The massive book shelves cast dark shadows, in spite of the open windows at the front of the store and the noon sun outside. The shadows masked the true depths of the stacks—did the rows and rows of shelves extend back fifty feet? A hundred feet? Miles and miles?
Twilight Sparkle shook her head and mentally chided herself for letting her imagination run away like that. But as she trotted deeper, she reflected on how this place seemed almost designed to spur a pony’s imagination into a frenzy. The aisles between the shelves were narrow, with only enough space for ponies to walk single-file. The shelves were packed with scrolls and ancient books, their covers all faded to browns and grays. The shelves themselves were towering monoliths or ancient trees, reaching into the concealing shadows and leaning inward—a canopy that the slightest disturbance might bring down upon Twilight’s head.
Yet, even though this felt more like a dark forest than like a collection of knowledge and stories, various curiosities were nestled into gaps between the ranks of books—objects which belonged neither in a forest nor a book shop. Large crystals, stones with arcane markings, glass jars, display cases of pinned insects, figures made of sticks and twine, and rusted, twisting blades that only telekinesis could grasp: all had been pressed into service as impromptu book rests.
Twilight stopped and looked back behind her, then forward again. The path between the shelves curved, such that she could not see the end in either direction—yet she had traveled in a straight line this entire time. Must be an optical illusion, she thought. On a whim, she tapped a book on the nearest shelf. It moved under her hoof, proving at least that these shelves weren’t as monolithic as they appeared.
A large, clear jar squatted just a foot to the left of her hoof. In the jar, preserved in yellowing alcohol, was coiled some chitinous, serpentine creature of the ocean depths—its exoskeleton bleached with age, its mandibles open in a long-silenced scream.
A massive eye appeared, staring straight at Twilight. “Lost already, Miss Sparkle?”
She recoiled. When her rump struck the opposite shelf, she realized who she was looking at, and she gave a weak laugh rather than a loud shout. “Oh, no, just admiring the decor, Mister ... I’m sorry. I don’t think I got your name?”
The eye disappeared from the jar, and its owner—a tall, slender stallion— stepped around the bookshelf. “Shall I show you the way, then?” he said with a smile. “I’ll be the first to admit that the organization of my store is rather ... idiosyncratic.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and trotted away.
“Thank you,” Twilight said as she followed.
The bookstore owner hummed a queer melody as he moved briskly—his powdered, tightly curled tail bouncing with every step. His outfit was just as strange. With his black suit, his matching top hat, and his high, starched shirt collar, he resembled nothing less than some dandy displaced from two centuries ago. He led Twilight on an inscrutable path through the grid of shelves, darting left and right until she could no longer tell which way was which.
“Tell me, Miss Sparkle,” he said without slowing down, “do you believe in evil?”
“I’m sorry?” Twilight replied.
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“No, it’s an incredibly vague question! You have to define your terms, or we’ll just waste time talking past each other.” Twilight cringed slightly as she realized how harshly that came out. “So, why do you want to know?”
“Oh, just idle chit-chat. If you’d prefer something more substantial ...”
The stallion spun to face Twilight and planted one forehoof on a shelf, the impact echoing weakly. She stepped back as he continued, “Why are you interested in Resonius IV? Even for one of those old and moldy wizards, he’s quite obscure.”
“Well ...” Twilight stepped forward. “I think some of his research was abandoned too quickly, before anypony pursued it to its true potential.”
“Yes, potential. So, which field of his research did you have in mind?”
“His last experiment. The attempt to boost a unicorn’s raw spellcasting power.”
“Excellent! It warms the cold, dead cockles of my heart to hear that this volume will be in good hooves, ha ha!” He moved his hoof a few inches and pulled a worn tome off the shelf. As he passed it to Twilight, he added, “Now, I may have misled you when I said I had a book about Resonius IV. What I have instead is …”
“Resonius’ personal journal?” Twilight gaped at the open book in her telekinesis. “I thought this was lost when Resonius disappeared! How did you get it?”
“Oh, I have my ways.”
“Oh my goodness, I don’t think I brought enough bits to afford this. And ... how do I know this isn’t some forgery?”
The shopkeeper smirked. “Miss Sparkle, you’re the first customer to ask me about Resonius in decades. If this journal is a forgery, then the fact that somepony else cared that much about him is interesting enough, isn’t it?”
Twilight scrunched her face as she thought.
“How about this?” the stallion added. “I’m a bookseller, but from time to time I play at being a librarian. I could loan the journal to you for two weeks. That should be time enough for you to satisfy your doubts regarding its authenticity—and to convince you that you need this journal. We’ll discuss the, hehe, payment then.”
“That’s awfully generous, sir.” Suspiciously so, though Twilight knew not to say as much.
“Splendid!” The stallion spun again and rushed away.
Twilight followed just behind and, far more quickly than she thought possible, emerged from the front door into the winding Canterlot back alley. After blinking at the bright sunlight, she looked back at the bookstore Les Livres Perdus—just as the stallion locked the door. He tipped his hat at Twilight and hung a “Closed” sign in the window.
“Well, that was odd,” she said as she trotted down the street, back to the Academy. “I guess I ought to test the authenticity first. But it won’t hurt to read a bit while I walk there ...”
Twilight recast her preservation spell and opened the book. A loose page slipped out from close to the back cover, and she caught it before it could touch the ground.
“Well now, what’s this? A list? Resonius, you’re a pony after my own heart. Well, assuming you actually wrote all this.”
incidents, and a sinister pattern presents itself.
3 June. Canterlot. about 300 thaums.
1 August. Canterlot. about 2 × 10^4 thaums.
1 September. Tackleford. about 5 × 10^7 thaums.
15 September. Salonicker. about 2 × 10^13 thaums.
22 September. Pasture. about 6 × 10^25 thaums.
26 September. Haybridge. about 7 × 10^48 thaums.
The procedure is naught but a stop-gap, and it grows less effective every time I perform it! I shudder to think what the effects will be when I reach the asymptote. What, precisely, am I trying to
“Hmm ...” Twilight said. “Where have I heard those dates before?” Her hoofsteps carried her to the Academy—not to the History Department, but towards the library.
In the darkness of the library’s side room, lit only by the microfiche reader, Twilight shivered once. She was glad at least that she could conduct this research in solitude.
As Twilight confirmed, the first occurrence was on June 3rd, 763 C.E. The report in the next morning’s edition of The Canterlot Times—written by intrepid reporter Tabula Gris—was hidden all the way back in page three of the local news section, and quite terse. The victim was a stallion—and a unicorn, obviously—but the article otherwise gave no description of him. Tabula was similarly reticent about where the victim had been found, offhoofedly mentioning Blooming Heather Heights only once. Back in the 760s, that neighborhood had been the preferred home for the newest of nouveau riche.
Idly, Twilight wondered: Did the Times merely have no inkling of how big this story would grow? Or had the victim, wishing to avoid scandal, bribed the newspaper into burying the story?
The next occurrence, the one on August 1st, earned Tabula Gris a place on the front page—albeit one below the fold. And the incident made for sensational news copy: not just a shocking act of violence, but also a chilling mystery. The victim, a burgundy unicorn stallion, refused to identify himself or describe his assailant upon waking up. And the next morning, he vanished from the hospital with no trace. The police were confident about finding the missing unicorn—but Tabula clearly preferred the hypothesis that the evildoer had tracked down his victim and finished the job.
Tabula’s article was an excellent piece of fear-mongering. He made certain to link this crime to the similar incident from two months ago—and to speculate that more incidents would follow, soon.
He was half right. There was exactly one more incident, on September 1st. This one warranted a front page, above-the-fold headline—one that screamed at Twilight from the microfiche reader’s magnifying crystal:
HORN RIPPER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM
Mysterious Mutilator Strikes in Tackleford
Victim Disappears from Guarded Hospital
Wave of Mutilation Baffles Police
“The Horn Ripper.” It was a matter of historical record that somepony—or several someponies—cut off three stallions’ horns in the space of a few months. But nothing was known for certain about the perpetrator. The sober-minded historians had long ago exhausted the hard facts about the alleged Horn Ripper, leaving the subject for mistreatment by conspiracy theorists and lurid novelists.
Yet here in the alleged journal of Resonius IV was a list of dates and places that corresponded with the Horn Ripper’s known attacks. Did Resonius, or whoever really wrote this, know more about the incidents?
Come to think of it, the page had also mentioned a “procedure”—could that be a magic ritual employing unicorn horns as an ingredient? Was Resonius personally involved in the Horn Ripper attacks? He was a respected scholar in his time, even if his memory had been lost in the great shuffle of the centuries—what could have made him get mixed up in …
The door opened, its hinges shrieking in protest, and Twilight nearly jumped out of her seat.
“Do you need any help, Miss Sparkle?” It was Rusty, the assistant librarian.
“Yes, there is one thing.” Twilight took a few deep breaths and forced a smile onto her face. “Do you have archives for the local newspapers from …” She checked the last three entries on Resonius’ list. “... Salonicker, Pasture, and Haybridge?”
Rusty shook her head. “Sorry. Your best bet for small-town papers like those would be to ask at the local library.”
“Hmm. That sounds like a good idea. Oh, and I’m done with these.” Twilight grabbed half of the microfiche sheets and returned them to Rusty.
“Very good. And by the way, the library closes in an hour.” Rusty left. The door shut, casting the room once more into near-darkness.
Twilight was already drawing up the mental itinerary for a trip to Salonicker, then Pasture, then Haybridge. If I leave now, she thought, I can probably finish before … Wait. First, I need to let Spike know I’ll be going.
She grabbed the first sheet of paper she could find and dashed off a quick letter to Spike, explaining her plan. Then she stuffed it in her saddlebag and added “mail letter” to her checklist for the rest of the day.
Twilight still had fifty-five minutes before the library closed. She slipped the next microfiche sheet, the September 16th issue of The Canterlot Times, into the reader and resumed scanning the headlines for any mention of Salonicker. She couldn’t guess what had happened in that small town, but she had a suspicion she would know it when she saw it.
Having settled comfortably into her seat on the train, Twilight pulled the journal from her saddlebag and cracked it open. She skimmed the pages, looking for a place to begin reading—close to the mysterious date, but just far enough before then to provide necessary context. As she flipped the pages, a rough spell diagram caught her eye.
2 March
I reproduced that equation from memory, so thorough have been our preparations for the great experiment. But at long last, the preparations are at an end! My hypothesis shall be tried tomorrow! Consequently, though it is nearly midnight as I write, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.
But it is not disquiet over the results of the test that sets my mind to racing. Truly, either outcome would be welcome. If the results are positive, then it means professional vindication! A bold new field of study! A victory to rub in the faces of that foalish Board of Directors for slashing my funding! And my name forever enshrined in the halls of magical scholarship!
Yet, if the results are negative, then it means the end of my professional relationship with Miss Pitch ... and hopefully, the start of an altogether closer relationship. Yes, I have made up my mind. When the experiment is complete—whether a failure now, or a success in however many months—I shall confess to her my true feelings. And I have reason to believe she holds similar affection towards me.
My only regret is the inevitable need to find another laboratory assistant for my next great experiment, whatever it may be. Pitch is the best assistant anypony could ask for, and I dare say she knows more of magic than do most of my colleagues. Whatever else may happen, I should help set her up to conduct her own research.
Plans, plans, plans! But they all hinge on what happens tomorrow, which not even the Princess knows. I shall take a brief stroll outside and observe the stars. Perhaps, afterwards I will be in a state of mind to sleep.
—Res
The rest of the page was empty. The next entry was on a loose sheet of paper, tucked between the pages.
5 March
Disaster.
“Those whom the Fates would destroy, they first make great.” Who said that? Truly now, I see they were right. I thought myself on the threshold of gaining everything I desired, but instead I have lost all.
To begin with, the experiment. Everypony tells me that was three days ago, but it stings as if it were merely three hours. My hypothesis was utterly disproven. Oh, the spell effected to halt all my ambient thaumaturgical radiation—but this had no effect whatsoever on my casting power. Five thousand thaums! I allowed the power to build up for ten minutes, then fifteen, thirty, an hour—but never could I exceed five thousand thaums.
Miss Pitch suggested we search the literature one last time, to make certain we had not overlooked any details. But it was clear to me why the experiment failed. It was as Beaker hypothesized: the horn—my own treacherous horn!—has an inherent limit, beyond which it cannot channel magic.
But I thought to myself: cannot? or merely will not? I resolved at that moment to press forward, to overcome the failings of my body through sheer force of will. Outwardly, I agreed with Pitch to break for a quick meal and more research; in secret, I cast the spell on myself one last time before departing.
As we ate and made pleasant conversation, I felt my thaumic reserves filling. As, on the way back, Pitch stopped to speak with Beverly Clock—how silly it is in retrospect, that I never realized what went on between those two—I felt as though I were full to overflowing. Yet I continued to fill, the pressure growing greater and greater, as Pitch and I pored over our books and journals.
Finally, after allowing the spell to work for five hours, I explained to Pitch what I had done, what I intended to do. She urged me, quite strongly, not to go through with it. I may have raised my voice at her, and she may have called me mad; my memory of the argument is rather unclear. But I would not be dissuaded.
I cannot know exactly how much magic I had built up. Perhaps it was over a million thaums. However much it was, I pushed it all towards my horn, to fuel a standard illumination spell. As before, my horn resisted that quantity of magic, but I just pushed harder. Then, I felt something in my brain give way. The floodgate opened, and my magic just poured through my horn.
Then I screamed. Excruciating pain ran up my entire horn and pierced my brain like a red-hot poker. I glanced up, and in my pain-induced delirium, I thought I saw my horn crack, then split.
(I wrote all of this with my horn, yet I still felt the need to run a hoof along my horn to make certain of its integrity just now—so vivid is my false memory of losing it.)
My reason tells me that, at this point, I fell unconscious and dreamed. Yet my intuition tells me that this dream felt like nothing I have dreamt before. One’s dreams—no matter how convincing they are while the dreamer is in their thrall—fall apart in the morning’s light. Not so this dream. Even now, the memory feels true, and only the impossibility of the events makes me doubt. But the details of the dream itself are irrelevant, I think.
Suffice to say, I awoke in this hospital bed, where I have remained for the past few hours. It was here that the most painful loss of all occurred.
About an hour ago, Pitch came to visit me, overjoyed to see the progress of my recovery. Her joy was contagious and lifted my own spirits immeasurably. Riding that wave of good cheer, I finally bared my soul to Pitch, telling her how much she truly means to me. I asked her, “Pitch Drop, will you be my special somepony?”
I learned only then that she is of the Sapphic persuasion.
A small, bitter part of my heart wants to be angry with her, but that would be unjust. Even while declining my romantic aspirations, she was as kind ever. No, this heartache is my fault and mine alone.
Already I feel the need for more sleep. Perhaps tomorrow will be a little kinder.
—Res
Twilight smiled as she glanced around the lobby. The Salonicker Inn’s brochure had boasted of its five hundred year history, so it was no surprise that the lobby was decorated in a reasonable facsimile of fifth-century East Equestrian style: numerous mirrors bordered with gold filigree, pink paisley wallpaper, a plush rug with a faux Saddle Arabian design, and delicate furniture of cherry wood and red satin.
This hotel had been in business when Resonius IV had passed through Salonicker, and Twilight’s research had confirmed this was the town’s only hotel in business at the time.
Nopony was at the desk, so Twilight tapped the bell. Before it could finish ringing, a resigned groan came from the back office. Seconds later, a gangly unicorn emerged. Her limp mane was a curtain hiding half her face. Her other half fixed Twilight with a gaze that spoke of a despair that only the teen-aged could ever feel. With a voice bordering on a plaintive moan, she said, “Can I help you?”
“Yes! I’m Twilight Sparkle, and I’m from out of town—”
“It’s 1:15. You can’t check in until we’re done cleaning the rooms, which will be about …” She sighed. “2:30 at the earliest.”
“No, I don’t need a room. I need some information.”
“But what do any of us know, really?” Another sigh.
“Riiiight. Anyway, I’m looking for a scholar who stayed here back in 763. I don’t expect he used his real name to check in, but I think he was up to something illegal which would have left a very odd mess behind.”
“Urrgh. Records. Ms. Sparkle, we only keep records from the last five years in this office. Everything older than that is in a vault, and my mom is the only one with the key.”
“Okay, then. Can I talk to—”
“She’s on vacation for a week.”
“Oh.” Twilight stepped back from the desk as she pondered her options. Waiting here all week would obviously be a poor use of time, but this hotel was one of Twilight’s best leads. Racing after other potential clues without the insight from this location might prove just as much a waste of time.
Glancing down, Twilight found she had unconsciously removed Resonius’ journal from her saddlebag. Her face brightened, and she stepped back up to the desk. “I’ve got another idea. It’s a long shot, but it may save us from needing to dig through your mom’s record vault. Can you let me look around a specific room for just a few minutes?”
“I guess. As long as nopony is currently staying there.”
“Great.” Twilight lifted Resonius’ journal and closed her eyes as she concentrated on it. There was magic in the book, absorbed from every pony that had ever held it, soaked into the ink and paper and bindings. Of course, after this many centuries, the book gave off a jumbled mishmash of different magical signatures—but one signature was slightly stronger than the rest. Committing that signature to memory, Twilight began scanning the hotel, looking for a match. She braced herself to pump more magic into her detection matrix, reasoning that she would need maximum sensitivity to even hope to pick up the proper residual—but she got a ping before even starting.
Twilight’s face lit up as she rushed into the hall, towards the magical signature. “This way!” At the end of the teal-walled corridor, she turned left and continued down that hall. Then she slowed down and stopped in front of room number 15.
The young clerk dragged her hooves as she followed, but she unlocked the door without protest. Twilight leaped through and waved her head, pointing her horn at every corner. “There it is!” she said. “Under the bed!”
With a thought, Twilight lifted the bed six feet in the air—revealing just the bare wood floor.
“Um,” the clerk said, “what exactly are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll know it when I see it,” Twilight said. “At least, I hope so. Just let me probe a little longer ... Aha!”
The source of the magic signature was beneath the floorboards. Twilight summoned the object, teleporting it onto the floor before her hooves. Then she carefully lowered the bed back to its place.
Twilight smiled at the clerk. “That was easier than I thought it would be! Thank you for your help.”
But the clerk didn’t smile back, or even look at Twilight. She stared instead at the object on the floor. “What is that?”
“Huh. I don’t know.” Twilight lifted it to eye level to examine it. It was an asymmetrical, branching structure, like an deer’s antler or a miniature, leafless tree. Each branch ended in a sharp point. Slight grooves were cut into the base, tracing a spiral pattern up to the first branches. The very bottom was smooth but with a rough edge—like a tree branch cut off with loppers. The entire object was a burgundy color and only slightly larger than Twilight’s hoof.
“I don’t know what I expected,” Twilight said, “but this is much weirder.”
10 March
I see I have gone nearly a week since my last entry—a testament to how busy this time has been.
My experiment was not a failure. The day after my last entry, I spoke with Pitch about the particulars of the experiment. It came to light that she also saw that which I had assumed was but my delirium; viz. she saw my horn crack and shatter just before I fell unconscious. Yet here I am, with a fully functional horn on my forehead, in defiance of known medical magic. The doctors insist they had no part in this, and I have no reason to suspect their word—had they discovered a method to transplant or replace a horn, it would be news to trumpet from the rooftops. No, as far as they can tell, my horn simply grew back, of its own accord, while I was comatose.
Thus, as soon as I was cleared to leave, Pitch and I returned to the lab to determine if my experiment was the cause of this seeming miracle. Then we found further cause to celebrate: my ability to cast has increased to over seven thousand thaums. We measured multiple times, with damn near every thaumoscope in the building—and we even brought in old Beaker to see if we were measuring incorrectly. We managed to convince him, so there can be no doubt: my casting strength has increased by roughly 50%.
Still, we need more trials before we can be certain that my procedure was the cause—and we need more information before we can, in good conscience, subject anypony else to what I endured.
Since we do not know which piece of data may prove crucial, I may have been too hasty in dismissing my earlier dream as irrelevant. So I shall record it now, before it fades from my memory, just in case:
After I saw my horn break—for there was no discernible transition between waking and dreaming—I was drawn upward, at a velocity that would have terrified me if I were not already half-mad with pain. Instead, the pain and the fear induced a sort of detachment. Everything I saw, I saw as if it were happening to somepony else.
And what sights I saw! After less than a minute, the curvature of the Earth was plain to behold, and the sky above grew dark. Stars—brighter and in greater numbers than ever I have seen—became clear, while the Earth shrank beneath me. Smaller and smaller the planet grew, and then the entire planetary system. The local arm of the Milky Way became visible, then the entire galaxy—which itself shrank, soon enough. My speed must have been increasing exponentially, considering how quickly the galaxy clusters were reduced to pinpricks of light.
As the universe grew smaller and smaller beneath my hooves, I wondered if the rest of my journey would occur in unbroken darkness. Just then, I perceived a red glow above. The vision resolved into a vast body of some opaque liquid, like paint or ink, stretching further than I could see. My ascent—or perhaps it was a descent?—slowed as I approached this red ocean, until my head was but a few feet above its waves.
Something—someone—broke the surface and looked straight at me. I felt a fierce intelligence behind her five eyes, and the sense that she was judging me, though by what criteria I cannot imagine. With the strange certainty that comes in dreams, I decided she must have been the goddess Feronia. I wondered whether or not to speak to her.
Before I could decide, she rose further out of the ocean and bit my horn.
The pain that had knocked me unconscious returned tenfold but only for the briefest instant. The shock woke me, at which point I found myself in the hospital bed, with my horn restored, Celestia-knows-how.
Now, I must sleep again. Hopefully, my slumber shall be more peaceful. After that, yet more research awaits!
—Res
3 May
I have just awoken from another queer dream. Its tone reminds me very much of the one I had during the experiment, but I cannot decide why—the two have no details in common.
I found myself in another realm, a fantastic landscape with three moons in the night sky. The landscape was one of rocky hills, barren of plant life. I assumed it completely uninhabited, until I turned around and found myself in the figurative shadow of a large building. It was a solid but hideous structure, built of unhewn boulders—not a single straight line or right angle could be seen.
Through the door, I saw a sort of public hall and rows of unknown animals in it. They were squat, hairless things that resembled toads more than anything else—toads the size of ponies. They prostrated themselves upon the rough floor, facing the left side, and made shrill vocalizations which may have been attempted songs. To the side, the apparent object of their adoration was another creature, resting upon a sort of table or altar. It was hairless and limbless; if not for its rhythmic contractions, I would assume it was just a lump of meat.
It just now occurs to me that it was a heart. A disembodied heart, still beating. How morbid.
And with that pleasant thought, I must be off to my research.
Well, there was a peculiar development today. As we tested my casting strength—and it continues growing slowly but surely, as it has the past month—there was a side effect. After casting a spell at my very limit, I saw magic markings, patterns in the air itself: arcane circles and lines, text and runes in some language I have never seen before, all hovering and glowing faintly. I know they were not merely some illusion of the eye, because they clustered around objects and ponies, moving with them.
I sketched one such grouping as best I could. It was centered on my teacup, and was one of the simpler designs. The complex ones, such as the circle hovering behind Pitch’s head, looked like they would take years to unravel.
After about a minute, the patterns began to fade, and by five minutes they were completely gone. So there is one more mystery in a field full of them.
I also heard back from the Manehattan Institute of Magic. A junior researcher position should become available next year, and Pitch is to have rights of first refusal. I’m almost as excited on her behalf as I am about my own work.
—Res
Twilight walked into the office and realized she had entered the inner sanctum of a kindred spirit. The window curtains were nearly closed, casting the room into dim half-light. Shelves lined every wall. Books and loose papers covered the floor, save for a few designated paths. A massive conglomeration of book stacks concealed a desk, behind which could be heard the sound of pages turning and occasional exclamations.
“Hmm … oh.”
“Excuse me?” Twilight called.
“Interesting …”
Twilight sighed and waved one hoof to the side, knocking over the nearest stack of books.
“Who’s there?” the voice demanded. A red earth pony mare leaned from behind the desk. “I have all of those organized, so I’d appreciate if you didn’t …” Her consternation turned to confusion as she got her first good look at her visitor.
Twilight gave a bashful grin as she telekinetically rearranged the book stack just as it was. “Sorry about that, but I know a book trance when I see one,” she said.
“You’re not from here,” the mare said.
“No, I’m not. My name’s Twilight Sparkle, and I’m looking for the Pasture Historical Society.” She glanced around before adding, “This is their office, right?”
“Well, if you’re being generous.” She trotted to Twilight, carefully stepping on the few patches of exposed floor. “I’m Winding Road, and I’m the Pasture Historical Society’s Chairpony of the Board, Chief Researcher, Head Archivist, Outreach and Public Relations Guru, Newsletter Writer and Editor-in-Chief, and also Janitor. So, how can I help you?”
“Well, I’m following the trail of a relatively unknown unicorn wizard. His journal said he did something here in 763, but it doesn’t give much detail. I hoped that you might have some record of him passing through.”
“Hmm …” Winding stroked her chin, and a slight smile formed on her face. “Who was this wizard?”
“Resonius IV.”
“Never heard of him, but that doesn’t necessarily prove anything.” Winding bounded away, clambering over the book stacks and up the shelves—moving more like a mountain goat than a pony. Deftly, she grabbed books and binders from the middle of stacks and threw them at Twilight’s hooves. “So, 763, then? Can you be more any more specific?”
“September 15th. I don’t know how long he was before or after that, but he was definitely here on that date.”
Winding looked over her shoulder. “Reaaaally?”
“What’s that look mean?”
“It means you should go to the corner of Mane Street and Seventh Avenue, and read the historical marker there.” She tossed another volume onto the stack at Twilight’s hooves. “I’ll have more for you to read after you’ve learned about the most important thing to happen on that date.”
“Great! Thank you for your help.” Twilight slipped out of the office and onto the street of Pasture. She wore a smile as she trotted resolutely down Mane Street.
The town was scarcely larger than Ponyville, but far less inviting. The buildings were all made from dark, unpainted wood. The few ponies on the street ignored Twilight’s greetings as she passed.
After a few minutes, Twilight reached the intersection she sought, and she found a metal plaque mounted near the door of a general store.
Former site of the Pasture Inn & Public House
749 – 801 C.E.
Epicenter of the Great Bloop
September 22nd, 763 C.E.
Pasture’s strangest mystery occurred on a brisk September evening. At roughly 9:15 pm, every pony in Pasture, and one family vacationing in the Brackenwoods, acutely felt a shift in the world around them. The earth ponies felt it as a sensation of something inside them, either shaking or swelling. The pegasus ponies reported that “the air felt wrong”, and most of them could not fly for hours afterwards. Ponies asleep at that moment all had unexplainable, frightening dreams. Star Blazer, Pasture’s only unicorn citizen at the time, explained these phenomena as the signs of a rare Magic Surge, but he declined to explain how it felt to him. That’s probably why Mayor Hard Tack’s name for the event—the Great Bloop—was the one that stuck.
Though the event itself was brief, some of its effects were quite long-lasting. For the following two weeks, the crop plants and weather were unusually resistant to pony control. And, during the following June, July, and August, every foal born to Pasture citizens had red eyes and a silver mane. These “Bloop babies” were unusually long-lived, but otherwise normal ponies.
The cause of this Magic Surge remains unexplained.
This historical marker placed by the Pasture Historical Society.
12 May
This is bad. This is dangerous. All of my notes and sketches regarding those magical patterns which I keep seeing—I just gathered and burned them.
Today at the lab, when I conducted the routine test of my casting limit, and the familiar magical patterns appeared to me, I suddenly understood intuitively their function. Or rather, first I understood how I could manipulate them, then I understood what they do. That gap in knowledge and time was brief, but enough for me to almost instigate a disaster.
The fates offered to me a tool, unlike any other in the magical arsenal, and I reacted like a foal with a new toy. Without thinking, I reached out with my will and tweaked the first pattern to catch my eye. Simple changes—I inverted two runes and tightened the angle of one vertex. And then I understood what I had done.
The patterns are but a representation of the deepest magic of the world. By altering their lines and runes, one alters the fundamental nature of something or somepony. The pattern I had changed, in my foalish eagerness, was Pitch’s pattern. As for what, specifically, I had changed: I had removed the reason she could not reciprocate my affection for her.
But that is not the worst that I did. No, it is my next action which shames me to recall—which proves that I am not fit to carry this power. Because, upon realizing what I had done to Pitch, I knew at once how to change her back, yet I stopped and considered whether to do so or not. I did the right thing, eventually. And Pitch has no idea what happened—to her, it seemed but a brief dizzy spell—but if she were to learn the truth, I would not blame her for hating me.
I must consider very carefully how to proceed with the rest of my research.
—Res
25 May
I have found a further side effect. I must deal with this before I return to the labs.
1 June
Damn it all to Tartarus. A week ago, I went to sleep seeing the world as any other pony would, and I woke up the next morning seeing those patterns. And I continued seeing them all week, without interruption. I cannot stop seeing them.
I thought those patterns elegant once, because I did not understand what they signified. Now, I look out my window, and I see words in a fell language hovering about the head of every pony on the street. With the slightest effort, I could touch those words with my mind and erase that pony’s personality—reduce him to a biological automaton. Or replace every bone in his body with paper. I turn away from my window, and I see how easily I could turn a single fruit into enough antimatter to level half of Canterlot.
I’ve tried everything to make these damned patterns go away: testing my casting limits to trigger the process of their fading, casting enough spells to completely drain my magic reservoir, and even brewing an assortment of psychotropic potions. None had any effect.
Even sleep offers no release for me. Every night, I dream of that fantastic realm; of that unhewn stone building, squatting like some predator about to strike; of those amphibians prostrating themselves before the disembodied heart. Sometimes I dream that I remain outside the door; sometimes, against my better judgment, I enter and walk among the creatures unnoticed. Every morning, I wake from that dream, with my heart racing and my sheets soaked in perspiration—though I cannot imagine why this dream disturbs me so.
I must rid myself of these patterns, and soon. I pled illness to explain my absence from the labs, but that excuse will not suffice much longer.
—Res
It’s so simple! I’m laughing at myself for not thinking of it sooner! All this procedure requires is for one damn fool unicorn to lose his horn forever, through no fault of his own. It’s for the good of all Equestria, so that makes everything better!
What is a unicorn without his horn? Nothing!
What is a heart with an eyeball? Who knows!
Who are those frogs anyway? Who cares!
What sound does a bone saw make? I’m about to find out!
4 June
The deed is done. I have crossed a line and can never go back.
The next page had been torn out.
“Oh, come on,” Twilight grumbled to herself. “Just when he was about to explain ...”
She went to the next intact page, and picked up the account there.
and what it represents, I can barely stand to look at myself in the mirror.
I know I can never explain my actions to Pitch or to my colleagues at the labs—but I can no longer hope to hide what I have done, either. So I have written up notice of my resignation. Tomorrow, I must move all the way to the other side of Canterlot, where nopony will ever think to look for me.
I am not yet sure what I can do there. Perhaps I will just stay inside and read all the time.
—Res
29 July
It did grow back.
Misfortune, it seems, has further plans for me. I thought this beastly affair was something I could just cut off and walk away from, but clearly that was wishful thinking.
Now that I am fully recovered, the patterns are back. The nightmares are back.
Perhaps I shall just have to live with this.
—Res
The upcoming portion of the mountain trail was even narrower than the Haybridge locals had warned. Barely the width of an adult pony, it was bound on the left by a sheer rock wall, and on the right by a two thousand-foot drop to a scree. A steel cable ran to the side, anchored to the rock wall every hundred feet.
Haute Route ruffled her wings as she finished adjusting Twilight’s harness. “... And in the very unlikely event of an equipment failure,” she said, “go limp if you fall off.”
“Why?”
“Because I can dive and catch you, but only if you aren’t flailing around like an idiot.”
“Please,” Twilight said, smirking. “I graduated with top honors from Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. In the unlikely event I fall off, I’ll be flailing like a genius.”
Haute Route shook her head, but couldn’t completely suppress her smile. “Like a genius. Celestia save us all, that’s even worse.” She stepped onto the trail and attached the lanyard from Twilight’s harness to the steel cable. “Seriously, though, remember to go limp.”
Twilight followed her guide. Her gaze bounced from the ground below her hooves, to the sky above, to Haute Route’s bouncing tail—anywhere but the stomach-churning drop to the side.
“Hey,” Twilight said, “has the path up Mt. Bree always been like this?”
Haute Route didn’t look back, but called out, “Like what?”
Twilight pointed at the steel cable. “How long has this trail been a via ferrata?”
“Only about a hundred years.”
“Hmm. And what grade was it before that?”
“Grade? Ha! Used to be, any novice could hike to the peak in just one day. But that changed after the cockatrice was gone.”
“Oh, I read about that!” Twilight paused to adjust her footing. “In fact, I was hoping to see its cave. Wasn’t it Serac who vanquished the cockatrice?”
“Sounds like somepony did their research. Yeah, anyway, right after Serac did his thing, there was a big landslide on this face. And if you ask me, it wasn’t a coincidence.”
“How so?”
Haute Route kicked a small rock over the cliff. “Well, once the cockatrice was gone, there were a lot of petrified ponies and animals that turned back into flesh and blood. So—”
“But did all of them change back?”
“Huh?”
“Well, my sources were unclear on the point, but I read there may have been one pony that stayed petrified, even after the cockatrice was gone. Do you know anything about that?”
“Can’t say I’ve heard about it. And I’ve never given the cockatrice’s old haunt much of a look-see. It’s been a hundred years, but that place still gives me the creeps. Anyway, all those ponies and animals ...”
Haute Route chattered on as the two ponies slowly advanced along the narrow path.
1 August
“Perhaps I shall have to live with this.” If my stomach did not cause me such pain, I would laugh at my own naïvety. Nopony can live with this. This is an abomination.
It occurs to me that I have been somewhat lax in describing my dreams of late. Since their contents have become surprisingly relevant to my waking life, and to the foulness that plagues me, I must fill that gap.
That thing from my prior dreams, which I called a heart—it has an eye. It opened that eye two months ago and looked straight at me. Ever since then, I do not dream of that realm without that unblinking eye staring at me from those mounds of quivering, glistening meat.
I still dream about that building with the inequine structure and unhewn stones, but those frog-creatures are there no longer. Last I saw them was in a dream a few weeks ago: I stood outside the building as the front door closed, and they remained inside. The door was a thick stone slab, and its lowering shook the ground. A few minutes passed in silence, and then a thick black liquid trickled from beneath the door. When next I dreamed, the door was open again, and those frogs were nowhere to be seen.
Ever since that dream, the building’s occupants, aside from the ever-watching eye, have been a group of four or five loathsome, crab-like creatures. Specifically, they remind me of the monstrous crabs with long, spidery legs that dwell in the ocean depths where even Celestia’s light does not shine. Like the frog-creatures, these crabs had ignored my presence in the dream, until recently. Which brings me to this morning.
When I woke up this morning, two legs were sticking out of my mouth. Chitinous, jointed legs, identical to those of the crabs from my dream.
For a few seconds, I just stared at them, refusing to believe this was truly happening. Then the legs moved. I recoiled, at which point the appendages pulled back into my mouth, fighting against my gag reflex. When those disgusting legs had disappeared down my throat, I took an emetic and voided my stomach. But I could find no trace of the crabs, nor could I feel them in my belly.
I do not understand what is happening—and I suppose I never have understood the forces I meddled with. How did this creature from my dreams manifest in reality? What does this have to do with the patterns? Or with my repaired horn?
Foremost in my mind: how can I make this stop, once and for all?
At the very least, I know how to stop this temporarily—unpleasant though the procedure is. Perhaps alcohol will help. Still, I know not where to get another bone saw without arousing suspicion. I suppose I must find some other implement.
—Res
3 August
Once again, I have blessed relief from those patterns and dreams, but I know it is only temporary. I will be a danger to others for the foreseeable future, so I must leave for less-populous environs.
This time, I shall remember to bring the horn slicer.
Farewell, sweet Canterlot! I will miss you until the end of my days. Which may not be very far off.
—Res
The final approach to the cave was a long scramble over rocks the size of a pony’s head. It was more tiring—yet less nerve-wracking—than the previous narrow ledge path. Twilight’s heart rate decreased as she panted for breath next to the mouth of the cave.
“You sure about going in there?” Haute Route said. She shifted on her hooves, and her wings were flared. “I’m no good with normal caves. And this is …”
“You can just wait outside for me,” Twilight said.
“But is that safe?”
“I won’t leave sight of the entrance.” If I need to go deeper, Twilight thought, I can come back with a professional spelunker.
Stepping into the cave, Twilight cast an illumination spell. The cavern angled downward and ran straight, more or less, for about a thousand feet. As she trotted deeper, the light from Twilight’s horn cast countless shadows on the irregular walls—from here, Twilight couldn’t tell which were side corridors and which were just nooks or crannies.
Twilight shot a smile back at Haute Route before she cast her second spell: the magical signature seeker. The response was immediate, and Twilight froze. A response that quick meant the signature’s source was close enough to touch—but Twilight saw nothing but cave walls in front of her.
Gulping, she dismissed the seeker spell, readied a magic shield, and then doubled, tripled the magic flow to her light spell. Her horn flared brighter than daylight. Twilight spun on her hooves. “Ha! ... Oh.”
The rock wall hid a natural alcove—all but invisible to anypony walking into the cave. Within the alcove stood a statue.
“Twilight!” Haute Route poked her head into the cave. She pranced in place, her hooves echoing down the corridor. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” Twilight called back. “Just a little startled.” She resumed her examination of the statue.
She wasn’t sure what the statue was. Perhaps it had been a stallion at some point, or maybe it was just something else wearing an imitation pony skin as a grotesque disguise. It had four legs, but one was distinctly longer than the others. Its body and limbs had irregular raised areas—long, sinuous lumps, like vines beneath the skin. On its forehead—where a unicorn’s horn would have been—was a branching, asymmetrical growth, the twin of the object Twilight had found in the Salonicker hotel. One of the branches was longer than the others and distinctly jointed, with serrated edges on several segments. It resembled a crustacean’s leg.
Twilight’s gaze moved a few inches down, to the statue’s face. Twilight recognized the face—it had been spared by whatever process had ravaged the rest of his body. The eyes were closed and the eyebrows unfurrowed. Though his cheeks were gaunt, there were no lines of tension on his face. In fact, looking at him from certain angles, Twilight could see a subtle smile on his lips—or perhaps that was just her own light casting shadows.
Twilight trotted back to the cave entrance.
“What was in there?” Haute Route asked.
Twilight sighed. “There was one pony who stayed petrified. I saw him.”
“What? Really?” Haute Route gulped. “That’s awful.”
“I don’t know about that. From the look on his face, I think he was at peace.”
28 September
This will be my last entry in this journal.
I have been terse about my travels, because there is not much to write. The day-to-day routine of walking is tedious enough to live, without the added tedium of writing about it afterwards. Sometimes I sleep in the wilderness, sometimes in some small town that looks just like every other small town.
The incidents have become more frequent over time—four times in the past month! I endure the otherworldly visions for as long as possible. They blend together now: of late, I see the Pattern in my dreams of that other realm, and I believe that loathsome eye is still watching me in my waking life.
However, sooner or later—sooner and sooner in fact—I find one of those nightmarish crustaceans attempting to crawl out my mouth, and that is when I must resort to horn-slicing. At least I found an alternative to those cumbersome metal loppers. I can simply manipulate the Pattern to remove the horns, cleanly and painlessly.
“The horns.” My, my, how detached I have become about this.
Anyway, I have more data, thanks to these recent incidents. Every time I perform the procedure, there is a discharge of magical energy. With every repetition, the discharge increases—exponentially. Cross-reference this with the increasing frequency of these incidents, and a sinister pattern presents itself.
3 June. Canterlot. about 300 thaums.
1 August. Canterlot. about 2 × 10^4 thaums.
1 September. Tackleford. about 5 × 10^7 thaums.
15 September. Salonicker. about 2 × 10^13 thaums.
22 September. Pasture. about 6 × 10^25 thaums.
26 September. Haybridge. about 7 × 10^48 thaums.
The procedure is naught but a stop-gap, and it grows less effective every time I perform it! I shudder to think what the effects will be when I reach the asymptote. What, precisely, am I trying to prevent? Do the denizens of that dream realm seek to use me as a gateway to enter Equestria? Or am I to serve as a magical explosive? Or is some even fouler plan at work?
Well, I have one last surprise for whatever is orchestrating my misery.
Right now, I am in a tavern, belonging to a hamlet nestled in the foothills of Mt. Bree. A cockatrice lives up the mountain, just a day’s hike away. I shall pay him a visit, tomorrow. After all, considering how these otherworldly forces have already physically changed me, I doubt a mundane death on my part would pose much of an obstacle to them. Complete transmutation is my best bet to stop them from using me for their scheme.
But before that, I will sleep and dream one last time. I will pay one last visit to that ugly building, that heart with the staring eye, and those disgusting crab-things. And I shall make those sons of wolves regret showing me how to transmute matter into antimatter.
So, then. This is the end. How do I close my last journal entry? I wish I had something profound to say.
Damn it all. I’ll just leave my journal here in this tavern and hope whoever finds it can get something out of it.
To whoever is reading this after I’m gone: hello. I’m Resonius IV. I hope you don’t do what I did.
The Golden Oaks Library door closed behind Twilight. With a slight twinge of guilt, she realized the library was now cleaner and more orderly than she had left it.
Spike was seated, facing away from the door. Without turning, he said, “Yo, the fiction section’s been reorganized by genre.” He turned a page of his book—another one of his superhero comics, by the look of it. “And Twilight’s still away on her trip.”
Twilight trotted forward. “Really?” she said with a smirk. “What could possibly be keeping her away so long?”
“Beats me. She—” He twitched, then spun in his chair, a goofy grin on his face. “Twilight!” He rushed forward, and the two embraced.
“The library didn’t give you any trouble while I was gone, right?” Twilight asked.
“Trouble? Ha! It was a piece of cake.” Spike stood up straight and squared his shoulders—a pose that would have been impressive if he weren’t half Twilight’s height. “But ... why were you gone so long, Twilight?”
“Oh, I was investigating an old mystery. Didn’t you get my letter? I thought I explained everything in it.”
Spike scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, I got that. It’s just that somepony else wrote all over the back, and that confused me, so ...”
“Writing on the back ...” Twilight’s eyes widened. “Spike, did that page look like it was torn out of a book?”
“Um, I don’t remember. But why don’t you see for yourself?” Spike bolted for the stairs.
“You still have the letter?” Twilight called as Spike disappeared into her study.
A few seconds later, he reappeared at the top of the stairs, clutching the letter and wearing his smuggest grin. “Number one assistant, remember?”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Twilight couldn’t help smiling herself as she yanked the page out of Spike’s claws. A quick glance confirmed that Resonius’ writing covered the back of the sheet—and Twilight had a guess about where exactly this page went.
Slipping the page into her saddlebag, she looked back up at Spike. “And of course I remembered my number one assistant. That’s why I made a special stop at your favorite bookstore ...”
Twilight lifted a large, glossy paperback from her saddlebag and floated it up to Spike. His eyes went wide as soon as he saw the cover. “Lobster Justice, Volume 2: The Fist of Science! Awesome!” He sat down at the top of the staircase and began reading.
Twilight slipped past him, into her room, and locked the door behind her. Opening Resonius’ journal, she quickly found the gap that this new page filled. She read the now-complete entry.
4 June
The deed is done. I have crossed a line and can never go back.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all. I had access to dangerously unprecedented magic, and reason to doubt my own self-control in using this magic. I needed to cut off my access. Half-measures proved ineffective, so I had to become literal.
Bah. I am prevaricating. Even writing about what I did, after the fact, is distasteful. But my euphemisms cannot change what I did.
I cut off my own horn.
It hurt even worse than I expected. For the second time in as many months, I passed out and woke up in a hospital bed. Then came a battery of questions, from the doctors, from a police constable, and I think I remember a journalist joining in—I was still quite delirious at that point. They assumed me the victim of an assault, and I saw no reason to disabuse them of that belief.
I snuck out just this morning. When I looked in the mirror, the stump of my horn appeared somewhat healed. As though it were growing back. I panicked. If the doctors noticed, there would be no end to their prying until my entire story were laid bare.
But, perhaps I overreacted. Examining my forehead now, I can no longer see the apparent growth from this morning. Still, with this wound on my face and what it represents, I can barely stand to look at myself in the mirror.
I know I can never explain my actions to Pitch or to my colleagues at the labs—but I can no longer hope to hide what I have done, either. So I have written up notice of my resignation. Tomorrow, I must move all the way to the other side of Canterlot, where nopony will ever think to look for me.
I am not yet sure what I can do there. Perhaps I will just stay inside and read all the time.
—Res
Twilight set the book down and blinked a few times. “Wow.”
A few seconds passed. A songbird chirped outside the window.
“If I publish this,” Twilight said, “the Horn Ripper historical fiction fans are going to hate me so much.”
The bell over the book shop door rang as Twilight entered, a dull ding so devoid of cheer that it sucked all other sound out of the room.
The foyer was deserted, so Twilight approached the checkout register and rapped the countertop with one hoof. This kicked up a cloud of dust and caused the desk to creak ominously. Coughing, Twilight glanced around the store. Was it always this run-down, she thought, and I just didn’t notice last time?
The dust cloud dissipated, revealing the bookstore owner behind the counter. He wore the same dapper suit and hat from two weeks ago—and the same smile that bared a few too many teeth.
“Welcome back, Miss Sparkle. I trust you found the journal quite edifying?”
Twilight thought, The first rule of haggling: Feign indifference. Never let the seller know how much you really want the item.
Twilight said, “I can neither confirm nor deny that I enjoyed reading it.”
The stallion’s smile faltered slightly. “What?”
“Oh! That is, I want to buy the journal after all. I can offer you—”
“Wait, wait. Before we get to haggling, more than anything else I want to know ...” The stallion leaned eagerly over the counter. “Now that you’ve read about the power that good old Res uncovered, how do you plan on using it?”
“Well, I’m mostly interested in the book for its use as an autobiography—”
The stallion rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, of course you are. But really now ... just between us, strictly off the record: what do you really have in mind? Will you become a champion of justice, meting out punishment to those the who slip through the court’s nets? Will you engage in diplomacy, spreading friendship through superior firepower? Do you wish to make contact with those vast alien intelligences that Res saw in his dreams? Or is it knowledge itself you desire?—knowledge unbound by small-minded fear of ‘consequences’ ...”
“Oh, his research?” Twilight chuckled. “I just wanted to do this.” She cast a spell, with no visible effect. “See? I isolated the portion of the spell that blocked ambient magic leakage, without the part about trying to channel all that magic.”
The stallion squinted. “What possible use could that serve?”
Twilight dissolved the spell. “Well, I have a friend with this medical condition, and my ambient magic really bothers her because of that. So, now I can hide it to make her more comfortable—”
The stallion snickered. “You are a frighteningly good actress, Miss Sparkle. Why, you had me half convinced that you really meant ...” His words died as he saw the look of confusion on Twilight’s face. “Oh, Tartarus, you really are serious.”
He dropped his face onto the counter with a loud thud, kicking up another dust cloud.
“Oh!” Twilight said. “Are you—”
“Get out,” the stallion hissed. He slammed his face several more times, until dust clouds completely obscured the room, until the wood cracked beneath him.
Twilight coughed and said, “You could hurt yourself if—”
Two glowing, yellow eyes glared back at her from where the counter once stood. “Get ... OUT!”
A gale-force blast of hot, humid air knocked Twilight backwards, off her hooves. She found herself lying on her side, just outside Les Livres Perdus.
As she stood up, the front door slammed shut so hard that a massive crack spread, splitting the façade in half. One wall collapsed inward, then another. Instinctively, Twilight fired a spherical shield in the shop owner’s direction, but the spell just deflected off the book shop’s exterior. The roof caved in as the remaining walls crumbled.
Twilight gaped at the wreckage. Less than a minute ago, the shop had been intact; now it looked as though it had been vandalized by teenage dragons in the middle of an earthquake.
Then the ground rumbled, and the several tons of wood rubble and masonry disappeared down a sinkhole.
Twilight shook her head before walking up to the edge of the sinkhole. From where she stood, darkness obscured the bottom of the pit. She called down, “You’re not a normal pony, are you?”
The stallion’s voice echoed from below, “What part of ‘get out’ do you not understand?”
“Well,” Twilight said, “I still have the journal, and I haven’t paid you for it, yet.”
She paused, but the stallion said nothing.
Twilight pulled a coin pouch out of her saddlebag. “Based on recent sales of other ancient books—of comparable age, uniqueness, historical value, and overall demand—I calculated 250 bits as a fair price. Do you agree?”
Silence.
“I’m going to take that as a yes.” She threw the pouch into the sinkhole. She didn’t hear it strike the bottom.
Twilight walked out of the alley, towards the palace, towards a pleasant afternoon tea party with Princess Celestia, and a very nice dinner with her parents. When she tried to return to the alley the next day, she couldn’t find it.
Fin.
A/N: Thanks to KuroiTsubasaTenshi and Yami Vizzini for their help proofreading, on short notice.