They walked atop the cliffs now and they came again to the elevated rill. In the night Adwyn almost walked blind into it, and glanced at his side again; the amphiptere had crept up again, but didn’t lunge. She reared up as high as his withers and waited like that till the drake petted her. The snake had swallowed the leathery form, and spat it up now. It was a sheath, and in it rested a shiny aluminum blade. Adwyn knew wyverns liked to collect or steal shiny objects from dragons, and perhaps wraiths did as well. Adwyn took the blade, kept it in his bag, and thanked the snake, who nodded. Far ahead, watching the orange drake jog to catch up, the murderer was flicking their tail. They said, “We are not far now.” “Tell me what part I play in your plan.” The murderer glanced back and said, “You must know?” They lifted their gaze to the stars, and continued, “I need an ally in the administration, some smart drake who won’t distrust immediately from some bias. You are the only one.” Waving their wing at him, they finished, “On a bare literal level, I need a witness. That is why you must descend the pits, agnize what dwells there. You’ll know what to do after that.” “A witness for what?” “Do you know what the pits really are?” “Old mines? Dangerous caverns?” “A burial site, a mass grave. Not anymore, but there was one last dragon buried here.” “You’re concerned about ghost stories?” There was a satisfied sounding hum as the response. The figure turned around again. “Come. The proper entrance to the pits is lower.” Adwyn didn’t move just yet. “If we’re truly allied, then you must know Wrang lays at the root of this. You answer to no one.” (Was that a tonguepop?) “You could kill Wrang tonight. It would be simple for you.” The murderer shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The opposition is more deeply rooted than either of us can manage. It takes more than just severing the head. Come.” With a sigh, he went with them to the edge and climbed down. The ravine here was a lightish gray, but there were black spots like polyps on the wall. He picked at one, and it felt like the fungal bits in the rockwraith lair. He kept climbing down and the growths came more numerous. Adwyn briefly considered eating one; all mushrooms were edible once. He’d been out walking for rings now; today’s one meal didn’t account for that. But he knelt to the risk. He would solve the mystery of Gwymr/Frina, be its hero if it needed one. He wouldn’t die. They jumped down to the ground; and stood in yet another winding ravine, thin enough to discourage gliding or flying. Not that Adwyn had either in his stomach. Snake, drake and murderer settled and marched on through the ravine. Already this stretch had an atmosphere separate that of the cliffs entirely. The lake’s breath bore down on them, as a warm sulfuric warning. The dust flitted down in the air and claimed all it touched. In nuance to that Berwem stench, another aroma wound its way down from something awaiting them further on⁠ ⁠—⁠ natural in the fashion of decay of corpses rotting and lower life sprouting triumphant from the remains or excess of its better. Mushroom didn’t smell to attract sensate bees or butterflies, and this was quite apparent. One heard something as one approached, as well; a chorus of flies humming in high register, a rhythm section of chittering hoppers or gliderscorpions keeping beat; and a bassline held by a certain kind of turtle that rumbled like frogs. A curious sonic absence of birds or bats or anurognaths. And so, they marched on through the smell of triumphant decay, the taste of sulfur and dust, and the animals active as if infected with some strange new form of life. Underneath it all was the feeling like death sighing, and Adwyn didn’t know why. A cloud passed in front of the moon, and the shadows seemed to preen beneath the wings of this greater shadow. They continued on. There came the first bird sound, a vague, significant hoot. The ravine winded one final time, and widened considerably. The subtle claw-worn path they followed kept straight, heading right to a black metal gate, massive and thick. Adwyn stared hard, and saw the red flakes dotted it. The cursed metal. The murderer stopped first. Adwyn looked around, then saw the huge dragon-height danger of sleek feathers that was gliding down from atop the ravine to stand between them and the iron gate. “You heard it scream.” “I did.” They turned and faced the lich-owl. “It seems things have grown more dire than I recognize. There must be a nest nearby.” There were chants for times like these, invocations to Dyfns for clear sight and smiting light. Adwyn prayed. And he started to draw the bamboo spool of net. “No,” said the murderer. “They feed on magic.” Adwyn stopped and looked at the lich-owl. It had feathers that softly snared the light and let it to glom into a diffuse mist as a cloak. One would think it had the purest black eyes that the light didn’t grace, but then it lifted its head. In fact there was no color, only pure reflection. Adwyn stared into his own eyes. The manner of reflection was peculiar, as if limning some mirror world where color looked twisted two shades from truth. He shook himself out of staring. He couldn’t keep from agnizing something familiar in those eyes, even nostalgic. It wasn’t just intelligence he saw. His mind turned to the black eyes of Ushra, even Rhyfel. He frowned, and hesitated when drawing his baton. The murderer already had the knives floating and now the owl seemed to step examining them in return. It flared four wide, white wings. Behind it, swarms of beetles and lies and scorpions rose buzzing. Snakes and turtles and skinks writhed from the shadows and crevices. And all of them fled the clearing before the iron gate. “Do you think perhaps we should turn back? These owls are deeply cursed.” “No. I have them well studied.” Then, they said, “Do not let it claw you.” The lich-owl was creeping closer, beak opened, eyes gleaming, feathers still glowed. It had its feathers spiked up awfully like a cat and Adwyn didn’t know a bird could growl but there came a deep rumbling in its chest and an gargle like choking on poison in its throat. The distance shrunk and one saw the owl came to a dragon’s withers, even as it leaned forward in threat. Adwyn took a step back and glanced at the murderer who stared down the bird, and the amphiptere rising up between the two dragons and swaying to either side, hissing endlessly. Adwyn breathed in once, twice. He would not kill, but he could defend himself. With a prayer to Dyfns, the schizon-clad drake lifted himself to a high-stand and strode forward. The lich-owl flared its four wings. It screamed louder, higher than death, and burst forward. Things changed very quickly. Adwyn was recoiling back bringing his baton to block⁠ ⁠— The murderer was shouting, the knives dragging slowly, useless after the owl. The bird twisted in the air, claws that dripped⁠ ⁠—⁠ black, were aligning for his throat. And the amphiptere threw itself in the way. One heard terrible caws and whines, and talons ripping into scaley, meaty flesh once twice thrice. The floating knives arrived. With fury they ripped and tore. The bird flapped away. Feathers dripped down, black dust flaked off. Still it stared at the pair of dragons and the poor snake. The leaping murderer slammed down beside Laswaith. Tenderly they held the head and body between the bleeding wounds. They looked up to the owl still rumbling. Amphiptere in foot they backed away in steps. “Is it⁠ ⁠—⁠ will it alight?” “Go.” “What?” “The gate should still be opened. I have a distraction. Cover your brilles.” Their tail was moving, tossing a bumbled of thick knotted lengths. They could have been tentacles, or hairs, or rope, or sinews, or glass strands, but they weren’t. The lengths caught the light and killed it, reflecting the corpse or memorial. Distorted forms moved stilted within. Adwyn had seen much tonight, and at this he stepped back. Meanwhile, the owl stopped growling and stalked forward a stride. Then two. “What are those⁠ ⁠—⁠ unsightly things?” “Raw medusa fibers.” The murderer was crouched on hindlegs. With one forefoot they clutched the fibers and with the other leg they covered their eyes. Last Adwyn saw those knives drifted toward the knotted bundle. By then he had decided to draw his wings over his eyes. First one heard vicious, viscous tearing. Next came an acidic smell like the tainted glass in the lake’s bad spots, yet also like helium. Then a high hum that built and built till it was very irritating. The owl was still audibly stalking forth through all of this, but that stopped when the vexing hum released with such a pop that frills twitched. Was that all? Slowly did Adwyn lower his wings, and quickly did he regret. The medusa fibers still glowed⁠ ⁠—⁠ really, they shined, and it was day in this ravine. The lich-owl was screaming once more, and hopping around blindly. Adwyn looked to the murder, and asked once more, “Will it live?” “Go.” “I owe my life to that beast. At least tell me its fate.” Perhaps there was a chance he would keep silent. But they said, “I have studied lich-owls.” Dim of him to think the murderer would cullet mystery even now. But Adwyn liked puzzles. With that, he went. The black iron gate to the depths of the pits still hung open behind Adwyn. A moment of thought, and then he closed it, shutting off completely this chamber from the meager light of moons and stars. He had the murderer’s lamp, and held it near. It made the whole world feel very small. The slight fingers of light couldn’t touch the walls. Adwyn did not curl in on himself. In fact, he opened up; he was alone, and he wasn’t being watched, he wasn’t performing. What some would call taking off a mask felt to Adwyn like clouded brilles before his soul finally clearing. Adwyn gasped. Deeply sour droplets were already dewing. He licked them away, but they came back and he let them. He down lay aside the lamp. Eyescales went clouded and stayed that way. Adwyn lowered his head to his feet and could hardly lift it again under the force of his⁠ ⁠—⁠ it could only be sorrow. Their names were Wedd and Ysais. He was a commoner with a tiny little garden and a young, fatherless cousin back home. He rose through university, and then lighted in the administration in capitol, and he was only nineteen gyras. One only did that on the minimum of sleep and free time. Little more than his garden, Adwyn thought. She was some knighted merchant’s daughter third daughter. The first had taken the family name; the second was married out. She was barren. Perhaps, in the depths, she’d been aiming for Inter-Stronghold Affairs, or the Hall of Justice⁠ ⁠—⁠ something significant to keep her name alive. She didn’t sleep in the town hall. The faer didn’t allow snakes, and she had six. Ysais and Wedd were two dragons with whom he could talk unlike any native. Who knew the hypocrisies and luxuries of life in the land of chasm and wisdom; who, in a land torn between worship of a longdead faer or reverence for strange old gods or ambiguous spirituality, instead rightfully feared the eye of deepest gaze, Dyfns of infinite insight. To whom a drake who liked drakes wasn’t a curious, sorry thing. And yet, he had half hated them, and he thought they knew. Useful tools, scrawny neophytes, hindrances, rounding errors⁠ ⁠—⁠ but were they that to him, they were not to other dragons. Adwyn had made a mistake. Oh Dyfns, had he made many mistakes. Adwyn knew there were definitions of the yawning chasm of loss opening before him; and Adwyn knew there were names for the fatal affliction... for vengeance. The black ascendant had learnt the infinite value of life only recently⁠ ⁠—⁠ very late, too late to atone for the things had had done. And now, to know with utter keenness the bleak wake of death? There stood a certain appeal and peace in simply perishing. Cowardice, too. Adwyn breathed twice, sent up a prayer to Dyfns for clear sight. Cool, and transparent, and brilliant. Adwyn left the brilles over his soul unclouded, but made the hot fire fall to embers, smolders, then dust. At last Adwyn lifted his head, and looked around. The floor was hewn rock very slowly washing away. Moss and lichens crawled into the chamber, and between them Adwyn spied fat bugs. He rose to a stand, with the lamp. Little moths came along a trice before they fluttered away. With his thoughts on the wane, the orange drake heard the whinings of the night return to his frills. Approximate silence sat outside the iron gate. The murderer was dead or gone. The lich-owl was dead or gone. Little Laswaith was dead or gone. Adwyn was very alone in this abject corner of the cliffs. But he had a purpose here⁠ ⁠—⁠ the mystery of the land of glass and secrets. The high guard’s plan and the murderer’s scheme met here in the pits. If he could descend the pits, witness what lay at the depth of it all, he would be the hero. He would solve the mystery of Gwymr/Frina. But in his soul, Adwyn knew it was mistaken. * * *