The Roots (Pt. 5)

(The author is on break until the 31st! I am muchly looking forwards to some time off to recharge.)

They fell for what felt like an age, compressed into a second. And as they fell, Mrsha heard a question in her head. It was in Rags’ eyes as the Goblin Chieftain leapt down, not fearless, but brave.

Why her?

Why a Goblin?

It wasn’t just because Rags was the person Mrsha had seen in the doors. The girl had realized, when she’d escaped the [Palace of Fates], that she could have told anyone.

Lyonette. Ishkr. Nanette. Saliss. Valeterisa, Krshia—heck, she’d even considered Teriarch and Magnolia, if she could have gotten ahold of them.

Mrsha was sure that any of them would have had a use for this place. So why Rags? The answer was simple:

Other people could find a use for this place. They would have splendidly intelligent or cunning ideas of how to use the power to see fates. Doubtless, they’d tell Mrsha she was very smart for coming to them, take the [Palace of Fates], and do something important with it.

…None of them needed this place. Goblins did. In Lyonette’s good, earnest concern for the inn and everyone in it, she’d warn Rags about the future and do her best, Mrsha was sure. But it was Goblins who kept dying.

Mrsha had a strange relationship with Goblins. It was like Durene’s, in a way. Mrsha had once heard Durene say that she hadn’t forgiven Goblins for attacking Riverfarm and killing her friends. She just didn’t try to murder them.

Erin had once said the same thing to Mrsha after Mrsha had tried to kill Badarrow. You don’t have to forgive them. But ‘them’ was not the five Redfangs. It had taken Mrsha a long time to get that, and when she had…it had been too late. She wished she had understood what Erin meant and had more time with Headscratcher and Shorthilt.

So, why Rags? Mrsha landed on the floor on all fours, and Rags stumbled and looked back up. The girl got onto her feet and spread her arms out.

She didn’t know Rags that well. But Mrsha didn’t want to add her to the gravestones that she tended to every day.

Make sure no one we love dies.

If the Goblin hadn’t come out of the darkness, Mrsha would have run to Magnolia Reinhart and traded her access to the [Palace of Fates] for her help saving Rags’ tribe. Or Archmage Valeterisa.

“…Huh.”

The Goblin slowly turned on her heel, and the hallway stretched forever in each direction. A door made of rushing waters stood across from one that someone had painted a suspicious smiley-face on. Mrsha saw a mirror of a brown Gnoll girl rolling around in the grass.

As Rags stepped forwards, Mrsha saw a little Goblin, dirty and unkempt, picking up a blue fruit and staring at it hungrily before an older Goblin with a huge tuft of black hair sticking straight up slapped it out of her hands.

Rags noticed what Mrsha was peering at and turned her head. She didn’t take another step, just hovered there, stock-still, eyes wide, face blank, as she saw the older Goblin lecturing the little Rags.

The image changed; Rags skulked by a familiar little stream bank as she studied two blue fruits, cut open, trying to figure out why one was good to eat and the other was bad. Mrsha assumed it was years ago—until her jaw dropped.

From the door’s viewpoint, she saw a brown-haired girl poking her head out of the tall grass and watching Rags, hiding from the Goblins collecting blue fruits. The brown-haired girl seemed far more nervous and uncertain, and she had a silly striped t-shirt and healing burns on one arm—but it was definitely Erin.

Rags stared at the image of her past life, reflected in the mirror, and exhaled.

“She was watching me? I never knew that.”

The little Rags finally figured out how to tell good blue fruits from bad and leapt to her feet in delight, running after the older Goblins, who grumbled at her. Erin lifted her head, squinting at the blue fruits with a huge frown on her face. Chieftain Rags watched the group of older Goblins, especially two of them, without emotion on her face.

When she addressed Mrsha, her voice was flat, like someone scraping a blade clean of imperfections.

“So that’s what this place is. It fits Erin.”

She should never come here. It’s a terrible place. Made of sadness.

Mrsha held up a card, and Rags started walking. Her voice was amused as she raised her head and gazed at a chandelier of crystals studded with candles glowing without flames.

“Sadness. The greatest things that Erin has ever done are made of sadness and loss. She takes grief and turns it into a weapon, into fire. Let her come here. She would use this place to break real palaces into pieces. So this is a Level 70 Skill.”

Mrsha hurried after Rags, nodding and adding details. She’d explained all she knew, but that was a far cry from the reality of this place. Rags halted.

“Gravity feels real. You said you had water from here. Is it good?”

A good question. Mrsha pulled out her water flask and handed it to Rags. She hadn’t felt thirsty; the Goblin poured the water out, feeling it on her hands. Then she produced a spark of flames and doused it. The puddle of water mixed with the dirt fallen from the broken ceiling, and Mrsha felt like this wasn’t a good thing.

This was an important place. However, Rags just ran her boot through the mud and nodded.

“Feels real. The hallways change, which implies there might not be fixed spaces. But you can find your way back to places you’ve been?”

Mrsha nodded and concentrated. The hallways shifted around the two of them, blurring at great speed, and Rags saw one of the doors that Mrsha had put a note on.

“Huge amounts of space. Perhaps there’s a limit on who can enter. If you can’t generate food, there’s a limit. Why didn’t the original owner—Sheta—use this as a home? Unlimited water is enough, unless there’s a finite limit per day.”

Mrsha goggled at Rags. The Goblin was not approaching this place like Mrsha thought she would.

The main thing is the doors. That show you other fates. Other timelines.

She pulled one open by the handle, but Rags shook her head.

“That’s one of the obvious features. Erin proved the [Gardens of Sanctuary] can be used as weapons as well as transformed. If this place is safe and secure, I’d move my entire tribe into it.”

She glanced around, and Mrsha was struck by the thought. A secret palace within the [Garden of Sanctuary]? That would be one of the most secure places in the world. Heck…why were they building a new inn if they had this?

True, the shifting and unreal architecture wasn’t exactly what Mrsha thought conducive to having a beer, but it was an option! However, before Rags trod down that path, Mrsha raised a card.

It’s not totally safe. One of me got killed here. I’m not sure if that was only that timeline or what. And another one thought someone was watching her. Maybe even Empress Sheta.

Rags’ hand fell to her sword hilt, then she let go with a wry expression. She was still dirty and smelled—well, Mrsha didn’t want to be rude, but she’d smelled nicer things from Liscor’s sewers. Whatever Rags had run into in the realm of the Trolls made Mrsha so sick she kept blocking her nose whenever Rags wasn’t looking at her.

“Great. If there is something here, neither you nor I can kill it. This is a Level 70 Skill, if your hypothesis is right. It almost feels…weak for a Level 70 Skill?”

Unlimited free real estate and water is weak? Seeing other realities is weak?

Mrsha held up a card on behalf of the [Palace of Fates], and Rags murmured.

“Have you ever seen a Level 70 Skill, Mrsha? Don’t answer that. The King of Destruction’s famous [Army of the King] is a Level 50 Skill. Erin’s box of unlimited gold? Level 50. Saliss can turn off damage for allies—Level 50. The only beings on this level or higher would be the Death of Magic or Zeladona.”

The [Archmage] who’d overrun 5th Wall in Rhir and the [Blademistress] who’d cut the sky by looking at it. Mrsha shivered.

Seeing other fates sounds pretty powerful to me. That’s how I knew you were in trouble.

“Maybe. Fine. Let’s look at this.”

Rags stumped over to the door, then put her claw on it and exhaled.

“…Thank you for warning me. I just don’t believe it. And I can’t understand, even with the Faerie Flowers…”

She glanced at Mrsha’s face and then away, and Mrsha heard the unsaid part.

Why you? The Gnoll got it. She didn’t feel like she belonged here either. However, she just wrote on a card and held it up.

I won’t tell anyone else, Chieftain Rags, I promise. I’d like to tell my family, but I think this place might hurt them. It’s dangerous if anyone finds out. I called for you because your tribe’s in great danger. If you can figure out what this place does, that’d be the first step.

Rags’ crimson eyes appraised Mrsha, and she blinked a few times. Then nodded her head.

“True. Thank you—again. Okay. This door says…‘if Rags was searching for me, but can’t get into the palace?’ Hm. Anything I need to know before looking at it?”

It’s pretty weird. You get, like, an understanding of what’s going on in your head. It doesn’t hurt when you see someone getting hurt, but you live in their heads a bit. Um—the Faerie Flowers are just marigolds, and Ryoka’s ‘Ryoko’, and there are no fae or dead gods—

“You said. Why?”

Mrsha just shrugged. Rags scratched at her chin.

“Some things must be beyond even this Skill. Okay, I’ll check this door out. You do two things for me. Start a timer. Do you have an hourglass? Nevermind, I’ll cast a timekeeping spell. Next, I want you to go back to the inn. Make up an excuse for us so we aren’t missed. You said your mother can sense where we are? We need convenient excuses to not be here. Go to the Goblins and…hm. Let me write up a note giving them orders. I’ll have them go elsewhere. I can even get a body double.”

She gave orders rapidly, and Mrsha nodded a few times. Rags was being bossy, but she had good ideas. The Gnoll girl tilted her head.

You have body doubles?

“It used to be easier. Any small Goblin would do. Here. Get this to one of them. They’ll know it’s from me.”

Mrsha saluted.

Yes, Chieftain! And I’ll keep away from the Drake with yellow-green scales! He’s the one to watch.

Rags’ glower was suspicious, as if she thought Mrsha wasn’t taking this seriously. Mrsha was; she just felt like someone had to be a bit silly or she’d panic.

“You said that Drake was dangerous and might find the box or this place. Why? Who is he?”

Dunno. I think he reports to 2nd Army. Some kind of spy. Most realities have the Thronebearers or Ishkr beating him if he tries anything.

“Huh. Which doors show Shirka…killing me?”

Mrsha hesitated, then pointed two out. Rags nodded. She put a clawed hand on the door and thrust it open. A spectral hourglass tinkled down grains of sand as Mrsha stood there, seeing the reality replaying the same scene she remembered.

Strange. Does it reset for new people? Or could I pick up where I left off?

The door flickered, and suddenly, Mrsha saw another Rags—

——

“—if she is where I think she is, she should have not brought weapons. She can’t even harm them—but if she did—does she have that kind of weapon?”

Taletevirion was speaking to Demsleth, who was leaning on a staff.

“She had Elia Arcsinger with her and a high-level [Assassin]. Are we able to negotiate, Taletevirion? Should I prepare gifts? It’s been a long time since I negotiated with the trees.”

“Negotiate? Gifts? They’re dead, Teriarch! They’re dead, and that Skill should have been long-buried. If that Veltras boy rediscovered it…something woke them up. The wand. Damn, damn, damn—she’s probably dead—”

——

Rags jerked back from the door as the timeline continued. She whirled, and Mrsha raised her paws.

Sorry! That comes later! I’ll reset it!

The door flickered back, and Rags took a breath.

“—You have control of this place. We’ll come back to that. Go. I’ll…”

She turned back to the door, and Mrsha jogged back to the hole in the ceiling. So she did have authority over this place! It was just that she didn’t feel in control.

She felt like someone was watching her. Mrsha looked right and left, but she didn’t see any telltale shadows. It wasn’t an ominous feeling, just creepy. The two might feel the same to other people, but Mrsha had experienced enough life-or-death moments that she only woke up screaming about real horrors, thank you. Dreams of Crelers eating her alive or Belavierr peeking through the doorway.

It was the work of a few seconds to climb the actual rope that Mrsha had secured to the [Garden of Sanctuary] and exit via the door. She reflected a ladder would be even better, but smuggling one in here would be hard. As Rags said, secrecy mattered.

——

“Mrsha, where’s Chieftain Rags?”

I think she had something to do with Goblinhome, Mother. I’m going to try and show her the [World’s Eye Theatre] when I find her. Is that okay?

Lyonette was thankfully distracted this evening. She turned from a table where she was sitting with Krshia, Lism, Elirr, Raekea, and Alonna of all people.

“That’s very fine. Just don’t bother her. Now, where were we, Councilmembers?”

Lism coughed, seeming very unsettled, which was good in Mrsha’s opinion.

“You, uh, wished to invest in Liscor in amounts that I would frankly deem insane? Which Wall Lord did you strongarm for this? Is it Khelt? We’re trying to limit foreign investments—”

“All from The Wandering Inn, Councilmember Lism.”

“No, you can’t just say that. How much gold? Listen, it’s not a matter of outbidding the competition. With those eggheaded fools calling for a snap election and regular citizens getting outpriced, the last thing we need is for The Wandering Inn to outbid regular people.”

“Why, Councilmember? Would that inconvenience the city? We’ve moved the inn far enough away not to ‘endanger’ anyone, and Rheirgest has also left Liscor’s zone of control.”

The Councilmembers shifted as Lyonette gave them a smile laced with arsenic, and Mrsha wouldn’t have traded places with them for all the gold in the world. Lism coughed as Elirr opened his mouth.

“We deserve that. But let me just say the Council is hugely sympathetic to how things went down, Miss Lyonette. Er…alright. The thing is, you can’t just buy all the available lots.”

“…Why?”

“I don’t know, but I feel like this is a problem! Krshia, say something!”

The Gnoll croaked as she eyed the sheet in front of her.

“How much gold is it again?”

——

Good, Mother was well and truly distracted. Mrsha handed one of the Goblins the piece of parchment and saw them sit up, glance at the Drake spy, and then nod at Mrsha.

“We good. You go. Tell Chieftain that Redscar here by midnight. Ready to kill things.”

Mrsha nodded, hoping that killing was not on the immediate to-do list. She was just about to sneak back to the [Garden of Sanctuary] when the last dangerous person in the inn caught her.

Of the people who’d notice Mrsha, she had Lyonette, Dame Ushar, Ishkr, and maybe Bird or Numbtongue on the list. But the latter two were gone, Ushar was with Lyonette, and Ishkr was waiting tables. Unfortunately, Mrsha had forgotten the last person who should have been on the list. But she was almost always on Mrsha’s side:

Nanette.

“Mrsha, where are you going? You’ve been odd all afternoon. Don’t you care about the wand?”

The young [Witch] had a baseball cap on and seemed mad. She and Lyonette had been clashing all day, and Mrsha realized she was acting suspicious to Nanette.

I’m trying to make friends with Rags, Nanette. She hates my guts, but I think I can win her over.

“Chieftain Rags? Where is she?”

Nanette searched around, and Mrsha lied.

Pooing. Listen, I’ll be right with you on the wand thing tomorrow! Promise! But she’s almost never here…what if you took a break until Lyonette stops watching your every move? You can’t beat Ushar and Dalimont. Let alone Colfa.

That was true, at least. The three guardians of the inn were all amazing anti-child specialists. Colfa had happily demonstrated that she could get on the children’s level; she was sort of cool, and the Thronebearers were, as usual, masters of anything that didn’t involve fighting.

Nanette blew out her cheeks.

“I can tell you’re up to something. Fine. Just clue me in on whatever it is sooner rather than later? I’m going to try to help Archmage Valeterisa set up the magic academy. She thinks she’s found a good spot.”

Okay, cool. Tell her to stop being gross with Relc. He’s too good for her.

Nanette opened her mouth and then saw Mrsha hurry away. The Gnoll girl tried to keep calm and carry on like nothing was strange. In truth, nothing was crazy. She’d just told Rags about the [Palace of Fates]. If she’d changed destiny, it wasn’t in any big ways yet, but it did prove the Skill’s use.

…Mrsha just felt like she was missing something. But having established a cover story for most of the night, she finally had time to explore that damn palace without feeling the need to escape, and with Rags at her side. Mrsha only paused to bribe Asgra to cover for her in case Lyonette noticed she was absent. She’d have to check back now and then to make sure she wasn’t being missed.

——

Rags had come to one major discovery and had germinated a hypothesis on features of the [Palace of Fates] by the time Mrsha returned.

Frankly, after all the damn despair and dread for the future, this was a delight. It still rankled her that Mrsha was the beneficiary of this strange miracle, though. Nevermind the flowers, it was always her.

Damn luck Gnolls. No wonder people didn’t like them.

Mrsha came tumbling back down into the [Palace of Fates] with reassurances everything was ‘cool’. Rags tried not to glare or snap at her; she’d just seen three realities where she died, and she was a bit rattled, but someone had to be the adult here.

“There’s a time-dilation effect on the doors. I went through three days of alternate-me looking for you, and it took barely ten minutes. Same for the other realities; we can view these doors faster. Time’s the same as long as we’re not looking through a door.”

Whoa, really? It explains why I felt like I was searching through the doors forever and I still got back in time for dinner! That’s huge! Notice anything else?

Rags nodded. She glanced over her shoulder.

“I recognized the Old One that slaughtered its way into Goblinhome. It’s the same as the pieces in the Trolls’ homes.”

Which means it killed them all. And me. And it will build a throne out of everyone’s corpses if I don’t stop it.

More pressure, great. At least she knew now it was a threat beyond reason. Just as she knew 2nd Army was coming at Goblinhome. And the Kraken Eaters.

Rags wanted to throw up, but she didn’t have time for that. Her mind was trying to conceive a way to turn the three groups into adversaries for each other. That was how to survive. She had to do it. She had to…

“First! We need to know how close Goblinhome’s demise is.”

Rags made Mrsha jump with her half-shout. Rags spun on her heel.

“You said you could find different doors, Mrsha. I tried, but it must be the same rules as the garden; you might be able to give me control. Try something now. I want you to find every reality where Goblinhome or my tribe is destroyed in the next three days.”

Mrsha blinked. Her eyes opened wide, and she smacked a fist into her paw. She closed her eyes, concentrated, and Rags saw the entire hallway blur as doors rearranged themselves. When she could see clearly again, she was in a small amphitheater with six doors, a clear-blue sky above. It had vaguely Grecian architecture, though only Mrsha had a reference for that from movies and images of Earth.

“Is that it? Among all the futures?”

Rags walked down the stone stairs, past white marble pillars, as Mrsha craned her head up.

I think it’s the six most likely. There’s probably infinite other futures where something bad happens.

“What makes you think that?”

Mrsha slowly pointed up, and Rags’ head rose. Above the amphitheater was a walkway and a second amphitheater, suspended on an island of dirt. It had more doors. And above that amphitheater was another and another and…

“Ah.”

There was nothing for it but to investigate these doors. One check of the first one confirmed Rags’ hypothesis.

——

Lundas.

A gigantic arm tore out of a cave as Goblins opened fire. It crawled upwards as Rags shouted for Redscar to hold, hold—she was cursing as she told the Trolls equipped with speaking stones to keep the other parts from reaching the surface.

How the hell had they come upwards so fast? It had been a fluke that allowed them to dodge the Trolls’ traps and always find the right tunnel upwards. But once they’d sensed the open daylight, the body parts had all begun heading out of the Trolls’ lair…

“Chieftain! The head is coming! It—”

She heard a scream from below and winced. Rags shouted into the stone.

“Which tunnel is it? How far? Hello? H—”

She was holding the stone up to her ear when a voice spoke through it, shouting a single word into Rags’ ear.

“Death.”

The Chieftain dropped without a sound, blood running from her ears as Goblins collapsed around her. Redscar whirled as his own speaking stone pulsed.

“Chieftain? Wh—”

——

Rags yanked herself back and nearly ripped the speaking stone out of its wire holder on her ear before she caught herself.

Note to self: you can be killed like that. Word-ear-death, as Goblins would say it. The first time she’d actually seen a death like that. She took a few shuddering breaths. However, it was clear that it had been a real fluke that allowed the Old One to reach the surface.

Mrsha closed another door as Rags turned. She rubbed at her face, and Rags spoke.

“What’s that one…?”

Crazy. Some Drake [General] goes nuts and orders Pallass to bombard Goblinhome because he’s stupid. Good news? 2nd Army refuses to keep marching. Bad news? You lose Goblinhome, but a lot of Goblins get out.

“Huh.”

These were unlikely scenarios. The other four doors contained, in order:

-An earthquake of unprecedented magnitude.

-The Wyvern Lord and Teriarch getting into a massive fight that hit Goblinhome.

-Goblins and Antinium getting into petty arguments that somehow turned into a full-blown war where Xrn attacked Goblinhome.

-Another earthquake, this time higher up, that buried Goblinhome.

The doors of the higher amphitheaters were even crazier. Mrsha did her ‘invert gravity’ trick to fly upwards; Rags just asked her to make a staircase and walked up to the second level of the amphitheater.

In one of those realities, Archmage Valeterisa and Relc broke up, and the distraught Archmage began bombing the High Passes with Tier 6 spells indiscriminately.

When Rags and Mrsha tried a door on an amphitheater six ‘stories’ up, they found—

——

“Ho, ho, ho!”

It was snowing in the High Passes, and Teriarch in the guise of Demsleth was striding through Goblinhome, handing out Relic-class objects. He’d gotten it in his head to divest himself of his hoard and was handing out ‘toys’ to ‘good little girls and boys’, which he was determining via a complex set of morality and truth spells.

One of the Goblin children peered at a giant spell scroll and began picking at the wax seal as Rags tried to argue the relative merits of being a Chieftain with the Dragonl—

——

Rags and Mrsha closed the door as the explosion turned everything white. It didn’t affect the two of them, but the blinding light made Rags feel as though it should have ruffled her hair.

“Hm. Realities further away seem to be crazier and crazier. Less probable. What I think we’ve learned is that you can sort realities by time scale as well as everything else. Which means we have at least three days before any of Goblinhome’s fates are likely to come through. It won’t be hard to establish a minimum time for each event. Which means we can estimate how close 2nd Army is as well as the Old One and the Kraken Eaters.”

Rags smiled to herself, pleased as always when a hypothesis bore fruit. She gave Mrsha an arch look. This was the first thing the girl should have done rather than run to her to send a message! She expected Mrsha to goggle at her or say something inane, but the Gnoll just scribbled on a card.

It was a great idea, Rags. I should have thought of that. What else should we check for, do you think?

Rags hesitated. Then she coughed into one fist.

“—Let’s get every reality where 2nd Army attacks and find the date on each one. Okay? Then we can see how many realities have Goblinhome winning against each threat.”

And at what cost.

——

The next hour or so had Mrsha and Rags walking from door to door in different settings, opening them, scribbling down in a spreadsheet, and then coming back to compare data. Their results were straightforwards, proved the power of this place, and dismaying.

2nd Army — Average 6 days, minimum 3, maximum 14.

Old One — Average 5 days, minimum 1, maximum 49.

Kraken Eaters — Average 8 days, minimum 4, maximum 20.

They were rough estimates and didn’t include futures where the threats didn’t actually get to Goblinhome, and the scenarios where they reached Goblinhome before that were unlikely.

Even so…it was too quick. Rags swallowed as Mrsha gave her a grave look.

“Five days is enough time. Let’s…let’s look for futures where we win.”

That was, after all, the point, right? Rags walked to the first door and opened it; it had bright, brass framework, and she felt like she knew the moment she opened it what she’d find…

——

The Dragonlord of Flames waited until the screaming had stopped and swept the dead titan’s head with purple flames twice more before he was satisfied. Then he whirled away the ashes as he spoke.

“Putrid. Dulat, make sure your people stay away from any remains. Now that the principal body is gone, they will not keep regenerating…but plague and lesser monsters may well stem from the remains. I will scour as much as I can before I return above.”

Dragonlord of Flames. The Trolls stood back warily, staring at one of the old Tyrants, whom they remembered as foes, but he shapeshifted into a red-scaled Drake and half-bowed to the Troll Queen.

For a moment, he seemed like the warrior he claimed to have been, and the shining-eyed Lightning Dragon, Rafaema, and Cire gazed at Teriarch as he—

——

Rags grew sick and closed the door. Of course he was the solution. Rags had thought of it the moment she’d heard the Trolls had a problem before she had even known what it was.

It made her tired. Once again, she had to rely on someone else for help. True, Teriarch was better than Greydath, because he had promised to help, but even so…

Looks good. Looks good.

Mrsha was rubbing her hands together, very relieved by the door. Rags knew she was on the Flooded Waters tribe’s side, but the girl’s plain relief made Rags think of something else and snap.

“Well then, show me an outcome where the Dragonlord doesn’t win. If there are any of those.”

She meant it sarcastically, but then she heard a fluttering sound, and the hallway changed.

Black marble. Lightless windows. Rags spun, and the doors here stood silent and twisted. Mrsha backed behind Rags as the very same door that Rags had opened now waited for the Goblin Chieftain.

The same brass exterior, the same burnished wood—only now it was stained with blood. Rags hesitated. Then opened the door and saw—

——

“Ressa? My dear?”

Magnolia Reinhart was weeping. She lowered the spyglass, and her [Maid] bowed.

“Yes?”

They sat in Magnolia’s mansion in the High Passes as servants packed bare essentials in a flurry, abandoning almost everything. Reynold had the carriage moving, and he was calling up at them.

But for a second, Magnolia Reinhart just stood there and saw the two Dragons, the brown one circling overhead, and the blue one shrieking from the side of the mountains. She’d called for them to come back, but they were screaming—shrieking plaintively as the High Passes shook.

An Old One was walking down the mountain, roaring at the Drake city below, announcing he had returned home. That was one thing. Magnolia Reinhart would have been there, trying to bind it with her Skill, joining the defense; she saw arrows falling and knew they had to be Lord Xitegen’s doing.

Instead, she just turned.

“Ressa, my dear. Go north to my home. Fast as you can. Tell Regis Reinhart to bring out the Crown of Flowers. Run.”

The [Head Maid] was Magnolia’s personal bodyguard. She had never abandoned her mistress in times of danger. However—she glanced back once and saw the dead Dragon crawling ahead of the Old One.

Broken brass scales covered by insects. Two empty eye sockets and a mouth that still leaked smoke. The zombie Dragon roared silently, marked by his final battle, and Ressa nodded.

“Stay away from it. Give me three days—I’m teleporting. Magnolia…”

The [Lady] was rising, twisting the ring on her finger as she aimed it at the Brass Dragon’s head. She said—

——

Rags closed the door. Then pulled open another. Silently. Mrsha tried to see, but the Chieftain blocked her view.

“You don’t need to look.”

The confidence Mrsha had felt drained out of her instantly. She scribbled a question, handing it to Rags when the door closed.

Should we calculate how likely it is he loses? He probably doesn’t lose often. Cause he’s a Dragon, right?

Rags blinked, stirred herself, and gave Mrsha an unconvincing smile.

“Good idea…yes. Let’s do that.”

She and Mrsha got to work, though this time, Rags made Mrsha just write down notes as the Goblin personally checked the doors. Then she went over the data. Stared at it. Mrsha learned that the world of statistical analysis was deeper than she thought or wanted. Sometimes, it was as simple as writing down data and drawing inferences.

Sometimes, you delved into it, assigning parameters and conditions and filtering by data to make the right numbers come up, like a fisherman dipping a hook into a river of sludge to pull out a single glowing fish of hope.

——

It was nearly thirty percent. In the mountain.

One third of the times the Dragonlord of Flame went into the home of Trolls to fight the Old One, he didn’t come back, or he did come back as a corpse, or took wounds so egregious that Rags discounted the future as ‘good’.

Aboveground, the data was far more promising; even if the Old One reassembled, it was only a one…in four…

The bad futures were too high. There were too many variables.

Assume you wanted the best scenario possible. Teriarch wins. No major wounds, no problems. They were hard to come by.

If he were forewarned, if he agreed to take the fight seriously, if he had allies like Taletevirion or Xrn or Goblins, and so on, he could win in the open air fairly often.

The complications kept coming up. It was an army of undead Trolls. Or the Old One attacking Magnolia or Liscor, or the two younger Dragons trying to fight it and being killed or forcing Teriarch to cover for them with his body.

Sometimes, 2nd Army appeared as hindrance or help. Sometimes, the fighting attracted other monsters. Rags wanted the data to show her a clean scenario where it was a one in a hundred or five in a hundred chance at most of the Dragonlord dying.

But the truth of it was that either he was worse than he claimed…or that that Old One was more dangerous than Rags wanted to admit.

He was supposed to be the Dragonlord of Flames. In fairness, in the realities that Rags saw, he tended to win by flaming breath, by spell or relics from his hoard. But too many times his victory was snatched away by a brown Dragon lying wounded and Teriarch leaping in front of a blow, or a miasma of confusion where insects covered the skies and he failed to notice the blow from behind as he tried to evacuate mortals.

—And that wasn’t even 2nd Army or the Kraken Eaters. It didn’t even account for the many, many realities where he heard about the threat and hesitated before fighting it or prevaricated or just collapsed the tunnels rather than risk it getting out. An old coward who knew full well what the Trolls were fighting and feared it from the ages of Walled Cities creating real weapons of war.

Ah, now Rags understood. She buried her head in her hands, scrubbing at her hair as she sat there and realized the weight of Sheta’s warning.

Fate mocks us all.

“There will never be certainty. Now I know what could happen…it’s paralysis. Paralysis of knowledge. My own actions will change our future—and I cannot find the best course of action!”

The final irony of the [Palace of Fates] was this:

There was no way to see a better future. At least, not theirs.

——

Mrsha had tried for Rags, she really had. She’d summoned bathrooms, found out that food wasn’t something she could summon, but even gotten greenery that Rags said might be real and thus edible to cows and stuff.

Mrsha had called for thousands of doors, argued, pleaded—

But the other idea Rags had had, to see a future in which she and Mrsha made the correct choice, never appeared.

A long, empty hallway stretched in front of Mrsha, and her fur rose. It was the same as the other hallways, but it had no doors. That was it. It had everything else, mirrors, wall torches, windows looking out into the rest of the [Palace of Fates]…not a single door.

Show me a future with me and Rags in the [Palace of Fates].

There was none. Mrsha didn’t understand it. When she asked for futures with her in the [Palace of Fates], there were tons! Mrshas running around, getting lost, panicking, living for ages here…

Not a single one where Mrsha escapes?

Mrsha asked for that and got two doors. The first was one where Mrsha sweet-talked the [Pavilion of Secrets] into letting her out that way, and she ran into Erin’s gazebo and fell into her arms in Baleros—and nearly squished her because Erin was tiny.

That one hurt.

The other was an improbable set of events where Lyonette had begged Silvenia, the Death of Magic, to team up with Valeterisa, Pelt, Eldavin, and Teriarch, and they’d busted into the [Palace of Fates] to rescue Mrsha nearly eighty days after she’d vanished.

It was when Mrsha had seen those two that she had realized why it was impossible to see her own future, even if that had been allowed:

In the other realities, the other Mrshas had no way out. The ‘roots’ were just ropes, and there was no hole in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. So the Mrshas just ran around the [Palace of Fates], starving or surviving, and every reality where she had fallen into the palace had no exit.

That, in turn, meant the reality where Rags and Mrsha were exploring the [Palace of Fates] right now, via the door, couldn’t exist. At least, not in any ordinary world.

The irony was not lost on Mrsha. If she could have, she would have opened doors to realms with smarter Mrshas and Rags’, who came up with the brilliant plans to solve everything and just would steal their ideas, like someone copying homework.

However, Mrsha had the distinct feeling that if there was a catch here, it would be absolutely that. There was the nigh-unlimited power of the [Palace of Fates], and there was…

Cheating.

This place really did belong to Erin. It was harsh. It had wonder and magic and power, but it was also bittersweet, the most bitter of things, like the statues in Erin’s [Garden of Sanctuary]. It was The Wandering Inn experience. A piece of cake and a punch to the guts. Then, if you were lucky, another piece of cake.

Mrsha walked down the corridor, more to avoid breaking the bad news to Rags than anything. The Goblin Chieftain was not doing well. She’d forbidden Mrsha to see the timelines where things went bad. They were hard to watch. Mrsha had seen bad things before, but these were real and…

It was coming for Rags. It had to be the worst, the most absolute sucky feeling in the world. Mrsha knew she was trivializing the true death and horror Rags had to face…but what could she do?

Damn you, stupid palace. I wanted hope from you.

Mirror after mirror showed Mrsha moments of her past. She saw herself playing with Relc in a window, passed the little girl howling in the ravine…the hardest and best moments of her life. Fitting, she supposed, for an [Empress] looking back on her life and wondering what might have been.

For a Level 70 Skill, she chose something that was arguably sort of useless. But maybe she wanted this…depressing palace.

Mrsha walked past another window. The Empress of Harpies, Sheta, thirty feet tall, clawed talons resting on the marble floor, face solemn as she raised her wings like a veil of mourning, spoke in a voice that reverberated in the girl’s soul.

“You did not earn this place. How did you come here?”

Mrsha didn’t freeze comically in place, one paw raised. She didn’t spin around in surprised astonishment. She just ran, howling an alarm.

Dead gods, it’s her! Mrsha flashed past windows all showing the same looming Harpy. She spun—came face-to-face with a mirror where Sheta’s human faced peered through, eyes like vast planets of sorrow, and the Empress spoke.

“I am merely a memory, girl. You are no heir of mine. How strange.”

Mrsha backed up, fumbling for notecards that spilled onto the floor. She tried to write something, paws shaking, and the Harpy Queen spoke.

“Curious. Where art thou, Grand Design? You, who built this place for me. Is this an intruder? An accident? What strangeness is this? I thought I would next wake and lay eyes upon the being who followed my footsteps. No child could achieve that.”

She spread her wings, flapped once—and then she was gone. Mrsha stood there, shaking out of her wits, then ran screaming to find Rags.

——

“She was watching you?”

Rags was shaken when Mrsha showed her the ordinary mirror where Sheta had been. The Goblin rubbed at her face and groaned.

“Great. The [Palace of Fates] has the soul or memory of the last owner. And she knows we’re not supposed to be here.”

What do we do?

“Do? Nothing. Either this gets corrected and maybe we lose our memories…or we assume the flowers granted us access. Either way, we make the best of it. We have time. We have…time. Yes. I just need to come up with the most organized plan of how to bring all three together.”

Rags was breathing heavily. She sat there, as if hoping Sheta would return, and spoke.

“It’s getting late. You go to sleep, Mrsha. I’ll keep investigating the palace. No…I’ll tell my Goblins what I can. Maybe hold a briefing. Sleep? Maybe I should sleep. But I’ll be here all of tomorrow. Two days. And then I’ll need to enact…”

She was running her clawed hands through her hair, so visibly stressed that when she turned to Mrsha and gave her another fake smile, the Gnoll girl had a flash of Erin waiting for the Solstice or Ryoka…being Ryoka.

She nodded slowly and held up a card.

Can I help?

“Just let me know if you find any good realities, Mrsha. Weak spots. I’ll search for that thing’s weak spots. 2nd Army’s too. Naumel…maybe scenarios in which I turn him around. I can do this.”

Rags stood up, all business and effort, and she and Mrsha headed back to the entrance. Mrsha almost expected Sheta to appear again, but the Harpy Empress seemed to only exist in the mirrors, and if she was watching, neither saw her.

——

Of course, Mrsha couldn’t stay away. She brushed her teeth, pretended to go to bed, and slipped out of her sheets the moment she thought everyone was asleep.

Naturally, Dame Ushar and Ser Dalimont checked to make sure Mrsha and Nanette were in their rooms, and they were beyond your average ‘pillow and a wig’ trick, but the children’s escape technology had advanced accordingly.

The reason you buddy-buddied with the staff was so Asgra would put on a cap made out of your spare fur and crawl into bed for you. Come to that, she really was fulfilling a rather peculiar role in the inn, even if it wasn’t one Lyonette was aware of.

Mrsha stomped into the [Garden of Sanctuary], and a sleepy bee buzzed down to her.

Hey, Apista, did Rags come back?

Apista shook her little head, and Mrsha guessed Rags was in Goblinhome, explaining what the heck was going on to her people. The Gnoll girl was thus alone as she slipped into the [Palace of Fates].

She landed in the hallway of corridors, and no one was there to greet her, not Empress Sheta nor the [Pavilion of Secrets]…no alternate hers nor Rags or anything else.

The hallway reflected the time; dim torches flickered on the walls, though they had no heat, and Mrsha walked down a stone corridor that was dark as her mood.

So this was the [Palace of Fates], huh?

Your Skill sucks, Sheta. It’s depressing and sad, just like you.

Mrsha stuck the note on a mirror and watched it flutter down. No response. But it really was.

Ishkr had told Mrsha about his encounter with Erin in the [Pavilion of Secrets]. It had…hurt to know Erin didn’t trust Mrsha enough to bring her in. It had sounded wondrous, scary, and you know what?

…It had still been less amazing than the [Garden of Sanctuary], in a way. The [Pavilion of Secrets] was the next step, yes, the evolution, a way to uncover mysteries and defend and talk.

But it was an adult’s Skill for an older Empress Sheta. The [Gardens of Sanctuary] had mattered so much to Mrsha because they had been the kind of thing anyone would love. A Skill made for a young Harpy burdened by rulership, and then—by loss, by regrets.

This [Palace of Fates] was the most powerful and the most cynical place. The least magical, for all it contained the multitudes of realities. Mrsha hated it. She was glad she’d found it.

She wished it were more beautiful.

What’s the point? I don’t want to see myself or other people die or succeed or just know the future. Why did she want this place?

That seemed to be the real question for Mrsha. She looked around, walking past doors she’d labeled at the start, before Rags, when one caught her eye. A note said:

If Brunkr lived.

Mrsha gazed at it, and a little gear clicked in her head.

Oh.

Of course.

Her paw rested on the doorway. It was made of pain inside. Pain…and a familiar, grinning Gnoll in a reality where he and Lyonette had started dating of all things. Which was gross and horrible, and the little Mrsha hated Brunkr and groused at him all the time…

And the Mrsha of now just wept.

An idea turned over in Mrsha’s mind, like a weary dreamer waking. Wait…think of Empress Sheta.

Every Skill of hers had multiple uses. Gardens as a place to have fun. As weapons. As sanctuaries and memorials.

The [Pavilion of Secrets] was like that, and the [Palace of Fates] had a utility that Rags had glimpsed at once. But…consider what Empress Sheta would have wanted.

So many regrets.

Mrsha’s paw trembled on the door. Was it this? Hurt yourself on the sights of all the people you loved? Or was it to look into a reality where…

Something better had happened? Mrsha glanced down the hallway of doors, and she realized she had never seen anything good here. True, she had seen mostly her own reality, and it had been pretty dire without the roots and Faerie Flowers. Yet now, Mrsha wondered.

Show me.

The door vanished as Mrsha turned, weary, with the eyes of a child who had seen death. She carried an age that full-grown adults sometimes lacked. The girl spread her paws to the ceiling and beseeched the [Palace of Fates]. Silently, for she had no voice.

An oddity that meant even the shade of Empress Sheta, peering at Mrsha through one of the star-filled windows, couldn’t really understand the girl’s thoughts. Mrsha didn’t own this place. She hadn’t earned it. But did she deserve it? Did she understand it?

A bit of her did. So the girl asked for the true nature of the [Palace of Fates]. She wrote on a card and held it up, then let it flutter down.

Show me…a future where we were happier. A better day.

Her mind flashed to the Solstice. To the pain there, to the inn. To the Redfangs…and when Mrsha opened her shut eyes, a door was waiting.

It seemed exactly like the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Down to the last detail. Perhaps the woodwork was brighter, the old iron a bit more polished? Mrsha peered at it and walked forwards.

Her paws were trembling, but she grasped the door handle. Then she threw the door open.

—The little Gnoll thrust the door wider, and the [Palace of Fates] sighed as an invisible breeze ran through it, as if in relief. She gazed through the worn doorframe, a world flickering into being.

For a moment, between the milliseconds, the beating of billions of hearts and the falling of a grain of sand in an hourglass, reality flickered. The firmament of everything and everyone took a moment to create an if. A ‘what might have been’.

The little Gnoll’s eyes shone as she gasped and beheld what lay through the door. At first, it was impossible. Then so real it would have sent her fleeing and weeping. But after she had flinched like someone being stabbed through the heart, she just clung to the door. Watching with that hunger that would never be filled. Consuming the visions and sounds and smells beyond. Little daggers that cut at her heart, too precious to ever let go of.

This was what she saw:

——

If.

If the Goblin Lord’s final battle had not led to a slaughter of Goblins.

If Tyrion Veltras had seen the white flag waving and stopped.

If there was no Solstice, no terrible battle against dead gods.

The difference was in her laughter. When she threw back her head and laughed triumphantly or giggled like now, it was innocent.

Not innocent of death, nor of trials. It was the same Erin Solstice, but she had not learned to cackle. She had never mastered the full-throated guffaw that came out of a throat when shame no longer mattered, when you had taken what might be your last breath and no longer remembered a reason why to hold back.

The Erin who laughed had looked death in the eye and hit it with a frying pan. This Erin had never walked in its steps and felt it in her hands and voice. When she turned, she spun on her heel, light and carefree, and her hair was brown and whole; her eyes danced with delight and determination.

She spoke to her audience, five Goblins, a silent, watching child, and the inn at large, as she surveyed the ingredients on the table and the melting bowl of ice cubes.

“Ice cream is simple. If Imani can do it, we can do it. I’ve made ice cream before. We have chocolate. We have ice. We have…cream. What’s the difference between milk and cream?”

It stumped the Goblins standing around the open kitchen. They nudged each other, trying to collectively germinate a good answer. Headscratcher stopped sneaking bits of chocolate out of a bowl, perplexed by the thought.

Headscratcher.

The [Berserker] and [Knight of Solstice] still wore the honorary furs the Gnolls had gifted him, which went well with his scars. The blue fire of sadness shone in his eyes, but only dimly today. He turned to Numbtongue, who was a [Bard] and supposed to know these things.

The [Bard] had a guitar slung over his back and shrugged, glancing at the ghost of Reiss, who rolled his eyes and did not deign to answer.

“Cream is…better milk. Right, Shorthilt?”

Numbtongue nudged Shorthilt; the [Blademaster] shrugged. He was meekly cutting the remaining chocolate into thin strips with his one hand and one of Erin’s knives. Shorthilt was more interested in shaving the chocolate into the finest slivers possible than any discussion of culinary practices. Headscratcher reached for another chocolate piece, and Erin slapped his hand.

“No stealing my chocolate! It’s rarer than gold! And I saw that, Shorthilt!”

The Hobgoblin had flicked a square of chocolate with the tip of his knife at his lady. Shorthilt turned guiltily, and Pekona stuffed the candy into her mouth. He smiled slyly. The others here had seen him smile.

The girl couldn’t remember that expression on his face. Nor how his eyes drifted to the one-armed [Blade Dancer] as if she were the most valuable thing in the world. Covetously, and puzzled that she liked him.

He had one arm. One…arm. The scar was still fresh from a few months back. But here, he was healing. He could heal here forever—if he stopped stealing chocolate. But Erin knew he’d be on another adventure soon.

So she rolled her eyes, exasperated, and even here, she was acting. Things were not perfect. But oh.

They were better.

“Guys, I need some chocolate ice cream to beat Imani. Mint chocolate chip, and I’m running out of chocolate already. Where’s the mint—thank you, Rabbiteater.”

The second [Knight] handed Erin a bunch of mint leaves in a bowl and instantly got nudges from the others.

“Suck up.”

Badarrow was feeding nali-sticks to Snapjaw. He was the same, but there was no air of exhausted determination around him. Just a second couple showing off. When Erin saw the two giggling, she glared. Headscratcher glanced at her and chased away the significant others.

“We’re making ice cream. Behave.”

The other four Redfangs straightened up; it was rare to get them all in one room together. Chastened, Badarrow pulled a block of ice over and got a hammer to break it up.

“That’s right. Perfect. Thank you, Headscratcher. Okay! Mint ice cream time! You taking notes, Calescent?”

The [Chef] had been watching Erin’s take-over of his kitchen with mild restraint. Mostly because he’d been working on his own mixture. You made ice cream by tumbling a custard base and then churning it at frozen temperatures. Everything else was just technique and ingredients.

Calescent was, therefore, putting spices into his already-red custard base, and Headscratcher licked his lips. But he dutifully watched Erin explain how they were going to make this batch.

“Psst.”

Someone whispered, and Headscratcher turned. He walked over and saw a Hobgoblin beckoning at him. The open kitchen had a window that led to the common room, and another Hobgoblin was leaning in.

Pyrite was chewing on some of the cacao pods, which looked gross to Headscratcher, and he had Ulvama following him around, as ever. Headscratcher hadn’t seen him since the war in the Great Plains; he’d been with the Gnolls there, and Pyrite had been leading the Flooded Waters tribe into battle.

——

Pyrite. He was right there, unremarked upon by most people in the inn. After all, he often showed up to visit and hang out with Erin. And given it was ‘beach time’ at the inn and all of Erin’s old friends had turned up, why shouldn’t he be here?

His presence was only significant if you thought he should be dead. Like the others.

A hungry, desperate pair of eyes drank in the Goblin that had never actually met the owner. It searched for someone else. Where was the Gnoll? Brunkr? Zel…

In this world, Zel Shivertail was still gone. He had died fighting the Goblin Lord. Reiss was still dead. Maviola El passed away in battle. Brunkr had been murdered by Regrika Blackpaw.

Some things were the same. It would have been too different, otherwise. Too many things changed. This—this was one change. One change.

A single Hobgoblin, who patted his scarred stomach as he masticated. This Pyrite well knew the little girl who had learned not to steal what he was eating, mostly because he ate rocks. He was fondly watching the little Gnoll girl with white fur, Mrsha, who was peeking into the kitchen, clearly wondering when she could steal some ice cream or some of tonight’s cake.

Her reflection stared at a Mrsha that grinned and laughed and still ran about on all fours, despite the clothing Lyonette made her wear.

It was strange. The dissonance. Any observer to this…place knew backstory and history that they shouldn’t have.

So the girl saw a dead Goblin who shouldn’t have been there. And she also, simultaneously, knew that Pyrite had a zigzag of scars down his belly from fighting Plain’s Eye Gnolls at the Meeting of Tribes.

Just like the others. Some of them weren’t changed: Badarrow was still in a relationship with Snapjaw. Rabbiteater was the eponymous ‘Ser Solstice’, and Numbtongue was a [Bard] with a guitar in a relationship with Octavia and Garia and Salkis.

—Yet they seemed happier. Especially Numbtongue. He was shoving the other Redfangs, who liked to bully him about his girlfriends, which he got flustered about. In fact, the only one of the five who hadn’t been in a committed relationship was…Headscratcher.

He was biggest of the lot, half-wreathed in furs that exposed his bare chest, eyes blue with the fire he had accepted. Knight of Solstice. Flame for fallen Goblins and the weight of his people on his shoulders. Goblin Lord of Sorrow; not that anyone was supposed to know that outside of Goblins and Erin. She hadn’t even told the rest of her staff.

Rabbiteater…didn’t carry Headscratcher’s axe. Instead, he had the Dragonblood crystal sword Pelt had forged and a nasty scar across one cheek that ran onto his mouth. But he smiled wider, and he was here instead of far at sea.

Something had changed; the war with Ailendamus had gone on, but instead of a lone Goblin sailing with the Order of Seasons for war and the Wind Runner, Ser Solstice had instead been followed by one of his brothers.

Ser Solstice and the Scarlet Blade of Izril; the mysterious figure with the red sword.

Shorthilt. He carried Garen Redfang’s blade, given to him by Redscar, and the [Blademaster] had danced on Terandria’s shores with [Knights], wearing nothing but a wooden box as a helmet and a crimson scarf over wanderer’s clothing. He had fought at the Village of the Dead and been recognized by Zeladona.

His victories had come at great cost. The grinning [Blademaster] had one flesh-and-blood arm. The other was a prosthetic from the House of El. He and Pekona had both lost an arm against the Drake [Sword Legend]. However, the little carved wooden bells the two had attached to their prosthetic arms signaled their relationship. Also, Shorthilt’s attitude towards [Duelists] in general.

They looked happy in this moment, standing together. They hadn’t always been so happy. Headscratcher’s back had a scar down it from when his encounter with the Kraken Eaters had left him nearly dead. He and Badarrow stood opposite each other, smiling and interacting politely. Badarrow was one of Rags’ lieutenants now; Headscratcher had his own tribe.

—But Erin seemed to be at peace as she scolded and cajoled them all into getting along. Even if sometimes they caused trouble, like the Mountain City Goblins led by Chieftain Ulvama being snooty. But Ulvama liked Pyrite, and if the two bickered—

Yes, if there was one thing that had changed, it was Erin. She stood there, avoiding Niers’ attention, glancing at Pyrite as he left. And the tiny [Strategist] watched Pyrite like a hawk. As did Ulvama. Everyone, including this alternate Mrsha, thought that if anyone had a chance with Erin…

——

The real Mrsha watched, the memories and this alternate reality flashing past her eyes. Strange, painful…captivating.

Memorizing everything she saw. She knew it wasn’t real. But she kept watching, because it was, in some way. She was breathing hard—panting as if she were running, out of breath. Before she saw the others. When the half-Giant ducked his head to enter the inn, she rested her paws against the barrier in the air.

——

Moore had brought a drink for his friend from the beach door. He had sandy legs and a tan, and he still looked deliriously happy about Ulinde. He was right there, trying to cajole another adventurer forwards.

Halrac Everam did not have a tan. He stumped into the common room, stolidly refusing to admit he’d had any fun on a surfboard, and Pyrite chuckled.

The former Goldstone Chieftain leaned on the kitchen window, making slight hand-gestures of ‘come hither’ that Headscratcher had picked up on. Erin might have noticed; they were teaching her Goblin, but she was too busy organizing her ingredients.

Beachgoers flooded in and out of the inn as Pyrite took a sip from the cocktail Moore had given him. Kevin had made a ‘Hawaiian shirt’ which he’d gifted to the Hobgoblin. Pyrite had his unbuttoned, exposing his belly and green tan. Everyone was tracking sand into the inn, and a happy Silveran had too much work.

“What? It’s just us making ice cream, Pyrite. You want some later?”

Headscratcher didn’t want to be exclusionary and felt guilty, but it really was just the Redfangs and Erin. Pyrite waved a hand and grunted.

“Is fine. But cream is the fat on top of milk. Milk has water in it too.”

“Oh. Makes sense.”

No wonder it tasted better when you got it directly from cows. Headscratcher nodded, his life thus enriched by this pointless comment he decided he would repeat any time someone drank milk in his presence. However, Pyrite had something more to say. He glanced at Erin and the bowl of mint leaves and coughed.

“You make mint extract for flavor. Not leaves.”

“Ah.”

Headscratcher trotted over to Erin and relayed that information. She turned with such a betrayed expression on her face—but Pyrite had already ducked away as Erin threw up her hands.

“Anyone else got an opinion on my cooking abilities? Come on, take your shot!”

“You can’t make better ice cream than me, Erin.”

Imani called out from a table where she was cooling off from the beach. She and Palt gave Erin rosy smiles in response to her betrayed expression.

“And you’re not a good [Cook]. You’re an [Innkeeper] with cooking Skills. Give it up.”

That came from Lasica. The Drake was in great humor as she watched Erin doing her best. However, a loyal voice called up from the back.

“Need a few Skills to equalize the battle, Erin? Say the word.”

Erin froze and didn’t quite hunch her shoulders, but she used Numbtongue as cover as the [Bard] rolled his eyes. Headscratcher frowned, but tried to keep from looking too disapproving as Erin shouted back.

“Uh—that’s fine, Niers! Just you wait, you guys. I’ll make ice cream cones or…come on, guys. Maybe we’ll do something awesome. What about flaming ice cream, Headscratcher?”

“Oh my. Ice cream in a batter cone? How will anyone top that? Flaming food? I’ve never flambéed anything in my life.”

Lasica’s voice caused Erin to fully hunch in self-defense, but the [Innkeeper] fussed over her ingredients rather than go outside and socialize with her guest…whom she hadn’t been able to get rid of since the Solstice.

To be fair, he’d saved her life multiple times, from the Hectval [Assassins] and at the Meeting of Tribes. The five Redfangs had followed Niers south when Erin and Mrsha had gotten ‘kidnapped’ by Wer. But Niers had been appearing here almost every day this month, teleporting himself from Baleros to ‘hang out’ or play games of chess with Erin.

Headscratcher had volunteered to throw him out of the inn if he was really bothering Erin. Niers was tiny. The [Berserker] was fairly certain he could do it, Niers’ Skills or not. But Erin had said there was no need to…yet.

“Hey, guys, is he just sitting there waiting for me to make ice cream?”

The five Redfangs glanced out the kitchen window. Shorthilt nodded.

“Yep.”

“Huh…”

Erin sighed. The Redfang Five glanced at each other and, as one, came to a decision. Swiftly, they began piling ingredients in a bowl.

“Let’s make good ice cream, Erin. Huh? With fire. And magic. And…things?”

Headscratcher nudged Erin gently, and he saw her brighten up.

“Yeah! Let’s make a super batch of ice cream! Someone get some cookies and…and hand me those nali-sticks. Wait, hold it! You do the nali, I’m gonna get a secret ingredient. I bet we have something like that around here…”

She vanished through the [Garden of Sanctuary] door as the Redfangs got to work. They bent over the ice cream as Lasica covered her face with her hands. Then she pointedly glared at a persona non-grata.

Tyrion Veltras was allowed in The Wandering Inn on suffering and only because Ryoko had begged Erin to admit the man who’d nearly sieged Liscor. Erin, doubtless, would enjoy his presence at the ice-cream making not at all. But he was striding forwards, staring at a bunch of conversation topics written on his hand. Making a beeline for Headscratcher, who sighed when he saw the stubborn [Lord].

They were just making the custard when Erin popped out of her [Garden of Sanctuary], waving something excitedly, followed by an angry bee.

“Hey, guys! I was searching around for a special ingredient and I—ow, stop it, Apista. Lyonette, get Apista off—I found this honey! Also, um, an eyeball. Let’s put it in! The honey, I mean.”

Niers sat up and began to demand to see the eyeball, and Ryoko tried to stop Tyrion from running into the Hobgoblins, partially to avoid a scene with Erin, and partially in case Tyrion figured out which one she’d dated and it got messy.

This was The Wandering Inn a week before the Winter Solstice.

There were no armies, at least, none save the beachgoing kind. Erin wasn’t worried about anything, besides perhaps Belavierr rearing her ugly head. She’d sworn vengeance against Erin after the [Innkeeper] had protected Rufelt and Lasica from her.

But Erin wasn’t worried about the Winter Solstice, except that she’d promised to make the biggest, best party ever. Perorn Fleethoof would be making her way north, and everyone Erin had ever known would be invited.

If the Horns of Hammerad would show up from the Great Plains or the Crossroads of Izril, she’d be fully at ease. Erin kept scouting them via the [World’s Eye Theatre], but aside from that—everything was great. Rags had even promised to make it if she could, but the sea currents would make getting here tricky—she was sailing here with Seve-Alrelious.

Rags. That was another change. There was no Flooded Waters Great Chieftain grumpily sitting in the sand and worrying about the future. Instead, Rags was coming back for a winter vacation from school. The Titan’s student was, ironically, in Baleros while the Professor himself seemed to teleport himself back and forth from Baleros to The Wandering Inn at least twice a week.

Pyrite was in command of the Flooded Waters tribe until Rags was ready to come back. She was no [Great Chieftain]…she was a [Student]. And instead of leading Goblins and giving orders, she was playing pranks on her teachers.

She was so much happier.

And then—and then—a little Gnoll girl raced forwards to steal some ice cream and stopped as she turned her head, as if sensing something. Yet she could not see her reflection in the door. If she could, she would have seen a girl standing there, watching it all.

Tears running down the other Mrsha’s face.

This Mrsha was the difference that stood out the most. She was just a silly kid. She kept getting into trouble; just yesterday, she’d tried to raid a Razorbeak nest, and the angry bird had carried her into the sky until Bird had shot it down; Headscratcher had caught her.

She had a minder on her at all times, and still, Mrsha the Hero of Luck kept getting into trouble. It was driving Lyonette up the wall, and this Mrsha was so, so—

Childish. That was it. The rest of the inngoers treated her with affection, mild annoyance, amusement—but that was it. She got into dangerous scrapes and had escaped most of them unscathed, protected by her friends and family.

To her reflection, the little Gnoll trying to put salt in Lasica’s drink was familiar. Offensive. When she giggled or went wailing to Lyonette after being scolded, there was nothing in her. No [Emberbearer] class. No knowledge of how stupid she was being. How these moments she was taking for granted mattered.

To Mrsha the Trickster, they were funny, delightful jibes and jests that everyone should appreciate, because she lived in her own world. To the watcher—they had somehow become less funny.

When had she begun to notice how stressed Lyonette looked whenever Mrsha accidentally dropped a pan near her head? Why was Mrsha, the one in there, adding to her worries? How didn’t she see Lyonette’s expression or hear the tension in her words? Or notice how, when the little girl ran up with a notecard, the adults would read it and dismiss her words? The good ones, like Pyrite and Moore, cared, but the words mattered less.

…Because she acted so silly. Because she kept getting into trouble, and sometimes that was not her fault. But sometimes, yes, it was entirely hers. And so, the girl wasn’t treated like Erin, or even Bird, who caused trouble, but also solved trouble.

When you started noticing how people reacted to your actions before you even made them. When you thought ahead to what might happen…could you ever go back? Was this age?

The girl on the other side of the door looked into the room at the Mrsha she didn’t think she could be anymore, then at Erin.

Maybe not. Maybe you changed and lost it all. But at least, she was assured you could fake it. Her eyes fixed on Mrsha the Kid. And then she looked at Halrac smiling to himself as he watched the Gnoll girl do somersaults across the floor for fun.

I’d give anything to be that young again, and innocent and childish. If only I could.

The burning desire only grew with each second. The girl in there had cares and had lost Brunkr and her tribe. The girl outside would never pick up an arrow or bow without seeing that [Bowman of Loss]. She would never see a tall figure in the crowd without remembering the last Giant of Izril.

She had aged. How she wished she hadn’t.

——

She didn’t know when, but at some point the vision grew too much. Mrsha realized she was clawing at the barrier between her and this reality. Her eyes were on Halrac. Moore. Kevin, who sauntered in, a Selys who emerged laughing, not spitting hatred. Pyrite, Headscratcher, Shorthilt—

It hurt too much, and yet she couldn’t look away. And that feeling in her was growing. Jealousy. Outrage.

That little girl in there didn’t deserve this. They were right here like a movie in front of Mrsha’s eyes, but she couldn’t touch them. She could smell them. Almost touch—and that little clone of her was whining she wanted her cake now.

The real Mrsha’s paws slid off a barrier that could not be breached. No matter how many times she banged against it. Mrsha sank down to her knees. But she kept watching. Hungrily. Painfully. And she saw more doors appear, each one filled with things she longed to see. The girl got up, breath shaking in her lungs.

Then the [Palace of Fates] truly opened for her. And it was terrible.

She couldn’t leave. She couldn’t stop watching.

If.

The Faerie Flowers rustled as the girl looked at the doors containing bright fates. Dreams of better yesterdays. Her legs were shaking. She wanted to run away and never return.

She wanted to lose herself here. Watch the never-was and might-have-beens and not emerge from those pleasant fantasies. But when Mrsha looked back at that version of her in the reality where the Redfang Five had lived—the outrage and loss grew in her heart until it was true hatred. A hatred born not of malice, but jealousy for what might have been.

Then—Mrsha felt at her side as she stared at the open door, and a single thought crept into her head that put her apart from Rags and anyone else. A moment of genius, perhaps. Or desperation. Mrsha’s eyes flicked to the open door, and she scooted forwards as, in the alternate future—

——

Mrsha the Queen of Just Desserts was applauding as Ishkr put out a huge slice of frosted Ultra Vanilla Cake with Glowberries on the table. Lyonette protested.

“Mrsha, wash your paws if you have to eat it. Erin, it’s not even dinner!”

“Aw, Lyonette, lighten up. It’s a celebration!”

“You’ve had the beach open for the entire month.”

“Well, it’s a month of celebration. C’mon, it won’t kill her. Plus, I have this great idea for tomorrow. Barbecue on the beach with—get this—grilled corn. Kevin was telling me you can grill corn. Imagine that. I always had it boiled.”

“Guys, Erin’s not actually from Michigan. I can’t believe she’s never had other kinds of corn.”

“Shush, Kevin! It’ll be great. Even if he wants mayonnaise and parmesan for his corn. Which is gross…hey, who wants to have the first taste of ice cream?”

The little Mrsha went racing over with clean paws to fight for a taste with Niers and several interested parties. Erin ended up giving the first taste to Pyrite and Ulvama, who vouchsafed that it might be too sweet—much to her chagrin. She began adding more ice cream to her mix to dilute the sweetness as Mrsha ran back to the table and then gasped.

The Gnoll girl looked around for her cake, and it was gone. Instantly, she whirled and saw everyone else had a piece, but her special, first slice was missing.

You stole it, thief, thief!

She baselessly accused Rabbiteater, Bird, Saliss, and began to wail. Not in any meaningful way, but in grievous loss for her treasured dessert until Lyonette handed her another slice.

“Honestly, Mrsha! Here, have this one, and please, be considerate of others?”

The girl ran off with her new slice of cake, only returning to demand it be enlarged because her old one had been bigger—to no avail. But Headscratcher gave her a bit of his frosting and was scolded roundly for it, and the entire moment was forgotten instantly, even by Mrsha. When Rabbiteater tried to extort Mrsha out of some of the extra cake she’d weaseled, she shook her head. It wasn’t a trick to get two slices. She really had lost it!

The door closed on that reality as Mrsha laughed, a true silent laugh of joy and relief in expectation of nothing on the Solstice at all, and Erin smiled without the lines of grief and war on her face. Then there was a soft click.

——

Mrsha left the [Palace of Fates] behind, rubbing at some sap or dirt on her paws, but walking carefully and returned to the inn and got back into bed.

Nanette poked her head out of the covers as a sleepy Asgra grumbled her way into her own bed. Nanette had noticed Mrsha had used her body double in the night, but hadn’t been able to tell where Mrsha had gone. Wherever it was, it hadn’t been long. She glanced at Mrsha as the girl put something on the nightstand next to her, and her face fell.

Here she thought Mrsha had been up to something interesting. As it turned out…Nanette hissed at Mrsha in exasperation.

“Mrsha, really? That’s what you were up to? You’ll get into trouble for sneaking into the kitchen!”

She couldn’t hide this! But to Nannette’s annoyance, Mrsha said nothing as she rolled up into her covers. She was oddly still as she stared at the wall. Nanette peered at the object Mrsha had placed on her bedside nightstand, then at Mrsha.

“Aren’t you going to eat it, Mrsha?”

The Gnoll girl glanced up, briefly, and wrote on a card as she slowly picked up a fork. Nanette read from the nonsensical little sentence and put it down to Mrsha being tired.

Yes. I will have the cake and eat it too.

The Gnoll girl sat up as Nanette rolled her eyes and went to sleep. Mrsha slowly chewed on the bit of cake. When she swallowed, it was sweet and real and tasted too vanilla-y, honestly. And it changed everything. Mrsha sat with the cake slice on her lap and watched it. She lifted a trembling paw to her face as she put it back on the nightstand and rolled over.

Mrsha lay awake, staring at an ember in her paws, which glowed with every color in the world. Happiness and sadness and possibility and grief and more. Then she clenched her paws around the glowing ember and wondered if she were mad or crazy. Did she care?

She couldn’t stop shaking. She kept sitting up and taking bites of that cake through the night. Staring at the ember. Then, in the darkness, Mrsha knew what she had to do.

What she could do.

——

As the night wore on, the [Palace of Fates] waited, unchanging, the doors of fates leading to countless true realities envisioned and brought to life by the motive force of this world. There was only one being present without the two intruders, and she was not truly…her.

She was just an echo. A reflection, but for all that, real enough. If anything could copy a person so utterly, it was the Grand Design of Isthekenous.

Long had she waited without thought or true existence. Then she had questioned the oddity that brought the girl here. She had expected the girl’s heart to break, for the Goblin Chieftain to see the futility and value of this place in equal measure. But never had she expected that.

The Empress of Harpies stood there, aghast. Silent. In awe. And wonder and horror, and she did not know what the girl had done.

How?

How?

Sheta had broken her talons on these painful what-ifs. The thing she had asked for and regretted. No force in the world could breach the doors, not even Tier 9 magic. Yet…she peered at the small object poking out of the shut door. It looked like…a rope? Or a bit of—root.

Going straight through reality.

Author’s Note:

I debated adding in the final scene that explains everything, and the full shadow of the arc. But I was convinced that if it were not there, none of this would matter.

Now you see it. It’s a game of shadows and light, sometimes. What the author sees is not what the reader sees. The full picture is me trying to illustrate it best as possible and, sometimes, hiding pieces of it behind the curtain until the big reveal. I always like the big reveal…and wonder if this time, no one will applaud.

I’m doing it again, waxing philosophical in meaningless ways that have been done entirely before. I am exhausted, in truth, and taking this week off is sorely needed. During my break, I intend to consume a few stories.

Everything, Everywhere, All at Once has been recommended to me, but I have begun Dr. Who (2005) and found it instantly creative, well-written, and humorous. I think I like Rick and Morty less because it feels super derivative now.

These stories are partly for entertainment, partly to see the field and learn from the best and worst…I don’t think I have the heart to watch any Marvel movies. Wish me luck, and as ever, I will do my best. I am well aware of what I’m doing. But sometimes, I also feel like that meme of the scientist holding up the Demon Core with a screwdriver. But you do it on purpose because there’s something good hidden there, if you thread the needle right.

…At least I’m not rhyming yet. Have a good break.

—pirateaba

Toren Bag by Mrs. Pea!