Oh," Aerona said. "Well, that's nice, anyway."
"No," Adara said, her lips quirking slightly in the most scurrilously mischievous smile Aerona had ever seen as she glanced across again. "No, I mean, he liked her. For years. In a slightly creepy, pathetic sort of way that made me want to wash. Awen thought it was just because she was Leader; power as an aphrodisiac, you know?"
Well, that was shocking on a grand scale. Turned out, Casnewydd's Alpha Wing were fascinating.
"So," Aerona said, her head spinning, "he was both attracted to her and wildly jealous of her at the same time?"
"I did say 'complicated'," Adara grinned. They stopped as the second gate was opened for them, hinges screaming their neglect. "He sort of looked down on and up at her at the same time, too. He was a big egotistical," she said as a sagacious aside, nodding to Aerona, who giggled again. "So naturally he thought he could do a better job as Wingleader. But, I mean, she's an Alpha Wingleader. You'd have to be a special kind of stupid to serve under Awen and not think that she's amazing at it, they don't let cretins do it; so he sort of respected that. And, oh, he was very over-protective of her."
Adara frowned to herself slightly, and Aerona tried not to laugh. It was perfectly understandable, of course it was, but it was a rather rich accusation coming from Adara.
"You'll admit," she began, grinning, and Adara waved her off.
"I know, I know," she said, rubbing both hands over her face. They stopped for the final gate. "I'm overwrought right now. Like iron. That's not the point. He was like it even when he didn't need to be, and that's abnormal, like the amount of oil he produced."
"Such as?" Aerona asked. This close to the cells she could almost smell the fear; in a nearby interrogation room a lichtor was singing softly as he cleaned his tools. Someone was sobbing somewhere, a broken sound that filled the stone passages far too well.
"Lord Flyn," Adara said quietly, and abruptly all of Aerona's attention managed to spring forth and impale itself upon Adara's words. "Almost always around Lord Flyn. Who is, himself, always weird around Awen too, but that's because he's a megalomaniacal freak with control issues; you expect it from a Sovereign."
Do you? Aerona thought. That was possibly true, she supposed, since she wasn't in an Alpha Wing, and certainly wasn't a Wingleader, but she was fairly certain that not all Sovereigns were especially odd around their Riders.
"This is us," Adara murmured suddenly. She motioned the guard to unlock the tiny cell door and stood back, turning to Aerona. "He's delicate at the moment," she said, her tone as lightly conversational as ever, as though she was simply explaining how to keep a harness clean. "He's worried half to death about his family. I've stitched the wound, but the guards here apparently felt the need to let it fester overnight, because they're blisteringly stupid."
Her expression rather adequately said what she thought of that. Aerona agreed. Even if the assassination attempt had been Gareth's plan all along, it was remarkably asinine to simply leave your witness to bleed out before questioning.
"I'll get one of the druids to see to it at the Union," Aerona promised. She fixed her kindest smile onto her face as the guard stepped away to let Adara open the door; she'd considered using her brightest smile, but that might have seemed insensitive, given the circumstances. Which was a shame. Aerona loved smiling her brightest smile.
As Adara opened the door it became abruptly clear that the sobbing had been coming from the pale, lanky teenager, folded tightly into a ball on the floor of the tiny cell. He looked up at the sound of the hinges and Aerona didn't think she'd ever seen anyone look so lost in her life before. He was young, and he was in an impossible situation that he simply couldn't deal with, and in his face he almost looked like one of the children. Her heart went out to him.
All the more so when Adara crouched down to him and he all but crawled into her arms, shaking from head to toe. Adara pulled him upright carefully, turning him to face Aerona. Clearly, a nurturing persona did not come easily to her; she was too much warrior, too many sharp edges.
"This is Aerona, Gareth," Adara said quietly. "She's a friend of mine. She's going to take you to the Union where you'll be safe, while Leader Awen and I go to Casnewydd to get your mam and grandmother. Okay?"
"The Union?" Gareth asked, eyes wide and voice strangled as he looked at Aerona. It was understandable; the Union was a place that only saw Riders and Sovereigns, Archdruids and Prifarddau. Only the upper echelons of society went to the Union. It was the headquarters of the Riders and the seat of the Archwiliadau. It was the centre of all Cymric society. People like Gareth never even saw it in their lifetimes, much less stepped inside. It would be a bit much for him to take in even on a normal day.
"Yes," Aerona said, her smile firmly in place. "We've spoken to Lord Gwilym, and he doesn't want to punish you, Gareth. He knows you were forced to do it. He's released you into Union custody so that we can keep you safe until this is all over. Is that okay?"
Not that he really had a choice, but Aerona suspected it would be best to give him one right now. He needed to know they were seeing him as a person, not a commodity. Asking his opinion was a nice, quick way to do that.
"Yes," he whispered, nodding his head. His eyes weren't leaving Aerona. "Please."
"Okay," she said gently, and held out a hand to him. He took it, his fingers clammy with chilled sweat and shaking with adrenaline, and she thought: a Sovereign did this. His Sovereign.
On some days, Aerona was truly glad she was a Rider.
****
As promised Adara had picked out a transport carriage, discretely small enough that it could be pulled by a single meraden. As an additional bonus she'd apparently examined every available Driver thoroughly before making her selection and conscripting the woman. Judging by the traumatised look in the Driver's eye, Aerona suspected Adara had been persuasive, to say the least. Adara was mental, Aerona decided. In a good way, certainly, but utterly mental. One day in the future someone was going to write a book about this Wing, and no one would believe it wasn't wildly exaggerated.
"There's a change of clothes in there if you want them," Adara explained to Gareth now as they guided him in. "And Aerona will be right alongside you the whole way if you need anything. Apparently she'll make you sing, which is funny."
"I'll have you know it's perfectly sensible," Aerona mock-sniffed as she tightened Briallu's harness. After flying most of the way across the country that morning the mare wasn't overly keen on going again, but two hours' rest had done her a world of good. "Everyone loves a sing-song. Don't you love a sing-song, Gareth?"
He looked like a hare before an owl.
"Um," he said nervously. "My dad sang?"
"Excellent!" Aerona beamed. "We'll play games, too. Everyone loves games."
"Now you've unnerved him," Adara said mildly. "Don't worry. She's very unnerving. We all think so."
Aerona giggled at the incredulous look the harrassed Driver threw Adara, and jumped up onto Briallu's back. It ought to take just shy of an hour to get to the Union, she thought; the winds didn't look too strong, and the sun would be behind them, happily. From her position in the Landing Tower doorway at the end of the runway she could see Aberystwyth nestled into its hills, the Great Darkgate looming to her left while the marketeers bustled to her right. The sky looked cloudless and endless, near-perfect flying conditions.
"Still here?" Awen's voice asked from behind them. "I think Adara's delayed response times are rubbing off on everyone today."
"Oh, I'm just used to getting ready at a six-year-old's pace," Aerona grinned. She started buckling up the harness on one side, and Awen came forward to do the other for her. Her left shoulder seemed a lot looser suddenly than it had twenty minutes ago, but Aerona decided not to address that particular pink elephant. "Since I'm going to the Union now," she muttered, lowering her voice so it wouldn't carry, "I thought I might look through the Archives."
Awen glanced up briefly, green eyes carefully unreadable. "Thank you," she said neutrally. Aerona nodded and looked back out at the city below, Briallu snorting and shaking her head below her. The Archives could give them a lead on Owain, and hopefully that would free Awen up to simply chase after Flyn and his Saxons.
And, of course, Aerona would have a far more neutral perspective on Owain than either Awen or Adara. Considering how complicated he apparently was, that could only be a good thing.
"Now, you see how Aerona's meraden is standing still?" Adara said as she approached, towing two merod behind her including the monster that Awen had been riding earlier. "That's what they're meant to look like."
"So I hear," Awen sighed. The beast in front of her whickered at the sight of her and surged forward, pulling his reins clean out of Adara's hand and trotting happily to Awen, who shook her head.
"Such an embarrassment," she muttered, and Aerona giggled and patted Briallu's neck. Gareth stared at them all, his jaw open. He'd probably never seen this many Riders up close, either, Aerona mused. A bit of a culture shock all round, bless him. "Right. You guys need to get going; the sooner you're in the Union the happier I'll be."
"Indeed!" Aerona gestured to the Driver, who obediently released the final catches anchoring the carriage and allowed it to start rising. She Saluted Awen and Adara who both returned it as Briallu spread her wings and picked herself delicately off the ground, swishing her tail lazily. Aerona smiled. "Good luck!" she called back to them, and then they were off, the carriage meraden moving smoothly onwards as Briallu matched it wingbeat for wingbeat.
"Right!" she called to Gareth merrily as he watched the ground recede beneath them in something akin to stunned awe. "We'll be about an hour. Do you by any chance know how to play the Shop Game?"
Well, the afternoon didn't have to be a total loss.
Adara, Aerona decided, was less scary once she'd adopted you as some sort of ally, and fortunately she had fairly simplistic views on what qualified people as allies. Apparently, negative discussion of Owain was sufficient, and Aerona was quite happy to oblidge. The man seemed dreadful, and unfortunately possessing of one or two parallel traits with Morgan. She'd have to keep an eye on Morgan. Apparently the end game wouldn't be pretty.
"And he was one of those people," Adara was saying now as she adjusted the straps on her arm guards, "who had to look good, all the time, in front of everyone. You know? And I don't just mean physically." She sniffed, apparently disgusted at the memory. An apprentice cook scurrying past positively fled from her. Adara didn't seem to notice. "If ever anyone proved him wrong in anything, or mocked him for something - didn't matter how good-natured it was - he'd suddenly be sulking like a six-year-old and trying to order everyone about. And that was bad."
Aerona giggled. Adara also had a habit of explaining what your emotional response to an anecdote should be, a habit Aerona was finding wildly amusing.
"Oh, I know about six-year-old sulking," she nodded. "It's bad enough at that age."
"I know!" Adara said, aggrieved. "And he was twenty - hang on, how old am I? Twenty-something. But seriously! He was just this freakish man-child. He was a big inappropriate."
"Gods, yes," Aerona agreed earnestly. "And I mean, especially in an Alpha Wing, you really want someone to be a bit more mature than that, don't you?"
"Owain dreamed of maturity," Adara said darkly. "I think he just thought it was a word that applied to cheese, though. That's what Awen said once, anyway."
Oh? Aerona thought. That was interesting.
"To him?" she asked aloud. Adara grinned.
"Yes," she said reminiscently. They reached the ground floor and started down into the dungeons; Aerona tried not to shiver at the change in air quality. "We weren't supposed to see, of course; they never argued in public, not even in front of us."
"But they did?" Aerona pressed. Adara nodded, satisfied.
"Oh yes," she said happily. "If he started getting out of hand she'd take him off to one side to Have Words." Somehow, Aerona could actually hear the capital letters. "Very privately, of course, Awen knew how to handle him. At least one of us would try to follow, but Awen can always tell." Adara shook her head, apparently lost for a moment in admiration for her Wingleader's radar skills. "Anyway, I do remember the one time she didn't stop us. I think they must have been arguing all day, because she was so angry with him she didn't notice us for once."
"Wow." Useful information. They paused at the first set of gates for a guard to let them through. "How did he feel about her?"
"Complicated." Adara glanced at Aerona, something irrepressively expressive in her eyes. She was really enjoying laying into her former Deputy here. It reminded Aerona a bit of Carys and Morgan. "He never liked being Deputy, certainly; he wanted to be Leader so he could be all famous and bossy. That was always a problem for him. But he also liked her."
"Oh," Aerona said. "Well, that's nice, anyway."
"No," Adara said, her lips quirking slightly in the most scurrilously mischievous smile Aerona had ever seen as she glanced across again. "No, I mean, he liked her. For years. In a slightly creepy, pathetic sort of way that made me want to wash. Awen thought it was just because she was Leader; power as an aphrodisiac, you know?"
Well, that was shocking on a grand scale. Turned out, Casnewydd's Alpha Wing were fascinating.
"So," Aerona said, her head spinning, "he was both attracted to her and wildly jealous of her at the same time?"
"I did say 'complicated'," Adara grinned. They stopped as the second gate was opened for them, hinges screaming their neglect. "He sort of looked down on and up at her at the same time, too. He was a big egotistical," she said as a sagacious aside, nodding to Aerona, who giggled again. "So naturally he thought he could do a better job as Wingleader. But, I mean, she's an Alpha Wingleader. You'd have to be a special kind of stupid to serve under Awen and not think that she's amazing at it, they don't let cretins do it; so he sort of respected that. And, oh, he was very over-protective of her."
Adara frowned to herself slightly, and Aerona tried not to laugh. It was perfectly understandable, of course it was, but it was a rather rich accusation coming from Adara.
"You'll admit," she began, grinning, and Adara waved her off.
"I know, I know," she said, rubbing both hands over her face. They stopped for the final gate. "I'm overwrought right now. Like iron. That's not the point. He was like it even when he didn't need to be, and that's abnormal, like the amount of oil he produced."
"Such as?" Aerona asked. This close to the cells she could almost smell the fear; in a nearby interrogation room a lichtor was singing softly as he cleaned his tools. Someone was sobbing somewhere, a broken sound that filled the stone passages far too well.
"Lord Flyn," Adara said quietly, and abruptly all of Aerona's attention managed to spring forth and impale itself upon Adara's words. "Almost always around Lord Flyn. Who is, himself, always weird around Awen too, but that's because he's a megalomaniacal freak with control issues; you expect it from a Sovereign."
Do you? Aerona thought. That was possibly true, she supposed, since she wasn't in an Alpha Wing, and certainly wasn't a Wingleader, but she was fairly certain that not all Sovereigns were especially odd around their Riders.
"This is us," Adara murmured suddenly. She motioned the guard to unlock the tiny cell door and stood back, turning to Aerona. "He's delicate at the moment," she said, her tone as lightly conversational as ever, as though she was simply explaining how to keep a harness clean. "He's worried half to death about his family. I've stitched the wound, but the guards here apparently felt the need to let it fester overnight, because they're blisteringly stupid."
Her expression rather adequately said what she thought of that. Aerona agreed. Even if the assassination attempt had been Gareth's plan all along, it was remarkably asinine to simply leave your witness to bleed out before questioning.
"I'll get one of the druids to see to it at the Union," Aerona promised. She fixed her kindest smile onto her face as the guard stepped away to let Adara open the door; she'd considered using her brightest smile, but that might have seemed insensitive, given the circumstances. Which was a shame. Aerona loved smiling her brightest smile.
As Adara opened the door it became abruptly clear that the sobbing had been coming from the pale, lanky teenager, folded tightly into a ball on the floor of the tiny cell. He looked up at the sound of the hinges and Aerona didn't think she'd ever seen anyone look so lost in her life before. He was young, and he was in an impossible situation that he simply couldn't deal with, and in his face he almost looked like one of the children. Her heart went out to him.
All the more so when Adara crouched down to him and he all but crawled into her arms, shaking from head to toe. Adara pulled him upright carefully, turning him to face Aerona. Clearly, a nurturing persona did not come easily to her; she was too much warrior, too many sharp edges.
"This is Aerona, Gareth," Adara said quietly. "She's a friend of mine. She's going to take you to the Union where you'll be safe, while Leader Awen and I go to Casnewydd to get your mam and grandmother. Okay?"
"The Union?" Gareth asked, eyes wide and voice strangled as he looked at Aerona. It was understandable; the Union was a place that only saw Riders and Sovereigns, Archdruids and Prifarddau. Only the upper echelons of society went to the Union. It was the headquarters of the Riders and the seat of the Archwiliadau. It was the centre of all Cymric society. People like Gareth never even saw it in their lifetimes, much less stepped inside. It would be a bit much for him to take in even on a normal day.
"Yes," Aerona said, her smile firmly in place. "We've spoken to Lord Gwilym, and he doesn't want to punish you, Gareth. He knows you were forced to do it. He's released you into Union custody so that we can keep you safe until this is all over. Is that okay?"
Not that he really had a choice, but Aerona suspected it would be best to give him one right now. He needed to know they were seeing him as a person, not a commodity. Asking his opinion was a nice, quick way to do that.
"Yes," he whispered, nodding his head. His eyes weren't leaving Aerona. "Please."
"Okay," she said gently, and held out a hand to him. He took it, his fingers clammy with chilled sweat and shaking with adrenaline, and she thought: a Sovereign did this. His Sovereign.
On some days, Aerona was truly glad she was a Rider.
****
As promised Adara had picked out a transport carriage, discretely small enough that it could be pulled by a single meraden. As an additional bonus she'd apparently examined every available Driver thoroughly before making her selection and conscripting the woman. Judging by the traumatised look in the Driver's eye, Aerona suspected Adara had been persuasive, to say the least. Adara was mental, Aerona decided. In a good way, certainly, but utterly mental. One day in the future someone was going to write a book about this Wing, and no one would believe it wasn't wildly exaggerated.
"There's a change of clothes in there if you want them," Adara explained to Gareth now as they guided him in. "And Aerona will be right alongside you the whole way if you need anything. Apparently she'll make you sing, which is funny."
"I'll have you know it's perfectly sensible," Aerona mock-sniffed as she tightened Briallu's harness. After flying most of the way across the country that morning the mare wasn't overly keen on going again, but two hours' rest had done her a world of good. "Everyone loves a sing-song. Don't you love a sing-song, Gareth?"
He looked like a hare before an owl.
"Um," he said nervously. "My dad sang?"
"Excellent!" Aerona beamed. "We'll play games, too. Everyone loves games."
"Now you've unnerved him," Adara said mildly. "Don't worry. She's very unnerving. We all think so."
Aerona giggled at the incredulous look the harrassed Driver threw Adara, and jumped up onto Briallu's back. It ought to take just shy of an hour to get to the Union, she thought; the winds didn't look too strong, and the sun would be behind them, happily. From her position in the Landing Tower doorway at the end of the runway she could see Aberystwyth nestled into its hills, the Great Darkgate looming to her left while the marketeers bustled to her right. The sky looked cloudless and endless, near-perfect flying conditions.
"Still here?" Awen's voice asked from behind them. "I think Adara's delayed response times are rubbing off on everyone today."
"Oh, I'm just used to getting ready at a six-year-old's pace," Aerona grinned. She started buckling up the harness on one side, and Awen came forward to do the other for her. Her left shoulder seemed a lot looser suddenly than it had twenty minutes ago, but Aerona decided not to address that particular pink elephant. "Since I'm going to the Union now," she muttered, lowering her voice so it wouldn't carry, "I thought I might look through the Archives."
Awen glanced up briefly, green eyes carefully unreadable. "Thank you," she said neutrally. Aerona nodded and looked back out at the city below, Briallu snorting and shaking her head below her. The Archives could give them a lead on Owain, and hopefully that would free Awen up to simply chase after Flyn and his Saxons.
And, of course, Aerona would have a far more neutral perspective on Owain than either Awen or Adara. Considering how complicated he apparently was, that could only be a good thing.
"Now, you see how Aerona's meraden is standing still?" Adara said as she approached, towing two merod behind her including the monster that Awen had been riding earlier. "That's what they're meant to look like."
"So I hear," Awen sighed. The beast in front of her whickered at the sight of her and surged forward, pulling his reins clean out of Adara's hand and trotting happily to Awen, who shook her head.
"Such an embarrassment," she muttered, and Aerona giggled and patted Briallu's neck. Gareth stared at them all, his jaw open. He'd probably never seen this many Riders up close, either, Aerona mused. A bit of a culture shock all round, bless him. "Right. You guys need to get going; the sooner you're in the Union the happier I'll be."
"Indeed!" Aerona gestured to the Driver, who obediently released the final catches anchoring the carriage and allowed it to start rising. She Saluted Awen and Adara who both returned it as Briallu spread her wings and picked herself delicately off the ground, swishing her tail lazily. Aerona smiled. "Good luck!" she called back to them, and then they were off, the carriage meraden moving smoothly onwards as Briallu matched it wingbeat for wingbeat.
"Right!" she called to Gareth merrily as he watched the ground recede beneath them in something akin to stunned awe. "We'll be about an hour. Do you by any chance know how to play the Shop Game?"
Well, the afternoon didn't have to be a total loss.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Cymru - Chapter 16
The dip in writing quality to this from the rest is laughable. Sorry, guys. It's a fact.
GWILYM
"Bloody Marged," Madog muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dylan grinned, eyes scanning the room in a constant frenzy of motion that was starting to make Gwilym wonder if the man was hearing voices. "Off the record, of course."
"Of course!" Gwilym agreed, partly because he was damned if he was going to be the one to report an Alpha Wingleader for such anti-Sovereign sentiments and partly because he agreed. Bloody Marged.
"It's such a shame," Aerona said wistfully, stirring her tea. The tea was rather good, actually; although Watkins had brought it, and Gwilym was fighting a wave of hysteria at the thought that a man who looked like a kettle made good tea. "I mean; it's the skeleton of such a good plan, but she's given Flyn the perfect chance to implement his own nasty plans."
"Yes," Madog said. "Yes, she has. Which will now be infinitely worse. Why couldn't she have just suggested this at the Archwiliad like a normal person?"
"Because it's Marged, you retard," Dylan chimed in. He seemed to be scanning the skyline out of the window for evil birds or something. "That's a big gate."
That was a big conversation shift. People in the streets below had probably seen it.
"It kept out the Northlanders back in the wars," Gwilym nodded, and then belatedly realised he was talking to a pair of Northlanders. "Now it's a tourist attraction. You'd be surprised how many Phoenicians come to visit it."
"I think my real father was Phoenician," Aerona said thoughtfully. Gwilym could believe it. It explained her colouring, at any rate.
"Be that as it may," Madog said drily, "if I could ask you all to ignore my Deputy and stay on topic?"
"Must we?" Gwilym sighed. "I'd rather talk about the gate. It hasn't tried to kill me."
Nor had it tried to suggest any nefarious political goings-on, nor had it casually told him his family had, in fact, been murdered. It was simply a gate. Gwilym rather liked the gate.
"Perhaps not, Sovereign," Madog began, his lips quirked slightly in the apparently barely-suppressed amusement of someone who didn't have an albeit invisible target ring on their forehead and therefore could afford to find humour in someone else's traumatic ordeal. Although, as a border Rider, he'd probably dodged many more arrows than Gwilym. Maybe he thought Gwilym was over-reacting. "However, I want to know what - "
The fanfare blared. Gwilym shuddered. Sledgehammer, he reminded himself. Must get a -
"Leader Awen of the Casnewydd Alpha Wing," Watkins intoned.
Gwilym stood, full of foreboding at the oncoming conversation. He almost didn't want to know who desired his demise; it was nice thinking it was just an act of teenage rebellion from the boy in the cells who could be simply slapped on the wrists and returned to his parents. Although thinking about slapping him on the wrists brought him uncomfortably close to thinking about the fact that he'd probably just been tortured. In spite of himself, Gwilym glanced at Awen's hands. They were reassuringly blood-free, although that could just have meant that she had some sort of unnatural hand-washing talent. You heard stories about Riders.
"Sovereign," Awen bowed as the door clicked shut behind her, and he noticed the scary bird was on her shoulder. That was a shame. Gwilym smiled. The bird glared.
"Rider," he returned. "We have tea, if you want. Also Madog and Dylan here, whom you've probably met before, I'd have thought, but are now here to help us shed further light on Lord Flyn and to talk about gates."
It was fascinating watching them acknowledge each other. In their respective home districts, Awen and Madog were the highest authorities possible, technically including their Sovereigns and all other Nobles, and both came from the border where fighting was a weekly if not daily occurance. It was like watching two pack leaders coming together, on neutral ground, sizing each other up without hostility. And yet, clearly, Gwilym had been right; they'd definitely met before.
Madog stood up and they Saluted, both standing perfectly straight, and then both smiled slightly.
"Good to see you again," Awen said, and there was an edge of something deeper there that Gwilym hadn't expected to find; a sort of warmth and respect under the neutral tone. Madog inclined his head.
"And you," he answered, his tone matching hers. It was an Alpha Wingleader thing, Gwilym concluded. It couldn't be an easy job.
"Is he okay?" Aerona asked anxiosly, breaking the odd stand-off. "The boy? You didn't cripple him or anything?"
All eyes turned to Awen, who merely glanced at Aerona, face impassive.
"No," she said. "He's fine. I did tell you, it's rare I actually have to hurt someone. His name's Gareth, by the way. And he was forced into trying to kill you, Sovereign," she added to Gwilym, the beads in her long hair swaying as she turned to look back at him. "It's up to you as to whether you want to punish him or not, but my official recommendation is to release him into Union custody. Quickly."
Well, it wasn't like he hadn't known there'd be someone behind it. Privately, Gwilym was hoping it would be Watkins. You were probably allowed to fire advisors who hired assassins to kill you. Or at least demote them.
"Happily," Gwilym said, sinking back into his chair and motioning the others to do the same. "He's all yours. Why quickly? Who forced him?"
"I don't know," Awen said, sliding into the nearest chair. She looked into the middle distance and stroked the scar on her palm absent-mindedly. "I mean, the evidence all points to Lord Flyn, but something doesn't add up."
"What did he tell you?" Aerona asked, leaning forward interestedly. She seemed rather more animated again now than she had a minute ago, Gwilym thought; apparently, news of his would-be assassin's positive well-being had cheered her up. Everyone seemed to care about his would-be assassin more than him, like it was an abused puppy rather than an attempted murderer. It was a rather morose thought.
"He saw..." Awen hesitated, and glanced at Madog and Dylan. Gwilym didn't know what she was looking for, but Dylan shook his shaggy mane of hair and beads out of his eyes and Awen seemed to relax slightly. Maybe Dylan had magic hair. "He saw Lord Flyn a week or so ago in a wood on the border, talking to a Saxon."
"What?" Madog sat bolt upright, staring at her. Awen nodded.
"In Saxonic," she said wearily. "And it gets worse. They saw him, he ran, he got away. Flyn clearly found out who he was, though, because the next day he got summoned to the Residence to speak on behalf of his mother and grandmother, both of whom got suddenly arrested for liaising with Saxons."
Aerona looked traumatised, one hand covering her mouth. Gwilym sympathised. If Casnewydd's cells were anything like Aberystwyth's, the idea of an old woman in them was profoundly disturbing. As, indeed, was the miscarriage of justice, he supposed, but right now Gwilym was quite happy imagining Flyn capable of every crime he'd ever heard of. Including funny ones. Like bestiality. And stealing curtains. And probably both at once, the kinky bastard.
"Anyway," Awen continued, running a hand through her hair and causing it to briefly shimmer gold in the sunlight, "Flyn told him to come to Aberystwyth and wait for further instructions. Then when we arrived..."
She trailed off bitterly for a second, and Gwilym had to resist the sudden urge to hug her. It wasn't acceptable between a Sovereign and a Rider, and she was fully trained to kill him if he overstepped his social or political boundaries, and that wasn't even counting the extra three Riders and a bird who'd help her. Particularly the bird, which was still glaring at him. Madog leaned forward.
"What happened when you arrived?" he asked. Gwilym wondered if he could kick himself without anyone noticing. They really should have explained that part before.
"Oh," Awen sighed, "the usual, you know? My Deputy tried to stop me from catching the assassin and then tried to kill me when I refused."
"Good gods." Madog looked thunderstruck for a second, his eyes filled with horror, and even Dylan actually looked at Awen for what had to be a good three seconds. Then, very gently, Madog leaned forward and laid a calloused hand over one of Awen's. Their eyes met, understanding flashing between them. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, it's alright," Awen said, her tone suddenly lightly indifferent. "I should have seen it coming really, you know what Deputies are like."
"Yes," Madog nodded solemnly, sitting back. "Stab you in the back as soon as look at you. It's why I keep Dylan, you know, I can always tell where he is by his hair."
"Hey!" Dylan said indignantly as Aerona giggled. "You don't keep me, you slag. And you begged me to be your Deputy."
"And it worked?" Gwilym asked, interested. "Maybe I could beg someone to be Sovereign for me. No one would want to kill me then."
"They might still." Awen gave him a sideways look, the original humour back in her eyes. Apparently, all she'd needed was someone who could truly understand her loss, and she was bouncing back, all personal strife pushed aside. Riders had such a creepy 'we-don't-actually-matter' mentality. "Apparently when Owain found Gareth here, he told him to kill you because you're a pervasive influence."
"Ah." Gwilym slumped in his chair. "That's it, then. Time to replace my advisers with nubile food tasters and dancing ninjas and sing while my kingdom crumbles around me. I can think of nothing less pervasively influential, although maybe not from the point of view of my subjects."
"Oh, only if you remember the birds," Awen grinned. "The mutant ones. And the all natural living willow statues, but make them of naked Lady Blodwen."
He was about to make a comment about Awen torturing Sovereigns without fair reason, but Aerona spoke first.
"Guys," she said, shaking her head, "other people would like to understand this conversation too, you know."
"And we'd all like to not think of naked Lady Blodwen," Gwilym nodded solemnly, which made Dylan laugh.
The fanfare blared again suddenly, making Aerona spill her tea and Madog shift abruptly and momentarily into Creepy Rider Fighting Mode. Awen smirked as Gwilym shuddered. Sledgehammer, he reminded himself sternly. Remember the bloody -
"Rider Adara of the Casnewydd Alpha Wing," Watkins intoned as the doors swung open. As Adara stepped in she gave Watkins a look that was more expressive than all the bards of Cymru could ever hope to be and opened her mouth to say something. Without even looking up Awen knocked on the table once, and Adara instantly closed her mouth and stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind her. It was a display of incredible obedience, actually, and Gwilym found himself slightly jealous. None of his advisors did that with him. In fact, it was the other way around; Watkins coughed and Gwilym stood straighter, or stopped interrogating his guests about their negative social policies or whatever. He'd have to get Awen to give him some pointers.
"Wow," Madog said mildly. "I wish I could get Dylan to be that well-trained. As it is I can barely even let him inside."
"Oh, you say that," Awen said mock-darkly, looking at Madog. "Not two hours ago I told Adara to go to Milford Haven with the rest of the Wing. So far her progress has been to move herself slightly nearer to the door."
"I'm very slowly obeying," Adara nodded, accepting her scary bird back from Awen. It promptly started chewing the beads in her hair. Gwilym didn't trust it. It wasn't as good as his duck. "Anyway, the other bards confirm Gareth's story; Owain ordered them all to do it, none of them wanted to do it, they're all very sad about doing it. And I've made provisions to get Gareth to the Union."
"On the face of it," Awen said delicately, "Flyn sent Owain to kill you, Sovereign."
"Yes," said Gwilym. Beside him Madog stood up and wandered to the window. "Which seems rather mean, actually. I mean, I don't like Flyn much either, but having only met him about twice I thought I'd withold judgement for a bit longer before having him killed."
"I don't think he did," Awen said. She was fingering the scar on her palm again, a gesture Gwilym was swiftly coming to recognise as meaning she was thinking about Owain.
"Leader," Madog said quietly. He was still facing the window, strong arms crossed over his chest as he watched Aberystwyth basking in the sun. "I have to ask you: are you sure you don't just... not want to believe it?"
Gwilym glanced at the others. Reassuringly, they looked as blank as he felt, so that presumably ruled out Secret Rider Codes or simple stupidity on his part. He looked back at Awen as she placed both hands, palms down and fingers spread, on the table in front of her.
"Quite the opposite, I think," she said, studying her hands intently. "I want to think that Owain just... sold out, and has simply become Flyn's personal hound. But objectively?" Awen shook her head and looked up at Madog clearly, her gaze strong. "Taking Owain out of the equation, I can't imagine any Rider turning against the Union. Not even him."
"Awen," Adara started doubtfully. "He was - "
"We're angry and emotional," Awen interrupted. "You've hated him since we were at least five anyway. And right now, we're looking back at every negative trait he had and twisting them to fit. But if I don't, I don't see it."
There was a pause, and then Madog nodded, turning back to face them. He looked remarkably suave. Gwilym wondered if he practised in a mirror.
"Nor can I," he said. "What are you thinking?"
"I think Flyn thought Owain was obeying him," Awen said, kneading at her left shoulder absent-mindedly. "I think Owain was meant to kill Gareth when he arrived in Aberystwyth, so they could say Gareth just vanished on the road. But he has his own agenda."
"One that involves Lord Gwilym dead," Aerona murmured thoughtfully and, Gwilym felt, somewhat insensitively. What was it with Riders and their blasé attitude to threats to his life? "I wonder why?"
"Because he's pervasively influential," Adara supplied. "Who have you been pervasively influencing recently, Sovereign, with your pervasively influencing ways? Be honest, now."
"I wish I could give any names at all," Gwilym said levelly. "I truly do. But even my advisors don't listen to me. And one of them looks like a kettle." He was aware that the last sentence sounded rather more aggrieved than it should have. Awen grinned.
"Goodness, so he does!" Aerona exclaimed. "I wondered why he made me want tea! Although I usually do want tea, so to be honest, that's not really a stable conclusion to draw."
"What appropriately good tea he made, though," Madog murmured thoughtfully. Aerona nodded.
"Yes! I thought so. I wonder if there's a link? Maybe people develop skills depending on their outward appearance."
"Hmm," Madog said mock-doubtfully, drawing his brows together. "Dylan looks like a bush, but he doesn't grow berries."
"Yeah, but Madog looks like a retard and he can't think," Dylan flashed back. "Why would your Deputy send a fourteen-year-old random to assassinate an incredibly well-guarded Sovereign?"
"Not that well-guarded," Gwilym said with feeling. "I've still got the arrow."
"I've still got the scar," Awen stated, looking at her palm. "I beat you in the souvenier stakes. Both good points, though." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "No Alpha Wing here at the moment, and the Beta Wing wasn't there. Obviously Owain got him through every other security check, or he wouldn't have made it to the hall with a bow. And I didn't know I'd be on the top table until I came in."
"You were on the top table?" Aerona asked happily. "How lovely!"
And oh, how Watkins had been horrified by that little seating instruction. It wasn't the done thing for Sovereigns to acknowledge Riders even as equals, certainly not as the superiors they were; it was the done thing to pretend they were mere underlings, messengers and mercenaries, worthy of respect maybe but no more thought than that. The top table was only for sworn Riders and honoured guests. Visiting Riders weren't meant to be honoured.
It was an honour that had paid off, though, since Gwilym was still alive to muse upon it. Maybe next time he should give Awen his chair instead. It might make Watkins whistle, though, so best not.
"And if you hadn't been, Lord Gwilym would probably now be dead," Madog stated matter-of-factly. It was like they were commenting on the weather or something, Gwilym thought. Bastards. "What was the plan for afterwards, though? Surely this Gareth wouldn't have made it out alive?"
"Owain would have killed him," Adara said. Now that it had been pointed out, Gwilym was starting to really pick up the vibe that Adara had disliked Owain even before him trying to kill her Wingleader, and was now in no mood to stop judging him. She looked like she wanted to spit after every mention of his name. Her bird seemed to glare all the more. "That way he'd have done as Lord Flyn asked, with no trail back to him."
"So Flyn wanted you to join him," Awen murmured, her eyes fixed on the middle distance, "but Owain wanted you dead. But why? What's he playing at?"
And there it was again; although, as the person who spared him his early demise, Gwilym decided to let Awen have that one. Especially since it had nearly killed her, too.
Which, actually, was a good point too.
"Would he really have killed you?" Gwilym asked abruptly. All eyes turned to him. "I mean, if you'd been sitting with the others and so hadn't seen the arrow, what would have happened?"
"I didn't see it," Awen said mildly. "I was watching for it. The music was going wrong, I couldn't work out why. The same thing would have happened if I'd been anywhere else in the hall."
"The music was going wrong, so you were looking for an assassin?" Gwilym repeated. "Damn, I wouldn't like to see how jumpy you get in a bardic school. Some of those kids can really murder the Ballads."
"Oh, I'm terrible," Awen grinned. "Taverns as well; the bards get drunk and I start felling the patrons. I'm not allowed to drink outside of my quarters anymore."
"Nor is Dylan," Madog deadpanned. "But that's just on principle."
"I'd show you up otherwise," Dylan nodded. Aerona giggled. Riders were a strange bunch, Gwilym reflected. Conspiracies threatened to crumble the country and one of their own had gone rogue, yet they were constantly looking for a chance to inject banter into the proceedings. Laughing in the face of death really, he supposed; they were probably used to it.
"I don't think he wanted to kill me," Awen said suddenly. The fingertips of her right hand brushed across the wound on the throat. "I don't think he would have."
"I think he would have," Adara said belligerently. "He was a big oily freak with the morals of a bear."
"Yes," Awen said patiently, "but if he just wanted me dead he didn't need to try to convince me to let Gareth run. All he had to do was cut my throat and have done with it."
"He tried!" Adara threw back. "But he was a big oily freak with the morals of a bear and the competence of a slug."
"You know that's not true," Awen sighed. This had the ring of 'Please be nice to your brother, dear,' stamped all over it. Gwilym wondered how many others in the Wing had disliked Owain as well. "He wouldn't have been Deputy otherwise. He's actually very good at killing people."
"I think you're being too objective now," Madog broke in. "You're - you were - his Wingleader. That's a complicated relationship."
"I could kill you," Dylan supplied helpfully. Madog ignored him.
"Very few people could just kill a family member outright either, and it's analogous."
"Although, my sister..." Gwilym muttered. Aerona giggled again, and poured herself more tea.
"Also he liked to narrate everything," Adara shrugged. "He was a farce of a person. I think if you hadn't stopped him he'd have killed you when you told him where to go and now you'd be dead too."
"Hey!" Gwilym protested. "I'm still alive!"
"Oh yes," Adara mused. "Sorry, Sovereign, I forgot it was you for a minute."
"Don't worry," Gwilym told her. "That's what my advisors say every day."
And finally, she laughed at him, and the bird stopped glaring at him. Mentally Gwilym cheered himself. How was that for pervasive influence, he thought; the Rider in the room who was most willing to kill everyone right now just on principle had laughed at his joke. He'd probably best not do a little dance to celebrate, though. That would look weird.
"Also," Adara continued conversationally, eyes suddenly fixed on Awen, "Lord Flyn wanted Lord Gwilym to join him at what?"
Awen closed her eyes, and suddenly all of the other Riders were doing an excellent impression of Dylan and looking intently at the tapestries on the walls, except for Dylan, who already was Dylan but was being moreso. Gwilym sat incredibly still. This, he reflected, was an Awkward Situation. He hadn't realised Riders even had those. Somewhere in his hindbrain a little voice was telling him to make himself seem as small as possible so as not to be noticed.
"I'll explain it later," Awen said defeatedly. She was slumped in her chair, the fingers of her right hand wrapped about her left shoulder. She'd been to a druid that morning, Gwilym knew, so the muscles would be stiffening up fully by about now, an unfortunate side-effect to rapid muscular healing. He wished he could help her again, but in front of everyone it would be as bad as hugging her, and this time there were three extra Riders, a scary glaring bird and Adara, who was more terrifying than the others put together and already a bit miffed at being out of the loop.
She watched Awen for a few seconds, her face unreadable, and then nodded and approached her chair, dropping a hand onto Awen's undamaged shoulder.
"Leader," she acknowledged softly. Supurb obedience, Gwilym thought. He was going to have to demand that Awen wrote a book on the subject.
"So what next?" Aerona asked. She was twirling her Rider beads carefully in her fingers, a habit that reminded Gwilym of Awen from the night before. "I can very easily get someone else to take over with the children for a bit; if you do need anything I'm available."
"I'll take you up on that." Awen leaned forward, the sunlight gilting her hair. "We need Gareth taken to the Union and kept safe, because either Owain or Flyn could have him killed."
"I can do that!" Aerona agreed brightly. "It'll be great, we can sing songs together!"
"You think he'll want to sing songs with you?" Madog asked, his normal deadpan tone giving way to a slightly incredulous edge. "After the week he's had?"
"Music is healing," Aerona said decisively. "Which Awen, as a bard, will agree with me on."
"Certainly," Awen grinned. "Although possibly not when inflicted upon someone."
"After two minutes of Aerona's aggresive cheerfulness I daresay he'll cave," Madog shrugged, standing and stretching. "Right. Unfortunately, I have to get my Wing around the rest of the country before the Archwiliad and the bit where I tell Lord Iestyn to spit in Flyn's face. I suspect I'll be doing this while listening to various Sovereigns winking at me and hinting about what a dreadful influence Lady Marged is upon the pure soul of our nation. I may have to floor the first one who suggests that Wrecsam would be an excellent addition to their plan for a better Cymru."
"Ooh, really?" Aerona asked happily. "I think that'll be Gwenda!" She paused as they all stared at her. "Lady Gwenda," she added. "Whom I hope you don't floor, what with me having sworn fealty to her and all."
"We're seeing her next," Dylan said indifferently. "I'll punch her."
"You will not," Madog told him sternly. "Only I get to go punching Sovereigns."
"It's true," Awen murmured. "Wingleaders' rights. It's one of the privileges of rank. Adara, could you go and help Aerona with Gareth?"
"Leader." Adara stepped away from Awen and offered Aerona a half-smile as the other Rider drained her teacup and stood, general air of enthusiasm firmly in place. "I went for one of the small transport carriages. Less obtrusive, more easily defended from big oily freaks with the morals of a bear."
"Excellent!" Aerona giggled. "You can tell me all about his personal failings as we go. Sovereign."
She bowed to him, flashing him a genuinely warming smile. Gwilym stood hastily. He was pretty sure you were meant to stand for the bowing, otherwise you looked like an ingrate. Lord Flyn probably didn't. Bastard.
"It was a pleasure meeting you!" Aerona said merrily, and then she had bounced out of the door with Adara and the bird in tow, asking questions ten to the dozen. It was a shame to see her go; her happiness had been almost contagious, like a bizarrely welcome disease. And that was an odd analogy.
"And on that note," Madog said, "we'd best be off too. I'm looking forward to hearing what Lady Gwenda has to say to me. Go and tell the others to get ready, Dylan."
"Tell them yourself, you square."
"I think I might trade you in for a better Deputy," Madog said thoughtfully. "Certainly I'm going to ask Leader Awen for a manual on how to train underlings, since hers look to be so much better than mine."
Great minds thought alike. Gwilym grinned.
"You say that," Awen said, "but she really is meant to be in Milford Haven right now. With Acting Deputy status. I've got no control over her."
"Oh, well," Madog sighed. "It was worth a shot. Dylan, go and tell the others to get ready or I'm pushing you off the Landing Tower. Hurry up."
"You wish you could," Dylan sniffed, but he actually went. Gwilym wondered if the same tactic would work on Watkins. Probably not, unless he started actually pushing people off Landing Towers to show he meant business, and in that case big, angry Riders would come and take him away. Although that would free him of Watkins. Maybe he couldn't lose this situation.
"Right," Madog said as the door clicked shut behind Dylan's hair. He opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a folded piece of paper, dropping it onto the tabletop and pushing it to Awen. "This is our schedule, including a timetable, for where we'll be for the next few days. If you need us at any point, Leader, just get a message out to us. If we happen across your Deputy we'll castrate him for you."
"Thank you," Awen said mildly, accepting the paper. "That's very kind of you."
"Bonds between Wingleaders," Madog shrugged indifferently, and then turned and bowed to Gwilym. "A pleasure to meet you, Sovereign," he said, and it actually sounded sincere. "Enjoy the Archwiliad."
"Thank you," Gwilym nodded. "I'm sure it'll be a right laugh, filled with meaningful looks and people nudging me under the table while I try not to be too pervasive or influencial."
"Sit by Lady Marged, then," Awen suggested. "Then it'll be full of socks, although you'll leave at least a foot taller from all of the knitwear piled onto you."
"It is a health hazard," Madog said gravely, striding to the door. He pulled it open and paused in the doorway, all suave again, looking back at Awen. "Leader," he said, Saluting. "Make sure you get that shoulder seen to." And then he was gone, leaving Gwilym alone with a wryly smiling Awen.
"Can all Riders do that?" Gwilym asked wonderingly. "Just look at each other and tell if you have injuries? It seems to be one of those supernatural Rider powers."
"What, like, seeing in the dark and breathing fire?" Awen grinned. "Yes, we can all do that. A valuable part of fighting someone is being able to tell where their body is weak. Hit that and half the job is done for you."
"That's remarkably efficient," Gwilym mused. "Also remarkably terrifying. Have I ever mentioned how terrifying I find you people?"
Awen laughed, that rich, sonorous sound Gwilym loved so much. "As it should be," she chuckled. "We work hard to be feared by all. Except bakers. We like bakers."
"Ah," Gwilym said. "The weakness of the Riders. I'll remember that. That shoulder, now," and Awen put her hand to it again, an apparently automatic movement. "Are you actually going to get it seen to, or are you still keeping shy of medics?"
"I'm -" She glanced at him and then broke off, looking away slightly guiltily. "Probably still keeping shy of medics," she admitted. "So yes, please, poke it better if you wish. The bruising's all but gone now."
He stepped behind her and drew the rich red of her hair, loose and braided, back over her shoulder, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her neck as he did so -
Something jolted in his stomach and suddenly, Gwilym was painfully aware that he was getting far too close. He forced his hand to stay relaxed as he went to her shoulder, heart thudding in his chest. Awen was a Rider. She was also in pain right now, and facing away from him, but the chances of her not noticing his reaction there were slim at best. And he was a Sovereign. He belonged to the only social class she could have nothing to do with.
And she was a Rider. They never paid very much attention to their own emotions anyway.
The stiff leather of her uniform was unhelpful to the massaging process, but Gwilym didn't dare ask her to take it off. Instead he just alternated which parts of his hands he used, knuckles and palms and heels as well as fingertips. After a few seconds Awen sighed, very quietly, and leaned slowly back against the chair. Gwilym let himself breathe again. If she'd noticed anything amiss she was apparently ignoring it, and that was fine by him, since it left him in possession of fully functioning kidneys.
"I'm sorry about your family," Awen murmured quietly after a while. She was running a thumb over the scar on her palm again. "It's looking increasingly likely that Flyn did it, and in that case... it was me who should have noticed and stopped it."
"Don't do that," Gwilym said firmly. "If they were murdered that's on Flyn's head, not yours. Supernatural night vision and flame breath aside you can't actually do everything, Awen, and you couldn't have known."
"I should have." She was swirling the beads on her hair over her right shoulder now, a sort of frenzied movement. "That's my job, Sovereign. That's what I'm for. It shouldn't have mattered that Flyn tried to kill them; I was meant to stop him."
"Don't." He moved his hands to both of her shoulders, his thumbs pressing against the nape of her neck, and ignored the tingling sensation that immediately followed. "Of course it matters that he tried to kill them. I can think of so many other Sovereigns who manage to rule City-States without feeling the need to kill other people; it's not like it's an accidental hazard of the job that we need Riders to occasionally curb for us. It's murder, and he's clever, and he knew he'd have to get around you somehow. Probably he used Owain." Gwilym shook his head, stroking the tense neck muscles beneath his thumbs gently. "It's not -"
Awen caught her breath and went completely still under his hands, her right fist clenched around the beads. It was only a small change, but Gwilym was acutely aware of her, and mentally he swore as violently as he could.
"- your fault," he finished smoothly, sliding his hands back around to her left shoulder. She very nearly shivered, but Awen was incredibly highly-trained, and self-control had clearly been included on the syllabus from at least six months old if not birth; so she simply breathed out quietly and loosened her fist. "It's theirs. My father would have said the same. And my sister, although she'd probably have sworn more and used more volume."
"Angry, was she?" Awen asked. Her voice sounded normal, complete with wry smile. Gwilym wondered if the self-control lessons had actually begun in the womb.
"Immensely," he nodded. "I think even our Riders were scared of her. The merod certainly were."
She snorted, and swirled the beads. It was like rubbing the scar; a rare indicator of what Awen was probably thinking about. He remembered her doing it the night before as she berated herself for not noticing when something was wrong with Owain, and watched as she did so now. Apparently, it was how Awen displayed self-recrimination. Briefly Gwilym considered leaning over and taking hold of her hand to stop her from doing it, but he decided against it. His nerves couldn't take it. No one's nerves could take it. The aides in the corridor probably wouldn't be able to take it. And he really liked having functioning kidneys.
"I need to be going," Awen sighed, although she made no move to get up. Gwilym nodded.
"Yes," he agreed mildly. "I suppose you do. I need to start hunting down some trumpeters anyway."
"Yes," Awen said gloomily. "While I need to hunt down some Saxons, a Sovereign and a rogue Rider. We could swap if you want, I'm sure you'd like being a Rider."
"I think even Lord Flyn could take me, much less Owain."
"Fair." Awen grinned. "I'm not sure I could take on that kettle guy successfully, anyway."
"But nor can I," Gwilym said morosely. "I think perhaps I'm fated to fail in all endevours. Unless I can learn to influence people in a pervasive enough manner, but if I'm honest I don't think any amount of pervasion will move Watkins, and apparently it would speed up my untimely demise anyway."
Awen smiled and shook her head slightly. "You realise, Sovereign," she said quietly, "that you are the only thing getting in the way of making him shut up?"
Well, that sounded intriguingly hopeful. Maybe Awen had some management tips after all.
"How so?" Gwilym asked cautiously. She glanced up at him, dark green eyes oddly amused.
"You're the Sovereign," she stated. "All he can ever do is give you advice condescendingly. It's up to you entirely if you bow to that, or tell him where to go while loudly reminding him of who pays his wages. If you want to do something in your own City, you can damn well do it."
"Er," Gwilym said. "You realise I've got no clue at all what I'm doing as Sovereign, yes? I mean, I don't like Watkins, but he does at least have some experience of how this works."
"Out of interest, then, what was the last thing you wanted to do that he was opposed to?" Awen asked. Her shoulder twitched and relaxed under his hand, and she sighed contentedly.
"Sitting you on the top table yesterday," Gwilym admitted. Awen laughed her beautiful laugh.
"Well, that worked out," she grinned. "And I'm not surprised. Advisors generally hate Riders, we tend to undermine their advice. Is it his choice to not have the Beta Wing in there with you in the absence of the Alpha?"
"Presumably." Gwilym paused. He'd not checked that, actually. "I'd sort of assumed that was normal. I think I'm going to start filling every mealtime with as many Riders as will fit."
"Shame," Awen said wistfully. "Then there'll be no space for the dancing ninjas. But we digress. What else?"
"Oh gods, I don't know." Watkins never agreed with him; putting a timeline to it was an almost Sisyphean task. "When I started compiling my proposals for the Archwiliad was a pretty good example, I suppose. He didn't want anything I suggested."
"What did you want?" Awen shifted her shoulder under his stalled hand, and he carried on.
"Free clinics for the poor," Gwilym said, and then smiled at her snort. "Obviously. Watkins said that it would cost too much money, since the medics and druids and so on would have to be paid out of taxes or something."
"Ah." Awen nodded, looking thoughtful. "Which is a good point, and as your advisor he is meant to tell you that. But in that case get him to write up a budget of where every single coin of tax goes and find out what you can cut back on. Get him to help you work out a system, rather than simply tell you it can't be done."
"I did ask him for a budget," Gwilym mused. "He said it would be an impractical thing to draw up."
"Impractical? Tell him to do it or you'll fire him," Awen said firmly. "Who does he think he is? The budget is part of his bloody job."
"I'll tell him that," Gwilym nodded. "Also I'll tell him you said it. Otherwise he might start hiring adolescent bowmen to pretend to be bards in my hall, and I don't want a repeat of that."
"Oh, coerced," Awen corrected as she finally stood and stretched, rotating her shoulder. "'Hired' implies competency, in which case someone would probably have just dropped a foxglove in your soup or something."
"Nubile food tasters," Gwilym said, clicking his fingers. "Thanks for reminding me. I must get onto that."
"And the birds," Awen nodded. "Get Kettle Man to make a list. If he refuses have him killed. In some really ironic way, if possible, as a warning to the next guy. Also, I can smack him upside the head on the way out if you wish."
"Oh, that's tempting," Gwilym said darkly. "It really is. But I suppose you shouldn't. Responsible Sovereigning, that."
"You're a natural." Awen grinned, and then bowed to him. He wished she wouldn't. "Anyway, Sovereign; enjoy the Archwiliad."
"Happy hunting," Gwilym returned softly, and suddenly Awen's beautifully chiselled face was all dark and focused and terrifying, and she was every inch a Rider.
"Thank you," she said calmly.
Well, you learned something new every day. Gwilym hadn't realised it would be even possible to feel sorry for Owain.
GWILYM
"Bloody Marged," Madog muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dylan grinned, eyes scanning the room in a constant frenzy of motion that was starting to make Gwilym wonder if the man was hearing voices. "Off the record, of course."
"Of course!" Gwilym agreed, partly because he was damned if he was going to be the one to report an Alpha Wingleader for such anti-Sovereign sentiments and partly because he agreed. Bloody Marged.
"It's such a shame," Aerona said wistfully, stirring her tea. The tea was rather good, actually; although Watkins had brought it, and Gwilym was fighting a wave of hysteria at the thought that a man who looked like a kettle made good tea. "I mean; it's the skeleton of such a good plan, but she's given Flyn the perfect chance to implement his own nasty plans."
"Yes," Madog said. "Yes, she has. Which will now be infinitely worse. Why couldn't she have just suggested this at the Archwiliad like a normal person?"
"Because it's Marged, you retard," Dylan chimed in. He seemed to be scanning the skyline out of the window for evil birds or something. "That's a big gate."
That was a big conversation shift. People in the streets below had probably seen it.
"It kept out the Northlanders back in the wars," Gwilym nodded, and then belatedly realised he was talking to a pair of Northlanders. "Now it's a tourist attraction. You'd be surprised how many Phoenicians come to visit it."
"I think my real father was Phoenician," Aerona said thoughtfully. Gwilym could believe it. It explained her colouring, at any rate.
"Be that as it may," Madog said drily, "if I could ask you all to ignore my Deputy and stay on topic?"
"Must we?" Gwilym sighed. "I'd rather talk about the gate. It hasn't tried to kill me."
Nor had it tried to suggest any nefarious political goings-on, nor had it casually told him his family had, in fact, been murdered. It was simply a gate. Gwilym rather liked the gate.
"Perhaps not, Sovereign," Madog began, his lips quirked slightly in the apparently barely-suppressed amusement of someone who didn't have an albeit invisible target ring on their forehead and therefore could afford to find humour in someone else's traumatic ordeal. Although, as a border Rider, he'd probably dodged many more arrows than Gwilym. Maybe he thought Gwilym was over-reacting. "However, I want to know what - "
The fanfare blared. Gwilym shuddered. Sledgehammer, he reminded himself. Must get a -
"Leader Awen of the Casnewydd Alpha Wing," Watkins intoned.
Gwilym stood, full of foreboding at the oncoming conversation. He almost didn't want to know who desired his demise; it was nice thinking it was just an act of teenage rebellion from the boy in the cells who could be simply slapped on the wrists and returned to his parents. Although thinking about slapping him on the wrists brought him uncomfortably close to thinking about the fact that he'd probably just been tortured. In spite of himself, Gwilym glanced at Awen's hands. They were reassuringly blood-free, although that could just have meant that she had some sort of unnatural hand-washing talent. You heard stories about Riders.
"Sovereign," Awen bowed as the door clicked shut behind her, and he noticed the scary bird was on her shoulder. That was a shame. Gwilym smiled. The bird glared.
"Rider," he returned. "We have tea, if you want. Also Madog and Dylan here, whom you've probably met before, I'd have thought, but are now here to help us shed further light on Lord Flyn and to talk about gates."
It was fascinating watching them acknowledge each other. In their respective home districts, Awen and Madog were the highest authorities possible, technically including their Sovereigns and all other Nobles, and both came from the border where fighting was a weekly if not daily occurance. It was like watching two pack leaders coming together, on neutral ground, sizing each other up without hostility. And yet, clearly, Gwilym had been right; they'd definitely met before.
Madog stood up and they Saluted, both standing perfectly straight, and then both smiled slightly.
"Good to see you again," Awen said, and there was an edge of something deeper there that Gwilym hadn't expected to find; a sort of warmth and respect under the neutral tone. Madog inclined his head.
"And you," he answered, his tone matching hers. It was an Alpha Wingleader thing, Gwilym concluded. It couldn't be an easy job.
"Is he okay?" Aerona asked anxiosly, breaking the odd stand-off. "The boy? You didn't cripple him or anything?"
All eyes turned to Awen, who merely glanced at Aerona, face impassive.
"No," she said. "He's fine. I did tell you, it's rare I actually have to hurt someone. His name's Gareth, by the way. And he was forced into trying to kill you, Sovereign," she added to Gwilym, the beads in her long hair swaying as she turned to look back at him. "It's up to you as to whether you want to punish him or not, but my official recommendation is to release him into Union custody. Quickly."
Well, it wasn't like he hadn't known there'd be someone behind it. Privately, Gwilym was hoping it would be Watkins. You were probably allowed to fire advisors who hired assassins to kill you. Or at least demote them.
"Happily," Gwilym said, sinking back into his chair and motioning the others to do the same. "He's all yours. Why quickly? Who forced him?"
"I don't know," Awen said, sliding into the nearest chair. She looked into the middle distance and stroked the scar on her palm absent-mindedly. "I mean, the evidence all points to Lord Flyn, but something doesn't add up."
"What did he tell you?" Aerona asked, leaning forward interestedly. She seemed rather more animated again now than she had a minute ago, Gwilym thought; apparently, news of his would-be assassin's positive well-being had cheered her up. Everyone seemed to care about his would-be assassin more than him, like it was an abused puppy rather than an attempted murderer. It was a rather morose thought.
"He saw..." Awen hesitated, and glanced at Madog and Dylan. Gwilym didn't know what she was looking for, but Dylan shook his shaggy mane of hair and beads out of his eyes and Awen seemed to relax slightly. Maybe Dylan had magic hair. "He saw Lord Flyn a week or so ago in a wood on the border, talking to a Saxon."
"What?" Madog sat bolt upright, staring at her. Awen nodded.
"In Saxonic," she said wearily. "And it gets worse. They saw him, he ran, he got away. Flyn clearly found out who he was, though, because the next day he got summoned to the Residence to speak on behalf of his mother and grandmother, both of whom got suddenly arrested for liaising with Saxons."
Aerona looked traumatised, one hand covering her mouth. Gwilym sympathised. If Casnewydd's cells were anything like Aberystwyth's, the idea of an old woman in them was profoundly disturbing. As, indeed, was the miscarriage of justice, he supposed, but right now Gwilym was quite happy imagining Flyn capable of every crime he'd ever heard of. Including funny ones. Like bestiality. And stealing curtains. And probably both at once, the kinky bastard.
"Anyway," Awen continued, running a hand through her hair and causing it to briefly shimmer gold in the sunlight, "Flyn told him to come to Aberystwyth and wait for further instructions. Then when we arrived..."
She trailed off bitterly for a second, and Gwilym had to resist the sudden urge to hug her. It wasn't acceptable between a Sovereign and a Rider, and she was fully trained to kill him if he overstepped his social or political boundaries, and that wasn't even counting the extra three Riders and a bird who'd help her. Particularly the bird, which was still glaring at him. Madog leaned forward.
"What happened when you arrived?" he asked. Gwilym wondered if he could kick himself without anyone noticing. They really should have explained that part before.
"Oh," Awen sighed, "the usual, you know? My Deputy tried to stop me from catching the assassin and then tried to kill me when I refused."
"Good gods." Madog looked thunderstruck for a second, his eyes filled with horror, and even Dylan actually looked at Awen for what had to be a good three seconds. Then, very gently, Madog leaned forward and laid a calloused hand over one of Awen's. Their eyes met, understanding flashing between them. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, it's alright," Awen said, her tone suddenly lightly indifferent. "I should have seen it coming really, you know what Deputies are like."
"Yes," Madog nodded solemnly, sitting back. "Stab you in the back as soon as look at you. It's why I keep Dylan, you know, I can always tell where he is by his hair."
"Hey!" Dylan said indignantly as Aerona giggled. "You don't keep me, you slag. And you begged me to be your Deputy."
"And it worked?" Gwilym asked, interested. "Maybe I could beg someone to be Sovereign for me. No one would want to kill me then."
"They might still." Awen gave him a sideways look, the original humour back in her eyes. Apparently, all she'd needed was someone who could truly understand her loss, and she was bouncing back, all personal strife pushed aside. Riders had such a creepy 'we-don't-actually-matter' mentality. "Apparently when Owain found Gareth here, he told him to kill you because you're a pervasive influence."
"Ah." Gwilym slumped in his chair. "That's it, then. Time to replace my advisers with nubile food tasters and dancing ninjas and sing while my kingdom crumbles around me. I can think of nothing less pervasively influential, although maybe not from the point of view of my subjects."
"Oh, only if you remember the birds," Awen grinned. "The mutant ones. And the all natural living willow statues, but make them of naked Lady Blodwen."
He was about to make a comment about Awen torturing Sovereigns without fair reason, but Aerona spoke first.
"Guys," she said, shaking her head, "other people would like to understand this conversation too, you know."
"And we'd all like to not think of naked Lady Blodwen," Gwilym nodded solemnly, which made Dylan laugh.
The fanfare blared again suddenly, making Aerona spill her tea and Madog shift abruptly and momentarily into Creepy Rider Fighting Mode. Awen smirked as Gwilym shuddered. Sledgehammer, he reminded himself sternly. Remember the bloody -
"Rider Adara of the Casnewydd Alpha Wing," Watkins intoned as the doors swung open. As Adara stepped in she gave Watkins a look that was more expressive than all the bards of Cymru could ever hope to be and opened her mouth to say something. Without even looking up Awen knocked on the table once, and Adara instantly closed her mouth and stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind her. It was a display of incredible obedience, actually, and Gwilym found himself slightly jealous. None of his advisors did that with him. In fact, it was the other way around; Watkins coughed and Gwilym stood straighter, or stopped interrogating his guests about their negative social policies or whatever. He'd have to get Awen to give him some pointers.
"Wow," Madog said mildly. "I wish I could get Dylan to be that well-trained. As it is I can barely even let him inside."
"Oh, you say that," Awen said mock-darkly, looking at Madog. "Not two hours ago I told Adara to go to Milford Haven with the rest of the Wing. So far her progress has been to move herself slightly nearer to the door."
"I'm very slowly obeying," Adara nodded, accepting her scary bird back from Awen. It promptly started chewing the beads in her hair. Gwilym didn't trust it. It wasn't as good as his duck. "Anyway, the other bards confirm Gareth's story; Owain ordered them all to do it, none of them wanted to do it, they're all very sad about doing it. And I've made provisions to get Gareth to the Union."
"On the face of it," Awen said delicately, "Flyn sent Owain to kill you, Sovereign."
"Yes," said Gwilym. Beside him Madog stood up and wandered to the window. "Which seems rather mean, actually. I mean, I don't like Flyn much either, but having only met him about twice I thought I'd withold judgement for a bit longer before having him killed."
"I don't think he did," Awen said. She was fingering the scar on her palm again, a gesture Gwilym was swiftly coming to recognise as meaning she was thinking about Owain.
"Leader," Madog said quietly. He was still facing the window, strong arms crossed over his chest as he watched Aberystwyth basking in the sun. "I have to ask you: are you sure you don't just... not want to believe it?"
Gwilym glanced at the others. Reassuringly, they looked as blank as he felt, so that presumably ruled out Secret Rider Codes or simple stupidity on his part. He looked back at Awen as she placed both hands, palms down and fingers spread, on the table in front of her.
"Quite the opposite, I think," she said, studying her hands intently. "I want to think that Owain just... sold out, and has simply become Flyn's personal hound. But objectively?" Awen shook her head and looked up at Madog clearly, her gaze strong. "Taking Owain out of the equation, I can't imagine any Rider turning against the Union. Not even him."
"Awen," Adara started doubtfully. "He was - "
"We're angry and emotional," Awen interrupted. "You've hated him since we were at least five anyway. And right now, we're looking back at every negative trait he had and twisting them to fit. But if I don't, I don't see it."
There was a pause, and then Madog nodded, turning back to face them. He looked remarkably suave. Gwilym wondered if he practised in a mirror.
"Nor can I," he said. "What are you thinking?"
"I think Flyn thought Owain was obeying him," Awen said, kneading at her left shoulder absent-mindedly. "I think Owain was meant to kill Gareth when he arrived in Aberystwyth, so they could say Gareth just vanished on the road. But he has his own agenda."
"One that involves Lord Gwilym dead," Aerona murmured thoughtfully and, Gwilym felt, somewhat insensitively. What was it with Riders and their blasé attitude to threats to his life? "I wonder why?"
"Because he's pervasively influential," Adara supplied. "Who have you been pervasively influencing recently, Sovereign, with your pervasively influencing ways? Be honest, now."
"I wish I could give any names at all," Gwilym said levelly. "I truly do. But even my advisors don't listen to me. And one of them looks like a kettle." He was aware that the last sentence sounded rather more aggrieved than it should have. Awen grinned.
"Goodness, so he does!" Aerona exclaimed. "I wondered why he made me want tea! Although I usually do want tea, so to be honest, that's not really a stable conclusion to draw."
"What appropriately good tea he made, though," Madog murmured thoughtfully. Aerona nodded.
"Yes! I thought so. I wonder if there's a link? Maybe people develop skills depending on their outward appearance."
"Hmm," Madog said mock-doubtfully, drawing his brows together. "Dylan looks like a bush, but he doesn't grow berries."
"Yeah, but Madog looks like a retard and he can't think," Dylan flashed back. "Why would your Deputy send a fourteen-year-old random to assassinate an incredibly well-guarded Sovereign?"
"Not that well-guarded," Gwilym said with feeling. "I've still got the arrow."
"I've still got the scar," Awen stated, looking at her palm. "I beat you in the souvenier stakes. Both good points, though." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "No Alpha Wing here at the moment, and the Beta Wing wasn't there. Obviously Owain got him through every other security check, or he wouldn't have made it to the hall with a bow. And I didn't know I'd be on the top table until I came in."
"You were on the top table?" Aerona asked happily. "How lovely!"
And oh, how Watkins had been horrified by that little seating instruction. It wasn't the done thing for Sovereigns to acknowledge Riders even as equals, certainly not as the superiors they were; it was the done thing to pretend they were mere underlings, messengers and mercenaries, worthy of respect maybe but no more thought than that. The top table was only for sworn Riders and honoured guests. Visiting Riders weren't meant to be honoured.
It was an honour that had paid off, though, since Gwilym was still alive to muse upon it. Maybe next time he should give Awen his chair instead. It might make Watkins whistle, though, so best not.
"And if you hadn't been, Lord Gwilym would probably now be dead," Madog stated matter-of-factly. It was like they were commenting on the weather or something, Gwilym thought. Bastards. "What was the plan for afterwards, though? Surely this Gareth wouldn't have made it out alive?"
"Owain would have killed him," Adara said. Now that it had been pointed out, Gwilym was starting to really pick up the vibe that Adara had disliked Owain even before him trying to kill her Wingleader, and was now in no mood to stop judging him. She looked like she wanted to spit after every mention of his name. Her bird seemed to glare all the more. "That way he'd have done as Lord Flyn asked, with no trail back to him."
"So Flyn wanted you to join him," Awen murmured, her eyes fixed on the middle distance, "but Owain wanted you dead. But why? What's he playing at?"
And there it was again; although, as the person who spared him his early demise, Gwilym decided to let Awen have that one. Especially since it had nearly killed her, too.
Which, actually, was a good point too.
"Would he really have killed you?" Gwilym asked abruptly. All eyes turned to him. "I mean, if you'd been sitting with the others and so hadn't seen the arrow, what would have happened?"
"I didn't see it," Awen said mildly. "I was watching for it. The music was going wrong, I couldn't work out why. The same thing would have happened if I'd been anywhere else in the hall."
"The music was going wrong, so you were looking for an assassin?" Gwilym repeated. "Damn, I wouldn't like to see how jumpy you get in a bardic school. Some of those kids can really murder the Ballads."
"Oh, I'm terrible," Awen grinned. "Taverns as well; the bards get drunk and I start felling the patrons. I'm not allowed to drink outside of my quarters anymore."
"Nor is Dylan," Madog deadpanned. "But that's just on principle."
"I'd show you up otherwise," Dylan nodded. Aerona giggled. Riders were a strange bunch, Gwilym reflected. Conspiracies threatened to crumble the country and one of their own had gone rogue, yet they were constantly looking for a chance to inject banter into the proceedings. Laughing in the face of death really, he supposed; they were probably used to it.
"I don't think he wanted to kill me," Awen said suddenly. The fingertips of her right hand brushed across the wound on the throat. "I don't think he would have."
"I think he would have," Adara said belligerently. "He was a big oily freak with the morals of a bear."
"Yes," Awen said patiently, "but if he just wanted me dead he didn't need to try to convince me to let Gareth run. All he had to do was cut my throat and have done with it."
"He tried!" Adara threw back. "But he was a big oily freak with the morals of a bear and the competence of a slug."
"You know that's not true," Awen sighed. This had the ring of 'Please be nice to your brother, dear,' stamped all over it. Gwilym wondered how many others in the Wing had disliked Owain as well. "He wouldn't have been Deputy otherwise. He's actually very good at killing people."
"I think you're being too objective now," Madog broke in. "You're - you were - his Wingleader. That's a complicated relationship."
"I could kill you," Dylan supplied helpfully. Madog ignored him.
"Very few people could just kill a family member outright either, and it's analogous."
"Although, my sister..." Gwilym muttered. Aerona giggled again, and poured herself more tea.
"Also he liked to narrate everything," Adara shrugged. "He was a farce of a person. I think if you hadn't stopped him he'd have killed you when you told him where to go and now you'd be dead too."
"Hey!" Gwilym protested. "I'm still alive!"
"Oh yes," Adara mused. "Sorry, Sovereign, I forgot it was you for a minute."
"Don't worry," Gwilym told her. "That's what my advisors say every day."
And finally, she laughed at him, and the bird stopped glaring at him. Mentally Gwilym cheered himself. How was that for pervasive influence, he thought; the Rider in the room who was most willing to kill everyone right now just on principle had laughed at his joke. He'd probably best not do a little dance to celebrate, though. That would look weird.
"Also," Adara continued conversationally, eyes suddenly fixed on Awen, "Lord Flyn wanted Lord Gwilym to join him at what?"
Awen closed her eyes, and suddenly all of the other Riders were doing an excellent impression of Dylan and looking intently at the tapestries on the walls, except for Dylan, who already was Dylan but was being moreso. Gwilym sat incredibly still. This, he reflected, was an Awkward Situation. He hadn't realised Riders even had those. Somewhere in his hindbrain a little voice was telling him to make himself seem as small as possible so as not to be noticed.
"I'll explain it later," Awen said defeatedly. She was slumped in her chair, the fingers of her right hand wrapped about her left shoulder. She'd been to a druid that morning, Gwilym knew, so the muscles would be stiffening up fully by about now, an unfortunate side-effect to rapid muscular healing. He wished he could help her again, but in front of everyone it would be as bad as hugging her, and this time there were three extra Riders, a scary glaring bird and Adara, who was more terrifying than the others put together and already a bit miffed at being out of the loop.
She watched Awen for a few seconds, her face unreadable, and then nodded and approached her chair, dropping a hand onto Awen's undamaged shoulder.
"Leader," she acknowledged softly. Supurb obedience, Gwilym thought. He was going to have to demand that Awen wrote a book on the subject.
"So what next?" Aerona asked. She was twirling her Rider beads carefully in her fingers, a habit that reminded Gwilym of Awen from the night before. "I can very easily get someone else to take over with the children for a bit; if you do need anything I'm available."
"I'll take you up on that." Awen leaned forward, the sunlight gilting her hair. "We need Gareth taken to the Union and kept safe, because either Owain or Flyn could have him killed."
"I can do that!" Aerona agreed brightly. "It'll be great, we can sing songs together!"
"You think he'll want to sing songs with you?" Madog asked, his normal deadpan tone giving way to a slightly incredulous edge. "After the week he's had?"
"Music is healing," Aerona said decisively. "Which Awen, as a bard, will agree with me on."
"Certainly," Awen grinned. "Although possibly not when inflicted upon someone."
"After two minutes of Aerona's aggresive cheerfulness I daresay he'll cave," Madog shrugged, standing and stretching. "Right. Unfortunately, I have to get my Wing around the rest of the country before the Archwiliad and the bit where I tell Lord Iestyn to spit in Flyn's face. I suspect I'll be doing this while listening to various Sovereigns winking at me and hinting about what a dreadful influence Lady Marged is upon the pure soul of our nation. I may have to floor the first one who suggests that Wrecsam would be an excellent addition to their plan for a better Cymru."
"Ooh, really?" Aerona asked happily. "I think that'll be Gwenda!" She paused as they all stared at her. "Lady Gwenda," she added. "Whom I hope you don't floor, what with me having sworn fealty to her and all."
"We're seeing her next," Dylan said indifferently. "I'll punch her."
"You will not," Madog told him sternly. "Only I get to go punching Sovereigns."
"It's true," Awen murmured. "Wingleaders' rights. It's one of the privileges of rank. Adara, could you go and help Aerona with Gareth?"
"Leader." Adara stepped away from Awen and offered Aerona a half-smile as the other Rider drained her teacup and stood, general air of enthusiasm firmly in place. "I went for one of the small transport carriages. Less obtrusive, more easily defended from big oily freaks with the morals of a bear."
"Excellent!" Aerona giggled. "You can tell me all about his personal failings as we go. Sovereign."
She bowed to him, flashing him a genuinely warming smile. Gwilym stood hastily. He was pretty sure you were meant to stand for the bowing, otherwise you looked like an ingrate. Lord Flyn probably didn't. Bastard.
"It was a pleasure meeting you!" Aerona said merrily, and then she had bounced out of the door with Adara and the bird in tow, asking questions ten to the dozen. It was a shame to see her go; her happiness had been almost contagious, like a bizarrely welcome disease. And that was an odd analogy.
"And on that note," Madog said, "we'd best be off too. I'm looking forward to hearing what Lady Gwenda has to say to me. Go and tell the others to get ready, Dylan."
"Tell them yourself, you square."
"I think I might trade you in for a better Deputy," Madog said thoughtfully. "Certainly I'm going to ask Leader Awen for a manual on how to train underlings, since hers look to be so much better than mine."
Great minds thought alike. Gwilym grinned.
"You say that," Awen said, "but she really is meant to be in Milford Haven right now. With Acting Deputy status. I've got no control over her."
"Oh, well," Madog sighed. "It was worth a shot. Dylan, go and tell the others to get ready or I'm pushing you off the Landing Tower. Hurry up."
"You wish you could," Dylan sniffed, but he actually went. Gwilym wondered if the same tactic would work on Watkins. Probably not, unless he started actually pushing people off Landing Towers to show he meant business, and in that case big, angry Riders would come and take him away. Although that would free him of Watkins. Maybe he couldn't lose this situation.
"Right," Madog said as the door clicked shut behind Dylan's hair. He opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a folded piece of paper, dropping it onto the tabletop and pushing it to Awen. "This is our schedule, including a timetable, for where we'll be for the next few days. If you need us at any point, Leader, just get a message out to us. If we happen across your Deputy we'll castrate him for you."
"Thank you," Awen said mildly, accepting the paper. "That's very kind of you."
"Bonds between Wingleaders," Madog shrugged indifferently, and then turned and bowed to Gwilym. "A pleasure to meet you, Sovereign," he said, and it actually sounded sincere. "Enjoy the Archwiliad."
"Thank you," Gwilym nodded. "I'm sure it'll be a right laugh, filled with meaningful looks and people nudging me under the table while I try not to be too pervasive or influencial."
"Sit by Lady Marged, then," Awen suggested. "Then it'll be full of socks, although you'll leave at least a foot taller from all of the knitwear piled onto you."
"It is a health hazard," Madog said gravely, striding to the door. He pulled it open and paused in the doorway, all suave again, looking back at Awen. "Leader," he said, Saluting. "Make sure you get that shoulder seen to." And then he was gone, leaving Gwilym alone with a wryly smiling Awen.
"Can all Riders do that?" Gwilym asked wonderingly. "Just look at each other and tell if you have injuries? It seems to be one of those supernatural Rider powers."
"What, like, seeing in the dark and breathing fire?" Awen grinned. "Yes, we can all do that. A valuable part of fighting someone is being able to tell where their body is weak. Hit that and half the job is done for you."
"That's remarkably efficient," Gwilym mused. "Also remarkably terrifying. Have I ever mentioned how terrifying I find you people?"
Awen laughed, that rich, sonorous sound Gwilym loved so much. "As it should be," she chuckled. "We work hard to be feared by all. Except bakers. We like bakers."
"Ah," Gwilym said. "The weakness of the Riders. I'll remember that. That shoulder, now," and Awen put her hand to it again, an apparently automatic movement. "Are you actually going to get it seen to, or are you still keeping shy of medics?"
"I'm -" She glanced at him and then broke off, looking away slightly guiltily. "Probably still keeping shy of medics," she admitted. "So yes, please, poke it better if you wish. The bruising's all but gone now."
He stepped behind her and drew the rich red of her hair, loose and braided, back over her shoulder, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her neck as he did so -
Something jolted in his stomach and suddenly, Gwilym was painfully aware that he was getting far too close. He forced his hand to stay relaxed as he went to her shoulder, heart thudding in his chest. Awen was a Rider. She was also in pain right now, and facing away from him, but the chances of her not noticing his reaction there were slim at best. And he was a Sovereign. He belonged to the only social class she could have nothing to do with.
And she was a Rider. They never paid very much attention to their own emotions anyway.
The stiff leather of her uniform was unhelpful to the massaging process, but Gwilym didn't dare ask her to take it off. Instead he just alternated which parts of his hands he used, knuckles and palms and heels as well as fingertips. After a few seconds Awen sighed, very quietly, and leaned slowly back against the chair. Gwilym let himself breathe again. If she'd noticed anything amiss she was apparently ignoring it, and that was fine by him, since it left him in possession of fully functioning kidneys.
"I'm sorry about your family," Awen murmured quietly after a while. She was running a thumb over the scar on her palm again. "It's looking increasingly likely that Flyn did it, and in that case... it was me who should have noticed and stopped it."
"Don't do that," Gwilym said firmly. "If they were murdered that's on Flyn's head, not yours. Supernatural night vision and flame breath aside you can't actually do everything, Awen, and you couldn't have known."
"I should have." She was swirling the beads on her hair over her right shoulder now, a sort of frenzied movement. "That's my job, Sovereign. That's what I'm for. It shouldn't have mattered that Flyn tried to kill them; I was meant to stop him."
"Don't." He moved his hands to both of her shoulders, his thumbs pressing against the nape of her neck, and ignored the tingling sensation that immediately followed. "Of course it matters that he tried to kill them. I can think of so many other Sovereigns who manage to rule City-States without feeling the need to kill other people; it's not like it's an accidental hazard of the job that we need Riders to occasionally curb for us. It's murder, and he's clever, and he knew he'd have to get around you somehow. Probably he used Owain." Gwilym shook his head, stroking the tense neck muscles beneath his thumbs gently. "It's not -"
Awen caught her breath and went completely still under his hands, her right fist clenched around the beads. It was only a small change, but Gwilym was acutely aware of her, and mentally he swore as violently as he could.
"- your fault," he finished smoothly, sliding his hands back around to her left shoulder. She very nearly shivered, but Awen was incredibly highly-trained, and self-control had clearly been included on the syllabus from at least six months old if not birth; so she simply breathed out quietly and loosened her fist. "It's theirs. My father would have said the same. And my sister, although she'd probably have sworn more and used more volume."
"Angry, was she?" Awen asked. Her voice sounded normal, complete with wry smile. Gwilym wondered if the self-control lessons had actually begun in the womb.
"Immensely," he nodded. "I think even our Riders were scared of her. The merod certainly were."
She snorted, and swirled the beads. It was like rubbing the scar; a rare indicator of what Awen was probably thinking about. He remembered her doing it the night before as she berated herself for not noticing when something was wrong with Owain, and watched as she did so now. Apparently, it was how Awen displayed self-recrimination. Briefly Gwilym considered leaning over and taking hold of her hand to stop her from doing it, but he decided against it. His nerves couldn't take it. No one's nerves could take it. The aides in the corridor probably wouldn't be able to take it. And he really liked having functioning kidneys.
"I need to be going," Awen sighed, although she made no move to get up. Gwilym nodded.
"Yes," he agreed mildly. "I suppose you do. I need to start hunting down some trumpeters anyway."
"Yes," Awen said gloomily. "While I need to hunt down some Saxons, a Sovereign and a rogue Rider. We could swap if you want, I'm sure you'd like being a Rider."
"I think even Lord Flyn could take me, much less Owain."
"Fair." Awen grinned. "I'm not sure I could take on that kettle guy successfully, anyway."
"But nor can I," Gwilym said morosely. "I think perhaps I'm fated to fail in all endevours. Unless I can learn to influence people in a pervasive enough manner, but if I'm honest I don't think any amount of pervasion will move Watkins, and apparently it would speed up my untimely demise anyway."
Awen smiled and shook her head slightly. "You realise, Sovereign," she said quietly, "that you are the only thing getting in the way of making him shut up?"
Well, that sounded intriguingly hopeful. Maybe Awen had some management tips after all.
"How so?" Gwilym asked cautiously. She glanced up at him, dark green eyes oddly amused.
"You're the Sovereign," she stated. "All he can ever do is give you advice condescendingly. It's up to you entirely if you bow to that, or tell him where to go while loudly reminding him of who pays his wages. If you want to do something in your own City, you can damn well do it."
"Er," Gwilym said. "You realise I've got no clue at all what I'm doing as Sovereign, yes? I mean, I don't like Watkins, but he does at least have some experience of how this works."
"Out of interest, then, what was the last thing you wanted to do that he was opposed to?" Awen asked. Her shoulder twitched and relaxed under his hand, and she sighed contentedly.
"Sitting you on the top table yesterday," Gwilym admitted. Awen laughed her beautiful laugh.
"Well, that worked out," she grinned. "And I'm not surprised. Advisors generally hate Riders, we tend to undermine their advice. Is it his choice to not have the Beta Wing in there with you in the absence of the Alpha?"
"Presumably." Gwilym paused. He'd not checked that, actually. "I'd sort of assumed that was normal. I think I'm going to start filling every mealtime with as many Riders as will fit."
"Shame," Awen said wistfully. "Then there'll be no space for the dancing ninjas. But we digress. What else?"
"Oh gods, I don't know." Watkins never agreed with him; putting a timeline to it was an almost Sisyphean task. "When I started compiling my proposals for the Archwiliad was a pretty good example, I suppose. He didn't want anything I suggested."
"What did you want?" Awen shifted her shoulder under his stalled hand, and he carried on.
"Free clinics for the poor," Gwilym said, and then smiled at her snort. "Obviously. Watkins said that it would cost too much money, since the medics and druids and so on would have to be paid out of taxes or something."
"Ah." Awen nodded, looking thoughtful. "Which is a good point, and as your advisor he is meant to tell you that. But in that case get him to write up a budget of where every single coin of tax goes and find out what you can cut back on. Get him to help you work out a system, rather than simply tell you it can't be done."
"I did ask him for a budget," Gwilym mused. "He said it would be an impractical thing to draw up."
"Impractical? Tell him to do it or you'll fire him," Awen said firmly. "Who does he think he is? The budget is part of his bloody job."
"I'll tell him that," Gwilym nodded. "Also I'll tell him you said it. Otherwise he might start hiring adolescent bowmen to pretend to be bards in my hall, and I don't want a repeat of that."
"Oh, coerced," Awen corrected as she finally stood and stretched, rotating her shoulder. "'Hired' implies competency, in which case someone would probably have just dropped a foxglove in your soup or something."
"Nubile food tasters," Gwilym said, clicking his fingers. "Thanks for reminding me. I must get onto that."
"And the birds," Awen nodded. "Get Kettle Man to make a list. If he refuses have him killed. In some really ironic way, if possible, as a warning to the next guy. Also, I can smack him upside the head on the way out if you wish."
"Oh, that's tempting," Gwilym said darkly. "It really is. But I suppose you shouldn't. Responsible Sovereigning, that."
"You're a natural." Awen grinned, and then bowed to him. He wished she wouldn't. "Anyway, Sovereign; enjoy the Archwiliad."
"Happy hunting," Gwilym returned softly, and suddenly Awen's beautifully chiselled face was all dark and focused and terrifying, and she was every inch a Rider.
"Thank you," she said calmly.
Well, you learned something new every day. Gwilym hadn't realised it would be even possible to feel sorry for Owain.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Cymru - Chapter 15
Yes, I know, I haven't written any of this in ages. You'll all have to go back and re-read the rest, I expect. But Blossom told me to write more, so I did. Blame her.
Also, I've written this and read none of it back to myself, so it could be an offence to your eyes. Sorry, guys. I don't really care, though, because I'm hungry. Enjoy!
AWEN
As the guards dragged the would-be assassin into the room, whimpering and struggling in their arms, Awen sized him up. Her first guess as to his age looked about right; in fact, with time to see him up close and after he'd spent a night in one of the tiny cells in the corridor he looked younger than he had before, his darting eyes seeming almost bruised against his pale, sweating skin. Viciously deep talon wounds from Gwenhwyfar's attack tracked down his right temple almost to his neck, crusted over and staining the shoulder of his tunic with dried blood, apparently untreated. Fourteen, maybe? He looked about fourteen. Carefully, Awen kept her face impasssive, leaning against the wall in front of the table with her arms crossed in front of her chest. She said nothing.
"No..." He started to thrash as the guards, both easily twice his size, hauled him onto the table and began fastening the heavy iron manacles around his wrists. "No! Please! Don't do this!"
One of the guards leered at him unpleasantly. "Should've talked before, then, boy," he grinned, twisting the boy's ankle unnecessarily roughly into another manacle. Awen marked his face mentally as he smirked at his colleague. "I love it when they beg."
"Aye." The other guard flashed a row of yellow, broken teeth at the writhing form on the table. "And scream. Riders are good at making them scream."
The sad thing was, they'd actually done Awen a favour at that. By the time the guards left to return to the corridor outside, laughing and jostling each other approvingly, the boy actually was screaming, eyes wide with terror and heaving vainly at the chains. Adara casually made herself comfortable in an aging armchair at the edge of the room as they waited for him to calm down, Gwenhwyfar settling happily on the arm to groom herself. Awen didn't move, and kept her eyes trained on the boy. Performance; it was all about the performance now.
Finally, after several long minutes the boy's struggles abated, fading into a weakly exhausted pull on the shackles, defeated and despairing. His voice broke to a hoarse whisper, repeating a muted "No... no..." like a mantra as his eyes rolled wildly, looking everywhere but the wall where Awen stood. Gwenhwyfar shifted impatiently, and Awen took it as her cue to begin.
The key to torture, Awen had found, wasn't pain or precise anatomical knowledge or druidic healing ailities. Pain was too immediate a threat to the body, and far too often it caused a prisoner to just shout out what they thought you wanted to hear, including false confessions. Those who didn't break quickly never would either. After a while the body broke the mind, and the mind would crave pain as though it was pleasure. The only option after that, her tutor had told her long ago, was to simply dispose of the victim. They were a waste of time and resources after that.
Fear, however. Fear of pain was far more persuasive.
As such, it was a routine, an act, and one that Awen knew well. She stepped away from the wall finally, her movements controlled and deliberate. The boy stiffened, his eyes finally meeting Awen's. Carefully, she pulled off her gloves, allowing her right palm to turn outwards towards him.
It hadn't seemed possible he could go paler. He went completely still, eyes locked on Awen, the terror on his face palpable. He recognised the scar. He knew what it meant.
The heavy flight jacket was next, button by button before Awen slid it off, allowing the slash across her throat into full view above the lower neckline of the sleeveless undershirt. It had a second advantage also: her arms were now bare, adourned only with the wrist blade mechanisms strapped ominously to her forearms. The boy shook his head, a strange keening noise coming from his throat as Awen finally moved forward toward him, holding his gaze.
"Your name," she said. He trembled.
"Gareth," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"Your city."
Gareth trembled again, but said nothing. Awen held up her right hand and his eyes flickered to it.
"You know what this is," she said softly. "I already owe you something for this. But because of you my own Deputy gave me this." She traced her fingertips across the wound on her neck, and Gareth closed his eyes. Awen noted it instantly, and suddenly several pieces fell into place.
"Your family, Gareth," she said quietly. "Are they in Casnewydd?"
His eyes flew open and he stared up at her, desperate terror on his face.
"Yes," he whispered. "They... I can't..."
Something icy settled between Awen's shoulder blades, and she realised with a sort of detached surprise that it was a furious, raging guilt. Her fault. It was all her fault; she could have stopped this so long ago, but she'd been so gods damned blind...
She glanced across at Adara who looked back with something akin to horror, anger shining in her blue eyes. Awen nodded and Adara rose, nearing them to start carefully cleaning the wound on Gareth's face. He shuddered but said nothing, terrified still.
"Gareth," Awen said firmly, "I'm a Union Rider. I outrank him. If you tell me the details I can save them."
"But he said – " Gareth's face twisted. "He said that wouldn't matter! He said if I told any Riders he'd know and he'd kill them and take Alis' business and money away and he'd make her into a concubine and I don't know what to do."
"He meant my Deputy," Awen said. "That's how he'd have known. Who in your family has he got?"
"My mother." Gareth was crying now, his body trembling and tears mingling with the sluggish trickle of blood from the cuts on his temple. "And my grandmother, and she's – she's so old, and he's got her in the cells. Please! You have to get them out..."
"Oh, I will," Awen promised darkly. "But first, you have to tell me everything, Gareth. I need to hear every detail. Can you do that?"
He nodded, gulping as he tried to stop crying.
"Lord Flyn," he said, voice cracking. "I saw him. Last - week, I think. He was by the border, and he'd been over it, and he was talking to a Saxon."
A Saxon?
"Are you sure it was a Saxon?" Awen asked, sharply. Gareth nodded, cringing as Adara applied the seaweed solution to his temple.
"Yes," Gareth whispered. "And they were talking in Saxon. I didn't understand; I told him then, at the time, I didn't understand them, but they wouldn't listen..."
"It's okay," Awen said softly. She sat on the table beside Gareth's trembling form. "It's all over now. What happened?"
"I saw them by the farm," Gareth said tightly. "We're - we're by Magwyr, north of the City. They were in the start of the woods, I only went closer to see if it was the boys from the village after the chickens again. They were talking in Saxon. I didn't realise it was Lord Flyn at first."
"Was it definitely Lord Flyn?" Awen asked gently. "You're sure?"
"Yes," Gareth whispered. "I tried to go when I realised, but... they saw me... so I ran..."
"I'll bet," Awen said. She squeezed the boy's wrist. "You're a good runner, I thought so yesterday." It would be the only thing that had saved his life, too. He must have escaped that initial encounter or Lord Flyn would have simply killed him. Gareth gave a weak, humourless smile.
"I won the races on Calan Mai," he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. Adara had finished cleaning the wound on the other side and was starting on stitching the skin together. Gareth winced as she did.
"Sorry," Adara murmured. "This'll sting for a while."
"What happened next, Gareth?" Awen asked. He shuddered.
"I got away," Gareth said, his voice strained, "into the village. I thought they wouldn't follow. But then, the next day, the guards came. And a Rider. They took my Mam, and my grandmother; they said they'd been talking to Saxons. They said I could go and speak to Lord Flyn on their behalf, as a witness..."
He shuddered, making the chains clink together. Gwenhwyfar ruffled her feathers on Adara's shoulder.
"I went," Gareth continued. "I said they couldn't have talked to Saxons, because we don't understand Saxon, none of us do, but he wouldn't listen. He said they were still a risk. So I asked him what I could do to save them and he said - he said if I worked for him I could work off their sentence, and... and he'd leave Alis alone..."
"Your sister?" Awen guessed. Gareth nodded. His eyes were still tear-glazed and unfocused, looking up at the ceiling above them.
"She's pregnant," he murmured. "I couldn't... He - he told me to go to Aberystwyth, and... and then wait. And then I did, and then the Rider came back..."
"Can you describe that Rider, Gareth?" Awen asked. She was surprised at how calm she managed to sound; internally her heart was beating so hard she could hear the blood roaring in her ears.
"His hair was strange," Gareth said, and frowned. "Very strange, actually, like a quiff."
"Was he oily?" Adara chimed in. Awen gave her a Look.
"Yes," Gareth said, shivering again. "Not tall. His beads were blue. And he talked weirdly. And he came yesterday. I was with the bards, and he told us all, he said - that they had to get me in, and I had to - I had to kill the - Sovereign..."
"It's okay," Awen said again, as gently as she could while the sobbing racked Gareth's body, forcing Adara to abandon her ministrations for a minute. "It's over now. Did he tell you why you had to kill the Sovereign, Gareth?"
"He said..." Gareth paused, gulping at the air. "He said he was a - an influence... per - perv - "
"Pervasive," Awen supplied, her mind racing. Really? Flyn had considered Lord Gwilym to be strongly influential? Having met the man Awen wasn't overly surprised at the idea; clearly given even another year the people of Aberystwyth were going to be wildly in love with Lord Gwilym, and he was definitely charming. But he certainly wasn't confident enough to be spreading any sort of influence over anyone just yet, and Awen was fairly certain Flyn and Gwilym had, to date, met once.
"Yes," Gareth whispered. "He said he had to be stopped now, before everyone paid the price. He said he would corrupt everyone. I don't... I didn't want to kill him..."
"I know," Awen said quietly, squeezing his wrist again. Few people did want to kill, when faced with their victim; she knew that from experience.
"If he was just going to have Lord Gwilym killed, why send you to talk to him first?" Adara asked quietly, glancing across. Awen shook her head.
"I have no idea," she said frankly. "Unless that was just a stalling tactic. Maybe Owain was meant to appraise the situation and activate Gareth here if he saw fit."
"Could be," Adara sighed. She finished the wound on Gareth's next, tied off the thread and stood, stretching. "I'll go and find out what I can about getting Gareth somewhere protected. Might be best if we take him to the Union."
"Probably," Awen agreed absently. Something still wasn't right, though. Something didn't add up. "Who did you say told you to come to Aberystwyth, Gareth?"
"Lord Flyn," Gareth whispered. He looked exhausted, like a drowning man finally pulled ashore. "He didn't say why, just that I was to come here and wait. The Rider came then."
"Okay," Awen said softly; but it wasn't. Nothing was okay now. And something was very wrong.
Also, I've written this and read none of it back to myself, so it could be an offence to your eyes. Sorry, guys. I don't really care, though, because I'm hungry. Enjoy!
AWEN
As the guards dragged the would-be assassin into the room, whimpering and struggling in their arms, Awen sized him up. Her first guess as to his age looked about right; in fact, with time to see him up close and after he'd spent a night in one of the tiny cells in the corridor he looked younger than he had before, his darting eyes seeming almost bruised against his pale, sweating skin. Viciously deep talon wounds from Gwenhwyfar's attack tracked down his right temple almost to his neck, crusted over and staining the shoulder of his tunic with dried blood, apparently untreated. Fourteen, maybe? He looked about fourteen. Carefully, Awen kept her face impasssive, leaning against the wall in front of the table with her arms crossed in front of her chest. She said nothing.
"No..." He started to thrash as the guards, both easily twice his size, hauled him onto the table and began fastening the heavy iron manacles around his wrists. "No! Please! Don't do this!"
One of the guards leered at him unpleasantly. "Should've talked before, then, boy," he grinned, twisting the boy's ankle unnecessarily roughly into another manacle. Awen marked his face mentally as he smirked at his colleague. "I love it when they beg."
"Aye." The other guard flashed a row of yellow, broken teeth at the writhing form on the table. "And scream. Riders are good at making them scream."
The sad thing was, they'd actually done Awen a favour at that. By the time the guards left to return to the corridor outside, laughing and jostling each other approvingly, the boy actually was screaming, eyes wide with terror and heaving vainly at the chains. Adara casually made herself comfortable in an aging armchair at the edge of the room as they waited for him to calm down, Gwenhwyfar settling happily on the arm to groom herself. Awen didn't move, and kept her eyes trained on the boy. Performance; it was all about the performance now.
Finally, after several long minutes the boy's struggles abated, fading into a weakly exhausted pull on the shackles, defeated and despairing. His voice broke to a hoarse whisper, repeating a muted "No... no..." like a mantra as his eyes rolled wildly, looking everywhere but the wall where Awen stood. Gwenhwyfar shifted impatiently, and Awen took it as her cue to begin.
The key to torture, Awen had found, wasn't pain or precise anatomical knowledge or druidic healing ailities. Pain was too immediate a threat to the body, and far too often it caused a prisoner to just shout out what they thought you wanted to hear, including false confessions. Those who didn't break quickly never would either. After a while the body broke the mind, and the mind would crave pain as though it was pleasure. The only option after that, her tutor had told her long ago, was to simply dispose of the victim. They were a waste of time and resources after that.
Fear, however. Fear of pain was far more persuasive.
As such, it was a routine, an act, and one that Awen knew well. She stepped away from the wall finally, her movements controlled and deliberate. The boy stiffened, his eyes finally meeting Awen's. Carefully, she pulled off her gloves, allowing her right palm to turn outwards towards him.
It hadn't seemed possible he could go paler. He went completely still, eyes locked on Awen, the terror on his face palpable. He recognised the scar. He knew what it meant.
The heavy flight jacket was next, button by button before Awen slid it off, allowing the slash across her throat into full view above the lower neckline of the sleeveless undershirt. It had a second advantage also: her arms were now bare, adourned only with the wrist blade mechanisms strapped ominously to her forearms. The boy shook his head, a strange keening noise coming from his throat as Awen finally moved forward toward him, holding his gaze.
"Your name," she said. He trembled.
"Gareth," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"Your city."
Gareth trembled again, but said nothing. Awen held up her right hand and his eyes flickered to it.
"You know what this is," she said softly. "I already owe you something for this. But because of you my own Deputy gave me this." She traced her fingertips across the wound on her neck, and Gareth closed his eyes. Awen noted it instantly, and suddenly several pieces fell into place.
"Your family, Gareth," she said quietly. "Are they in Casnewydd?"
His eyes flew open and he stared up at her, desperate terror on his face.
"Yes," he whispered. "They... I can't..."
Something icy settled between Awen's shoulder blades, and she realised with a sort of detached surprise that it was a furious, raging guilt. Her fault. It was all her fault; she could have stopped this so long ago, but she'd been so gods damned blind...
She glanced across at Adara who looked back with something akin to horror, anger shining in her blue eyes. Awen nodded and Adara rose, nearing them to start carefully cleaning the wound on Gareth's face. He shuddered but said nothing, terrified still.
"Gareth," Awen said firmly, "I'm a Union Rider. I outrank him. If you tell me the details I can save them."
"But he said – " Gareth's face twisted. "He said that wouldn't matter! He said if I told any Riders he'd know and he'd kill them and take Alis' business and money away and he'd make her into a concubine and I don't know what to do."
"He meant my Deputy," Awen said. "That's how he'd have known. Who in your family has he got?"
"My mother." Gareth was crying now, his body trembling and tears mingling with the sluggish trickle of blood from the cuts on his temple. "And my grandmother, and she's – she's so old, and he's got her in the cells. Please! You have to get them out..."
"Oh, I will," Awen promised darkly. "But first, you have to tell me everything, Gareth. I need to hear every detail. Can you do that?"
He nodded, gulping as he tried to stop crying.
"Lord Flyn," he said, voice cracking. "I saw him. Last - week, I think. He was by the border, and he'd been over it, and he was talking to a Saxon."
A Saxon?
"Are you sure it was a Saxon?" Awen asked, sharply. Gareth nodded, cringing as Adara applied the seaweed solution to his temple.
"Yes," Gareth whispered. "And they were talking in Saxon. I didn't understand; I told him then, at the time, I didn't understand them, but they wouldn't listen..."
"It's okay," Awen said softly. She sat on the table beside Gareth's trembling form. "It's all over now. What happened?"
"I saw them by the farm," Gareth said tightly. "We're - we're by Magwyr, north of the City. They were in the start of the woods, I only went closer to see if it was the boys from the village after the chickens again. They were talking in Saxon. I didn't realise it was Lord Flyn at first."
"Was it definitely Lord Flyn?" Awen asked gently. "You're sure?"
"Yes," Gareth whispered. "I tried to go when I realised, but... they saw me... so I ran..."
"I'll bet," Awen said. She squeezed the boy's wrist. "You're a good runner, I thought so yesterday." It would be the only thing that had saved his life, too. He must have escaped that initial encounter or Lord Flyn would have simply killed him. Gareth gave a weak, humourless smile.
"I won the races on Calan Mai," he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. Adara had finished cleaning the wound on the other side and was starting on stitching the skin together. Gareth winced as she did.
"Sorry," Adara murmured. "This'll sting for a while."
"What happened next, Gareth?" Awen asked. He shuddered.
"I got away," Gareth said, his voice strained, "into the village. I thought they wouldn't follow. But then, the next day, the guards came. And a Rider. They took my Mam, and my grandmother; they said they'd been talking to Saxons. They said I could go and speak to Lord Flyn on their behalf, as a witness..."
He shuddered, making the chains clink together. Gwenhwyfar ruffled her feathers on Adara's shoulder.
"I went," Gareth continued. "I said they couldn't have talked to Saxons, because we don't understand Saxon, none of us do, but he wouldn't listen. He said they were still a risk. So I asked him what I could do to save them and he said - he said if I worked for him I could work off their sentence, and... and he'd leave Alis alone..."
"Your sister?" Awen guessed. Gareth nodded. His eyes were still tear-glazed and unfocused, looking up at the ceiling above them.
"She's pregnant," he murmured. "I couldn't... He - he told me to go to Aberystwyth, and... and then wait. And then I did, and then the Rider came back..."
"Can you describe that Rider, Gareth?" Awen asked. She was surprised at how calm she managed to sound; internally her heart was beating so hard she could hear the blood roaring in her ears.
"His hair was strange," Gareth said, and frowned. "Very strange, actually, like a quiff."
"Was he oily?" Adara chimed in. Awen gave her a Look.
"Yes," Gareth said, shivering again. "Not tall. His beads were blue. And he talked weirdly. And he came yesterday. I was with the bards, and he told us all, he said - that they had to get me in, and I had to - I had to kill the - Sovereign..."
"It's okay," Awen said again, as gently as she could while the sobbing racked Gareth's body, forcing Adara to abandon her ministrations for a minute. "It's over now. Did he tell you why you had to kill the Sovereign, Gareth?"
"He said..." Gareth paused, gulping at the air. "He said he was a - an influence... per - perv - "
"Pervasive," Awen supplied, her mind racing. Really? Flyn had considered Lord Gwilym to be strongly influential? Having met the man Awen wasn't overly surprised at the idea; clearly given even another year the people of Aberystwyth were going to be wildly in love with Lord Gwilym, and he was definitely charming. But he certainly wasn't confident enough to be spreading any sort of influence over anyone just yet, and Awen was fairly certain Flyn and Gwilym had, to date, met once.
"Yes," Gareth whispered. "He said he had to be stopped now, before everyone paid the price. He said he would corrupt everyone. I don't... I didn't want to kill him..."
"I know," Awen said quietly, squeezing his wrist again. Few people did want to kill, when faced with their victim; she knew that from experience.
"If he was just going to have Lord Gwilym killed, why send you to talk to him first?" Adara asked quietly, glancing across. Awen shook her head.
"I have no idea," she said frankly. "Unless that was just a stalling tactic. Maybe Owain was meant to appraise the situation and activate Gareth here if he saw fit."
"Could be," Adara sighed. She finished the wound on Gareth's next, tied off the thread and stood, stretching. "I'll go and find out what I can about getting Gareth somewhere protected. Might be best if we take him to the Union."
"Probably," Awen agreed absently. Something still wasn't right, though. Something didn't add up. "Who did you say told you to come to Aberystwyth, Gareth?"
"Lord Flyn," Gareth whispered. He looked exhausted, like a drowning man finally pulled ashore. "He didn't say why, just that I was to come here and wait. The Rider came then."
"Okay," Awen said softly; but it wasn't. Nothing was okay now. And something was very wrong.
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