The banner was down, a snowdrift of flickering green. The Peaceables advanced calmly. In the little group of Staids standing with Fift, someone—Meroc Ipithia of name registry Barking Undulation 12, according to lookup—was nervously fingering a ceremonial spoon, the kind some Staids carried for luck.

“‘A storm encircling our stillness,’” Emim said ruefully, looking into Fift’s eyes, and for a moment Fift wondered if that was something else this strange little group of overexuberant instant-fame fans had heard zir or Shria say.

But of course it was Ranhulo, from zir metacommentary on the eighth work of the tenth cycle.

It was an allusion to the Long Conversation, made in public and on the world’s feed, with Vails present. Even after all that had happened, it was a shock. You couldn’t do that! You couldn’t quote the Long Conversation on the world’s feed!

Staid things are Staid things and Vail things are Vail things, Father Frill had said, years ago. You wouldn’t want to watch us fight on the mats, would you?

Emim bit zir upper lip, defiant, eyes shining mischievously. I’ll be as rude as I like, zir eyes said. What else can they do to me now?

A storm encircling our stillness. They were Ranhulo’s words, and they were full of bitter scorn for Vails: the vailish storm closing in, destroying staidish stillness. But why had Ranhulo changed so drastically? Why had ze swung from openness to condemnation? The young Ranhulo had spoken before Vails, had praised the Compromise of the Spoons, had welcomed the ill-fated Permissive Compact. That short-lived experiment in Vails witnessing the Long Conversation had ultimately failed . . . was that what broke Ranhulo’s heart?

Ranhulo, the great Sage, had fought for a world of sharing and connection . . . and in the end ze had given up, and rejected it all. So what chance did Fift have?

Fift’s interrupted homework was still open in zir queue: the puzzle of the metacommentary on the eighth work of the tenth cycle, the riddle of what transformed Ranhulo’s expansive optimism into bitterness. How had ze come to see Vails—sharing with Vails, opening up to Vails—as a danger? As wildfire raging through the silent deeps . . .

Wait.

Thavé.

That’s the original, lost sense of ‘wildfire’ in your language, by the way: ‘fire that protects the wilds,’ that keeps the forest healthy.

“We’ve been reading Ranhulo wrong,” Fift said, triplemouthed.

“Is that so?” Ellix said drily. Ze indicated Squell with zir chin. “As interesting as this reflection sounds, maybe you should save this for when your Fa—when Squell’s not around.”

“Ranhulo’s regret, zir disgust,” Fift told Ellix. “. . . it’s not for the Compromise of the Spoons, or the Permissive Compact. It’s for their abandonment! Ranhulo never gave up—ze never turned against that project—ze was just defeated! The storm . . . the storm encircles the stillness to protect it, not to—”