The drake felt death breathing down his neck. He laughed. “I cannot imagine killing me will end well for you⁠ ⁠—⁠ or accomplish your goals, for that matter,” he said, peering down at nothing. He smelt the holly. “One day I’ll find the will, you know.” “What has it been? Ten, fifteen gyras?” He fluttered his tongue. “I don’t glimpse you doing this out of any lingering hate.” Something sharp slid into a sheath. “I still don’t like you.” A smile she couldn’t see. “Understandable. But as long as you do this, I can’t help but still see the knee high little moltling who couldn’t hold a knife steady, or even pronounce ‘kill’ correctly.” Quietly, he knew she wouldn’t do it, knew she wasn’t like him. Not Mlaen’s little flower. She said, “I’ve come a long way.” “You have. And some things never change.” The larger wiver moved, and the smaller drake turned round. “Quite the day we’ve had, Cynfe.” Adwyn found his usual smirk. The bluegreen wiver tossed her head and slinked past him, down the twisting ramp. That ramp saw one into the town hall’s interstitial lobby. One could only move forward through it: up the left corridor one followed the smell of pyrite and electrum; down the middle a ramp lead to the officialities of Mlaen’s throne room, and on the right corridor there lingered the dust from feet of all the foreign advisers. Adwyn’s too. The high secretary started into the lobby, and the military adviser came at her heels. She still wore the scaleconcealing cloak from earlier, and he still wore his schizon armor. Scrolls rested here on shelves. Many were clawed in foreign tongues, in foreign scripts, and some were made illegible by time; no one had noticed. Some of the rugs or banners here were woven of a curiously fine silk; no one could place it. Paintings touched all the walls, tempting the gaze of all who came down here. They all had the same name clawed in the corners; no one had complimented her. She didn’t even glance at the paints as she high walked past; but with the frustration working through her frills, it could just be other things drawing her mind. “A day spent cleaning up your messes,” the secretary replied at last. “I have a stack full of untranscribed reports lingering because of this moil. Every day I wonder why Sofrani bothers keep you around.” Who else was there? Instead of saying it, the adviser overtook the secretary, aiming toward the dusty corridor, toward his office. His orange tail waved her to follow, or dismissed her. “I haven’t drafted my report either. It’s the last remaining task, today.” “Knowing you, there’s still some way you’ll find to mess it up.” Adwyn popped his tongue. “I wouldn’t look past the fact that we’ve uncovered no less than three traitors because of my detour, and I alone persuaded one of them to our side. A potential alliance with those humans, three guards revealed to be ineffective, and⁠ ⁠—” “You can stop bragging,” said the secretary, trailing beside him. “Unless you’ll also own up to the unprecedented mess you created, blocking all movement out of the market, and the three dead guards.” “Trivialities,” he replied. “My success speaks for itself.” Wordless, the bluegreen wiver followed him to the mouth of the dusty corridor. “...How lucky, that you didn’t know them,” she said. “That you can call them trivialities.” Adwyn whisked out a wing, and trailed it along the wall. “Rhyfel’s spent enough time entertaining the pink drake. There isn’t all that much to him, in the depths,” he said. “Wasn’t, rather.” “Have you ever lost anyone, Adwyn?” A question which merited no answer⁠ ⁠—⁠ a question he did not answer. The wiver had her frills fluttering smugly as though he had, though. With a tossed head he looked down the hall. Their leisurely pace would bring them to his office after another quick exchange. The orange drake glanced at the wiver. He asked, “What is your opinion of Kinri?” The high secretary flicked her tongue. “Who?” “The exile, the sky-dweller.” The embarrassing puzzle of a wiver. The tongue disappeared, but no other reaction came across her bluegreen face. “She’s useless.” “It would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” She would like it to seem that way. The secretary peered. “I know that look. You’re thinking the precise opposite of what you’re saying.” “You cloud me. I mean exactly what I say. There are, perhaps, elements I have omitted.” There was only a hisslaugh, and her saying, “Transparent.” “Is that a bad thing? After all, they say a cliff drake should be like glass: cool and trans⁠ ⁠—” “Cool, and transparent, and brilliant. I know the saying. I’ve lived here longer than you.” They slipped into the corridor. The light came dimmer here, and now the murmur of phatic conversation was rearing up in their frills. “Irregardless,” the military adviser started, “it’s an odd thing to maintain, when Kinri did matter in the resolution of today’s⁠ ⁠—⁠ incident.” A hum. “No surprise you’d be one to appreciate spineless diplomacy. We had those apes at their throats.” “If not for peace, appreciate that this will leave us glimpsing the face of whatever conspiracy festers in Gwymr/Frina.” “We already have a thief captured.” “A thief who only admits to getting orders from some blighter claiming to be the shadow of the night.” Who could trust that testimony? “Give them time. The inquirers know how to get confessions.” So they walked wordlessly on till Adwyn turned the doorway to the office of the Dyfnderi advisers, where a light orange wiver had another, darker orange drake up against the wall, snouts pressed together. He turned back around, and they continued walking. “What about Hinte?” Adwyn asked. The secretary found a smile. “Her. She’s cute. I do wonder what’ll come of her as an adult.” Adwyn hummed without response. He said, “She worries me. One of the suspects was found by her admission. And emotionally⁠ ⁠—⁠ she’s cryptic.” “She’s lonely. You would be too, if your only friend was that Specter.” “There is the halfbreed, Digrif. She seems to tolerate him.” “Oh? Good for her.” The secretary licked her brilles and smiled a different sort of smile. She was adding, “Gyras ago, Gronte was telling me how melancholy the wiver was.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “I didn’t have the time to spend with her, then, and... that still hasn’t changed,” she said. It had the whispered quality of a confession, and the wiver was watching the rocky floor shift as she walked. Adwyn’s low walk gained some stiffness. At length he said, “You keep Gwymr/Frina running. Don’t think you weren’t serving her anyway.” Cynfe threw out a foot and shoved the orange drake to the side. His wing folded against the wall. She said, “I didn’t ask for your glassblown words. I can manage myself. I’d rather.” The adviser always walked with a baton, strapped to a foreleg. Now a wing brushed the hilt. Lingered for just a moment. Adwyn, the black ascendant, had sworn a vow of pacifism; he reminded himself. Violence wasn’t proscribed; but it was discouraged. They continued walking like that, strides more distance between them. This corridor didn’t end. As it wound along, it curved. By now, the pair had looped around and were walked up the other hallway. “What was the point of dragging me along?” asked Cynfe. You chose to follow me. He didn’t say it. He licked a brille, tongue nimbly curving around his eyepaint. He choose to say, “A nice walk and talk with a friend?” “I recall more of your sifting for opinions than proper talk.” He nodded some acquiescence. “Fair enough. But the pair is becoming a quantity of interest. Surely it’s worthwhile that we read each other’s pages on the matter?” They padded back into the lobby like this. Without answering, Cynfe strode over to the mouth of the ramp downward. There was no bridge. She simply informed him, “Mlaen-sofran is expecting you.” He clouded his brilles, thought of the pair of Dyfnderi advisers, frowned at the unwritten report that would for now remain so, and said, “I suppose I’ll see her now.” She let the drake follow her down the ramp to Mlaen’s officialities. Under her breath, she muttered, “I still don’t like you.” “You fucked up, Adwyn.” It wasn’t the throne room, but standing on her dillerskin rest, wearing those vermilliondyed robes, staring down at the orange drake with her eyes strangely intense, that seemed a detail. The red wiver had moiled in the dim of a single lamp, and now Cynfe darted around to light a few others. The reality that was limned in full light contrasted without contradicting: the faer’s posture hung taut and rigid, as if she were wrung up; her makeup had been washed away yet an acidic smell hung around; the two lamps were shining behind her, and the swelling shadows under her eyes weren’t just the lighting. This was the faer of Gwymr/Frina. Perhaps the one truly exceptional player on their side of the board, barring Adwyn himself. With Bariaeth being... difficult⁠ ⁠—⁠ crytic behind his beatific smile⁠ ⁠—⁠ the faer stood the last remaining beacon for reaching the mystery at the depth of this mess. And he had disappointed her. Adwyn watched the red wiver settle back on her dark, dillerskin rest and watched her gesture for him to sit himself on a rough pycnofiber mat laying small before her desk. “I know,” he said. The secretary stood herself at the faer’s right side, inkwell and fernpaper in wing, her scowl turned blank and receptive. Idly she was brushing her robes. As ever, Mlaen-sofran watched. Contemplative, analyzing, regarding, peering, looking: all of these, but there was something more, something hidden. As ever, her brilles remained clouded. Beneath her eyes a snout extended until its sharp end, where red lipscales wavered between an almost smile and an almost frown. A wing scratched her cheek; she yawned. Then at last, she looked down. The slab of Mlaen’s desk was just stone. Papers swarmed over its face. None ever survived the night, yet they would return like weeds. A scratchy leaf of fernpaper laid center on the desk. It was Rhyfel’s report; Adwyn could read upside down. He found himself looking back toward her face instead, though. While her brilles still looked cloudy, he could find the outline of her pupils scanning the page. He could watch the muscles around them shift and tighten, the slow sweeps as she took in the guard’s sketches, the saccades over text, and the instants where they were still. “You should sleep, Sofrani,” he said. Mlaen’s voice was drenched. “There’s still work to do.” She looked back at him. The faer didn’t quite have normal expressions anymore. Every emotion that played across her features was an inflection of the tiredness that leeched at every scale. She folded up Rhyfel’s report, pushed it off to the side, and peered. “You’re never caught unawares, Adwyn. How much did you know?” “Little enough to be, in fact, caught unawares.” Adwyn licked an eyescale. “This morning Ushra suspected the conspiracy of another stronghold. I found it ridiculous. Yet as I thought further on it, things blent together. The behavior of the humans. The presence of Wrang and Mawla in the Berwem. Ffrom’s insistence on collecting the bodies from Hinte.” She said, “They were hints, yes. I found suspicion in them as well.” He waved a folded wing. “Suspicious, yes, but even the scarlet snake couldn’t wring a deduction out of that. It only piqued. So I inquired the Sgrôli ac Neidr just whether any dragon had checked out any relevant scrolls, or otherwise shone interest in humans.” He waited for the scribe to stop scratching, and smirked. “Guess who? Wrang. Circumstantial evidence, of course. This was cycles ago.” He licked a brille. “But you did suppose the humans could have been trespassing long before now, didn’t you?” “More than a supposition. I knew.” She’d spoken, and kept watching. The adviser’s brilles flashed clear. He waited for an elaboration, received none, and at length continued, “…Irregardless, after that I had scried further clues. I followed Hinte and sundry as they walked toward the lake, and they mentioned a certain inquisitive drake waiting for Kinri at the library. Blend this with the thieves anticipating our plans, and the conclusion gleams: the leak occurred at the Gären estate.” The secretary scratched all this out onto the fernpaper, but spoke up when still: “Not necessarily.” Adwyn whisked a wing. “Nothing is necessarily. Focus on the shape of things,” he said. “We can go over the shape of things later,” the faer said with a tonguesnap. “Right now, tell me your conclusions. I do not need to step through every breath of your reasoning.” “I suspect the Dychwelfa ac Dwylla.” “The Return of Dwylla.” Her inflection could have been disbelief, or something about as skeptical. Adwyn echoed an old explanation when he spoke. “It’s religion that worships Dwylla as a god or prophet, and waits his returning some day.” “Yes, yes, of course. I know of all that happens in my town, Ychyr.” Adwyn flicked his tongue, held it still a moment. “It sounded like a question.” He wondered if Mlaen’s brilles clouded deeper. “No. The name, the notion, simply... vexes me whenever I hear it. I knew Dwylla, and alighting was the best that he ever got. He never knew peace. Selfish, stupid to want him back.” She added, “—⁠ if such a thing were possible.” A different voice spoke. “Don’t distract yourself, Sofrani.” The secretary looked at the adviser. “Adwyn, could you give any reason why these are your suspects?” “They have enough influence, and they appeared at the Gären estate. More tellingly, Wrang, Ffrom, and Dieithr are all members.” “And how could they spy on you? I know you didn’t allow them to sit in on your conversation with the Gärens.” Adwyn shook his head. “Listen closely, as this next step is the most complex. Consider the librarian, Chwithach. He’s quite familiar with humans, even claiming to be friends with some. He was present at the market today. And most tellingly, the thieves tried to enter his house whilst escaping.” “I don’t see the relevance.” “Chwithach possess a certain magical implement that... transfers sound. Placed appropriately, they could have listened in on our conversation.” “The most complex guesses are often the most wrong. Why couldn’t it have been any of the dragons actually present?” “Ushra and Gronte helped point us toward suspecting the meddling of dragons. Furthermore, Ushra is your alchemist. Gronte is⁠ ⁠—⁠ was the forest hope. Kinri foiled their plans. Neither Hinte nor Digrif left⁠ ⁠—” “So Ushra and Gronte did leave?” Punctuated by inked scratching. “Gronte did.” A telling hum, and then the red wiver clouded her brilles and she stayed like that for several moments. “You had known the Gärens were being spied upon, then? When did you know this?” “I had all the pieces before we entered the market. The logic clarified during our... detour.” “And you told no one?” “I had circumstantial evidence. Suspicions, nothing more. To bank on them would be paranoia.” “The line between paranoia and good sense is being right. You were right, Adwyn.” “A draft of fate. Not something you can soar on.” “How often are you wrong?” Adwyn licked his brilles, took a look around the office. Looking away to corner, he said, “Well, I was wrong about Kinri.” In the corner the red wiver’s shadow tossed its head. “So you think she’s no threat?” “Not in the slightest.” “Balanced. But you’ve shifted the discussion. Paranoid or no, the very breath things stop being full in your control you shall report back to me. I am your faer. I decide what suspicions are worth banking our plans on.” “If you put so much trust in my suspicions, know thenxs that I suspect waiting carefully and reworking our plans instead would have ended worse for all of us.” “Pray tell why.” “Bariaeth insists that he has no connection with the thieves, and yet he refuses to name a group which, after my prying, seems to fit the hints.” “You are a keen enough drake. The clues are present, and there are so few groups in town.” The red wiver scratched her right cheek with her left wing, and he knew she covered some twitch of a smile. She finally elaborated, “You guessed it without his help.” “It’s the appearance, Sofrani. Why would Bariaeth refuse to tell me? Suspicious.” “Why would he allow you to suspect him? He enjoys these games.” Adwyn clouded his brilles. “He has told you, then.” “Of course. I am his faer. I am the faer. No working of this town escapes my gaze.” Adwyn had, in his head, practiced the flow of the day’s events. Enough that when delivering his recitation to the faer, he found his mind traveling distant the landscapes of his mind. Then, starkly, a detail he’d kept hidden shone suddenly out. Adwyn said, “There was something too sensitive to commit to my note or to my next report.” He watched her look up, start listening again. “There is another Specter in Gwymr/Frina.” The persistent echo of ink scratching never came. “Yes, I know.” Mlaen said, now glancing away, reaching for another paper. “Her name is Uane. Kinri’s odd sister.” Her eyes clouded even deeper. “That cloak cannot fool me.” “Then why ignore it? Her presence violates the Severance of Earth and Sky.” The red wiver unfolded another paper, and looked over it. “Indeed. I know you Dyfnderi are rather attached to the contract, for having drafted it⁠ ⁠—⁠ but try to look at this from a perspective instead of from impartial law.” “That’s lustrous, coming from you.” Mlaen yawned, and said, “Flick, no one wants or needs a war. Imagine I flew to the next mountaintop summit and said, behold, a sky-dweller spy. What could anyone gain?” She shook her head. “At best, we could demand concessions from the sky⁠ ⁠—⁠ and pray the earth that they don’t default and force us to hostilities. Or embargoes.” “And yet we should not just ignore it and let the problem fester. The Specter wish me dead.” Mlaen frowned, and waved her tongue. “That shall be addressed. I cannot allow my allies killing each other.” Adwyn sucked in a breath. “…Allies, perhaps, is too strong a word.” She was smiling. She explained, “Highness Ashaine wants trade. He is not entirely unreasonable.” “You don’t care at all for the Severance, do you?” “Of course. What does it offer Gwymr/Frina? Ashaine has medusa fibers, refined ixel, the fruits of the heavens. The Severance offers nothing.” “Are you ignorant of the Empyrean? It protects us from the sky.” Mlaen did not look over. “The Constellation is not the old empire. It is fractured and selfobsessed. The Constellation is far too busy policing itself to impinge upon any of us.” The orange drake muttered, “The sky is dangerous.” “Is this a hill you intend to die on?” “I suspect it is one you might,” he said. “I value your good graces⁠ ⁠—⁠ too highly.” “Good. Now, onto another matter⁠ ⁠—” Adwyn cleared his throat. Mlaen flicked her tongue. The adviser asked, “May I ask how you saw through the Specter’s cloak? It could prove enlightening.” Mlaen smiled, almost to herself. It could be mistaken for reacting to the paper, if it were a possible reaction. “I don’t suppose saying it was faltering here in the cliffs would satisfy you?” “Kinri attempted the same excuse. Why would the Specter, supposedly not idiots, send an agent with a defective cloak? Why would the agent act, knowing it defective?” “Yet it does falter.” Mlaen shook her head. “But yes, that alone did not give it away. But for how I detected her... It is not a skill you could learn.” A pause, and the faer looked up⁠ ⁠— The red wiver was looking dead at him, and for perhaps the first time in their knowing each other, the Mlaen cleared her brilles. Behind them was nothing dramatic. She peered forth with sharp white eyes. They moved around her muted black sclerae with a slow inquisitiveness that couldn’t banish all impressions of the tired, sleepless faer. Even so, her gaze seemed to grow more intense as her pupils shrunk and saccades ceased with her eyes focused on him. Until now, it had been hard not to feel some distance between the two of them. Eyes were the seat of beauty and clear thought, and yet hers were ever hidden, ever clouded. For perhaps the first time, Adwyn truly met her gaze, and smiled because of it. It was a second like this before Adwyn started, brow creasing in worry and fear. He did not exclaim, or shift his seating, or even break eye, but his polite glance became a stare, and his tongue waved and whirled. Even as he looked, it was hard to be sure, but the dimness of the room gave it away. Mlaen’s eyes were glowing softly. Adwyn licked his brilles, nothing changed. Her eyescalesx clouded just a bit, and the glow faded so subtly. She frowned. “Be at ease, Adwyn-ychy. There is nothing to worry about.” “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Mlaen was looking back at the page. Breaths passed, till the paper folded and found an arc to a bin. She asked, “Have you heard the legends of Dwylla?” “His eyes?” ⁠ ⁠—⁠ he saw her nod⁠ ⁠—⁠ “I have. If you believe the stories, his white eye could see all the evil in a dragon, and his black eye could see all of the good.” “Yes, that. The supposed purpose of the eyes is complete fiction. Started by the drake himself, perhaps. However, there is superficial truth to it.” Now one heard silence in the room, no papers shifting or ink scratching. Mlaen licked a tongue up to a brille. “This is the Ohmal’s white light, a gift given to acolytes of the Gerddi ac Ohmal. Seven gyras of study, then your left eye is given to the light. A dozen and two, then your right eye is given. Beyond that⁠ ⁠—⁠ I do not know. No one more advanced than a dozen and five gyras tends to remain in the Anterth temple.” It had seemed⁠ ⁠—⁠ academic, that Gwymr/Frina’s faer was older than his mother; a trivium that she had been personally picked by such a figure of myth as the eternal faer. Adwyn took a moment, clouding and clearing his brilles, and saw the faer again. Noticed that not only insomnia, but cruel time as well had authored her hagardness. As habit, he slid back into analysis. “So Dwylla had studied at least seven gyras in this temple, then left?” A nod. “He asked for proselyter duty to escape Anterth, and some cycles later abandoned the faith in whole.” Her lips smiled. “Ushra tells me he is responsible for that.” The orange drake clicked his tongue, then said, “If only his left eye was a gift from the temple, why was his right eye black?” “I do not know. I’d like to say it was natural, yet Bariaeth does not have them, and they kept the resemblance so strong in other regards⁠ ⁠—⁠ he even has his damned smile.” She tossed her head. “Regardless, the true purpose of the white light is to see⁠ ⁠—⁠ energy. Magic.” He curled his claws into the pycnofiber mat. “Truly?” “I gain nothing from lying.” “I am... disturbed that I, that we, have never heard of such an ability.” “The Gerddi is secretive. The temples are like universities. Admission is⁠ ⁠—⁠ harrowing, tuition is immense, and becoming an acolyte is all of these things again.” “And yet, I still question why no one has glimpsed to sell this white light. It would be above profitable.” “It is proscribed.” Mlaen said, finding another page of inked parchment. “Forgive me if I don’t accept that stopping everyone.” “Questioning the Gerddi is unheard of, defecting from it doubly so.” “So it is a cult.” “I suppose so, yes.” “Then how did you escape? How did Dwylla escape?” Mlaen leaned back, at last looking up to him. “I hadn’t even known of Dwylla until he came to me all those gyras ago. He is not in any of the records, and to the extent anyone in Anterth/Gwirion would deign to speak of Gwymr/Frina back then, he was known only as the eternal faer.” “And for myself,” she continued, “it was returning to Gwymr/Frina. I have thought so much clearer since returning to my home. It’s⁠ ⁠—⁠ strange.” Adwyn felt like an explorer in some guarded ruin, privy to legendary treasures. He dared tread further. “Forgive my asking,” started the drake, “but why did Dwylla come to you in particular?” She glanced at him again. “To offer me the title of faer when he died. I accepted, and he⁠ ⁠—⁠ alighted just cycles later.” She returned to the page, read a little more, and folded and binned it. “Again forgive me, but why... did he pick you?” he asked, and quickly added, “I’m curious.” Mlaen had reigned wreathed in mystery⁠ ⁠—⁠ a puzzle proscribed to solve. The red wiver looked distant. “Anterth is a lot like Gwymr. The rich, the powerful, the educated, are so much more often cliff-dwellers than plain-dwellers. Dwylla had wanted to erase that line. Hence, a successor of mixed ancestry, who also hailed from Gwymr/Frina and studied in the same school he had. Not rare things, but altogether they perhaps made me unique.” Adwyn nodded, slotting the piece into his jagged, half-unfinished picture of Gwymr/Frina and sundry. “A last question: do you think⁠ ⁠—⁠ could there be some connection between this Gerddi ac Ohmal and this Aurisiuf legend?” “No.” Her brow furrowed. “Where are you coming from?” “It was just a reflection. It could explain why no dragon has sold the white light, nor even visibly broke with the cult. The so called Aurisiuf of the night could in reality have been a kind of enforcer or assassin to keep their secrets, and then superstition and legend ran wild. He’s said to have hunted Dwylla for years, and perhaps the noises about his returning⁠ ⁠—⁠ he has returned for your life.” “One problem with that, I glimpse.” The wiver was smiling (smirking?) as she said it. “Dwylla reigned for nearly two dozen dozen gyras, and he died naturally in his sleep. I have been here for nearly seven dozen, and no shadowy assassins. Only disgruntled plain-dwellers.” She smiled an impervious smile. Adwyn only frowned. Mlaen, meanwhile, once more clouded her eyes fully. “And speaking of which, there’s another problem with selling the white light: it is not without its taxes. I cloud my eyes to hide my gift, yes, but it also reduces the strain on my body. Even still, it folds my lifespan. I would have alighted in about half these gyras had Ushra not been there.” Adwyn thought of the ancient alchemist, and his wife. “I can see it.” Time passed enough for another page to be binned. Then she said, “Now that we’ve culleted that tangent, shall we speak of more important topics? The apes, say.” Mlaen snaked her head forward. “You tell me that we’ve negotiated with them? That they’re allies now?” “Temporarily. We only need them to catch the thieves⁠ ⁠—” “The smugglers. They’re the ones with whom the humans have dealt.” “Are you denying that there’s a connection? It’s a matter of simplicity. Who else would want the humans?” The brownish red wiver was smiling at him. “Tell me Adwyn, what could someone want with a human?” “Humans are magical creatures. Their organs could serve any number of purposes. Humans are prey. Their flesh is a delicacy in most countries. And, if nothing else, stealing the bodies interrupts our plans.” Her smile had only grown larger. “Adwyn,” she started, “tell me, do you recall anything⁠ ⁠—⁠ odd, about the events in the east market?” Adwyn knew condescension. “What are you saying?” “Whatever the thieves want, I believe they have it. They let us recover the bodies we did. Staying in the market? The chase? The burning building? It was a game. A show. If they truly wanted to escape the market unknown, it wouldn’t be hard.” The red wiver stopped, cleared her throat. “Or rather, they would have tried something different. Regarless it wouldn’t have worked.” For an instant her brilles uncleared. “After all, no working of this town escapes my gaze.” Adwyn tossed his head, and just agreed, “We only need them to catch the smugglers.” “After that, we can disregard them.” A nod. But, “The Specter⁠ ⁠—⁠ Kinri won’t like that.” “Let her,” Mlaen said, not looking from the page. “She’s not important. She doesn’t factor into our decision making.” “I wouldn’t ignore her wholly. She saved Hinte. She made truce with the humans.” He paused. “She deserves some reward, say.” “I’ll consider it.” The words came slow; Adwyn could feel the attention pouring onto the page. “But I will not consider her feelings when doing what is the best for this town.” Adwyn leaned back. He glanced away. He said, “She’s more like her than you think.” Mlaen paused for a moment. “Perhaps she is. I am not in the habit of rescuing every listless fledgling that astrays before me.” “Only the first one, two, three times, I see.” “Only the first time. Bariaeth was unavoidable. Ceian (peace be upon him) was... more Rhyfel’s choice than mine.” Adwyn nodded. “As you say,” he said. “But is there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Her eyes were clouding deeply again. She nodded slowly to herself. “You fucked up Adwyn.” A smile. “You need to sleep, Mlaen. You’re repeating yourself.” He would smile in return, but he saved the dewing in his reserve of good humor. “I can sleep with an empty desk.” “Seems as though I was keeping you from that.” At length, she replied, “I can’t sleep with matters undiscussed, either.” Adwyn glanced around the room. “Why with me? Why only me?” A startling scrape from behind him. The forgotten high secretary, by an now unlit lamp, glanced pointed at him, lips curling as he flinched slightly. And the faer was speaking: “You’ve become my⁠ ⁠—⁠ third most trusted dragon. I’d like to temper my thoughts on you. Despite your fuckups, you can think.” “I appreciate the measured compliment.” Adwyn felt the lulling cadence of the conversation, and in his mind an abstract gaze unclouded, pointed at the future, at the pathless mystery thrust so suddenly into his awareness. To call the thieves, the smugglers, the humans and all a puzzle might betray to some an ignorance of scale; but Adwyn left no puzzle unresolved, whether it took days, cycles, or dances. And as it stood, it could not take longer than negotiating the sleeping faer into an canyon alliance. But either goal remained pathless, and Adwyn clouded those abstract eyes. His tail wriggled a bit behind him, and he found claws slipping into the weave of the pycnofiber mat. It was vexing, to have a goal and yet be unable to pursue it. Adwyn lighted his eyes on the red wiver, the last remaining beacon. He snaked his head closer. “Everything said, what has changed on a practical level? Do I have any new orders?” He smiled. “I suppose my mission to the Ulfame is off.” “There’s nothing solid to suggest. Melt down exactly who the leak from your side to the thieves was. Investigate this talk of Aurisiuf. Keep an eye on Rhyfel,” she said. “I want this matter balanced as soon as possible. Settled at the head, if possible.” She flicked a dismissive wing. “Oh, and be nicer to your assistants. A complaint has been filed.” * * *