Princess Celestia sighed and forced a genial smile onto her face before entering.
From her royal balcony, the view was calm. Ponies in suits and dresses flanked either side of the mountain river, watching the waters cruise by. Along the main bridge, boats lined up and rowers sat down, their oars poised to strike.
“Wow, they’re certainly lining up now,” boomed the voice over the speakers. “It’s safe to say if they keep their paddles in the water, they’ll definitely get somewhere.”
Most of the congregation were expressionless, but it was the taut, cautious kind that fought not to suggest, for example, that the overly loquacious commentator was an idiot.
Eights Week had never been one of her favourite events. Under the stewardship of the stoic mountains, over the rolling hills of the Canterlot range, the scattered silhouettes of florists fussed over carpets of buttercup yellows, daisy whites, and bluebells swirling and dancing with violets. Pollen like solar dust zipped and flickered in the breeze. Staring down through the sunlit sea of the air, the bright sun itself seemed to burst with joy.
Yet within the confines of her immediate surroundings, the brickwork and the mortar flexed and twisted in gothic agony. The University of Canterlot, watching from both sides of the river, stood stiff-backed and with chests thrust proudly before them. Dozens of badges gleamed with every conceivable colour on their lapels to boast their collegiate affiliations, and yet somehow conspired to be as blasé as endless shades of grey. What should have been a crimson rich with wine and velvet, for instance, merely contrived to look like a badly soiled piece of carpet.
By contrast, the students in the boats whooped and cheered themselves on, occasionally jeering and making threatening gestures at each other.
Ah, the old college rivalries, Celestia thought, and she shook her head indulgently. Two thousand years, and nothing changes.
As regally as she could – which in practice meant with an arthritic slowness – Princess Celestia placed herself onto the cushions provided for the occasion.
The boat races, from what she could tell, promised to be as frantic and dirty as ever. It was hard to credit in such a place – even one technically outside Canterlot borders, due largely to some antiquated quibble over some lordship’s unlawful enclosures and one or two boundary disputes – but the students were all Canterlot types from head to heart. They were at what was delicately called a free-spirited age, when they could say and do almost anything their ids goaded them into saying and doing, comfortable in the knowledge that, so long as they put away such childish things in their riper years, they would be excused the follies of youth.
Princess Celestia looked at the crushing brickwork all around, and felt the urge to sigh again.
She had to attend. Of course she had to attend. She had been there when the university was founded. Princess Celestia Was Always There. But it didn’t stop her from wincing against the dead weight on her brain.
One of the rowers cheerfully munched on a carrot-in-a-bun. She licked her lips. Perhaps she could slip out for a moment and get some leftover party food. There was bound to be some from last night’s revelry in Ballyhoo College. Or perhaps Habeas Corpus still had some elderflower cake locked up in their larder; she still remembered how to pick the lock from her time there two millennia ago.
Or maybe…
A smirk escaped her lips. But that would not do for Princess Celestia. If anyone had most definitely reached their riper years, she had.
Of course, so long as no one actually knew about it…
She cast a look about her, but each guard on her left and on her right stood as stock-still as statues. Quickly, she glanced down at the crowd. Stern faces focused on one rower, who was trying to do the sisal two-step without pitching his entire team into the drink.
Curtains parting behind her, she slipped out.
Ah! How sweet the breeze was on these steps. Soon, she was at the foot of an endless spiral of hard flagstones and out through the gaping portals of oak and gilded edging. Beyond, the courtyard trickled with fountains and rustled with ivy and poplar leaves. Even the arches vaunting the engraved profiles of long-dead luminaries seemed perfectly idyllic, especially among the darling buds and the mayflowers sprouting beneath the stonework.
Some errant stallion bounced past, shrieking, “Exams are over! Exams are over! Huzzah, huzzah!” She barely registered his appearance as his cries died away. Evidently, the porters hadn’t mopped up everyone from last night’s chaos.
Glancing up, the distant clock tower of Old Sleipnir clicked. The minute hand was one mark closer to noon. Despite herself, she was pleased to see the white dot of toilet roll slung carelessly over the peak of its spire. Another, even larger tower, barely peeked over the rooftops in the distance.
Oh, amateurs, she thought giddily. Anyone can get Old Sleipnir. You should try Big Bloomer’s tower. That takes effort without pegasus wings. And I almost slipped on the tiles twice.
Stepping across the grass to the next grand portal, she let the old habits speak through her muscles. Thousands of years of memories flitted across her mind: rummaging around the underground vaults with a gaggle of other unicorn mares; magically spraying the sides of the Clover College hall with solar dust; sitting hunched and glum in a stuffy classroom afterwards, patiently writing out why drawings of the Dean should not emphasize his jelly-like belly like that.
Princess Celestia slipped across the main hall, her shoes tapping against the marble as she went. Yes, Eights Week had meant something once. Their idea of anarchy now was just formal dances, formal parties, and formal races. If you were silly at those things, it was silly like a monkey could be silly in a cage.
Back then, though…
They hadn’t organized dances. They certainly hadn’t organized parties. Organization happened elsewhere, probably in the next town over, where it would usually involve barricades and pre-emptive shield spells. She strode down the corridor, and could almost see, coming the other way, the ghost of a dozen animals from the Royal Zoological Gardens. She almost stepped aside for the phantom of the white mare, who was laughing and chasing after them while ancient teachers in the doorways yelled and shook their hooves.
Quickly, she ducked into another classroom, all rows and columns of angular chairs and block-shaped desks. Beyond the windows, she saw the pits where a fallen statue had once crashed into the student plaza.
Now… one step to the left… three tiles forwards… or was it three sideways… no, six sideways… move that chair… aaaaaaannnddd… There! She licked her lips and flicked a tile up and over.
Hidden in the secret stash was a bulging brown loaf.
Aarvak bread, she thought cheerfully. So old Meadowflower wasn’t talking through her hat. It does last forever.
Sparkles ran along its length. Summoning her magic, she guided the loaf out of the slot and dropped the tile back into place.
Young, wild days indeed. It’d been yet another crazy experiment among hundreds. They’d invented this bread together, based on the old pegasus recipes but with a unicornian touch that was all their own. No one, not even she, remembered why they’d done it. Perhaps simply because they could.
Outside, the minute hand clicked. The chimes began. A sonorous bell boomed… boomed… boomed…
Princess Celestia sighed. Those were the really great days.
With a magical flash of her horn, the classroom vanished, and she was seated on the cushions on the balcony overlooking the sternly watched river. Just in time: a pegasus swiped at the air with the starting flag. Every rower’s horn flared. Oars pumped furiously. As one, the boats surged neatly into their own straight lines, but already one of them was slipping backwards.
I hope they haven’t used weighted undersides, she thought sadly. Of all the lowly tricks.
She remembered the time her Eights had placed a sinking spell on one of the boats, which not so accidentally had bumped into one of the others on its way down. The Infectious Invocation had been a nice touch, especially when that boat had crashed into the next one, which had crashed into the next one and blocked the fifth one by piling onto the third. Five boats in one spell! Oh, how Meadowflower had laughed!
And now they stick a bit of metal under the boat and think they’re rebels. Dear oh dear. They just don’t cheat like they used to.
Cheerfully, Celestia levitated the bread, took a bite, and froze. Her eyes widened.
As genteelly as she dared, she prised her clenched teeth away from the loaf, which she set down carefully by her side. There was a definite, unpromising, and above all loud crunching while she chewed. It was like eating a brick.
Hmm… spit or swallow?
She swallowed. Bits of what felt like gravel tumbled down her gullet. She could almost hear the splash when it hit her stomach.
Princess Celestia glanced down at her bread and sighed. There was a note hidden inside it.
“Celly,” she read. “I got ya! Signed, Meadowflower.”
“Carrot cake slice, Your Highness?”
She glanced up. One of the guards was levitating a tray full of delicacies before her. She noticed his counterpart opposite was already munching on a choux bun, and smearing a lot of cream over his face in the process.
Smiling politely, she accepted one of the swollen, icing-encrusted entities from the tray. “Thank you,” she said kindly.
The guard nodded and silently banished the loaf with a spell. No one spoke for several minutes, busily masticating their culinary prizes and shuddering slightly at the attendant sugar rush that followed.
Perhaps, she thought with a blush, while down below the racers took their first bend, it’s best some things are left in the past.
