I. What's Past is Prologue

“We will need to gather more information before we depart Albion,” the shadow still sounded tired. Caballeron suspected that the power she expended at the Ashmulean had pushed her past her usual limits. After seeing what she could do, it was a relief to know she could also become weak.

“I still don’t like it, mon cher. This detour, this delay. Perhaps you noticed, Ahuizotal wasn’t pleased.”

“Not at first. But Ahuizotal is very focused on short term gains. You did note that understanding the potential usefulness of the gate rings, should they be restored, changed his mind.” Her cloak twitched in a fashion Caballeron had come to interpret as a shrug. “Besides, he already has the other ring. It was buried deep in the jungle long, long ago.”

Caballeron frowned. “We could still set off for the frozen north today. Make a run directly for the vault. That is something you can find, mon cher. You already have that information. And now, with the diamond we stole, we can deactivate the guardians and gain entry. Assuming your information is correct.”

Her yellow eyes narrowed. “We could.” Her tone implied that she considered this a bad idea. A stupid idea. “And then once we have the treasure Ahuizotal seeks, how long would it take you to transport it to him? Torn apart as I am, I can convey his words to you, and yours to him – but physical objects will not pass through me. Not like they would through an active pair of gate rings.”

Caballeron made a hmm-ing noise that didn’t sound terribly convinced. She changed her tack, it was time for a carrot.

“Then there is the matter of all the other treasures remaining there. Ahuizotal only wants the diamond. That lost vault contains so much more. How much could you carry out on your back? How much would it slow you down? With the gates, you could have it all dumped at Ahuizotal’s feet for safe-keeping. Oh, the old devil might keep some for himself, but what I said earlier is true – Ahuizotal isn’t concerned with gold, he’s concerned with climate. You’d be able to recover vastly more of the treasure by first transporting it to his ruined jungle temples.”

Caballeron growled, “Which is why I am considering this detour at all, mon cher.”

That, and a magical relic that let him converse directly with Ahuizotal over distances of hundreds of miles would largely remove the necessity of keeping the shadow creature, Ahuizotal’s messenger, around at all. The sooner he could be shot of her, Caballeron had decided, the better. He knew better than to mention that little plan of his to her. Not now, at least.

Her eyes narrowed further, time for a stick. “And then there is the matter of pursuit. It is inevitable.”

“Yes, now, with seven bodies at the Ashmulean!” Caballeron’s anger was quite real. Those corpses, unnecessary corpses as he thought of it, put him in danger.

She chuckled. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “There were eight bodies by my count. The authorities just don’t want to discuss one of them. And pursuit is inevitable. It always has been. My actions are unlikely to have hastened it. The bitch that nips at our heels is there all because of you.”

Caballeron drew breath to interrupt, but she – raising her voice – continued to talk over him, and her tone was harshly accusatory. “Did you honestly think that you haven’t been watched in your ‘retirement?’ That certain extraordinary ponies do not stay apprised of your movements? Before Ahuizotal recruited you he and I talked, and talked extensively, about exactly what sort of baggage would come with your vaunted ‘expertise.’ He was somewhat reluctant to involve you in this, given how things worked out … or rather didn’t work out … last time. But, feelings aside, you are the best at what you do – and to get this done, Ahuizotal will need the best. So it was for that purpose I advocated on your behalf.”

“You’re talking about Daring Do.” Caballeron’s face twisted with anger.

Sarcasm dripped from her reply, “Yes. Of course I’m talking about Daring Do. We have an advantage, a lead in this recovery operation. She will have to catch up to you. She will have to figure out where you are going, what treasure you really seek to uncover, whether you are working on your own behalf or if you were recruited at another’s bequest. A detour will throw your true goal into doubt. It will buy us more time.”

“Not that much more time! So why the detour? Detours usually don’t help win races. Why not push hard for the finish line?” Caballeron glowered.

“This detour, if undertaken now, moves the finish line much, much closer to us. We don’t have to get his diamond across a continent and back to Ahuizotal, we just have to get into the treasury.”

“Tell me,” the arch of her eyes indicated she had raised an eyebrow … if she had eyebrows that is, “given your history, your past experience, do you honestly think that Daring Do won’t catch up with you if you must travel for weeks or months with the prize in hoof on your way to deliver it? Do you truly believe that with so much time and opportunity, she won’t snatch victory from your grasp yet again?”

Caballeron was silent. Thoughtful. Time for the final nail in the coffin of his doubts.

“This way, you can beat her.” Her voice almost purred with terrible delight. “You do want to beat her, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, damn you. I do.”

“Good. To do that, we need to find a way to reactivate the rings. I have some general ideas, a rough understanding of the magical theory involved, but there are specifics we will need to know. Specifics that are not common knowledge. Only certain very rare books contain those arcane secrets. You are going to need to visit a library.”

Caballeron snorted. “Really, mon cher? Books? Here I thought you were privy to dreadful secrets. Why don’t you just listen to whispers in the dark and we’ll be done with the matter. Can’t those voices from the great beyond tell you what you need to know?”

There was silence.

It stretched out too long. Caballeron began to feel uneasy – it started out small, but the feeling was growing. He had said something wrong. He looked over at her.

She was staring at him, her eyes narrowed in thought.

Caballeron felt a cold sweat start up on the back of his neck. He couldn’t say exactly how he knew, but something about the unseen form beneath the hood – bodiless body language, the tilt of the head, the slant of the eyes – left him sure she was reconsidering their working relationship.

No, he hadn’t said something wrong – he’d said something right. He had wandered too near some secret she didn’t want him to know. Caballeron swallowed. He recognized that look now. She was evaluating him as a possible threat, trying to decide if he knew too much, if she needed to move now to eliminate him.

She blinked. The danger passed.

For now, Caballeron reminded himself. Only for now. Remember the knife.

He was going to need something more potent than a couple of flash-bangs.

“It isn’t that simple, Doctor. Listening to those whispers is more art than science. Discerning their truth from their lies is more a matter of insight and revelation.”

“Enlightenment?” At least Caballeron kept his voice from cracking. And as long as she was discussing the matter with him, she seemed much less likely to try to kill him.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “No. Endarkenment.”

He pulled out a cigarette. She glared at him. He put it, and his lighter, away. His hoof was shaking.

“The information I can presently draw from ’whispers in the dark’ is fraught with difficulty. Thus far, my information has been good precisely because it is drawn from divergent sources and checked, one against the other. As I said, I have a general idea as to what we might wish to do next. Theory. But we will need more than theory to make this work. We will need certain pieces of concrete, definite knowledge.”

“So. Books it is. Do you at least know which books, mon cher?”

She was smiling again, he could tell from the curve of her yellow eyes. “Why yes, the Iron Book of Shadows should contain all we need. It’s in the Bodleian.”

“What?!” A rush of anger pushed the dread away. Caballeron was glaring at her again. She actually flinched back a little in the face of his sudden recovery. “You want me to try to break into the secure wing of Oxherd’s library … and this when they’ll be supremely watchful because we just finished breaking into their museum? This is madness!”

“Mad or not, it is necessary, Doctor.”

He growled. Caballeron didn’t remember pulling his lighter out again, but he had it in his hoof, she was eyeing its flickering flame with some concern.

After a moment he flicked it shut. He let out a disgusted sigh.

“This will take time, mon cher. Thugs won’t help for this. If there weren’t eight dead bodies to our tally already I would try bribery – some graduate student, a junior librarian, even a janitor. But now, with so much blood in picture, no pony will take that sort of bait. Approaching them for special access would just be asking for them to notify the authorities. I’ll have to find alternative routes into the stacks. With security on high alert, breaking in is out of the question. That leaves lies and a good bluff, backed up by forgery. Forgery takes time, especially if the people who will be looking at your documents are as suspicious as the good ponies at Oxherd are going to be.”

“How long? Delay shrinks our lead.”

“There wouldn’t need to be a delay if there weren’t corpses.” He glared at her. “No more corpses! Not unless I say so.”

She actually considered that. “That will complicate matters, Doctor. It hobbles me unnecessarily. If I am called on to defend myself, or to defend you, I may need to make corpses without your prior approval.”

“Fine. But no more frivolous killing. And as for a time line?” Caballeron spat. “Merde, we can’t risk anything for a week. Minimum. We’ll have to lay low, keep our heads down, and get ready for our literary excursion. If there are any complications there, the authorities will doubtless react much, much faster than they did on Monday.”

Caballeron shook his head in disgust. “This is madness. I can’t believe I’m going along with it.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Quill. I am glad you decided to take me up on my offer.”

Jon Quill smiled and extended his hoof for a shake. “How could I say no to such an invitation? Your offer is most kind. Especially since I can’t help you find Mr. Mortalis.” Jon felt sick to his stomach.

“Please, have a seat.” Doctor Tarrant Fether’s slight smile was the picture of restrained courtesy. His small office boasted a nice wooden desk, chairs, a narrow window, and a shelf full of books. Jon Quill noted the topiary pegasi on one corner of the desk. There was a small vase with fresh cut flowers as well.

Jonquils. Yellow and orange.

Jon Quill swallowed hard and his smile faltered. Doctor Fether raised an eyebrow politely. The flowers were a message. Doctor Fether had expected this meeting, at this time, on this day. He was prepared.

Jon was increasingly certain that he, himself wasn’t.

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Quill?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely!”

Doctor Fether took out a bottle of peach schnapps and poured two small glasses. He took a long drink from his own as he placed the other before the reporter.

Jon just stared at it. What composure he had put together for the trip into Bedlam, the trip he had spent days struggling to keep from making at all, was vanishing quickly. At every point since his meeting with the Knotts in Whitstable’s cell, he felt himself outmaneuvered.

A moment of silence passed, then Doctor Fether’s professional smile faded. He raised an eyebrow.

“Mr. Quill. You are uncomfortable.”

Jon opened his mouth, but Fether raised a hoof – a gesture to keep from being interrupted. “I understand your concerns and your discomfort. Allow me to reassure you – I will not, at this time, ask you any questions whatsoever concerning Cantor Mortalis’ current activities or whereabouts. It is irrelevant to the discussion at hoof. I will, of course, welcome any information you choose to volunteer, either now or after you have heard my professional assessment of Mr. Mortalis’ condition.”

“If you grow uncomfortable at any time in our conversation, if you decide you would rather leave than stay and listen, well – the door behind you is open. Mr. Knott and Mr. Knott have instructions to escort you safely from Bedlam. For now, you are welcome to leave when you wish. And to return if you wish.”

Doctor Fether’s brow furrowed in a slight frown.

“In the final analysis, Mr. Quill, you are here because you want to be here. You will need to accept this fact, to make your peace with it, if you wish to move on with your life.”

The worst part, Jon Quill thought, was that Doctor Fether was right. Jon didn’t want to be here – being here felt like a betrayal of Cantor’s trust. And Jon found himself hating the thought of betraying Cantor. But, even more than that betrayal, Jon couldn’t stop himself.

No ... no that wasn’t right. As Jon looked at Doctor Fether’s clinically dispassionate gaze, Jon realized that lying to himself wouldn’t do any good at all. Jon could have stopped himself.

But he didn’t really want to.

“I … I think I have a problem,” Jon admitted.

“The word you are looking for is ‘addiction.’” Doctor Fether produced a pamphlet and slid it across the desk. “Addiction comes in many forms and I am far too familiar with its many and devastating effects.”

Jon felt a shiver run down his back as he took the offered paper. Something seemed to lurk behind the good Doctor’s eyes. A faint waver in his keen focus, a suppressed surge of emotion, when he spoke of addictions. Jon decided that he would be willing to bet good money that Doctor Fether knew more about those “devastating effects” than many other Professors of Abnormal Psychology.

“You,” Fether went on, “are addicted to knowledge. To secrets. To mysteries. That is why you are here. To feed your addiction. That is why you are suffering. Because even when they are feeding their addictions, addicts always cause suffering. To themselves, if no one else is around to suffer for them.”

Jon Quill said nothing. He felt there was nothing to say.

Doctor Fether’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Moralis will forgive you for coming here today, you know.”

Jon nodded. He could already see Cantor’s face in his mind’s eye. Disappointed, but understanding. The Doctor continued, “Neither I, nor the Knott twins have any emotional investment in your search for sensationalist stories or your relationship with Mr. Mortalis. So the first question you need to ask yourself is this: will you be able to forgive yourself?”

Jon stared.

“Well, will you?”

Jon thought about it.

“I … uh … yes.” It was a little surprising, but it was true. “Yes I can. I do.”

“Good. If you couldn’t, then this interview would have been over.” Fether’s smile was tight and small. Controlled. “I do have a sense of professional ethics. ‘Do no harm’ is a foundation of my vocation. My work consists of healing hurts, of mending breaks, of preventing harm when and where I am able. My chosen field of endeavor is the mind.

“And while Cantor Mortalis needs to be confined, to be treated ... to be healed, I will not lightly damage another pony’s mental well-being to make that happen.

“I strive to fix broken ponies, Mr. Quill. I do not try break them.”

Jon nodded. There was another pause.

Doctor Fether cleared his throat in an understated cough. “I believe you had questions for me?”

Oh. Right. Jon Quill took out his notepad and pencil.

“What can you tell me about Mr. Mortalis’ condition, sir?” There. It was done. And, like a dark cloud lifting, Jon suddenly felt better about things. He assayed a grin. It didn’t feel nearly as forced as he had feared it would. “Our readers want to know!”

Doctor Tarrant Fether pursed his lips and frowned. As with all of his expressions, this too was restrained. It took a moment for Jon to properly identify it.

Pity. Doctor Fether pitied Cantor.

“There are several potential diagnosis’ for Mr. Mortalis’ condition. Of the available possibilities, there is only one which goes beyond the unfeasible and strays into the territory of the impossible. So let us cover that one first:

“Cantor Mortalis does not talk to dead ponies. He cannot see, nor hear them. There are no such things as ghosts.”

So great was Doctor Fether’s conviction that Jon Quill paled. At that moment, Jon believed Fether – and this in spite of having seen the floating skeleton of Admiral Fairweather.

Doctor Fether pulled out a series of files and a few books. Some of them looked exceedingly old, and far more mystical than medical in nature.

“The simplest diagnosis is some form of what is commonly termed madness: schizophrenia, post-traumatic stress disorder, bipolar disorder, or major depression … listed in order from more to less likely to result in hallucinations. The best case scenario is that Cantor Mortalis truly believes he can see and speak with the spirits of the dead – and that they are present, invisible, at various times and places – but that he is mistaken. He is broken. He needs treatment to heal. To recover.”

“Assuming he is deluded, Mr. Quill, is it your impression that his delusions are harmless? Think carefully. Does Mr. Mortalis live a normal life? Or, if not normal, a happy one? Is he stressed? Worried over the perceived needs and problems of his imagined companions? If there are no ghosts, Mr. Quill, in your own assessment do Cantor’s delusions aid or hinder his enjoyment of life?”

Jon’s face fell. “You know the answer to that question, Doctor Fether.”

“I do. Do you?”

Jon nodded. “If he’s wrong, he needs help. He’s a good pony!” Jon was surprised with the fervor he felt as he said that last part. He was even more surprised to see Fether nod in agreement.

“True, he strives to be a good pony. His heart, as they say, is in the right place ... even if his judgement is critically flawed.”

“But, Doctor, if the voices are all in his head, then how can he acquire information from them which he didn’t know beforehand? Doesn’t that alone say that he sees and hears something more than a delusion?”

Doctor Fether nodded.

“It does. And, on rare occasions, Mr. Mortalis has exhibited just that kind of supernatural knowledge. But there are possibilities more real than his having discussions with ghosts. And this is where things become complicated. How familiar are you with magical theory, Mr. Quill?”

Jon blinked. “Er, a bit. Unicorns do magic – moving things, making lights. Most have some additional magical abilities tied to their special talent. A few have a special talent for magic itself and can learn to do all sorts of interesting tricks.”

Fether sighed. “Well, true – but limited. If that’s where we must begin, then that’s where we must begin.” He pulled out another book.

“First, Mr. Quill. All ponies are magical. Our cutie marks appear by magic. Our special talents are a form of natural magic. Pegasi walk on clouds and bend the weather to their will with magic. Earth ponies’ strength, endurance, and their heightened ability to manipulate the natural world of earth and stone, plants and animals is likewise magic. Unicorn magic is tied to the mind – to mind over matter, to the production and control of energy, to the heavens and the astral realms. Each type of pony has their own strengths and, in most cases, their natural magic fits comfortably within their archetype. Sometimes it doesn’t, and that can lead to a kind of magical stress or fatigue. Not always, mind you, but sometimes.”

“Your magic, Mr. Quill, your special talent is to take that which is ethereal, illusory, imaginary, exotic or unreal, and then (through the alchemy of words) distill it into something real, tangible … grounded. I’ve recently begun to read your columns. You’ve a gift. You can bring the unbelievable into perspective … to capture and cage it with pen and ink, to tie it up and put it on display in a way that normal ponies can then understand. You search for exotica … for the mysteries of heaven and earth … you put ideas that cannot be contained into boxes made of words and bring them home to sit on your mantle for every visitor to your house to admire. You have found a true vocation in your work with the Star. I commend you.”

“There are many magics. Many forms of divination, of prophecy, of looking to the future ... or to the past. Of perceiving distant events. Unicorns do not have a monopoly on such powers. There are ponies who read cards, consult crystals, or even twitch and shudder in ways that foretell upcoming events. While many, perhaps even most, are fakers, some are not. In theory, Cantor could be using a variation of this magic, channeled through his delusions, to acquire information he otherwise shouldn't have. He could be practicing such magic naturally, as innately as a pegasi naps upon a cloud. This is the very best case scenario. If there were no other factors involved in Cantor's personal history, in his pursuit of mystic knowledge and power, I might be willing to leave my diagnosis here. But there are other possibilities. Other scenarios. And they are in no way what one might call good."

“So pay attention now. This is important.”

“Cantor Mortalis was a shy foal. He was, and is, clever. Gifted. He is also insightful and empathic. He relates to well to ponies, and cares for the well-being of those around him. He is kind. He is also gifted with considerable presence – charisma, a warm demeanor that others respond well to. Not all who meet him like him immediately of course. Many ponies are entirely indifferent to him. But even those who dislike him don’t tend to view him as a threat … or as somepony dangerous. As an introvert, he prefers limited social interactions – but as a high functioning one, he can mingle in the public sphere, he can smile and make small talk, he can speak to crowds, and he can do it very, very well … better than I ... it just exhausts him to do so.”

“Like many ponies who share these traits, he was highly imaginative as a foal. He found more joy and fulfillment in books and stories than in play with his class mates. His self-consciousness made it difficult for him to truly accept the friendship of other ponies and cultivated a hyper-sensitivity to the casual cruelties of his fellow foals, so he turned to imaginary playmates as his real ones disappointed or hurt him.”

Doctor Fether’s face had been expressionless through most of this recital, the slight shift from dispassion back to pity was all the more visible.

“Cantor was good at imagination. Very, very good at it. One might say that turning his mind, his thought, his musical gifts towards playing with these figments created by his own mind had become his special talent. That this was the first crack in Cantor’s thinking ... his perceptions. A flaw. And his magic, his special talent, was tied to it.”

“So he began to imagine he could see and hear dead ponies. This offered him the chance to do good in the world. Uncomfortable dealing with the living, fearful of rejection, he turned to these figments. He wanted to help, so they provided him with problems. Solving those problems made him feel better, and so the figments vanished.”

Doctor Fether’s tone hardened slightly.

“And then came Nighthaven Academy. They believed, foolishly, that Cantor could do what he believed he could. That he was gifted as a spiritualist. A medium. That his magic wasn’t tied to the dark side of his own imagination, nor to his golden voice, but to the spirits of the dead. They sought to teach him, to learn from him, to seek to develop … to rediscover … the mythical art of necromancy.”

“So they trained him. As one would expect for a pony gifted with imagined friendships, Cantor’s studies blossomed in the fields of enchantment, charms, and compulsions. He could change how ponies thought or felt, for a time. He could make them like him. One might say that his delusions were a method by which his magic worked upon his own mind, Cantor thinks he sees the dead because that helps him like himself.”

Doctor Fether’s gaze sharpened. His eyes narrowed. His frown deepened.

“What I’m about to tell you, Mr. Quill, I will subsequently deny. Nighthaven Academy is rife with secret societies. Compare college catalogs and you will discover an oddity: official student groups are scarce at that university. This is because most of the student groups are unofficial. Something like the Chess Club is just a gateway so that various cabals of would-be magicians can sort out which ponies will be part of which clique.”

“Most of it is nonsense. But there are groups interested in knowledge. In power. In … the exotic. I had the honor of being brought into one such group. I was brought in based on cleverness. My sharp mind gained me entry. Cantor was not as sharp, but he was a member as well. He was there on strength of personality, an area where he outshines me far and away.”

“Do not think me jealous, Mr. Quill. Cantor earned his place and I earned mine. I admire what he achieved. Especially with the handicap of his delusions.”

“We were young, Mr. Quill. We were foolish. We sought knowledge. I, to better understand the mind so that I might heal what others had so thoughtlessly broken. He, to gain the secrets of the dead – to better understand the spirits that he imagined he dealt with.”

“There are rituals Mr. Quill. There are magics that unicorns can do in search of exotic answers to unanswered, unanswerable questions. They are not illegal, per se. No official laws govern them. But these rituals are forbidden. Those magics can press against the walls of our world. They can distort them. Bend them. They can crack them.”

“On the other side of those walls lie territories unimagined and unimaginable. Places we think of as dark because what we know as light is fundamentally natural. When one steps entirely outside nature, outside of the universe as we know it, we enter a realm that is wholly unnatural. When we crack the walls of this world in search of answers, what lies beyond can sometimes bleed through.”

“That other realm is not empty, Mr. Quill.”

Doctor Fether’s voice dropped. Jon had to lean forward to make out what he was saying.

“There are things there. Entities. They … whisper. The speak through the cracks to those who wish to listen. To learn.”

Jon Quill reached one trembling hoof for his glass. He downed his schnapps. Fether refilled the reporter’s glass.

“I learned much of madness from that experience. I learned more of madness from watching what it did to the minds of those who pushed too hard at the walls of reality.”

“Reality isn’t the only thing that can crack under that sort of magical strain and let those whispers in. Minds can crack too, Mr. Quill. Especially minds that are already weakened … already flawed … minds that already believe they hear other voices.”

Jon shuddered.

“So, when Cantor speaks of hearing voices, and they tell him nothing he did not already know himself – we may safely chalk that up to mental instability.”

“But when some imagined speaker gifts him with information he could not know otherwise … when those voices begin to subtly, or not so subtly influence a pony's actions ...”

Doctor Fether trailed off.

Jon’s expression began to twist in horror.

“You’re talking about demonic possession, Doctor. And not the nicer sort of demons you find caged in Tartarus. I think I’d rather believe in the Trotting Dead.”

Doctor Fether paused. He paused for just long enough to imply that what one would rather believe does not change the underlying reality of an unpleasant situation.

“Do you know how many verified cases of the Trotting Dead, unexplained by other magics – charlatans misusing the come to life spell, hallucinations, miss-identifications of exotic creatures or phenomena – have occurred in the past three hundred years, Mr. Quill?”

Jon shook his head.

“None. Mr. Quill. None. I checked. I checked very thoroughly. I have spent years checking,” and there it was again, that hint of buried rage, a touch of obsession, wrapped in the unyielding iron of Doctor Fether’s mind.

“Do you know how many verified occurrences of demonic possession have happened, not in the last three centuries, but in the last fifty years alone?”

Jon just stared. He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“Twenty three, Mr. Quill. Twenty three.” Doctor Fether leaned forward. “We have two of them locked away here in Bedlam as we speak.”

Fether leaned back in his chair.

“Not all of these alien entities, these voices from beyond our spheres, are what you would think of as evil, Mr. Quill. But even the bright and beautiful ones are dangerous and terrible. Even ones that like ponykind and are inclined to help us are so very strange that interactions with them are fundamentally damaging to the sanity of those who converse with them. Such damage can usually heal, given time and proper care, especially when the entity in question is being careful and gentle in their handling of us. But the ones with ill intent ...”

Another pause. Doctor Fether took a drink himself.

“And how can a pony truly tell the difference? Until it’s too late of course. If the crack through which such an entity, or entities, operates is found in a pony’s own mind, how can that pony tell if an effect they observe is real or illusory? And, even if an effect is real, seen by other ponies, how can observers tell if it was caused by some outside, independent force … rather than (in the case of a semi-possessed unicorn) evoked by their own magic, without them even knowing they were doing it. Given time, the whispers in such a pony can overpower the pony entirely ... or at least parts of them, so that some of their thoughts, aspects of their magic can rip free, can take on a false life of their own.”

Jon shuddered. But then a curiosity struck him. He smiled.

“Doctor Fether, if what you’re saying is that the spectacular displays of the Trotting Dead that Cantor thinks he’s trying to fix are actually caused by his magic, then how is it that they occur long before he arrives on the scene?”

Doctor Fether looked steadily at Jon.

“Did I ever say that Cantor Mortalis was the only unicorn to be cracked in this way?”

Jon’s face fell. Fether continued, “No. What I said was we had two ponies currently restrained here who were being treated for bona fide demonic possession. And we are not speaking of ancient times and dark ages, where every mental illness under the sun or moon was laid at the hooves of devils. We identify and treat mental illnesses here. We are quite skilled it at. So when I say that we have two demons contained on the premises, you may be assured, we have two. And they are contained.”

“There are others out there, Mr. Quill. Other tatters from beyond our world who have crawled in through the cracks in the walls. Other broken ponies. Other vehicles for those whisperers in the darkness to deceive and work through. Many of their aims are terrible. Their masks can be pleasant or fearsome. And when one has worked its harm on a place, why wouldn’t the report of strange events lure a mad pony like Cantor there? Once there, why wouldn’t the cracks in his own mind … and the things that use those cracks to their own advantage … then reach out. And in reaching out, what might they do?”

“Create a vortex of dark magic, drawn from Cantor’s own fears? His nightmares? His worries about what might be wrong with his imagined friends?”

“Bringing bones to a false semblance of life? So that other observers, arriving later on the scene, witness something they take for one of the Trotting Dead? While he sees something he believes to be a lost soul in need of help?”

“And, once he helps them, is his mind better or worse, Mr. Quill? Are the cracks greater or smaller? Can those things that whisper beyond the edges of our world speak more freely to and through him? Are there more of them with him?”

“If so, we can rightly say that his condition is deteriorating.”

Doctor Fether sighed.

“At best. At absolute best, Cantor is just mad. No more. His seemingly prophetic abilities are natural divination channeled through his delusions. And his madness worsens, putting he, himself in danger.”

“But if what Cantor did back in Nighthaven, back when he mastered the ancient art of ritual magic on one dark and terrible night … back when he lost the ability to call on light and instead learned to see with darkness itself … if that experience left cracks open between his mind and what lies beyond … then Cantor is not just a danger to himself.”

“He is, or he will become, a terrible threat to all of Equestria.”

“In either case, he must be stopped, Mr. Quill. Cantor Mortalis needs to be brought here, to Bedlam, for treatment. Before it is too late.”

There was a long pause. Jon Quill didn’t want to believe Doctor Tarrant Fether. He really didn’t. But Jon Quill hadn’t wanted to betray Cantor’s trust by coming here at all. Sometimes, in the face of the truth, what a pony wanted didn’t matter.

Jon thought about that for a moment. There was something with Doctor Fether ... something in his intensity. Jon twisted at that thought, certain that it was important. Then it struck him.

Doctor Fether didn’t want Cantor to be right. He didn’t want to believe that Cantor could speak to the dead. He didn’t want that to even be possible.

And sometimes, Jon found himself repeating his earlier thought, sometimes, in the face of the truth, what a pony wanted didn’t matter.

So Jon said it. He asked the one question that he was certain he shouldn't even be thinking after being buried beneath the weight of Fether's much thought out arguments, smothered by his well researched logic, caught in the web of his studies and deductions.

“But, Doctor Fether, what if you’re wrong?”

Jon Quill had never thought to witness anything more terrifying than Admiral Fairweather’s skeleton twisting in the air, hovering in a vortex of dark magic, his eyeless gaze staring at Jon while Jon fought to scream and flee.

Watching Doctor Tarrant Fether crack was more terrifying by far.

“I AM NOT WRONG!”

The shriek shook the windows of the room. Sparks flew from Fether’s horn. And the expression of anger, of fury, of wrath on his face would have sent far stronger stallions that Jon fleeing for their lives. He felt that rage strike his mind like the blow of a hammer. It stunned Jon, staggered him. The force of it was so great Jon feared his own mind might crack under the pressure of it.

A single breath later, iron control. A will harder than diamond. And Fether's anger was reigned in. Bottled up. The pressure on Jon's mind was gone.

“I am not wrong. I know that there are no haunts. And no ghosts. Cantor himself taught me that. If you don’t believe me, ask him. Tell him I have given you my express permission to learn exactly why I do not believe that he is, as some think him, the real thing.”

“Tell him that, ask the question, and he will answer you, Mr. Quill.”

Doctor Fether poured himself another glass of peach schnapps. Jon found himself sitting utterly still, breath held, watching the faint quivering of the Doctor’s hoof like one might watch the bubbling of lava … wondering if it presaged an eruption.

“Have you more questions Mr. Quill?”

The Doctor’s tone was normal. So very professional. Too professional.

Jon Quill fled.

Doctor Fether took a sip of the fruity alcohol. He looked at the toppled chair left by the reporter’s sudden departure.

“Mr. Knott. Mr. Knott.” Fether’s voice was calm, but pitched loud enough to carry into the hall. A moment later the twins appeared in the door way. They didn’t enter the office.

“Have Mr. Quill followed. He should lead you to Cantor soon. Or to clues to Cantor’s whereabouts at least.” Doctor Fether took another sip from his glass.

“Find Cantor Mortalis. Bring him here to me. To Bedlam. I need ... I need ... to help him.”

The twins nodded. They left surprisingly quietly, considering their size. Doctor Fether looked down at his glass. When had it shattered? No matter. A touch of magic would remove the shards of glass from his hoof and quell the slow drip of blood.

A touch of magic could solve many problems.