Wedding March

by Carabas

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Drama, Changelings, Original Character, Comedy, Queen Chrysalis, Princess Celestia
Length: 76050

Upon arriving at the royal wedding in Canterlot, all the foreign delegates have to do is show face, wish the happy new couple well, and try not to die.

Upon arriving at the royal wedding in Canterlot, all the foreign delegates have to do is show face on behalf of their nations, wish the happy new couple well, and try not to die.

You wouldn't expect the third of these to be that difficult.

Cover art from the gallery of Alumx. Proofread by themaskedferret, Georg, and Infernus Noctis.

Published 2016-07-15 00:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2018-04-15 14:59:52 UTC

Be Sure to Arrive in Good Time, so You Miss None of the Excitement

Burro could swear afterwards that he’d tried to keep his promise to Damasque and get some work done. He’d tried. But when his whole world had been reduced to a juddering, cramped, and sweltering hole that stank of engine grease and raw metal, it was hard to give next week’s Parliamentary Address the attention it deserved. He’d given up two hours in when he’d only produced half a page of text and half a page of vague doodling. Thankfully, some thoughtful aeroengineer had seen that the craft was furnished with a stack of light fiction, each tome thicker and more gratifyingly trashy than the last, and so he’d let himself be happily absorbed. All the while, the pilot jenny kept the Cloud-Kisser on course.

“Canterlot’s in sight, Arch-Minister!”

The call came from the pilot, several hours into the ornithopter’s flight. He turned to where the door to the pilot’s cabin sat at the end of the noisy, shuddering main cabin, past where his two guards, Berry and Asinara, sat braiding each other’s manes. “Come see!”

Burro groaned with relief, put the book to one side, rose from his cushion pile, and made his way past the curious guards through to the pilot’s cramped cabin. Over the pilot’s wither and past a window smeared with whorls of engine grease, he saw the familiar shape and high spires of the white mountain-city.

It was different from the last time he’d seen it. It was actually on its mountain, for one thing, rather than wandering around the landscape and grumbling. And for another, a great spherical shield of magical force shimmered around it entirely. Burro whistled as he took in the vast scale of the barrier.

“That’s not a half-haunched piece of work,” he said admiringly. “One of the princesses must have built that. Or some powerful unicorn. Or lots of powerful unicorns, even. Damned curious. Celestia did mention in her letters that some manner of heightened security would be in play, but I wasn’t expecting something on this scale. I’ve never known her to be so … well, security-conscious in the past.”

“Fair play to her, Arch-Minister,” said the pilot, keeping up both the conversation and the craft, pushing down on its control wheel to send the craft veering down on a slight incline. “Means I’ll probably have to land this outside the city proper, but I’m sure they’ll have accounted for that. Not unless you want me to just land right on top of it, of course.”

“Hah.” Burro looked straight ahead at the barrier. What sort of danger was Celestia expecting that this sort of barrier had been raised? An incoming wyld storm? All-out invasion? What was the old alicorn keeping under her crown this time, and why wasn’t she telling anyone else about it?

And amidst that storm of questions, it dawned on him that a worryingly thoughtful silence emanated from the pilot.

“I mean, I could land right on top of it, Arch-Minister.”

“What?”

“Ms Amiatina did want to see more of how it handled landing in authentic conditions and on uneven surfaces, and I could get her a report on that here.”

It was a poor sort of patriotism that lacked a counterweight of loathing for the national character on occasion, and Burro felt his patriotism wanted for nothing in that regard. “My dear … what was your name?”

“Pollina, Arch-Minister! Ooh, I bet if I angled it low on the descent —”

“Ms Pollina, kindly don’t try to land atop the barrier.”

“It’s okay, Arch-Minister, I’m good at not dying in these situations, and maybe that’ll rub off on you. Ha, you don’t live to fly every version of this thing without getting very good at that!”

Once upon a time, there had been kings in Asinia rather than elected Arch-Ministers, and although there was no danger of them coming back any time soon (Burro thought with some prideful and nostalgic relish), any head wearing a crown probably wouldn’t have faced this sort of thing.

“Ms Pollina ...”

“Is it a diplomatic thing you’re worried about, Arch-Minister? Come on, the Equestrians are our allies. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if we just accidentally skiffed it a little —”

“Pollina.”

A heavy and metallic thunk sounded then from atop the craft, shutting up both Burro and Pollina. There was the tread of what sounded like hoofsteps from the roof, and both donkeys craned their heads up to track them as they made their way towards the front of the craft.

The hoofsteps stopped, and three knocks rang against the roof. Immediately after, a head descended into view past the pilot’s window. A gold-armoured, strapping, and upside-down pegasus stallion peered into the craft, his helmet’s plume and outspread wing-feathers fluttering in the high breeze.

Burro paused. Mid-air receptions weren’t something he’d ever really conducted, the Discord Incident aside. Pollina scarcely blinked and threw off a jaunty salute. “Wotcher.”

“Good day!” said the pegasus stallion, his voice somewhat muffled by the glass and the roar of the wind. “Do I address the Arch-Minister of the Asinial Republic?”

“Yes,” broke in Burro before Pollina had the chance to conduct diplomacy on his behalf. “May I know who we address? From this, ah, interesting position.”

“Sir Stratus of her Solar Majesty’s Dayguard, Arch-Minister,” replied the stallion with what would have probably been a respectful nod of the head had it been delivered the right way up. “A landing ground has been prepared for you and your craft outside the city, in light of current security measures. If you could follow me?”

Burro smiled and stepped back from the window. “Thank you, Sir Stratus. Do lead on.” As the pegasus leapt off the ornithopter and started flying towards some distant point on the ground below Canterlot, Burro patted Pollina’s wither. “It’d be churlish to turn down a sensible landing zone so generously provided.”

Pollina made a disgruntled noise in the base of her throat as she watched Stratus fly ahead. “Being a pegasus is cheating,” the jenny muttered, even as she dutifully angled the craft to follow Stratus. Burro ambled back into the main cabin, where the two neatly-braided guards had taken up positions by the cabin door. One of them, Asinara, bore a suspicious expression and had a forehoof hovering by the crossbow holster inside her dark jacket. The other, Berry, looked faintly disappointed as she watched Stratus flying ahead, as if her hopes for a thrilling aerial battle had been thwarted by the pegasus’ entirely sensible reason for being there.

Burro couldn’t share the sentiment, but Berry at least got her own pat on the wither as he passed by. “Don’t fret,” he said. “Next time it’ll be a hostile dragon, or a flock of mantaghasts, or sky pirates, or something similarly fun and lethal.”

He watched from the safety of a porthole as the Cloud-Kisser swept down towards the mountain. A path spiralled up around its height, widening into broad terraces of greenery at regular intervals. One lay level with the city itself, and after a few short minutes of ungainly hovering and shouted encouragement from Stratus, the ornithopter flapped its way down to a landing with hardly anything falling off.

Burro groaned with relief and cracked his joints as Asinara and Berry trotted towards a hatch at the back of the craft. One tug of a lever angled the hatch’s door down towards the ground, and another tug sent a succession of metal plates sliding out from the door’s innards to form a gangplank. Fresh air flooded into the cabin, and Burro savoured every particle of it. He stopped only to scoop up a toaster-sized parcel, shrugged it over his back by its long ribbon with some care, and stepped out into the daylight.

Out from the ornithopter, a stone pathway ran on, bridging a babbling river. The pink hue of the shield rose up from the ground a few feet after that, and behind it, Burro saw several lance-armed guards standing ready. Stratus gestured onwards, and Burro followed his lead, Asinara and Berry falling into lockstep behind him.

“Impressive security measures,” Burro remarked as they trotted over the bridge. “Are they usual for this sort of thing?”

“Couldn’t say, Arch-Minister. This is the first royal wedding since … at least the Pre-Princess Era. Gosh.” The stallion recovered momentarily from accidentally awing himself. “Princess Celestia and Princess Luna did request it for the occasion, though, and Captain Shining Armour’s practically been putting in triple shifts to keep things locktight.”

“He’s the groom, correct?”

“Yes, Arch-Minister. He’ll have earned a nice, long, restful honeymoon after today’s done and dusted, if you’ll pardon the frankness. This shield’s all his work; he’s been sustaining it for days.”

“My word.” Burro looked up at the shield with renewed admiration. “Some stallion. And he’s landed some partner in a princess of Equestria.”

“That he is and has, Arch-Minister.” Stratus’s tone dropped to more conspiratorial levels. “Caught a little wedding nerves, Princess Cadance. Bit more … standoffish and stressed than she normally is. Please don’t be fooled if you bump into her before the ceremony, Arch-Minister, she’s a gem every other time.”

“Consider me duly advised,” said Burro. The old jack had never gotten round to marriage, life having thrown too many other fun distractions in the way of what spare time he got, but he’d seen acquaintances and heard stories, and knew the best thing for either partner as the happy day drew close was to offer a helping pair of hooves and/or hard liquor, whichever would be more appreciated in that moment.

They passed through the shield at a slow and measured pace, the pink aura letting them off with a pleasantly tingly full-body shiver as it swept through their forms. On the other side, the other guards levelled their lances and subjected Burro and the jennies to hard stares.

“For star’s sake, they’re fine. Just like everypony else who’s gone through,” said Stratus with much-strained patience. “Stop waving those around. You’ve got your invitation, Arch-Minister?”

Burro conjured it from a coat pocket. “By some tragic error of judgement on the couple’s part, I do indeed.”

“There? See? Lances away.”

Most complied. One stallion looked reluctant. “Might be an imposter who’s pinched the invitation, sir. I mean, anything could happen on one of these weird flying machines mid-flight. Suppose somebody else flew up even higher, right, and then flew down —”

“Look, if he’s an hostile imposter from Capra or Corva or wherever who overthrows all we love and hold dear and leaves the city a smouldering crater, then I’ll apologise personally to the princesses. Until then, let’s charitably assume the invitation he’s got grants him entry.” The chastened guard leaned his lance back up against his wither, and Stratus turned to Burro. “Apologies for that, Arch-Minister. Some of them are new and keen, and wedding nerves have gotten to us all a bit.”

“No harm done. Do lead on to the palace,” said Burro as they trotted clear of the checkpoint and onto the broad, winding streets of Canterlot itself. “First, though … Asinara? Berry?”

“Yes, Arch-Minister?” said Asinara, the more senior of the two.

“Take the day off. It’s a lovely one, and you can find better things to do with it than guarding some old jack who’ll be under the very nose of the alicorns. Fetch the pilot and bring her along with you, be back at the ornithopter by, say, seven, and if I’m not there by then, assume the evening and night and wee hours of the morning are yours as well. Bill the Diplomatic Office if the occasion ends up being extravagant. Damasque will blame me rather than you, and I’m used to her correctly blaming me for things.”

Berry brightened. Asinara frowned. “Arch-Minister, this is foreign soil. We’re charged with the safety of your person, and if you’re out of our sight —”

“It may be foreign soil, but it’s Equestrian soil. I’m as safe here as in my own bedroom … possibly even safer. Under the noses of the alicorns themselves, as I said, and at an event made so secure you could use it as bedrock.” Asinara still looked unconvinced, and Burro offered up his most genial smile. “Look at it this way. Either the Princesses won’t wish me ill, in which case nothing short of Discord’s return could hurt me here. Or if they do wish me ill … well, be honest, my dear, could you fight an alicorn?”

“In this hypothetical, sir, how much time and how many armies do I have?”

“Just so.” Burro patted her wither. “Go on. I’m serious. Appreciate some culture. Appreciate some drinks. Appreciate some cultured drinks. Show the pony crème de la crème how a donkey plays cards and leave them wondering where their family fortunes went. The city’s your oyster. While you enjoy yourself, I’ll rub withers with other dusty statesbeings and make tedious conversation at the reception.”

Asinara reluctantly let herself be tugged away by an excited Berry, but as she went, she called out after Burro, “That last sentence sounded distinctly like a falsehood, Arch-Minister!”

“Oh yes,” said Burro happily as he turned to follow Stratus. “The very best sort.”

Fifteen minutes of brisk trotting later, by which time the weight of the toaster was making itself decidedly known, Burro ascended to Canterlot’s palace complex. The guard presence had diminished as they’d made their way up through the bustling civilian levels of the city, but back here you couldn’t swing a cat without it bouncing off somepony’s barding. Ranks of unicorns and earth ponies manned the gateways and paced along white battlements, and pegasus squadrons circled the countless rising towers. Elements from both companies of the Royal Guard, Celestia’s Dayguard and Luna’s Nightguard, were on display.

Burro’s invitation got more hard scrutiny, but eventually he was let through. “Along the pathway, Arch-Minister,” Stratus said, gesturing with a forehoof. “All guests are currently being received on the green before the Crystal Hall before the wedding commences. Princess Celestia herself has matters in hoof there. Enjoy the day.”

“Thank you, Sir Stratus. I shall.” Burro watched the pegasus fly off and breathed out, for once a free jack sans any escort at all. He turned towards the winding path, adjusted his bicorne, and set out. As much spring as his joints permitted entered his step.

Past several other imposing marble structures all interconnected by bridges and snaking towers, he came upon the promised expanse of green. Behind it, the wide, imposing, and indubitably sparkly shape of the Crystal Hall. And upon it, the wedding gathering.

Dozens of ponies, extending maybe into the low hundreds, mingled and bustled and chattered across its expanse. A few long tables cut across it, as yet empty before the reception proper, and another table heaped with what looked like wrapped gifts sat against one wall of the Crystal Hall. What looked like a rumpled pavilion sat at the centre of the green, with ponies curiously giving it a wide berth. A few harassed-looking staff in white and gold uniforms made the rounds with trays of glasses and canapés, just enough to keep the guests from resorting to cannibalism before the ceremony.

For a moment, Burro hung back, drinking it all in. Then he trotted forwards in a stately and unhurried manner, passing through the crowd’s border and nodding benignly at whoever he passed by. His gaze turned here and there, quite casually. And inside, his Cunning flared like a bonfire.

This was a new place. It was large. Its dynamics needed attention. Burro didn’t use his Cunning much these days for anything beyond especially hectic sessions of Parliament … but this occasion warranted an exception. He let it loose.

It wasn’t one of the more dramatic magical gifts, donkey Cunning, but it earned its capital letter. Some called it unconscious genius, others called it being natural smart-alecks, and others called it things unrepeatable in polite company. Whatever you called it, it was a knack for understanding systems and how they worked, for building up a gestalt picture from scraps of the whole. How things interconnected, the forces they exerted, how each reacted, and, if you practised at it, how you yourself might be able to nudge the whole affair towards eruption...

Most donkeys who did much with their Cunning trained it upon physical mechanisms and engineering, and built all the finely-tuned technological marvels that fluttered and steamed and ticked and occasionally exploded (competence, of course, being an entirely different beast to Cunning) around Asincittà. But there were other systems it could be attuned to, with a little effort and a lot of hard practise, and here was one for Burro’s veteran attention.

Here were groups of all the usual statesbeings you’d expect at an Equestrian state occasion, many smartly-dressed parliamentarian ponies and the odd griffon, representatives from the territories, the more well-connected businessponies, and those sporting Equestria’s vestigial noble titles, who often overlapped with the preceding groups. They mingled in their circles on what was familiar ground to them, and chatted and socialised in their own tight little webs of politics and alliances and friendships that they’d brought along to the occasion. Burro knew some of their names. Some of them he’d received as guests in his own official capacity on several occasions. Some of them had raided his Parliament’s drinks cabinet.

And there was a different and broader group, almost entirely ponies, who’d dressed as well as they could on incomes that, by and large, couldn’t buy out the average city. Family and friends and close colleagues of the groom — and none that he could pick up on for the bride, not yet on the little information they had. Two unicorns at one side practically radiated ‘proud parents’. They were chatting away to a couple of earth pony mares Burro felt might be wielders of the Elements of Harmony, who he’d yet to meet in person but had heard much about. He’d have to introduce himself to them tonight. These closer, personal guests mostly kept to their own circles, but some from the well-connected clusters would occasionally intercept a stray member and engage them in chit-chat. Nothing to be lost from friendliness to a family on the up-and-up, after all, and the threads in the social pattern surrounding Burro tightened and twisted ever so gradually.

His map of the place grew, gained detail. Burro wound his way ever-deeper into the mix, conversations breaking all around him as groups coalesced, split, grew, and parted here and there. A few greater figures drifted like black holes in the pattern, isolated and attention-grabbing and only occasionally engaged with by lesser guests. One was heading for Burro himself, parting the clusters before them like a warship, and Burro’s Cunning sought out the threads that connected them to everypony else —

“Excuth m’, mfter?”

— and then it fell apart like a house of cards in a breeze. Burro blinked, disoriented, and looked around for the source of the voice before he had the presence of mind to look down. A little white-coated unicorn filly looked up at him with bright green eyes, wearing a floral crown and a frilled dress and holding a basket of flowers in her mouth.

Burro quickly shook sense back into his head and then smiled down at her, smoothly covering over any discombobulation from his train of Cunning being lost. Children weren’t a demographic he’d paid much attention to since being one himself, unable as they were to either vote or donate meaningful sums, but he could kiss proffered infants with the best of them and had disarming prattle down to a fine art. “Good day, lass. Can I help?”

“C’ld y’ wch —” The filly paused, spat out the basket’s handle, and began again. “Could you watch my flowers for a second, please? I think my dress is turning inside-out.”

“Of course.” Burro rested a forehoof on the basket as the filly turned her attention to her dress, the folds of which were indeed thoroughly en-fankled. Green magic flickered around her horn as she valiantly tried to fix it. Burro thought for a moment, and then ventured, “You’re a flower-filly for the day, then?”

“Yep!” she replied, somewhat indistinctly past a ribbon.

“Important role, that. You must be proud.”

“Yep! Me and my friends didn’t even think we’d be coming, but somepony saw Princess Cadance didn’t have anypony she knew who could be a flower-filly. So we got volunteered!”

“An excellent duty to get volunteered for, no doubt about that. You must be related to —?”

“Also, Apple Bloom checked and she doesn’t think anypony’s ever gotten a cutie mark for flower-fillying before, but she reckoned there wasn’t any harm in trying! Imagine if that happened, getting our cutie marks at a royal wedding. Diamond Tiara wouldn’t have anything to say to that, I bet! Not like how she was after we tried dragon-wrangling, and that was even after we said sorry to Spike and everything.”

Burro slowly opened his mouth to ask many questions, re-assessed how far down this particular rabbit-hole it would be worth delving, and decided otherwise. “So,” he eventually tried, “you’re related to the groom, then?”

“Nope!” she replied, worrying at another ribbon. “He’s my big sister’s friend’s big brother. Or something like that. Do you know him or Cadance? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, sadly. I’m just the Arch-Minister of Asinia. You often get invited to state occasions like this when you’re one of those.”

“Oh, that sounds cool,” said the filly while conducting yet more worrying at what looked like the other end of the same ribbon. “That sounds like an important job too.”

“So I flatter myself, sometimes. How does your big sister know Shining Armour’s little—?”

“Sweetie Belle!”

A unicorn mare swept in from stage right, purple-maned and white-coated and wearing her own elaborate dress alongside an expression of mild frazzlement. “Sweetie darling, don’t bother the other guests. You have to be inside getting ready, along with Apple Bloom and Scootaloo. Cadance will be done any minute now.”

“I wasn’t bothering him!” the filly, Sweetie Belle, objected to what was presumably her aforementioned older sister. “He was just telling me he’s the Arch-Minister of somewhere and he was looking after my flowers while I fixed my dre—”

“Come inside with me, Sweetie, I’ll fix it while you look after your own flowers. I’m sure the Arch-Minister’s got other guests here he needs to talk to.” The mare flashed Burro an apologetic smile. “Dreadfully sorry about this, sir, last-minute preparations are still very much underway. I do commend that naval wardrobe of yours, by the way. That vermillion waistcoat with the blue tailcoat’s wonderfully bold.”

“It was no trouble, my dear.” Burro’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “I do know a jack back home with whom you could have many, many hours of lively debate, but I shan’t keep you from your preparations. Have a lovely day.”

The mare led her protesting little sister away towards the Crystal Hall. Burro watched them leave and then snorted with amusement. “Well done, old boy,” he said to himself. “The first of many similarly continent-altering policy discussions here tonight. Keep up the clever work.”

Mind you, that had shed a little bit of light on Cadance, if there’d been no-one she could call on at all to act as a flower-filly. Some of his intelligencers and historians suspected she might be an unthawed relic from an age-old Equestrian war, and this could certainly support that interpretation.

Belay the self-depreciating wit, then. At least, not until he’d had a good think on that conversation, and after he’d had a few more quiet words with suitably knowledgeable beings ...

As the unicorn sisters vanished up the steps leading into the hall, there was the flap of broad wings and the whump of someone heavy alighting on the ground behind Burro. He braced himself for a hearty clap across the withers and an old friend’s voice, and tried to wiggle the toaster to one side in order to stop the reunion becoming explosive in the most distressingly literal of senses.

When that clap and voice didn’t immediately come, he realised who’d really landed behind him. Burro turned and looked up to meet Princess Celestia’s gaze.

The alicorn’s broad wings fell in against her side, and her mane flowed behind her like a ribbon of the dawn sky. Her magenta eyes twinkled down at Burro — she towered above him, and anybody else present for that matter. She’d dressed simply for the occasion, wearing her usual gold regalia of shoes, collar, and crown.

No proper born-and-bred Asinian would ever bow to a head that wore a crown. But if said head belonged to an old and respected ally who’d stood by the Republic for as long as it had existed, and who incidentally wielded the might of the heavens’ furnace, then it was no shame to at least doff your own headwear at them. It didn’t hurt as well that the last time he’d met Celestia in the flesh, she’d been angrily demonstrating to him and other statesbeings just what sort of might the heavens’ furnace afforded her.

Burro knew what sorts of fires smouldered beneath the gentle smile. But he put the thought of them to one side, and he courteously tipped his bicorne. “Celestia.”

“Burro.” The alicorn smiled gently. “Your invitation got through, I see. Or it didn’t, and you decided to gatecrash regardless. A pleasure to see you here, whatever the case. Is Asinia still intact?”

“Last time I checked, yes, despite my and donkeykind’s best efforts otherwise. And the pleasure’s all mine, Celestia. No effort seems to have been spared for the occasion.”

“Indeed.” The alicorn heaved a relieved sigh. “Effortful in the arranging for everypony involved, but at least it’s all ready to go ahead. I saw you’d met one of the Element Bearers and her little sister.”

Burro blinked, and rifled through his memory for photos and descriptions attached to old reports. “One of the Ele — the unicorn mare back there? Oh fie, so she was. Rarity, the Generosity-bearer.” He ruefully shook his head. “I should have made a proper introduction.”

“You made a good impression, rest assured. And there’ll be time yet for more talking. The day’s young, and it should all go smoothly. Canapé?”

“Hmm?” Burro turned, and saw that a server had trotted up to him, offering a tray of canapés, crispy little confections of potato cake and caramelised apple topped with cream. He paused momentarily when he realised that the server was an ibex doe. She didn’t seem to be producing any outcry from Celestia, so he smiled and scooped a canapé up in his hoof. Before he could thank the server, she trotted briskly off, her gaze turned down towards the ground and her gait careful as if she was trotting on explosive eggshells.

Burro could swear he’d seen her somewhere before, struggled to place exactly where, and dismissed the mystery from his list of concerns before popping the canapé in his mouth. “Mmh, not bad. Your caterer’s done themselves proud, whoever they may be.”

“Apple-and-blue-cheese bites are also making the rounds. As are prawn vols-au-vent for the obligate omnivores amongst us.”

“I can imagine someone else in particular here monopolising the latter.” Burro took a moment to finish chewing before continuing in as unhindered and casual a manner as possible, “You mentioned the day going smoothly.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sure the security you’ve put in place will help greatly, smoothness-wise. I’m curious about said security, though.”

“What of it?” Celestia said mildly.

Burro sighed. “What are you expecting, and how likely is it to kill us all before we see another dawn? You don’t mobilise every royal guardspony and lance-toting militia member without good reason, and I’m still sober enough to hear those reasons without weeping externally too loudly.”

“Some would deem the safety of a princess’s wedding and all its assembled guests and statesbeings to be good enough cause.”

“Some would also introduce phrases like ‘transparent bull-leavings’ into the conversation.”

“Possibly not one to repeat when the Bullwalda and his consort make an appearance.” Celestia’s smile turned wry and she gestured for Burro to accompany her. He fell into step alongside her slow, measured own, and they moved towards a thinner part of the gathering. Eventually, once they’d have to stretch to kick anypony else, Celestia murmured, “It’s a high-profile event, unavoidably so. We’ve gotten word of a planned attack. Multiple words, at that, associated with the usual suspects.”

“What manner of word?”

It might have just been Burro’s imagination, but there was a hint of weariness around the edges of Celestia’s eyes.

“Some information suggests a wyld storm, prepared and launched out from Capra to devastate Canterlot when it lands. Others reckon a murder of corvids with black-powder weaponry have crossed the continent, ready to come flying down from the high clouds to wreak havoc on the gathering. Others got word of an mysterious horror stewed in one of the Capricious Crown’s laboratories, sent out and left to lie in hiding in our countryside until the time’s ripe. Other things yet, each less desirable than the last. Take your pick.”

“That many threats, all at once ...” Burro frowned. “Someone’s playing silly buggers with your intelligencers, then. That’s misdirection if ever I heard it, maybe in service of another attack elsewhere. Stars, even the Crown wouldn’t be that blatant. Not if any attack like those could be so obviously traced back to it.”

“My own thoughts exactly, at the start,” Celestia said grimly. “But then I couldn’t help but wonder whether we were meant to interpret it all as cunning misdirection, in order that we be surprised by a direct attack.”

“You’d drive yourself pointlessly mad with that sort of second-guessing. Not unless you’ve got more information on which you can pin a given guess.”

“Regrettably, no. But what I can and decided to do is cover all our bases.” Celestia made an expansive gesture that took in both the shield and a squadron of guards flying overhead. “If a wyld storm or a force of attackers or some beast strikes here, everypony’s protected under the shield, under the eyes of the guards, and under me. If there is some attack elsewhere, then I’ve ordered local authorities across Equestria to be vigilant and to alert me and any nearby Legion groups immediately … and I’m certain Cadance would forgive me teleporting away if something truly dire arises. Luna rests after her nocturnal duties and shan’t join us today, alas, but if multiple threats emerge, she’ll probably forgive whoever woke her up and help handle matters. And if nothing at all comes up and the day goes swimmingly, then I’ll just be briefly embarrassed and give Captain Armour an extra week’s holiday for his honeymoon in light of needless stress imposed.”

“Ah. Thorough.” Thorough to excess, Burro privately thought. Celestia’s involvement alone would surely be enough of a deterrent for any attacker with the wits the Creator gave a cabbage, and a decisive full stop for any without. “You’ve left yourself well-covered, then.”

“Equestria’s resources are hard to spread thin,” Celestia said with a measure of grim pride.

Burro glanced in the direction Rarity and her little sister had vanished, and nodded contemplatively. “I suppose having your six Element Bearers here can’t hurt matters either if anything world-threatening comes up. Again.”

“Such was only a small factor in why I invited them, but you’re right.” Celestia sighed. “We only have five for the occasion, though. The sixth … well, it seems wedding nerves can get to even the best of us. I do hope she chooses to re-emerge and patch up matters afterwards.”

It didn’t require much of Burro’s cunning, lower-case or otherwise, to recognise a situation that was behind some of Celestia’s weariness, and he dropped the matter for kindness’s sake. From what he’d heard from Asinia’s spy here in the palace, the last entity to have posed a challenge to the Element Bearers was still safely locked away. “No matter then. I imagine the bride herself counts as another layer of security, as an alicorn in her own right.”

“Quite so. Yet to grow into her full power … but even now, she is formidable. And she took a personal interest in the security measures. Captain Armour would have collapsed days ago without her ministration.”

Burro nodded even as he lined up more questions on Cadance, but Celestia rose a hoof before he could let them fly. “I understand she’s quite the mystery as yet, and I imagine I shan’t salve that at all by telling you I have plans in place for her.”

“How well-imagined. Dare I even —?”

“Ask after those in turn? This isn’t the time or the place, not with so many unknown eyes and ears present, and other wedding-related stresses and a potential onslaught to reckon with. Rest assured, Burro, we shall discuss them later and at length. You, I, and certain others here who I have no interest in being kept out of the loop.”

“Hmm.” One of the staff trotted by, proffering a tray of glasses filled with amber-coloured liquid, and Burro plucked one up in the cleft of a forehoof. “I suppose that’ll keep me placated. For now. The sooner the better, you understand.”

“Soon, without a doubt.” Celestia glanced in the direction of the way Burro had first entered, spread her wings, and gave Burro an apologetic smile. “I spy Lady Redwood of Trottingham making her entrance. I’m afraid I may have to go and be a good host elsewhere, Burro.”

“Ah. Well, I can promise to do my best to not get too lost and confused on my own.” Burro glanced in the direction of the newcomer. “If the opportunity arises, inform Lady Redwood she still owes me money from a poker game. And that Asinia’s Parliamentary staff know she sneaked away some of our good gin bottles in her saddlebags from when she visited for the lumber negotiations last season.”

“I’ll do my tactful best. Until we talk matters through, do enjoy the ceremony when it’s ready and the reception after.” Celestia looked upwards briefly. “I’m sure you’ll do so in good company.”

She spread her wings and flapped up from the ground, the breeze of which sent Burro’s coat flapping. Burro sent a jaunty salute her way as she took off overhead, and only when she’d vanished from his peripheral vision did it occur that she’d winked at something in the air behind him when she’d looked up…

And there was the flap of wings, another heavy landing behind him, and there came the long-expected bone-juddering clap across his withers. “Hah!” a familiar voice boomed in his ear. “They’ll just let any old scoundrel past the guards these days, won’t they?”

“Evidently.” Burro turned, a fierce grin lighting up his features as he beheld the griffon who’d materialised at his side. “Here’s one talking to me. How’re things, you old scapegrace?”

Gellert, the old chieftain of the Fivecrags tribe and suzerain through vassalage of most other tribe-sworn griffons on the continent, stood by Burro, his amber eyes bright and his white-brown plumage shining. In contrast to Burro, whose frame could be charitably compared to a toast rack that had had grey hide stretched across it, the bulk of Gellert’s feathery torso strained the buttons on his cloth-of-gold waistcoat. A matching cape was draped over his back and secured at the front by a bejewelled brooch. One of his claws held a half-full glass, and several cooked prawns had been precariously balanced on the rim.

“Fivecrags-wise? Oh, things have been marvellous enough, especially whenever I’ve given them much attention,” said Gellert. He eyed Burro and nodded towards the front of the naval uniform. “What’s this number you’ve got on? It looks formal. And appallingly official.”

“This was this morning’s exercise in tears and frustration, and I’ll buy you a drink later if you never broach it for the remainder of the day. And you’ve ...” Burro took in Gellert’s waistcoat and cape. “...made no effort at all.”

“Effort’s for beings who don’t have my natural good looks and grace.” Gellert downed most of his glass along with a prawn. “Still, never mind the dressage. I’ve got you collared for a drink at long last — at least, whenever they start serving us the harder sort of cider. It’s only the soft stuff we’re being given just now, which is probably wise of them. I’ve got you collared, at any rate.”

“The two of us side by side again, and not a civilisation-threatening calamity in sight. Can the end-times be far?”

“We’re not the calamity?” Gellert grinned, emptied his glass and downed the remaining prawns, and tossed it casually onto the tray of a surprised and smartly-uniformed mule. He stretched, groaned, and rose a claw as if preparing to bring it down again across Burro’s withers. “Let’s walk and chat.”

“Let’s. But don’t clap my withers again just now,” said Burro, quickly holding up a warning hoof. “I’m more explosive than usual at the moment.”

“More explosive? Why?”

“The parcel on my back’s a toaster for the happy couple.”

“A toa —?”

“Of Asinial design.”

Gellert prudently backed away. “Right. Well, let’s walk and chat in the direction of the gift table by the hall. You can drop it off there along with everyone else’s.”

“Capital idea. You here by yourself?”

“Brought my second-youngest along as a notional guard, but I just left him to wander around the city for the day. I take you’ve done the same with your own flunkies?”

“You take it right. Have you bumped into anyone we’d know? Who’s made it for the occasion?”

“Fairy Floss is here,” said Gellert as they turned and started ambling in the direction of the Crystal Hall. “I got here about half an hour ago, soon after her. Had a chat with her when we were dropping off our gifts at the same time. The Viceroy from Saddle Arabia — Simoom, aye? — he’s here as well. Bumped into him in the crowd when I was making my way over to you. I’m told Greenhorn and his consort should be turning up later as well. Celestia herself’s here, of course. Who else …? Couple of zebras should be inbound soon from each of the pharoahs’ courts. The Capric ambassador should be here soon as well, and the Pachydermian one. Might be others I’ve missed. Not too awful a gathering, all things told.”

“Not too crowded,” remarked Burro, politely bludgeoning his way through a cluster of statesponies. “Though I suspect we’ll all be far too cosy for comfort under this bubble. Did you mention it to Celestia?”

Gellert grunted. “Excessive, I thought, even after she’d mentioned threats had been made. Who’s going to start any nonsense with three alicorns present, or at least in the vicinity? Maybe she knows something she’s not telling us, of course.”

“What’s ‘maybe’ doing in that sentence?”

“Hah.” Gellert fell silent for a short distance before speaking again. “Glad you could make it, though. I’ve been needing something like this for a while.”

“I’d gathered. There were a lot of communiques I’d had passed on from your envoy, hinting at the need for something celebratory.” Burro gave Gellert a sympathetic glance. “Trouble in the home nest?”

“Something like that.” Gellert sighed. “Trouble with my youngest, in particular.”

Burro picked through his lengthy mental catalogue holding the names of all Gellert’s children. “Gilda?”

“Her. She’s — well, she’s been wanting to be more independent for a while. There were discussions, a few raised voices, a few ruffled feathers, and … that’s her flown the nest, right to the outskirts of Fivecrags lands. Made a home for herself in Griffonstone, if you can believe it.”

“That old ruin? What’s she expecting to find there?”

“Independence. A living. Her fortune. Probably what I was looking for once upon a time. Can’t fault the impulse, though I wish she’d chosen a better locale for it. I even suggested privateering to her, like we did, but she was too busy flying towards the horizon at that point.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. She’s your daughter,” said Burro. “If she’s picked up anything from you, she’ll flail around in magnificent fashion, make a complete pig’s ear of things, and then somehow stumble out the other side smelling of roses. Some tendencies there must surely pass on in the blood.”

“Hah! True.” Gellert shook his head. “Silly to fret about a griffon with my good qualities, you’re right there. Still, I’m glad to get away from home, get my head out of the tribe, even if it’s just for a day. Breathe some fresh air, temporarily forget I’m important and responsible for things, cheer on a happy new couple, and put the world’s weight to one side for a bit. The game’s more wearying than it used to be.”

“I hear that,” sighed Burro. “I’m sure pursuing positions of authority must have seemed like a good idea to both of us at the time. At least today shouldn’t be too onerous.”

They meandered their way through the thickening crowd for a moment longer, and then Burro thoughtfully added, “You should come down to Asincittà next month if you’re still in need of a break. We’ll be launching the three new flagships then, and seeing them off in a suitably festive manner.”

“The new flagships. These’ll be …?”

“The Fear Nowt and her sisters, the Actually, Fear Lots and the No, You’re Compensating. Our admirals still get the most puckish notions when it comes to naming their vessels — I still swear there’s something in our officers’ water — but they should serve their fleet divisions well.”

“Break a bottle of champagne on the hull to anoint each one,” mused Gellert. “And even with those three gone to waste, you’ll still need some doughty griffon to help you deal with all the other bottles left over.”

“Exactly!” Burro paused and squinted about him, craning his head slightly. “Hold on. Let me get my bearings in all this muddle.”

The gathering had swelled in numbers since Burro had arrived, and off in the distance, he could see Celestia talking to a group of important-looking ponies who’d just entered. Ahead and to his right, the Crystal Hall loomed high, and between it and Burro, there was the odd pavilion he’d seen earlier, still with a generous amount of space about it on all sides. Save for one small figure. Burro squinted at them, and blinked in sudden recognition. “Look there,” he said, nudging Gellert. “We’ve got our Pachydermian representative. The Pachydermian representative.”

“What do you mean by — Simurgh’s paps.” Gellert rose onto his rear paws to get a better look. “That’s the Shahanshah!”

True enough, it was Shahanshah-in-Waiting Sailears the Second of Ancient and Glorious Pachydermia, in all his eight-year-old regality, crowned and covered from neck to feet in turquoise robes. Burro remembered talking to (or rather, being talked at by) the little elephant back during the Discord Incident. The calf stood by the odd pavilion, nearly as tall as any of the ponies about him and regarding everything with bright and naked curiosity. He seemed to be talking avidly, and Burro wasn’t sure who to.

“Curious that he’s here, and not some expendable court flunkey,” said Gellert. “Is this his regent sending him out on a foreign mission with relative training wheels attached, you reckon? Baby’s first international occasion?”

“Possibly. Shall we pay a visit on our way to the gift table?” Burro said casually. “Keep the wheels of international courtesy turning smoothly?”

“Oh, why not,” chuckled Gellert. “See if he remembers your face from last time. Wrangle a favourable trade deal out of him.”

They moved closer towards the pavilion and Sailears, pressing their way through several chattering knots along the way, and as they drew near, Sailears took notice of them. He tilted his head quizzically for a moment, and then jerked up with excited recognition, sending his large ears flapping and the thin crown perched on his head wobbling. “Oh! Ooh! Here!” he called. “Hello! I remember you!”

“I remember you too, Shahanshah, and it’s certainly nicer circumstances in which we meet than last time,” said Burro, putting on the reassuring smile he’d donned for Sweetie Belle and stepping closer past the pavilion. “I hope I find you well —”

He stepped past the pavilion and towards Sailears, and in one whirlwind of motion, the pavilion abruptly stopped being a pavilion. It spun in the air, faster than Burro could blink, and a torso-thick length of matted brown cord slashed out through the air to smack into Burro’s chest, knocking him back with a startled “Oof!”

He staggered, caught his breath, held up a warding hoof for all the good it would do, and looked up. The brown length of cord became a scarred length of trunk, covered in coarse hide that would do the average shag carpet proud, and it pulled back to ward Sailears. Upwards, where it ended at a face that was nearly three times the height of a grown stallion above the ground, two wickedly-curved and pitted tusks jutted like spears. The colours and shine of the pavilion resolved themselves into layer after layer of dyed lamellar and chainmail. Iron-shod feet thick enough to moonlight as tree trunks ground the grass to mulch. And at the top of it all, behind a tight steel helmet with slits just wide enough to glare out at the world from, two night-dark eyes burned.

The mammoth loomed in a manner that could have intimidated a mountain and rumbled, in a voice that Burro clocked as (A) female and (B) akin to a volcano that had just had its pint spilled, “Step not lightly towards the Shahanshah in the presence of the Shahanshah’s guard, outlander!”

“Dame Lyuba, it’s okay, he’s not an outlander!” interjected Sailears, tugging at a flap of the mammoth’s chainmail with his trunk. “Or … well, maybe he is, but he’s not the bad kind!”

Past the black slits of her visor, Dame Lyuba glared down as if she was trying to set Burro aflame with willpower alone. “Do not grant him trust, Your Grace. He has an ill-favoured look.”

“Dame Lyubaaa! We have to be diplomatic and statesbeing-like and other things! And you said that about the last one who tried to talk to me as well.”

“That yellow pegasus also had an ill-favoured look,” Lyuba retorted, shifting her iron-shod feet and stance so that she now loomed over both Burro and Gellert at once, her dark eyes glinting. “Attend to your diplomatic niceties, Your Grace, and heed your lessons there as imparted by your uncle, the Lord Regent. I shall attend to your protection amidst this foreign rabble.”

Sailears sighed and gave Burro an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about Dame Lyuba being scary to you. She’s done that to nearly everyone here. I think my uncle should have had her go to my Diplomacy tutor as well.”

“Well, I, er, I suppose not all beings can have a Shahanshah’s advantages.” Burro’s brain took a moment to decelerate, adjust, and then catch back up to its normal speed, a process that wasn’t helped by Lyuba glowering over him like a thunderhead. He looked to Gellert for moral support and received none, the griffon being too transfixed by the mammoth as well. Nothing for it but to make the small-talk as quick and courteous as possible. “I’m delighted to see you again, Your Grace. I imagine everyone had been expecting a Pachydermian ambassador or courtier to show face rather than your own person.”

“My uncle says that since we can’t get rid of the rest of the barbarian world, we have to live with them and be polite and make allowances for them being silly and everything like that,” replied Sailears happily. “He said this’d be a good place for me to learn who else would be wasting valuable oxygen on the world stage — he says a lot of things like that — and that I had to be diplomatic and keep my real thoughts and intentions close to my chest, to keep my eyes and ears open and to tell him everything I learned, and that if any calamities happened, I was to obey Dame Lyuba as if she was him. Oh, and that I had to memorise everyone’s title in advance and keep them happy by calling them their own.”

“That is generally a good way to keep beings happy, Your Grace.”

“I know you’re an Arch-Minister now! Not a king. Sorry about calling you that back when we met the first time. My uncle says democracy happens at you rather than you being born to power.” Sailears looked curious about the notion. “How does that work, exactly?”

“Well…” Explaining the mechanics of the miracle that was the Republic was hard when razor-sharp tusks were angled right at Burro’s eyes, but he gave it his best shot. “Every few years, every grown-up in Asinia goes to a ballot-box and casts a private vote for a donkey, and once we’ve collected all the votes from the city and countryside and overseas as well, we see which donkey was disliked the least. And then they become the Arch-Minister.” Burro shrugged as casually as he could. “It can be a bit higgledy-piggledy at times, but I think we make it work. That’s probably a biased opinion, though.”

“If you get voted in the first time ...” Sailears started in a thoughtful tone, “... could you make it the law that everyone has to vote for you the next time? I think that’s the clever thing to do.”

“The, ah, laws of the country are decided on by other donkeys than me.” Burro coughed. “They wouldn’t want an Arch-Minister putting what amounts to a crown on their head and undermining the Republic. And the donkeys in the streets wouldn’t stand for it either, I’m glad to say.”

“Quite right. Imagine your terrible face adorning any poor being’s coins,” whispered Gellert.

“Shush.”

“Huh.” Sailears looked very contemplative indeed. “It all sounds weird, but my uncle says we shouldn’t judge too harshly, not if there’s a chance in the future to exploit the thing you’re judging someone on.”

“Very, ah, tolerant of him. I think I should meet your uncle one of these days, Your Grace. He sounds like the very image of a Lord Regent.”

“He’d like you! Maybe,” Sailears chirped, and there was a poorly-concealed snort from Lyuba. Heedless, the little elephant scratched an ear with his trunk and glanced in the direction of the Crystal Hall. “Do you know who’s getting married?”

“Not personally, no, but I’m sure they’re a lovely couple.” The tusk-points kept glinting, and Burro sought around for any opportunity to detach himself. “Ah, I see some friends over there I can discuss them with. I’ll go meet them and stop bothering you and Dame Lyuba, Your Grace, but it’s been a delight to speak to you again. Perhaps we’ll get the chance to meet again during the reception.”

“Perhaps,” growled Lyuba.

Sailears just smiled and waggled his trunk in Burro’s direction. “Okay, Arch-Minister! Have a good day.”

Burro, forgetting himself, unconsciously rose a hoof to shake the proffered trunk. Lyuba emphatically loomed in a manner that clearly suggested to Burro that if he so much as moved a single molecule in a manner that she found displeasing, then she would waste less than no time rearranging it and every other molecule he had that she could lay her trunk on.

It was amazing how that sort of suggestion could sharpen the mind, it really was. Burro drew back, and politely and carefully dropped a short bow. “You as well, Your Grace.”

He turned and walked off, Gellert by his side, while from his back there came muffled conversation. “...Undue friendliness to ill-favoured barbarians such as these—” was the only remonstratory fragment Burro caught from Lyuba before they passed out of earshot and back into the all-surrounding rumble of the crowd.

Burro breathed. “Depth’s bells,” he muttered. “I don’t remember the elephants in my young days being that big.”

“That’s because you were probably fleeing from most of them.”

“Could you have blamed me?”

“Admittedly no.”

“Sending his king out accompanied by that monster. What’s Pachydermia’s Lord Regent playing at? Signaling an increased readiness on Pachydermia’s part to engage with the outside world, whilst showing off just how sharp their tusks are, if I’m any judge.” Burro shook his head. “I’ve got to be a nastier taskmaster to our consul and spies there. If there’s something shifting in the wind over there, I need to know. Our ships sail in their waters.”

“Draw him into the fold. Spare yourself and him the need for any dancing around signals and implications, if there were any,” Gellert fumbled in a pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a thin cheroot. A moment’s wordless pleading with a passing unicorn saw it begrudgingly lit, and he took a long drag before continuing. “I’ll tell you this, though. That confirmed something I’ve suspected for a while now.”

“What?”

“That no matter her species or your position, you’ll get the exact same reaction from a lady every time. Is it a skill you’ve honed or were you born that talented?”

“Go gawk at a cockatrice.”

“I mean, alright, she leaned more towards the ‘wrath’ end of the spectrum rather than ‘disgust’, but it’s still admirably consistent of you to —”

“A cockatrice or a mirror, whichever’s more horrible.” Burro snorted a laugh despite himself, and Gellert seemed to relax. “Before that happy occasion, though, let’s get this toaster unloaded. My back’ll kill me if Dame Lyuba doesn’t.”

“Shame to deny her that particular pleasure. Let’s keep walking, then. Gift table’s still that-away, just where I left it.”

They walked on through the crowd, passing under the shadow of the Crystal Hall. As they drew closer to the gift table, the numbers thinned once more, allowing Burro to see further than a few feet in front of his muzzle. Eventually, the full shape of the table came into view, all but creaking under the weight of gifts heaped atop it. One’s wedding becoming an occasion that drew in the crowned heads of the world had some perks.

“This way,” said Gellert, motioning to the right. “You can put it next to mine.”

“Grand. What did you — aha!” Burro, eyeing the way indicated, saw two familiar faces deep in discussion. Upon his exclamation, one looked up and beamed, while the other favoured him with a smile that mixed grandmotherliness and winteriness.

The first of these was Viceroy Simoom of Saddle Arabia, an arid island dominion of Equestria’s lying south across the Cheval Sea. The young earth pony stallion’s lanky, brown-hided frame was artfully clothed in dark blue silk, and his smile was sunny and guileless, exactly as Burro remembered it. His wave to Burro started out enthusiastic, and only became something regal and dignified in the last few motions when he seemed to remember it ought to. “Chieftain! And Arch-Minister! Delighted you could make it!”

By contrast, the Tyrant of Ovarn, Fairy Floss, eyed Burro and Gellert knowingly as they came closer, a glass held in one hoof. The old ewe’s small and wizened frame was all but hidden under dark red robes. Age had wrinkled her features and stiffened her motions, but her eyes glinted like cut diamonds over pince-nez spectacles. “Reprobate one and reprobate two,” she said. “If the fashion on a lovely day like this is to express delight, then far be it from me to do otherwise.”

“A delight likewise, Viceroy,” said Burro, doffing his bicorne. “I’m glad to see the months haven’t softened a single one of your edges, Fairy.”

“Uppity Archons are a wonderful honing tool, bless their black little hearts.” Fairy Floss sipped from her glass. “Here to cast a dark cloud on this lovely day for the new couple as well, then?”

“Nothing less. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything between yourself and Viceroy Simoom?”

“Oh, I was just telling the Tyrant about my own wedding, several years back,” said Simoom eagerly. “Mirage and I had the pleasure of Princess Celestia’s attendance there as well, but I imagine today’s occasion will have all manner of distinguished company!”

“‘Distinguished’ is something we’ve been mistaken for in the past, no denying that,” said Gellert.

“A pity your Vicereine couldn’t make it, dear,” said Fairy Floss. “She sounds like a mare with whom I could have a proper conversation. Such beings are so rare these days.”

“Mirage felt somepony had to hold the fort in Tabuck, alas, just in case the whole place went up in flames without proper supervision. But she asked me to pass on her best regards to everyone present, and to mingle with wild and socially-graceful abandon.”

“Is Tabuck particularly liable to go up in flames?” asked Burro.

“Oh no, I shouldn’t think so. It’s not done that in weeks. But a stitch in time, or some other suitable expression, eh?”

“Quite.” Burro coughed and turned away from the smiling stallion to face the Tyrant. “I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you here, Fairy. I thought your days of reckless gallivantery were long-since-faded memories by now.”

“You’re doing that ‘cruelty to a meek, helpless old lady’ thing again, dear, out of what I can only assume is a highly developed death wish,” said Fairy Floss with a subtle smirk. “In any case, not all of us have the same low designs for today as yourself and Chieftain Gellert. This is Princess Mi Amore Cadenza’s first public appearance on the world stage. Goodness knows my eyes aren’t what they used to be, but they’re still sharper than most, and there’s none I trust more to be in this place today.”

“Want to see what she’s made of, eh?” said Gellert.

“As does any being with the sense the Creator gave a sea cucumber, yes. A third alicorn shuffled out from the shadows and worn in the open declares Equestria’s might for all to see. The world’s getting ever-antsier and unstable over the matter of Equestrian power, and I trust we here don’t need to guess which certain other players on the continent are sniffing around for any chink in Equestria’s armour. Beings tend to stop sniffing if their target bares its teeth. Let’s see if Cadenza’s the sort to inspire peace across the continent, shall we?”

“That’s ...” Simoom looked hesitant. “ … a rather, um, cynical take on things, don’t you think? It could just be a nice royal wedding. Those put everyone in a good mood, I’m sure. And I’m especially sure the Princesses intended it as nothing else.”

“There’s always undeclared motives, dear,” said Fairy Floss. She drained her glass. “And only if you’re lucky and keep your own eyes and ears open, you might get the chance to discover them before they take you by surprise. Take it from someone who was withers-deep in the game before you were a licentious glint in your parents’ eyes.”

Burro rose one hoof to knead his brow, and involuntarily wobbled as one aching leg threatened to repeal its permission to keep him vertical. “We should discuss this in detail and with all due expletives after the ceremony, Fairy. Before then, could you show where I can stick this toaster?”

Fairy Floss’s eye corners momentarily creased in the manner of one with long practise in thinking of rude suggestions and carefully not voicing them. “Put it here, by mine. And a toaster, dear? How … passé.”

“Made by my own city’s craftsjacks.”

“Oh. Well, I retract the passé accusation, but do stand between it and me.”

Burro gratefully heaved off the toaster and slid it onto the space indicated. Gellert chuckled and waggled the cheroot in his mouth. “Good placing. Right next to mine as well. It might catch quality, that way.”

“Which one’s …?” Burro frowned as he eyed Gellert’s gift, lying next to his upon the table. It had been wrapped up in yellow paper, but it wasn’t hard to guess what it was. For one thing, most of it had casually sheared right through the paper, the wicked curve of it glinting in the sunshine. “That’s a sword.”

“Yep, a good old tribal sabre. Good for holding by the hilt with a claw, or for wielding in a magical grip. And there’s a hoof-socket bundled in there as well, if they’d prefer to screw the hilt off and pop that on instead. And if they just want to hang it over a hearth, there’s hooks in the wrapping as well. Cunning work by my smith. He could give your artisans a run for their money.”

“It’s bad luck to get a blade as a gift, you know.”

“Never understood that superstition, myself.” Gellert shook his head. “It’s a perfectly good sword. If bad luck ever comes the couple’s way, they’ll be equipped to slash holes in it. That’s practically making good luck for them.”

“That’s one take on it, I suppose. Just so long as you accept your share of the blame when bad luck inevitably descends on them.”

“Hah! I have my own sabres at home. Any bad luck coming their way’ll find itself reciprocated good and hard.”

“Fair enough. What are you inflicting on them, Fairy?” Burro eyed Fairy Floss’s own parcel, which had a distinctly bottle-ish quality under the tight blue wrapping. “It looks fun, whatever it is.”

“Ten-year-matured crimpnac,” said Fairy Floss, satisfaction in her voice. “The best brandy the vintner communes of Theavally have to offer, and the best gift a new couple still finding their hooves could wish for. Smoother-over of more strife and stress than a hundred lesser vintages. Cools tempers by day, and fills a being with fire as the night draws in. I’ve no doubt they’ll find it of use.”

Burro had heard stories about the more select Ovish brandies. So had Gellert apparently, who regarded Fairy Floss slyly. “A good marital aid, then. A quote-unquote marital aid as well?”

Whatever slyness Gellert could evoke found itself dwarfed by that on Fairy Floss’s wrinkled features, like a shadow next to the night sky. “Oh, it has a certain potency in that regard,” she said. “But rest assured, most of the stories I’m sure you’ve heard are terribly overblown.”

Burro glanced towards Simoom, the stallion’s handsome features contorting with puzzlement as each sentence flew past. “Oh!” Simoom exclaimed then, suddenly brightening. “A marital aid? Like one of those things with knobs on?”

There was a pause in the sly-off, and Gellert and Fairy Floss turned their own wary attention Simoom’s way. “Potentially,” Fairy Floss allowed slowly. “What manner of thing with knobs on are we discussing here, Viceroy?”

“The name escapes me. Names tend to do that. You know.” Simoom smiled at each of them. “It’s got a tapering shape, usually made out of metal or something else that’s nice and firm. Screws together and can come apart. Some of the manufacturers in Equestria or Asinia enchant them to give things a little magical boost. You know.” He elbowed Gellert with what was probably meant to be a knowing grin. “Hah, the chieftain struck me as the kind of griffon skilled in their use, if you don’t mind me saying so!”

“...I possibly do?” Gellert radiated helpless bewilderment in the face of this unexpected angle of attack, as if he’d suddenly found himself being mauled by a goldfish. “I mean, er, fair play to any being who gives them a go, each to their own and all that, but I’ve really never felt the need —”

“Some of the enchanted models freeze water and crush the ice for you?” said Simoom helpfully. “You can pour that in if you need cooling. Mirage and I often do.”

“... pour it where —?”

“Once we get it out in the evening after a hard day, the night just flies by.”

“I … don’t … doubt ...” Burro’s words came out stilted as several of Simoom’s phrases re-arranged themselves and made a outcome that was far healthier for his imagination. Fairy Floss, who had a decade’s advantage in practising joined-up thinking over Burro, got there a few seconds ahead.

“Viceroy, you’re talking about some sort of drink mixer and dispenser, I presume?” she said. “I hope?”

“Quite!” Simoom slapped his forehead with a hoof, whilst Gellert contrived to simultaneously relax and suppress a cackle. “A cocktail mixer! I’d quite forgotten the name, curious though it may be. Yes, Mirage and I got quite an advanced model for ourselves for our first anniversary. She’s quite fond of an iced brandy sour or two at the end of a week. Your own bottle inspired the thought, Tyrant.” In the long and hesitant silence that followed, he followed up with, “I’m sure they’ll enjoy it immensely.”

The long and hesitant silence ran on, in which Simoom appeared to contemplate the middle distance, and then he shrugged and said, “I suppose in terms of more direct marital aids, you could have always just gotten them a good old-fashioned aphrodi —”

“So, Viceroy!” Burro interjected. “What have you gifted the happy couple?”

“Ah!” Simoom brightened and gestured towards a large silvery cage that rested near the bag of the table. “One of my homeland’s more spectacular creatures, painstakingly trained by my falconer over long months from a chick. He looked so proud when I suggested giving it to the royal couple. So happy.” He paused and considered. “Relieved, even.”

Burro leaned closer, curiosity filling him, and past the silver bars of the cage, he saw a large and red-feathered falcon, its head tucked under one scarlet wing.

“Oh, they’re a beauty,” he said. “What sort of falcon are they?”

“A pyrefalcon, native to the westerly hinterlands,” said Simoom proudly. “Her name’s Charity. And she’s very clever. Aren’t you?”

As Burro watched, the wing shifted. The head withdrew, blinking at the noise sources in its midst. And above a beak that seemed too large and wickedly curved for mere hunting purposes, two avian eyes burned.

Burro only realised then that rather than silver, the bird cage was fashioned from steel.

Trepidation kicked in. Saddle Arabian wildlife had a collective reputation as an affront to all that was happy and wholesome in Creation. ‘Ten pints of psychopath in a one-pint glass’ was a phrase that had been used to describe every documented type of fauna at one point or another, and some of the flora as well. The island nation boasted the only known ecosystem where every part of it could claim to be an apex predator, and every part violently asserted said claim on anything that could bleed and some of the things that couldn’t for good measure. Intrepid biologists sailed to Saddle Arabia for study purposes, and this was generally regarded as Nature’s way of keeping the biologist population controlled.

Regardless, he moved an inch closer, stooped, and stared into the pyrefalcon’s eyes.

Hell stared back.

“Keeee,” rasped the pyrefalcon in much the same tone as a voice in a dark alleyway might say, “Hey, pal.”

Burro backed away slowly. “A … um, magnificent specimen, I’m sure. I’m no expert on falconry but, ah, don’t they normally wear special little hoods to keep them calm?”

“Oh, the falconer tried making one of those for her,” said Simoom. “She killed it.”

“That doesn’t … how? Hoods aren’t alive.”

“She found a way. Who’s a clever girl, Charity?” Simoom smiled at the pyrefalcon. “You are! You’re clever!”

“Keeee.”

“Are they related to phoenixes?” Gellert eyed the bright red plumage. “I know Celestia’s got one of her own.”

“Oh no,” said Fairy Floss dryly. “Phoenixes come from the sun itself, as I understand, and Charity and her kin are as Saddle Arabian as you can get. Also, phoenixes are reckoned to have near-sapient senses of compassion and empathy. I imagine pyrefalcons don’t have those problems whatsoever.”

“Their arcano-biology’s different as well,” Simoom said keenly. “Phoenixes can assume the shape of flame and are reborn from themselves upon extinguishing. Pyrefalcons lay eggs in the conventional manner, but they can spit flames mid-flight. They’ve got ignicatalysts in their gullets and their little lungs work like bellows, see, so when their wing-muscles are entirely stretched —”

“So,” said Burro carefully, “if she was out of that cage and flying around …?”

Simoom’s smile froze. “I, er, would not consider that an ideal state of affairs,” he said slowly and with equal care. “I could make a fair go of restraining her, of course, but really, unless everyone was armoured and had their affairs in order ...”

“Donkey toasters, ill-fortuned blades, and Saddle Arabian wildlife,” muttered Fairy Floss, shaking her head. “Stars above. If we escape today without Equestria having declared war on us all, we’ll have benefitted from some manner of miracle, deserved or otherwise.”

“Ill-fortuned. Bah!” Gellert snorted, and then eyed the front of the Crystal Hall. “They’re taking a while in there. Do you think anything’s come up?”

“I imagine any planned wedding like this goes off like a well-oiled machine,” said Burro. “And like any well-oiled machine, it’ll still explosively disassemble on you at the worst possible moment. Give them time to clear up the inevitable.”

“So sayeth the eternal bachelor.”

“Again, can you blame me?”

“Suspend all complaining,” said Fairy Floss abruptly, who seemed to be trying to crane her head to see back into the crowd. “Something interesting’s coming our way.”

Something interesting did indeed seem to be coming their way, something which parted the waves of intrigued ponies. Burro looked up, gifted with greater height than Fairy, but all he could make out past the scrum was two oncoming sets of jewelled horns. “Aha. I think we’ve got our next member of the company.”

Gellert looked the same way, flapped briefly into the air to gain an exceedingly unfair height advantage, and grinned down. “That we do. The Bullwalda and his consort as well by the looks of things.”

It was possible to make out a muttered conversation from the direction of the horns.

“Let me fix your gorget.” A female speaker.

“It’s fine. Don’t fuss when we’re in public.” Male, that one.

“It’s squint.”

“It and everything else received the attentions of Steel Thews and my most fashion-conscious huskarls for hours before we teleported over. It’s fine.”

“...I wasn’t aware any of your huskarls had a sense of —”

“They probably don’t, but they were very keen. Hush, I think we’re near the table now ...”

In a brief moment, the oncoming horns had shouldered their way clear of the press of ponies, coming into full view of Burro and the others and revealing themselves as two aurochs, each clad heads-to-hooves in gleaming barding with caparisons underneath, both wearing thin gold circlets between their horns. The larger of the two was a young bull, his muscled form huge and made only huger by the weight he wore. His thick, decorated barding shone golden under the sunlight, his caparison was patterned in white and red, and a long hiltless blade was slung against one flank. Pale blue magic flared about his horns, keeping a long and rolled-up package bobbing along at his side The cow at his side was shorter than her spouse, her own barding a pale silver, with checked blue-and-green patterning running underneath it. A longbow lay in a sheath on one flank, and a quiver of arrows sat on the other.

Burro had heard that ideas of formal dress were different for the feudal upper crust of Bovaland than for the rest of the continent. There, if you weren’t equipped to defend your honour with anything more damaging than hurtful remarks, you may as well be naked. The royal couple’s honour seemed quite safe for the time being.

Bullwalda Greenhorn of Bovaland nodded stiffly at the group, and the nod from his Royal Consort was even stiffer and briefer. “Arch-Minister. Chieftain. Tyrant. Viceroy. I hope I find you all well?”

“Weller than usual for this sort of thing, Bullwalda.” Burro smiled and nodded at him, and at the Royal Consort in turn. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honour to meet you in person before, Consort …?”

The cow hesitated for a moment. “Consort Goldtorc. The honour is mine, Arch-Minister.” Her words were measured, her expression was guarded. “The Bullwalda has mentioned you often. Each of you.”

“In flattering terms, I hope. But no matter. Did you have an easy teleport over here from Cromlech Taur?”

“Easy enough with the aid of my huskarls in concert,” interjected Greenhorn. “They were left to stand guard in the city proper. I regret our delay. The guards here insisted on trying to disarm us, as if we were some unknown vagabonds at the gates. If Princess Celestia had not come by, we may still be there arguing.”

Gellert chuckled. “Ah. She no doubt explained the importance of cultural sensitivity vis-à-vis your good selves being able to violently defend against any slight to your honour during the course of the wedding.”

“Something to that effect, yes,” Greenhorn said in a dubious tone of voice, as if he suspected teasing was in play but was too reserved to pursue the matter. “In any event, we are glad we got here before missing the ceremony itself. Is there room to place this?” He hefted the rolled-up package at his side.

“Nudge aside these and there should be enough, Bullwalda,” said Simoom, motioning to some other stacked presents. “May I ask what it is?”

“A tapestry,” said Greenhorn with some pride.

“A tapestry? Very rustic, I do approve,” Simoom said cheerfully.

“I’m sure Princess Cadance and her husband-to-be will appreciate a bit of extra decoration wherever they base themselves,” said Burro smoothly before Greenhorn could take issue to ‘rustic’. “Did anything in particular inspire it?”

“We have a daughter, Princess Buttercup. The walls of her nursery recently ran out of space for new tapestries. The thought occurred then.”

“Tapestries are good for nurseries,” said Goldtorc, the soft voice of the cow taking them all by surprise. The aloofness in her voice had faded, been replaced with something gentler. “They keep warmth in. And they give the little one something to look at. My heifers-in-waiting and I wove this one to depict one of the old Amberhorn stories, where a pony knight joins Amberhorn’s circle to forge a bond of friendship. It seemed … suitable, under the present conditions. I hope it satisfies.”

“I’m sure it will.” Burro smiled, and then frowned. “Nurseries. Now there’s a thought.”

“Tsk, old boy. You can’t go getting broody at your time of life,” said Gellert.

“Something, something, cockatrice. No, I’m thinking about the spawn of today’s union, if any. If both their loins are suitably fruitful and compatible, then depending on the nature of the appendages any little one comes out with, that’ll answer some of the questions about where alicorns come from.”

“I don’t believe that’s likely,” said Simoom, his own expression faintly thoughtful. “I mean, it’s known that the Princesses earned their alicornhood through great striving rather than being born to it. And there’s no recorded cases of Celestia and Luna siring other alicorns. Or siring anypony, for that matter. The history’s dreadfully murky the further back you go, admittedly, but —”

“What of Princess Cadenza?” said Fairy Floss.

“What of her?”

“Recent timeframes don’t allow her to be Luna’s daughter, but Ovish intelligence seems fairly convinced she’s Celestia’s.”

Burro blinked, doubtful, whilst Simoom’s eyes widened with surprise. “What? But she’s not recognised as such by … well, anypony in the Equestrian court at all, I believe! Why wouldn’t that be revealed?”

“Celestia can be aggravatingly discreet, none of us need to be reminded of that, and I don’t doubt she’s got plenty of loyal ponies prepared to share in her discretions. An undeclared foal’s not a weakness that can used against you. And it fits with what little we know of Cadenza. Little knowledge of her until her teenage years, where she appeared in the capital and worked in a low-key manner. And now that she’s fully-grown and presumably capable of pulling her alicorn-sized weight, she’s revealed at last. Somepony was being groomed for leadership as she grew, close to Celestia’s teachings and trust.”

“Not convinced, myself,” said Gellert. “If she’s not had a foal for all her centuries, why have one now?”

“Tensions across the world are rising,” ventured Greenhorn. “Perhaps she foresaw that and decided that another alicorn could tip the balance.”

“Yes, but things have gotten dicey before, and she didn’t then —”

Something prickled along Burro’s spine. It might have been the conversation. It might have been a breeze. He put it out of mind and interjected with, “There’s also the matter that we’re as sure as we can be that the two alicorns we know something about were self-made, as it were, rather than born. If this marriage produces an alicorn foal, I’ll gladly update those particular assumptions, but until then, we can’t assume Cadance was produced any other way.”

“There’s invariably more than one way to solve a problem, dear, and I imagine that applies to conceiving alicorns. Unless Asinial intelligence has reason to believe otherwise?”

“The best guess we have, based on Cadance’s earliest sightings, mannerisms, and some accounts from staff who worked with her, is that she used to be an apprentice who earned her alicornhood, however that works. But that happened a long time back, possibly even before Luna’s banishment. About a decade ago, she was … unthawed from somewhere, and has spent some of the years since re-acclimatising.”

Fairy Floss’s eyes glinted, even without the aid of her spectacles. “Our intelligence agencies really ought to compare notes on occasion, so we can work with as full a picture as possible.” she said after a moment’s consideration. “But if your jacks and jennies are correct, that begs the questions of where she was unthawed from. And what froze her in the first place.”

Another shiver ran down Burro’s spine. It really ought to have been that last sentence, but the unseen cause felt too … immediate for that. Too tangible. He glanced around, but saw nothing but chattering wedding guests. Was his Cunning acting up? “That’d be a prolonged saga all in its own right, I suspect,” he muttered by way of a placeholder.

Greenhorn maintained an uncertain hold on the tapestry, pending delivery of how useful it’d be. “If that’s the case,” he cautiously allowed, “It certainly wouldn’t be the first time something in Equestria’s past has made itself distressingly relevant.”

“Dear, we don’t know they’re going to make themselves relevant, who- or whatever the hypothetical freezer may have been. Perhaps they were neatly dispatched at the time.” Fairy Floss’s voice trailed off, and she frowned as she mouthed the words back to herself. “Beg your pardon, but what did I just say?”

“You suggested that some awful unknown from Equestria’s past wasn’t inevitably going to become the present’s unwelcome houseguest,” said Gellert.

“Right. My apologies, dears. Pure foolishness and age on my part. Shall we forget I said that and return to the matter of —?”

And then the shiver trickled down Burro’s spine once more, in a way that suggested that the cause wasn’t merely immediate, but getting increasingly immediate by the second. “No, blast it,” he said abruptly, drawing looks from all present. “Are we expecting anyone else today? Any other leaders?”

“I do not think so,” said Greenhorn. “Barring the Shahanshah and his rather … forthright guard back in the crowd, there’s nobody else of our stature due. Only representatives and ambassadors at most.”

“Only something’s not quite right … social dynamics-wise, at any rate,” Burro said, his words unfocused as his mind slid back into another gear. Cast the net wide, feel the thrum and purr of the crowd, sift through it for its basest elements and all the little interactions, reactions, and beings that composed it. See the whole picture, and then look down —

His mind closed around some advancing point that jarred like a sour note, a closed steel ball in the goose down that was the surrounding hubbub, and the moment after, Gellert looked behind Burro and muttered, “Damn.”

“What?”

“The good news is, we have another leader with us. The bad news is, refer to above.”

Burro shook the Cunning out of his mind, and turned to see who was coming. From out of the press, with uncertain, muttering ponies left at the edges of the wide wake they left, there came an ibex buck in multihued silk livery. He trotted proudly, an indistinct object sat across his back, and his horns blazed with a dark purple light.

Before him, there floated a crown, its circlet and half-arches and monde glittering under the magic-infused sunlight. Light from no external source glinted in the depths of its countless jewels. As it was brought closer, Burro felt its attention fall upon him, and there came the full-blown spider-down-your-collar impression.

Burro and Gellert unconsciously closed ranks. Simoom drew back. Greenhorn whispered something to Goldtorc, to which she found new unsounded depths within herself to reserve, and Fairy Floss muttered something unrepeatable.

The Capricious Crown of Capra regarded each of them as it approached, and when the ibex servant stopped a few feet away from them, a rasping voice came from its depths. “Good day, everyone.”

“Hitherto, yes,” Burro replied.

“Tsk, snideness. I hadn’t even finished the courtesies.” The Crown’s jewels flickered at each in turn. “Arch-Minister Burro, as yet afloat. Chieftain Gellert, still joined at the hip to the former. Tyrant Fairy Floss, you’re looking as well as can be expected. Greenhorn, Bullwalda of beleaguered Bovaland, and your spouse, I presume. Aaaand … a speck. What a convocation, counting the Shahanshah.”

“Look, I’ve been meaning to have a word about this, I have a name —” started Simoom.

“And what a sad waste of a name that is.” The jewels around the Crown’s rim glinted golden. “But please don’t mind me, everyone. I’m sure we’re all here for the same happy occasion.”

“For the wedding of a happy new couple? So I presumed.” Gellert gestured at the Crown. “I shan’t say a word against the pair behind their backs, but I’m certainly now querying their choice in guests.”

The ibex holding the Crown glowered. “You shall not speak so to the Unfettered —”

The jewels flashed red and from the Crown’s depths, there came a short warning snarl, like a whetstone whispering down a saw. The buck hushed immediately, his eyes falling to the floor. The jewels dimmed and glinted yellow again as if nothing had happened. “All manner of scapegraces seem to be welcome,” the Crown said. “Let it never be said Capra’s representative omitted themselves.”

“And Capra’s representative feels it necessary to inflict themselves on events, do they?” growled Greenhorn. “How is your confidant, the Cormaer, incidentally?”

“Oh, I can’t assume any especial knowledge of the Cormaer, beyond that she’s busy ruling in Corva at this very moment. Or sleeping, allowing for chronoregions as you move east. One of the two. Why? Should I know something you don’t?”

“You and I and everyone here knows that you consort with —!” blazed Greenhorn, starting forwards before Goldtorc and Gellert simultaneously placed restraining limbs before him.

Burro glanced away from the restrained Bullwalda and back towards the Crown. “Why are you here?” he demanded. “This isn’t another Nightmare Moon incident, or another Discord incident. Why show up here of your own volition, with little to gain?”

“Little to gain?” said the Crown. “On the contrary. There is a third alicorn taking a rather central role in proceedings. Can I be blamed for wanting to see what she’s made of, in whatever limited fashion today affords?”

“Ah. Wanting to place eyes — or whatever you have — on your new enemy, then?”

“Who wouldn’t?” A shrugging motion came from the flickering pattern of lights playing across the Crown’s jewels. “Maybe she’ll justify Equestrian dominance on Ungula at long last. Maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll necessitate more planning. Maybe I had a spare day and felt giving you all sleepless nights of guessing was its own reward. Or maybe good intentions and a desire to share in the day’s joy have filled me quite spontaneously.”

When a chilly silence greeted the last sentence, the Crown sighed a metallic sigh. “Would you like some supporting evidence for the latter? Menial, produce the gift.”

The ibex divided a portion of his magic and lifted up the gift on his back. To his surprise, Burro recognised the tall, bulbous shape of a traditional Capric samovar. A red ribbon had been tied around the chimney ring, and the body of it had been enameled black and painted with the colours of a night sky — dustings of white stars, distant red nebulae, and odd points of bright blue and green against the void.

He eyed it for several seconds, and it didn’t explode once. Or multiple times, for that matter.

“How inauspicious,” said Fairy Floss. “How much poison were you able to cram inside it in the end?”

“Hilarious,” said the Crown lightly. “The couple shall have to provide their own tea-leaves and spices, but I’m sure they shan’t lack there. The goats under my dominion assure me it’s a wonderful tool for evenings ‘pon mountainsides when the wind blows chill right to the bone, and who am I to question their judgement? Just put it down wherever on the table, there’s a good menial. No, not there.”

As the menial scrabbled for an alternative placement, Burro noticed the ibex servant who’d served him canapés earlier come trotting demurely up to the group, a tray in her grasp. She sidled up, saw the other ibex, and saw the Crown in his grasp. And then she turned right around and bolted in the other direction as fast as seemliness would allow.

And in the moment after she’d left, there came the whump of somepony alighting on the ground behind the Crown, and the flap of broad wings falling in against powerful sides. Everyone present, save the ibex and Goldtorc, took an instinctive step backwards.

“Crown,” said Celestia, her tone neutral.

“Celestia,” said the Crown. “So glad I could make it. I’m afraid I must have come in when you were talking to other guests — the duke and duchess of Maretonia, correct?”

“So it seems. The invitation was for the Capric representative.”

“And I’m sure my ambassador could have performed admirably there.” The same shrugging motion. “But does he represent Capra better than I?”

“That is certainly an argument that could be made.” Celestia leaned down, her eyes flashing gold briefly. “I’ll expect good behaviour. Nothing but.”

“Of course,” said the Crown in a tone that was as meek as Burro felt it could contrive. “You’ll see I’ve even brought a gift.”

“How kind.”

Silence fell, that managed to both be as chilly as the grave and as heated as any furnace, until Celestia looked up to face the others. Even with a smile back on her face, the afterglow in her eyes left trails in their vision. “Ah, good day, everyone. I hope I find you all well?”

“Moderately so, dear, yes,” Fairy Floss eventually allowed.

“Glad to hear it. I’ll give you all a few seconds’ head start in finding your places, then. Backstage muddles have at last been unmuddled, and the ceremony’s about to start.”

Burro sighed with relief, partly for the sake of his aching legs, and as he and the others made for the stairs leading up into the Crystal Hall, he heard Celestia’s voice at his back, projected across the whole of the green.

The wedding at last!

Into the wedding hall they shuffled, row by row, lit by the light streaming in from great windows. Seats divided by a central aisle filled the space before a raised section of floor at one end. Burro passed in underneath a choir of birds, one of which warbled off-key, and found his assigned row near the back of the hall.

He inveigled his way along and finally plonked his weary haunch down, with empty spaces to his left and right. Gellert came up almost immediately afterwards and planted himself down at Burro’s right. Ahead, the great and good of Equestria and the probably less great but likely gooder of the groom’s family shuffled noisily into their own positions.

“A few moments of charming dreariness and then freedom,” sighed Gellert. “Unless any interesting drama happens to delay proceedings. Odds on that?”

“Ooh, with all that security?” Burro thought. “Ten to one. There’s a rucat in one of these pockets if you’re willing.”

“You’re on.”

“Gambling in the middle of a wedding tends to be frowned upon, dears,” came Fairy Floss’s voice, moving in somewhere beyond Gellert.

“Oh, everyone does something fun and disreputable after a ceremony anyway, so if we’re just making good time ...”

“Oh, that wasn’t necessarily an objection, and these odds are acceptable to me. I have a few drachrams in my robes here — ”

“Hey, hey. I’m not a griffon with limitless ability to pay out if drama does happen, so you’ll have to —”

“Beg your pardon,” came Simoom’s cheerful if somewhat muffled tones as he made his way along the last row behind Burro, past which a long line of clothed tables ran under the windows.

“Beg our pardon,” rumbled Greenhorn, as he and Greentorc came just after Simoom, making their way to seats which had thoughtfully been sized for aurochs.

The Crown and the ibex bearing it were silent, but Burro was aware of them settling down somewhere right of Fairy Floss. The ibex floated the Crown up into the air, and there it hovered, sedately observing events. Past it, and from the vestibule lying between the main hallway and the main door, Burro could hear other raised voices, even over the hubbub of guests as yet entering and finding their places.

“... their seating should be of no concern to the necessities of your situation, Your Grace!” That was Lyuba.

“Please, Dame Lyuba!” And that was Sailears. “There’s no seats in there big enough to take you, and I need to be there to say I was present and displayed the face of Pachydermia to the outside world and all that! It’s not going to hurt anyone if you leave me in there for just a few minutes.”

“That is not guaranteed, Your Grace! Every being in there is an outlander. Their minds are stranger than their stunted forms. Who knows what they plot?”

“Having a good wedding?” This was met with a wall of silence. Then, in tones that were a calf’s idea of slyness, “If leaving me there’d get you in trouble, I could always just tell my uncle you watched me like a hawk every step of the way —”

“You will not practise dishonesty, Your Grace! Least of all on my behalf!” This came like a thunderclap, leaving cowed silence in its wake, but after a few moments, Lyuba spoke again, her tone grudging. “If it serves your education and Pachydermia, Your Grace, I could leave you there for a few minutes, without my immediate attendance. I will wait in this vestibule.”

“Thanks, Dame Lyuba!”

“You will call for me should the least danger threaten, Your Grace.”

“Of course, Dame Lyuba!”

“Your Grace, it is not seemly to embrace one’s guard’s leg with your trunk.”

“Sorry, Dame Lyuba!” The Shahanshah of Ancient and Glorious Pachydermia’s cheerful footsteps echoed on the marble floor leading into the main hall. “Please don’t scare anyone else coming in!”

“I do not needlessly scare passers-by, Your Grace!” was Lyuba’s unheeded call. Sailears was already navigating up the row with all the grace afforded a keen elephant calf, leaving a trail of bruises and yelps in his wake. He appeared next to Burro, smiling brightly, propelling himself into the seat to Burro’s left. Burro casually shifted to make enough room. It was that or be shifted.

And after a few more moments of clattering and queries, that was it. A steady murmuring filled the hall, of dozens of different conversations breaking out all around, and Burro craned his head to see what was going on down at the other end, past several rows of pony heads.

There was Celestia on the raised section, looking serene. By her, there stood a handsome and strapping stallion in a Equestrian dress uniform, kindly weariness naked in his red-rimmed eyes. The indefatigable groom who was to thank for the city’s shield, Shining Armour, Burro assumed. His horn’s glimmer flickered as Burro watched. Next to them both, there was a dragon whelp in snazzy evening wear, and there were five young mares. Burro recognised Rarity from earlier, and the others rang true as reported-upon Element Bearers. An eclectic bunch, even under their well-made dresses … but the sort of mares that had saved civilisation on two separate occasions weren’t to be sneered at.

There probably wouldn’t be enough time in the reception to meet them all and to discuss matters with Fairy Floss and the others and to get roaringly scandalous with Gellert, and Burro was deep into regretfully contemplating telling Gellert that tonight’s plans would have to be less tipsy than planned … when at that very moment, the door to the hall smoothly opened. All eyes turned there as the bird choir began singing anew, backed up by somepony who’d discovered all the joys their organ could provide.

Sweetie Belle and two other fillies skipped in, spraying flowers from held baskets with wild abandon. And in their wake came the bride.

The word that came to mind when beholding Princess Mi Amore Cadenza was ‘resplendent’, though the one that snuck in before it was ‘pink’. She held herself high and proudly as she marched down the aisle, her elaborate dress ruffling along the carpet and strewn petals, and she eyed the crowd on either side with a detached and casual hauteur. There seemed to be the suggestion of a smirk on her features. She couldn’t have appeared much more royal absent sticking a syringe into herself and drawing out pure blue.

“Now there’s an imposing princess,” he murmured to Gellert. “Odds on her cowing the Crown?”

“I can hear you, Arch-Minister,” replied the Crown, pitching its voice to carry down the row. “And I’m withholding my judgement. For now.”

“Hush!” hissed Greenhorn in tones louder than either of them, though they were all largely drowned out by the organ. Cadance swept up to the raised section with only the slightest glance their way, and faced Shining Armour with a bright smile, and Celestia began talking.

There was a sigh from behind Burro as Celestia spoke. Goldtorc murmured in Greenhorn’s ear, “I remember our own.”

“Hush.” And in tones faintly tinged with what seemed like sadness to Burro, “I remember also. It was a good day for the kingdom. The line was secured.”

“... of course. A good day.”

“...It is my great pleasure,” came Celestia’s voice, pitched to carry in the echoes of the vast room, as everyone present hushed and held their breath, “to pronounce you —”

“Stop!”

The door slammed open, and a shocked murmuring spread across the crowd as a purple-coated and ragged-looking unicorn mare stood revealed, panting and glaring at Cadance.

“O-ho!” Burro looked up to see events clearly. “Ten rucats for me at your earliest convenience, Chieftain.”

“Stars confound you. More than usual.” Gellert rose in his own seat as well, all but hovering off the ground with interest.

“My word!” Simoom radiated mixed parts surprise and curiosity, and similar exclamations came from the Bullwalda and the Royal Consort. High above, the Crown’s jewels flared blue.

Sailears tugged Burro’s foreleg sleeve with his trunk. “Is this meant to happen, Arch-Minister?” he enquired cheerfully. “Equestrian weddings are exciting.”

“What’s happening?” hissed Fairy Floss, closer to the ground as she was.

“She’s ...” Burro kept his ears peeled as the unicorn and Cadance exchanged words and eyed the doorway.

The doorway in which a second Cadance appeared, this one dishevelled, battered, and radiating enough controlled wrath to make any old-fashioned monarch proud.

Burro’s mind skipped a beat, and then clicked. “Oh, we’ve got an imposter. At least one.”

“Oh. Is that normal?”

“Bloody what?”

“Quiet, everyone!” The murmuring from the crowd was getting ever more frenzied, and the two Cadances were still talking, and making out the details of what was being said seemed suddenly of high importance.

“... a changeling!” the Cadance in the doorway was partway through declaring. “She takes the form of somepony you love and gains power by feeding off your love for them!”

“What’s a changeli —?” started Burro, but as he turned to the Cadance at the other end, he quickly got his answer.

Hitherto, he hadn’t thought it was possible for eyes and horns to burn green, but burn green Cadance’s did, shedding arcane light that all but poisoned the air. She tensed, snarled, and brought forth a sudden ring of acid-green flame around herself. The fire rippled and built and columned up around her, and half-glimpsed past its seething, things twisted. Shreds of pink hide and feathers fell away like leaves in a breeze, peeling back and revealing a dark, lean, chitinous form. The wings became membranous, the limbs twisted and creaked and juddered upwards, bringing Cadance to a terrible height, and a snarled jag of horn tore up from her brow.

The flames cleared, and the eyes still burned, and the thing unmasked released a peal of melodious laughter at the horrified silence of the crowd.

“Right you are, princess,” she purred.

“What in the hells is happening?” hissed Fairy Floss as the terrified murmuring kicked back into high gear, interspersed with more shrieking. Simoom and the aurochs gasped. Gellert’s claw fell down towards his waist for a blade that wasn’t there. Sailears stared and said, “Wow!”

Burro boggled, his ears struggling against the cacophony, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “For Depth’s sake, Equestria,” he said in a pleading tone before Fairy Floss leaned across Gellert’s form and jammed a hoof into his side. “Ow! What?”

“Happenings! Inform me! Now!”

“The Cadance we all thought was Cadance has revealed herself to be some sort of shapeshifting monster, who ...” His ears strained. “”Er, something about feeding, and the groom getting weaker … oh, stars, said groom being the one who’s been keeping the shield going … and there’s more, and if the rows before me could kindly shut up so I could listen, that would be excellent, thank you!”

“Well, this has all the makings of an exciting day,” growled Gellert, flexing his claws. “How’s your bladework?”

“Spectacular as always ...wait, I caught the word ‘army’ there. What in the sunless hells is she doing?” Dark wings flashed past the window, a detail he could have really, really done without noticing.

Behind him, all but unheeded, Greenhorn leaned towards Goldtorc and murmured, “Now would be a good time to notch something to that longbow.”

“I agree. Just give me room ...”

“...we take Canterlot!” called the dark mockery of an alicorn, her voice cutting through to Burro like a blade. “And then, all of Equestria!”

“No. You won’t.”

And low though it may have been, Celestia’s voice settled across the room like a thunderclap. She strode towards the not-Cadance, her magenta eyes colder than steel. “You may have made it impossible for Shining Armour to perform his spell. But now that you have so foolishly revealed your true self ...”

For a brief moment, before Burro’s eyes, Celestia and not-Cadance locked horns. “...I can protect my subjects from you.”

Then Celestia swept back, her wings spread, and her horn flared brighter than the sun. Burro yelped and blinked away, dazzled, only barely aware of the burning slash of pure golden light she sent driving down at the not-Cadance. A growl came from the not-Cadance, and a poison-green retort stabbed up the instant after, clashing against Celestia’s magic in a crackling display that all but made magic fizz on his tongue.

Oh, you idiot, you idiot, you idiot, Burro thought, looking at the not-Cadance, who seemed to be withering and snarling under Celestia’s blazing onslaught, the alicorn herself remaining steady in the air. That’s not how you pick a fight. Enjoy that opponent while you last ...

Gold and green seethed in the air, and as they hissed and shed sparks like a bonfire where they met, the not-Cadance opened one eye, her horn erupting anew with light. Spitting green forced its way up through the gold, and Burro caught only one brief glimpse of Celestia’s surprised expression before it met her horn-on.

That was when the world went green.

Burro heard cries, spluttering, queries from all around as he tried to blink the flash out of his eyes. He heard a whump, followed by metallic clattering.

He opened one eye.

Amidst the silence, slowly being coloured by screams, he saw the not-Cadance, upright and surprised and horribly, horribly gratified. He saw the groom, standing dead-eyed and listless. He saw the probably-actual-Cadance and the Element Bearers and the purple unicorn — Twilight Sparkle? — rushing towards … towards …

Towards the prone and lifeless form of Princess Celestia, her eyes closed and her horn gently trailing smoke.

Burro stared. Celestia feebly twitched.

“Oh, rut,” he said, whereupon everything went irreversibly to hell.

Make a Good First Impression, and Endeavour Not to Cause a Ruckus

The next few moments happened, much as Burro may have wished they didn’t.

Whatever Celestia croaked out to her Element Bearers was drowned out as the crowd commenced its best collective impersonation of a headless chicken, and the storm of jostling and agitated bodies on all sides lost her to Burro’s sight altogether. To his side, there came a low and awed torrent of blasphemy from Gellert, echoing the sentiments galloping through Burro’s own brain. To his other side, Sailears sat stock-still and uncertain, and the Crown hovered over them all, its jewels ablaze in a lightshow. What did that indicate? Burro fleetingly wondered. Frantic cogitation? Elation? Utter bewilderment?

Before his eyes, over the churning heads of the crowd, he still saw the dark figure of the changeling. Glistening dagger-sharp teeth bared, and she lifted her head back and broke into cruel, delighted laughter.

Burro’s forehoof rose and patted helplessly around his own midriff ‒ he’d left the dress cutlass far behind in Asincitta, and what could he have done with it if he’d had it? ‒ before he felt something thwip past his ear.

His brain caught up with his eyes just in time to see that it was an arrow, loosed from a bovish longbow, that had come flying past. It whirred towards the not-Cadance, who spun round to face as it came flying in. It erupted into flames and green sparks, and another laugh came from the dark alicorn as they pattered harmlessly across her hide.

“Down!” roared Gellert, temporarily deafening Burro in his right ear, just before the griffon threw both of them and Fairy Floss to the ground. Ponies yelled overhead as unseen pink and green magic flashed. Thunder briefly rolled, followed by what sounded like the real Cadance crying out and yet more changeling laughter.

Burro lay prone and glanced up at Gellert. The griffon lay sphinx-like, desperately peering up and over the countless milling heads. Below them both, Fairy Floss had her eyes wide open and was breathing heavily, some sort of frantic cogitation going on underneath her usually-unflappable exterior.

“So!” shrieked Burro over the roar of everything else. “First guesses as to who, how, and why?”

“Rut knows!” replied Gellert and Fairy Floss in helpless unison.

“My thoughts exactly!” Burro rose slightly and eyed the moving crowd. The Element Bearers were purposely galloping out, and the sections of the gathering nearest the door were beginning to follow their wise example, albeit with slightly less purpose. “Come on! We can head out towards the city and find our guards, we can‒!”

What they could do was never elaborated upon, as a deafening war-trumpet abruptly blasted away everything else in the vicinity that could be measured in terms of mere decibels. Burro saw Dame Lyuba come charging through the open doorway in the Element Bearers’ wake, her trunk upright and poised and her tusks ablaze with seething black light. “What is this disarray? Shahanshah, to me!” she thundered in tones that would have done the average god proud as she bulldozed her way through the fleeing crowd, most having the presence of mind to get out of an angry mammoth’s way.

Lyuba paused then as she caught sight of the changeling standing proud over the beaten Celestia, her teeth bared in a triumphant snarl and her green eyes fiery with triumph.

Burro had guessed Dame Lyuba was a being that tended to judge by appearances, and in this case, happily, that tendency didn’t lead her very wrong. In mountain-shaking tones, she roared something that Burro’s nigh-constant translation charm didn’t quite get in all parts, but which pertained to exotic body parts and their regrettable intersection with crude implements, and she stormed forward in the way that only an angry mammoth could.

The changeling stood tall upon the wedding podium yet, her eyes gleaming and her teeth bared in the same bright snarl. That sharpened into a smile, and a solid-green blaze of light slashed out from her horn and across the room from wall to wall. Lyuba’s stride didn’t falter as she conjured a black shield on her right to face it.

There was a second of awful shrieking as the two magics met, and then a greatly prolonged second of pachydermian cursing as the green magic hammered right through the magical shield and into Lyuba, bowling her off her legs and slamming her into one of the great windows at the room’s side. The armoured mammoth smashed straight through the glass, and the moment after from down below, there was the sound that might be made when an armoured mammoth made contact with a stone roof and the roof came off second-best. “Dame Lyuba!” yelled Sailears, the little elephant sounding genuinely frightened for the first time, and he twisted around to see where she’d gone out the window.

“Oh, everyone, you’re spoiling me.” That was the not-Cadance, her dulcet tones drifting right across the fresh cacophony of cries and the thunder of the gathering surging towards the exit. Another arrow sang out and was blasted apart like the first, getting Goldtorc nothing but a briefly irritated look.

Burro looked around frantically, and saw that the Crown and its ibex had dropped down beside them, the ibex looking terrified and the Crown’s jewels glimmering as deep a shade of blue-green as Burro had ever seen them.

“If anyone, anyone has an idea, let’s hear it!” yelled Burro. “Any and all comers, come on! Anything good!”

Gellert closed his eyes and breathed out. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. Supposing some griffon were to boldly leap out and grapple with her, so that other beings could get out while she was distracted‒”

“Don’t be stupid!” Burro whacked Gellert in the side with a hoof, snapping the old griffon’s eyes back into full wakefulness. “She’d strike you down in one instant and pick us apart at her leisure in the next. What could you hope to do?”

There was a brief snicker from the Crown and a sigh from Fairy Floss, and Gellert’s face set in a grim scowl. “Might give her something to think about, and all of you time to get me some help.”

“Yeah? She just took down Celestia! What’s she going to think about, other than, ‘Who on Theia would be so stupid as to try and fight me right now’? And what help?”

Gellert opened his mouth uncertainly, but he was then interrupted by Simoom sticking his worried face into their midst from behind. “Luna!” the stallion exclaimed. “Find Princess Luna and she can‒”

“Luna?” Burro was aware his voice was now emerging as a modulated shriek, and barely cared. “She’s already taken down one alicorn‒” There was a warcry from the rising real Cadance, which immediately turned into a pained yelp as more magic flashed. “Two! She’s taken down two alicorns! What in the Depths is throwing a third one at her going to accomplish?”

From behind Burro, there was a small sigh. “Right,” came the rigid, barely-trembling voice of Greenhorn, revealed to be speaking in a low tone to Goldtorc as Burro turned around. “I’ll challenge her. You get into the city, find my huskarls, and get back to Bovaland. Call the banners and march west. They’ll need us. They’ll need our full might!”

“What are you doing, you gurgling‒” But it was too late; as Burro turned, Greenhorn had already drawn the long blade at his side and given Goldtorc a quick, dutiful peck on the cheek. He charged past Burro, gathering the stately unstoppability that was any moving aurochs’ due, and with one great bound, he leapt into the central aisle, cracking the stone as he landed.

The Bullwalda turned on the changeling, his blade coming up in an overhead guard to angle straight at her. “Face me, interloper!”

The interloper seemed unfazed, and laughed as she looked down at this latest noisy entity. “Oh, aren’t you precious.”

Green magic flared out from the tip of her horn, but Greenhorn had been ready. Before the magic could hammer into him, he vanished in a flash of pale blue light and reappeared immediately behind the changeling, his blade slashing out. The changeling turned and lunged, and magic blazed, and the surging motion of the crowd lost the battle to Burro’s sight.

A hoof bashed hard into Burro’s wither, and when he turned to swear helplessly at this latest intrusion into what had been meant to be a lovely day, he found himself face-to-face with Goldtorc, her eyes wide with terror. “Help him, any of you! Please, if you have anything! My arrows can’t touch her. He can’t win by himself!”

“Oh, don’t be so cynical.” The Crown spoke then, its tone light ‒ too light for Burro’s comfort, who was used to the Crown’s reaction to stress, along with most things, being rasping snideness. “He might surprise us. Menial, elevate me to see if the Bullwalda’s surprising us.” The ibex tremblingly raised the Crown, who regarded the unseen crash and clamour with blue and gold-hued jewels twinkling. “Hmm, that certainly seems unsurmountable as magical barriers go … ooh. My word. Ouch.” There was a flash of light, a thunderous crash, and a bovine yelp. “Oh dear. No, I don’t look set to be surprised at all. Don’t worry, I’m sure you can get a new one.”

“Blast it!” Fairy Floss prodded Gellert’s chest with one of her curving horns, getting his attention. “He’s following part of your daft plan, at least. Fly out, and we’ll escape as well! Get to Luna’s tower. Don’t bring her here! She won’t be able to fight that thing, but maybe she can help rally Equestria’s Legions, spirit all of us far away, bring the moon down and slam it into Equestria’s surface until the creature’s pulp, anything!”

“Um,” said Simoom. “Wouldn’t that … wouldn’t that last one also result in Equestria becoming pulp?”

“It’s not ideal, dear, but it’s something, and I’m open to anything after that display. Fly, Chieftain!”

“With gusto!” Gellert crouched on the ground, his wings spread, poised to fly forth.

Then, as the fleeing crowd shifted and the changeling was revealed again, Goldtorc let a third arrow loose. White magic blazed around her horns, the bow, and the arrowhead, and the arrow blasted straight through the sound barrier as Goldtorc loosed it at the changeling. It whipped past a flash of green magic Burro barely saw, and clipped ‒ just clipped ‒ the edge of the changeling’s wither as she ducked.

The changeling rose again. Her face was set in a hideous snarl. Her eyes and horn flashed green.

A great concussive wave of magic hammered across their entire section of the crowd. Burro was thrown to the ground, all his breath knocked out of him, and the world spun before his reeling vision. Goldtorc was hit with the greatest force, and her barding-clad frame smashed straight through another intact window, with a subsequent clatter and crash of much-abused masonry similar to that induced by Lyuba. Sailears skidded right past Burro and underneath a long cloth-covered table at the room’s side, vanishing from sight. There was a thunk as he hit the wall, accompanied by a startled ‘Oof!’ Gellert tumbled past Burro, his poised form replaced with indignified flailing and scrabbling. His feathery bulk at least gave Fairy Floss a soft landing as she fell into him, and past them both, Burro saw the Crown’s ibex thrown to the ground and the Crown itself spinning upside-down over the marble.

Lying prone, Burro opened his mouth to drag in a desperate breath, and was thwarted by Simoom’s lanky frame toppling down upon him like a falling tree, forcing out a few last dregs of breath in the form of a squeak. “Hnk!”

For a short eternity afterwards, Burro’s world was reduced to a breathless sphere of pain, where all his immediate sensations were the cold marble floor, the wind from outside, a distant and curious and ever-encroaching chittering sound, and various groans from a variety of larynxes all about him.

Save for one, who had no larynx to groan with and no breath to lose. “Menial!” barked the Crown, still slowly twirling on its monde, the jewels on its side glimmering with hints of purple. “Collect yourself. Don me!”

From behind Burro, the changeling hissed.

The strange chittering from outside ceased. Then it resumed, sharper than ever, and in a heartbeat, a dozen or more hideous things came swarming in through the shattered windows. They scythed through the air, moving in co-ordination, and plunged down upon the stricken statesbeings. One landed by Burro, and yanked Simoom off him and flipped the old jack over with a smooth motion of green magic, pressing down hard on his torso with one strong hoof.

Burro’d have given anything then to have brought the dress cutlass with him that morning, and being fifty years younger wouldn’t have hurt either. Absent those happy conditions, he opted for coughing feebly as he stared up at the creature that had him pinned.

It was a smaller changeling, the not-Cadance in miniature ‒ a dark chitinous body, a snarled jag of horn that seethed with acid-green magic, membranous wings, and pony-esque proportions. Its luminous blue eyes bored into his own, segmented and unreadable, and as Burro looked at it in mixed parts fascination and horror, it turned into him.

Burro boggled at his own sharp, grey features, his own notched ears, his own dark eyes that were a mess of wrinkles at the sides, his own naval uniform, and the creature laughed in his own voice as he boggled. “Be quiet. Be still.” It leaned down, flashing him a rictus-grin of his own bright and crooked teeth. “Be no trouble to us.”

To his sides, Burro saw similar scenarios playing out with everyone else, with others able to make themselves varying degrees of trouble. Fairy Floss was prone under herself, and whilst Burro felt he saw a wry comment pass across the surface of her mind and under her grim expression, she remained still. Simoom tried to kick out, and was kicked in the head by three separate Simooms at once for his trouble. The ibex was held by two of himself, with a third unaltered changeling holding the glittering Crown in its teeth. There was no sign of Sailears. And Gellert…

Gellert was up on his back legs, his wings spread and his foreclaws low at his side, ready to come up ripping and tearing. He growled at the three Gellerts surrounding him, the sharp curve of his beak glinting in the light. His stance shifted, and he looked from side to side, and froze when he caught sight of Burro underneath himself.

The Burro-changeling smirked, and rose its free hoof as if in readiness to bring it down. Burro closed his eyes and braced for pain.

The pain didn’t come. Instead there was the flap of wings, a crash, a winded squawk, and Burro opened his eyes to see Gellert forced to the ground next to him, with all three other Gellerts weighing him down.

“Daft old sod,” Burro muttered to the pinned griffon. “You should have flown while you had the chance.”

Gellert weakly grinned at him. “You’re hideous enough as it is. Couldn’t have lived with the thought of that thing rearranging your features into something even uglier.”

“To me.” The command came from the great changeling still in the hall’s centre, her tone imperious and suffused with a certain gloatish quality. “Try not to damage them too much.”

The Burro-changeling roughly hauled Burro to his hooves, and the old jack blearily took in the rest of the room. All other guests had fled, with only a couple lying concussed by the door, presumably by dint of having tried to flee too hard. The great changeling stood tall and proud, with Celestia still lying at her hooves. Cadance and her prospective husband were on the podium behind the changeling, the former lying stunned with some darkly-glistening material about her hooves and horn, the latter standing stock-still and glassy-eyed as if in some deep trance.

Greenhorn himself was struggling to his hooves, panting and staggering and with his barding dented all over. At one point, his blade had been torn from his hold and now swung idly in the changeling’s green grasp. As he rose, it swung down and whacked flat-on across his crowned head with an almighty clang. He staggered backwards, lowing confusedly and his eyes slightly crossed, before with a mighty effort, he shook himself back into sense. His magic scrabbled around the belly of his barding and whipped out a wickedly-pointed poniard. “I stand yet!” he said with bleary defiance. “We finish this now, interlo‒!”

Clang.

Whump.

“Delighted to oblige,” said the changeling, tossing the broken blade to one side as Greenhorn finally collapsed insensate. She turned to the others, all dragged upright and forced into a line in front of her. The calculating smirk remained on her face, betraying little, until she reached the end of the line. The smirk became a glower.

“There should be an elephant amongst them, Vespus.” she said. “The young Shahanshah.”

“I thought I glimpsed him as we entered, my Queen,” one of the smaller changelings hovering overhead said, its crackling voice similar to that of a spider that had been taught how to speak and then become a chain-smoker.

The Queen’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment. “Produce him,” she said. The smaller changeling nodded and flew off behind Burro’s sight. She turned back to the rest of them, her smirk re-asserting itself. Burro’s spine crawled as her green gaze fell on him, and he felt like an insect in the clutches of a cruel foal, unable to ponder anything save when she’d start ripping off wings. Metaphorical or otherwise.

“Everything I ever wished for,” the Queen murmured. “And so much more to come.”

“Found him, my Queen!”

Two changelings frog-marched Sailears between them, adding him onto the end of the line. The little elephant looked pale, but he didn’t tremble. At least, not much. The Queen’s smirk returned, and for a long time, she didn’t speak as she regarded the company.

“Many of the other guests have escaped, my Queen,” the same changeling, Vespus, ventured hesitantly. “Shall we give chase before they‒”

“Let them disperse. Let them cower.” The Queen didn’t even bother looking in the changeling’s direction as she spoke. “What will a herd divided amount to aside from helpless meat for us? They can all be easily subdued, and we shall have our fill of them. And do keep searching for certain other loose ends, while you’re about it.”

Burro heard distant screams and buzzing from outside in the city and palace, and he forced his fear to curdle into chilly anger.

“What now?” he snapped. “Who are you?”

The Queen turned on him, and the full force of her gaze fell over Burro like a stormfront. He’d seen expressions like hers before, mostly on bloody-toothed sharks. “Now?” said the Queen, amusement rich in her tone. “Now I‒”

“Gchk.”

The feeble noise came from Celestia, the alicorn’s great hooves twitching and her whole body vaguely stirring. One tired magenta eye cracked open, and found the strength to glare at the Queen. A wing tried to push her up from the ground. “Gcchk fkt, y’—”

“Please, princess.” The Queen’s leg blurred out to kick Celestia right in her ribs, driving all the breath out of Celestia with one agonised wheeze. “Don’t strain yourself.” The alicorn choked with pain, feebly twitching where she lay on her side, and the Queen laughed at the sight.

“Oh, where are my manners? Indulging myself when I’ve not even made a proper introduction.” She turned back to Burro and the others, bestowed a smile on them all, and Burro, who had had cause in his long life to stare down sea monsters, ocean-breaking storms, mad pirate kings, and Damasque before she’d had her morning coffee, found it the least friendly thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“I am Queen Chrysalis. And on the off-chance your august attentions have been elsewhere, I have just vanquished Celestia, my army commands the palace and city, and you are all entirely at my mercy.”

In a bar in Canterlot, far away from the palace, and secure behind thick walls and windows, Asinara came to a decision.

“J’accuse … Commodore Cerise… in the coal cellar … with ...” The jenny checked the cards in the clefts of her hooves before finishing with “ … a very small and exceptionally pointy unicorn.”

She looked up at the others around the table, and there was a general shuffling of cards and figures and drink glasses.

Her and Berry and the excited Pollina had meandered through the city for a short time before deciding they’d have a drink or two before sampling too much of the high culture on offer. They’d made their way to a bar, met some other beings there by happy chance, and, since it looked like being that sort of day in any case, decided that the drinking session could only be improved by the addition of cards and money, with the latter ideally accruing at their end of the table.

Unfortunately, after sitting down with the others, all three had discovered to their horror that none of them had a pack of cards anywhere on them. To a certain type of Asinian, this sort of situation was dreamed about, and was on a par with dreams about turning up both understudied and naked to important exams. Assuming said Asinians customarily wore clothes.

Happily, Pollina had had a bright idea, and after rushing back to the ornithopter, had returned with a stack of various on-flight entertainments. Asinara and Berry chose the topmost one for gambling purposes, and calamity had been averted. The rest of the beings they’d run into had been too bewilderedly curious to turn the game down, and small stacks of rucats and drachrams and bits and rings now all glittered on the table.

“So many potential enemies, this victim,” said one of the three bovish huskarls, a great caparisoned, steel-clad and phlegmatic-looking bull with ring-bound horns and more muscles than most other beings had actual body. He gently tapped the head of his own figurine with a plate-sized hoof. “Last time, it was Granny Glaucous in the walk-in wardrobe with a half-brick in a sock, and before that, it was Inspector Infrared in the billiards room with a forthrightly-appendaged fertility statue. What has he done to deserve this sort of creative wrath from so many?” The other two huskarls, a bull and cow who weren’t quite as huge but were similarly single-hoovedly keeping whole iron mines in business, nodded their agreement and chuckled as they sipped at their foaming tankards.

“It’s not that great a murder, it must be said. None of them. Nobody so far’s even tried to cover their tracks,” said a louche and lean griffon slouching in his chair, his dark feathers sleek and a thin cigar held in his beak. He’d introduced himself earlier as Girard. “None of these could have been plausibly interpreted as accidental. Except maybe the unicorn.”

The two sheep at one of the table were silent as they studied the board, one ewe and one ram, both black-wooled, barding-clad, and regarding the world from behind snarling steel masks. Then the ram looked up, and in tones made tinny by the mask, said, “I still don’t understand the context for this game in the slightest.”

“Serrai ...” the ewe started in somewhat weary tones.

“Dolly, it just doesn’t make sense. All of these characters are suspects. Why are they the ones investigating the murder? By rights, they should all be held at the pleasure of this city’s Archon and questioned sternly and in isolation. Why are they traipsing all over the scene and being permitted to rummage around for the murder implements?”

“Well, maybe they’re all … um ...” Berry scratched her head.

“It’s disgraceful. The justiciar for this place’s polis ought to be sheared to the pink in public.”

“Well, until that happy hour‒” Asinara scooped up the money-pile everyone had chipped into at the game’s beginning. “‒ this is all going to the glorious victor. And the glorious victor’s buying the next round.”

There was a general grumbling, albeit not that bitter a grumbling, and it was followed up by another round of swigging from whatever vessels were at hoof or claw.

“Hmm.” The ewe, Dolly, looked towards the bar’s window briefly. “Did anyone else hear what sounded like an explosion off in the distance? Are those screams?”

“Someone’ll have let off a firework early,” said Pollina blithely. “That’s probably just cheering.”

“If you’re sure,” said Dolly. She sighed. “Still not that happy about leaving the Tyrant by herself, but she insisted. Something about proper courtesy and telegraphed extension of trust and such.”

“They’ll all be fine,” said Girard. “We all ought to be fretting, I know, but up there, there’s nothing more dangerous to my dad and the rest of them than themselves.”

No being disagreed. One of the two bulls refilled his pipe. The stalwart-looking barstallion redistributed the grime on a glass with a cloth. Something went boom in the distance, to what sounded like more far-off shrieks.

“Everything’s entirely fine,” said Girard.

Burro could hear the buzzing of countless wings outside the hall, punctuated by the odd crash of toppling masonry. In the corner of his eye, swarms of changelings buzzed by the window and seethed down into Canterlot. Shrieks rose on the wind.

Most of his brain wibbled. But some remaining cold-blooded portion of it made him draw himself up as much as his battered frame would accommodate, and he met Chrysalis eye-to-eye. “Queen Chrysalis, eh? Queen of where, exactly?”

“Equestria. Have you really not been keeping up with recent events, Arch-Minister?” Chrysalis stalked around the group, and when Burro tried to turn his head to follow her, the Burro-changeling snarled and knocked his head back to facing forwards. “But don’t fear that I intend to make a habit of overthrowing sovereigns this day. Why, I’m certain that all of us in this room are going to be nothing but useful to one another.”

“Oh, will we, now?” Fairy Floss said archly. “And how are we going to do that, exactly?”

“For now? I require nothing more of all of you than to do nothing.”

Nobody spoke then, and Chrysalis continued. “Remain here as my honoured guests, write back to your countries, and let them know of the change,” she said sweetly. “Have some letters sent acknowledging my rightful sovereignty, deliver them to me via your ambassadors, proclaim their contents on high to your populaces, or however you wish to do it. Stay here and don’t meddle while I see ponykind subdued and brought to heel. And once I’ve finished, I’m sure we’ll discuss other matters like the amicable neighbours we’ll be.” Her teeth parted in something that could have been mistaken for a smile. “Does that not sound more than fair?”

Silence descended. Burro stared. Beside him, Gellert finally let out a disbelieving snort. “Make things that easy for you? Ha!”

Chrysalis’s gaze alighted on Gellert and narrowed. “No, Chieftain. This is your chance to make things easy for you. Times have changed past your petty abilities to revert. There are so many other means and tricks at my disposal if I wanted to force or trick the compliance of you and your realms. This just so happens to involve the least amount of time and effort for myself, and saves you no small amount of distress.”

“What other tri‒gah!” At a gesture from Chrysalis, one of the Gellerts holding Gellert jabbed a claw into his side and leered into his face. The groom, Shining Armour, murmured something senseless where he stood stock-still and glassy-eyed.

“Use your imagination,” purred Chrysalis. “I shall certainly use mine.”

“No surrender to the likes of you,” came the low, semi-concussed tones of Greenhorn from where he lay. He rose his horned head and glowered blearily in Chrysalis’s general direction. “No compliance with the honourless. Bovaland will never bow, and less still to the likes of you.”

Chrysalis studied Greenhorn for a long moment, her gaze somewhere far away. Then she said, quite innocently, “Was that the Bullwalda’s consort I knocked out of the window earlier?”

“I believe so, my Queen,” growled Vespus.

“Some of the swarm should retrieve her. The Bullwalda finds himself in dire need of being convinced. She should help on that front.”

Greenhorn bellowed with wrath and tried to scramble back to his hooves, and an instant later, several more changelings descended on him. Several horns flared green and spat coruscating bolts into the gaps in his bardings. He collapsed again, twitching and groaning, and Burro winced.

“You’re presuming you’ll be able to keep us contained and the city safely suppressed,” the Crown said then, in cold tones, its jewels flickering purple. “Celestia and Equestria have this aggravating habit of pulling tricks out their sleeves. If you’ve not accounted for those, don’t expect to get too far in this foolishness.”

Chrysalis didn’t turn around to look at the Crown and simply looked thoughtfully out one shattered window, her expression quite composed. “Ahhh, of course. What tricks has Equestria conjured recently? Their Element-Bearers … their regrettably notorious Element-Bearers. Rest assured, they’re going to find that accessing their precious Elements will be no easy task. Can six ponies fight an army? Don’t excite yourselves on that account.”

“You’ve not accounted for Princess Luna!” blurted out Simoom, his handsome features flushed and contorted with helpless indignation. It was a terrible thing to see replace his customary amiable gormlessness. “She’s a mare that’ll show you what-for!”

“Oh, little Viceroy, I have. Even if she rouses herself at this hour, do you really think I’ll struggle to defeat another alicorn this day?” Chrysalis eyed the recumbent Cadance and the still form of Shining Armour, and a sharp tongue flicked out from between her front teeth. “Every pony in Canterlot’ll soon be nothing but a larder for me and my hive. I could even glut myself ahead of time, if I felt the need … or even if I just wanted to have some fun‒”

“Canterlot,” said Fairy Floss mildly.

Chrysalis’s gaze shot round to the ewe. “What?”

“Canterlot,” said Fairy Floss. “You’re doing an admirable job so far of getting a hoofhold here, but there’s a difference between Canterlot and Equestria, isn’t there? A rather big one. And I can’t say I’ll envy your position when word of this spreads out. Equestria has its Elements and alicorns, but at the end of the day, it still has countless regular ponies armed with everything their foundries can spit out. And these foundries will be spitting night and day, and, my dear, all these ponies will advance on Canterlot for you.”

“Your point being?”

“Shall I advance straight to my conclusion? Very well, then. Formidable as you and your forces may have been when taking Canterlot by surprise, I still estimate your chance against all the force Equestria can put forth as comparable to a snowball’s in hell. And even if you can fend them off, you will still find yourself isolated and staring down the forces of a continent. I have every faith in my subordinates and Archons finding me entirely replaceable should need compel it. I imagine the same applies to most others here.” Past her spectacles, Fairy Floss’s eyes glinted like polished steel. “You’ve done moderately well up to now, so I won’t do you the dishonour of mollycoddling you. But surrender now, stand down all your forces, and once Celestia’s recovered and her forces have restored order, we may advocate for your merciful treatment. If you co-operate fully while in custody, of course.”

Burro approved, though he could have done without the ‘entirely expendable’ part being highlighted.

Chrysalis blinked. Her gaze moved. Fairy Floss, Celestia, screaming outdoors, Fairy Floss again. A low and disbelieving laugh began to slowly escape her, rising in volume. “Are all of you having trouble keeping up with events? I’ve won, little Tyrant.”

“Do you know what the most tragic and important thing is about victories, dear? They’re transient. And everything you’ve accomplished here’s sown more seeds of your own destruction than I care to estimate. Keep us here, and every ambitious lieutenant or minister or whichever we have back home will fill our positions. And they shan’t like this precedent you’re trying to establish any more than we do.”

“You really are the old battle-axe of this company, aren’t you? I’ve heard much, and I’m not disappointed. And let me assure you, I am not intimidated in the slightest. I have more tricks and resources and allies than you can possibly know of. And if Equestria’s armies march on me, do you not think they’ll find me ready? Do you not think I’ve thought that far ahead?”

Poison-green light stabbed down from her horn and at Celestia. Burro watched in horror as the listless alicorn rose up in the air and twisted like a marionette. Bleary magenta eyes cracked open and glowered helplessly right into Chrysalis’s leer. “How boldly do you think they’ll advance when they find blades at the throats of their fair princess? How long will they hesitate when they find out I’ve got all three?”

“Put her down! You’ve made your damned point!” snapped Burro, while Simoom choked with appalled anger.

“A poor threat, dear,” said Fairy Floss, but Burro heard a catch in her voice. “If they call your bluff and you’re actually so stupid as to hurt one of the alicorns, Equestria’ll hunt you to the ends of Creation. Nowhere on the continent’ll be safe enough to hide. No-one will thank you for shattering the peace.”

“Won’t they?” Chrysalis casually dropped Celestia back on the floor, eliciting a pained, “Gchk!” “But that doesn’t matter in any case. I am done with hiding. No more false-faces, no more scared secrecy, no more discretion in my hunts. By the time any pony or any army is in a position to try and force me from this city, I will have drunk enough ponies dry to have rebuilt my strength. And there will not be a thing in all the world that could stand against me and my hive then.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the Crown said softly then, its jewels aglow like red-and-purple embers. Burro had rarely seen that combination before, and wished he remembered what it meant.

Chrysalis regarded it, her expression a frozen mask, and then laughed. “Careful now, little crown. I was about to indulge in reckless kindness again. If we’ve dispensed with all the pointless defiance, your graces, then I make my offer once more. Acclaim me as rightful ruler of Equestria, keep your noses out of my business while you stay here, and all manner of unpleasantness will not wind your way. What are your answers?”

There was no answer forthcoming at first, and all around Burro, there was nothing but a general shuffling of limbs and a coldly hostile silence. His head and sides still hurt from where he’d been knocked about, and frustrated helplessness snarled up inside him, briefly overcoming whatever fear Chrysalis still induced. “Asinia’ll acclaim you when the Depths boil,” he hissed. “I … we do not negotiate with presumptuous, cowardly, would-be conquerors. Did you seriously expect me to forswear our ally? Do you really think what you’ve done would get you anything?”

Chrysalis regarded him coldly for a long, long moment, before the shark-like smirk slid back onto her features. But that wasn’t a fair comparison, Burro realised. Even in the weirder depths of the Asinial Main, no shark had ever been known to gloat. “I confess, Arch-Minister, I did expect this little of you. And truth be told … I’m not all that sorry to have received it.” She turned to the others. “Does the Arch-Minister speak for all of you?”

“You mustn’t have heard him properly.” Gellert said. “I’ll repeat it with harsher language if you like.”

“Ah,” sighed Chrysalis. “The hard way, then. Vespus!”

“Your Majesty?” said the changeling, flitting upright to attention.

“Take them all away and secure them. I spied a shed out in the gardens that should suffice. Keep them there, and keep watch until I call for each in turn. Once Canterlot has been brought to heel ... I’ll have all the time in the world to work on them.” That too-familiar sharp smirk, those narrowed poison-green eyes. “Perhaps there’ll be some satisfaction value there after all.”

More defiant invective came to Burro’s lips, and he prepared to spit out as much of it as he could. But before he could, changelings dove at them all at once from every angle. And that was that, as far as initial negotiations went.

Two other Burros contrived to put him in a combined headlock and wrestled him around and back towards the main door. He fought and kicked and tried to bite, it being a time-honoured Asinian tradition to approach captivity with all the grace of a grand piano being forced through a letterbox, but the pair were too strong, and he was already too tired and bruised and … well, old. About him, other clusters of changelings had the rest comfortably in hoof; a rising bellow terminated by yet more flashes of concussive magic indicated that Greenhorn’s ongoing periods of senselessness weren’t finished for the day. The others offered up their own fair share of struggling and harsh language, but didn’t suffer anything harsher than a cuff or two. No sense in damaging new toys just yet, Burro coldly supposed.

As they were frog-marched out, Burro twisted his head around to glimpse Chrysalis one last time. She was already turning away from them and back towards the fallen form of Celestia. One of the Burros whacked his head back to face the front, and, with a faint patina of wheeling stars added to his vision, he found himself outdoors again.

It wasn’t Canterlot at its scenic best. The pinkish hue of the great shield had gone from the sky, true, but had instead been replaced with swarms of chittering changelings, arcing and slashing through the city’s skyline and descending here and there. Screams and the odd boom rang out, and he sighted distant clusters of royal guards being taken down piecemeal beneath storms of hooves and concussive magic. Prone forms littered the green, of guards and wedding guests. Burro’s gorge rose briefly on seeing them … but then diminished when he realised they were all alive. Some were struggling helplessly and fastened to the ground by some darkly-glistening substance, some had been knocked out, some were locked in auras of glittering magical paralysis, and all were undoubtedly the worse for wear … but still alive.

Why?

Burro regretted the question as soon as it had occurred.

They were forced to the left, and moved past the great long shape of the gift table. Charity regarded their procession from within her cage and Kee’ed suspiciously at them as they went past. “Come on,” Burro muttered to himself. “Break out of that cage with impeccable timing. Be a living, breathing atrocity in our favour, would you?”

No such luck. Charity watched them pass, safely secured behind steel as she was, and past the end of the gift table, they came to the end of the Crystal Hall, where the palace gardens began. Walls of greenery rose up all around them, peppered with brightly-flourishing flowers, and half-hidden within the green shroud, there rose the imposing shape of a garden shed.

Burro had never visited Canterlot’s palace gardens, but he’d heard plenty about them, and he’d heard plenty about the legendary earth pony gardener who’d cultivated them several centuries back, Sod Green, who was still invoked as a bogeymare to scare aspiring young gardeners into proper respect for their craft. Sod Green’s approach to the beauty of nature had been to terrify it into obedience with overwhelming force, and the great sheds she’d erected and equipped with every manner of terrifying gardening tool known to ponykind had been a testament to that. The one up ahead was only a minor example of her work, and its fortress-like wooden walls could have probably held off no more than three armies at most.

“Hold them here,” rasped the changeling lieutenant at the front, Vespus, and as the changelings holding the group cuffed them into stillness with varying amounts of excessive and/or gleefully applied force, Vespus and several others flew up to the shed’s unlocked door. They dove inside, and after a moment’s clattering, Burro cursed as many perfectly serviceable and sharp metal implements were tossed out onto the grass — spades, trowels, several breeds of rake, buzzing things with curved bits and magical mechanisms one presumably needed a decade of education to even fathom, let alone use.

Eventually, once the pile had reached suitably mountainous proportions, the crashing ceased. Vespus ambled back out and smiled unpleasantly — it seemed to be a catching quality amongst changelings — and gestured into the shed. “Show their highnesses their new accommodation,” he growled. “Chitin, Thorax, assist me with raising wards. The rest of you, take up guarding positions and get comfortable.”

Two changelings stepped forward with lit-up horns, one of them betraying something that seemed like reluctance in his compound eyes. Burro and the others found themselves forced into the musty confines of the shed, with much grumbling and squeezing when the larger members of their company, Gellert and the semi-conscious Greenhorn, were shoved in as well.

Burro clawed out a bit of breathing room and rounded on the entrance, where he saw Vespus hovering with a stout padlock in his grasp. “Stay there, donkey,” the changeling hissed. “Do you know what comes to beings who act on clever ideas?”

Burro gave Vespus his best look of Grade 2 Thinly Veiled Scorn. “Satisfaction?”

“Nah. Kicks to the jewels.” Vespus smirked. “Queen Chrysalis wants you all kept alive. Think about what a broad and all-encompassing term that is.” And before Burro could reply, the door slammed shut, and the whole of Burro’s musty, earthy-smelling, and exceedingly cramped world fell into darkness.

The sounds of the outside world came in muffled, but the distant thrum of wings and screams could still be made out. Inside, there was nothing to see by but the purple glint of the Crown’s jewels, and the Crown itself was remaining unsettlingly silent. The walls glimmered as various enchantments were laid upon them from outside.

Then there was a groan as Greenhorn roused himself where he lay. Light spilled into the gloom as his horns glowed with magic, and Burro saw the young aurochs’ head turn here and there. He wearily seemed to come to some internal decision, and his horns briefly flared.

“No, don’t, not yet,” said Gellert, reaching out to clap one of the Bullwalda’s horns and disrupt his magic. “That way lies kicks to the jewels, apparently. Besides, I suspect they’re warding against teleportation as we speak.”

Fairy Floss sighed. “It is entirely possible we could have handled all of that with more delicacy.”

“What the deuce was she?” Simoom blurted out. “Where did she come from?”

“Good questions, dear, and I’ll add a few more. She knew far too much about us. How on earth did she know so much? What made her so confident?”

“Not to distract from those vital questions,” purred the Crown, “but how are we to get out of this? Did none of you come here with guards? Where did you leave them?”

Burro just kneaded his forehead with a forehoof. Everyone else seemed to be getting through the most essential questions, so he indulged in something less so. “Why does it always have to be bloody you, Equestria?” he muttered. “Asinia doesn’t do this sort of thing. Not on a semiannual basis, at least.”

And at one side, Sailears, who had remained silent thus far, looked up at them all, Greenhorn’s light dancing in his wide, cheerful eyes. “Don’t worry, everyone!” he said. “I’m sure everything’s going to be just fine.”

Back in the Crystal Hall, at that very moment, Sailears was preoccupied with hiding under a table at the room’s side, trying to unravel what was going on, trying to figure out what he should do, trying to work out where Dame Lyuba was, and why a look-a-like of himself had gone off with the others. He wasn’t a natural multi-tasker, but he felt he wasn’t doing a bad job of the first one at least.

He lay stock-still under the table at the room’s side, tentatively lifting up just enough of the dangling tablecloth with his trunk for him to see by. Princess Celestia lay where the evil new queen had beaten her, and the groom whose name he couldn’t remember (he’d tried, but he wasn’t old enough for his memory to have become perfect yet) and Princess Cadance (who was very pretty for a pony, despite looking like she’d just been in a prolonged hoof-fight after not having a wash for a week) were hors-de-combat on the room’s platform. The evil queen herself stalked around the room, just after sending away all the other leaders, and barked the odd order at changelings who flew momentarily into the room.

He wished Dame Lyuba was here. She’d drilled their contingency plans into him until he could repeat them back-to-front while standing on his head, and most of them were some variation on ‘Be removed from the vicinity of any danger by Dame Lyuba’ or ‘Hide somewhere and stay there while Dame Lyuba reduces the danger to a fine paste’. Now there was a certain critical component to all the plans missing. The evil queen had just bowled her right out the window like she was nothing. Uncle Trumpeter had told Sailears that Lyuba had once held off a whole army by herself, and if she’d been beaten …

Sailears stayed hidden, it being the only thing he felt he could do, though it didn't feel very Shahanshah-like, and when the evil queen turned around and trotted back towards Princess Celestia, he let the tablecloth fall again and kept as still as possible.

He heard the queen speak, her tone smug and languid. “I must say, princess, it was such a pleasure to meet at long last.”

From the floor, there was a rasping cough, and then a rasping voice raised with great effort. “I’d say the sentiment’s shared ... but my mother didn’t raise a liar. ”

The queen laughed. And then Sailears heard her kick Celestia hard, her hoof thudding into the alicorn’s ribs and forcing out a cry of breathless pain. The queen laughed harder yet, and several more heavy thuds echoed around the room. They ceased, and Celestia was silent then.

“Everything I ever wished for within my grasp at last,” said the queen. “The greatest obstacle overcome and mewling at my hooves! Your Element Bearers will not save you, your fellow princesses will not save you, and all Equestria and all your allies will not save you when they see you at my mercy!”

A hush, followed by a thin wheeze on the very edge of hearing. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

Another kick and a grunt rang out, and the queen laughed yet again. “Oh no. Maybe I should make a statement of intent, just so your ponies and the rest of the world are under no illusions.” Her tone lowered to a purr. “Three alicorns may be one too many, don’t you think? Shall I flip a coin to decide which, or do you have a recommendation?”

Celestia hissed, and Sailears heard her hooves scrape against the stone. “Come now, don’t strain yourself,” said the queen. “I’ve such plans for you, after all. How much love do you have within yourself to feast upon? How much love for your ponies, for your country, for those closest to you? I think I’m going to enjoy your company for a very, very long time. And by that time’s end … ‘Queen’ may be too small a title. What do you think? My allies may object. But I suspect they’ll soon become too small for me to take seriously.”

The thinnest and most pained of thin, pained coughs was offered up by way of defiant response. Sailears heard the queen snorting with disdain, turning on her heel and striding away across the stone. “I’ll see that events are proceeding as they should, and then come back for you. A nice, comfortable cell all to yourself, my personal handiwork. Am I not generous?”

Celestia muttered something inaudible but probably unrepeatable. The queen just laughed once again, and there was the sound of her hooves clopping off across the floor. She shortly left the hall, and then there was no sound at all.

No sound, that is, except for a hushed mutter further up the room from Sailears, underneath other tables on the same side. “Quick, Scoots, while she’s gone.”

“On it!” Wings flapped, and there was a scrabbling at glass. “Sweetie, give me a boost!”

“Boosting!”

“Ow! That was my face.”

“Sorry! I’ll try again.”

“Ow!”

“Guys, keep it quiet!” That was a new speaker, and they sounded like a boy. The others had all sounded like girls. “We’ve got to be stealthy, otherwise that changeling will hear us and do … well, nothing good, I’m guessing.”

“We’ve gotta rush if we’re going to help our sisters, though,” said the first speaker. “Scoots, Sweetie Belle, how’re you getting on up there?”

“These window latches are stiff! You got any know-how to get them open? Hey, I can see them! They’re already fighting!”

“What? Spike, Sweetie, hoist me up. I’ll give ‘em a‒”

“Hello?” ventured Sailears. “Who’s there?”

The voices hushed, and they whispered in brief conferral. “Er,” said the boy speaker, trying to pitch his voice to sound low and gruff, “Friend or foe?”

Sailears gave the question due consideration. “Maybe a friend?” he eventually ventured.

Whisper, whisper, whisper. “What do you mean, ‘maybe’?” said the second speaker.

“Well, I don’t know who you are. Maybe you could be either?”

“Who’s talking?” came a nigh-unhearable whisper from the room’s centre.

There was another whispered conference, the patter of hooves on the ground, and then the tablecloth separating the end of Sailears’ table from the next in line twitched up. Green light spilled into the darkness, and the elephant found himself face-to-face with a little purple-scaled dragon in formal dress and three flower-fillies; a yellow-coated earth pony, an orange pegasus, and a white unicorn straining to keep her horn glowing.

“I’m Spike,” the dragon said warily, eying up Sailears. He puffed his chest out slightly and added, “Personal and hyper-competent assistant to Princess Celestia’s most faithful student, Twi‒”

“And we’re the Cutie Mark Crusaders,” the earth pony filly interjected. “I’m Apple Bloom, and these here are Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo. You’re an elephant, aintcha? Who’re you exactly?”

“Oh, um, I’m Shahanshah Sailears the Second of Ancient and Glorious Pachydermia,” replied Sailears. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Whoever it is, come out. I won’t bite.”

“I reckon some evil bug-queen’s trying to take over Equestria and my big sister and her friends are trying to stop her with the Elements of Harmony. We’re gonna help them. Wanna join in?”

Sailears brightened. He still understood very little, but at least it was an ill-understood thing he could do. “Okay! What’re you going to do?”

“Ah,” said Apple Bloom after a moment’s silence, broken only by the distant screaming and explosions. “That there’s one of the difficult questions.”

No Matter What Arises, Just Try to Have a Good Day

Sir Stratus of Her Solar Majesty’s Dayguard was not having a good day.

Being a member of either branch of the royal guard typically involved interminable aeons of training and planning for every possible scenario, and then sedately watching events pan out with nary a hitch save whatever everyday pony error could throw up. The key word there was ‘typically’. From time to time, you were dealt the odd wildcard. Like Nightmare Moon’s return. Or the Discord Incident.

Or whatever on earth today was.

That morning, he’d even heard a couple of older Dayguard muttering about how they were overdue for their next unforeseen calamity, and Stratus resolved that if they all made it to the next morning in one piece, he’d find that same couple and lamp them one for jinxing everything. In the meantime, he’d just try to get to Luna’s tower and endeavour to not die en route.

The skies of Canterlot blazed as Stratus frantically wove his way through them. Clusters of Dayguard and Nightguard pegasi wheeled amidst swarms of changelings coming from all sides, given desperate support from whatever earth ponies and unicorns weren’t yet mobbed or unconscious on the ground. Crossbow bolts, arrows, spellfire, and stunning jolts crisscrossed the sky, and lightning bolt after lightning bolt cracked out from batteries of emergency stormclouds.

The Royal Guard, Dayguard and Nightguard alike fought well. But ‘well’ could only take them so far when they were outnumbered and caught off-guard and facing seemingly-hundreds of opponents from all angles who could fly and spellweave, which was frankly cheating if you weren’t a Princess. For every changeling one of his comrades introduced to the business end of steel-shod hooves or spurs or spellfire, several more changelings would dogpile them from every other direction, and send them unconscious or stunned to the ground in seconds. Aerial melees quickly devolved into frantic messes at the best of times, and this one was no exception.

It also really hadn’t helped when a squadron of what looked like Dayguard reinforcements, flying up from the southern wall, had sprouted chitin at the worst possible moment. Some of the nervier members of the Royal Guard had started pre-emptively kicking each other.

Ahead and high above him, there rose the Nocturne Tower. In its spire, Stratus knew, he’d find Princess Luna’s sleeping quarters. And somewhat less conveniently, he’d find a heavy cordon of hovering changelings surrounding it, their numbers hard to make out from this distance but assuredly far too high for comfort.

He flew on regardless.

As he wove around the worst parts of the sky-wide melee, a mid-air scrum of Nightguard and changelings swung past him, a chaotic blur of snarls and swung hooves and shed feathers. Stratus lashed out with a steel-clad hoof to knock one changeling senseless, sending them tumbling down towards the ground, and the Nightguard they’d been about to stun turned on Stratus.

“Much obliged!” the Nightguard panted. Stratus recognised her—Dame Wind Vane, customarily a cheerful pain in the neck to the Dayguard and accomplished underminer of Stratus’s dignity on many occasions. Events had conspired to put the longstanding (really less than a year old, but it ought to have been longstanding) rivalry between the two guard divisions on hold for today, though. “Where’re you flying to, pal? We need a helping hoof here!”

“We need Princess Luna more! She can turn the tide!” Stratus pointed up towards the Nocturne Tower, and the unhealthy number of changelings that surrounded it. “I’ll need cover to get to her!”

Wind Vane looked up at the tower for a moment, and then sighed, flexing her legs and adjusting her barding. “Small hope there. But I suppose karma had to bite me in the rump for the coatdye incident sooner or later.” She secured her helmet. “Ready when you are.”

Stratus nodded grimly, and took off in the direction of the Nocturne Tower once again. He was aware of Wind Vane rocketing up into the sky at his back, and paced his flight speed accordingly—there’d be no good outcome here if he outflew his cover. He broke out into a mercifully clear expanse between his position and the tower, and angled upwards. His broad wings flapped, his barding creaked, and the increasingly-untamed wind lashed his face all the while.

The cordon of changelings surrounding the tower had noticed his ascent, and had clustered to receive him. Their horns glowed with magic, and Stratus was ready for the first volley of stunning spells they unleashed at him. He corkscrewed in the air to avoid them, passing close enough to some of the hissing balls of acid-green light that he felt them brush across his barding. Exhilaration beat a thunderous tattoo in his heart and head, and he flew on with the fury of a stallion possessed.

Another round of stunning spells flew at him thick and fast, and this time Stratus was forced to pitch wildly down to avoid them. Barks of laughter came from the changeling swarm as he plummeted and didn’t cease even when he whirled in the air and hammered his way up again. The swarm was above him now, close enough for him to see the solid greens and blues of their multifaceted eyes, close enough for him to all but taste the sizzling magic of the third round of spells they were ready to spit…

And in that moment, a miracle the size and shape of a roiling thundercloud tore down from above and descended upon them, engulfing some of the swarm entirely and wildly spitting thunderbolts in every direction. Stratus sighted the rear end, legs, and wings of Wind Vane sprouting from its top, wildly kicking and flapping as she drove the cloud onwards. The swarm was scattered and disoriented, and that was all the chance Stratus needed. He hurled himself through a gap in their midst, aiming straight for the balcony jutting out from the spire.

Three of the slightly more on-the-ball changelings flew to meet him, and Stratus let well-honed drill instincts and a certain amount of vicious improvisation rise to greet them. One of them flew down to receive an upthrust forehoof to their throat, and they spun off with a plaintive gurgle. Stratus flitted sideways as another came barrelling down, and scythed around with a well-aimed kick from a backhoof, catching the changeling squarely in an area few beings aspire to be kicked in. It likewise spun away emitting its own plaintive noises, this time in a considerably higher pitch.

That left one, and it barely had time to take stock of the loss of its immediate friends before Stratus lunged into it, smashing it right into the stone wall of the tower with an almighty crash. Most of the air left its body in one dazed cough, and Stratus helped evict whatever dregs were left with a headbutt right to its torso. The changeling drooped, and Stratus left it to do so as he flapped up onto the balcony at long last.

There before him sat the door leading into Luna’s private chambers, a midnight-blue curtain on the inside drawn shut. A snore like a buzzsaw grated out from within. Wind Vane clattered down by him, facing the sky with her forehooves raised and ready to start kicking. “Bang the door and shout really loud,” she hissed. “It’s our only ghost of a chance.”

Stratus felt he didn’t need the urging. “Princess Luna!” he bellowed, hammering the glass of the door’s window. “Canterlot’s under attack! Princess Celestia has fallen! Your ponies need you! PRINCESS LUNA!”

There was a hitch in the snore, and a murmur from past the door, and hardly daring to hope that salvation might be about to spring out, Stratus leaned in to hear it.

“...mrrgh. Fi’ more minutes, mother.”

“I ... what? No! Princess Luna! PRINCESS!”

“When I said loud, pal, I meant loud,” said Wind Vane. There was a great and all-surrounding buzzing of changeling wings. “Look lively, we’re about to get hit by all the stunning spells in the world.”

“Is she a heavy sleeper?” Stratus said desperately.

Wind Vane laughed the laugh of the despairing. “There ain’t a suitable simile for it, pal.”

Stratus gathered his breath, and he just about managed to get halfway through his heartiest roar of “PRINCESS LU—” before he got hit by all the stunning spells in the world.

“...d’n wanna meet the tutor t’day ...” mumbled the Princess of the Night as Stratus was hammered bodily into her door by the weight of the spells. He collapsed, all ability to control his limbs gone, and his head flopped around to regard the world. Wind Vane lay next to him, likewise stunned and sprackled, while above and all around, there were changelings. Dozens of changelings. Dozens upon dozens of changelings, some of whom looked angry.

“For future reference,” groaned Wind Vane from between half-frozen teeth, “the trick’s to get Sir Contrabassoon, have a unicorn slap an amplification charm on him, and have him shout into her ear from an inch away. That sometimes does it.”

Several changelings started forward—one of whom, Stratus unhappily noted, was rubbing their throat, another of whom was coughing as they tried to suck in air, and another of whom was walking very oddly indeed—before a senior-looking one stopped them. “All are to be kept alive,” they hissed. “The hive must have as full a larder as possible for the days ahead. Queen’s command.”

There was a general grumbling from the three at the front. Their commander was silent for a moment, before favouring Stratus with an unfriendly smile. “Remember,” they said, “alive.” Then they stood aside.

And as the three changelings began the long and leisurely process of finding out which part of Sir Stratus elicited the funniest noise when kicked, the hapless guardspony heard one last consolatory mumble of, “...wanna sword for Hearthswarming, bwwr.”

Dame Lyuba of Pachydermia was not having a good day.

It had been ill-favoured from the start, by dint of being the day of the whole accursed foreign trip. Lyuba naturally distrusted outlandish parts, due to all the outlandish things they contained, not least of which were outlanders themselves, stunted and strange-brained and followers of all the wrong customs. There were already enough things in Pachydermia that she disapproved of without expanding her horizons to include yet more things.

She’d been unhappy, but that couldn’t be helped. The Shahanshah had to go for his and Pachydermia’s benefit, the Lord Regent insisted. And although she could have passed the duty of safeguarding His Grace abroad onto some other unlucky elephant, that would have been beneath her. She was the best warrior of all the mammoth clans, and the greatest of the knights sworn to the Lord Regent’s service, and her discomfort was a small price to pay to ensure her liege was as safe as could be.

They’d made the long sequence of assisted teleportations north along the entire Dactylian coast and across the Cheval Sea, and once they’d finally arrived, Lyuba found that everything about Equestria set her teeth on edge. It was too cold, in spite of all its sunshine; it was all gaudy greens and blues rather than the rich, dependable bronze-and-olive hues of home; the ponies were too small, were hard to keep track of, and all looked the same to her eyes; and although Princess Celestia was courteous towards His Grace, that sort of polite behaviour only proved she was hiding something and marked her out as one of the more perfidious sort of ponies.

The long wait until the wedding ceremony and their chance to return home began, and Lyuba’s existing stress was compounded by minding the Shahanshah in that environment. His Grace was pleasant enough company, but he had all the sense of propriety as a puppy on hallucinogens, and his sense of self-preservation wasn’t so much non-existent as actively negative. He’d try to wander off to happily talk to anyone, no matter how far below his station or outlandish or suspicious they seemed to Lyuba’s eyes. If His Grace had been in a room with a dozen faithful noble elephants and one scruffy regicide to choose from, Lyuba grimly imagined, the Shahanshah would be galumphing over to the regicide to blithely enquire where they were from and what they did and what they were planning with that knife before anyone could take a breath.

It had not been an easy couple of hours.

Then, the ceremony itself. Letting His Grace out of her sight had screeched contrary to every instinct in Lyuba’s bones, but a heroic amount of wheedling on the Shahanshah’s part and some grudging acknowledgement of the day’s diplomatic necessities had finally made Lyuba permit it. She’d waited outside, helpless to do anything but hope for the day to end faster.

Then matters abruptly improved. There was a commotion inside the hall and what sounded like hostile magic, and that was all the excuse Lyuba needed to come storming in. There, ahead of her, there’d been some wizened and chitinous outlander finally acting openly malevolently, like they were meant to. She finally had a real duty to act on whilst outlanders all around her dithered in terrified uselessness. She could safeguard His Grace, they could cut the visit short, she could vent on a suitably squashable target, the day was looking up at last …

And then, as she’d charged, her magical shield, the same shield she’d raised to hold off whole armies in the past, had been ripped apart like tissue paper.

And then she’d been thrown through out a window.

And then she’d fallen through a bloody roof.

Proper wakefulness was slow to return, and Lyuba came to amidst a pile of rubble in a corridor freshly exposed to sunlight. From above, another chitinous creature, smaller than the one that had bested(!) Lyuba, came buzzing down on membranous wings. It alighted on the floor before Lyuba, its eyes aglow with evil intent, its horn simmering with magic.

Lyuba lay processing the day’s events, clotted up as they were in ever-growing clouds of red-black rage, as the creature buzzed closer.

She’d had enough.

Faster than the creature could so much as blink, she snatched out with her trunk, seized them tight, and spent the next few minutes reducing them to a greasy laminate over every available flat surface before she finally calmed down enough to try and recover her bearings.

She was in the middle of a corridor, with windows on her left side opening onto a view of an enclosed garden. Lyuba had studied maps of Canterlot’s palace complex before coming here, and she had any grown elephant’s perfect memory. She knew where everything was. The problem was that, for the moment, ‘everything’ didn’t include herself. Gauging the distance she’d been thrown by that spell was tricky. There had been many enclosed gardens on the maps.

The way ahead of her curved to the left, and from that way, Lyuba could hear the low murmur of voices. They’d be able to inform her, whether voluntarily or with the application of several wallops from her trunk. She rose to her feet and immediately lumbered off that way, fastidiously wiping her trunk on a curtain as she went. It and several other wall furnishings weren’t quite wide enough to share the corridor space with Lyuba, and it and said wall furnishings ended up decorating the floor in her wake.

The voices continued for a while as Lyuba marched on, though they soon hushed. Suspecting an ambush, Lyuba curled her trunk in to have it ready to swing out with bone-powdering force. She came to a heavy wooden door, and casually smote it in. She stooped and shrugged through its splintered remnants, and found her entry into the room beyond rewarded with a pair of terrified yelps. The source of the voices had been found.

There was three of them, as motley a group of outlanders as Lyuba could have wished to never meet, in a little meeting room strewn with rubble. One of them was an ibex doe clad in a white-and-gold servant’s uniform, her eyes wide and terrified even as she brandished a broom as if it were a lance. The similarly-uniformed one next to her looked as if the Creator couldn’t decide whether it had been making a pony stallion or a donkey jack and had eventually decided to give him the ugliest traits of both. He hefted a compact crossbow in one hoof and forelimb. It trembled in his grasp as he pointed it at Lyuba.

Between them both, dwarfing their frames, there tottered a barding-clad aurochs cow. A longbow hung at her side, which she seemed presently too out-of-sorts to whip out and use. She stood below a ragged opening in the ceiling and amidst most of the rubble, and Lyuba briefly wondered whether the cow had had a similarly fruitful meeting with the chitinous one.

“Where is this in the palace?” thundered Lyuba, before any of them could do anything unhelpful, like scream or try to attack her or ask questions of their own.

“What?” stammered the ibex.

“Palace!” shouted Lyuba. “Location therein! Answer me!”

“I … we’re just westaways of the Crystal Hall—”

“I require specifics!”

“Could everyone please not shout?” said the aurochs cow then, her soft tone somewhat bleary. “That roof’s left me a little disorientated, and I’m still seeing two of everything. Who are you, madams … madam, beg pardon. Where are you trying to go?”

Lyuba narrowed her eyes as she regarded the cow. There had been a guest list... “You are the queen of the bovines. Goldtorc.”

“The Royal Consort,” replied Goldtorc, standing a little steadier. “These two, I gather, are Alloy and Tundra, and were kind enough to assist me when I fell in through this room’s roof. You must be with the Pachydermian Shahanshah? Do you know where Green … the Bullwalda is?”

“Perhaps he is with the Shahanshah,” said Lyuba curtly. “His Grace is my priority. I need to return to the Crystal Hall and secure him.”

“That… changeling, whatever her name was… she’ll still be there, will she not?”

“Irrelevant. I have a duty.” Lyuba turned back upon the ibex and mule. “You will tell me the quickest way to the Crystal Hall.”

“I...” Alloy swallowed. “This doesn’t connect directly up, you’ll have to go outside for a bit. There’s… ach, there’s folk there I should protect as well, I’ll lead you there...”

“No!” blurted out Tundra. “You don’t have to, you shouldn’t put yourself in danger. I… we all got training back in Bellbylon, I can look after myself. You stay safe, and I’ll lead… er, whatever your name is, good mammoth… to the Crystal Hall.”

“What? No!” Alloy looked wildly at Tundra. “I’ve been trained as well, and I know the place better. You stay here!”

“Really? When did you get the chance to train?”

“I… some time ago. Does it matter? I don’t want to see you go into harm’s way!”

“You think I want to see the same happen to you?” Tundra’s voice rose.

“Nobody is going into harm’s way except for the only being in this room equipped to deal with it!” blazed Lyuba. There was some personal unspoken drama going on here, and even if she’d generally been in the mood for it, this wasn’t even slightly the time. “Point me to the outside, and that’ll be enough for me to find my way!”

“I am certainly going with you,” said Goldtorc, shaking more dazedness out of her gaze and regarding Lyuba with something approximating full wakefulness. “I have to find the Bullwalda. Bovaland cannot lose its king. I cannot lose Greenhorn.”

“Then Bovaland can find its king in its own time, not mine,” snapped Lyuba. “I can ill-afford to have a pack of outlanders stumbling after me and getting in the way!”

“I will get in no-one’s way, save those I intend to,” said Goldtorc frostily. “I can likewise look after myself. Perhaps a shade better than you can.”

And just like that, there came the red-black stormclouds again. Lyuba breathed in sharply. “Repeat that,” she hissed, feeling the urge to laminate something once more. She didn’t doubt she could flatten this little royal upstart quicker than blinking.

That wouldn’t be entirely diplomatic, though, sorely tempting as it may be. A good prolonged shout would take the edge off.

“I apologise,” said Goldtorc, as the seconds ticked by. “That was ill-considered of me. But please be assured that I can—”

“Let me tell you of myself, little queen,” hissed Lyuba. “I am Dame Lyuba. I am the First Tusk of Pachydermia and the Steel Doyenne of the Starwards clan, and both of these are ranks I have earned! I have taken scars from beasts you would not believe exist, and I gave back more than scars in return. When the Shahs’ Alliance contested with the late Shahanshah Baybar’s war for the throne at Redcrag Pass, I alone held the pass for the Shahanshah on the first day of battle, and when that first day was done, I alone held the pass still! I have duelled every challenger to the Lord Regent’s position and the Shahanshah’s honour, and every challenger has lain broken in the dust when I was done! When the Lord Regent still wandered freely in his youth, he and I and twelve warriors of my clan delved into the darkness of the Wailing Deep, and he and I returned alive. Simpering little princess, who are you to besmirch me?”

There was a long, pregnant silence.

“Who am I?” Goldtorc replied in soft tones. “I am Goldtorc, Royal Consort of Bovaland. But before then, I was Goldtorc, third daughter of petty thanes from nowhere of significance in Bovaland’s eastern marches. And when the Lover’s Tourney came to divine the quality of those who wished to become the new Bullwalda’s consort, I was left to prove the quality of my blood with a rusty blade, a twisted old bow, and ill-fitting barding.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it shifted pitch towards a growl. “In the tilted charge, I broke a dozen shields and threw down twice that many other noblecows. In the hundred-strong melee that followed, I stood alone at the end, my barding hanging off me in tatters and my blade blunted from use. And when I at last stood exhausted before the archery targets with blood and muck still masking my vision, I shot three bullseyes in a row. I had my satisfaction that day, I proved my skill and the worth of my blood and married my king, I fought for my heart’s desire, and if you call me a simpering little princess once more, Dame, I swear I will have satisfaction again!”

The silence this time was chasm-like in its depth, and was broken by Alloy mutely whispering to Tundra, “I’d have just argued that there’s safety in numbers, myself—”

There was a scuffle at the room’s window, and Lyuba, who had been focused on Goldtorc like a hawk, whirled around on it. One of the chitinous little beasts hovered there, its gaze flitting to each of the room’s inhabitants as magic gathered around its horn.

Lyuba moved to intercept, but before she could take more than one step, something whirred past her. “Glark!” protested the little beast as an arrow shaft slammed between its eyes, knocking it out of the window and into oblivion.

The mammoth turned around and there stood Goldtorc, her longbow upright and enclosed within an aura of magic. Alloy had dropped his crossbow, and Tundra was looking at the cow with shock. Two seconds from sighting to loosing, Lyuba estimated.

The red-and-black stormclouds were forced back, and Lyuba came to a decision. “Consort,” she said grudgingly, “you are free to try and keep up with me.”

“Delighted to hear it,” Goldtorc replied, and she glanced apologetically at Tundra and Alloy. “But we shall need to be guided if we’re to find them.”

“I volunteer,” they said in unison.

Lyuba groaned inwardly. She didn’t need her emotions regarding outlanders becoming more complicated. Not at her time of life. Not now of all times. And especially not while there was still a Shahanshah to be saved.

Charity the pyrefalcon was not having a good day.

Most days hadn’t been very good ones for Charity, which the atavistic red-hot haze that passed for her thought process defined as ‘deprived of bloodshed’. Ever since she’d hatched, genetic processes running slightly deeper than her bones had equipped her with every proper instinct for a pyrefalcon, where her fight-or-flight response had been replaced with homicidal maniacism. She knew her place in the ineffable machinery that was the natural world, and that place was to eff the world good and hard.

But that hadn’t come to pass. She’d hatched and had immediately been presented with the long, gentle face of a Saddle Arabian pony. And when she’d flapped her way clear of her eggshell to try and open their insides to daylight, she’d been restrained. She’d been cooed at. She’d been shown kindness.

Every day as she’d grown, the Saddle Arabian falconer had cared for her and pampered her and tried to train her with gentle coaxing and rewards, no matter how often she set him on fire or pecked him to the bone. He just kept coming with infinite goodwill and compassion, which were as alien to Charity as the dark side of the moon. It was all wrong. Every day over the past months and months and months had been wrong.

And now she’d been secured within the accursed metal cage that she couldn’t rip apart easily, teleported across the ocean, and had spent hours watching countless ponies and miscellaneous other things that all had the gall to live in her vicinity. Some of them stopped by her cage to admire her and make cooing noises. Some had even stopped by her cage and made noises to the effect of what a pity it was to see such a beautiful creature caged up. It was all noise to Charity. She yearned to take away their jugulars so that they’d stop making it.

There had been an interesting bit of commotion recently, though, which she regrettably wasn’t the one perpetrating. A new species of prey had entered proceedings, changing their hides as if in constant moult. They smelled curious. Charity watched them with fascination, and wished very much to dissect them. At any rate, they’d made sure most of the ponies and miscellany were on the ground, either stunned or unconscious or fervently wishing they were so.

A few minutes after, a group of them had walked past, taking with them some of the faces and beings she recognised from earlier. One of them was the lanky pony who’d brought her here. One of the new prey walloped him in the kidneys as they stumbled past, and Charity felt a temporary flare of something almost akin to positive sentiment towards that particular one. Then it went, and so did they.

Mind you, if they could let her out of this cage...

“Keeeeeeee,” kee’d Charity, by way of friendly preamble to get their attention.

She went largely ignored, though some of the new prey had looked her way with some interest. They marched on into the greenery, and Charity craned her head to see them shove the old faces into a wooden structure amidst the greenery. After that, several of the new prey took up watchful stances around the structure, and others peeled off into the sky.

And some came wandering back in the direction of Charity’s cage.

Noises came from them as Charity hopefully kee’d in their direction. “Look at that thing,” one of them hissed. “Is that a bird from another land?”

“Must be,” another one said, their tone softer than the others. “It looks very pretty. Do you… do you think the Queen’ll want it?”

“The Queen has her toys,” growled a third. “This one isn’t a pony or any love-bearer that I can detect. We can play with this one.”

“Oh, yes,” said the first speaker. “See what it’s made of. What makes it tick. Peel it open to that effect.”

“It’s done nothing to us,” objected the second speaker.

“Such the soft-heart, Thorax,” growled the third. “You still sure you’re not a pony yourself?” It leaned closer to the second. “No love in you we can drink dry? We could try and find some. You’ve given us enough excuses to make the effort.”

“I...” The second speaker cringed back.

“Keeeeeeee,” Charity kee’d irritably. They were all just making noise, instead of letting her out. Did she have to flash her plumage, wiggle her tail-feathers, kee in an especially coy manner? What?

“Open that cage for us, Thorax,” purred the first speaker. “I’m sure we’ll all feel much better after some light entertainment.”

The second speaker’s gaze dropped to the floor. And then, slowly, wondrously, he trudged towards Charity’s cage and began to fiddle at the latch. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered under his breath. “If you can understand me, you should fly away as soon as you’re free. These two… they’re not pleasant. Even compared to everyone else in the hive.”

Charity regarded his fumbling with the cage door with her mad eyes, and she dismissed his meaningless noise in favour of thinking very un-pyrefalcon-like thoughts.

Her time being raised by Saddle Arabians had left one pony-esque impression on Charity’s blade of a mind, and that was a sense of something like gratitude. And the form that gratitude took for Charity in that moment was this: for letting her out, she’d eviscerate the cage-opener last.

Don’t say virtue isn’t rewarded.

The cage swung open, and the faces of the new prey leaned in, and Thorax had just enough presence of mind to duck as Charity erupted outwards at face height.

This was looking to be the best day ever.

Princess Celestia of Equestria was not having a good day.

She wished it was only her pride that she could say had been wounded the most by the changeling queen’s magic. But no, every physical part of her was busy twanging furious notes of pain, building up to a full-body melody of agony. She wanted to curl up in a ball and repeat every word polite Equestrian society held to be unrepeatable, and keep on repeating them until there weren’t any left for anypony else.

So of course there’d be children present.

“Do come out,” she whispered as loudly as her throat could bear, trying to muster every bit of the grace and reassurance she wasn’t feeling even slightly in touch with at all.

The tablecloth twitched upwards, a trunk raising it at its base, and she saw the Shahanshah of Pachydermia crouched under her table, his brown eyes wide with concern. Smaller trunkless faces leaned out past his bulk, three fillies, and Celestia recognised the younger sisters of the Element Bearers. Then a distinctly more reptilian face leaned out past them in turn, and Celestia met Spike’s green eyes.

Past his own immediate concern and shock, Celestia recognised another sentiment lurking under the little dragon’s gaze, for which she had all the sympathy in the world. It was the sentiment that came along with the weary recognition that all the best-laid plans had collapsed, and that everypony around you seemed to be doing their utmost to ensure it all went irreversibly to crap. Again.

“Princess Celestia!” came the cry from the three fillies and the little dragon as they sprang out from under the table, with the not-so-little elephant lumbering after them in some confusion.

“For my sins,” the alicorn muttered under her breath, and then creaked her head up off the ground, raising a chorus of protest from every muscle in it. She forced what she hoped was a reassuring smile onto her features. “Ah, Spike. Girls. Shahanshah Sailears. I’m afraid the… wedding has gone a little off the rails.”

“Princess! Are you alright?” Spike was the very picture of concern as he rushed up and grabbed one of her forehooves.

“We can check!” said one of the fillies, Sweetie Belle. “Somepony check her pulse. Princess, how many hooves am I holding up?”

“Er,” replied Celestia, as Sailears began awkwardly patting at her other forelimb with his trunk in search of a pulse, as Apple Bloom and Scootaloo favoured her with their own expressions of critical regard, and as Sweetie Belle held up one hoof and gave Celestia an expectant look. “One? But—”

“Good!” said Scootaloo. “She’s still compost mental. Or whatever the term is.”

“Scoots, I don’t think that’s—” Apple Bloom started.

“I think I’ve found one!” Sailears declared, suddenly delighted to have made a contribution to proceedings. “A pulse, that is.”

“Guys, step back! Give her some air!” Spike said. “Princess, is there anything we can do to help?”

A stiff drink for preference, some part of Celestia suggested, which she suppressed. “Don’t worry about me.” She coughed raggedly. “But this… this isn’t a safe place for you five to be. Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo, tell me, can you see your older sisters from that window? Are they making their way to the hall with the Elements?”

The three fillies turned to said window immediately and galloped there, save Scootaloo, who briefly turned back with a chagrined expression. “Er,” she said, “technically, Rainbow Dash isn’t quite my older sister, but—”

“Beg your pardon, Scootaloo,” wheezed Celestia. “I’m over twelve hundred years old now, I get confused from time to time. Thank you, Spike.” This was to the dragon whelp, who had retrieved a fallen and suitably soft-looking bicorne and pushed it under her head as a cushion. Sailears hovered nearby, confused eagerness returning to his features, before the three fillies whisked him away.

Confused, Celestia thought as all three fillies alternately flapped, clambered, or used the Shahanshah as an obliging ramp to make their way up onto the table by the window. Confused, and still capable of being caught off-guard. She didn’t exactly mind not actually being omnipotent, she told herself, but she wished any possible illusion of such hadn’t been dispelled quite so decisively.

That was going to be a problem, assuming everypony lived.

“It’s okay, Princess Celestia!” Apple Bloom called out. “We can see ‘em! They’re fighting a whole bunch of changelings right now! Hah! Look at that!”

“What was it?” Scootaloo seemed fixated on another part of whatever was happening down past the window.

“My big sis just lassoed a changeling and used it to hit another changeling!”

“Oh, um… yeah? Well, Rainbow Dash just used all four hooves to kick four changelings at once!”

“What? She never. You’re fibbing!”

“Was not!”

“That’s Rarity using the, um, the serene art of ponikido, she calls it. She says it’s good exercise and good for cultivating a proper ladylike poise.” Sweetie Belle watched her own patch of battlefield as a heated argument/competition-by-proxy picked up steam next to her. There was a distant ‘Hi-yah!’, a distinctly organic thwack and accompanying yelp that even Celestia managed to make out, and Sweetie Belle winced. “Ooh. That didn’t look serene at all, though.”

“Guys, how’s Twilight?” Spike called, looking agitated. “She’s not hurt, is she?”

Sweetie Belle peered down. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “I don’t know what Pinkie Pie’s even doing with her, but she doesn’t look hurt, no. Plenty of changelings look hurt, though.”

Celestia breathed out. Plenty of changelings wasn’t a good sign, even if the Element Bearers sounded like they were making sterling progress. The more sterling the progress, even, the more likely it would be that more changelings would be sent in or Chrysalis herself would intervene. And if that happened...

Luna wasn’t likely to get involved soon enough to tip the scales. She was a heavy sleeper at the best of times, Celestia knew, and she’d put in an especially long shift the night and evening before so Celestia could be sure to be well-rested for today. Much good that had done. That left one other alicorn, and Celestia strained her neck to see her. Cadance stood upright and swaying slightly in the grip of forcibly-induced unconsciousness, with some darkly-glistening material rooting her hooves to the ground and clotted around her horn. Captain Armour stood next to her, and his glassy expression spoke of potent mental enthrallment.

Little likely help there, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Cadance?” croaked Celestia. She rose her voice as much as she could, and felt something scrape inside her throat. “Cadance?”

The younger alicorn’s eyes fluttered open, and a long and heartfelt groan escaped her. “Celestia?” she managed.

“Much as I may wish otherwise. Are you hurt? Can you free yourself?”

Cadance’s bleary gaze slid to her restraints, and she tried to light up her horn with magic. It fizzled out against the dark material, and with a grunt, she tried to wrench one hoof free. The material tightened and the stone creaked under an alicorn’s strength, but she still wasn’t free. She tried to wrestle her way clear of it for several moments, her legs twisting and her wings flapping with effort, before she finally yielded with a pant. “I’m sorry, I can’t. This stuff is strong.”

“Well.” Celestia sighed. “It was worth trying.”

Cadance looked around, beheld Shining Armour, and her face crumpled. “Shining?” She strained harder to reach him, leaned her head across, and the force of her exertion made small cracks run across the stone floor under her. And still to no use. Finally, when her breaths came out ragged, she extended one wing. It just about managed to brush against the stallion’s side. She held it there for some time.

Celestia gave her a moment. From the window, the commentary continued.

“Who’s winning now?” said Sailears.

“Well, uh...” Apple Bloom scanned the whole of whatever was raging outside. “Fluttershy’s just been backed into a corner by a whole bunch of Twilights, and… oh, wow, I didn’t know she could kick that hard.”

“Is Fluttershy the pony with the yellow hide and pink mane?”

“Yep! Why?”

“I think Dame Lyuba likes her!” Sailears scratched one ear with his trunk. “Well, when I say ‘like’, I mean when she came up to try and speak to me, Dame Lyuba shouted at her before she knocked her away with her trunk, it’s usually the other way arou—”

“Hey, guys, look, Rainbow Dash’s kicking her way through clones of everypony else!” enthused Scootaloo. “Down goes a Pinkie Pie… and she went right into a Rarity. There goes a Twilight… and now she’s just knocked the daylights out of an Applejack!” Scootaloo paused. “Wait, no, that Applejack’s standing back up and yelling at her, maybe that wasn’t a clo—”

“Celestia?” ventured Cadance, and Celestia’s attention turned back to her. “Do you have any tricks left to play at a time like this? Any at all?”

“None, I’m sorry to say, that occur at present,” rasped Celestia. She was reasonably sure that hadn’t been spoken loudly enough to be heard by the little ones. Hopefully. “Right now, all I can do is trust in the Element Bearers. They’re our hope right now.”

Cadance hesitated. “What about Luna?” she said, but Celestia recognised the hopelessness in her expression before she’d even finished. She may not have known Luna as long as Celestia, but Luna wasn’t terribly shy of making herself known to ponies. Besides, snores that could split logs tended to tell their own story.

“Our foreign guests?” Cadance desperately ventured.

Celestia shook her head with some effort. “No,” she said. “More than a few amongst them are our allies, and some of that few would undoubtedly try to do something if they could. But Chrysalis now has them held and bound at her leisure, and even if they were to get free… if we couldn’t defeat her, on our own ground and with all of our power at hoof, then there is very little they will be able to do.”

Cadance’s head fell. Celestia took advantage of the hush, and fell back to thinking.

“Hey, not fair! That changeling tried to stun Rarity while she had her back turned! That’s cheating!”

Such as the hush was.

A sniff made itself known. Celestia looked its way, and realised Cadance was trying to hold back tears and failing.

“I’m sorry,” the younger alicorn blurted out, as to her side, Spike awkwardly proffered a torn piece of tablecloth. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t let myself get captured by that… by that monster in the first place, then none of this would be—”

“Cadance,” Celestia interjected, as gently as she could manage, “when it comes to being surprised and overcome by unforeseen enemies, do I look like a pony who’s going to throw the first stone?”

“But… but that shouldn’t be the point. You shouldn’t have had to be surprised by her in the first place.”

“What I should have done,” Celestia said, “is notice an obvious imposter under my very nose, and not have had Twilight Sparkle go to the effort of finding out and being disbelieved.” She ruefully shook her head. “Perhaps if she’d laid out her evidence a little better, or approached me in private… but no. She isn’t a princess, you’re still young, and Luna’s still got a bit of acclimatisation to go. What is the modern expression? The bit stops here. As yet.” She paused and said wearily, “It’s good at doing that.”

Cadance was silent. Celestia thought.

It wasn’t often she felt this helpless, and she didn’t relish the feeling. She was the twelve-century-old schemer. She had been the sole Princess of Equestria for a thousand years, and seen its fortunes rise and rise. The bit stopped with her. Even in her position, even with her current strength, even still. She had to have something.

Well… she had one thing. The last resort.

The last resort. The resort that whispered in her dreams with a tongue of fire. The resort that promised her everything, peace and happiness and plenty for all under her wing. The strength to break upstarts like Chrysalis, no matter how much power they had. The strength to put the world to rights, once and for all, and to the hells with the slow approach. The strength to gather all the world’s wrongs and all the world’s wrongdoers. And to put them to the flame.

And the price would be to do that. To do exactly that. And to keep on doing that. Finding new wrongs and wrongdoers, and they would keep emerging, until the whole world was ash.

“Ha ha, look!” came a filly’s voice, as if from far away. “Look at the way she’s flying!”

No. With luck and courage and the Elements of Harmony, the world had just about survived the last mad alicorn. You couldn’t keep on testing the world’s luck. And though the world may not know or appreciate it as yet, it ought to be glad of two other alicorns standing as a counterweight against her if need be.

Celestia could keep that last resort, that Nightmare, at bay. She’d been doing that for twelve hundred years already, she was getting good at it, and she could keep on doing it. So long as there was any other option. Any at all.

No armies at hoof. No power to speak of. All her usual levers and allies were beyond her. No other alicorns in fighting condition. And six brave ponies beyond her ability to help. What did she have left? What could she do?

“Spike,” she croaked out. “Girls. Shahanshah. Attend me. I have something very important to ask of you.”

The five exchanged glances and rushed over to Celestia’s side, eyes wide with concern. Scootaloo sneaked the odd glance back in the direction of the window, but otherwise, she had their attention.

“Spike, do you still remember all the ways to get around the palace?” Celestia asked. “All the twisty little passages that intruders might overlook, all the ways to get outside in a hurry, all of them?”

“Yes, Princess!” he said. “Why?”

“Because I need you—all of you—to leave Canterlot as quickly as you can. The city’s not safe. This hall’s likely the least safe place of all. Get out of the palace, and get out of the city. If you come across any of the Royal Guard or any palace staff en-route, they are my ponies, and they will help you, no matter the cost. Make your way back to Ponyville, get to your families, and then get to somewhere further away and safer than there. Shahanshah, there’s a substantial elephant emigre population in San Fransicolt, and your best bet may be to head for there and see that a message is sent home to your uncle.”

“I… can try and get everypony out safe, Princess,” said Spike. He stood straighter, making himself as tall as possible. “I will. But what are you going to do?”

By way of response, Celestia stretched out with one aching forelimb, every muscle keening in protest. She dug her hoof into the stone floor, and pulled the whole of her limp frame forward with one almighty heave.

The distance managed may have only been a quarter of an inch, but, if she said so herself, it was a very full-bodied quarter of an inch. It might even have been a third.

“I,” she panted, “am going to put my hope in the Element Bearers. And while they do what needs to be done, and while you five make your getaway, I am going to hunt down Chrysalis.”

All ponies and the dragon present acquired the distinct rictus-grins of beings torn between being loyal subjects and feeling obliged to point out the many, many fundamental flaws in their sovereign’s approach. “Er,” Cadance managed. “Celestia—”

“Won’t she just beat you senseless, though?” said Sailears, whose tutor hadn’t yet concluded that season’s series of diplomacy and tact lessons.

“Perhaps I can’t quite go hoof-to-hoof with her as much as I’d like at this moment in time.” Another quarter-inch. “But if she spends ten seconds kicking new colours into my hide rather than spending ten seconds tormenting somepony else, then that’s a trade-off I’m content with. I can take it.”

It wasn’t her cleverest plan, Celestia would freely admit. Frankly, something that included the clause ‘And hope she doesn’t kick anything too vital’ wasn’t a clever plan by any measure. But she’d never regarded herself as an especially clever pony. In her heart of hearts, that schemer reputation had always seemed undeserved.

But nevertheless, she was sure she’d have been able to put that plan into motion if, at that moment, overcome by long minutes of something as arduous as talking, her throat hadn’t turned traitor and all but exploded out of her with sudden coughing. Celestia lay there, writhed, and produced noises commonly more associated with the more run-down sort of plumbing system.

It lasted a minute or so. And during that minute, and even as it began to subside, she was aware of beings awkwardly standing by on all sides, watching their princess put a brilliant plan into motion and then have it turn into so much spluttering. One small set of hooves seemed to be pattering around in the hopes of finding a glass of water. It wasn’t the most mortifying thing that Celestia felt had happened to her today, but it was up there.

And then, on top of all that, a terrible thing happened.

There dawned an expression on the Shahanshah’s face. A bright, cheerful expression that could have struck mortal terror into the heart of a thousand Pachydermian Lord Regents, or a thousand Dame Lyubas. Sailears had had an idea. “I have a plan! I know what we can do!” he exclaimed.

“What’s that?” said Apple Bloom.

“The other leaders!” said Sailears. “Some of them are competent. The griffon and the two cows looked like they could stand up to anything, at least. What if, on our way out, we went and freed them from where Chrysalis is holding them prisoner? They could help us!”

“No. It’s not your role to put yourselves in danger for the sake of grown-ups such as they, many of whom are - and take this from one of their number - morally-compromised in an exciting variety of ways. Look to your own safeties first and foremost, and know that even if they were free, there is little they could do.”

...were the words Celestia tried to line up and let fly. Instead, what came out was another cough and “.”

“That’s… actually kind of a neat idea,” said Scootaloo, looking thoughtful. “Some of them know how to fight, then?”

Yes, some! But some isn’t enough against an army of changelings. They already got captured once, and Chrysalis can just as easily do it again! Just get to safety! Instead, “ss.”

“For certain! Some of them even brought weapons with them. If you saw the king and queen of the cows, they clattered when they walked.”

“And I suppose,” Spike said slowly, “if they were to go and help out Twilight and the others...”

You were meant to be the voice of reason! “yng.”

“I don’t think it would be wise to risk yourselves. Wherever these beings are, it’ll undoubtedly be under heavy guard—” Cadance started, but was drowned out by the rising tide of enthusiasm.

“We got Cutie Mark Crusader ingenuity, Spike’s know-how, and an elephant, Princess Cadance,” said Apple Bloom, a fierce grin breaking out across her features. “I reckon we can suss our way past whatever they’ve got.”

You looked sensible as well! “yrrk.”

“I heard her say something about taking them out to a shed in the gardens,” said Sailears. “They must be out there. And, um, for some reason they’ve got an imposter of me with them as well.”

“Great!” said Spike. “I know a few ways to get from here to the gardens without being seen. Service corridors and such. We could get there in a few minutes, no problem.”

“I—” Cadance valiantly ventured, to no avail.

“Don’t worry, Princess Celestia!” said Sweetie Belle, stooping by Celestia as the group enthusiastically trundled off to a side-door indicated by Spike, a quest in their sights. “We’ll get them freed! I’m sure they’ll come and help you as well!”

By my authority as Sun-Princess of Equestria, I order all of you to go and be somewhere safe! “bchk phht.”

“You’re welcome! And don’t worry!” The group were already disappearing through the door and round its corridor with whoops and a medley of improvised war-cries. The last thing Celestia heard before the door closed at their backs was Spike’s contemplative murmur of, “I suppose to be really sure of not being seen, we’re going to need a good disguise as well...”

Then they were gone. Silence ticked by, underscored by the usual background noises of distant screams and explosions. Celestia breathed in slowly, coaxing in some relief for her throat.

“I am a princess of Equestria,” she eventually muttered.

“...Yes?” said Cadance.

“Nothing. Just reminding myself.”

Did she have any more cards to play? Any petty thing that could tip the balance one way or the other? It’d have been a pretty poor look-out for the centuries-old Princess of Equestria, knower of all things and solver of all problems, most powerful being alive and weaver of a thousand schemes and tricks, &c, if she didn’t. Celestia spent a few embarrassed moments trying to recall one.

And happily, it occurred to her that she did have one last thing.

Celestia looked to a corner of the room shrouded by a great velvet curtain. With the utmost of the magic left to her, expending every scrap of power and determination she could dredge up from the most hidden bits of her soul, and past the burning sensation in her horn, she reached out and just about managed to twitch the curtain open.

Behind it, there stood revealed a delicate silver bird cage, and in that bird cage, Philomena sat perched, one head tucked under a flame-red wing. Celestia coughed in a way that brooked no ignoring, and the phoenix rose to blink at her. The cheeky bird did it condescendingly as well. If Celestia wasn’t so attached to her, she swore, she’d trade her in for a tortoise or something else equally unlikely to give her unspoken lip.

“Come on,” Celestia rasped, raising her voice. “You’ve had enough peaceful seclusion. You go help as well.”

Philomena exaggeratedly rolled her eyes, gripped the cage’s latch with her beak, and levered it open. In a sudden sunburst, she was up and flying, and with another quick flash and an acrid smell, she’d melted through a stained glass window on her way out.

“Pity,” said Cadance softly. “I quite liked that particular window.”

Celestia lay back on the floor. So it wasn’t much of a card. So what. She’d have liked to see other beings get a point-blank wallop from the magical equivalent of an avalanche and still come up with something.

There was the clatter of hooves alighting on the floor, and a low burst of self-satisfied laughter as something paced towards the fallen alicorn at her back. Celestia didn’t need to turn around to know that Chrysalis had reappeared.

“Ah, Princess,” Chrysalis purred. “Where were we?”

Well, she couldn’t say this wasn’t what she’d planned for. She could have done with yet another trick for purely personal benefit if she was being honest, but Celestia glumly supposed that there was such a thing as the universe being too nice.

Arch-Minister Burro Delver of the Asinial Republic was not having a good day.

The scant consolation on offer was that, judging by the muffled shrieks from outside, some other beings were having even worse days.

“Those are coming from nearby,” said Greenhorn, as something nearby shrieked the complicated shriek of being simultaneously set on fire and having one’s essential veins yanked out by a set of sharp claws. “What on earth’s happening out there?”

“Oh dear.” Simoom put a hoof to his mouth. “Charity might have gotten loose in the chaos. I do hope she isn’t happening to anyone.”

“An unforeseen encounter with Saddle Arabian wildlife’s a terrible thing to happen to anyone, dear,” said Fairy Floss. “But if that ‘anyone’ includes our captors, then I find myself struggling to muster much sympathy, really.”

“If our immediate captors are being introduced to whatever business ends a pyrefalcon has, then that gives us an opportunity to make our escape. Before replacements get sent in,” said the Crown. A faint purple glimmer ran around its ranks of jewels. It seemed distracted. It hadn’t been snide to anyone in at least a few minutes.

Burro clocked that, and other things, as he looked through the musty darkness of the shed and drummed one hoof on the grain of the thick wood planks making up the wall. He’d been examining it for the last couple of minutes since they’d been dumped inside. His Cunning scrabbled around the inside like a beast in a cage far too small for it, sniffing out any possible structural weaknesses, keeping a steady track of anything that creaked, running out lines of inference, assessing mass, guessing at wherever might be a weak spot…

For that last one, his Cunning was throwing out guesses of ‘Bugger knows’. Sod Green had built her garden sheds to be tough. Several centuries of age had somehow not detracted from that, and had only imparted mustiness. Even the traditional vulnerable options of the door lock and hinges seemed to have mithril in them.

“Speaking of escape,” the Crown continued, “Arch-Minister? Progress, if any?”

“You’d need,” Burro muttered absently, as he tapped on a plank, his Cunning listening to the sound produced by the wood, “force. A lot of force. Not subtle. And you’d need to be at it for a while.” His mind fizzed with calculations for a second, and then he said, “If anyone’s got a steel-wired ballista or a barrel of corvid black powder hidden on their persons, now’s the time to whip it out.”

“I could venture an explosive spell,” said Greenhorn, his horns lighting up. Sailears looked alarmed.

“Probably not viable. Not unless you throw in enough power to kill yourself, or you’ve been an alicorn in disguise all this time.” Burro stood back and glared at the wall, his frustrated Cunning retreating into the background of his mind. “Even if the guards here have been pyrefalconed, Chrysalis couldn’t have secured us any better if she’d thrown us into one of the city’s jails. Whatever Sod Green’s up to in the Hereafter, I hope it goes embarrassingly wrong for her.”

“She really must have plans for us, then,” said Simoom quietly. “Not taking any chances when it comes to us escaping.”

“We’re leverage, dear,” Fairy Floss said sourly. “We’re not reliable, and our countries will find us quite replaceable if need be, but so long as she has us, our governments back home won’t make any moves that are too rash for her comfort. And if she truly can exert some mental dominion over us, or send out doppelgangers with our images, she could wreak yet more havoc. All she needs is to hold us for long enough.”

“Long enough,” repeated Simoom. “Until when?”

“If I was her, dear, long enough to get a proper grip on Canterlot and as much of Equestria as possible. Once she’s got that, then, if she really is a love-eater, she’ll have all the resources and power she could possibly wish for.” Fairy Floss’s eyes glinted like steel balls. “She could take down Celestia with whatever love she’d consumed before, and whatever she got from one royal couple. Now she has all the couples of a city at her mercy, or lack thereof. How powerful will she be then?” Her tone lowered. “What would it take to stop her?”

Simoom hesitated in answering. “I… I don’t know? The whole continent in arms? The whole world?”

“What’s your contingency plan for an alicorn at war, speck? Escalate it now to thwart whatever beat the alicorn,” muttered the Crown, hovering still in its servant’s grasp. Various gazes turned to it, and its circling purple light briefly flashed a peevish green. “What? Don’t bother me, I’m thinking. Goodness knows something competent in this shed ought to do so.”

“Do so, then,” snapped Fairy Floss. She sighed and kneaded the bridge of her muzzle. “Maybe Chrysalis is an aspiring conqueror, maybe she isn’t. But if she’s got any sense when she comes into her new power, she’ll make sure not to leave a single potential threat intact.”

“Surely, though, it won’t be easy for her to get a secure hold on much of Equestria. Not while there’s Legions in the field and a turbulent citizenry—” Greenhorn started.

Burro heard no more. Gellert, who’d been silent in one corner, regarding everyone else with his best impersonation of a hawk (which he had a natural advantage in pulling off), unfolded then with a yawn, stretched, and ambled over towards Burro. “Burro, old boy,” he said with a lazy smile, “mind if I have a chat with you in the corner? Just to keep my spirits up?”

“Wha—” Burro turned to face Gellert, and he saw that the old griffon’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a worrying sight, even amidst a whole heap of other worries, for a being for whom emotional expression tended to be a cheerfully unnuanced affair. Burro thought quickly, and nodded. “Of course.”

The griffon hooked one forelimb around Burro’s withers and pulled him into his corner to face the wall. The conversation went on at their backs, but Gellert leaned in towards Burro so that his soft mutter filled the world. “Right. So by way of preamble, for my purpose in getting you here, rest assured that I’ve picked on you because you’re the only one I’m certain I can do it with. And because you’re the one I give most of a damn about.”

“That’s… flattering, I think.” Burro matched the volume of Gellert’s mutter. “What purpose?”

Gellert glanced around at the others, and then leaned in closer to Burro. “These changeling beasties. They can wear a being’s skin. And though they probably don’t get the being’s mind in the process, they can at least impersonate the surface personality. Right?”

“Right,” said Burro.

He noticed then that Gellert’s claw rested casually on his wither, in a way that indicated it could tighten or slash out at a second’s notice. He sighed. “Ah, right.”

“Right,” hissed Gellert. “And if I was a crafty shapechanging queen with an army of shapechanging servants who’d recently acquired a host of suspicious characters such as us, I’d want to put someone in with them. To keep an ear open to what they said behind closed doors, and to do something in case they looked like causing trouble. In all that kerfuffle back there, it couldn’t have been too hard to make a switch.”

“Not at all,” conceded Burro. “Especially if you’d been planning something like this from the get-go.”

“I’m reasonably sure I’ve not been switched, though you shouldn’t just take my word for that,” said Gellert. “And I need to be sure you’ve not been either. So with that in mind, I’m going to ask you to cast your mind back fifty years. To the Asinial Main.”

“Fifty years. Ah. A significant time period.” Burro closed his eyes, and didn’t need much effort to recall then. A time when idiot young privateers had gotten themselves into more trouble and more glory than they’d known what to do with. He could still taste the briny air. See the roiling ocean on all sides. Smell the coal-smoke and pervasive scent of tar. Feel the kiss of the blade that had notched his ears. Hear the roar of steam engines, the crashing of storms, and the iron sonata of springald bolts criss-crossing the air between metal hulls. “What specifically about then and there?” he said at last.

“We sailed with another donkey, if you’ll recall. You gave him a pseudonym and such in that pack of fibs you called a memoir. What was his actual name?”

Burro breathed out. And then turned, a smile creasing his features. “You couldn’t give me a hard one? Cranky Doodle. Equestrian-born, as I recall. On a quest for his love across the bounding main, and all that sort of thing.” His smile fell slightly. “Hope the poor lad’s not still out there, searching.”

Gellert visibly relaxed. His smile ran all the way up to his eyes. “Wouldn’t surprise me too much if he was. Daft donkeys are a rucat a dozen, we all know that. Come on, verify me now.”

“Alright.” Burro thought briefly. “You might recall I dashingly crossed blades with the corsair king himself and prevailed. I wrote about it in my memoirs, and if I say so myself, I think my version of events is much preferable to what reality gave us. Would you care to recount—in your own inimicable style—how exactly it went?”

“Hah!” Gellert snorted. “I couldn’t say for certain, I’d been run ragged at that point myself. But from what I saw, he had you on the backhoof the whole time, up from the hold to the deck, and goodness knows how you survived. He’d filled you so full of holes he could have taken you below decks and used you as an inefficient sieve. And I’d make more unkind remarks in that vein, except when I tried to get involved, he slashed his name into my hide as well. How did you beat him in the end, anyway?”

“You think I was in a fit state to recall?” Burro shook his head. “The next thing I knew was waking up in a great deal of pain and being mentioned in dispatches as a hero of the republic.”

“The dispatches couldn’t have known you that well, then,” said Gellert, who chuckled as he slid away from Burro’s retaliatory swipe. He looked at Burro again, his expression amiable, and then glanced back towards the others. “So. We both remain impeccable and pure of intent.”

“As we always are,” Burro replied dryly. He glanced towards the others as well. They still seemed to be arguing about the capability of any potential Equestrian resistance. Fairy Floss, who’d noticed their various glances backwards, favoured them with a skeptical one of her own. She’d be asking questions soon.

“I’m not sure I know anything sufficiently personal about the others to test them as well… at least, nothing that couldn’t have been found out by Chrysalis. Out of interest,” said Burro, “when did you develop enough craftiness to come up with that line of suspicion?”

“I do actually do Chieftain things, you know,” grumbled Gellert. “Whenever I’m not trying to tempt you towards debauchery. I’m just surprised you weren’t being crafty enough.”

“Well…” Burro waved a hoof at the shed wall. “...I’ve been distracted.”

“True, I suppose. And you’re getting daft in your dotage.”

“Go swim with a shark.” Burro grinned briefly, and then lowered his voice yet further, as low as it could possibly go. His Cunning had been drip-feeding him information all the while it had been active, and he’d agreed with the conclusions it had fed him. “Your suspicions about a changeling spy amongst us...”

“What about them?”

“They’re good. They hold water. But… what if she didn’t need to go that far?”

Gellert’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“Suppose you were a changeling queen, like you said, with an army of shapechangers. But if your ability to impersonate rests on knowing the subject, surely your common-or-garden shapechanger can only go so far. However, if you knew what you were attacking ahead of time—and you’d received intelligence ahead of time about all the foibles and plans about what you were to attack—then wouldn’t there be a simpler way?” Burro’s voice dipped to a growl. “Just put your informant in the same room as your captives. Then you’re sorted.”

He looked directly at the Crown, held aloft in its menial’s magical grasp.

Gellert followed his gaze and glowered. It currently seemed to be haranguing Simoom, and a few flecks of gold glittered amidst its purple. A few.

“Can’t say I’d put it past it,” Gellert eventually allowed. “And if anything had the motive to sneak in a new foe and lay her low, and the skill to find said foe and give her what she needed… Capra’s Security Service have never been slouches.”

“And besides,” Burro hissed, “if I’m right in guessing these changelings can only impersonate quadrupeds… or quadruped-ish beings, like yourself… then there’s only one here who they’re not going to try and impersonate. Suppose they never needed to.”

Gellert took this in silence. Before them, the conversation seemed to have wound to a halt, and a brief metallic snarl came from the Crown. “Enough of this,” it said. “I decline to sit helpless here, yammering about unhelpful hypotheticals while other members of our company gossip in the background. If our guards are still scattered, now’s the time to apply the force the Arch-Minister spoke of. Menial?”

The ibex stood to attention. “Your Unfettered Highness?”

“Don me.”

And that, in and of itself, would have been sufficient cause for Burro to act. He nodded at Gellert, and got a nod back.

The instant the ibex lifted the Crown up towards his head without so much as blinking, Greenhorn and Fairy Floss opened their mouths to object, Simoom blinked, Sailears looked startled, and Burro and Gellert lunged. One wild haymaker from Gellert met the side of the ibex’s head, and he was all but thrown senseless into one wall, the Crown flying out of his grasp. It clattered on the floor, and Burro kicked it savagely. It bounced off the door frame, and its jewels barely had time to change colour before the old jack leaned over it. Yells and exclamations came from everybody else; Burro ignored them.

“You think we’re stupid enough to let you try that, you vile old piece of scrap?” blazed Burro. “Do you think our heads button up the back?”

Purple and red and blue seethed in the depths of the Crown’s jewels like the world’s liveliest bonfire, and a snarling noise came from it like two saw blades mating. “I don’t presume to speculate about anything going on with your head, Arch-Minister!” it screeched. “But whatever goes on in there, kindly keep it to yourself and out of my designs! What in the Blackness Beyond do you and the chieftain think you’re doing?”

“We’re stopping you hijacking some poor being right before our eyes,” said Gellert. “And stopping you laying your claws upon the power to kill us all. That’s what you do with your poor servants, isn’t it? Lash out with more of their muscle and magic than their bodies and minds were made to handle, and leave them drained, broken shells while laying waste to everything around you. It’s very efficient malevolence on your part, that particular trick, well done. But I’d rather it wasn’t performed in front of me, thank you.”

“What a lovely compliment,” hissed the Crown. “But while I did intend to spend every last drop of magic my menial had to offer if it’d be of use in escaping, what makes you think I intended to use it killing you? You’re very low on my list of priorities at the best of times, chieftain, and today you’re so below my sight as to be invisible.”

“We know this whole mess is of your making, Crown!” Burro ground his forehoof into its monde. “If the changelings needed inside information to infiltrate in the first place, who more keen to provide it than you? If Equestria falls to sudden invasion and all three alicorns are taken out of the equation for good, who benefits more than you and your ambitions? If things had gone awry, then who should have happened to show up uninvited and well-placed to intervene? My word, it’s you.”

Fairy Floss frowned. Simoom and Sailears looked bewildered. Steam blasted from Greenhorn’s nostrils and his eyes reddened. “That makes sense,” he said in a voice that promised storms.

“No, it doesn’t—” hissed the Crown, the instant before Greenhorn grabbed out with his magic and snatched it up into the air. It rotated helplessly before his gaze.

“Do you think us all witless?” the aurochs rumbled.

“I’ll do you the unmerited honour of assuming you have wits, you pathetic relic, if purely for the purposes of insulting them.” The Crown, still rotating helplessly in Greenhorn’s grasp, had reacquired something of its habitual snideness, and Burro felt almost comforted to hear it. “I had nothing to do with today’s events, save showing up for them and getting lumped in against my preference with the whole sorry pack of you. Think! Surely even you can see the holes in the Arch-Minister’s line of thinking.”

“What holes?”

“Stars above, fine, I’ll walk you through it. Firstly, his point about intelligence and infiltration. Whatever intelligence these creatures have been working with, is it not entirely likely that they got it from their ruler having impersonated a princess of Equestria? There are plenty of ways that could have come to pass without my Security Service so much as getting wind of it, though I do wish they had. I’d have worked to stop this.”

“Stop this?” Burro laughed. “You? You benefit the most from this!”

“Yes, stop it! I won’t deny my ambitions. I want a Capra that reflects the glory of the long-gone Empire, that can act without being constrained by Equestria or alicorn interference! How in every hell conceived does replacing Equestria and the alicorns with something even more dangerous and unpredictable help me in the slightest?” Its screech had risen, and at end of the sentence had become an outright scream.

“Perhaps you miscal—” Burro started, the footing for his arguments not feeling quite as firm as they’d once done, but the Crown pressed on.

“And lastly,” it hissed, “if I’d arranged for all of this, why would I put myself in the crossfire? That’s what nice, expendable ambassadors are for!”

There was a silence, before Gellert finally said, “Well, you’re a damned lunatic. There’s that as a reason.”

The Crown laughed bitterly. “Give me some credit, chieftain.”

“Why should he break a winning habit?” There was little rancour and a lot of weariness in Fairy Floss’s tone. “But perhaps we should put this matter to one side. Until we can all breathe easily again.”

Burro sighed. A fog of uncertainty had joined the room’s murk. It usually came along with leaving the crystal-clear thinking the Cunning provided, but no small amount had to come from the circumstances. He was still inclined to trust the Crown and its explanations no further than he could throw an especially fat whale, but the possibility that it hadn’t actually been involved seemed much greater than it had a few minutes ago. It wouldn’t be the first time a donkey’s Cunning had led them magnificently astray. Was there some other conspirator? Was it all Chrysalis’s own doing? Maybe Gellert’s idea had been the right one… but if they didn’t know enough about anyone else here, how could it be tested?

Where had the changelings even come from? How well could Equestria fare? Was there any salvation in the offing? And where had his bicorne gotten to? The shed and the fracture-lines between everyone in it didn’t allow for any of these to be answered. There just wasn’t enough information for anything but speculation, no matter how much Cunning he threw at it.

Greenhorn dropped the Crown back by the door with a clatter. There was something between a snore and a hiccup from the unconscious ibex, and a few glances went his way.

“If nothing else, thank you for just randomly assaulting my subject,” the Crown drawled. “It’s a wonderful precedent I’ll be sure to make use of myself, if we make it out of here. Give me back to him once he wakes up. Maybe then I’ll be allowed to attempt an exit.”

Burro eyed the purple light dancing in its jewels again, and realisation dawned. “Depths, I’ve just remembered what that colour means. You’re worried.”

The Crown’s attention settled on Burro again, like a winter wind had just brushed through his mane. “What an observant donkey you are.”

Burro closed his eyes. “Alright,” he muttered. “No rescue likely to come our way. No chance of getting actual answers to any of our questions here in this shed. No way of knowing what’s going on out there from in here. But… I don’t think any of that’s a problem.”

“And why isn’t it?” Fairy Floss arched her brow.

“Because we can get out of here,” he said softly, turning back to regard the wall. He tapped it with his hoof. “I think I have a plan.”

Pollina was having an excellent day. She’d amassed two piles of winnings, had spent them all on multiple rounds of drinks for the whole table, and was swaying slightly in her chair while accruing a third pile of winnings. If this sort of thing usually happened in Canterlot, she ought to visit more often.

That said, she couldn’t shake the growing impression that, out of sight, bad days were happening to other folk.

“Alright, I stand corrected,” Girard said, rising up from his chair and drawing his sabre as a dark, magic-spitting shape zipped past the bar’s window, followed closely by screams, followed by yet another dark shape crashing into the cobblestones just outside the bar. “Something’s going on.”

“Is the city under attack?” roared one of the bovish huskarls, cursing as he rose from his seat, scattering dice and tokens and the snakes-and-ladders board. “Blast it! We thought the city guard had events well in hoof! There was a city-spanning shield of all things!”

“Which way to the palace from here?” Dolly demanded. “Do any of you know this city’s streets better than Serrai and I? We must see that the Tyrant is safe.”

“I know a way.” Berry looked pensive even as she said it, though. “It’s quite a trek from here, though. Even if we take it at a gallop...”

“Teleporting all the way there would drain us unduly in the face of whatever trouble there is,” the huskarl said. “Is there no shortcut?”

And just like that, like so many other beings in Canterlot that day, Pollina had an idea. A brilliant idea, if she and the alcohol in her system were any judge.

“I know a shortcut!” she said, rising from her seat and managing to not fall over. “Follow me, everyone!”

The assembled guardsbeings looked at her with no little surprise. “You do? Where is it?” Serrai asked.

“Not far! It’s parked just outside the main gate!”

If in Doubt, Improvise

In a quiet alcove of an undisturbed corridor in the palace, as far away as possible from the day’s many epicentres of horribleness, Thorax tried and failed to stave off another round of panicked gibbering.

Most of the last few minutes had been a blur, punctuated on one end by a pecky, burny, evisceratey harbinger of the End-times scything through the changeling ranks like a self-propelled threshing machine, and punctuated on the other by Thorax finding himself in a cool, quiet space that allowed for gibbering with a minimal risk of dismemberment.

The Great Unmasking hadn’t entirely gone to plan. And in that regard at least, Thorax was relieved. He’d never liked the idea in the first place. He wasn’t a very good changeling. That had always been made plain to Thorax, and the sight of beings panicking, screaming, and futilely trying to protect each other and themselves from the swarm had distressed him rather than enthused him, like it did his swarm-mates. He’d found himself unable to contribute much more than flying along with the rest of the swarm, lighting up his horn, and making half-hearted ‘pew!’ sounds whenever he thought he was being watched. Even that made him feel wretched.

Apprehending and sealing away the apparent world leaders among the gathering hadn’t felt quite so bad. It was for their own good, really. Once the swarm had attacked the city, keeping that particular gathering safe under lock and key was just good sense. They could get hurt out in the fight, after all. Besides, anyone who called themselves a world leader had to be at least a little bit towards the evil end of the moral spectrum. There probably couldn’t be a single innocent amongst them, especially after the elephant leader had gone missing and the switcharound with Captain Syrphid had gone into play. Thorax could have lived with that.

Until they’d actually been sealed away, and the others had made him open that falcon’s cage. Then merely living with things had suddenly become vastly less likely. Thereafter, blurriness and terror. The rest of the squadron only had time to notice after the falcon had finished with the first couple, and most of them had flown away or discreetly retreated into the gardens. Several had dithered a second too long out in the open, and the falcon fell upon them like natural selection’s last word.

An open window had presented itself, and Thorax fled inside. Corridor after corridor blurred past him until his own hammering heartbeat was louder than the now-distant mayhem. He’d assumed the shape of a golden-armoured unicorn guard in case any ponies stumbled on him. And then he’d slumped into a quiet alcove and had commenced making whatever unhappy noises his vocal apparatus had to offer.

Innocent beings were getting hurt. A mad falcon was on the loose. And here he was, unable to do a thing about either of those.

He wished Pharynx was here. Sure, he’d probably clout Thorax’s ears and make sardonic remarks, but at least he’d be here.

Thorax huddled to himself and did his best to keep his mewling as quiet as possible, when all of a sudden, the hush was broken. Children’s voices rang out to his left, down at the end of the corridor.

“Everything clear, y’all?”

“Yep!”

“Clear on this side!”

“My side’s still a blank wall.”

“Good. Ahead’s fine. Shahannahshan… uh, Sailears, if you’d oblige?”

“Toot!” And then there was the sound of rustling, some measured treads on the stone floor, and then something clunking back down again.

Thorax remained still in his alcove, holding his breath. He could look out to see who on earth they were, that group of voices. Alternatively, he could get torn wing-from-limb by a well-played ambush. Decisions, decisions.

While he waited, the voices came again, this time closer.

“Coast clear?”

“Yep!”

“Still clear!”

“Oh, hey, it’s a wall.”

“Clear here! Sailears?”

“Toot!” The enthusiastic trumpet rang out, and there was the same rustling, treading, and clunking as before. And despite himself, Thorax swallowed and leaned his head around to see what was going on. If this was a trap, then it was … odd. Odd enough that it would almost be a shame to not to fall into it.

He peeked down the left-hoof-side of the corridor and beheld a table trundling his way.

Not the usual sort of table, though, if one needed evidence of that past the trundling. Big, grey, hoofless feet ambled at its base past the folds of a tablecloth. Smaller hooves appeared here and there at the sides, as well as one set of scaled feet. The whole thing, big enough to hide two grown ponies with lax standards of personal space crouching underneath, trundled forwards for a moment longer under the steam of the grey feet. And then it stopped, falling an inch to the ground, and before Thorax entirely apprehended what was happening—

“Everypony?” The drawling voice came from near the front, just past the tablecloth.

“Clear as crystal!” The lip of the tablecloth rose on one side, to the left of the front, and Thorax glimpsed a small, white muzzle.

“Clear as … something else that’s clear!” This came from the back.

The tablecloth at the right-hoof side twitched up, revealing a smaller, purpler, and scalier muzzle. “Rhymes with ball.”

“And on my end—” The end of the tablecloth facing Thorax twitched up, revealing a yellow muzzle and a pair of bright, orange eyes scanning the corridor ahead.

Thorax remembered he was supposed to be in hiding, just at the same moment the filly sporting said muzzle and eyes declared, “Hey, there’s a guardspony in that alcove!”

“Really?” “What the heck?” “What’s he doing there?” “Toot?” flew at Thorax like a volley of arrows as the sides of the table erupted open, and out from the flapping cloth came three pony fillies, a dragon whelp, and, last of all, an elephant calf who must have been bearing the table on his back. All of them were in various finery, all of them had Thorax dead within their sights, and all of them had questions.

“Hey! You’re a guardspony, right?” said one, a pegasus who slipped round from the back and cantered ahead of the others. “What’s happening out there?”

“I, um,” said Thorax, all his planning instincts shutting down.

“Are our sisters alright?” said the next, a unicorn.

“That, er.”

“Ooh, I like your barding,” the elephant calf chirped. “My uncle said he’ll get me a traditional lamellar set for my next birthday, but that I shouldn’t expect anything more fitted until I’m fully-grown. Which doesn’t seem fair. I mean, if I’m the Shahanshah—“

“Gchk,” retorted Thorax, his brain and larynx short-circuiting at the sight of what had to be the elephant sovereign running loose from wherever he’d gotten himself to, before an earth pony filly leapt up for his attention, the one who’d been at the front.

“Are you inside to help Princess Celestia and Princess Cadence?” she said. “They’re in the throne room and needing help something fierce.”

The desperate noise Thorax produced then was beyond the power of known letter combinations to convey, and was only halted when the little dragon in full evening wear pinched the bridge of his snout, strode up to Thorax, and flicked his muzzle. “Hey!” he said. “Hey, come on! Call yourself a guardspony?”

Thorax hadn’t been flicked on the muzzle like that since … since, well, at least the last time he’d seen Pharynx, who’d probably be fizzing with agitation after being left to guard the hive all by himself. He stared down into the dragon whelp’s indignant eyes. “Gchk?” he managed, shambling back up to the first rung on the ladder of sense.

“You heard! Come on! Canterlot is being invaded! The princesses have been hurt or imprisoned, and the other guardponies are out there fighting! I recognised a lot of ‘em! You’re new, right? Why aren’t you with them?”

It dawned on Thorax just what pitfalls his current form entailed, which was never ideal when said pitfalls had already enclosed him up to his withers at the time of dawning. “I, I, I’m not, I mean, that is, oh, I, I ...”

“You scared? You don’t have to be.” The unicorn filly looked up in turn, her green eyes full of concern. “Come on, what’s your name?”

“My name?” Thorax, his mind a-jangle, hunted across the room for any scrap of inspiration, any at all. “My name … is … er … Wall.” He paused, increasingly aware that this hadn’t gone down entirely well, and mustered manic bluster to compensate. “Yes, Sir Wall! Of the, um, Royal Guard! Dispensing vital guarding duties to this, er, corridor at this time of unexpected crisis, yes! And, and may I ask what you all think you’re doing, heaving that table around?”

“We’re not heaving it,” said the pegasus. “We’re using it as part of a brilliant disguise tactic. Why rush from cover to cover when you can just take cover with you?”

“I’m helping as well!” said the elephant calf, sounding delighted about this. “It’s no great trouble to help, either. Equestrians build their tables light.”

“It sure didn’t look like you were guarding,” the earth pony filly said with the worrying air of one who declined to get sidetracked too easily. Her orange eyes narrowed. “It looked more like you were hiding in that there alcove and peeking out all fearful-like.”

“I...” Thorax jabbed his brain for one last spurt of guile, the friend of every changeling in a bind. “That … was part of my cunning ambush plan. To … to ambush miscreants. That needed ambushing.”

Curse his guile.

One flat assessment came from the dragon whelp, putting his ingenuity out its misery. “You’re not a guardspony at all, are you?”

Thorax’s desperate eyes swivelled round to meet cold, unconvinced green. Another wave of panic threatened to overwhelm him once again.

And then it threatened no longer, and simply did, all in one great burst. “Alright! Alright! I’m not a guardspony! I’m not anything! I’m terrible! All of this is terrible! There’s, there’s changelings attacking all the ponies outside and, and paralysing and terrifying and hunting down anypony they meet, and there’s nothing I can do! There’s this … horrible, fiery, murdery avatar of pure death flying around outside where the leaders have been imprisoned, and, and, and I don’t know what to do about that either! I don’t know about anything and I wish my brother was here and none of this was what I wanted to do and this corridor was all I could find and —”

Simple lung capacity finally stymied his gibbering, which turned into hyperventilating. The ponies, elephant, and dragon hovered around him uncertainly for a moment or two, until Thorax became aware of one of them stepping forward. He almost shrieked when something patted his foreleg. “Hey,” came the voice of the little dragon. “Hey, look up.”

Thorax looked up, and met the whelp’s eyes, less cold than they’d been before. Behind him, the three fillies looked ready to chime in. At the back, the elephant calf watched events with his head slightly tilted.

“Listen to me,” said the little dragon. “You are a guardspony, alright? You trained and drilled your legs off, you got the uniform, you took the oath, right? That means you’re the sort of pony who the princesses knew would stand up and be brave even when things looked hopeless.” The dragon grinned ruefully. “Well, can’t say for Luna, her homecoming being so recent and all, but I know Celestia and Cadence can figure out things about a pony even before that pony knew himself.”

“It don’t matter if you’re scared or you don’t feel like a guardspony,” said the earth pony filly, as Thorax boggled at this unexpected angle of attack. “All that matters is that you wade in anyway. That you act the hero part even if you don’t feel it’s yours to play. Make sense?”

“Even if what’s out there’s scaring you, you can still help us,” urged the unicorn. “We’re on a rescue mission! And you look like a born rescuer.”

“Yeah!” The pegasus grinned. “It sounds like you know where they are, anyhow!”

Why not a butler, or a maid? Why not just stay a changeling? Why?, Thorax bleated at his past self. Why a guardspony?

And why wasn’t he just flying away from this mad group’s line of inquiry? Why wasn’t he reflexively disliking the picture they seemed to have of him in their heads?

Because their picture was better than his, he belatedly realised, just as the earth pony filly started talking again. “See, we’ve got a plan. Them world leaders you mentioned, that’ve been imprisoned? Sailears here reckons they could help us and maybe save all of Canterlot if they get let out. All you gotta do is lead us there, and we’d save everypony. Maybe. Somehow.”

The sudden, makeshift mental image of Sir Wall rose to the forefront and boomed something confident like, Ho ho, merely that, child? I shall rend the whole invading force atwain with my mighty thews, and receive medals and cakes and kisses from all the princesses shortly after. Do not fear! The much more tangible person of Thorax smothered Sir Wall in his sleep and trembled out, “Out there? Where the world leaders are being kept? You want to draft them?”

“Exactly there!”

Horrible, fiery, murdery avatars of feathery death bobbed up helpfully in Thorax’s mind, and he whimpered to that effect. “But … but horrible, fiery, murdery avatars of feathery death?”

“We can wrangle ‘em,” said the pegasus dismissively.

“And if we can’t, we’ve got you to help us out,” urged the unicorn filly with admiring eyes. “You’re a big, brave guardspony whose mettle will surely be proved, right?”

“Or your sinews stiffened, even.” This from the dragon.

“Or your pluck mustered?”

“Dander raised up, if we’re lucky.”

“Or your choler in ascendant,” offered the elephant, breaking his silence at last, his gaze returning from somewhere distant.

That got him a round of curious looks. “Not heard that one before,” said the pegasus. “Is that a Pachydermian expression?”

“Maybe? I think it’s getting at the same thing as all of yours. Dame Lyuba’s all choler, if that fits. What’s a ‘mettle’ anyway? Is it like a —”

Thorax thought desperately while discussion ensued, and all the while in the background of his mind, Sir Wall jollied him on to live up to every one of these expressions and then some. If the gaggle of rumpled and battered-looking statesbeings (and one states-crown) could be of any use — and if they were leaders like the Queen, who could definitely rip apart anyone else in the hive, why couldn’t they be? — then maybe this plan would be worth a shot, but there was still the small matter of the horrible, fiery, &c.

Mettle, sinews, pluck, dander, choler, and all. He had some of all of these in his frame, surely.

And if it could maybe just stop the rest of the swarm, stop this whole horrible Unmasking, stop innocents being hurt and terrified…

Mettle, sinews, pluck, dander, choler, check.

“If … if you all ...” Thorax ventured, “... If you all stay close to me at all times, and you hide behind me, and hide in better places when I tell you, then maybe — just maybe — I’ll be able to take you out there and let them out. And let you convince them. Maybe.”

He got no further before a chorus of small voices rose in cheer, praising Sir Wall. The grinning dragon and the fillies all joined in, and the elephant looked on, as if delightedly surprised. And that chorus raised for Thorax (for Sir Wall, technically, but didn’t he come from the better recesses of Thorax?) filled his heart with something like hope.

Maybe he could do something after all. Maybe his hive could be made to fly off, and no more innocents had to be terrorised this day. Maybe, just maybe, the world leaders would be good, moral, and trustworthy statesbeings, in whose capable hooves all this could be entrusted.

“So, is there any set order for cannibalism in times like these?” the Crown rasped archly. “I ask for curiosity's sake alone. Organics need sustenance, I’m given to understand, and you’ll be relying on unorthodox sources before the Arch-Minister’s plan ever bears fruit.”

“Crown,” Burro replied sweetly, “kindly shut whatever passes for your glittery and infinitely smug face, unless you’re got a better idea than mine.”

“Go on, confide to me a step or two. I assume infirm and elderly first? Precious metals last, perchance?”

Burro closed his eyes briefly, wished for a hungry Fire Queen to be present, and breathed out. “Does anyone else take exception to the plan?” He squinted around in the darkness at the assorted faces, betraying various flavours of skepticism, confusion, or studied neutrality. Gellert perched atop the bound, gagged, and furious ibex, his waistcoat shredded to provide the bindings, and he twiddled the Crown in his foreclaws.

Greenhorn received an extra-hard dosage of Burro’s squinting. The Bullwalda just stared back at him, impassive and grim. Cogitation seemed to be taking place under the auroch’s expression, like stirrings within a stormcloud before the lightning.

“Let me be sure I understand the plan as was described to me, so I can give it a fair appraisal,” said Fairy Floss. The old ewe’s gaze was flatter than some unfortunate woodland denizen that had just met their first and only wagon, and her tone of voice promised nothing like a fair appraisal. “And so I can be sure, this is a plan which has been largely advised by that mad soup of concentrated malevolence sloshing between your ears which donkeys call Cunning. Correct?”

“Casual denigration of my kind’s innate magic aside, correct.”

“Nothing casual about it, dear. Regardless, you believe that there’s a way out of here, and that way depends on one of these walls being weaker than the others.”

“Over the years since Sod Green built it,” replied Burro. His head fizzed with Cunning residue, and he irritably shook it. “These walls, all their alchemically-treated timber ... they get scraped and cleaned every so often. This one on my right faces nearest to the main green. It’ll receive harder cleaning, for appearance’s sake. It’ll be most likely to absorb any stray blows from kicked balls, stumbling revellers, whatever. Only little blows, certainly, but decades upon decades of little things add up.”

“Well, ah … even if it adds up over time, how much damage can the odd kicked ball or tripping pony really do?” Simoom ventured dubiously before Burro wheeled on him.

“Viceroy, do you want to talk to my Cunning about impacts, about wood stress, margins of error, distribution of force and weight, joints, edges, stumbling likelihood based on the exterior path’s edging and route, about how that likelihood marginally rose during the short-lived fashion in Equestrian high circles for Zebrican tej following Celestia’s negotiation of the Zebrican-Gazellen border dispute some eighty years back which I read about once and almost entirely forgot about, about everything like that? Because I’ve certainly received more than a share of its babble so far. I don’t even know half the units of measurement my Cunning’s trying to work with, I’ve not trained for this. I didn’t even know I ever knew half the details it’s dredging up from dusty alcoves in my head. If it indicates that that wall’s likely to be slightly weaker compared to the other three, then who am I to question it? All I know is I’m going to be nursing a headache for the next week on behalf of a plan which even I’ll admit is pretty dreadful as plans go!”

Burro caught himself as he met Simoom’s wide eyes. He cleared his throat and tried to stop emphasising every other word. “Apologies, Viceroy. It’s been one of those days.”

“No apology needed, Arch-Minister.” Simoom relaxed. “I suppose we’re all under a bit of stress at the moment, but are you sure there’ll be enough damage for us to work with?”

“No guarantees, but my Cunning does reckon there’ll be some structural weakness there, or at least more in comparison to the other walls. Not much, but some.”

“And with said weakened target in mind,” Fairy Floss interrupted archly, “that’s when Greenhorn enters proceedings.”

The Bullwalda glanced at her and Burro briefly before resuming stony contemplation.

“Yes,” said Burro. “He’s the only magic-channeller here, barring the Shahanshah and the Crown’s ibex, and he’s capable of teleporting himself. He can’t teleport straight outside past whatever wards the changelings have slapped up, but I don’t see any reason he shouldn’t be able to teleport withinhere.”

“So Greenhorn, assuming he’s perfectly obliging about all this and never valued the integrity of his skull anyway, charges at that wall,” Fairy Floss said. “But before impact, he teleports back to his starting position, maintaining his momentum and pressing the charge. And he keeps doing this, until he’s had as decent a run-up as he’s ever going to get, or he forgets to teleport in time.”

“At which point, the wall is hit by over a ton of armour-clad Bullwalda moving at charging speed. Or a ton-ish. My Cunning had trouble judging past his caparison.”

One of Greenhorn’s ears flicked, but otherwise he continued his best impersonation of a statue which wasn’t having its weight loudly discussed in front of it.

“What calf doesn’t dream of growing up to become a wrecking ball? And how few lucky calves get to ever realise that dream? I’m sure Greenhorn will be all too happy to relive his happiest memories of the Discord Incident.” Fairy Floss shook her head. “But do you really believe that’ll be enough?”

Burro hesitated.

“Well,” he eventually allowed. “Well…”

“Those ‘wells’ do not fill me with confidence, Arch-Minister.”

“This is a Sod Green construction. I’m hoping there’s also some lingering effects from the Discord Incident. Maybe the draconequus did something to this shed that’s persisted and made it weaker, like what happened to my old ornithopter. Maybe. If so, there might just be enough overlap in whatever force the Bullwalda can throw at it and whatever force it takes to knock the wall down. Then we’ll have a chance.”

Fairy Floss closed her eyes and gently butted her head against a handy wall, while sighs rung out from other quarters. She lifted her gaze and fixed Burro with a weary glower. “Your plan, if one was forced at crossbow-point to summarise it, is, ‘throw the Bullwalda at the wall very hard and pray for unlikelihood’.”

“If you’re going to condense it down like that, of course it’s going to sound stupid—”

“‘Hit the thing with the thing and hope’, even.”

“Oh, now you’re not even trying to make it sound—”

“What if Bullwalda Greenhorn gets hurt?” piped up Sailears, who’d been quiet for most of the explanation and subsequent re-explanation. “We need another plan. I think. That one won’t work.”

“I’m open to suggestions, Shahanshah. Really.” Burro looked around the room. “Anything useful to offer, Crown? Go on, surprise us for once. Do something helpful and decent.”

“Nothing occurs. So try this fool notion, by all means,” drawled the Crown. “But if our first Bullwalda breaks, will we be able to make another? The biology of all this grows more complex by the second. It should settle the cannibalism question, though. If this plan goes as I suspect, you’ll have to do something with whatever’s left of Greenhorn.”

Burro wheeled back on the Crown to snap something suitably withering, but Gellert beat him to it and absently smacked the Crown hard against a wall. The ibex pinned under Gellert writhed and growled with indignation, and the Crown’s jewels briefly flashed red. “I do wonder,” it hissed, “what beings ever hope to achieve subjecting me to that sort of mistreatment. I’m enchanted to nigh-indestructibility, you moron, and I don’t have nerve endings. You can’t hurt me.”

“Probably not,” Gellert said absently as he gave the Crown another whack against the wall. “But it’s damned cathartic regardless. If the wall’s too strong for Greenhorn, old boy, let me and the Crown have a go at breaking through. I could do this all day.”

“We’ll call that Plan B. Unless anyone wants to interject with an alternative Plan A.” Burro’s gaze fell upon the Tyrant. “Fairy? You’ve been keen to criticise. Anything cleverer up your sleeve?”

“No, dear. And that’s what irks the most.” Fairy Floss ground her teeth. “But your plan hinges on a large number of unlikely things, even assuming Greenhorn agrees to it, and even if we trust your Cunning, there’s no guarantee—”

“I agree to it,” Greenhorn rumbled quietly. He went unheeded.

“—frankly, any clause to the effect of ‘and hope there’s some miraculous unknown factor beyond our control that saves us all’ should have set off more alarm bells for you than it did, dear.”

“Be fair, Fairy,” Gellert said. “The last times we’ve been staring down the business end of an Equestrian crisis, miraculous unknown factors beyond our control have saved us all.”

“Acknowledged, dear, but the day we start relying on miraculous unknown factors to carry the day for us is the same day we’re all likely to end up in the Hereafter, looking down on the smoking remains of the world. And won’t we all be embarrassed then.”

“Ah. So the miraculous unknown factors help those who help themselves? As opposed to being straightforwardly miraculous?”

“If you’re trying to annoy me with petty diversions, dear, you’re succeeding marvellously, well done. But my point is —”

“I am willing to play my part in the Arch-Minister’s plan,” Greenhorn repeated, this time louder, and a hush filled the shed. The bull rose his head and met the stares all around. “Give me space for a run-up, and I’ll see the wall broken.”

“Are you sure, Bullwalda?” Simoom spoke first, the stallion’s eyes full of concern. “It does seem likely to do you a nasty injury. If all you achieve is knocking your head off solid wood —”

“I have thrown my head at harder things,” Greenhorn said, his tone terse as he turned his head and combed his gaze over the target wall. He shuffled his hooves, dipped his head briefly and gauged the angle of his horns, and edged backwards. When he spoke again, it came out slowly and with a slight hitch. “Sometimes, I have not come off second-best when doing so.”

There was another hush. The Crown broke it first. “Was that the Bullwalda attempting levity? My word, things must be serious.”

“I would have silence so I can concentrate, Crown.” Greenhorn slowly trotted up to the wall, sending Simoom and Sailears shuffling aside to give him room. He tapped his horns once upon it, grunted, and then edged backwards to the opposite side of the shed, obliging Burro and Fairy Floss to squeeze in against the wall. “Barely six strides, but it’ll have to serve. Slow at first, to get my tempo, but it should be doable.”

“Bullwalda,” Sailears ventured, the little elephant sounding surprisingly concerned to Burro’s ears. “I really, really don’t think you should do this. It could be dangerous!”

“‘Dangerous’ is what kings are for, Shahanshah.” There was a hard, measured quality to Greenhorn’s voice now. “To bear dangers others cannot, and to pose a danger to their realm’s foes and to those who would fetter them in the course of their duties. Your Lord Regent must instill this point if he has not already. Hush now.”

“Wait, wait,” hissed Fairy Floss, drawing Greenhorn’s attention. “Bullwalda, wait. If we are undertaking this daft scheme, and if by some inexplicable kindness on the part of the universe, it succeeds, then we have to plan for what happens afterwards. What do we do and where do we go once we’re out? There’s still an army of changelings out there, not to mention Chrysalis herself.”

“Greenhorn’ll find himself at the forefront of whatever happens out there,” mused Burro. “We should have our fittest ready to spring out on his heels. Viceroy?”

“Yes?” Simoom looked up, surprised.

“You survived the entirety of your early life in Saddle Arabia, correct?”

“Well, yes.” Simoom bit at his lower lip. “I suppose that leaves me somewhat well-equipped to go right out after the Bullwalda. If Charity’s out there, do please leave her to me. I’m nowhere near the equal of our falconer, but I can wrangle her. Or try, at least. And should any changelings come at us … well, there is a certain universality to the wrangling techniques.”

“Excellent. Gellert?” Burro turned on the griffon. “You’re still aggravatingly spry and strong despite a lifetime of bad habits. Fancy accompanying Simoom out there?”

“Hah! Someone jealous I’ve managed to grow old gracefully?”

“Disgracefully. It’s pronounced ‘disgrac —’”

“Go kiss a pike. I’ll accompany him, though, don’t doubt that.” The feathery hide by Gellert’s beak tightened in a wolfish smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper scrap. When you’re a chieftain, griffons have this tendency to just let you win. Convenient for the card tables, less so when you want to get your blood properly pumping.”

“Give ‘em a taste of the old days. Shahanshah?” Sailears was the next for Burro’s attention, and the jack couldn’t help some momentary hesitation. Calf he may have been, but he was large as and probably stronger than most of them. Still a calf, though. “You should stay at the back, behind all of us.”

Sailears didn’t object. He merely nodded, his eyes betraying no little trepidation.

“Good lad. As for yourself, Fairy ... ” Burro looked the elderly, diminutive ewe up and down, mostly down, and she returned his look with extra archness. “Any well-concealed martial talents you’ve been keeping in reserve?”

She favoured him with a wry expression. “Even during my prime, dear, I was more of a lover than a fighter. I’ve always been lucky enough to have others ready to perpetrate violence on my behalf. Happily, it looks like I still do. What of yourself?”

Burro smiled his own wry smile back at her. “Well, not to blow my own trumpet too much, but I did win the bronze in the Brineside University Fencing Society’s Winter Solstice Charity Tournament.”

This won him a deafening silence.

“Granted, that was over fifty years ago, but I was very proud at the time. There was that other trifling matter of a glorious privateering career culminating in duelling a corsair king. And somehow winning, I might add.”

Gellert’s cough sounded suspiciously like ‘inefficient sieve’. Burro glowered at him while Fairy Floss maintained a look of supreme skepticism. “And this was also fifty years ago, correct?”

“Also granted. And I’ll admit my joints have acquired a terrible creaking habit since then.”

“Hmm. Then perhaps you’d do best to keep a meek, defenceless old lady company near the back. If danger threatens, throw yourself between it and me like a gallant and expendable sort, won’t you?”

“I shall be nothing but gallant. Or nothing like. One of the two.”

“Enough discussion. We have our formation. Now we take the battle to them, we find Goldtorc, and we rout these invaders from the city,” growled Greenhorn, pawing at the floor. “This time, they will not have the element of surprise working for them.”

“Ah, excellent,” said Fairy Floss. “No element of surprise. Every other advantage still in their corner, of course. We have to escape the city, dear. There’s only so much good we can do out there, and vastly more good we can do when back in our own seats of power.”

Gellert frowned. “Maybe it’s just the withered scrap of my conscience talking, but I don’t like the idea of high-tailing it out of Canterlot and leaving Celestia and Equestria in the lurch.”

“Then don’t do that, dear. High-tail it north to your mountains, and then high-tail it back south with an army at your back. Fly quickly before Chrysalis can cement her position too thoroughly, and whatever resistance Equestria musters will be glad of your help. I certainly intend to do the same. Assuming we make it out of this shed and Canterlot, of course.”

“What if we rally the city? And if the Element Bearers are out there as well, we could find them. They’d surely be capable of handling Chrysalis...”

“Why would the city heed us? Recall as well that Chrysalis let the Element Bearers escape the hall. I don’t doubt that she’s accounted for them, that she’s at perfect ease about them, and that she’s devoted as much if not more effort towards thwarting them as containing us. They’re already being frogmarched into captivity, for all we know. We’ve no reason to believe we’ll be of any help to that six, even if we could find them. No, dear, we have to escape.”

Burro couldn’t say he relished the idea of fleeing Canterlot, leaving the place and all the ponies within at Chrysalis’s dubious mercy. But what choice did they have? Staying to fight here would just leave Canterlot and them at Chrysalis’s mercy. They were well past the days when their individual efforts could have made a difference, if they ever could have done in the first place. He’d felt the brunt of the changeling queen’s power, and even a Burro in his prime would have been flattened just as quickly. Maybe more so. He’d been more flexible and springy back then.

It was the sensible, pragmatic thing to do. So what if it didn’t sit well with him? Only the hyper-competent, dangerously naive, or monstrously insane Arch-Ministers had often been able to do things that sat well with them.

“If we need to make a quick exit,” he said aloud, “I came here in an ornithopter, which should hopefully still be parked outside the city. All we have to do is find my pilot and guards wherever they’ve ensconced themselves in Canterlot, and we’ll be able to fly free and clear.”

“Oh stars, you let your pilot loose?” Fairy Floss sounded merely weary about this revelation; her reservoirs of acid must have been tapped dry. “The flying machine’s a neat enough means of escape, I’ll allow you that, but can you not fly it yourself?”

“I let her loose along with my guards, yes. Like we all so wisely and graciously did when the day looked to be a lot less exciting than it’s turned out to be. And as for flying it myself ...” Burro tried to recall the helm’s layout, trying to fathom an array of wheels and levers he’d not trained to use, and his Cunning helpfully gave him a taster of the blinding headache he’d get if he continued down that road. “...that would depend on whether or not we wanted to survive the flight. I’d sooner not die shrieking amidst an ever-expanding fireball, but maybe others have different views on the matter.”

“Personally, I have no objections to the Arch-Minister’s possible death via an ever-expanding fireball,” the Crown said. “But if others wish to retrieve the pilot, I’ll consider myself outvoted. If you want some actual firepower on our side when daring this escape, though, may I recommend giving me back to my menial? Blackness Beyond forfend that I do something as wicked as guaranteeing our safety, but needs must when — Chieftain Gellert, strike me off that wall one more time when I’m speaking, and I’ll see you boiled.”

“The kind offer’s appreciated, Crown, but I already bathe once a month whether I need to or not,” Gellert replied, absently dunting the Crown off the wall once more. “Don’t suppose your pilot could be persuaded to divert our flight path over to the nearest volcano, Burro? There’s a theory concerning the melting point of enchanted gold I’ve always wanted to test.”

“Remember all these threats the Tyrant issued to Queen Chrysalis regarding the vengeance our states would take on our behalf?” the Crown said sweetly. “What degree of doom would you like to see wrought on your populace? I have one in mind, but I’m not sure there’s even enough griffons in the world to do it justice.”

“Dears, could you kindly threaten each other with atrocities later?” Fairy Floss turned to Greenhorn. “Waste no more time, Bullwalda. If this is the plan we’ve got, I suppose we may as well give it a try.”

“But what if he doesn’t get through? He might get really hurt —” Sailears objected once more, to be immediately cut off by Greenhorn.

“Either I get through or I don’t, and if I do not even try, the latter is certain, Shahanshah. Perhaps you have heard one of Bovaland’s proverbs. ‘If failure is all there is, fail charging.’ Keep my path clear, everyone. And look aside. There may be splinters.”

Everybody capable of independent motion pressed themselves into the side walls as far as they could, and pulled along those less capable. Greenhorn squinted down the dark and musty length, such as it was. He started trotting forwards, his pace steady and controlled. The second before he made contact with the target wall, light flared around his horns, and with a flash and a crack, he reappeared where he’d started, his pace unbroken.

Then he repeated the process, but at a slightly faster trot.

From the side, Burro watched in silence as Greenhorn gathered speed, his trot becoming a canter, his canter becoming a gallop, his gallop gradually becoming a headlong charge as he hurled himself at the wall time and time again. Each time he teleported back to his starting position with what seemed like millimetres to spare, and Burro found his heart travelling up to rest in his mouth as he watched. Greenhorn’s pace was controlled at all times, with not a hoof put wrong or a teleportation made too early or too late, but all it would take was one misstep…

Burro tensed and pressed himself into the shed door at his back as Greenhorn continued charging. He’d been reduced to a vaguely bull-shaped blur spanning the room, bookended by the constant flash and whirl of teleportation. From round the sides, the others looked on. Gellert watched him like a hawk, which his features didn’t make hard; the Crown glittered blue; Fairy Floss’ mouth was set in a hard line; Simoom had his eyes closed and seemed to be murmuring something to himself; and Sailears was wide-eyed with what Burro took to be worry. Green magic gathered about the calf’s tusks, maybe in unconscious anticipation. Had his magic always been green? No matter, not right now.

The wire-length of tension tightened in Burro's gut, but he breathed out and tried to plan to take his mind off it. If — when they got out, it’d have to be a run down from the shed down into Canterlot proper. Presuming Greenhorn, Gellert, and Simoom could ward off any changelings, Burro himself could guide them all down towards the ornithopter. If his guards had already noticed the ruckus (and if they hadn’t, his hiring practises would need some stiff revision) they might even cross paths on the way, and if they had the pilot with them, or had sent the pilot back towards the ornithopter, then the exit might even be a smooth one. Failing that, they might have to comb the city for the pilot and guards. Gellert would be an invaluable asset there, as he always was. Of course, if their escape went noticed, then Chrysalis or whatever horde of changelings she had in the vicinity would certainly pursue them

Thought of in those optimistic terms, and if one didn’t dwell too hard on the multitude of ‘ifs’, then the plan might just work, might just go off without a hitch, might just deliver them all from —

There came a sudden noise from behind him, and Burro almost yelped. Quiet, fast, voices muttered to one another just past the door.

“You reckon this here’s the shed?” A filly’s voice.

“I’m sure. I think whoever had the key, among, um, whoever locked them all inside, has flown off. Maybe I can break it open. There’s enchantments and wards on it as well, it, er, seems. I’ll see if I can undo them.” This from an anxious-sounding stallion.

“Will that take time?” Another filly, this one’s voice familiar to Burro somehow.

“Yeah, a few minutes. If I —”

“We don’t have time. Buuut we do have a great alternative. Spike?”

“That’s my name, ready to bring my A-game.” That was a boy’s tones, betraying no small amount of imminent swagger. “Sailears, if you wouldn’t mind being my glamorous assistant for tonight’s show?”

Someone else cheerfully trumpeted assent. Sailears? thought Burro briefly, just as there came scuffing sounds, as if someone was clambering up something. The boy cleared his throat. “Stand back, everyone who isn’t me or an elephant. Too much awesome at short distances can be hazardous to —”

“Spike, we’ll all be very impressed and swoon and such afterwards, but would ya stop preening and just burn the lock off already.”

“Oh, fine.”

There came an indrawn breath, before Burro could process what was even going on and formulate a response, and then the sound of lapping flames. The green light of messenger-fire flickered briefly through the keyhole, and there came the sound of loose chains clattering free. The door swung open, and there stood outside, revealed amidst the bright light and fresh air that came rushing into the shed’s confines, a group comprising the Shahanshah of Pachydermia, a dragon whelp astride his back, three flower fillies behind them, and at the back, an agitated-looking unicorn guardspony keeping one eye on the shed and another eye on the skies. Burro recognised one of the fillies as the one he’d spoken to earlier. Just outside and to their right, there ran the tree-shrouded path running between the side of the palace and the gardens. To their left sprawled the green, its breadth decorated with overturned chairs, a few paralysed ponies, and several piles of ash.

The little dragon puffed out a smoke circle, grinning the grin of a conqueror overlooking a new stretch of empire. “And that’s how you make a padlock disappear. Works for friendship letters as well.”

“Swoon, swoon, swoon,” muttered the earth pony amongst the fillies.

“Hey, you’re not being sincere—”

“Hello, Arch-Minister!” said Sailears. “And everyone else!”

“We’ve just cunningly engineered your escape!” said the pegasus filly, poking her head around the side of Sailears. “Wanna help us help our sisters and save Equestria?”

Burro opened his mouth, let it hang open for a moment longer than the dignity of his office really allowed, and then wheeled on the others. “Abort the plan!” he yelped. “Stop, abort the best-laid plan! We’ve got rescuers! We’ve —”

But before he got any further, Greenhorn’s head swivelled around at the sudden distraction, the aurochs caught mid-gallop. Sheer surprise, an open door, the teleportation sequence pulsing through his brain, the piston-like motion of his limbs, and Burro’s shout pitched their efforts to cross vital wires in his brain, and with a rush of air and a sudden flash, Greenhorn teleported right out of the shed and into the open. He reappeared several strides behind their rescuers with a startled bellow, still galloping helplessly forwards as he now found himself in possession of a great deal of forwards momentum and nowhere to put it.

Luckily for him, the palace wall immediately rose before him to solve that problem.

Unluckily, the palace wall solved that problem.

As the echoes of the crash faded away and a thin crack spidered its way up the palace’s stonework, Greenhorn tottered backwards, his eyes spinning gently in their sockets, and then had a nice lie-down.

The rescuers looked with wide eyes from the prone Bullwalda to Burro and the other faces craning past the doorway, and then back to the Bullwalda, and then back to the crowded statesbeings. The earth pony filly coughed and spoke first. “So, ah,” she ventured. “Y’all are the competent and upstanding leaders that can help fix things, then—?”

“Yes!” Burro snapped himself out of his reverie, which he’d spent wishing black curses upon the perverse universe that had him and his plans as its present chief amusement. He lurched out into the open air, ushering Sailears (something nagged at his brain on that front) and the dragon aside, and eyed the distant edge of the green expanse before the Crystal Hall. “Everyone out! Stick to the plan! Gellert, Simoom, on point! You, guardspony, with them! Little ones, stay behind me and the Tyrant—!”

But before he could finish even that, the vast caprice of the universe and whatever malign powers governed it struck again. Multiple things happened all in an eye’s blink, the most immediate of which was the bush to Burro’s left suddenly rustling. He glanced its way the same instant a changeling jumped out from it, fangs bared and magic seething.

Burro opened his mouth and raised his forehooves too late as the changeling lunged at him. But thankfully, Gellert had pushed his way outside and reacted much faster than Burro, and he plunged in to swing out at the changeling with the first solid object that came to claw. Said object was the Capricious Crown.

Unfortunately, Simoom had had the same idea and the same quick reflexes, and he jumped into the fray at the same time, crashing in at cross-purposes to each of the other participants. A mad and mutually-disagreeable scrum ensued, from which rang out frantic buzzing from the surprised ambusher, Gellert’s furious caws, Simoom’s yelps, and indignant metallic screeching from the Crown.

Burro gaped at the chaos for an instant before he tore his attention away. “Right!” he snapped, looking towards the wall of the palace and the green and the sky, cogitating as quickly as his abused brain could bear. Did they have a clear run across the green? Was there anything in the sky? Why did he feel he ought to be realising something very important about Sailears?

His gaze flicked back towards the young rescuers and the guardspony, all of whom seemed to be engrossed with the scuffle in the bushes. Despite everything, some vague notion told him that innocents shouldn’t be exposed to the sight of violence, and he edged forward to try and block their views of it. They just craned their heads to keep observing.

“Kids, don’t —”

“Yeah! Clout the varmint!”

“Try using ponikido!”

“Two bits on the griffon!”

“Go for the eyes!”

“Would you all not ... come on, get into the shed! All of you, now!”

The gazes of the fillies, dragon whelp, Shahanshah, and guardspony turned to him and, almost as quickly, turned to some point just behind Burro. The younger ones looked confused. The guardspony looked as if the business end of a crossbow had just been stuck into his face. “Uh,” said the unicorn filly. “Uh, hang on.”

Burro turned to see what had their attention, and got a concussive blast of magic right to the face for his trouble.

The world spun around him, painted white with whirling stars, and he found himself sprackled side-down across the grass, his body and limbs briefly numb. Overhead, the Shahanshah stepped out from the shed, his gait steady and customary galumph vanished. His tusks simmered with poison-coloured magic, and his brown eyes narrowed and flashed green. Sailears gawked at Sailears, and Sailears stared at Sailears in return, and the other rescuers and Burro himself looked at any Sailears available with either incomprehension or dawning and horrified comprehension. The shed’s Sailears promptly only had eyes for one, though. The guardspony.

“Oh, shoot,” whimpered the guardspony. “Ah, Captain Syrphid? This isn’t what it looks like —”

“I’m not going to ask why, runt,” hissed the shed’s Sailears, his voice suddenly lower and growlier and altogether un-Sailears-like as it jangled with icy fury. He stepped over Burro as he advanced on the trembling guardspony. “I’m just going to smear you all over this Queen-forsaken palace, and lie to your brother if he asks. Any problems with this?”

Burro twitched where he lay, head spinning, trying to will life back into his numb limbs and wheezing feebly. All around him, chaos blazed to life. From one side, from the false Sailears and the guardspony, he heard the sudden crack and flash of hostile magic meeting, and screams and yelps from the young ones. From the other side, he heard that rare melody produced by a desperate changeling thrashing and trying to avoid concussion and gradually failing, a frustrated griffon trying to induce concussion and only gradually succeeding, a disconcerted pony trying to extricate himself from the line of concussion, and a furious Crown objecting to being used as the tool of concussion, all working in concert. No sound from the direction of Fairy Floss, and goodness knows what she was doing.

Ahead and in his sight, there lay the recumbent form of Greenhorn, who looked less conscious than Burro, but only marginally so.

Burro groaned and tried to push himself upwards, hunting for one of those second winds he’d enjoyed so much when he was too young and dense to properly appreciate them. His head spun, and his brain ached, and he wanted to just close his eyes and rest till events had played themselves out. Regardless, he strained for verticality and plotted as best he could.

If the changelings in the vicinity could be dispatched quickly, and if he could get upright any time soon, they might just have a fighting chance. He’d clocked the pile of discarded gardening equipment still outside the shed door, and there were some suitably hefty items there that could aid in their escape. This was still salvageable. This was all maybe going to be fine.

From the direction of the green, there came the buzzing of many wings, and Burro squinted that way. His gut turned as he beheld changelings amassing on the ground at the green’s far side, a swarm dozens strong. Far too many for even Gellert and a recovered Greenhorn to take on. And they had their sights on the shed.

But the changelings weren’t advancing on them. Why weren’t they advancing?

Why did they all seem to be looking up at the sky and nudging each other forwards with ‘you first’ motions?

The answer came as soon as Burro thought the question. It took the form of a distant “Keeeeee.”

All eyes briefly travelled skywards, right up to the roof of the Crystal Hall, just as Charity dropped both halves of the changeling she’d been playing with and plunged into the proceedings.

And in Extremis, Just Plunge in Flailing and Hope For the Best

A group of four hurried through the maze of corridors that made up the lower levels of the palace complex, and while it may not have been the most species-diverse group in Canterlot at that moment, it at least warranted mention in the category.

Alloy, the mule servant, had taken point to guide them on. He craned his head down each new twist and turn, checking for any incoming unpleasantness, and paused every so often to mutter to himself and get his bearings. At his back, there trotted Tundra, the ibex servant, who followed Alloy’s lead and kept a wary eye on his back. She’d pulled the head off her broom and brandished it like a quarterstaff in a magical grip.

Behind them, Goldtorc kept up a steady pace. In her own magical grip she held her longbow and an arrow, nocked and ready to be drawn and loosed in an eye-blink.

At the back, Lyuba loomed over them all like a cantankerous stormcloud. Most of the corridors had been built only just large enough to take her, and those that weren’t found their straight walls being bent convex in her wake. The tight confines soured her mood past its already acidic depths, and her inability to get a sense of place didn’t help matters there either. The corridors they were in didn’t correspond to any maps Pachydermia’s intelligencers had provided to her, and seemed to have only a loose relationship with Euclidean geometry for that matter. No wonder the mule needed to frequently stop and get his bearings.

“Where are you taking us?” Lyuba asked at one such stop.

“There are lots of exits and entrances to the palace,” Alloy had replied absently, as if away in a daydream. He rapped a forehoof against the floor and looked down two identical forking paths. “Some more discreet than others. The one I’ve got in mind leads out into the gardens. We shouldn’t draw too much attention if we head out there.” He paused, repeated, “Shouldn’t,” and then bustled down the left-hoof fork. The others followed, Lyuba thinking to herself as she did so.

Unfortunate, though unsurprising, if Canterlot Palace had levels and structures Pachydermia knew nothing about. The Lord Regent’s own intelligencers were few in number and preoccupied with keeping watchful eyes on the lesser shahs, the Utmost South, and the other Dactylian realms in any case, rather than nosing out secrets overseas. And in any case, there were only so many ways an elephant could discreetly infiltrate the strongholds of outlanders, few of them plausible. Lyuba would have to play intelligencer herself after this was all over and let the Lord Regent know all she’d seen.

A fair decision on the servant’s part to take them out somewhere discreet, though. They weren’t as stupid as they looked. Lyuba thought well of her chances against any number of the little skinchanging beasts, but any blatant ruckus could place the Shahanshah in yet more peril, wherever he might be.

Still though, the mule’s plan set off Lyuba’s sense of paranoia, well-honed by years among a courtful of bickering and ambitious noble elephants. He could have just been referring to servants’ entrances, but this seemed like something much more confidential. What was he referring to? What business did he have knowing about it?

The answer revealed itself in short order as they moved down the fork’s left path, down a spiralling stretch, up yet another superfluous spiralling stretch, and into an empty, windowless room. Empty but for a little enchanted light bobbing about the ceiling, dusty plinths against each wall, and a statue. The latter took pride of place in the room’s centre, a nameless unicorn stallion sporting full pony-armour and the expression of a vulture with a bad smell under its beak.

“What is this place?” Goldtorc said, eyeing up the room and letting her bow drop slightly. “Isn’t this a dead-end?”

“No,” said Alloy, still in some sort of haze. He shook his head and looked back at the others, his gaze now somewhere closer to present reality. “Ahem. There’s a secret exit here, which leads out to the gardens. It’s not entirely clear how it’s activated, but it’s got something to do with this statue, I know that much.”

“How do you know that?” Lyuba asked. Paranoia kicked its spurs in.

“I like architecture. Old designs, maps, that sort of thing,” Alloy replied, with a hitch in his reply that would have been all but imperceptible if one hadn’t spent a good few years of their life surviving petty shahs and a good few decades before that surviving the southern steppes. “There’s a few copies of old maps out there of the first designs for the palace, when they were renovating after the Nightmare Wars, and Princess Celestia had a hoof in them. She made … suggestions. Ordered specific alterations.”

“Suggestions?”

“To quote one of her own notes in the margins of a first draft, ‘It’s not a proper palace until there’s hidden passages and trapdoors and whirly-chute-thingies all over the place’. Translating from Old Equish, of course. Now I’ll see if I can find the lever for this. Tundra, could you lend a hoof? Now then...”

Lyuba drew back as the mule and ibex got to searching, tapping and yanking at the statue’s horn, ears, helmet plume, and sundry appendages, with the statue looking as pleased about the attention as it did most everything. She was aware of Goldtorc settling beside her, taking a moment to breathe.

Lyuba didn’t settle, instead watching Alloy like a hawk. Either Princess Celestia of Equestria was astonishingly whimsical, headache-inducingly dense, or this servant knew more than he ought to. Secret entrances in and out of one’s palace shouldn’t be known to non-entities like him, and though the princess’s power likely meant she had little to personally fear, she’d surely still exercise some basic sense. Again, excusing whimsicality or density.

Assuming neither, why did this one know more than he ought to? Curiosity for the sake of curiosity? Doubtful. Was he close to Celestia’s confidence? Again, doubtful, he didn’t seem that senior a servant. Some professional interest in snooping? Quite a bit more likely. And if she had to guess said profession, with her mind recently on the topic, she’d guess intelligencer. Spy.

On behalf of where? Somewhere else in Ungula? None of her concern if so; let outlanders backbite and squabble. For the changelings, this sudden invading force? That was possible, and it lent itself to the prospect that the mule was leading them right into a trap. She kept a level eye on his back as he poked at the statue. She might be wrong. But she might be right. And if she was, she’d have to be ready to reduce him to so much flying pulp.

What was the ibex’s game in all this? Lyuba had noticed the gazes she kept sending the mule as they’d travelled, wariness mixed with concern and other emotions she couldn’t readily identify on the odd goat face. Were they in cahoots? Was she planning something as well?

Black clouds brewed in her head. Bloody outlanders, constantly keeping her on edge with questions like these. Perfidy and rank untrustworthiness, that was all they practised, as bad as any petty shah. At least some shahs knew their place and fell to their knees before the Shahanshah without having to be hamstrung. Outlanders didn’t even have that as a redeeming trait. This entire trip had been a pointless mistake, and she’d tell the Lord Regent so in no uncertain terms…

“You’re keen to get your Shahanshah back, Dame Lyuba,” a soft voice to her side said, and the storm clouds thinned. Lyuba turned to Goldtorc. The cow had a reserved smile trained on Lyuba even as she drew arrows out of her quiver and straightened the fletching, one after the other.

Lyuba considered the cow in stony silence for a second. The cow had some degree of quality, and was probably not plotting betrayal. She merited a response. “He is my liege. I will safeguard his person, no matter how many little skinchangers wish to contest the issue.” Another pause. Then, “You are eager to do the same for your own Bullwalda.”

“Well of course,” said Goldtorc. “He is my own liege, in turn. And my leal spouse.”

“Commendable loyalty, consort,” Lyuba said, slowly, fitting together words she hadn’t previously expected to have to arrange in this manner for an outlander. “I confess you are not entirely what I had expected.”

The ghost of a smile flickered across Goldtorc’s features. “A common refrain, or something like that at least,” she replied. “I’m not the customary image of a consort. I am but a thane’s daughter, and most past consorts are the sons and daughters of … better bloodlines, shall we say. Higher stock than mine.”

“Hmmph.” Lyuba thought back to the cow’s recounting of how she’d gained her position. And, to give her particular sort of outlanders more credit where it was due, it did seem like a very reasonable way to select royal spouses. Maybe something similar could be arranged for the Shahanshah. “You mixed their better bloodlines with the muck of a tourney ground. That proves quality. And if the high stock resent that, what of it? Your position is secured.”

“True,” said Goldtorc. Her smile flickered away, and was replaced with pensiveness.

Lyuba kept one eye on the cow and another on the statue under investigation. Alloy, in the throes of mounting consternation, was hunting out more exotic parts of the unicorn stallion to poke, twiddle, and gingerly tweak, while Tundra carefully didn’t look at what he was doing. Her own horns were lit with magic, and she seemed to be subjecting the statue’s face to especial scrutiny.

“I confess that it does … it does get lonely, though,” Goldtorc stammered out.

Lyuba’s full attention turned the cow’s way. “Hmm?”

Goldtorc flushed and then pressed on. “A court half-composed of those you thrashed in a tourney to win the Bullwalda’s hoof in marriage makes for a cold social circle. Duchess Dunhide is worst amongst them.”

“Who?”

“And I call her enmity unfair. It’s not as if her collarbone and ribs and foreleg didn’t heal. Besides, she came at me with her guisarme first.”

Lyuba absorbed this and chose not to pass comment, while Goldtorc studied something in the middle distance. Her voice, when next she spoke, came out increasingly strained.

“My kin and old friends are distant now, and are rarely at court. My heifers-in-waiting are warm enough, but a distance between us persists, must persist. My daughter, Buttercup, is the delight of my life, and she grows so swiftly, but duties keep me away from her more often than I’d like. And Greenhorn ...”

Lyuba hesitated, slightly stunned in the face of this outpour and wondering what she’d done to receive it (perhaps simply being a large, solid-seeming stranger was enough), as Goldtorc pressed on. “We have done our duty to each other. The succession is secured, and Buttercup shall one day be Bullwalda. But past that, he is kept busy by affairs of the realm. He works hard, and is conscientious to a fault, and … and I have seen how he worries. But … I suspect I would not have been his first choice, had he been able to choose. And whenever he has some time to himself and is in need of comfort, he goes to the Royal Concubine, Steel Thews, rather than I.” Goldtorc swallowed. “Steel Thews is the very soul of decency and unfailingly kind to me, of course. I shall not hear a word said against him. And comfort is the traditional duty of his office, after all. It’s merely … I wish there was more to things than he and my family. I wish I was better suited to my position as Consort.”

Her voice fell low. “I could very much use a friend.”

Lyuba floundered for a moment, uncomfortable with any social situation that couldn’t be resolved with forthright bellowing. Was she meant to impart sage-like advice to the younger cow? Offer clear direction, or mere platitudes?

As she floundered, Goldtorc flushed again. “Apologies, Dame Lyuba,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t have prattled at you. It’s just that you seemed like a friendly ear. Or at least, a non-judgemental one.”

She should say something. Sympathy was a good jumping-off point, wasn’t it?

“I do understand something of the difficulties of marriage, Consort Goldtorc,” Lyuba found herself saying, somewhat stiffly. She hesitated, and then elaborated. “I myself have kidnapped no less than three husbands.”

A echoing hush prevailed before Alloy and Tundra hesitantly resumed harassing the statue.

“Oh,” said Goldtorc eventually. And then, “Well.” A moment more of silence, and then at last, in tones that exuded scandalised and eager curiosity, “So how exactly does that work…?”

“These days among the mammoth clans, it is all by prior arrangement,” said Lyuba, internally delighted at the chance to grumble about something unrelated to current events and to indulge the Consort. “One must consult with one’s own clan chieftain and the chieftain of the kidnappee’s clan to be sure an entanglement shan’t cause strife. Then one must consult with the kidnappee and their kinfolk, so all may be assured they’ll be kidnapped into the manner to which they’ve become accustomed. Then one must sort out a suitable place and time for the deed, and make sure they can pack their bags for then. It would hardly do to have to rush up and throw them over your wither, and then rush all the way back to collect their belongings. And then there’s the ceremonial counter-raid to arrange, and it’s incumbent on the kidnapper to furnish all participants on either side with blunted weapons and magical fireworks and fermented spirits. I have the status and wealth to support many husbands, but frankly, I have never had the patience to go through the whole rigmarole more than thrice.”

Goldtorc absorbed this. “...And when you say thrice, pardon my confusion, am I to understand a high mortality rate amongst your husbands, or …?”

“What? No, no. My first husband, Yukagir, lives back in our clan steading and manages it, and Zhenya and Dima reside in the capital with me. I would have taken them all with me, but Yukagir would be miserable living away from home and among the northerners, I know.”

“I see.” Goldtorc appeared deep in thought, as if considering her run-up at a delicate topic. “And … er, dare I ask, has the Shahanshah been betrothed to a kidnapee, or been pledged to be kidnapped, or …?”

“No. The northerners — the forest and brush elephants — do things differently. Their idea of marriage comes closer to this Equestrian rigmarole.” Lyuba gestured expansively and dismissively round at the palace. “A strange way to do things, I think. What’s proved? What’s represented? Frankly, Consort, I’d sooner arrange your sort of marriage-tourney for him. That seems it would guarantee him a worthy spouse, though I suspect the Lord Regent wouldn’t concur.”

“Understandable.” A smile crept onto Goldtorc’s features once more. “Between us, Dame, I wouldn’t object to just being called Goldtorc. Would you object to just ‘Lyuba’?”

Lyuba considered this, and found she didn’t object much. “As you like, Co — Goldtorc.”

That settled the conversation momentarily. Ahead, progress and interesting motion seemed to be happening by the statue, and Lyuba glanced back towards it.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Lyuba,” Goldtorc said suddenly, drawing the mammoth’s attention back to her once again, “how does a clan mammoth enter the service of Pachydermia’s Lord Regent?”

“Ah.” Lyuba relaxed and prepared to exercise dusty storytelling muscles. “There’s a long and twisting saga. If you’ve the patience for it, it all begins when —”

“Got it!”

The exclamation, as well as a sudden grinding noise, made both Lyuba and Goldtorc spin their heads round to face the statue and the efforts of Alloy and Tundra. The former was already rushing round to where the latter stood at the statue’s front, a pen in her mouth.

The statue itself sported a dashing new ink moustache and monocle, gold-hued magic glittering about it. A stone section of wall at the back of the room was already slowly rising, the same magic radiating from it.

Alloy galloped over, marvelling bewilderment flush on his features. “How on earth—”

“We were trained to scrutinise back in Bellbylon. I thought there was something about his face, some subtle enchantment, and I was trying to make out the shape of it,” Tundra replied. Her voice practically bubbled forth, pleased with herself and excited as she plainly was, and she gesticulated with the pen. “And when I got a sense of it, I remembered what you said about Princess Celestia ordering a lot of these designs herself. And, well … I haven’t known the princess too long, but I wondered what sort of solution she might personally prefer for this sort of puzzle, and then everything clicked.”

Alloy exclaimed delightedly, Goldtorc beamed, and Lyuba looked down upon them all, glancing at the scribbled-on statue before focusing on Alloy. She awarded him a stay of execution.

Maybe Celestia was just that whimsical after all.

“Depths, you’re brilliant!” enthused Alloy, wrapping his forelegs around Tundra in a brief hug. He whirled on the gradually-opening exit, leaving her flushed and grinning. “Right. Right, I know where this leads. Single file behind me, and stay close. The gardens are easy to get lost in. Some of the bushes will purposefully try to get you lost if you let them. And the new wandering pine saplings are still a bit skittish, so we’ll have to keep our distance if we don’t want to cause a ruckus.”

Tundra nodded, still flushed even as she picked up her broom-handle and tried to suppress her smile. Goldtorc raised her bow and nodded in turn. “Lead the way. We shall follow. Apologies, Lyuba. Shall we finish our conversation after we’ve finished rescuing?”

“By all means, C — Goldtorc.”

The opening creaked open far enough that Alloy dipped his head under and wriggled into the open, muttering something about checking the area. The taller Goldtorc took up position just behind him, her bow ready, her eyes briefly closing, her breathing steadying. Tundra hovered just behind her, twirling her makeshift quarterstaff. Lyuba lumbered towards the back of the column, taking a moment to steady herself. One moment of calm before the garden, and whatever storm might lie beyond. One moment before she got back to the business of retrieving the Shahanshah.

She breathed in the freshening air, and her gaze drifted down towards Tundra. The ibex kept twirling her staff, her gaze on the opening door. A bitten lower lip and a rapt stare betrayed some anxiety, and Lyuba could hardly blame her, considering what lay ahead...

But no. Not just that, she realised, as who exactly was outside the entryway at that moment came up in Lyuba’s memory. She reflected on how Tundra had been regarding Alloy earlier. Belatedly, she realised what sentiments and emotions might have lurked under the ibex’s looks towards the mule. And though Lyuba could certainly query her taste, she could at least understand the emotion.

After all, once upon a time, she’d been a young and reserved mammoth, as young as the ibex. And she remembered struggling to pluck up the courage to ask Yukagir if he wouldn’t mind being stunned, thrown over her wither, and taken for a nice, scenic haul along the riverside.

Outlanders who proved their worth ought to receive some sort of reward and encouragement, and Lyuba knew what might help Tundra. Sage-like advice.

“Heed me,” rumbled Lyuba, leaning down and whispering with all the delicacy of an avalanche. A strangled yelp escaped Tundra before she turned and calmed down.

“I, ah, what is it, ma’am?”

“Once this matter is done, be bold in your affections. Make your interest plain. Stride up to him with all the self-confidence you can muster, look him in the eye, and and ask him if you could heave him up and over your wither.”

Tundra goggled, which Lyuba took as rapt attention. “He may insist on being stunned first. Somewhat old-fashioned, even when I was young, but bring a sap just in case. Make it a nice sap. Embroider it. Even if you don’t have to use it, he’ll appreciate the effort put in.”

“...what?” squeaked Tundra.

“When you run off with him, be sure to have arranged in advance where you take him to. Have a warm meal ready in your quarters and take him there. Alternatively, if there’s a scenic spot nearby where you can take him for a walk, then —”

“Lyuba,” murmured Goldtorc, turning her head to speak from Tundra’s other side. “I’m not altogether sure that sort of courtship will work for them.”

“Goldtorc, fain let me finish talking to her,” Lyuba said sternly. “I’m trying to impart advice and proper customs. She’s earned it.”

“If you want my advice, Tundra, though I confess it doesn’t come from great personal experience,” Goldtorc said, pressing on, “show your interest by singing outside his window one evening. If that entices him and you begin a courtship, enquire whether he has any sworn foes you can duel.”

“He might not have a sworn foe —” Lyuba objected.

“Or beg a quest of him, and both take and return with his favour.” Goldtorc bestowed a reassuring smile on Tundra. “It worked for my own parents. My own father was a mere knight-errant, my mother was a thane, and he was given a quest by her and saw it through to completion. All he lost in the effort was an eye, and valour and true love were more than proven. Perhaps you could try something similar?”

Tundra looked from one to the other, made a noise like she was trying to regurgitate a yak, and only stopped when Alloy’s head appeared under the rising entryway. “Coast’s clear,” he said, and frowned. “Have I missed something?”

“No! No, nothing at all. Excuse me, ma’ams.” Tundra hurried for the entryway, her pace stiff and brisk and her features crimson, and moved past the confused Alloy into the green outdoors.

Lyuba and Goldtorc took a moment to exchange looks. “I was trying to impart advice,” Lyuba said reproachfully.

“Advice that could get her into some trouble.” Goldtorc shook her head. “A courtly approach might have been of more use. At least she received a few friendly words, though. With a little boldness, she’ll find a way that works for her.” She gestured to the entryway. “Shall we?”

Lyuba nodded, and the two of them lumbered out into buzzing, rustling, flower-strewn green vastness. The trees towered high in this part of the gardens, and the distant sounds of battle were muffled. Lyuba strove to focus on them, and to put the recent kerfuffle from mind.

At least she’d tried to impart the sage-like advice. They may not have been all as bad as she’d pegged them, the outlanders. But goodness knows how they even lived without mammoth sense plowing right to the heart of things.

As Charity came scything down like the parting meteor from a particularly fed-up Creator, Burro found his life flashing before his eyes. Possibly his subconscious wanted to review the chain of terrible decisions that had led to this. Possibly it wanted to focus on anything other than its own oncoming annihilation.

He’d gotten as far as the time he was almost pulled limb-from-limb by a zombie mob down in the Asinial Main (which itself came with its own nested and significantly shorter life-flashing), when salvation came in kicking. Simoom all but bowled over Gellert and the changeling as he propelled himself free of the scrum, his expression serene and detached and his eyes hard. His long legs tensed, crouched, and then one impossibly smooth and fast movement later, he had leapt right up through the air towards her.

She tore right down at him, talons spread and beak agape and spitting flame. The blur that was Simoom did something impossibly dextrous, seeming finding purchase on empty air as he twisted aside from her and tried to snake a long leg around her. Charity screeched indignantly as she flew free with millimetres to spare, and sharply turned mid-air to aim for Simoom once again. The stallion landed on the grass with a gymnast’s grace, nigh-instantly recovered, and pivoted to face her, braced and ready to pounce up again.

But with one hard flap of her wings, Charity arrested her descent and hovered for a moment, just up and out of jumping distance. Her red eyes glittered down at Simoom, her wings spread wide, and her beak cracked open like a door to Tartarus. And from her gullet, a torrent of flame came cascading out.

Burro wheezed the alarm, too little, too late, as Simoom’s eyes widened and the stallion made to jump aside. But as the whole world creaked forwards in horrible slow-motion for Burro, the old jack knew Simoom wouldn’t be able to move fast enough. Something flashed yellow at one side, but he barely had eyes for it, transfixed with horror as he was.

The fire tore down, flashed and flared in all directions suddenly, and dazzled Burro for a moment. His vision cleared, and to his shock, he saw Simoom still very much alive and uncharred on the grass.

Between him and Charity, a new avian hovered. Burro recognised the sleek shape of Celestia’s phoenix, Philomena. Scraps of Charity’s fire petered harmlessly against her wings, and one dismissive flap dispersed them for good. Burro laughed with delighted relief. Simoom did likewise. Charity keened, the tone of it mixed parts indignation and delight at having a new thing to kill.

And Philomena, inasmuch as avian facial muscles permitted it, smirked.

Charity tore down the second after and Philomena rose to meet her, trailing fire as they snapped at and whirled around one another. Philomena swept free in an elegant arc along the side of the palace wall, and Charity lunged after her. Flames whorled and billowed in their wake, spiralling up into the sky as they battled.

Burro peeled his eyes away from them, and with utmost effort, groggily propped himself up off the ground with one forehoof. He blinked to either side, to either tumult awaiting his attention.

To his right, half-shadowed by the garden trees and past the pile of gardening equipment cleared out by the changelings, the faux-Sailears and the guardspony fought a furious duel. ‘Fought’ was a kind descriptor; it seemed to largely consist of Sailears snarling and lashing out again and again with seething slashes of acid-green magic, while the guardspony mewled and tried to deflect the magical onslaught away from himself and the children at his back. Said children, the fillies and dragon whelp and the actual Sailears, huddled behind the guardspony and watched with wide eyes. Every so often, they offered the odd bit of advice as well.

“That’s right, get him! Get the fake me! My uncle says impersonating royalty’s a death sentence!”

“Jump in there! Kick ‘em somewhere vital!”

“Aaaaiiieeee!”

“Yeah, Sir Wall! A good, martial war-cry! Try another!”

“Stop putting off the inevitable and just die screaming, you runt!”

Burro’s gaze turned left, over the gradually stirring form of the Bullwalda. Greenhorn’s eyes fluttered open and focused on nothing in particular. Great steel-shod hooves twitched and clawed at the grass.

At the bull’s side, Burro noticed Fairy Floss as well, and guessed she’d slipped over in the confusion. She seemed to be doing her best to stay close and unobtrusive against the wall while stretching out one leg to insistently prod Greenhorn awake. Their gazes met briefly. Burro blinked befuddledly. She mouthed something heartfelt and profane, and then returned to her task.

And to his left, Gellert had taken advantage of the window of opportunity afforded by Philomena and Charity’s distraction to finally batter the changeling flat with the Crown. He stood panting while the Crown swore at him and Simoom rushed up to see if any more help was needed. Gellert turned to where Burro lay, and grinned a weary grin before he turned to face the expanse of the green. At the far end, the changeling horde that had previously been deterred by Charity were giving the would-be escapees a lot more attention. Some wary gazes drifted skywards whenever especially fiery conflagrations erupted here and there, but before long, a authoritative hiss rang out.

Slowly, cautiously, but with growing speed and purpose, the changelings advanced.

Gellert eyed them, and then glanced back round towards Burro. His grip on the Crown tightened. He clapped his free claw on Simoom’s wither. “Viceroy, I’m about to do something incredibly clever.”

“Rank bull-leavings!” hissed Burro, straining to make himself heard over the scream and clash of magic just to his right. He tottered upwards until he’d propped himself up on both forehooves. “You’re too bloody decrepit to be a hero! Just fly free!”

“When I do said incredibly clever thing, regardless of the naysayers, tack left, Viceroy. Jump in and wrangle as best you can. They don’t seem quite as dangerous as your falcon, so you should have an easy time of it. With me?”

“I, er, yes, chieftain.” Simoom swallowed and inspected the oncoming swarm. “Er, what are you doing?”

“Me and the Crown’ll be doing something incredibly clever, as stated. What do you say?” Gellert waggled the Crown, now well-spattered with changeling ichor. “Into the very mouth of Tartarus, wherein death and/or glory await, and where only the brave live forever?”

“NO. PUT ME DOWN.”

“Can’t hear you! Tally-ho!” And with one rattling battle-caw, Gellert flapped up and towards the oncoming swarm, no matter how much yelling Burro and the Crown pitched in to try and dissuade him. Simoom yelped and shuffled left as bidden, tensing as he prepared to jump out hooves-swinging. Burro fought his way to standing, the sight of his old friend charging alone at a changeling horde enough to inspire one great burst of furious and futile action. Magic fire thundered and flashed to his right, and the skies burned, but he blotted them out. His whole world boiled down to that increasingly-distant sight. He’d grab something sturdy and sharp from the pile of tools, he’d join in, he had to —

“Any last words to echo down the ages, Crown?” he heard Gellert call as the distance between him and the swarm shortened even further.

“Choke on your own last words, you demented buzzard! I hope every last one of them hurts you somewhere novel! But before that happy moment comes, kindly let me go!”

“With gusto!” said Gellert. He flapped hard, drawing himself to a sharp stop mid-air, bent his arm back to one side, and then lobbed the Capricious Crown like a discus right at the nose of the foremost changeling. The changeling flew back with a squeal and a visceral crunch, crashing amidst the changelings just to their back while the Crown fell to the ground. Chaos reigned momentarily in the changeling ranks, and in that moment, Gellert wheeled around and flew for the side of the palace that faced the green. Right for the gift-table.

Another eruption from high above drew Burro’s attention for a second, and he looked up, and balked as he realised how the fight between Charity and Philomena had gone. The former had the latter pinned against the palace roof with a talon, holding the phoenix in place no matter how she flapped and struggled. Charity’s beak blurred down.

Thin ash trickled off the edge of the roof.

Burro opened his mouth to scream, to swear, both at once, why not, when he realised the ash was coalescing even as it fell. It took shape, flashed white-hot, and in the blink of an eye, a reformed and very-much alive Philomena flew back up towards Charity. The pyrefalcon boggled, seemingly paralysed with outrage.

Hitherto, Burro hadn’t suspected that phoenixes could snicker.

Battle erupted in the skies again between the two firebirds as an unrelentingly murderous force met an unkillable object. Below them, right at the base of the palace’s wall, as Burro let his breath out and his gaze drop with pure relief, other stricken entities were stirring to life. Fairy Floss’ prodding had paid off. Greenhorn had found his hooves, recovered his bearings, and now rose with all the stately unstoppability of a mountain range. He blinked this way and that, as if trying and failing to make sense of things. He looked briefly towards the green and the chaos of changelings there. Burro glanced that way as well, hunting for any sight of Gellert.

He found him, perched atop the gift table, shredding the wrapping paper off something. That something revealed itself as the last of the paper fell away and Gellert flourished it. The lucky tribal sabre gleamed like a sliver of moonlight in his claw, and he sported a lean, wolfish grin. The nearest changelings already seemed to be having second thoughts, and drew back into careful ranks, concussive magic gathering about their horns. A first volley spat forth, and Gellert sprang right over the spitting torrent of green to come down on the changelings like a dervish. Screams and clangs and caws rang forth from that side of the field.

At the other side, Simoom had loped in as well, long legs kicking out at any changeling that presented itself. There seemed to be something of the traditional Saddle Arabian beast-wrangling techniques to his motions, and although the changelings had a few less legs and mandibles and were considerably smaller than the traditional targets of such techniques, they still mapped on approximately well. Simoom drove forwards like a faintly bewildered whirlwind, several concussed changelings littering the ground at his back.

Burro watched the two plough on, faintly impressed by Simoom’s showing, and relieved beyond words by Gellert keeping his form up. And the changelings were still holding back as well. They must have been ordered to keep beings alive, for the sake of the hive’s larder, and to keep the world-leaders alive in particular. Chrysalis’ orders didn’t seem like the sort of thing her underlings made a habit of second-guessing.

But they were still just two against a great weight of numbers, and once the changelings regrouped and descended on them with concerted force, it’d all be over. He could still grab a trowel or a shovel or something and wade in, do what little he could …

But before he could append anything to those trailing ellipsis, the flash-crack of teleportation blazed amidst the swarm, and out from its heart, there erupted Greenhorn. A shovel blurred in his grasp, presumably scooped up from the pile, and hewed about on all sides in controlled motions that were all but too fast for Burro’s eye to track. All discombobulation had vanished from the Bullwalda’s countenance; his eyes shone like fire reflected in steel. The surprised changelings reeled back from the armour-clad demon in their midst, trying to gain distance and a vantage point. But just as quickly, Greenhorn once again teleported right behind a pack of them, and their yelps of surprise were cut off in blisteringly short order.

One armoured changeling lunged at Greenhorn, perhaps scorning his weapon, and learned all too late that when thrust forth at meteoric speed, the distinction between a longsword and a shovel is purely a class one. The changeling toppled to the ground, taking the splintered shovel with him, and Greenhorn wheeled on the rest of the swarm. He let loose a sky-rattling bellow that owed less to the chivalrous declamations of classical Bovish knighthood and rather more to the primeval lowing of whatever Bovish kings had hacked out their first kingdoms with bronze and spite, and he tore forwards, horns levelled. Battle was thoroughly joined.

It was the custom in Asinia, even those most sympathetic and diplomatic parts of it, to regard Bovaland and the Bovish with something between condescension and pity. What other sort of reaction could there be to the little, landlocked, backwards place that still thought a suitably long family tree made a good substitute for actual merit, and that had a ruling class more inclined to maul quintains than crack open an economics textbook?

Burro himself had never been immune to that thought either, but he resolved to clamp down on it the next time it arose. Not only because he’d rather swallow live hornets than crack open a textbook himself, but because all that quintain-mauling was suddenly coming in useful. Greenhorn was proving quite capable of handling threats when said threats weren’t a chaos god or an alicorn-felling horror.

And so, things in check on his left for now, Burro looked to where he could do a sliver more good. To his right, where the guardspony wasn’t having a fun time of it at all. The faux-Sailears circled him like a stalking tiger. He tottered on his hooves, breathless and whimpering, his horn smoking with effort, and it was all he could do to keep standing between the faux-Sailears and the children at his back.

“Bored now, runt,” snarled Sailears, and a last hammer-blow of magic smashed into the guardspony’s legs and knocked him to the ground. He sprawled there and gasped, helpless to do anything other than look upwards in mute desperation when Sailears loomed over him, tusks glistening with magic. One foot rose over the guardspony’s face.

“You leave him be!”

The faux-Sailears looked up, and just past the stricken guardspony, fresh champions presented themselves. The earth pony filly and dragon whelp were at the front, poised and angry and ready to come out kicking or scratching, respectively. To their sides, the little pegasus clawed the grass with a hoof, her wing-feathers fluffed with fury, while the unicorn filly furiously coaxed a few sparks from the tip of her horn. Actual-Sailears loomed behind them all, doing his best Dame Lyuba impersonation.

“Get off him, you … you bully!”

“Don’t you touch a hair of Sir Wall’s hide!”

“He’s been a good servant, leave him alone! And that’s my face! Stop wearing it!” demanded the real Sailears.

Faux-Sailears regarded them, slowly baring his teeth in a sadistic smirk. Magic built around his tusks. “Eeny,” he purred, pointing at one of them with his trunk, and then moving onto the next in line. “Meeny, miny —”

Cue Burro. The old jack lurched forward, gaze intent on the back of the faux-Sailear’s head. He swept by the tool pile and, without looking, dipped one forehoof to where he guessed a sturdy-looking trowel with a socket grip to be perched. Speed was of the essence, and he moved faster than he’d perhaps ever done in all of the last two decades. Faux-Sailears barely had time to glance round before Burro was on him, smacking his forehoof and its contents right across his face.

Faux-Sailears recoiled with a curse, but not in quite so terminal a manner as Burro had hoped for, and he inspected the contents of his forehoof with dismay. What he had hoped to be a meaty trowel was instead a hefty and now somewhat-flattened can of insect repellant. The can hissed reproachfully at him, and with a hearty Asiniol profanity of his own, Burro lobbed it right at Faux-Sailears’ forehead. It connected, eliciting a firm clunk and another curse, and Burro wheeled on the children. “Into the shed, this instant!” he snapped with the same degree of authority he brought to bear on truculent cabinet secretaries, and it was just about enough. They backed off into the shed, a hint of respectful awe in their eyes, and that left him alone with the enraged changeling. This was probably a good thing.

He turned back on the tool pile and grabbed down at it, sifting past a novelty duck-shaped leaf-blower, a trimmer and harness that looked like it had been built during Equestria’s industrial revolution with the express intention of inducing hernias in its bearers, a coiled length of hosepipe. “Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself. “I know I saw something capable of ruining a being’s day —”

A rising snarl at his back told him how little time he had left to find that something, and he slipped his hoof quickly into the first socket grip he found and whirled around on the faux-Sailears.

For a moment, his eyes drifted shut as all the old fencing tricks and stances drifted up from the depths of memory like old friends. You bent your knees and lowered your stance like so. You fully extended your forelimb holding the blade thus. You moved your limbs on the ground into the triangular Espada Ropera stance, to provide both solidity and ease of hoofwork. And finally, you opened your eyes …

...at which point, Burro found himself brandishing a foal-sized pink watering can spangled over with sequins, the spout of which was at least held up in a proper ward to menace the changeling’s face. Faux-Sailears, alas, didn’t look especially intimidated. His eyes burned green. His tusks seethed with magic. His new bruise was livid.

Oft-times, Burro hated his life, and as he shifted his mad-eyed staring between the angry changeling and his weapon, this was one of these times. With a yowl of purest frustration, he thrust forward with a fury and panache no mere cool and collected skill could have ever matched, and the changeling leapt aside to avoid the blow by mere inches. Burro flailed round to swat him regardless, wildly overextending. The magic about the changeling’s tusks lunged forwards and grasped at Burro’s collar, pulling him forwards and down. Burro crashed to the ground, a sensation which was fast losing its novelty value, and scrabbled frantically to right himself. His joints protested their ongoing shabby treatment. The strength and vigour he remembered once having in these sorts of fights, such as it had been, seemed to be somewhat diminished.

There were reasons seventy-year-olds weren’t commonly associated with pitched brawls, he reminded himself. What dark forces was Gellert in cahoots with?

Faux-Sailears’ trunk lashed down and cracked across Burro’s jaw. He yelped at the pain and coughed, the taste of pennies filling his mouth, and he looked up to see the changeling poised above him, ready to bring his trunk down again.

To the Depths with decent form, then. Burro adopted the first and only principle of every fighter in a bind; namely, jettison all principles. He bit up at Faux-Sailears’ nearest ear and champed down. The changeling squawked, and Burro lost no time in lashing up from his prone position with the watering can and battering him about the head, aiming for his eyes, ears, throat, anything unsporting to aim at. The high of pitched combat filled his mind, made him briefly drunk. Depths and tides, he might well just win this ...

With one pained wrench, Faux-Sailears tore himself free and sprang back from Burro. Burro lurched awkwardly forwards, taken off guard, before he felt the tingle of magic closing around his collar again. He looked up, saw a descending trunk, and then saw stars.

The world wheeled around him, and he had just about realised what had happened when the trunk walloped across his head again. And again. And again, for good measure. And as he found himself pulled up by his collar, the world pained and muffled and sparkly all at once, he could just about make out the blurry shape of Sailears, several bruises on his face and an ichor-weeping wound on his ear. He looked displeased. His trunk curled around again.

Behind him, someone who Burro had discounted from proceedings since she’d roused Greenhorn. Fairy Floss. A bottle in her mouth. Was that her crimpnac from the gift table? She must have been able to slip out there in all the chaos without being disturbed. Unassuming-looking old ewes who couldn’t possibly hurt a fly were capable of that. Anyjack’s guess as to why, though.

Fairy Floss dashed the bottle’s base down against a solid-looking trimmer edge, and as a small fortune gushed out onto the grass, she stepped forward primly, and spun her head to plant the newly-made business end right behind Faux-Sailears’ front legs. The changeling started, his eyes bulging briefly as he turned on his assassin, before he crumpled to the grass with a look of surprised indignation frozen on his features.

Burro, even past his current beating-induced lightheadedness, goggled at the Tyrant with no little shock. From the shed, there came a shuffling noise, and he redirected his goggle to find the actual and once-more-unique Sailears craning his head to observe the outcome.

Burro was just about to yell him back inside before the Shahanshah saw his fallen double, quizzically frowned, and then beamed delightedly and announced, “Hurrah! Summary justice!” He paused. “Has he learned the error of his ways? Ask him if he’s learned the error of his ways.”

“What’s happened? Shift a bit. We wanna see,” complained an unseen filly.

“Stay inside!” snapped Burro, dredging up whatever gravitas he had left. A royal education in Pachydermia might warp a being beyond some conventional traumas, but still. And once he’d seen he was obeyed and the shed door swing shut, he turned back round to Fairy Floss. The ewe closed her eyes, dropped the bottle, tapped her hoof on it where it lay, and exhaled before opening her eyes again.

“Haven’t had to get hooves-on in goodness-knows-since-when,” she muttered to herself before meeting Burro’s gaze. “When I said I was more of a lover than a fighter during my glory years, I’d argue that ‘fighter’ is a term with fairly rigid connotat—”

It was then than a great rustling came from the greenery leading deeper into the garden, as if something large was headed their way. Burro and Fairy Floss turned on it, just as Dame Lyuba came ploughing out of the foliage. At her side trotted Greenhorn’s consort, a longbow in her grasp. Behind her in turn, an ibex and mule in the garb of palace staff. All of them stopped and took a moment to inspect the chaos on the green and immediately to their front.

Regrettably, it was Lyuba who finished inspecting first. Her gaze turned down towards Fairy Floss. It dipped a little more to take in the fallen form next to her.

Her gaze rose again. Any and all analogies involving storm clouds or other oncoming calamities wouldn’t do it justice.

“Ah,” said Fairy Floss quickly, as her joined-up thinking reached its conclusion a half-second before Burro’s. A slight edge had entered her voice. “Ah, well. You can trust, especially in this context of all contexts, that thi—this isn’t what it looks like —”

A volcanic bellow erupted from Lyuba, loud enough to make Burro’s ear drums melt and low enough to shake the earth underhoof; an outpouring of horror and wrath from some aeon before words. Black magic wreathed about her tusks in less time than it took to blink, spitting and uncoiling and glowing with a ghastly unlight. She stormed forwards, trunk raised. Fairy Floss stood frozen, her eyes wide behind her pince-nez, mouth creaking open to attempt elaboration.

The situation was abruptly salvaged, as so many situations in Burro’s life were, by Gellert rocketing in from one side. Burro got only fleeting impressions — a brown blur whipping past his eyes, the clang of a sabre dropping by his hooves, a gabbled “Hold that for a sec, old boy!”, a breathless yelp from Fairy Floss, and another world-churning bellow from Lyuba. Burro lifted his eyes to see Gellert gliding up and back towards the green, Fairy Floss bundled up in his foreclaws.

“Taking you somewhere safe!” he heard Gellert yell. “Or, well, safer—”

“Less talking, more flying the rut away!” Fairy Floss screeched back. What came next was lost to Burro as Lyuba thundered just past his face, seemingly blind to everything else except the retreating form of the griffon. Bolts of magic volleyed from her tusks and burned black through the air, forcing Gellert into desperate loops and swerves. Several changelings were unlucky enough to be hit, and the rest looked up just in time for the mammoth to charge right through the central melee. Those in her path largely scurried out of the way; those too slow to add Lyuba to their list of concerns quickly ceased being concerned about anything at all. She stormed on, heedless and bellowing.

The next thing to rush past Burro’s nose, while his mind still tried to recover from being in a head that had endured Lyuba at point-blank range, was the Bovish consort. “See to the Arch-Minister!” Goldtorc shouted, nocking an arrow to her longbow as she galloped at the changelings.

Speaking of the changelings and the melee, Burro squinted at the situation as he tried to massage sense back into his temple with a forehoof. The swarm was reduced in number and much dispersed. Greenhorn and Gellert and Simoom had held their own, and though there was now a Gellert-shaped hole in their offense, there was now also a Lyuba-shaped hole in the changeling’s defence. Goldtorc galloped forward to fill the space Gellert had left. More of the changelings were fleeing as well. Whatever plans they’d drawn up for dealing with a breakout clearly hadn’t budgeted for a mammoth, and several seemed to be flying off to seek a second opinion. One concentrated for a moment before letting loose a great flare from their horn. It blossomed in the sky high above the green.

Burro took in the melee. He saw Simoom, who had two legs wrapped around a struggling changeling each and looked as if he had no idea as to how to proceed. He saw Goldtorc make for Greenhorn, the latter battered and weary and almost caught off-guard by a changeling at his back before an arrow dented its enthusiasm. He turned to face her as she cantered up and placed her forehead upon his. For a quiet moment on the field, Greenhorn leaned into the gesture, his eyes closed. And then they pulled apart, and magic spat and arrows sang.

In the sky, he saw the distant dots of more distant changeling swarms and pegasi guards, and the panicky blur that was Gellert and Fairy Floss. One didn’t need to see them to know where they were, of course, one just had to track Lyuba’s thunder from the ground below them. Charity and Philomena still twisted through the air like two firework wheels at war, neither tired yet, cutting snapping whorls of fire through the sky as they clawed and cawed and gouged at one another.

Burro’s Cunning prickled.

A bedraggled cough came at his side. The unicorn guardspony … Sir Wall, was it? … limped into Burro’s field of view, and Burro muzzily regarded him. “The kids safe?” Sir Wall groaned.

Burro nodded, for want of capacity to do much else at the moment.

“Oh, good.” Sir Wall looked pensive. “Um … it’s been an interesting and also really horrible day, in many ways. I, ah, I think I might excuse myself now if you and your fellow sovereigns have this all in hoof. Take this ‘hero’ thing slowly, rather than jump in the deep end. Lick my wounds. Hide a bit. Is that okay? That’ll … that’ll have to be okay. See you later, maybe.”

Burro managed, “What?” before the unicorn sprouted wings and flew away.

He plaintively said, “What?” once more in their direction in case it helped, which it didn’t. He slumped and let his heavy eyelids droop. If only his Cunning would stop poking him.

“Arch-Minister?” Another voice from at his side. Burro blearily turned and saw the mule, his uniform rumpled and his crossbow jittering in his grasp. Behind him, the ibex angled her broom handle in the direction of the melee, keeping a watchful eye. “Arch-Minister, are you alright?”

“Alright,” Burro repeated. He blinked at the mule, and thought he might have seen him briefly during the gathering on the green earlier. The ibex as well. “Possibly, why not. What’s your name, lad?”

“Alloy, sir. This is Tundra.” A certain careful impassivity came to his expression as he regarded Burro. “We need to get you to safety, sir.”

‘Alloy’ rang a bell for Burro. One of Asinia’s own agents, keeping an eye on Equestrian court affairs. He’d be careful what he said; no need to blow the poor young jack’s cover on what was already probably a bad day on the job for him.

“Safety,” Burro muttered to himself. He kneaded his temple again, his head still throbbing and his thoughts not lining up as nicely as they ought to. “Safety is … safety is still the length of the city away. My ornithopter is somewhere outside the main gates. And my pilot’s … brine and brack, she’s somewhere. Could be anywhere. A bar. A cell. The moon.”

“Perhaps —”

The door of the shed creaked open, interrupting Alloy, and a small draconic face appeared in the gap. “Can we come out now?” he demanded. “I still need to find Twilight!”

“And our sisters!” other voices chorused past him.

“Off-topic question, kinda,” one of the fillies added, “but why’s there a tied-up goat in here? He’s kinda cranky.”

“Was that noise Dame Lyuba getting choleric?” came the voice of Sailears. “It sounded like her. This one time, a petty shah insulted my uncle, and when Dame Lyuba met him in a duel of honour, she pulled off —”

Burro, who wasn’t up for mustering gravitas right now, simply tottered upright, leaned over, and slammed the shed door shut. Muffled protests rang out, as well as a few queries as to what exactly Dame Lyuba once pulled off, while he turned back to Alloy and Tundra.

“W-we can’t take kids out there and through the streets. Not with all this going on,” Tundra stammered. “There’s too many changelings and angry mammoths and horrible falcon-things and suchlike mayhem.”

“At the moment, I concur. You pair stay with them,” Burro said, jabbing his hoof at the mule and ibex. “Guard them in the shed, keep them there.”

“I … us?” said Alloy. “What are you going to do, Arch-Minister?”

Burro’s eyes drifted down to the sabre Gellert had dropped at his hooves. He was weary, so very weary and sore, but he stooped regardless to twist off the hilt. Once it was off, a socket-grip lay inside the basket-guard, and he slipped his hoof inside. “I,” he said, lifting up the sabre with some effort, “am going to have to come up with something damned clever if it kills me, and if not —”

He paused, and tilted his head, aiming one of his nocked ears up at the sky. Past the general din, a strange new noise seemed to be asserting itself. A rhythmic flapping, underlaid with a deep growling that could have come from a powerful engine.

Not strange or new, he suddenly realised. Familiar. Oddly familiar.

Tundra squinted up at the sky. “What’s that?”

“It’s ...” The answer leapt to Burro’s lips, but he bit down on it, lest the universe scupper his suspicions out of spite. And then the sight of it cleared the palace skyline, skimming over the tops of the walls and high tower. “...well, take me stern-wards.”

The Cloud-Kisser came roaring down over the towers and circling over the fray, the great wingspan of it flapping as if in a gale. Those with eyes to spare for the skies were already gawking up at it and pointing and uttering various epithets. Stray bolts of magic careened off its fuselage, and behind the cockpit glass, Burro saw Pollina grinning like a madjenny. She twisted her head and shouted something to someone in the back, and there came a great clang as the cargo ramp at the back clattered open.

At said ramp, Burro beheld bovish huskarls, Black Company sheep, and Berry and Asinara crowding for a shot, sighting down at the ground with longbows, spellfire about their horns, or crossbows in their grip, all while trying to not plummet groundwards. Others yet seemed to be jostling at their back.

Burro stared up, pointed vaguely with the sabre, and let loose a brief, maniacal laugh. “Ha, look! The whole world’s coming to the wedding! Brought our get-away vehicle with them, even!” Tundra and Alloy didn’t answer, instead opting to gawp.

There was the slight issue of this bringing the Cloud-Kisser right into the line of fire, of course, but that was outweighed, in Burro’s estimation, by the fact of the Cloud-Kisser being right there, and by all the nice dangerous entities that came with it.

Though he had to confess, there was also the slight issue of the craft having to find a suitable landing ground. Perhaps it could remain airborne, and Gellert, once he’d finished saving Fairy Floss from annihilation, could render repeated service as a taxi service. Burro could repay him in more eternal gratitude, and also unfettered access to Parliament’s drinks cellar. It could pan out.

“Down! Try and get down!” he yelled up, waving the sabre wildly. On second thoughts, there was such a thing as straining friendship too far, lest Gellert be obliged to restore equilibrium by clouting him. “Aim for … for wherever’s the least fighty! There’s a decent stretch by the west wall, aim for the west wall, aim for —”

As he shouted to likely little effect, the Cloud-Kisser dipped as it swerved into another wide turning circle, coming closer and yet closer to the ground. It was now on a par with the tops of the several stubby towers that lay dotted around the perimeter of the green, linked in places by the palace wall, and it spun round to come between two of these towers back over the green. Changelings buzzed around it helplessly, their magic fizzling off the enchanted fuselage, and those that strayed round the back received an arrow or spellfire for their trouble. The ornithopter was taking its time in descending, but now it ruled the skies...

Up until the point two established residents came barrelling to inadvertently assert their own claim.

A screeching fiery blur, possibly Philomena, came pelting down through the sky, hotly pursued claws-first by another screeching fiery blur, possibly Charity. The first slammed onto the wing, and the second came crashing down the instant after, collapsing the first into a great puff of ash. The craft rocked slightly with the impact. A second later, however, the ash reformulated itself with a blindingly-white flash of light, and as Philomena flapped around Charity and pecked her right in the tailfeathers, bright new phoenix-fire cut across the sky.

Across the sky, and into the Cloud-Kisser’s wing.

The craft tilted alarmingly as the wing buckled and groaned, and the direction of its flight veered right into one of the stubby towers. Enchanted metal met polished tower stone, both bickered for an instant as to who exactly should yield, and they reached a compromise where the Cloud-Kisser began to helter-skelter down and around the tower by that wing. Shortly, it crashed into the ground, and cut a nice, wide semicircle out of the turf before grinding to a halt, the ramp facing the green.

The guards there had somehow kept their grip and, professionals all, leapt off and made for their own charges, with only Berry pausing to throw up before she charged forwards. Any lingering changelings found their days getting that little bit worse as the guards piled in.

Burro stared. He absently twirled the sabre.

No way out, then, not without a lot of very quick welding and engineering and fussing. But a lot to work with, here and now, if the problem was to be solved at its source.

No other chance. Not a thing left to be lost. It was exactly like being young and in his prime again, where constant desperate schemes in the face of terrifying odds had given every day a piquant adrenaline high. The days when it had just been him and Gellert, adrift in a boat that only escaped being called a colander by dint of having a mast. The sabre in his grasp even felt a little like a cutlass. And it felt lighter now, as well.

Maybe it was just his second wind kicking in. Maybe it was the sensation of feeling properly young again. Maybe it was the lingering concussion. Maybe it was the rush of his Cunning flaring a solution to the forefront of his mind. Maybe all at once. Whichever it was, Burro found himself laughing.

A viable-ish plan at last.

“Right,” he said to himself. “Right, this might be the Gellert flavour of ‘damned clever’, but he doesn’t have to learn he’s been a bad influence, which is the important thing.”

“Arch-Minister?” The mule looked concerned. Burro couldn’t imagine why.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Alloy. Take it from me.”

“But … but, Arch-Minister, there’s still changelings all over the city! Chrysalis still has Celestia captured! We’ve not heard from the Element-Bearers, they’re probably captured as well! And there’s now a berserkergang mammoth tearing after Ovarn’s Tyrant, and the pyrefalcon’s still on the loose. Some of those changelings sent up warning flares, and reinforcements will be on the way.”

“All true. But with what we’ve got here, I reckon we can overcome such niggling concerns.”

“You … not to be rude, Arch-Minister, but, ah, did you take a knock to the head, or …?”

“Repeatedly, but that’s besides the point. You and Tundra stay here. Mind the shed and the little ones. I’ll go fix everything now I’ve had time to think.”

“But sir, you’ll —”

“Shush, shush. Embrace me for courage’s sake.” Burro rested his sabre-hilt on the ground and extended his free forelimb. Looking deeply confused, Alloy returned the embrace, and while he was proximal to the mule’s ear, Burro whispered, “Consider that an order from your Arch-Minister.”

“I, er,” Alloy whispered back.

“You do good work here, lad. Keep it up. Don’t you put yourself in the line of fire on my account. Asinia can always elect another.”

“Ah...”

“And tell Tundra there I was whispering scandalous things in your ear if you need a cover story, I shan’t mind.”

Alloy emitted a strangled noise and nodded, stepping back from the embrace. Burro stepped back, winked, and flourished the sabre. Without another word, he turned and loped towards the green.

Towards the maelstrom of chaos that awaited him.

Beings clashed left and right. Some young griffon who looked like a darker, trimmer Gellert was introducing his own sabre to changelings overhead. Simoom was currently entangled with a double of Burro, and Burro casually poked a hole or several in himself as he passed by.

“Arch-Minister!” The Viceroy kicked the freshly-perforated changeling away, before his gaze narrowed. “Wait, is that you?”

“The Crown called you nasty things like ‘speck’ when Discord had us all imprisoned, and when we were in that shed, you insisted we leave Charity to you,” Burro blithely replied. “Since Celestia’s pet has taken your place, you can take Gellert’s place for a bit.”

“I, er.” Simoom blinked. “Right-o. I saw the Crown on the ground back there. Should I pick it up and start hitting things with it, or —?”

“Try it and see what happens, speck,” snarled a metallic voice from a few feet away at ground level. “See what happens!”

“You doing fine there, Crown?” Burro called.

“Why, just splendidly. Disregarding that I’ve been trodden on at least — what are you — don’t kick me, you creti—”

Fine words, spoken too late. A huskarl rumbled past en-route to his king, and sent the Crown cartwheeling across the grass. It rolled between Burro’s legs, cursing the guard in particular and bovines in general, and vanished under the next scrum over. Simoom watched it go until Burro seized his wither.

“The Crown raised a point when we were all locked in that shed. An important point, give it its due,” Burro said, the words vague and faraway even to him, as if some other donkey was saying them. Maybe they were. “You want to know Asinia’s contingency plan for a mad alicorn or the closest equivalent, inasmuch as we ever had one? Turn on ‘em, kick their teeth out, and hope the Creator’s fond of us. To that end, please go to the gift-table, get my toaster, and put it by the palace’s door. Don’t argue.”

Simoom, who looked like he’d been about to prior to that last sentence, promptly turned and did as he was bid, loping out of sight between clusters of combatants. Burro breathed out, took a deep breath in, and then shouted, “GUARDS, ON ME! EVERYBEING, ON ME!”

And every nearby guard and any spare being, those that weren’t preoccupied dispatching the swarm, turned. Asinara and Berry all but vaulted over a toppling changeling as they neared him. “Arch-Minister! Thank the tides you’re safe! We need to —”

“We need to deal with all this, here and now,” pressed Burro. “And the being behind all this lies in the palace! The leader of these changelings, Queen Chrysalis, has Celestia and Equestria in her grasp! Will we let her keep them?! Now that we’ve got enough strength to match her?”

A chorus of “No!”s from several corners, especially Greenhorn, Goldtorc, their huskarls, a Black Company ram, and Berry. Asinara blanched. “Arch-Minister, we have to get you out of —”

“There is no way out! No escape-route that isn’t filled with these beasts! We do or die, here and now, before more come sniffing. We must get into the palace and lay this usurper queen low! Equestria has saved the world time and time before!” No need to mention that those times had their root causes in Equestria, one way or another. “I think it’s time we repaid the favour, don’t you?”

A stronger, more emphatic chorus of “Yes!”s, (and one “To the Blackness with that!” somewhere at ground level). Greenhorn, run-ragged as he was, growled assent and pawed the ground. Goldtorc nocked another arrow to her bow. Berry whooped again. Even Asinara didn’t immediately object, save for kneading her forehead with a forehoof.

The Crown obligingly objected, though, somewhere past Greenhorn. “And what about the barred doors in the way, you idiot?”

“Royal Consort!” Burro thrust the sabre towards the distant door of the palace. “Can you set one of your arrows alight?”

Goldtorc blinked, as if surprised to be addressed. The magic about her horns flared. “I may. To what end?”

Burro eyed the great doors, and saw Simoom obligingly drop the wrapped toaster from his mouth and nudge it into a pleasing position. The struggling changeling he had in a leg-lock just added to the effect. “Then, if you would, please ignite that parcel by the doorway. And Viceroy, you might want to stand clear!”

Goldtorc eyed the toaster carefully, even as Simoom briskly loped back towards the gift-table. Her horns blazed, and so did the arrow she had nocked, flames coursing about its head. She arced the bow up, aiming for the distant parcel, and looked briefly Burro’s way.

Burro nodded. The arrow flamed and flew forth, and punched right into the toaster, and met the black powder within.

Fire and heat and light thundered, echoed by a corona of splinters that pattered down against the magical shields quickly raised by some of the more quick-thinking magic-channelers. The dazzlement passed. And the way into the palace stood open, fragments of a door splayed all around.

“On me! ONCE MORE, ON ME!” Burro broke the hush first as he lurched forwards, brandishing the sabre overhead and gesturing at the door. After a hushed moment, the rest of the beings about him started forwards as well. Bellows, war-cries, curses, and all erupted from their ranks.

So maybe charging Queen Chrysalis wasn’t the best plan his Cunning had ever produced and his common sense had concurred with, Burro conceded to himself as his galloping legs bore him onwards. Maybe she’d be weakened. Maybe not. Maybe throwing enough bodies at her until she was overwhelmed was the only way to stop her conquering the continent before she got a proper base. Maybe it’d all be for naught.

Burro charged, no matter what. Every ache and pain had stopped mattering, and so did all his concerns. Once Gellert was done rescuing damsels, they’d meet up again, whether in this world or the Hereafter, and tides, there’d be some stories to tell.

Alongside a roaring mass of others, he loped across the threshold, sabre threshing the air. As he came into full view of the main hall, he beheld Chrysalis herself, standing upright and proud. He saw a roof lined with cocoons, the vague shapes of ponies stirring within. He saw the Element Bearers and attendant changelings, the former undoubtedly made prisoners.

And he saw Princess Cadence and her betrothed, standing with their horns touching, unknown magic broiling up between them.

Magic that built with every second.

Burro’s mouth hung open for only the briefest of moments before he yelled, “Equestria, you’re bloody joking—”

He got no further, for in that moment, and in a great flash of light that briefly filled the world, true love saved the day.

Lastly, Prepare for Next Time

Tundra trotted across the palace grounds, some scant minutes after true love had saved the day.

Her gait was controlled and steady, her expression composed and serene. Only the way she nervously twiddled the broomhandle she still bore betrayed what might lie under her surface.

Behind her, towards the Crystal Hall, stunned and paralysed ponies were being revived by their more alert fellows. Cocoons were being hauled out through the sundered doorway by groups of battered-looking guardponies, and were split open to discharge their wheezing, sticky occupants. Princess Celestia had been one of the first, and had inexplicably acquired a new bruise on her forehead as well as a metal padlock. After having a bracing quart of tea poured down her throat, she was holding an animated discussion involving several of the other world leaders, the Element Bearers, the bride and groom, and a constant stream of guards bringing her dispatches from across Canterlot. At least twelve different arguments seemed to be happening at once.

Far to her right, a commotion was underway at one wall. Namely, Dame Lyuba was trying to tear it down, and was making good headway. The exhausted griffon chieftain and the sheep Tyrant had alighted there, and had been joined by a battered-looking Nightguard squadron and the two steel-masked sheep guards. All of them cast varyingly-trepid glances over the wall’s edge as what resembled and sounded like nothing so much as the End-times in flesh kept up her assault. A couple of especially brave Nightguard had retrieved the very-much-alive Shahanshah and were wiggling him in front of Dame Lyuba to try and calm her down. That seemed to be working, albeit gradually.

Once the griffon and ewe were rescued and delivered to the other world leaders, along with the Shahanshah, that would account for most of them. Most. Tundra closed her eyes briefly as she trotted, and her makeshift staff all but twirled out of her grasp as her nervous energy made it an outlet.

Up and to her left, the firebird waltz had migrated into the topmost room of a high tower. Flames and screeches erupted from its windows, as if a lighthouse was throwing a tantrum. Princess Celestia herself had croaked that they were to be left to it in the meantime, so long as Philomena had Charity cooped up there. Besides, she’d never liked the furnishings in that particular tower anyway.

And to her front …

At some point between the charge on the Crystal Hall and when the love of Cadence and Shining Armour had hurled all foes from Canterlot, the Crown had mysteriously gone missing. It now hung halfway up a tree, one of its arches looped around a branch. What had led to it getting up there was anyone’s guess, though several theories were advanced afterwards.

Tundra stopped at the tree’s base, and she swallowed every few seconds as she stared up at the Crown with wide, unblinking eyes, her broom jittering. For its part, the Crown didn’t seem to acknowledge her or its position at all. Its jewels glittered a soft and steady blue, and not a word came from it.

Then, just as Tundra thought she was safe, one jewel flashed, and its diamond-hard sheen fixed her where she stood. “Aren’t you one of mine?” the Crown rasped, a voice from nightmares.

“N-no, Your –” Tundra caught the rote title in her throat and forced it back down. “No. I’m not.”

“Hmm.” And like that, the Crown seemed to lose what interest it had ever had in her. “Well, be a good menial anyway and get me down from here. Celestia pines for my company, I don’t doubt.”

Tundra closed her eyes, coaxed magic to her horns, and unconsciously reached up before her eyes opened and she shook her head, dispersing the magic. The next moment, she slowly reached up with the broom and tried to hook it round one of the Crown’s arches.

Then she thought of life before she’d been taken in by Celestia – as if she could do anything else. But she made herself think of Celestia as well, who, even when she was wheezing and covered in changeling goop within eyeshot if Tundra just turned, still managed to be a great and reassuring presence in her mind. She thought of Alloy, who’d raced off to deliver more tea to Celestia and any ponies that needed it by the bucket-load. And, of all the damned things, the probably-well-meaning and terrifying advice given her by Dame Lyuba and Consort Goldtorc came to mind as well.

Tundra took a breath, stiffened her nerves, and with motions that were nothing but steady and deliberate, whacked the Crown right off the branch and to the ground. Its jewels blazed crimson briefly as it bounced onto the grass, and though the memories thrown up by the red gleam made Tundra almost throw up with fear, she forced herself to stand steady. The red lingered briefly, and then faded away in favour of the steady blue once more. The Crown still didn’t speak. Tundra steeled herself to pick them up with the broomhandle, to take them over to the gathering…

“We got him loose!”

Tundra turned in the direction of the exclamation, and saw the three fillies and dragon whelp she’d previously been keeping safe in the shed, up until a pair of Nightguard had swooped into to retrieve the Shahanshah. They ran ahead of a striding ibex, a grim-looking buck whose muzzle and hooves were chafed as if he’d spent a while tied up. He wore the uniform of servants in Bellbylon’s citadel. It seemed like a long time since Tundra had worn hers.

“Got him untied after a bit, which we ought to gotten cutie marks in liberation or ropework or suchlike for, but never mind,” said the earth pony filly. “Ain’t said much to us, though, have you, feller? Didn’t your folks never teach you to say ‘Thank you’ when –?”

The ibex buck strode on heedless, and when he caught sight of Tundra by the fallen Crown, his gaze sharpened.

“Ah. There’s the proper menial,” purred the Crown. “Pick me up. I have places to be, and beings to meet. Celestia first. Then I’ll see what else the day holds.”

The buck nodded, and the Crown was picked up reverently in his aura of magic. He rose it into the appropriate position and stance, turned towards the gathering by the Crystal Hall, and stopped only to glance Tundra’s way. His gaze was hard and cold.

Tundra swallowed, and dipped her head. “Well-met, kin–”

“I shan’t waste breath on traitors. Good day.” The buck swept past her, and he and the Crown receded as they made their way towards the hall. Tundra stared after them, and she was dimly aware of the four little ones doing the same.

“Well,” huffed the earth pony filly after a while. “Can’t say much nice about his attitude.”

“I know!” The pegasus filly fluffed her wing-feathers “And it’s not like we accidentally tied that many extra knots before figuring out how to undo them.”

“Hang on,” said the dragon whelp with a sudden start. “That crown talked.”

“Miss?” Tundra jolted on realising she was being spoken to, and looked down to see the unicorn filly looking up at her with concerned green eyes. Her impassivity must have slipped. “Are you okay?”

Tundra closed her eyes, breathed out, and thought of where she was, where she’d come from, and what she’d done. And then she opened her eyes again, and smiled softly down at the unicorn. “I’m fine, little one. Or on the road there, at least.”

“Well,” replied the unicorn after a moment’s hesitation. “That’s good, I guess?”

“Hey, miss, you work here, right?” said the pegasus filly suddenly. “Do you know where Sir Wall’s gotten himself to?”

“Sir … who?”

“Sir Wall! We don’t know where he’s gotten himself to. But he was super brave, and we want to point him out to Princess Celestia so she can give him medals and stuff!”

“I’ve … no idea who he may be, little one.” Tundra gestured towards the hall with her forehoof. “But if you come with me, I’m sure we’ll find someone who does. Are those your sisters over there, by any chance?”

As she glanced in the direction of her gesture, back towards the main group before the Crystal Hall, she glimpsed a trailing messenger whispering something into Celestia’s ear. The relief and satisfaction that glowed forth from the alicorn’s features could be made out, even at this distance. And then she said something which was impossible for Tundra to discern at this distance.

The screech that erupted from an unseen world leader wasn’t, though.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘THE WEDDING’S STILL ON’?”

Dame Wind Vane of Her Lunar Majesty’s Nightguard stood on guard by the city gate. Or rather, slumped on guard. Every so often, she winced and rubbed whatever parts of herself had received a kick in the last while, and whimpered when she thought nopony was looking.

She would have customarily been seen to and given leave, of course. But the Dayguard and Nightguard commanders, acting at Captain Armour’s behest, had reluctantly explained that the rest of the day had to be all-hooves-on-deck. It was a light duty besides, guarding the city gate, assuming that nobody would invade twice in the same day. And Wind Vane had gotten off relatively lightly in any case, compared to some of the others that had been roused from paralysis. The last she’d seen of Stratus that day, he was being stretchered off towards the barracks and speaking in a newly-acquired falsetto.

So she guarded, and winced, and listened to the sounds of preparation and bustle happening at her back, and blearily watched three figures wind their way up the mountainside and trot up towards the city gates. Two in front, and one at the back pulling a wagon.

They drew closer, and the front two smartly approached Wind Vane, revealing themselves to be zebras. She eyed the one on her left first, a tall, sleek-looking mare. Her white robes were long, flowing, and trimmed with gold at the edges; her mane was tied back with silver beads and held down by a cylindrical silver cap. “Greetings,” the zebra mare said, bowing her head. “We are Lady Azure.”

Wind Vane had had a very long day. She blinked owlishly at the zebra. “Both of you?” she said.

“Heyo,” interjected her companion, sketching a brief bow as well. He was shorter, stockier, and clad in an ochre-coloured smock adorned with a glittering ruff of rainbow-coloured feathers. “Chieftain Zeal. Pleased to meetcha.”

The cart-puller at the back gurgled. Wind Vane inspected them and, on inspection, found the cart-puller to be a zombie. Filmy eyes peeked out at her past a thin gap in layers of trailing bandages, spangled over with ribbons and charms.

Wind Vane stared, and Azure coughed. “We come representing the Pharoahs Punda and Milia of Upper and Lower Zebrica, long may they reign in everlasting peace. They wish to express their fondest wishes and goodwill to Equestria on this happy day, and have bidden us present their gifts to the new couple.”

“Sorry about the delay,” Zeal said breezily. “Airship got caught up in a pod of dirigible whales. Lovely creatures, but a real pain in the haunch to navigate around, pardon my Fancé. Oh, the zombie here’s Gurgle. Say hullo to the nice guard, Gurgle, be sociable.”

Gurgle gurgled.

“We have our invitations and beg entry,” Azure pressed, a long-suffering edge sneaking into her tone. “You may inspect the cart, though I promise you’ll find nothing other than Their Highness’s gifts. Cauldrons of Zebrican make.”

“Great pieces. More enchantments baked into both of ‘em than you can shake a stick at,” added Zeal, winking. “Perfect for all your home alchemy needs. Let me give you some advice, ma’am; angle to get yourself presents from two competitive brothers as well. They’ll practically sprain themselves trying to get you something fancier than what the other’s getting.”

“Chieftain.”

“Whoops. I mean, everlasting peace, harmony ‘twixt the two restored now and for all time, that sort of thing. Can we come to the wedding now?”

Wind Vane stared from zebra to zebra to zombie, her tired mind fizzing desperately for whatever the proper courtesies. After a moment, Azure cleared her throat and said, “We haven’t missed anything, we trust?”

“Shahanshah, we are leaving.”

“But Dame Lyuba, it’s all done, the dangerous stuff’s over! We’ve not even seen the proper wedding bit yet.”

Up in the Crystal Hall, intense negotiation was going on between Sailears and Lyuba. Guards and staff bustled about on all sides, setting up the decorations as they had been and cleaning up any stray puddles of ichor, and carefully edging around the mammoth as they did so. Princess Celestia stood a short distance away from the discussion, using her magic to pick up and lay out whole rows of chairs at a time. If she slumped a little more than usual while doing it, none passed comment.

“The messengers are already alerted, Your Grace, and the relay teams are already in preparation to teleport you home.” Dame Lyuba had mostly calmed down, though her tone retained a slight hint of active volcano. “You are returning to safety, regardless of whether the ‘proper wedding bit’ has happened or not.”

“But we came here to meet and see all the outlanders, and to be friendly towards them! I’m the Shahanshah, and I want to –”

“And I am the right-tusk of your Lord Regent, Your Grace, and I will not be gainsaid!”

Sailears glowered, which in the face of Dame Lyuba wasn’t unlike lighting a candle in front of a supernova. After a moment, he bit out, “I’d like to say goodbye to some of them first.” He pressed on hurriedly before Lyuba could object. “That’d be the proper Shahanshah-ly thing to do. And you can watch me.”

For a moment, Lyuba’s expression was cold and unreadable. Then she curtly nodded. “You have two minutes, Your Grace. Under my eye at all times.”

Sailears whooped and galumped over to Celestia. The alicorn turned on him with a gentle smile. “Farewell, Princess Celestia! I’m sorry we’ve got to leave. I’ll tell my uncle you put on a really exciting wedding!”

“I’m sad to see you go, Shahanshah, though it was good to have you.” Celestia dipped her head. “Do give my best regards to your uncle.”

“Also, if you see them before I do, could you tell Sir Wall and the donkey Arch-Minister and the queen of the sheep and the three fillies and the dragon they did a good job assisting and guarding my royal person? I don’t know if non-elephants can get the Order of Nellie or the Ivory Star or whichever, but I’d like it if they got something.”

Celestia nodded, her smile unchanging. “I shall personally pass on your kind words, Shahanshah. Have a safe journey home.”

Sailears hovered by her for a moment longer. A certain cast came to his expression, and he blurted out, “And I want you to know that I think some of what Dame Lyuba and my uncle says isn’t right. You’re not all bad, outlanders. Some of you are nice.”

With that parting shot, he turned elsewhere to make the most of his remaining one minute and forty seconds, and Lyuba eyed him all the while. Her nerves refused to settle, and would continue to refuse until she was back in Pachydermia. What an unrelentingly atrocious day this had been.

“Are you leaving us, Lyuba?”

Lyuba turned, looked down, and saw Goldtorc. The aurochs had secured her bow in a sheath alongside her flank and her magic now bore tea in a porcelain cup.

Well. Not unrelentingly atrocious, in all fairness.

“Yes, Goldtorc.” Some of the volcanicity ebbed from Lyuba’s tone. “I must take my Shahanshah home. Before Equestria finds some fresh calamity to spring upon us.”

“You do it a disservice. There are times where all is peaceful in Equestria for weeks, at least.” Goldtorc ventured a wry smile. “But I understand why you must leave, though I am sorry about it. You will write, I hope?”

“Write?”

“You began telling me the account of how you fell into the company of your Lord Regent before we were unavoidably interrupted by saving Canterlot. I would still very much like to hear the tale. And to converse with you further, of other things.”

Lyuba mulled the prospect over, and found herself nodding. “That could be done. I did come late to my letters, though, and you must be prepared to forgive my grammar.”

“How could I do otherwise, for a friend abroad?”

A friend abroad. Lyuba would have breezily sneered at the phrase when today began. And now…

“Glad to hear it. And I shall be sure to ask about your tourney system as well. But now I must beg your leave. It has been forty seconds since I saw the Shahanshah, and he has almost certainly found someone regicidal to talk to.”

The consort and the guard bowed briefly, and as they parted, Celestia looked away at last. She had been watching for a while, even as she’d continued arranging chairs. A half-smile hovered around her features, and she started humming as she worked.

A motion at her side alerted her to the presence of a Dayguard stallion at her side, heaving a steaming mug containing enough strong tea to drown a regiment. “More tea, Your Highness?”

“I don’t appreciate your service enough, Sir Starstruck.” Celestia turned from her task, grasped the mug, and took a long, fortifying sip. Once it had been drained to about two-thirds of its original volume, she regarded the stallion. “Could you confirm something for me?”

“What is it, Your Highness?”

“Is there a Sir Wall in either the Dayguard or Nightguard?”

Starstruck frowned. “Nopony comes to mind, Your Highness.”

“Ah, I thought so.” Celestia nodded, and her gaze briefly drifted elsewhere. “Now that is interesting. Thank you.”

“Can I render any other service, Your Highness?”

“Yes. One more thing, Sir Starstruck. I need you to bear a message to the south wall. Tell the Tyrant that Dame Lyuba will shortly be on another continent, and that she can come down now.”

Across the broad green before the Crystal Hall, most of the debris and paralysed bodies had been removed and/or revitalised, and many of the latter were pitching in, after no small amount of explanations and screaming, to make the green wedding-presentable once more. Elsewhere, out of sight of the green, a bride-to-be oversaw preparations with the Element Bearers.

Above the green, within a high tower, a door stood ajar, and from it, an infernal light flickered, and there rasped a thin, tired, but undoubtedly still omnimalevolent “Keeeeee.” Philomena perched on a plinth outside the door, her gimlet eyes keeping watch for any mischief, even as one of her claws fussed absently with a bit of shredded tapestry, as if she was making a nest.

Three strapping stallions stood before that door, and argued over who got to attend to this particular share of the clean-up.

“Do let me handle this, Captain,” said Simoom, his ragged vestments dangling from his foreleg as he gestured at the door. “I know something of wrangling pyrefalcons. Besides, it wouldn’t do for the groom to be eviscerated on his wedding day.”

“Viceroy, your bravery does you great credit, but this creature imperils the lives and safety of the ponies in Canterlot.” Captain Shining Armour looked mildly knackered for being woken from weeks of hypnosis, sustaining a shield in said weeks, and capping the whole thing by banishing an invading host with true love’s might, but otherwise seemed to be bearing up well. “It may be my wedding day, but I’m not off-duty. I’ll handle her.”

“Well, personally, I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” asserted Prince Blueblood. He’d spent much of the incursion lying paralysed in an ever-growing puddle of his own drool, and after cleaning himself up, now desperately wished to be useful. “Eye-contact, a firm tone, and in extremis, a rolled-up newspaper. That’s all anypony needs to take an animal to task. I should know, I’ve trained dogs.”

A voice behind the three whispered, “Er, excuse me,” and went ignored.

“Captain Armour, please, I know this falls within your duties, but Charity’s rather … ah, spirited. She needs a trained pair of hooves.”

“And you need to stay safe, Viceroy. Your wellbeing falls within my purview as well. And rest assured I’m not underestimating the creature. I saw the scorch-marks on the walls.”

“I can help here if you...” asserted the quiet voice once more, to little avail.

Blueblood sighed and clicked his tongue. “Such a sad lack of mutual confidence. Look here, Captain Armour and Viceroy Simoom, I’ll show you both how it’s done.”

With that, Blueblood confidently trotted towards the gates of hell, only to be stopped when he was tackled from two different directions and forced to the ground.

“I say, unhoof me!”

“Your Highness, go help somewhere else! Go with the Viceroy and I’ll see to this!”

“Ah, no,” Simoom said hurriedly. “No, no, no. By which I mean, Captain, oughtn’t you escort the prince elsewhere? I’ll take care of this.”

“I’ll take care of this!”

“Take your hoof off! You’ll ruin my waistcoat! And get off in general! I’ll take care of this!”

Blueblood tried to force his way free, which obliged Simoon and Shining Armour to redouble their efforts to keep him pinned whilst trying to tactfully kick the other in the direction of the stairs, and the whole roiling ball of well-meaning cross-purposes only settled when the quiet voice spoke from the direction of the door. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

The three looked up, and hurriedly pulled themselves off one another and rose to their hooves. The doorway lay open and within it, Fluttershy stood, one foreleg outstretched and bearing Charity in a falconer’s stance. The pyrefalcon perched peacefully, and seemed to be trying to not make eye contact with the mare.

Shining Armour’s brows rose. Prince Blueblood looked disappointed. Simoom recoiled as if Fluttershy had entered brandishing a whole fizzing wagonload of alchemical explosives, and took a moment to calm down sufficiently to start asking questions. “I … you’re one of the Element Bearers, aren’t you? Miss, may I ask, how the deuce–?”

“All you need is a little kindness,” Fluttershy replied. She looked round at Charity, who glanced back up at Fluttershy before hurriedly looking away. Some gazes even a pyrefalcon dared not meet twice.

“And, er,” Flutttershy murmured to herself, “only occasionally instilling a little mortal terror.”

And shortly after that, every guest still on hand had reconvened in the Crystal Hall.

In one row, a rumpled and bruised-looking donkey and griffon sat side-by-side. By them, there sat an elderly ewe, and her third brandy of the afternoon jittered in her hooves. By her, a lanky earth pony who looked distinctly unhappy about his own neighbour, a ibex holding up a jeweled crown whose gemstones gleamed a brilliant blue. Past it, an aurochs bull and cow, looking as if they’d come straight from the nearest battlefield. And past them in turn, two zebras who’d been wearing the same bewildered expressions for the last few hours.

The doors at one end of the hall swung open, and all eyes went to the bride. The real one, this time.

And though the griffon kept one claw clenched around the hilt of his sabre, just in case, nothing else got in the way of wedding bells ringing out a few minutes later.

Second time’s the charm.

The day drew on. There came a few sad partings.

And a few happy meetings.

In a sky that was darkening to evening, defiantly casting a shadow over the riot of lights and festivity and throbbing music that still held sway in Canterlot below, an ornithopter wobbled its way between the clouds.

As the vessel threw itself into a precarious loop-the-loop, a cyan blur rocketed through the sky overhead. It banked sharply in the air, and swooped down to cut its own casual loops around the ornithopter’s wings. The vessel’s engines almost seemed to growl with indignation as the blur finally flew round to alight on the cockpit’s window and grin in at the pilot.

“Ha! Call this a race? I thought donkey flying machines were meant to be fast!”

“Not fair!” Pollina shouted back at Rainbow Dash. “The Cloud-Kisser’s taken a bit of a knock! Also, I’m drunk!”

“A stately trot now, Your Royal Highness.”

“Mwwrgh.”

The stately trot of Her Royal Highness and heir-apparent, Princess Buttercup of Bovaland, was as yet more of a toddle. An especially wobbly toddle at that, due to the little toy poleaxe she insisted on holding in her mouth at all times. Steel Thews, Bovaland’s Royal Concubine, had tried to gently prise it away, and had been squalled at until he gave it back. He was a minotaur who knew a losing battle when he saw one.

“Your parents will have had a long day in Equestria,” he said gently. He walked stooped, one hand steadying Buttercup’s withers and stopping her from tripping over her own robes every few steps as he guided her towards the chamber designated for teleportation. A brace of huskarls ambled behind them, both sporting larger and slightly more lethal variants of Buttercup’s weapon. “They’ll be delighted to be back in Cromlech Taur. They’ll be delighted to see you.”

Whatever opinions Buttercup had on the matter were somewhat muffled by the poleaxe. “Mwwrgh.”

“Amberhorn himself couldn’t have put it more regally, Your Royal Highness. Aha, what’s this?”

The open door of chamber, lying on one side of the tapestry-plastered corridor they trotted down, suddenly emitted a flash of light. Steel Thews smiled. “Immaculate timing. Go on, Your Royal Highness, go to them.” He gave her a gentle nudge forwards, but Buttercup needed no encouraging. She lurched forward, gurgling happily, just as the Bullwalda and Royal Consort emerged from the chamber.

Steel Thews saw them, froze, and his smile vanished. Buttercup barrelled on, quite undeterred.

Their barding was rent and battered, their caprisons torn and scorched, their visible hides covered with the grime of battle. Greenhorn’s blade was missing, and Goldtorc’s quiver was nearly empty. Their horns smoked faintly, as if put to strenuous use in the recent while. Their huskarls, stepping out from the chamber at their back, looked only slightly less spent.

Steel Thews boggled. The royal couple looked up at him, briefly smiled, and then turned down to their oncoming daughter. Greenhorn dipped his head, cooing lowly as she jumped up and scrabbled at his head and hugged at him with her forelegs and all but took his eye out with her poleaxe, before an aura of Goldtorc’s magic enveloped Buttercup and bore her up, squealing delightedly, to her mother. Greenhorn raised his head, revealing tired eyes. Steel Thews hurried forward, letting propriety briefly hang, and reached out to cup his king’s face in one hand. “It was just a wedding! Minos’ blood, what happened?”

“An incursion by a hidden power, intent on subjugating Equestria and casting the world into a unending dark age,” Greenhorn wearily replied, closing his eyes as he leaned into Steel Thews’ hand. His eyes briefly opened as he frowned at nothing in particular, and then he closed them again with a sigh. “Were Chieftain Gellert or some other leader prone to drollery present, I suspect that would be referred to as a ‘Tuesday’. I ought to resent knowing that.”

“We have quite a tale for any peer willing to listen, Steel Thews,” Goldtorc said. “Is the Witenagemox still meeting this eve? We will – yes, darling, Mummy sees your terrifying pole-axe. Have you been fighting foes of the realm while we’ve been gone?”

“I...” Steel Thews swallowed. “Yes, the Witenagemox should still meet as bidden, Your Majesties. I assume you intend to broach a different subject than guild privileges in the royal burghs?”

“Assumed correctly.” Greenhorn rose his head and nodded at the huskarls behind Steel Thews. “Sir Ironsides, Sir Lancehorn, pray go muster those members of the Witenagemox present in the palace and tell them the meeting shall begin earlier than planned. There is much to discuss.”

“Your Majesties,” implored Steel Thews, “please tend to yourselves before then. Change your garb, allow the physician to check you over, clean and refresh yourselves, at least–”

“Not yet, Steel Thews. I shall leave them under no illusions over what happened westwards.” Greenhorn pulled himself away from the minotaur and began lumbering down the corridor. “We have had our fill of those, of late.”

“Blood teshts,” said Fairy Floss, swaying gently. “Blood teshts at the highest levels downwards. The creatures bled ichory-stuff, we bleed … er, blood. All teshting to be done under the sight of verified membersh of the Black Company. You shall be all teshted first, to lead by example, and then direct said Company members to those key sheep serving in your polis. Undersht–stood?

She swayed in the middle of the Thousandfold Chamber, a half-full brandy glass on the floor next to her. High, vaulted walls of white marble rose above her, and a light that seemed to have no source filled it with a soft ambience. Around her on the floor, there stood a circle of black stone statues, sheep standing frozen in various classical poses. Pale light glimmered in their eyes.

The eyes of the one on Fairy’s right, a strapping ewe with a discus in her mouth, suddenly pulsed, and there crackled out the somewhat-uncertain voice of the Archon of Shearta. “Aye, Tyrant. But is it likely we are infiltrated by these creatures? This was an incursion on the far side of Ungula, and we’ve no reason to believe the creatures dwell in the east.”

“Well, we didn’t know they bloody well dwelt in the west. And the likelihood of the prospect doeshn’t matter, Archon,” Fairy Floss said, wheeling on the Archon’s statue and almost falling over as she did so. “The mere fact that it is a prospect compels ush to banish any doubt. If there is so much as the shadow of a chance we have been infiltrated, we will burn it out, root and branch. The integrity of the shovereignty of the Tyranny and your Archonates is paramount. The security of Ovarn is paramount.”

There came a cough from the Archon of Eweboea, speaking through a ram frozen in an eternal flex. “Ah … Tyrant, is there no other test that comes to mind? If these tests should become widespread and necessarily regular, then even the most passive demos in the most loyal polis will resent the process. If anything less intrusive comes to mind, we should give thought to implementing it instead.”

“Barring cross-examining every single sheep about their pershonal history, nothing else suitably mass-producible occursh,” Fairy Floss said. She gestured with her hoof and accidentally knocked her glass over. “But if – rut, I hadn’t finished that – but if any of the Black Company find a changeling, resht assured, tests will be done. Perhaps an alternative will emerge.”

There followed a strained silence from Ovarn’s massed Archons, and though it was technically impossible in light of their medium of communication, there seemed to be a silent battle of wills and glances going on between the statues. Eventually, the young Archon of Rhovies lost, and she spoke up from her ram in antiquated bronze panoply. “Beg pardon, Tyrant, but are you a little … drunk?”

Fairy Floss pored owlishly at the ram statue, and after a few moments, said, “Remind me of your name, Archon.”

“Tethera, Tyrant.”

“Well, Tethera, with those powersh of obshervation, you’ll go very far indeed. And yes, I am somewhat over my typical brandy limit. But let me assure you, young ewe, and all of ewe...whoops, you, that I have had a very trying day, which included shtaring down death in the form of a mammama … mammara … big hairy elephant thing. And if any of you had been in the same position, rest assured, you’d need a reshtorative or ten to calm your nervesh too!”

No more questions seemed to be coming, and as the statues held their hush, Fairy Floss rapped her hoof twice on the floor. “Dismissed, then. I shall check some black sheep myself, and they shall go about verifying the rest of the company. Once that is done, Archons, expect visitsh.”

As the eye-lights in the ranks of statues winked out, the Tyrant sighed and settled. She eyed her spilled glass and contemplated another before bed-time.

But truth be told, her nerves didn’t need much more soothing. There was little better than monstering the Archons to make her feel better at the end of a hard day.

Sometimes, Fairy’s conscience would try to prickle her with regards to monstering being an unkind thing to do to sheep, any sheep. But she could easily quash that by reminding her conscience that she knew what the Archons were like. After all, she’d been one once.

In a cave in the woods just off the main road heading north, Thorax shivered, and slept, and dreamed of being a hero once again.

It was, in all honesty, a pretty nightmarish dream, but he faced up to it regardless.

“Sir, you’re not meant to just come behind the bar and help yourself to bottles.”

“Don’t fret, lad,” Burro said to the annoyed-looking unicorn as he hefted a magnum bottle in his foreleg. “I’m an old hoof at appreciating champagne, it shan’t be mistreated. Oh, I’ll relieve you of a couple of these as well.”

“Sir, you’re especially not meant to drink it in tankards.”

Burro winked, his mouth occupied by a pair of pewter handles, and ambled away from the drinks tent and back out into the party. The evening had darkened to proper dusk, and upon the deep blue vastness that filled the sky, the shapes of various constellations jostled for space. Princess Luna had emerged from her slumber briefly, had lingered just long enough to throw up the night sky, and then had vanished with Celestia into some deeper recess within the palace complex. Muffled yelling and minor earth movements had begun the moment the main doors closed.

The evening may have worn on, and the bride and groom may have long since vanished, but ponies were still making the most of it. Burro navigated around a knot of whooping dancers, all of them shoogling approximately to the beat pulsing from a nearby sound system. Around them, and past a line of trees strewn with lights and streamers, he sighted his quarry. A stone fence ran around the edge of this particular terrace, and Gellert sat perched upon it, smoking as he regarded the stars. He had appropriated a fat cigar from somewhere, and smoke rings surrounded him like so many misplaced halos. He puffed and turned on Burro as the jack approached with the champagne and tankards, and a broad grin broke across his features. “Plunder secured?” he asked.

“Yeth.” Burro spat out the handles and gestured at the cigar. “Come over here and pour. I’ll treat that nicely while you’re busy.”

Gellert passed the cigar over, and Burro took a long, satisfied drag on what he recognised as Gazellen tobacco as the griffon popped the cork free and began topping up the tankards. For a moment, in this secluded space behind the tree line at the very edge of the palace, the gurgle and fizz of champagne was the loudest noise on hoof.

“Saw Simoom when I went pillaging,” Burro said absently. “Lad was having fun composing a telegraph. Sent a message to his dearly beloved back in Saddle Arabia a couple of hours ago, letting her know how things went.”

“Oh? That would have been fun reading for her.”

“I don’t doubt. Caught a glimpse of her reply as I wandered past, and there seemed to be a lot of capital letters. He looked a bit concerned, so I gave him a reassuring pat on the wither and suggested a few phrases to set her mind at ease.”

“Think they’ll actually work?”

“Tides, no. I’ve met her, she’s sharp. Still, had to try something. If he’s still at it when we check later, let’s put our heads together and help him.”

“Good idea.” Gellert pushed a full tankard at Burro. “Fill your head with that first, though.”

Burro needed no second telling, and he knocked tankards with Gellert and swigged for several seconds. He lowered the tankard and smacked his lips. The lightheadedness of victory and the slight dazedness of a lingering concussion were joined by the champagne, and he leaned on the fence and smiled unreservedly up at the stars.

“Good day, all things considered,” Burro said.

“On balance, yep.” Gellert leaned over and re-swiped his cigar. “Lovely ceremony, when it happened. Few brawls beforehand, to limber us up for it. I’ve had less exciting weddings in my day, that’s for certain.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I was there for most of them. Some of the memories stand out.”

“All those curious ponies and journalists and clicking cameras as well. I reckon we’ll come out well in that one they got us both to pose for.”

“You cracking your knuckles, me brandishing the sabre, both of us looking battle-hardened and swashbuckly as we ever were?” Burro smiled, and winced as the bruise on his face twinged. “If that comes out well, and it makes onto the front page of the Brineside Gazette or Pennant or what-have-you, that should be good for a poll bump. Damasque might even not slay me horribly for failing to come back this night.”

“Especially handy that they moved on to other folk just before all our aches caught up with us at once and we spent the next while mewling in a corner. Might have made for even better front pages, mind you, but less in your favour.”

“True.” Burro looked down into his tankard, which fizzed tantalisingly at him. He obligingly swigged.

A long hush lasted then, and the throb of the music and noise from the revellers were distant things. Burro, his mind drifting elsewhere, was jolted back when Gellert said quietly, “They didn’t find any sign of Chrysalis, did they?”

He recognised that tone of voice from Gellert. It rarely surfaced, and was rarely more fun when it did.

Burro sighed. “No. No, they didn’t. Thrown clear of the city along with her remaining forces. Those that weren’t flattened over walls, of course. I’d hope that the power of true love killed her stone dead, but … well, we know the world’s not that kind.”

“Equestria will be turning up every stone on the continent and hunting to the ends of the earth for her,” Gellert said lowly. “The last couple of times they underwent this sort of thing, they could either turn the threat back into stone or make ‘em a princess. A monster like her at large doesn’t put me at ease. Can’t imagine it thrills the alicorns either.”

“I hear you.” Burro looked back out towards the stars, his lightheadedness ebbing. “Especially if she goes about looking for refuge, for allies. I imagine there’ll be a few players willing to welcome her aboard. Make use of her and her hive’s talents.”

“More fuel for the fire,” Gellert muttered. “Especially after what they saw today. Celestia laid low. I don’t care how loudly the Crown claimed to be as horrified as any of us. It’ll be plotting already.”

Burro didn’t reply immediately, and Gellert went on. “We knew about that with Nightmare Moon, but didn’t see it. We saw it with Discord, but nobody could treat with him, and Celestia reminded us what she was then anyway. But now there’s blood in the water, and the Crown and Corva and whatever schemers may be scheming overseas … they’ll come sniffing. And if they reach a concord with a creature like Chrysalis –”

“Equestria will find her,” said Burro. “Asinia will pile in as well. Celestia’s spies can attend to the ‘every stone on the continent’ part, and we’ll handle the ‘hunting to the ends of the earth’ part. Besides, you heard some of Chrysalis’ monologuing. She’s blown the secrecy of her species. She’ll have a hard time going to ground again.”

“I hope you’re right.” Gellert sighed and sipped from his own tankard. “Simurgh’s paps, I hope you’re right. The world’s looking more and more like a powder keg. I’ve seen it at peace too long. I’d happily fight anyone and anything myself … but I’ve got too many tribes to safeguard to countenance anything large-scale. I’ve too many children.”

Burro was quiet again, and this time, Gellert didn’t elaborate. Overhead, the constellations glittered in place, still and fixed and silent.

Then Burro spoke. “Then let’s keep them safeguarded.”

Gellert looked up, and Burro continued. “We’re not helpless. We’re an Arch-Minister and the high chieftain of a silly number of tribes, and we may not be the most splendid examples of either, but damned if we can’t do our best. We’ve accomplished more impossible things with vastly less resources at our beck and call. We can put our heads together with Celestia and put in whatever hard graft we need to keep our course steady. Whatever form that takes. And you know what? We can start that tomorrow.”

Gellert opened his beak as if to speak, and Burro pressed on. “Hang today, and for now, hang Chrysalis. She came at us hard enough to take down Celestia and neuter the Element Bearers, and she still lost. Cadence and her beau earned their salt. For tonight, we’ve won, and I feel young again. And every night after, though I imagine I’ll get back to feeling creaky and getting ever-creakier, we’ll be ready.”

Gellert’s expression didn’t change for a moment, and then the same sharp grin returned to his features. “Hah!” he barked. “No wonder I’m terrible at being a morose drunk. You keep inflicting yourself on all my nice dolefulness and ruining the whole thing.”

“You knew I was a ruiner from the moment we met. None to blame but yourself.” Burro gestured at the magnum bottle. “Top us up. We’ve a riotous evening to make the most of, and we’ve not even toasted anything yet.”

“Good call. What do you reckon?” Gellert plucked up the bottle and slopped champagne in the rough direction of either tankard. “To readiness?”

“To more exciting weddings?”

“To idiots who thought leadership was a fun ambition at the time?”

“Oh, who cares about that pair of reprobates?” Burro raised his drink. “Nah, here we go. To the happy new couple!”

Tankards crashed in the night.

In the middle of the arid Equestrian Badlands, half a day’s flight from anywhere sensible ponies would willing set hoof, a lonesome figure trotted. A cowled robe covered them from the hooves up, obscuring them from any unwanted attention. The cowl itself rested atop the curving shape of a pair of ibex horns.

In the recess of the cowl, in the ibex’s magical grasp, there hovered the Capricious Crown.

As the ibex trotted, they drew ever-closer to a great mountainous formation of ridges and canyons, the black, serrated mass of it clawing up at the sky. Clouds pressed in tight together, tinted scarlet and dark blue by the dusk, blotting out the remains of the sun, the moon, the stars.

“Stop,” said the Crown suddenly, and the ibex smartly halted. “We’re in sight of their main entryway. She’ll see us now, whenever she chooses to appear.”

As he’d not been asked a question and had been very well-trained, the ibex didn’t answer. The Crown was silent for a moment longer before it said, “There’ll be time. Set up the … what did she insist on calling it? … the keekin glass.”

The ibex set to the task, opening its saddlebag and drawing out four lengths of dark, gnarled wood, their pitted shapes covered in minute runes and etchings. Discreet slots and tabs allowed them to snap smoothly together, forming a frame.

The Crown’s jewels glittered. As it watched the ibex work quickly, it heard a distant growl from the knotted clouds overhead. Thunder without. And within...

Restore the Capric Empire. Restore the Capric Empire. Restore the Capric Empire. Restore–

It had been so mercifully quiet this morning, as well.

“Menial,” it growled. “Don me.”

The ibex closed his eyes, breathed out, and stammered, “My life for –”

“Shut up. Do it.”

Without another word, the ibex drew back his cowl, raised the Crown over his head, and gently donned it.

There was a soft noise, like the release of breath.

There was a faint stiffening of the ibex’s stance.

The Crown opened its eyes. It experimentally flexed a forehoof, and stopped the flexing just short of where it guessed the breaking point of sinews to be. It reminded itself that breathing was one of those annoying and necessary bits of maintenance. Flesh-and-blood forms were so fussy. And for all that fussiness, they couldn’t even make full use of themselves barring those few occasions of extreme duress.

How lucky that the Crown could.

One moment of concentration, and magic screamed to life up around the Crown’s new horns, crackling and coursing and spitting like lightning. The Crown lowered its head, touched the horns to the frame of the keekin glass, and fed the magic in. White-hot lightning pulsed around the runes, glowed out through the etchings, and as the moment dragged on and on, smoke began to curl up from the tip of one of its horns, smoke and a hint of flame…

...until the glow around the runes and etchings settled in, subdued, and from the filmy blur that filled the space within the frame, there came a voice. “Aye, hello, whit?”

The Crown stepped back and regarded the image in the frame. Past a blurry, mottled film, as if ink had been splattered over water, the shape of a room became clearer. Wooden, curving walls, as if a great hole in a vast tree had been expanded and made habitable, lit up by a guttering gas-lantern and strewn with cushions and jars and papers here and there. A large nest made of layered planks and lined with furs covered most of one side, and a couple of corvid-shaped stands for armour and gonnes stood empty.

A corvid leaned in from one side, their eyes bright and their red-brown feathers streaked with blue, and gawked curiously at the Crown.

The Crown spoke first, its tone coming out dry and flat. “You are not the Cormaer.”

“Och, no,” the jay said amiably. “I’m just Aunty Cranreuch’s equerry, or aide, or summat like that. She’s oot just now. Should be back soon, if ye were hoping to blether with her. Name’s Bahookie. Whit’s yours?”

“I am the Capricious Crown of Capra,” said the Crown, who tried to remember how one injected suitable iciness into one’s tone when wrangling with an actual vocal apparatus. “The Cormaer will be expecting me.”

“Aye? Heard of ye, I think. And dinnae fash, she’ll be back anon. If no and ye’ve got to wander off soon, I’ll tell her the Capricious Crown called.” Bahookie frowned, as if realising something, and flapped as he leaned in closer to the keekin glass at his end of things. “Here, I have heard of ye. Ye’re a crown.”

The Crown’s reply, when it came, could have done the polar regions proud. “Golly. Am I really?”

“Jings, I thought Aunty Cranreuch and a’corbie else was just being metaphorical, ye ken. Like, the Crown was anither way of talking about Capra’s high heid yin and their office and whit-not. But naw, ye’re actually a crown, that’s amazing.”

“Glad to amaze you. I suspect many things do.”

“And are ye possessing that goat, likes? Urgh, that’s a bit minging, if ye don’t mind me saying. Why no just make some enchanted barding or cadge a golem and ride aroond on that? I mean, aye, maybe there’s technical difficulties I’m no appreciating, but –”

“Speck,” said the Crown. “Do be kind to a centuries-old artifact and stop talking. You’re not important enough to get to talk.”

Bahookie stared, and the red-brown feathers on his face flushed redder. “Here, ye’re a bit rude. Whit’s wrang with a wee bit of blethering?”

“Everything when it comes from you,” replied the Crown. “Keep it up, and I shall advise your Aunty Cranreuch to take you to the nearest loch and push your head under the surface until talking ceases altogether and for all time. Understood?”

“Whit?” said Bahookie, all indignation. “Well, advise her on that if you like, but she willnae...” He hesitated. “I’m sure she wouldnae...” Another pause. “I … I’m reasonably sure she wouldnae ...” A last pause. “I’ll wheesht.”

“Yes. Yes, you shall.”

A state of awkward wheeshtness persisted for the next few minutes. Overhead, thunder growled. From Corva, the Crown heard what sounded like rain and wind rattling off the trunk of the tree enclosing the room it could see. Then there came a crash and a flash from the top of the frame, and the Crown looked up to see a stiff flap of hides near the top of the room being shouldered, revealing the large shape of an armoured raven.

A lightning flash briefly silhouetted the Eighth Cormaer as she alighted down into the room, shedding water from her dripping armour, plain steel sheets that covered her torso and legs and head. Her broad wings flapped free, glowing with dark blue magic, and she shrugged off a battered-looking claw-gonne that had been slung over her back. Dark eyes glimmered, taking in both Bahookie and the keekin glass.

“Aun – Cormaer!” Bahookie exclaimed. “Did ye see off Radge?”

“Saw off the guid chief and those pillocks who dared follow him into battle,” rasped the Cormaer, in a voice which sounded like it had done a lot of shouting in the last while. “Scattered those who didn’t have the guid sense to flee before things kicked off, and they’ll have all nicht to come crawling here, begging my mercy and forgiveness. They’ll get it ere daybreak. After, we hunt them doon and put them to the blade.” She nodded at the keekin glass. “Ye been waiting, Crown?”

“Yes,” the Crown replied.

The Cormaer turned on Bahookie. “I’ll see to my ain armour. Gie us peace. Your eve’s yours.”

Bahookie nodded nervously. “Aye, Au – Cormaer.” He took off, left through the same flap the Cormaer had come in from, and when he was gone, the Cormaer groaned. Magic coursed around her wings, pulling off her armour, and dragged over a large clay jar. As the armour fitted itself around one of the empty stands, she dipped her beak into the jar and drank for a long moment. The Crown waited.

“Do me a favour,” it said. “Drown that one in a loch.”

“Naw,” replied the Cormaer absently, not looking up from her whisky jar. “My sister’d never let me live it doon. Besides, he’s a jay. Jays are lucky.”

“Oh, fine. Was that a conversation about trouble on the homefront?”

“A smidge. Chief Radge of Clan Haarfirth had the notion there was time yet tae stop me from re-enacting ‘The Seventh’s Folly’, as he put it, and save Corva. Now he’s got nae such notion, nae Clan Haarfirth, and nae mortal coil for that matter. That should crimp the boldness of any ither Radges oot there.”

“I don’t doubt.”

“Aye. But never mind my day. Gies the clype about yours.” The Cormaer looked up at the Crown, the edges of her beak tightening in a wintery smile. “Whit went wrang?”

“Jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?” the Crown replied.

“Is that the smouldering wreckage of Canterlot ye’re calling me from, then?”

“Our new friend performed promisingly. Adequate competence and admirable brutality all throughout. A few inefficient decisions here and there, a tendency to gloat, but despite those, things were on track. She defeated Celestia, and contained those Element Bearers. I was already planning how my legions would wait until she was bogged down in subduing the rest of Equestria, and then march in to secure everything at one stroke. It very nearly worked until Equestria’s third alicorn and her spouse threw things off.”

“‘Nearly’ is a queer way to pronounce ‘didnae’, Crown.” The Cormaer looked smug. “I telt ye it wouldnae pay off. Ye’ve only rattled Equestria, and wasted the surprise of Chrysalis and her lot.”

“The outcome isn't ideal. I don’t need to be convinced of that.”

“Telt ye ye should have kept her in reserve. Kept her sweet on ye by feeding her hive your ain excess goats, and unleashed her only when we unleashed oorselves. Or bidden her infiltrate and only wreak chaos when we attacked. Or waited for any more opportune time.”

“A chance to strike at all three alicorns at once seemed entirely opportune,” the Crown coldly replied. “And though it may not have ended quite as happily as I’d have liked, there are several silver linings. For one, we now know what Cadence is capable of. I can’t say I like her capabilities much, but I’d sooner know than underestimate and get caught out. Secondly, we laid low Celestia for a time, and for all that she got back on her hooves, the world will have seen that. Anyone reluctant to join our cause for fear of Equestrian might will now know that Equestria isn’t invincible, it can bleed. And thirdly ...” It remembered to breathe when it realised the words coming out were getting somewhat hoarse. “Thirdly, Chrysalis is now obliged to throw her lot in with us. She has no other option if she wants the secrecy and security she once had, if she wants to avoid Equestrian retaliation.”

The Cormaer looked thoughtful. “Chrysalis isnae deid, then?”

“I don’t believe so, no” said the Crown. “She and any of her hive that yet live will return to where I stand. I shall greet her. I shall be my most charming and personable.”

“Will ye, aye.” The Cormaer turned back to her whisky. “If she’s reticent, snuff her oot if ye can. Let Equestria tie itself in knots looking for a loose end that isnae there. But if you can draw her intae this entente of oors, all the better.” She looked up again, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Chrysalis, the Crown, and the Cormaer. Reckon ye could recruit Celestia as well? She’d keep oor naming scheme braw and consistent.”

The Crown chose not to dignify that with a response, and the Cormaer smirked wryly. “Mind ye, I’m surprised the others let ye oot of Canterlot. Were ye no suspected of being bound up with events?”

“Absolutely I was. But when the suspicions were voiced, they were fraught and not as grounded as they might have been. I pleaded innocence and horror in a suitably forthright way. A little confusion bought me breathing space, and up till I left, I was the very picture of wronged and justifiably snide innocence. I even found a few half-way convincing excuses, like ‘Why would I enact a plan that put me in the line of fire?’ That sort of thing.”

“Aye, that’ll convince the others. They’d ken only a complete bampot would do that sort of thing.”

“Hah,” purred the Crown. “As if I’ve ever feared the line of fire. Possibly some will do a little more thinking or hold to their first suspicions, and I’ll still be suspected. But what of that? I will be safe in Capra, and they will not.”

The Cormaer shrugged. “Well, ye do whit ye need to at that end of things. I’ll attend to things here.”

“What’s the shape of things there?”

“I’ve been busy, Crown. Those bards I’ve cowed have flown Corva’s length and breadth to stoke fires, singing laments of the Seventh and Dream Valley, and calling all corvids in possession of a spine to fly to the Eighth’s banners. And they have come. From north tae south, from east tae west, from a thousand clans, all keen to wet their thrapples with cuddy blood. Wee clan wars shall sate them for now, but not forever. Whatever ye fancy scheming with Chrysalis, keep me in the loop. And dinnae take too long.”

“Duly noted. Though while we’re on the subject of preparation ...”

“Your gonnes are on their way. Two-dozen bombards, half-a-hunnert lang-gonnes, and two hunnert claw-gonnes re-fitted for hoofheld use. And enough powder to keep them all firing for three months. Drill your picked soldiers’ heids aff, and if I get that shipment of black stone ye promised, and if ye’re very guid, I’ll send ye mair.”

“Ah, the black stone. What a profitable discovery that site was.” The Crown eyed the Cormaer. “My previous offer remains extended. Many more tons of the stone, in exchange for a craftscorvid or two capable of simply making the powder. Imagine all the magic-breaking bullets you could fashion with that. What arcane shield would be safe?”

“And my previous answer remains, Crown. My heid doesnae button up the back.” The Cormaer smiled. “I’ll have to show face at the post-battle festivities sooner or later. Ye have fun blethering tae Chrysalis if she shows up. Call back if ye dinnae end up melted.”

“I shall,” said the Crown as the image of the Cormaer winked out. It stepped back, its gait stiff, and turned around to keep an eye on the skies.

Restore the Capric Empire had fallen that little bit quieter. And it remained that little bit quieter for all the while the Crown spent watching the skies, and when it saw a black speck moving down through the sky.

The speck drew closer, took shape past the black clouds, and became Queen Chrysalis. She was run-ragged and panting, with several still changelings dangling over her back and one held by the scruff of their neck in her mouth. As she flew down, she sighted the Crown.

The Crown waved.

Chrysalis hovered mid-air for a moment, her poison-coloured eyes seething, and then she came down in a blur to crash into the ground just before the Crown. She spat the changeling to one side and loomed over the Crown, her expression locked in a snarl, her horn alive with magic. Not as much as earlier, the Crown noted.

The Crown spoke first. “Why, Queen Chrysalis, how pleasant to meet you he–”

“You,” she hissed. “You led me into ruin.”

“No,” the Crown replied. “I led you to a very great prize, and Equestria snatched it from your grasp. I was as surprised as you when Cadence and the captain pulled that power out their sleeves.” It paused contemplatively. “Love as friendship writ large, perhaps? Empowered yet more by her purview? I should get my caprids to research this.”

“You were surprised? Hardly.” Chrysalis leaned in. “Confess. Confess you set me and my hive up for a fall, and maybe I’ll end you quickly. Otherwise, I’ll drag it out.”

“Why would I have done that? I wanted you to run roughshod over Equestria, Queen Chrysalis, and I’d have helped you had the others not denied me this menial at the time. I wanted you to gorge yourself and for my state to lose its greatest rival. We both stood to gain from your victory. And I wouldn’t have returned here if I didn’t think there was still a chance for us both to prosper.”

Chrysalis laughed. “Are you trying to persuade me of some idiotic course of action yet again? Are you that foolish?” Her horn blazed, and she bared her teeth. “I should dispose of you right now. I should slay that wretched host of yours, and fly you out to the middle of the ocean and drop you into the deepest trench to waste away for eternity. I think I would prosper from doing that, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” said the Crown, its tone low. “And I think you could certainly try that.”

Chrysalis stared down at the Crown, and bit out a short, cruel laugh. She shrugged her withers, and the changeling slumped over her back fell to the ground. “Do you think you have so much as the ghost of a chance, little crown?”

“Considering what I can push this form to do? Considering you’ve considerately brought some spare bodies there for me to teleport myself to if this one breaks? Considering you’re almost certainly not on the same form as you were when you overcame Celestia?” The Crown’s own horns crackled, and Chrysalis’ eyes narrowed.

The world stood silent, as if waiting for the storm to break, and then the Crown dimmed its magic, shrugged its withers, and said, “I genuinely don’t know. We could find out together. But I’d prefer we didn’t. What’s to be gained from it? We still have mutual interests and a mutual enemy. Equestria stymied us once. It needn’t do so again.”

Chrysalis didn’t immediately reply, though the magic around her horn diminished a fraction. The Crown was silent, and then said absently, “Though if you’re looking for advice and feedback on all that, I have some to offer. You made good use of the intelligence I gave you – impersonating Cadence herself was truly inspired, well done – but you should have dispatched her out of hand after feeding on whatever love you needed. On that same note, I understand the urge to keep ponies alive to maintain a full larder, but a bit more ruthlessness might have been –”

The magic blazed forth once more and Chrysalis leaned in so close her fangs all but scraped the Crown’s face. “Do I look as though I desire a lecture, little crown?”

“Of course not. My mistake,” the Crown replied quickly. “If you wish to discuss possible approaches later, I will be happy to do so. For now, though, let me keep my promise to you.”

Chrysalis frowned. “Your promise?”

“I promised you a refuge if things didn’t go entirely to plan. I intend to keep that promise. And all I’d ask is that our interests continue to align. And that you meet some allies of mine. I do hope you’ll get along with them as much as I.”

For a long, long moment, Chrysalis didn’t speak. Then she drew back, and casually scooped up her changelings with her magic and deposited them on her back once again. “What refuge do you have in mind?”

“A place far from here, much further north, where Equestria shan’t seek you out,” the Crown replied. “A old holdfast of your kindred, I believe, from days before you were ever obliged to hide in the shadows. My researchers found it a few months ago, and have had such fun exploring it. Built from this marvellous black stone, which I believe thwarts all non-changeling magic. None of Equestria's divining spells will be able to touch it. It falls within Capra’s territory, right on our north-west border. I offer it to you.”

“You offer it?” Chrysalis stared for a moment, and she frowned. “...Why?”

“I have had my fill of the place, and have extracted what I need. Now I need a strong ally. Thus I freely offer it. You would hopefully be understanding if Capra requires access to it in future, but we can negotiate on such things if the occasion ever arises. I can replenish your resources as well. There are isolated settlements nearby that nobody shall notice or care about, and you can take freely from those. And if they aren’t sufficient, Capra’s prisons could always do with emptying. I can send some your way.”

Chrysalis frowned. “I’ll have to do much rebuilding. Much replenishing of the hive. Will you have enough criminals to sate us?”

“One useful thing about a state like mine, Queen Chrysalis, is that I can manufacture criminals whenever I like.” Some strange motion seemed to be taking place at the edges of the Crown’s mouth, as if it was trying to twitch upwards. “What do you say? Refuge and sustenance for your hive, and the promise of a second strike at Equestria some time in the future?”

The strange motions continued, and Chrysalis took a moment to answer. “Why are you offering all this?”

“Why, Queen Chrysalis,” replied the Crown, past its own wildly-twitching mouth. “I just think it’s past time I took a page from Equestria’s book.”

And, horror of horrors, the Crown figured out the motions, and at last, it smiled.

“I think it’s past time I made a friend.”

Agent Alloy trotted through the palace, pushing a cart with a nearly-full tea service on it. At this time, where evening’s and morning’s boundaries began to blur into one another, most guests still standing had moved onto something stronger. He’d made a sweep regardless, listened for anything interesting that anyone drunk might have let slip, heard nothing, and now made his way to somewhere he knew the tea would be appreciated. And where he might hear interesting things indeed.

One of his hooves trembled slightly. It had been a hell of a day, for all the obvious reasons, and for a few others.

One of those was the Arch-Minister, and Alloy still wasn’t sure whether he should have knocked him out and dragged him to safety the moment insane plans started coming out his mouth. Granted, if you knocked out an Arch-Minister any time they spouted insane plans, you’d never stop, but he suspected that sort of situation had called for it. He may yet get in trouble when he submitted his report.

At least said Arch-Minister was safe now. Alloy had last heard him outside along with the griffon chieftain, the pair of them singing for want of a better word. They were managing to hit entirely different notes on the same song, and not once did they alight on the correct one. But that was only dangerous to any listeners, not them, and Alloy had left them to it.

Then there was Tundra.

She’d accosted him in a side-corridor, where he’d been bearing a tray of canapes out into the fray, with an expression that suggested she’d been bracing herself for several minutes beforehand. “I don’t have to follow their advice exactly,” she’d said to herself. “But I can trust that they thought I could. And if it’s a day for doing extraordinary things anyway, no harm in doing one more.”

“Er, what?” he’d intelligently replied.

She’d met his gaze, and her eyes shone with determination. “Ahem. Would you like to get coffee sometime this week?”

He’d cogitated on the question and all it implied, and had come up with another dizzyingly intelligent reply. “Coffee?”

“Or tea. The exact liquid doesn’t matter too much. But I would like to get it with you.”

His brain had roiled for a moment. Part of him was stunned, another flattered, another curious. He didn’t customarily go for xenophilia, but Tundra was easy on the eyes as ibexes went, and he knew and liked the personality underneath. Another part of his brain reckoned this ought to be the sort of situation spies got into anyway, and he’d frankly been a disappointment to the profession in that regard for the last few years.

One more debonair and dashing reply then, to seal the deal. “Sure, why not. Joe’s at midday day after tomorrow?”

And she’d smiled, and agreed, and went on her way with a spring in her step he’d never seen before.

The only part that galled was that a better being than himself hadn’t put it there. He shook his head, smiled at the world, and returned to his work for the rest of the night.

Now he only had to deliver this last spot of tea, to somewhere he knew it would be appreciated, and that would be one of his jobs done for the day. And then he’d just have to head home, write a report that would probably take him until dawn, and that’d be his other job done for the day.

He trotted deeper into the palace, towards a distant and muffled yelling. He recognised the Royal Canterlot Voice – it was hard not to, if you’d shared a time-zone with it even once – and trotted faster towards whatever spirited discussion was going on between the royal sisters.

The subject of the discussion became clearer as he neared the door leading into a private chamber.

“...cannot believe we were not awoken!” blazed the source of the Royal Canterlot Voice, and Alloy’s eardrums began instinctively looking for a place to curl up and hide. He forced them to stand their ground. Never any harm in an eavesdrop.

“Be fair, Luna,” came the softer, more strained reply, as Alloy reached the door. “Some amongst our guards made the attempt. Alas, there was only so much they could do.”

“We are a heavy sleeper, we appreciate, but Sir Contrabassoon has managed to wake us before! Why was he not sought out?”

“Because he’s currently on holiday in Zebrica with his wife and two foals, and shall remain so for the next week. Imagine all the barracks gossip he’ll have to catch up on when he returns.”

A silence, and when Luna spoke again, she’d begrudgingly shed the Royal Canterlot Voice. “I mean not to belittle him, or either of the guards who made the attempt to waken us. They are well, I hope?”

“Dame Wind Vane is somewhat battered, but alive and well. Sir Stratus is considerably more battered, and intends to spend the next while lying in an icy bath and trying to recover his baritone. He should make a full recovery, though.”

“I am glad. I shall ensure their rest is untroubled.” A pause, and then Luna spoke again. “None were hurt seriously? Or slain?”

“None. Sir Stratus has come worst off out of everypony. Happily, Chrysalis had far nastier designs than mere bloodshed. In all honesty, whatever aura of invincibility I still retained has been the greatest casualty of the evening.”

“Quite.” Luna’s voice fell. “That will be a problem, you appreciate?”

“Don’t doubt I do. Forgive a sudden digression, but I’m sure I heard a cart pass by and stop a moment ago.”

Alloy blinked, grumbled at the keen senses of alicorns, and rapped twice upon the door. “Tea, Your Majesties?”

“Ah, Alloy. Tea would be most appreciated, thank you.” The door swung in, and Alloy stepped into the little chamber. It was plusher than the palace average, with a thick carpet, bright wall-hangings that ran all the way up to a ceiling that reflected the night sky, and little hovering magical lights that lent a soft ambience to proceedings. Luna paced at one side, and fixed Alloy with an austere look as he entered the room. Celestia reclined on a couch at the other side, and whatever energy she’d mustered when she’d shown face at the dance floor earlier seemed to be at a low ebb. “A cartload? You spoil us. Luna, this is Alloy. He’s the –”

“The spy,” Luna said coldly, giving Alloy a look that threatened to wilt him, and then favoured Celestia with a dose as well. Alloy winced at his real nature being known to more than he’d already budgeted for as Luna spoke. “I would have had stern words with the Arch-Minister for sending one into Equestria had we been in your position at the time of discovery, dear sister. And thrown this snooper out on his ear.”

“Then we’d be in the dark as to whoever the next spy they sent would be. Even amongst our closest allies, spying is a given, Luna. Much happens in Equestria that impacts upon the rest of the world, and they’ll do what they must to stay in the loop.” Celestia smiled over at Alloy. “Consider also that if Equestria is over-run and we can’t get word out in time, Alloy and those like him very well might. I consider that a good potential exchange for whatever other tidings he may pass on.”

“Hmmph.” Luna looked unconvinced, and the glance she flashed Alloy had all the warmth and welcome of a glacier face. She snorted and turned back on Celestia. “We must talk about our next steps, sister mine. Shall we bid him stay and take notes for that? Make sure he has sharp quills if he needs them?”

“If he likes, though there’ll be little need,” replied Celestia. “Since once the Arch-Minister and Chieftain Gellert are awake and conscious tomorrow, I intend to make them aware of our next steps. Some of them may be somewhat alarming, so perhaps it would only be fair they got some forewarning.”

‘Somewhat alarming’ didn’t put Alloy at any ease at all, and he tried not to look too trepid as he poured tea into cups.

“I don’t doubt,” Luna said dryly. “If we are talking freely about it, then, did you perchance get final word back from the archaeological team in the north? Have they confirmed things?”

“They have.” Celestia levitated over one of the cups and drained it in a single long sip, lowering it with a look of grim satisfaction on her face. “Senior Field Researcher Gallivant has done himself proud, and confirmed what we hoped it was, as well as the nature of the magic containing it. Between the two of us, we can unravel it. And when Cadence returns from her honeymoon, she will find her inheritance awaiting her at long last.”

Alloy blinked, and Luna smiled. “Good,” she said gently. “She merits nothing less. And the restoration of the Crystal Empire will be something for all Equestria to take delight in.”

“Indeed. And putting one particular old ghost up there to flight will be delightful as well.”

“His reckoning is long overdue,” Luna said, and her tone ran ice-cold with wrath. Alloy shrank back reflexively. Luna coughed, and recovered herself. “Though related to that sort of topic ...”

“I still think there is a chance it may work. And if it doesn’t, the ponies who stopped him once can stop him again.”

“Amazing,” said Luna. “I did not even mention anything or anyone by name, and yet you still knew what sort of self-inflicted calamity I might be advising against.”

“I know you’re skeptical.”

“I named it folly before, Tia, I name it folly now. I could append adjectives to that, if it please you. I have learned some fascinating modern ones.”

Alloy blinked at the turn the conversation had taken, and looked from Celestia to Luna, somewhat lost. Celestia insisted, “There is a hope. Fluttershy is that hope.”

“I hold nothing against Fluttershy. She has rendered great service to Equestria. She appears to be of sound moral character. I even dare say she is, by and large, a good pony. But I cannot believe that she, nor anypony, is capable of –”

“Today, she tamed a creature that was surely made by the Creator out of simple bad humour alone. She can tame most anything, if she puts her heart and will to it. And she would.”

Luna ground her teeth. Then she said, “He will be watched throughout. At the first sign of trouble, Twilight and her companions will freeze him anew. And when he is inevitably frozen again, we shall take him and –”

“Depth’s tides!” yelped Alloy suddenly. “You’re talking about Discord!” The exclamation had slipped out his mouth, and so had part of the tea service from his hooves. Scattered china and tea splattered across the carpet.

“We concur with the sneaking blackguard’s dismay,” said Luna sternly, and Celestia switched her look of remonstration from Alloy to her. “Whatever low cunning guides him has not done so incorrectly on this occasion. Alas, I suspect his voice added to mine shan’t sway your resolution.”

“We can contain him if it doesn’t work,” Celestia urged. “And if it does, we have gained a great deal indeed.”

“On our heads be it,” sighed Luna. “Naturally, I reserve the rights for a ‘Told you so’, and anticipate making ample use of it.”

“Duly noted. Alloy, are you aware you’re hyperventilating?”

Alloy had not been aware, and struggled to re-master himself for a moment. “Apologies, Princess. Bad memories involving halves.”

“No apologies needed, and indeed, my own for distressing you. I promise that Burro and Gellert will have ample opportunity tomorrow to dissuade me. As will Fairy Floss and Greenhorn, once I am able to speak with them.”

“Let us all hope their powers of persuasion are up to snuff,” Luna said. Her face then softened, and her tone, when she next spoke, was gentle. “One more thing that warrants discussion, then. Do your designs for Twilight Sparkle still hold?”

“They do,” said Celestia, equally quietly. “After today, I don’t doubt her capability and bravery. She would certainly shame me in the role. But … you know better than I do that there are certain unenviable aspects to our condition. And I would not wish them on her. Not unless I was absolutely certain she would master them.”

“One more test, then?”

“One more test. Maybe more. Perhaps the Crystal Empire will hold that test. If not, somewhere else. And should she succeed … then we will see.”

“It’s no light mantle for a pony.” Luna’s voice was still gentle, but undeniably firm. “I will help you assess her. And I say we three – you, Cadence, and I – must all concur. We cannot inflict more on Twilight Sparkle than she can bear. We both know what happens when that befalls an alicorn.”

“Very well,” Celestia said quietly, after a moment. “Both you and Cadence will have to correct for my bias, I fear. I very much wish there to be yet another princess. Equestria’s too broad to rest on my withers alone.” And then, yet more quietly. “Too important to rest on my withers alone.”

“Your withers are sound, Tia. They’ve done sterling work for a millenium.”

“Indeed. And the world has just about scraped by. Let’s not test its luck any longer. Let’s ensure I can always be countered should worst come to worst.”

Silence reigned for a moment, in which Alloy realised just what they were proposing in regards to the Element Bearer under discussion, and Celestia murmured, “There’ll be a time when all this maneuvering and game-playing on our parts will fall away. When we all finally have to put our cards on the table. Have all our masks burned away, and see who our allies are, and see who we are, and have what we’re capable of put to the test, once and for all.”

She looked up at Alloy, tired magenta briefly swallowing him up, and she nodded. “Thank you for the tea, Alloy. Do give Burro and Gellert adequate warning tomorrow, if you think they need some sudden, dire distraction from their hangovers. And get a good night’s rest.”

Allow swallowed, and nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The next day shall dawn,” Celestia murmured as he turned to leave. “I … we will all make sure of it.”

Deciding What You'll Give to the Bride and Groom is Always Important, of Course

It was that rarest of things, a quiet evening in Canterlot. The first stars were beginning to appear in the evening sky over the capital, dusting themselves across a cloudless expanse of indigo. Alloy emerged into the dusk from a little door at the base of the palace complex and took a moment to breathe in the cool air and try to will some sharpness back into his mind. A distant and soft hubbub from the city beyond was the only intrusion on his senses; but otherwise, all was still silence.

In retrospect, Alloy should have been vastly more on edge about the tranquility. He’d only now emerged from a meeting of the Royal Household staff that had lasted for just over three hours, however, and in that sort of circumstance, there came a point where acuity of mind was overwhelmed by mental pleading for a comet to come down and flatten the whole continent just for the sake of some interesting diversion.

There was a patter of hooves on the stone floor at Alloy’s back, and the young mule turned to their source. An ibex doe came hesitantly towards him, also clad in the gold-and-white uniform of the Royal Household, her gaze meeting his for one nervous moment before she glanced aside.

“Tundra.” Alloy smiled as best he could manage past his weariness and nodded at her. “Going for the same escape route as me, then?”

“I … ah, yes.” Tundra fidgeted. “May I walk with you?”

Alloy hesitated, and then nodded. “By all means. I was headed for the gardens.” He stretched his forelegs and groaned as his withers popped. “Anything like semi-civilised conversation after all that would be more than welcome.”

He trotted out into the wide space ringed by towers and palace structures and made for a path that led out towards the gardens. Tundra fell into step alongside him, and for a long moment, they trotted in companionable silence. Alloy’s gaze rose occasionally to the silhouettes of guards patrolling along the walls and towers, and he wondered how many more of them would be on active duty in the weeks to come.

He glanced round at Tundra. Even a good few months spent working here in the palace, well away from the hellhole she’d previously been serving in, hadn’t entirely cured her of a tendency to keep her gaze on the ground and trot as though she was surrounded by eggshells. At least he’d been able to coax her into bowing at a more decent and shallower angle than when she’d first arrived.

She noticed his gaze, and wonder of wonders, ventured a nervous smile in his direction. “I’m excited for this,” she said.

“Really?” Alloy couldn’t help the question. His initial spark of excitement over the prospect seemed a foreign, distant thing after the tedium of the meeting and after his dawning realisation of just how much labour the Royal Household would be putting in.

“I’ve never … well, done anything like this before. There wasn’t much call for this sort of thing in the Old Palace, back in Bellbylon. And … ah, even personally, I’ve never —”

“Warning where warning’s due,” interrupted Alloy. “It won’t seem so exciting once we have to get stuck into setting the poxy thing up. There’s all manner of behind-the-scenes work for something this large, and the less said about the clean-up afterwards, the better.”

Alloy felt slightly guilty about the words once they’d left him. If this really was a novelty for Tundra, then why did he have to try and quash her excitement? Thankfully, his words didn’t seem to have had too much impact. Her smile had only flickered a little. “I’m sure there’ll be a fun part or two,” he said lamely. “Just stay wary for more meetings like that. Because there will be more as the happy couple decide on the fixtures and seating arrangements and exact ceremony and see fit to inform us. And it’s not a question of whether they’ll change their mind about something we’ve finished setting up a minute before the event itself. It’s a question of how much we’ll weep in helpless frustration when the inevitable comes.”

“I don’t mind working on it. Or the meetings, even. It’ll be fun to learn what goes on here. How ponies do it.”

“No faulting a learning experience, I suppose.” Alloy saw that they were entering the gardens proper. An evening stroll around them with Tundra before retiring in peace back to his own quarters didn’t seem like the most unpleasant thing in the world.

But he’d come out here with another purpose. He had a job to do. And to his left, there was a large and conveniently-impenetrable hedgerow.

Tundra swallowed. “I was wondering if —”

“Do you mind if I nip around the back of here for just a second?” said Alloy suddenly, motioning to the hedge with his forehoof. “Keep walking, and I’ll catch up shortly.”

“Why? What are you doing behind the hedge?”

Alloy paused for a moment. “Jack stuff.”

Tundra asked no further questions, opting instead to venture ahead down the garden path with a slightly worried glance back in Alloy’s direction. The mule watched her leave for a moment before quickly making his way round the back of the hedge, out of sight from all possible onlookers.

Off came his saddlebags. Out from them came a pencil, a piece of paper, and a little twist of alchemically-treated green messenger-paper. There was still just about enough light in the sky to write by.

Alloy was an upright and dutiful servant in Equestria’s Royal Household, for which he was paid one of his two salaries. The other salary came from the intelligence offices just past Equestria’s eastern border.

Agent Alloy of the Asinial Republic wrote to his superiors in what were far more peaceful circumstances than the average for this sort of thing. There is to be a wedding, he began ...

Elsewhere, under the same evening sky.

In the middle of the arid Equestrian Badlands, half a day’s flight from the nearest settlement of note, there rose a great and mountainous formation of ridges and river-carved canyons, twisting together like a nest of serpents. Dark and low-hanging clouds which rarely shed rain hovered constantly over the black and serrated tops of the ridges, casting the deep ravines between them into constant shadow. At its heart, the ridges folded together to form looming overhangs and cavern roofs, and below them, the tangled network of rivers descended into a deepening web of twisty little passages and caves.

Willing visitors to the formation - which was varying known as the Black Defiles, the Obvious Location of Horror and Death to be Shunned by Any Ponies With the Sense the Creator Gave a Stoat (Literal Minded was generally regarded as one of the best pony explorers of the last few centuries, albeit as good with names as polio was with infants), or Home - were a rare sight. But not entirely unknown.

In the depths beneath the snarled heart of the Black Defiles, in one high-roofed cavern riddled with little streams running across the floor and down the walls, a visitor stood. They were as still and patient as if they’d been carved from stone, covered from the hooves upwards in a cowled robe. Only a little summoned sphere of light in the air before them provided any illumination.

Past the drip and murmur and distant echo of water all around them, there also came an occasional chitter. An odd wing-beat. Far-off hoof-treads and whispers in the dark.

And finally, one set of hoof-treads grew closer and closer, their source gradually taking shape as they grew closer to the cowled figure’s light. A great and chitinous frame loomed over the smaller figure, as large as any alicorn’s and as dark as a moonless night. A gnarled black horn protruded above two poison-coloured eyes, shimmering softly with bright green magic.

The eyes narrowed, and a sharp smile revealed the tips of glistening fangs.

“Queen Chrysalis, I presume.” The cowled figure spoke first, their voice dry and flat. “You wouldn’t believe how many spies and much wandering around dreary patches of the Badlands it took to finally find your hive.”

“And found it you have,” said Chrysalis, circling the figure like a pacing wolf. As she spoken, chitters and murmurs from unseen and countless sources filled the hush of the room from all around. “My drones saw you poking around the exterior rather avidly and were well-trained enough to bring you here when you asked politely. So what might you be, past that dreadfully cliched cowled robe? A particularly unflappable sort of tourist? A scholar chasing rumours? A pony with an ambitious death wish?”

“Call me a scholar for now,” said the figure, a note of amusement entering their voice. “I’ve done my research regarding your kind — at least, as much as anybeing can these days. Most history books have an annoying tendency of concluding you were never anything much beyond legends. Most history books.”

“We have no use for it to be otherwise … yet. But you admit to knowing differently.” Chrysalis came back round to the figure’s front, and her gaze bored deep into the cowl’s shadowed depths. “Spell out your purpose here in my home, then, for you clearly have one. Brave or foolish, you have my attention. I recommend making it count before I grow bored or my children grow hungry.”

“Hungry children,” said the cowled figure contemplatively. “I imagine that must be a problem for you, all the way out here.”

“We make do.” Chrysalis’s tone was cold.

“Making do on reckless travellers and the odd forager. Maybe the occasional expedition by a group of your drones to poach whoever and whatever they can from the nearest settlements. Small groups, of course. No parasite wants to risk discovery, after all. Besides, other legends have been stepping out of the shadows with wild abandon of late. It’s not been ending well for them, has it?”

“Fascinating,” purred Chrysalis after a moment, leaning in closer towards the cowl. “I’ve never met a being so intent on abrogating my good will.”

The figure was silent for a time before it spoke next. “Imagine if Equestria does find you. What will you do then?”

Chrysalis’s eyes flashed, and magic flared up the gnarled length of her horn. From the darkness all around, there came a cacophony of hisses and snarls and creaking wings. Green fire guttered to life around the outlines of dozens of horns, casting glistening light across a spreading circle of dark chitinous bodies and segmented eyes and far too many fangs.

“This one is threatening us, my children,” said Chrysalis. “And what do we do with threats?”

“You destroy them,” the figure cut in. “I’m not your main threat here, Queen Chrysalis. But I can help you destroy the one who is, to our mutual gain.”

Chrysalis paused. The chitters and hisses diminished, but the glow of the magic persisted.

“Speak,” Chrysalis said at last. “Do so carefully.”

“I have recently received some interesting news. News worthy of exploitation by those with wit and daring.” They stiffly raised a forehoof to push back the cowl. “Queen Chrysalis, ruler of the greatest changeling hive on Ungula and mightiest of Queens ... I have a proposition for you.”

Chrysalis smirked. “Why, I’m charmed. But this is quite sudden, and I’m rather married to my job. You’ll have to persuade me.”

The figure’s hoof paused mid-rise. There was the suggestion of a deep, indrawn breath from under the cowl.

“One happy, happy day,” they muttered to themselves, “I’ll have a meeting with someone who doesn’t feel the need to be undeservedly flippant.”

After all that, some weeks passed absent any publicised threat to the world at large.

Elsewhere yet, in the early hours of a brisk morning, three donkeys had their own discussion.

This time, the elsewhere was a well-appointed office overlooking a busy harbour, atop the Parliament Building in the city of Asincittà, bustling capital of the Asinial Republic. The discussion concerned what Arch-Minister Burro Delver would be wearing that day. It had been going on for a while between the two self-appointed clothiers on Burro’s either side and had passed through all the typical conversational stages of earnest debate, arguing, shouting, and exchanged bodily threats.

Burro himself fidgeted in the space before his huge desk, groaned as his aging joints protested at the motion, and glanced at a nearby longcase clock. Two hours had apparently gone by since the ordeal started, and he suspected the clock was lying.

“Can we at least agree that there are many happy changes that could be made to the existing Fleet Admiral’s dress uniform for the sake of greatly improving its aesthetic?” That was the young jack at his right-hoof side, Silhouette, Burro’s personal secretary.

“You could certainly argue that. And you know what? I’d normally agree with you,” came the equally icy tones of Damasque from the other side. The jenny was the Diplomatic Secretary for Burro’s cabinet as well as a professional stickler. “But there’s a time and a place to muck around with the regulation dress uniform for the highest naval rank, and the morning before your Arch-Minister has to head off in the bloody thing to an Equestrian state occasion isn’t it.”

“I’m not disputing that it’s regulation. I’m asserting that it’s gurglingly stupid.”

“Silhouette, I swear to the Creator, if you start this horse-apples again —”

“Whoever else is in attendance at the wedding will mock Asinia’s sartorial customs if the Arch-Minister is forced to wear this unmodified. Leaving aside the obvious suspect of the cavalier hat, the tailcoat’s navy blue, for goodness sake! Who thought to make the waistcoat under it vermillion? And the epaulettes! The stylised kraken on them’s nice enough, but when the whole thing’s got a braided design, why in the Depths would you make the attached aiguillette gold-wire? The ghost of Beau Amble would vomit.”

Burro Delver, who felt he’d been surpassingly still and patient throughout the last aeon, wondered how to bring it all to a happy end for all parties short of lethal force. “Kindly don’t have the epaulettes argument again,” he said. “Neither side in it has grown on me over the last three times you pair have had it.”

“I’m not having the epaulettes argument, Arch-Minister,” said Silhouette archly.

Damasque growled. “Don’t dare say you’re stating the epau—”

“I’m stating the epaulettes facts.”

“You’re not leaving this room alive, you smirking son of a geld—”

“Both of you have made wonderful points throughout this whole lovely process,” said Burro abruptly, donning a sharp and practised smile. “And I don’t doubt you could keep making wonderful points for many happy hours to come. However, I feel obliged to point out that I have my own wardrobe up in my bedroom. My old coat and tricorne from my privateering days are hanging in there somewhere. All patched and still burnt and slashed in places, and terribly dusty and mothbally for that matter. And if the pair of you can’t agree in the next few minutes on what permutation of the dress uniform I’m to inflict on Celestia’s eyes, then I swear to the Depths, I’m going to march upstairs, put said old coat and hat on, and delight the wedding with them.”

The effects were immediate and as desired: Silhouette gagged, while Damasque clenched her teeth. She glared daggers at Burro, who shrugged it off. The better chunk of a lifetime spent in politics had rendered the old jack glare-proof.

Damasque turned to Silhouette, and whilst keeping her teeth clenched, gritted out, “I am prepared to concede ground on the cavalier hat.”

“Thank you, Secretary,” Silhouette replied with what seemed like genuine relief. “The multicoloured plume’s the main sticking point. I recommend the commodore’s bicorne. No plumage, and the gold trim lends it adequate gravitas whilst gelling with the overall uniform.”

“Fine,” said Damasque, running one hoof down her face while Silhouette swept a monstrosity of feathers off Burro’s head. “Let’s just hope everyone there gets too drunk to know what hat should really be on.”

“If I didn’t know what hat should be on, I guarantee no other being will, Damasque,” Burro said soothingly. He felt a bicorne being rested upon his head by Silhouette, the traditional fore-and-aft placement leaving his notched ears free to spring up on either side. “Tell me more cheerful and relevant things. Any updates from our pair of eyes in the royal household? Who else is coming?”

“Some fellow statesbeings have been confirmed as attending. Others will send their representatives or regrets.” Damasque looked relieved at the change of topic and plunged right into it. “Saddle Arabia’s Viceroy will be there. Tyrant Fairy Floss of Ovarn will be there in person for the ceremony itself, as will Bullwalda Greenhorn with his consort.”

“Solid crowd so far.” Burro looked thoughtful. “I’ve yet to meet Greenhorn’s consort. From Bovish noble stock, but that’s all I’ve gathered.”

“A Capric representative should also be there, sent by the Crown. Zebrica, or rather, the two Zebrican realms will send their diplomats to show face — minor nobles favoured by either pharaoh, from what I understand. No firm word from the Pachydermians, but we think they’ll send someone as well. An invitation was sent to Lord Alpha Rex of Beryllium, and I imagine it’s gathering dust on an untouched corner of his desk at this very moment. The Fire Queen probably shan’t send anyone, she’s never really done state occasions. Complete silence from Ceratos. The Gazellen diplomat had been invited, but he claims to have come down with a nasty case of horndroop, and begs that his lack of attendance be construed as a wish that the happy day not be overshadowed by an outbreak of the condition.”

Burro nodded. Everyone with both the sense and the ability would send a trustworthy pair of eyes to the event, if they couldn’t just send their own. Princess Mi Amore Cadenza had thus been a relatively reserved figure in Equestrian political affairs. Even Asinia’s agent in the palace had rarely been able to report more than the same details: that she was all-round lovely (said loveliness somewhat frazzled of late by wedding preparations, which was to be expected), that she had some prior relationship with one of the Element-Bearers (who were all apparently in attendance as well, and would also be eminently worthwhile meeting), and that she was involved with a guard captain. Very involved, if the invitation to their wedding was anything to go by.

“I assume nobody from Corva’s even been invited?” he said.

“An invitation was sent to the Cormaer,” said Damasque, provoking a surprised snort from Burro. “You know what Celestia’s like for extending an open hoof in these matters. Hopeless optimism, I call it. Her kindness was probably used to pad out a nest, if it was lucky.”

“She makes the effort,” said Burro. He looked knowingly at his Diplomatic Secretary. “You’ve not mentioned one particular name so far, though.”

Damasque sighed. “A telegram from Chieftain Gellert came to my office early this morning on the subject. All it had on it was ‘Tell the Arch-Minister he can’t put off that night of revelry any longer, and that I bet he still holds his drink like a sieve’.”

“Old sot.” Burro grinned. “I’m not sure how civilised an affair this is meant to be, but if it goes the way of most weddings, I could very well find myself helpless to refuse him.”

“Recall that I’m hosting several captains of Zebrican industry for the Trans-Cheval Mercantile Concord tomorrow, sir,” said Damasque sweetly. “If you find yourself tempted to do anything today that seems like it might bring about a concord-jeopardizing scandal, then I’ll thank you to also recall that I know where you sleep.”

“Bah.” Burro’s creased smile acquired a certain jovial rakishness. “You know donkeys love it whenever I have a fun scandal. I get bouquets and bottles and chocolates from the press barons whenever they come up. And now I mention that, the flowers around here are starting to wilt a bit. Shall I see that they’re replaced?”

“Sir.”

“I’m teasing, Damasque. I promise that whenever impropriety arises during today, I’ll be a mere accessory rather than a root cause.”

Damasque spent a moment muttering the most heartfelt blasphemy the Asiniol tongue had to offer before grumbling, “I suppose if I can’t get a full loaf, I’ll settle for a mouldy crust.”

“Thank you, my dear. That’s the most flattering comparison I’ve heard in years.” Burro winked and turned on Silhouette, who’d been hovering around and straightening out Burro’s uniform like a neurotic and fashion-conscious bee. “Could you remind me what I’m giving the bride and groom?”

“Recall the toaster the Auspicious Guild of Boundary-Breakers gifted you last month, Arch-Minister?”

“The Auspi —? Stars above.” Burro winced with recollection. “That was the one where they ignited cartridges of corvid black powder for the heating element, wasn’t it?”

“The very same, Arch-Minister. Passing such gifts onto those who may get more use from them shouldn’t offend anyone’s sensibilities.”

“It … was an exciting variation on a combustion engine, I’ll grant it that much. Is there nothing less lethal we can give the poor couple?”

“No donkey actually died during the demonstration, Arch-Minister,” said Silhouette in what Burro thought was meant to be a soothing manner. “Besides, if our own use of it is anything to go by, it’s the sort of present to be smiled and nodded at before you let it gather dust at the bottom of a cupboard. Call its gifting symbolic. With it, we both demonstrate our hope and expectation that the happy couple enjoys domestic bliss, and we showcase our nation’s technological ingenuity. From our own hooves to their needs, as it were.”

“Showcase something about our nation, certainly.” Burro shook his head and looked away. “Send it along to the ornithopter, and hopefully I’ll be out of Equestria by the time it’s used. Attach written instructions to it, just for ethics’ sake. What ornithopter am I taking to Canterlot, by the way? Was the Mockingbird salvageable at all, or did the Discord incident do too much of a number on the old girl?”

“All the tooled parts transforming into guinea pigs and back again was too much for her in the end, I’m afraid,” said Damasque. “I broached the matter with Ms Amiatina of the Brineside Shipwrights when discussing the launch of the new ships. For the occasion, she was kind enough to lend us one of the prototypes from her new aeronautical division, on condition that it’s flown in grand style over the city on your way out. The Cloud-Kisser. Fifty leagues per hour at peak speed, so it shouldn’t take much more than three or four hours to get to Canterlot. Fitted out with the most modern galvanic rotors and a mithril-alloy fuselage and other unpronounceable things. It sometimes doesn’t explode mid-flight, even.”

“So long as I’m away from any window seat, I can endure anything modern.” Burro dared to take a step. The uniform pressed tightly in parts, but there was something curiously reassuring about being in naval dress once more. Even if it was the official sort of naval dress, it was almost enough to make him feel young again. “No sense wasting the day, then. Do you have my overnight bag, Silhouette?”

“Already aboard the Cloud-Kisser, Arch-Minister. Along with the toaster. I’ll send the written instructions along shortly.”

“Good jack. I’m sure Captain Baudet’s already got an escort or several waiting for me when I step outside. Given the security measures Celestia’s put in place for this, I’m sure I can give them the day off in Canterlot. Damasque, I’ll get some work done on the flight to torment you with when I come back tomorrow. Don’t let Asinia burn down while I’m gone, now.”

“Be careful, sir,” said Damasque as Burro turned to the door leading out and began to stiffly stride in its direction. “And remember, no scandals. I’ll be badgering our spy there and watching tomorrow’s headlines like a hawk.”

“It’s just a wedding, Damasque,” said Burro, pushing open the door. Two dark-clad jennies fell into step beside him as he trotted out into the corridor. “How uncivilised do you expect it to get?”