Out of Reach

       The sunlight got quite scorching as the Prince’s bird approached the planet, forcing him to land on the planet’s night side. Up close, the ridges crisscrossing its surface weren’t solid—they were coiled vines, spiralled into human-sized tunnel-tubes. The Prince set the bird down on a circular clearing where several of these vegetal tunnels converged. When the bird dissolved, darkness swallowed the group. Again, the Prince fumbled in his notebook for headlamps, producing three—for himself, the Hunter, and the Geographer (who, in the King’s absence, was the tallest and thus the fittest for the role of a makeshift lighthouse). The lamplight revealed only the vines: some brown-green and soft to the touch, others golden and wire-hard. A few live ones still bore leaves. “These are plants!” the Geographer blurted, spotting leaf scars on a golden vine. “They look very inorganic. Extraordinary…” He bent a severed, springy tendril, watching it snap back. “Precisely,” I seized the pause. “And far stranger than they seem. Nothing like them exists in your galaxy.” Geographer perked up, reaching for his pencil, but Fox cut in. “Save us your tall tales. Where are the locals?” “Why should I know? Maybe dead, maybe hiding…” The Hunter volunteered to sniff them out, but after much snuffling at the ground and vines, he detected only the scent of fresh vegetation (the dried ones, he claimed, were odourless). The Businessman, deprived of customers, sulked and shot me dirty looks. The Geographer, content to serve as a beacon, kept tripping over his own curiosity, nearly losing his glasses. The Prince, still cradling the Rose, traced the tunnel wall until he found a blooming vine to chat with. And produced some info from it. “They’re not dead. They’re—oddly, the vines call them their children—on the day side… Saving the planet? Friends, we must help!” He touched the flower again. “Show us the way!” And off he ran, his lamplight bobbing on the vines and wires. Saving the planet? How? They should have no options left! At forks, living vines pointed the path with their leaves. The day side, then. Lovely. If the night side was stifling, the day would be a furnace. And the Prince, as I had seen before, handled heat poorly. The light grew brighter but didn’t help, as the sun flickered and blinded through narrow gaps in the vines. The Prince slowed; the Geographer was no runner, the Businessman struggled with his suitcase, and the Fox’s paws kept slipping between stems. The tunnel widened, thinned, and the glow intensified, and I realised that my human form didn’t handle heat well, too. Breath short, sweat-soaked, black dots dancing at the edges of vision… Judging by the groans, the adults weren’t faring better. The collective panting nearly drowned out the new sounds—a rhythmic thudding and whistling—until the tunnel (now purely notional) opened onto a trampled clearing. There they were. More than I expected. Fifty-odd natives: round, absurd creatures on birdlike legs, covered in short brown fur, with long thin beaks but no wings or tails. The entire crowd was jumping in unison, landing with a thud. A few larger ones whistled the tempo. The air reeked of something cloyingly sour and sweet. “What kind of village dance is this?” Fox muttered. “Powder and shot!” Hunter exclaimed. “They smell like the vines—but stronger! Are they beasts or fruit?” “Both,” I said, eyeing an exit. Humans’ voices had drawn attention. Every head turned; some missed their jumps, triggering a screech from the whistlers. The Prince passed the jittery Rose to the Geographer to be on the safe side, and approached the natives, hands raised, a standard “we come in peace” protocol. The Hunter twitched, unsure whether to aim at the irritated mob or me (by habit). No shooting was needed. A small, er… chick? scurried forward, presumably for negotiations since no one would send the weakest unit to attack. The others resumed jumping, now facing the guests. “Outsiders,” it whistled, quite intelligible, “no time to explain. Council says: help first. Jump with us. One—push! Land. Again. Follow the whistles…” And like idiots, they obeyed. Even the Geographer—still holding the Rose, who yelped as he jumped. Only then did the oaf set her down. What were they doing? Jumping, okay. The ground trembled faintly. The ground… Were they trying to pushthe planet away from the sun? There it hung, sprawled across a quarter of the sky. I shouldn’t worry, then. It was pointless. A placebo. I edged toward the Rose. The Hunter bristled, rifle snapping up without a warning—or maybe he was too winded to shout a warning. I sat down. No plans to flee, but no interest in joining the circus either. Some rest wouldn’t hurt. I guessed what useless rounds might be loaded in his gun and flicked a vulgar gesture at him. In some aspects, fingers were indeed handier than a tail. The Hunter fired anyway, but since he was jumping, he missed, and the recoil sent him sprawling mid-jump. Classic. As he clambered up, the Prince convinced him to stand down for now. The bird-fruits glared at me. The Rose bristled but stayed silent. Good. Maybe she remembered our chat. The sun was winning. Retreating to the tunnel was not safe—they’d assume I was trying to escape. Water was with the Prince and the Hunter… Then I recalled: my illusory body wasn’t one-piece. The jumper came off. Better in just the shirt, though its black fabric (save for white collar) hardly helped. At last, the sun touched the vine-horizon. The sky hue darkened rapidly, but the shattered moon and B613 rose opposite to the sunset, casting feeble light. The jumping ceased; natives and humans alike collapsed. Three officials—the council, presumably—shuffled toward the guests. The Prince, wiping his brow, positioned himself near the Rose to guarding her from them or me. All three delegates whistled at once, so no one understood their mixed words. Except for the Prince who focused on one of them and replied to the same representative: “We’re from another galaxy…” Likely answering “Where’d you lot crawl from?” The council tilted their heads in unison and blinked. “From very afar,” the Prince clarified. “We travel between worlds, seeking those endangered by the Snake. What happened here?” Ah. Testing my story. Clever. But I had fed him the natives’ own beliefs. More blinking. “What’s a ‘snake’?” they chorused. Prince described my true form. Fox smirked at me. “Ah! Soil-wyrms!” one exclaimed. The others agreed: such creatures lived underground, but couldn’t speak, plot, or do much beyond being eaten. Exactly. This had been one of the few places where my real form had failed—here, I was perceived just as food and didn’t evoke any fear. Well, I just had changed tactics, and quite successfully. “And you,” the lead delegate turned to me, “why no help?” Finally. I was starting to worry they forgot about me. And thank darknessthe Geographer wasn’t holding the Rose anymore. “What use am I?” I shrugged. “I’d barely dent the planet’s trajectory. Besides… Honoured Geographer, as a specialist, surely you know: can jumping move a planet? Even in theory?” Flawless. He never resisted a query around science. “Hmm… Can a closed system’s part affect its absolute position without external leverage? In our galaxy, I’d say no. For a planet of this size to have such…” He hopped slightly. “…gravity, it’d need a hyperdense core. If your mass…” He clamped a council member (who stared, bewildered), strained to lift it. “…is around twenty kilogram, and there are approximately seventy of you… That approximates to one and a half 5 tonnes total. Your force would dissipate against the planet’s mass. Even a million of you might shift it centimetres—but you’d drift sunward, and attraction force of your total mass would reset the planet back. Frankly…” His “frankly” drowned in whistles, then outright hooting. One council bird stomped, beak inches from the Geographer’s face. “Scholar? You scholar?” it shrilled. Here we go. “Er, yes,” the Geographer tipped his hat. “Do you have astromechanics experts, too?” “We had! May soil-wyrms eat them!” the medium-sized, darker councilor spat. The crowd rumbled and turned towards them, as far as I discerned in the setting twilight. “And because of one scholar, now we roast or freeze! No peace all year around! Twice a year, we await doom! No more scholars! Never!” It lunged for the Geographer’s face. He recoiled by mere chance and toppled backward, just as the trio pounced to trample him, ignoring the Prince’s shout. Hunter’s rifle clicked empty (he had forgotten to reload after shooting at me). Beaks flashed down, but the Geographer vanished in a spark-cloud. Damn. Back to the notebook. Well, that was not bad, either: he, the only person capable of actually helping the planet, would be scared to get out now. Still a pity they hadn’t finished him. Seeing the Geographer escape to safety, the Prince halted, panting. The Businessman had ducked behind his suitcase, only his nose visible, as in any commotion. “Any more scholars among you?” the lead councilor rasped, scraping its beak on the ground. “Just him,” Fox said hastily, eyeing the unfriendly mob. Oddly, the crowd calmed, grooming each other. The council flopped down and looked rather benevolent already. But the Prince never knew when to shut up. “Why?” he cried. “He’s done nothing to you!” “Yet,” the larger councilor said. “And never will—to you or us.” “But he never did any harm, and has even helped us a lot in the past! He’s our friend!” “Then you’ve been lucky,” it bristled. “Learn why in your horror story night. Or… do you approve of scholars?” The crowd stilled. Eyes glinted crimson in the moon-shards’ light. We were surrounded. Even the Prince and the Hunter couldn’t fight this many. And they’ better realise it sooner than the locals scare the Businessman out of wits and into the Notebook—I needed him here and functional. “No, no,” the Fox backtracked, tail tucked. “We do not approve of the scholars who… muck things up.” Unfortunately, the Prince’s self-preservation instincts, unlike his sense of justice, were nonexistent. “But everyone errs,” he pleaded. “Some scholars do their calculation correctly and save lives! And when they err, they amend it. Everyone has a chance to redeem—” Here he goes. Why couldn’t he tuck his tongue for once! Need to interfere before he got killed. Just in case, I summoned gloomies mentally, the material for them was in abundance around—but no luck. Improvisation it was. “Perhaps later,” I called to the council. “Anger heats the blood and makes the climate worse. Share your chilling tale instead.” “Quite right,” the plumpest councillor smoothed its fur. “We’ll settle this later. Can’t send you off in the dark. You’ll leave at dawn.” The Prince hesitated, then retreated between me and the Rose. “Don’t provoke them,” I whispered. “They’re rabid on the topic. If not for us, do it for her.” The Rose peeked from under his arm, huffing. Yes, darling—I can play that game too, pulling the string of your safety. “Let the Night of Horror stories begin,” the darkest councillor intoned. “Must we?” the Fox whined. “Isn’t this already a nightmare around?” The crowd chirped, as was their form of laughter. The smallest councillor chuckled: “Honestly, like children… Don’t you know? A good horror story sends chills all over, which is perfect for a hot night.” “Ah,” the Prince said. “We’ve had our share of scrapes—” He glanced at me. “Could spin yarns till winter,” the Fox added. “Splendid!” the councillor said. “Do your stories end bad?” “No,” the Prince replied, puzzled. “We always save everyone. And I’m sure we’ll help you too—” “Then no,” the bird-fruit snapped. “Happy endings don’t chill.” “By my whiskers,” the Fox wondered. “What do you tell in the coldest night?” “On the coldest, shortest day,” the same chick piped up, “we tell love stories—for warmth!” “Hush!” the councillor screeched. “You’re too young for that.” “I know many unhappy endings,” I offered. “You shut it!” the Fox snarled, echoed by the Hunter, who, freshly reloaded, plopped between me and the Prince. Though he was rather leaning on his rifle, exhausted. That’s what you get for jumping like a fool. Well, opinion of my companions didn’t matter. More important was that the lead councillor eyed me and blinked. “You’re not a scholar, are you?” it creaked. That’s easy to counter. “No, I’m just a traveller. But I’ve met many scholars and agree with you that they are nothing but trouble.” “You rotter!” Fox yelped. “You’re one—” I didn’t have a chance to enjoy his compliments to the end: the councillor made an angry hoot, cutting him off. Then, abruptly, it spoke in a low and resonant voice. “Listen well, running K’ivi, to the grim tale of ancient days. Let it chill your sap anew, for it is the story of us all. And you, outsiders, heed it well, lest you repeat our mistakes. “Long ago, our ancestors suffered through long, morose winters and fleeting, sodden summers. The creeping vines barely had time to bloom. Ourobservant ancestors, the first scholars, had long established that our world circles around the sun.But five generations past, Nyun To devised a way to change the course of our world to bring us closer to the sun’s warmth. He came up with a machine for it. And he convinced our chieftain that the machine would work—for alone, he could never have weaved it. But the price was high: our kin-vines had to give their lives…” Fox pricked up his ears. “Your kin? You nest in them, or what?” Voices rustled behind him: “They are our parents. And you—from what bush did you hatch?” A smaller councillor piped up: “Outsiders look nothing like us K’ivi. Your kind must breed differently. When two K’ivi love deeply enough to create new life, they each choose a flower from their heart-vine, straighten the tendrils, and make the blooms join. The flowers grow together, form a bud, and a kiwi chick hatches from the fruit in due time.” Hunter whistled. “So that’s why the tunnels smelled of nothing but vines! It’s your scent, too!” “Exactly,” the larger councillor nodded. “Cut a living vine, and it hardens into a spring while its flowers and leaves get hard like stone. No running K’ivi will ever be born from such a flower. Yet Nyun To convinced the chieftain and everyone else that instead of the ruined vines, new ones would sprout in the warmth, that families would not long be childless. So they built the machine—a great spring to push our world off from the moon rock closer to the sun. But…” He paused. The natives’ eyes gleamed in the dim light; some sniffled. A snore rasped from Hunter’s direction. What, is my left flank unguarded? I leaned casually on my left arm, inching toward potential loot while the familiar story dragged on. This way, I was also screening the Hunter so that the Prince wouldn’t think of waking sorry excuse for a guard. “…The machine failed. It shattered the moon and hurled us too far. Now we bake in summer, freeze in winter, and the vines struggle. Our numbers dwindle. The K’ivi who greeted you is our only hatchling in three years. We jump to shift the planet, but each year the weather grows worse, and the year grows longer. If you know how to help, we’ll take any aid. But no more scholars! We’ve had enough.” Prince scratched his nose. “We could move you to another world. But the vines… they’re too large.” Rose, ever the meddler, chimed in: “Couldn’t, what’s his name, Nyu… fix it?” Another one with no sense of survival. The councillor grimaced. “Nyun To never got the chance. When the first buds withered in the heat, the chieftain declared him a pest. They pecked him to death.” Rose hid behind her leaves in horror. The Prince clenched his fists. “You didn’t even let him—” “Not tonight,” the middle councillor cut in. “Tonight is for tales of despair, not debate. Dark outsider,” he suddenly addressed me, “you said you know many stories without happy endings. Your turn. All our tales are the same, and when you hear a story for the first time, the chill is stronger.” Damn its timing. I had hoped they’d ramble longer and give me time to fish through the Hunter’s gamebag. Only a few cartridges had migrated into my pocket so far. I slid away from the prey as smoothly as I could, but the Prince still noticed my manoeuvre and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Which planet shall I recall to scare the natives properly and distract the Prince, damn him? Although… A perfect chance to bite while I’m allowed—and even asked to. Let one problem solve the other. “Very well,” Isat up straight, scanning the crowd. “A story about scholars who never err. Once, there was a planet… well, a world far larger than yours. Two billion sentient beings—that’s… you know what a thousand is? Right, and a billion is a thousand thousand thousands. And still plenty of free space left. One hundred and eleven chiefs of all sorts, nine hundred thousand businessmen, and countless mindless wildlife.” “Earth?!” the Prince gasped and stared at me even harder. Yes, please pay attention, this is for you. “Nonsense, that can’t exist!” someone behind the advisers whistled. Naturally, hard to believe for those who had spent generations diligently eradicating science. “Oh, it’s real. Our Fox here is from Earth.” I jabbed a finger at him. He stiffened. “It’s true,” Fox muttered without his usual cheek. “I’m from Earth, and it really is vast. Hundreds of thousands like me. So what?” “So nothing. But when so many minds gather, they invent all sorts of devices… flying machines, for one. One such machine failed mid-flight. Well, it happens. Someone made a mistake, either the one who designed it, or serviced it, or flew it. And it fell into a desert—a place where no one lives at all. Walk for forty days and around you see only sand and heat, like your place now. The Pilot—that’s what those who commanded such machines were called—got scared he’d die of thirst and tried to fix his machine. And suddenly, out of nowhere, a child appeared.” “But it ended well!”the Prince burst out. He recognised the story of course. “The pilot lived—” The natives hissed at him. “You only know your part,” I smiled. “So, the Pilot and the boy spent seven days together, befriended each other, and when the Pilot ran out of water, the boy led him to a well. With new strength and hope, the Pilot repaired the machine and flew on where he was supposed to.” “And the boy with the fox-friend returned home too, though not in the nicest way,” the Fox yawned. “What’s the problem?” “The problem was,” I said, glancing briefly at the Prince, “what that flying machine was carrying. Among others, the planet also had seven thousand scholars, who understood everything in the world: mountains, seas, herbs and worms, stars, stones and water… How everything works, how to make or break anything. And so, to scare their neighbours, the scholars of one tribe devised a weapon capable of turning whole chunks of the world into dust or destroying the world entirely. ‘Obey us, or you won’t exist.’ Naturally the others didn’t like that, but their scholars couldn’t invent such a weapon quickly, so they did something simpler. They stole it from the first lot. And sent the descriptions to their own via that flying machine. And when a few years later a world-wide fight began on Earth, the weapon was ready, and the losers weren’t afraid to use it. A flash, a crash—and the planet shatters into poisoned fragments. Much like your moon. That’s how scholars, pilots and boys can bring about the end of the world, even with the best intentions, if they don’t see the whole picture. Had the Pilot died there in the desert, the world would have lasted a hundred years longer.” “Lies!” Prince shot up, alarming the natives. The Pilot spoke to me later, I heard his voice, so he’s alive and the Earth is safe!” “And where did you hear him?” “On the radio in a dream back home, when you thought I wouldn’t escape the volcano. On the radio when you thought I’d fall asleep forever on your planet! On the radio of the plane he sent me.” Ah, well, pathetic argument. Easily crushed. Pity it woke the Hunter. “In a dream, in other words. Just a voice, which could be your imagination. And you pull entire objects out of your imagination, don’t you? And even if it wasn’t imagined, what if the voice was all that’s left of him?” He paled. The moon-shards’ light barely sufficed, but I felt: the blow hit. I almost saw the shadows of rising gloom behind him. Almost. Nothing answered from the darkness between the stars and tunnels to my call. Nothing left but to savour the tiny, consequence-free victory. And I did, as far as I could see his reaction in the half-dark. Shock turned into confusion, his fists unclenched, one hand leapt to his throat as if he were choking. Well, it was stifling, even for me. “It shouldn’t be like this!” he hissed loudly. “When I trapped you in the notebook and your planet fell apart, all the worlds poisoned by you returned to their places! Earth should’ve returned too.” “Not quite. The half-digested worlds were freed—the ones still decomposing into despair and illusion. Those fully decayed and those broken physically, like Earth, will never return. They no longer exist in any sense.” “You’re lying!” Fox spoke from behind him. “Ask the Geographer,” I shot back, “when he gathers the courage to come out. Ask him about dark matter, how much of it is in the universe. He’ll tell you it’s five or six times more than ordinary matter, and I’ll add that dark matter is, hmm… the mass of worlds erased by me, crossed out of the universe. They cannot be seen, heard or felt any longer. To put it simple: for every bunch of planets spinning, I’ve already wiped out five or six bunches of the same weight. Or ask him about dark energy, that’s fun too.” “Impossible! I always defeated you…” “But we only clashed recently, and before that no one hindered me for a very long time. And you only got in the way in one galaxy; in the others everything went to plan. So I’m ahead of you not by one step, but thousands, and can safely hand over these leftovers. Even if you manage to save them, you still lose.” “Liar!” the Fox stuck to the same phrase again. “You can’t return to check, can you?” “No, I can check,” the Prince insisted, then stood up and began squeezing between the fruit-birds towards the nearest tunnel shadow, apologising on the way. They grumbled but calmed down and sprawled on the ground again. “A chilling tale!” the smaller councillor shuddered all over. “Yes, we understand. Everyone makes mistakes, but scholars and rulers make them so big that everyone suffers. That’s why since then we don’t have one leader, but a council, to think between three beaks and forestall such mistakes again. But it’s too late. Right, next let Fyo Li tell the tale Let Fyo Li speak next—of the forbidden love between Tyu and Liif…” As the next storyteller began, I turned to the Rose—only for the Fox to block me, teeth bared. “Try it,” he growled, “and I’ll take a bite out of you.” “Fox!” Rose scolded him in a loud whisper. “Go to my prince. He needs you now,” she added when the Fox stayed put, baffled. “I’d go myself, but I don’t have paws.” The Fox glanced back at me, flattened one ear. “Don’t worry, pal,” the Hunter rasped behind my back. “I’ll keep an eye on this one.” And he yawned loudly. To cover the slip, he poked me in the back with his gun barrel. “And I’ll watch too!” The Businessman finally crawled out from behind his suitcase and took the Prince’s place. The Fox flattened his other ear, hesitated for a couple of seconds, and then darted toward the tunnels straight across the natives. Oh for—! He’ll cheer the Prince up, comfort him, find the right words. If I recalled correctly, the Fox had always been the antidote against me: on B612, when I kidnapped the Rose; on X000, when the Prince believed it was impossible to defeat me. Perhaps even the very first time, returning to B612 from Earth with my help, he shook off his despair because the Fox was with him. I should catch up, interfere—but of course they wouldn’t let me. The Hunter really meant it about watching me without blinking. Had rested already well, apparently. The Businessman stared from the other side, nose lifted, with a smug little smile. Fine. Time for a bit more insurance against the planet being saved while the Prince is away. “And why are you sitting here when your market’s right in front of you?” I leaned slightly towards the Businessman. “I promised you new clients, didn’t I? So I kept my word.” “Yes,” he said, looking around at the furry lumps with eyes all around him, “I’ve been thinking. So much to offer in this heat… Fans, mint sweets, dry ice. And warming plasters, matches, woollen socks for the cold season. But there’s one tiny problem. What should I take in return? These, what are they, kivis, have no jewellery, no pockets with wallets, and I can’t haul off a whole vine. What if they’re poisonous? Can’t give away useful goods for free, can I?” “I agree, free is not good business,” I nodded thoughtfully. “Let me think… Ah, yes. The flowers of cut vines harden; they become lovely decorative pieces, almost like gemstones. You can ask for them in exchange for goods.” And vital to their broken machine. He scratched his head, grunted “ah, not my turn,” and crawled back to his suitcase, then, with suitcase and all, into the crowd of natives. “What a parasite,” the Hunter muttered beside me, unclear whom he meant. Whatever. The main thing was half a step of empty space to the Rose. I winked at her, earning an indignant, almost feline hiss: “Look all you want. But I won’t speak to you.” “Pity. I’d like to ask—” The Hunter yanked my collar hard enough to nearly choke. “The lady said quiet.” In the silence (yet another story must’ve ended), his words echoed across the whole glade. And the middle councillor intruded suavely into the pause. “Outsider with the long head” (lovely way to describe the Hunter and his hat), “this is our home, actually. And we decide who shuts up and who speaks. Dark outsider, tell us something else.” Ah blast you.Well, nice of him to shut down the Hunter, but I hoped they had had enough, and right now I needed to have a small bite of the Rose, to start hammering wedges between her and the Prince, not entertain the stupid fruit. Though… Perhaps I could combine pleasure and utility again? Dig up a story that would also serve as a hint for her. I sifted fast through my past experiences. Which one had the right subtext? Something the Rose would see parallels in? No, memory supplied events but so slow. And I couldn’t slip into subspace to stop time. And the natives are waiting, silence stretching… I’d have to compose a tale with a hint from scratch. And quickly, for the fruit-birds were already fidgeting with impatience. “Yes, sure, let me pick a stronger example… Ah, here. On a tiny planet, even smaller than yours, there once lived a princess…” No, they wouldn’t get that, their genders were complicated and hierarchy was simple. “A chief’s child. And she was courted by a loyal friend and protector. I should say, they were rather like us,” I pointed at my chest, then at the Hunter. “Because while she was little, she couldn’t walk, gather food—nothing at all, only ask to bring water, put up a wind-screen, stay close. And the protector fulfilled all her whims. He loved her. And she loved him, though she never admitted it to anyone. But she still feared he might walk away any moment simply because he could walk and loved to look into distance.” I glanced at the Rose. She turned away, folding her leaves. Pretending to sulk and not listen. Of course. “So she devised a trick. She decided not to grow, not to learn to walk, to remain a helpless child, do nothing, and thus keep the protector afraid to step away from her: if not out of love, then at least from pity or guilt that she wouldn’t survive without him. She only learnt to write letters, to send the protector requests when he wandered too far. All her relatives in other lands ran around, built homes, tended their chores, and only she never moved unless the protector carried her. And it all seemed to go just as she wanted. The protector loved travelling to other worlds and even left once, but guilt tortured him and he returned, though at great cost. But each day he gazed at the sunset with increasing longing. So the princess allowed him to set off again — only with her in his arms. She weighed little, since she didn’t grow, and he easily carried her with one arm. Only it was inconvenient. Like you jumping on one leg. And one day on a mountain path… (those are enormous stones sticking out of the ground) a small rock rolled from under the protector’s foot and he slipped off the path, barely managing to grab the edge with one hand. Had he been alone, he’d have pulled himself up, escaped with mild fright. But he could not let go of the princess, nor climb, and no one was there to hear them cry out. She tried holding on herself, but her hands weren’t used to effort. Eventually the protector tired and they both fell. Yes, her plan succeeded, she bound her beloved to herself for a lifetime. Only that life ended far too quickly because of her selfishness and jealousy.” I fell silent. Not a sound around, until the Hunter sniffled. The story came out mediocre. Never mind, at least they wouldn’t beg for more tales. And the main target? The Rose had turned to me, all indignant, repeatedly trying to say something yet not daring to break the silence. And once the next storyteller took over, she hissed loudly at once: “None of that is true! I didn’t mean it! How was I supposed to know that I… that my relatives could walk and wave spears? So don’t you think I’m taking your digs to heart!” “Oh really?” I raised a brow. The Hunter tried to scold me, but I shrugged—the lady addressed me first, right? “So you’ve never said or done anything to press on the Prince’s conscience? Even the original you?” She froze for a second, then turned away without a word. So I hit the mark. One strike landed. The second should too; she was clever, she’d understand it all properly. Okay, I did all I could for the day; time to rest from my not-so-righteous labours. And if I pretend to sleep, the natives wouldn’t force me to entertain them again. “Well then, good night, my Rose,” I couldn’t resist the final touch and curled on my side on the free patch next to her. Just a furious exclamation came in reply. After who-knows-how-long—I had actually fallen asleep—there was shuffling and whispers nearby, Fox’s grumbling. Fine, I should check on the injured party. The moon-shards were already setting, and in their light the Prince’s eyes glinted suspiciously. Yes, the day hadn’t been wasted. “Well, any answers?” I asked first. He only twitched his shoulder and flopped down beside me. For a second I feared he’d punch me. But he pulled himself together and simply hit the ground beside my head. “You won’t win here!” Everything fell silent again. Time was on my side.