Reglaze

::: subchapter Would this day ever end? This entire adventure had passed in one day, in one evening. Yet, in my mind, in my aching legs, and in my relationship with Hinte, a whole cycle might have passed. More had happened today than in any other cycle of my life. Routine dominated my days. Wake up before the second dawn ring, Kinri. Check by the coutiers, maybe your brother finally sent a letter. Go to moil at the Llygaid Crwydro every day, except (stars, don't forget!) not on the purportedly-sacred crestdays and troughdays. Hope Cthwithach-sofran has time to teach you anything, else you'll have nothing else to show the day wasn't waste. Let Uvidet-gyfar drag you out to play cards at the Moyo-Makao every other day. Check by the courtiers again, you never know. If you grow bored of things⁠ ⁠---⁠ when you grow bored of things⁠ ⁠---⁠ you can beg the guards at the south gate to let you out, and fly some laps in the pretty red ravines south of town. Then sneak out at night and look at the endless stars. All of the excitement and terror of this break from routine had exhausted me... but it was worth it, to spend some time with Hinte that wasn't just phatic fumbling. With that thought that my thoughts lighted back in the present, only to turn to a springing worry that maybe this all may just as well have ruined my chance to be friends with Hinte. Worries like company, and it wasn't two breaths before my dewing turned to considering all big, important dragons around me and what they were thinking. Why was Adwyn glancing back at me? Why was Rhyfel walking so close to the orange drake? What were Cynfe and the faer murmuring about? Why did it sound like nothing related to the humans? Did Hinte feel as alone as she looked right now? With my heartbeat quickening and my feet stumbling forward as we followed the faer toward the meeting room I found myself planning my next conversation with Hinte, searching long the face of the orange-eyed wiver, wracking my brain for something simple that might thrust us into a nice tension-wringing exchange⁠ ⁠---⁠ but nothing came, even when I opened my mouth hoping anything would come out nothing came, and I closed my mouth and licked my fangs⁠ ⁠---⁠ did anyone else smell my worry?⁠ ⁠---⁠ but maybe this wasn't so serious, maybe this wasn't worth all this worry?⁠ ⁠---⁠ and maybe you should slow down, calm down, and breathe, Kinri, and--and with that you find yourself finally slowing, stopping to breathe, and breathing deep. I continued on, relaxing my shoulders, and curling my neck. I was fine. This wasn't anything to worry about. I didn't really know anyone here besides Hinte --- and I couldn't really have a normal conversation with the military adviser or the faer, anyway. Maybe secretary or the high guard? But the blue-green wiver padded in front of us, murmuring beside the faer, and even the scarlet-scaled high guard's mere presence felt intimidating. The atmosphere here sat so serious on my wings. My mindeye aimed searching, longing glances to the silly side of things. But the gyras spent in the courts and parties of sky, of my family dragging me to act just like them, obscured my sight, and all I felt were old instincts returning. Keep your tail down, hang it by your hindlegs. Do not raise it, do not coil it. You are not some dewy-fanged slut or farm-wiver. Clear your eyes when someone looks at you, keep your frills listening. Keep your frills by your neck. No one wants to see them. Flick your tongue if you must, but do not wave it. Nothing smells that good. If some sot's scent is so strong you can smell it, wave your tongue. They clearly think they smell that good. Keep your fangs in your mouth, and keep your venom on your tongue. If I can smell your dew, something is wrong. And hide your fangs, you are not some dewy-fanged slut or farm-wiver. We'd reached a single black bamboo door, and when the faer inclined her head, Cynfe darted in front. The doors revealed a meeting room dim and empty. Light from the hall rushed forth, and met with the night sifting in from a wide window perched high at the opposite end of the room, a dance of moonlight, lamplight, and coy shadows cast by interminate, ambiguous movements of unseen figures. Cynfe slinked in, quickly lighting the lamps that circled at the farthest fringes of the room. Now lit, those lamps reversed the flow of light pouring in through the window; and, revealed a simple room centered with a drab gray slab higher than my knee and orbited by soft mats, and further away, smaller and darker slabs. The triangle-like center slab was glaring with piercing yellow specks and brimming with long, angular streaks of red. Around the slab sat the nine long mats, concave and fit for lying in with some comfort⁠ ⁠---⁠ but not too much comfort: this was a meeting room. Various maps scattered around the walls and surfaces in a mess, and vague books lined a single bookshelf. But the center of the slab's surface lay blank. The faer walked to the farthest corner of the three, and stood there. I watched the faer gesture Hinte toward one of the other slabs off the to the side. The black-cloaked wiver stepped over and dumped the bodies overtop the maps and I copied her. As we stepped away I saw Adwyn glancing over at the bodies, the orange drake's features curling into a disgusted sneer. I found myself thinking of the ornery musician on the catwalks. The faer had lain on the mat at the head of the slab, Cynfe beside the faer, and Rhyfel beside Adwyn, those two lying at a different corner of the slab, the orange drake brushing a wing against the other. We could have lay beside the blue-green wiver --- she seemed interesting, and I was doing a bad job of hiding my repeated glances at her scales or her black and gold robes. A secretary⁠ ⁠---⁠ maybe she could tell me what I had to do to become one. I was stepping toward her when Hinte lay the last corner of the table, away from everyone else, and I didn't have much a of choice then. With that, the faer spoke, brilles cloudy, pulling a stack of paperwork from⁠ ⁠---⁠ somewhere. She said, "As we are all present and seated, Cynfe will you review the incident?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The secretary recited Hinte's account of this evening in rapid bursts of y Draig I had trouble following. The cliff tongue had always been my weakest, after Pteron, and the one I had used least until⁠ ⁠---⁠ a few dances ago. I didn't see need to listen, anyway. And I didn't need to think about how I fit into all of this. It was easier to try to slip into the facade of old Kinri, be a passive observer, try to learn what all the dynamics here were. Adwyn lounged on his mat. His frills twitched in listening, but it was effortless listening. Beside him, Rhyfel had a frown and frills spread wide, nodding at every word from the secretary. The faer had said these two were the only two with anything worth saying on the matter. Adwyn, I could more than see; in all my experience with him, he'd never given an impression besides coiled, waiting intelligence. Rhyfel seem to have more to him than impressions, though. The red wiver lay idly watching over the table. In front of her, she had a stack of pages dense with text and held in her wings a glass pen. You couldn't know what sat on those pages, but it was what had occupied her while the secretary recited. Now though, as her secretary's speech seemed to be cadencing, she watched over the table with a certain intensity, even as her brilles remained deeply clouded, and even as she rubbed her eyes in apparent tiredness. Maybe it was the power you knew lurked in those eyes, maybe it was the harsh but balanced angles of her face. Whatever it was, her gaze hardly left Adwyn and Rhyfel, and I was glad for that. For their part, Adwyn frowned and Rhyfel nodded along. "...and that is all." The secretary wiver set a wetly inked page on the table and produced up another, this one blank. When she finished, the mysterious high guard whistled loudly and turned his savage grin to Hinte. "Nice acts, Gronte-wyre. Mighty impressive," he said. Beside him, Adwyn gave a thoughtful hum, and the faer was glancing between them. Rhyfel continued, "They must make 'em fierce in those forests! I know your boy, Ushra, from way back. The resembalance is something." The faer coughed then, and gave the high guard a pointed look. The high guard tilted his head, and she spoke low and casual, saying, "Your father knew Ushra. Your tongue slipped." "Yeah, yeah, Ushra and the ol' Rhyfel --- she knows the story, I reason. Suffer it to say I heard all the old drake's stories of that drafty old alchemist." His voice came loud in the room. The blue-green wiver was glowering at him, frills wrinkling. She jotted down Rhyfel's commentary with sharp jerks. As you glanced around, most were looking at Rhyfel, but Adwyn glanced at Cynfe. The military adviser said, "The coordination and reaction of these humans gleans interesting." He steepled his feet, and said to Hinte, "You stood your ground well, Gronte-wyre." Hinte's frills were twitching at the title. He continued, "What is it you do? You must work with Ushra in his clinic, correct?" Rhyfel laughed. "If it's still a clinic when you got to wait till the stars align with both moons on the crestday 'fore he deigns to overcharge you for an examination." Adwyn licked his eyes. "I can see the reasoning." He waved an alula as he continued. "Ushra wants to keep his return to the cliffs a rumor. Seeing to anyone at all is going to reveal that in the long run. It is admirable that he does anyway." "Yeah yeah, he's a good fellow --- or was, maybe --- but it doesn't change that he charges out the sky. It's not like he's starving for pyrite, at all." "Then seeing anyone at all would be a charity, would it not? Irregardless,"⁠ ⁠---⁠ he looked back to the dark-green wiver⁠ ⁠---⁠ "you might have your claws full helpin