“Cantor, love, are you …” Valentina began.

Cantor held up a hoof to cut her off. He was glaring at the Maestro. The Maestro grinned unapologetically back at him then he raised an eyebrow in an inquiring manner.

Cantor took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. He looked considerably less upset than he did a moment ago. Cantor then addressed the Maestro and said, “Forgiven.” Cantor made a sour face as he added, “Mostly because I haven’t the time or energy right now to stay upset. Things to do. Places to go. Ghosts to rescue. So, now that you’ve had your fun, Maestro, will you help us? Or did you just want to see me doubly cursed before sending me on my way?”

Valentina and Jon Quill both frowned in surprise. The Maestro, on the other hoof, chuckled appreciatively as he said, “You are a kind one, o Death! And a clever one too. Clever enough to turn these great curses into blessings!” His tone shifted towards the serious as he added, “Of course I’ll help. As much as you’ll let me.” The Maestro’s grin returned, “Perhaps a bit more!”

“Uh, Cantor,” Jon Quill interrupted, “what’s that about a curse? Did … did the Princess … er … I mean, she looked pleased more than anything …” he trailed off worriedly.

“Oy!” Magpie chimed in, disgustedly, “’e don’t know ’bout the great curse? Even I know that one!”

“Master Quill has been drinking. And he is nervous. I doubt he is entirely up to snuff at the moment,” Fairweather added.

Cantor raised an eyebrow at Jon, “Surely you’ve noticed that we are, as the old curse goes, ‘living in interesting times.’”

The Maestro raised his glass in an enthusiastic toast, “One curse for everypony! To keep life from getting dull.”

Valentina frowned in confusion, “There’s a second?”

Cantor nodded, “Yep.” He glared at the Maestro again, as he continued, “It goes, ‘May you come to the attention of those in authority.’”

Valentina tilted her head as she considered the statement. “But that’s not …” then she started thinking more deeply about it, “… well, I mean it could be …” she grimaced as that train of thought continued, “… I … think I see what you mean.” She turned her glare on her old friend the Maestro.

He beamed at her in turn and commented, “So fierce! Good. You’ll need that.”

The Maestro then turned to Jon Quill and said, “You’re skilled with word-play, what would you call somepony who is as much Valkyrie as Ballerina?” The Maestro gestured towards Valentina as he spoke.

Jon Quill didn’t need to think for even a moment, “A Valkyrina!” He blurted out. Valentina’s eyebrows both raised, her face an image of affronted dignity.

The Maestro looked impressed. “Nice. Better than a Ballkyrie.” His nose wrinkled up in distaste as he muttered to Cantor, “Too ‘sporty,’ you know?”

“May I assume,” Cantor continued, in a surprisingly patient tone, as he looked from Valentina to the Maestro, “from all this banter, that you two have had sufficient time to chat?”

Valentina’s expression darkened slightly. She nodded. The Maestro gave her a friendly pat on the knee as he nodded too.

“Good,” Cantor said. He wore an oddly rueful expression as he continued, “Princess Celestia herself has graciously given me the liberty of the palace and permission to depart the Gala proper."

Jon Quill whistled appreciatively and said, “And I take it we're going to abuse those permissions?”

“Oh, maliciously,” Cantor confirmed. He didn't sound at all pleased about it though.

The Maestro grinned, but then donned unusually solemn expression as he tapped his baton to his goblet. “But first, a toast before we begin.”

At Cantor’s hesitation, the Maestro said, quite seriously, “It will help. Trust me on that.”

Glasses were refilled. Cantor made sure his and Jon Quill's were only filled with water. As they clinked their goblets together the Maestro’s horn began to glow. Magic gathered around him. He spoke, “Let us raise our glasses on high …”

Morari removed his spectacles and held them up as well. Magpie let out a shrill bark of laughter at the sight, then gave the ghostly scholar a friendly punch in the shoulder. Fairweather frowned in confusion. He clearly did not get the joke.

“… and drink to the success of your enterprise!”

The Maestro touched his glass to Jon Quills own as he said, “Be brave!” Some of the magic seemed to spill from the Maestro into Jon’s water, which now glowed slightly.

Next the Maestro touched his glass to Cantor’s and said, “Be bold!” Again, Cantor’s water began to shine.

Lastly the Maestro touched his glass to Valentina’s and added, “Be resolute!” Her champagne now shimmered.

They drank, and they felt themselves fortified, strengthened to overcome whatever hardships lay in their path, to endure the trials ahead and emerge victorious.

Morari looked on approvingly.

“You seen summat like that before?” Magpie inquired.

Morari and Fairweather both nodded. Morari added, “If he just did what I think he did, then the lot of them should be considerably more resilient for the next several hours.”

Fairweather added, “A little like Cantor’s fortification spell, only longer lasting and it also increases the underlying endurance of the pony in question. Simply beating the arcane protection off of them will not actually end the spell, the damage done to it can be healed.” He chuckled. “I know I was quite grateful for its like on the battlefield a time or two!”

The Maestro stood. Valentina offered him her fore-leg for support. He took it and said, “Let’s be off to check on some doors, yes? Find out which one sounds like the best route forward for all of you.”

“Let’s,” said Cantor. He still looked worried.

Jon Quill fell into place beside Cantor, ready to help catch him should he stumble. They began to make their way around the grand ball-room. Two possible doors remained to check here, then there were side corridors, a balcony, two more halls, and another foyer.

Jon also had questions, not that this surprised anypony. “So, Maestro … what all will you be doing? Singing a doorfinding song? Doing a dance to find the path? Can you use your mastery of music and magic to conjure up some sort of musical number to get everypony out of our way?”

The Maestro chuckled. “Mostly I’ll be listening. You are following dear, sweet Death here, so I’m listening for where his tune should go.”

Cantor sighed. “Maestro, please. I’m not death. Even if I sound like it.” Cantor muttered, “And feel like a warmed over version of it on occasion.”

The Maestro glanced at Cantor, “Then what, pray tell, are you? Do you even know?”

Cantor’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced sidelong at the Maestro before answering, “Actually I do. I’m a spiritualist. A medium-in-training. Kind of like how you can just hear the music, I can just see dead ponies. Ghosts, haunts, spirits. I help them tidy up the loose ends which keep them from being at peace and I help them return to their eternal rest. I act on their behalf. A sort of speaker for the dead.”

The Maestro looked delighted. “So, then, o Death – you are a kind of herald for the great beyond, an emissary for those who have passed beyond the veil?”

Cantor nodded. “Exactly,” he said.

The Maestro paused, listening at a nearby door. After a moment, he shook his head, raised his baton, and lightly tapped Cantor on the chest, saying, “Attend.” He had stopped walking.

The Maestro’s tone was authoritative. Cantor found himself perking up at it. The Maestro carried on, “When those with power and authority, such as Celestia, dispatch a servant to undertake a duty, to bear their words and their messages, then that servant – that herald – is, in many very important respects, a proxy for their lady and mistress. Celestia’s words are in their mouth, her thoughts in their mind, and so though the herald speaks, it is her voice which is given utterance.”

He tapped Cantor thrice with his baton, saying, “She. Is. There.”

They resumed walking through the gala. Somehow the Maestro’s wandering path always seemed to find a clear spot among the crowds.

The Maestro continued his speech, “When Celestia sends a herald, then that herald represents the Princess herself. In a very real way that herald becomes her. But only in so much as the herald is doing her will, carrying out the duties assigned to them.”

The Maestro’s voice remained solemn as he went on, “Your own master, o Death, would – I contend – be death itself. What my life has taught me is that death desires only good for those who have gone on. An eternity of rest. That you are here leads me to believe that when they have it not, then death sends a herald … a messenger … a speaker to act on its behalf. To carry its authority into the lands of the living, to those dark places where the dead are disturbed and distressed. So you, in carrying out your duties … in fulfilling your calling, are, in a very real sense, exactly what I have named you.”

The Maestro smiled and said, quite fondly, “You are Death. A dear friend, come to visit, and to bring us peace.”

His tone then became quite serious, “Those who would stop Celestia’s appointed messengers from doing their work stand in opposition to Celestia … to the sun itself. And woe betide any who would seek her wrath! Those who would stand in your way? As you go about your solemn duty? Well … keep to your principals, spiritualist – strive to serve the dead, and your adversaries will learn (sooner or later) that none can best death forever.”

Cantor chuckled. “Well, that all sounds a bit too dramatic, Maestro. Honestly, I’ve had my work compared unfavorably to the postal service before. I deliver messages that really need to be sent, from a very rare and exclusive clientele, but those messages – and their messenger – often aren’t exactly welcome.”

The Maestro let out short, musical wheeze of laughter. After which he turned to Jon Quill and said, “As for your other questions – the forces I serve may well open the way, if properly invoked. I’ve magic and music I could turn to your aid, even more than I have done. But only once we’ve found the path and I’ve sounded it out.”

“What are these forces you serve?” Jon inquired. Exotic magics were one of his passions.

The Maestro tsked. “I am a master of music, and dance, and certain rare magics. But the music I hear, the music of creation, is part of a larger force. Something fundamental to Equestria, like rain, or sun, or love, or magic. Indeed, in serving the song I have spent my life serving what I firmly believe is the single most powerful force in our land.”

“Which is?” Valentina prompted him.

“Harmony.” The Maestro spoke reverently.

“Harmony?” Jon Quill sounded confused.

“Yes, Harmony,” the Maestro scowled at Jon. “For a writer, you do need things explained to you rather a lot.” The Maestro sighed. “Harmony fills our lives, our interpersonal interactions. It fills the land and sea and sky. Harmony’s elements, wielded by those in tune with them, have defeated such ancient powers as Discord. They have overcome bitterness and envy by shattering Nightmare Moon and freeing Princess Luna. The raw power of Harmony itself, infused into appropriate ponies, overcame the great destroyer and banished him back to Tartarus.”

The Maestro smiled slightly, “It's true that ponies did these things. These impossible things. And they succeeded. Why? Because Harmony empowered them.”

The Maestro waved his baton around, “Harmony is a force that surrounds us and penetrates us, that binds all of Equestria together. Song is its voice, dance is one of its movements. So, by tapping into the cosmic essence of that harmony, by invoking and striving to channel its power, ponies can do amazing … impossible things.”

He grinned mischievously, “Which is incidentally how you get spontaneous musical numbers! Harmony magic, you see?” After glancing at Jon Quill’s expression, the Maestro’s face fell. “No, clearly you don’t see.” The Maestro sighed.

Jon Quill's expression said he'd very much like to see! Cantor and Morari were also both quite interested. They had passed another door, the Maestro just shook his head after glancing at it briefly. Their slow procession moved out into the hallways now.

“It’s like this,” the Maestro continued, “Fire is a fundamental force of nature, yes? Heat? The sun? That sort of thing?”

Jon Quill nodded.

The Maestro went on, “Ponies can light fires. They can do so with matches, with flints, with spells, yes?”

Jon Quill nodded again.

The Maestro tapped Jon on the shoulder, “Now, it’s hard to light a fire in a place where heat and dryness are absent, you see? Say, in the midst of a snowstorm. But with enough effort, a pony could do that.”

“It wouldn’t be easy, but yes, I see.” Jon said, and his slight frown showed that he was taking all this in.

The Maestro smiled, “Very good. Now, what about in a dry summer day? During a heat wave. When the pegasi have all gone on strike so there’s been no rain for weeks. When all the grass everywhere is dry as tinder. Not difficult to start a fire there, no?”

Jon nodded, “Not hard at all!”

The Maestro nodded, “Indeed, the difficulty there lies in not accidentally starting a fire! A casual misstep, a single spark from a horseshoe striking a stone and whoosh! Suddenly fire everywhere!”

Gesturing behind them at the Gala proper, the Maestro said, “Those musical numbers I invoke fall somewhere between lighting a fire in a blizzard and striking a match in a dry summer field. Where the forces of Harmony are weak, putting on a musical number involves much of what you’d expect. You get together a theatrical troupe: singers and dancers and musicians. You meet regularly, you practice, you run rehearsals, you drill and prepare and work until everypony has their parts down pat. Then, and only then, with time, effort, preparation, and the intent to perform do you actually have a musical number take place. It can be a magical experience. I would argue that it is a magical experience! But this requires a sort of focus and intention and effort similar to deciding you want to light a fire in a blizzard. It's only going to happen if everypony involved really works at making it happen!”

Another door passed, another shake of the Maestro's head. They headed down a cross corridor now, one with half-pillars set into the walls, stained glass windows lining one side, tapestries the other. Stone benches, covered with velvet cushions, were spaced along the way. It was also remarkably free of any other ponies. Their hoofsteps echoed in the empty space.

The Maestro continued, “Ah, but where the forces of Harmony build and grow strong in our land, then ponies may find that without work, without focus, without rehearsal, without even intending to ... they spontaneously break into song! They leap into seemingly expertly choreographed dance routines. They draw others, bystanders, into the music as well. That’s Harmony at work. Its magic. And its magic can do amazing things. Often, but not always, after such a musical number, things have changed. Either obviously in the world around us; or subtly, within a pony’s understanding of things.”

Jon Quill blinked, “Oh!” he said, with a surprised air of understanding, “So that’s why some places and some ponies are more prone to outbursts of music? They’re naturally more ... uh ... harmonious? So all that energy builds around them until somepony who’s focused on getting something done or figuring something out … what … accidentally hums a musical note? Or sidesteps another pony in the street in an almost dance like fashion and this ’spark’ suddenly kicks it all off?”

“Exactly!” the Maestro said. “And as for the results? Well, that depends on whatever the triggering factor might be. Musical numbers, montages: they can accomplish things. Or they can accomplish nothing at all! And there’s no telling if what gets accomplished is ultimately what the ponies involved would consider a good thing or not. It all depends.”

“Fascinating,” Cantor and Morari spoke in unison. Cantor then went on, “But I don’t really see how some sort of musical number could help us sneak into the crypts. Song and dance aren’t exactly clandestine. Bursting into ’with cat-like tread’ seems designed to attract attention rather than repel it.” He sighed worriedly, “And we’ve already attracted far too much attention already.”

The Maestro had stopped. He was staring at a closed door half hidden behind a tapestry. It was unguarded. It also wasn't one of the ones that was on Cantor’s list to check. The Maestro pointed to it.

“That one.” He said.

“You’re sure?” Jon Quill asked.

“Quite sure,” the Maestro said. He glanced at Cantor. “Open it, Death.”

“My name isn’t death,” Cantor muttered. But he pushed the door open. Behind it was a short passage. One that, according to the maps they had memorized should lead past a checkpoint, the kitchens, straight through one guard-room, past several old cellars, and then down to the right section of the crypts. A direct route, true, but one that was not considered feasible for a stealthy insertion.

“His name’s Cantor Mortalis,” Jon Quill added.

But the Maestro wasn’t listing to Jon. With the opening of the door he had gone gray again. The ancient unicorn shuddered and collapsed against Valentina.

“Maestro?” Her tone was worried as she caught him. With her help he settled onto a nearby bench. He looked bad. His light had flickered and dimmed. Valentina kept her hooves around him.

“Are you all right?” Cantor was deeply concerned too. He sat on the other side of the Maestro and rested a comforting hoof on his shoulder.

“You … you’re going down there?” The Maestro looked from Cantor to Jon to Valentina in a state of shock, one laced with hints of horror.

“I must,” Cantor said.

The Maestro shook his head. Then he said, softly, “You’ll need all your power, and more, o Death, to face what lies there. She is ….” He trailed off.

“Mad?” Cantor murmured, recalling his cousin Arty’s worries.

“Mad, terrified, overwhelmed with grief and guilt and loss, angry and confused and lashing out in pain … this dreadful music ….” The Maestro looked in wonder and surprise at Cantor, “You … you will resolve it?”

“If I can get there, I’ll try.” Cantor said.

The Maestro steadied himself and pulled free from Valentina. “Oh, you’ll get there. I’ll see to that.” His tone was as grim as Cantor’s own.

“But how?” Jon asked, “I remember the maps well enough to know that there are too many ponies along this route. We couldn’t sneak past them all, then there is the checkpoint, and …”

The Maestro held up a hoof to cut Jon off. “You’ll get there. You still think in terms of stealth, of sneaking by, of being unnoticed … unobserved. But I will sing you there, a song for …”

The Maestro blinked suddenly, “Did you say your name was Cantor Mortalis? Singer for the Dead?” He sounded like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Yes?” Cantor’s expression managed to combine ’wry’ and ’embarrassed’ while his tone was that of one hesitantly asking a very uncomfortably question.

The Maestro looked like he was about to burst with joy and laughter. He gave Cantor another hug and said, “Oh, dear Death! Sweet singer! I knew it! I was right.”

Releasing Cantor he said, “Now go. And may Harmony go with you.”

“But how …?” Valentina began. She shared Jon Quill’s worries.

The Maestro grinned as he reclined there on the bench. It wasn’t a friendly grin. Magic began to build around him. A glow on his horn. A shine in his eyes. Sparkles dripping from his baton as he raised it in one hoof.

The Maestro chanted, “No pony will stop you while you travel with him. No pony will lay a hoof upon you. Those that become aware of you at all will strive not to see you. They will turn away. They will cower back from you. They will beg you to pass them by. They will flee from you as they flee from the grave. Those that seek to bar your passage will be unable to do so. Should you have cause to speak to anypony, they will offer you any aid you need … all in the hope that you will just move along and leave them be.”

The singsong tone, the eerie cadence with which the Maestro spoke had caused the living ponies and the haunts alike to shiver. Even before the Maestro concluded with, “For tonight, for now, you travel with death.”

Cantor stared at the Maestro for a moment then said, “Goodbye. It was good to meet you. I hope … I hope it all works out for you.”

“If’n it doesn’t,” Magpie muttered, “Mayhap we’ll have us a new friend, eh?”

Morari snorted. His expression said her statement was in poor taste.

Through the doorway, over the threshold.

They had gone. Valentina had slipped out of her fringe and hat. Now sleek and in all black she was almost as stealthy as Jon Quill. And Jon was a dab hoof at moving about unnoticed. Cantor still wore his coat, the silver skull button at his throat seemed to glow against the black of the cloth.

The Maestro remained behind, lying on the bench, working his magic. He closed his eyes. He could feel the music building – the chaotic pain (the wrongness, the dissonance) lurking at the end of that tangle of passages and stairs, the resolute swirl of notes around Cantor, the hints of all the tunes between here and there. Was there a way to bridge them, to tap into the underlying harmony of what was going on here and propel Cantor to where he needed to be?

There was.

The sound of Cantor’s hoof-falls: one, two, a rattling clink with three, and four. One, two, a rattling clink with three, and four. They beat the time. The Maestro could hear the bass echoes of those hoof-falls reverberating from the stones. Reverberating from creation.

He opened his mouth and began the song …

“O-oh Death
O-oh Death
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

It was a plaintive song, a plea for mercy, for a reprieve. A plea which ... the Maestro now knew ... would go unheeded, at least for the Maestro himself. That would be part of the magic too, his last song.

Time and space began to distort. The Maestro could almost see the path Cantor would be taking to the crypt. Along that route guard ponies and servant ponies began to feel that something was coming. Instinctively these denizens of the Palace began to move away from that corridor, to look away from Cantor’s inexorable approach.

First there was a guard post. The checkpoint. Two guards stood at attention there, their own music said they were brave and resolute, watchful and prepared. They would brook no intrusions. But a more powerful song approached. The lights around them began to flicker and dim. The ghostly shades of Fairweather and Magpie flitted about them, half-seen. The guards looked to the floor, turning their heads away, literally unable to face what was coming. And so Cantor walked between them, pushing them out of his way as the Maestro sang …

“What is this that I can’t see
An icy touch taking hold of me?
The day is gone and the night takes hold
Who’ll have mercy on my soul?
O-oh Death
O-oh Death
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

… and the guards sang those words too. Afterwards, they would not be able to say what exactly had moved between them that night. Only that it felt as if death itself had passed over them.

So Cantor passed them by. Valentina and Jon walked in his shadow. The haunts ghosted ahead.

As they approached the kitchens, a very young serving mare began to step out into their path. A tan earth-pony in a maid‘s dress, carrying a tray of wine-glasses towards the cellars. She was nervous. This job was still new to her, and this was her first time serving at the Grand Galloping Gala.

The music moved around her and she collapsed, dropping her tray, the wine-glasses shattering on the stone floor. She huddled there, cowering back from Cantor and singing as the Maestro sang …

“O-oh Death consider my age
Please don’t take me at this stage.
O-oh Death, all the ponies pray
Could you wait to call me another day?
O-oh Death
O-oh Death
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

Cantor stepped over her, the hem of his coat brushing her mane. She fainted. He passed her by as well. When she awoke again she would only remember something that started as a nightmare, but ended in a profound sense of peace. When she got home, much later in the night after her shift was over, she would hug her parents and tell them she loved them. She didn't know why, but it seemed the right thing to do.

With each pace, Cantor’s progress became ever more inevitable. The song grew stronger. The music moved him forward. The ghosts could now be seen by the living, and the ponies ahead at the junction of corridors cowered back from glimpsing such a spectral sight. They turned and fled.

Moments of song equated to minutes of walking, now – the hard part – to pass directly through a well warded room that was usually full of guards. It was mostly empty, as tonight every pony had duties throughout the palace. Only four of the usual compliment was here, taking a brief break in between their shifts. They rallied themselves to oppose what was sensed was coming. Magic was invoked, weapons readied. Cantor was at the doorway. He strode into the room.

And when the Mastro sang next, it was Cantor’s voice which joined his … and it carried the echo of the grave …

“I’ll fix your hooves ‘till you can’t walk
I’ll lock your jaw ‘till you can’t talk
I’ll shut your eyes so you can’t see
This very hour, come and go with me.”

One guard frozen in place, another silenced in the act of calling for help, one blinded and huddled weeping in a corner, and the last (another pegasus) gathered up a nearby maul (a great hammer) before he joined the march, falling into place between Jon and Valentina. The Maestro sang with the stricken guards ...

“O-oh Death
O-oh Death
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

Down a hall, down some steps, but these had flown by in the blink of an eye ... in the single beat of music. Then as they passed by the cellars, this ensorcelled guard sang …

“The young, the old, the rich, the poor
Are all alike with you I know.
My skills are all at your command
If you won’t take me from this land
O-oh Death,
O-oh Death,
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

Now they had reached the new wall. The last barrier before the end. The mortar weeks old, the bricks thick and solid. Still enchanted, the guard swung his maul in time with the music. Somewhere Jon Quill had acquired a crowbar and Valentina a pick, the hammering of their blows against this barrier began to weaken it.

The music was fast approaching its end. Its power was building to a crescendo. The Maestro started to feel exhaustion setting in, the baton felt heavy in his hoof. Time and space, distorted and bent by the harmonics of magic, began to regain their prior shape. The magic was slowly collapsing back onto Cantor, the focus shifting to him.

But there were still a few words more.

The wall was now gravely weakened. Cantor would not be stopped by this masonry blockage. Cantor reared up on his hind legs and brought his forehooves against the bricks, singing in a commanding tone …

No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold
Nothing will satisfy me but the soul.
I am Death, who none can best
I open the door to peace and rest.”

Death had come. A pale horse. At his touch, the wall shattered.

The work was done, the way was open. The magic began to fade. The close of the song found Cantor blinking in the dusty rubble of the shattered wall, blocks still tumbling around him as he sang …

“My name is Death and the end is near.”

The walls of stone echoed the song, singing back ...

“His name is Death and the end is here.”

There was a final surge of power as Cantor stepped over the rubble and into the crypt beyond. Throughout the undercellars, the hidden guardrooms, the kitchens and halls, ponies sang their response one last time …

“O-oh Death,
O-oh Death,
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

Far above, in a side passage just off the main hall, the baton fell from the Maestro's hoof and clattered on the floor. He was smiling as he lay there, unmoving, on a cushioned bench. He would never move again. The answer to his song, the answer to his oft repeated question was a soft, gentle, and inescapable "no."

The music was gone. The magic spent. The events that had occurred felt like something from a dream. Had it only been a few minutes? Or half an hour?

No time for such considerations now.

Cantor stood just beyond the fresh pile of rubble, of broken bricks and mortar, in the ancient crypt.

“Halt!” cried the Pegasus guard, shaking off the lingering effects of the enchantment. He was more than confused, he was pissed! Had Cantor used a friendship charm on him to talk him into aiding in breaking open the wall? That … might have been a thing that happened. His memories of the events were a bit more musical somehow.

Regardless, he tried to leap forward and seize Cantor.

Which was when he discovered that Jon Quill had managed to tie his rear hooves together. The guard landed on the brick-pile in the doorway with a splat that knocked some of the wind out of him and sent his maul spinning from his grip.

Valentina leaped on his back and knocked most of the rest of his breath out. His resulting squeak of “Help!” wasn’t something he was proud of. He only hoped the other guards had heard it.

From the sounds of alarms ringing out further back in the hall, they may have.

Valentina and Jon wrestled the fellow, trying to keep him from getting at Cantor. Jon Quill shouted, “Cantor! Hurry! We’ve got company coming!”

This was an old chamber, dug out of the mountain‘s bedrock centuries ago. Pillars of carved stone, roots of the mountain, held up a vaulted roof. Light crystals glowed in carved stone sconces. Black and white marble tiles four feet to a side made a checkerboard pattern on the floor. There were carvings on the wall, images of ponies and landscapes – all weathered by the slow passage of years.

In the center of the floor several of the marble tiles had burst upwards and their shattered remains lay around the room. From the space beneath a vortex of evil magic rose, swirling like a tornado, and howling like the damned.

Caught in it was the skeleton of a unicorn.

Not in the center of the magic, as with Fairweather, Morari, or Magpie. No, this ghost had worked her way to the edges of the effect. She was almost free, but she kept falling back in. Her bones were carved with glowing runes.

Her spirit was visible to Cantor, and the fear and pain there … the helpless anger at the trap she was stuck in … it hurt to see.

Lightning danced around her, crawling on her bones. She intoned words of dark power and then screamed as the vortex writhed around her.

“Cantor, she looks pissed,” Magpie said. She sounded understandably worried.

“Was I … like that?” Fairweather was aghast.

“Not so bad as that. Nothing so bad as that.” Morari said … and he was speaking the truth. “She’s … how is she doing that? That shouldn’t even be possible!” Morari was horrified by what he saw.

Cantor understood the feeling, “I think she’s trying to eat the vortex’s magic and use it to power her escape.” Cantor sounded grim as he continued, “She’s using her magic on it, but its magic is inside her … so she can’t get away from it. Sisters preserve.”

The floating skeleton’s attention was drawn to Cantor. Her skull turned to face him and her spirit cried out, “Âscæc!”

Cantor knew enough of the old tongue to know she was commanding him to flee. It was a warning and a threat.

Cantor hobbled nearer to her, he raised his voice and called out, “Please! I am here to help you! I am a friend.”

Her spirit blinked in confusion, “Frêond?”

“Yes,” Cantor replied, “A friend. Let me help you! My magic can break you free.”

“Steorraymbhwyrft?”

That felt like a name. But it wasn’t one Cantor knew. He replied, “I don’t know who that is. Please, be calm. Be still.”

“Swigian!” she screamed it at him. A denial. A demand for silence. She raised her skeletal hooves and lightning crackled around them.

“How the devil is she doing that?” Morari repeated himself, but then he joined his voice to Cantor’s. “Cantor is a friend of the dead! Uh … Cantor,” he pointed, “Déaþfrêond! He helpan þu!”

Her head tilted to one side. The lightning began to subside. Cantor could tell she was trying to understand, to focus on what she was hearing. The dark power surging through her made that exceedingly difficult. She said, “H-helpan ic?”

“If you’ll let me,” Cantor said. His horn began to glow, silver light shining from it.

“I am your friend ...” he began, and the magic wove itself into his golden voice. It began to wrap around her mind, to shift her perceptions of him … to make her more pliable to the upcoming suggestion.

It failed.

She screamed “Ná!” and seemed to inhale. The magic of Cantor’s spell flew into her, adding to her power, but it did nothing to sway her thoughts. Now her ghost could be seen by all of the living, flickering slightly as it wrapped her bones.

Cantor staggered back.

She reached out a hoof, and cried out “Acwelan!” Her voice could be heard by all now too.

A blaze of lightning reached out from her bones, snatching up Cantor like the claw of some terrible dragon. It crushed him. It burned him. And then she swung the lightning bolt like a whip, smashing Cantor straight into the side of one of the room’s solid stone columns, columns which were considerably bigger around than Cantor himself.

Cantor screamed, magical protections sparkling as they failed. He broke through the column and was buried among the spray of rubble produced by his passing and the collapse of both the pillar and a portion of the ceiling.

Valentina howled, “No!”

Jon Quill cried out Cantor’s name.

The guard they were struggling with finally got a good look at the ravening spirit and he just flat out shrieked.

The haunts fell upon the bound ghost and tried to hold her still. She struck at them with magic and they fell. Fairweather took two solid blasts of lightning, each of which looked strong enough to level a small building, before he was thrown to the ground.

Tracers of that lightning storm danced as far as the door. Valentina was lightly scorched by one tendril, Jon Quill ducked and weaved with surprising grace (avoiding all but the barest touch of the energy), but the guard had a hole burned through one wing and a very bad scorch-mark left on his right rear haunch, just below the armor. He collapsed, screaming in pain.

Other guards were galloping up the corridor, heading for the sound.

Valentina abandoned the fight at the doorway and leaped forward, trying to get to the fall of stone where Cantor’s body lay buried.

But the hovering, ghost-wrapped skeleton gestured at her now and its horn glowed brighter. Gravity seemed to shift violently and suddenly Valentina was falling upwards. Her wings spread, but it was too late. She slammed into the ceiling with much more force than a simple fall of that distance should produce. The impact should have broken something. It should have broken several somethings, possibly including her neck. But thanks to the Maestro’s earlier aid, she was only badly bruised. Another gesture from the maddened ghost and chains of shadow appeared and bound Valentina there.

Meanwhile Jon Quill had darted in low, relying on stealth. He dove from column to column, sliding behind upturned slabs of marble and fallen boulders, dodging stray blasts of mystic energy.

The other guards had reached the doorway now. One look at what was going on inside and they stopped short of entering. Instead they huddled together, forming a shield wall and bracing for whatever onslaught might seek to drive past them. One of them called for a captain. The unicorns among them began frantically casting warding spells. Two of them dragged their injured compatriot back into the hallway behind them.

Jon Quill wasn’t the only pony to shriek in surprise when the rubble shifted aside and Cantor stood up again. For a moment, Jon wasn’t sure if Cantor was alive or undead. That blow should have killed him, nearly twice over.

Cantor was bleeding. Something was terribly wrong with one of his forelegs, he couldn’t seem to put much weight on it at all.

The hovering shade, so full of power that everypony could clearly see her ghostly form wrapped around her glowing bones, paused in confusion. She stared at Cantor.

“Please,” he begged. “Please let me help you. I can’t stand to see you suffer like this.” He spoke with desperate sincerity.

Cantor staggered towards her.

Though he was crouched behind an upturned marble slab less than three paces away, Jon Quill couldn’t move. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a voice screaming at him to be brave, to leap forward, to do something ... anything ... he had to save Cantor!

Cantor was placing his life in the maddened ghosts hooves. For the first time, Jon really understood that Cantor would die if that was what it took to fix this atrocity. And Jon Quill couldn’t do anything but watch.

The ghost saw it too. Her expression twisted to one of desperation that matched Cantor’s own. She hesitantly reached out a hoof towards him.

A second spell, the last of Cantor’s magic, and this time she didn’t fight it. She embraced it as Cantor spoke.

“The fear you feel, the darkness all around you, it is not real – it is the enemy of thought and reason. You are stronger than it. You can face it, you can let it wash over and through you, but you will not lose yourself to it. It will go, and only you will remain. You will rest … relax … and just let it all … go.”

The vortex seethed and roiled. The light of madness began to fade from her ghostly eyes. Still wrapped in her bones she let the spell work on and through her. She drifted to the floor and stood there, a unicorn skeleton, facing Cantor.

The vortex collapsed, vanishing away and leaving hardly a stray gust of wind behind. Her ghostly haunt, still visible to all, seemed to draw a breath. She looked around.

Cantor swayed before her. He tried to smile. Blood was leaking from his mouth. “Hello,” he said. “I am … Cantor Mortalis … spiritualist and ….”

“Where … is … he?” she demanded. Her accent was thick. She shone with a fell light. In that illumination those present could see all the ghosts in this chamber. Her own, still wrapping her bones. Magpie twitching on the floor. Fairweather struggling to crawl towards Cantor, his admiralty hat askew and sparks of lightning still popping off of him. And Morari, staggering punch drunk in the general direction of the dreadful skeletal wizardess while muttering fragments of half-formed thoughts.

“Who?” Cantor was struggling to speak. He also struggling to keep from coughing up blood.

“He … should be … here. This … this is … all wrong.” She sounded lost.

“I … will help ... you ...” Cantor managed to get that out. He swayed. She caught him.

“Yes,” she said. “You will.” Her voice echoed with tones that were more terrible than the merely cruel. Cruelty was a wrongness that could be opposed. No, when she spoke, all those present heard something far worse: they heard necessity.

One of her skeletal hooves moved. She tapped Cantor: horn, forehead, throat, chest, belly. Short, sharp blows – hard enough to feel, but not hard enough to hurt. With each one she chanted a word of power and a glowing sigil appeared, shining within Cantor's flesh. Jon Quill thought he recognized the sigils from a poster of pony chakras he had seen in a fortune teller's shop back in Albion.

The lingering magic in and on Cantor was drained out of him. And not just him, all through the room warding spells, light crystals, the invocations of the Maestro and the unicorn guards all crumbled, their power flowing into her.

It was too much for Cantor. Lacking the strength to scream, he only gurgled and slumped to the floor, he looked slightly withered. Jon Quill dove forward and caught him before his head could strike the stone.

Cantor was still alive. He was even still conscious. This latter fact was a small miracle, but it was not a kindness.

The ghostly unicorn was visibly pulsing with power now. Her bones rose into the air. She hovered there for a moment then she raised both her hooves, striking a pose that (for all the world) looked like Celestia raising the sun. The magic she had stolen gathered within her.

She cried out, “To Steorraymbhwyrft! Tele-“

A flash of light and her ghost was gone. When her fell radiance vanished, Cantor’s three friendly haunts were no longer visible.

Valentina fell to the floor with a thud. The magics binding her to the ceiling had vanished as well.

The rune-marked skeleton had remained behind. For a moment it floated there like a Nightmare Night prop hung by wires, the carvings in the bones no longer glowing ... but then it clattered to the ground in a messy pile.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by Cantor's wet, wheezing gasps and Jon Quill's panicked sobbing. Then the royal guards swarmed in.

Author's Note

"O Death" (or "A Conversation with Death") is a traditional American folk song in the public domain, attributed to Lloyd Chandler who performed the piece in Appalachia during the 1920's.

As a folk song, variant lyrics are quite common – with the number and structure of verses changing from performance to performance.

One of the most famous recordings of "O Death" was the 2002 Grammy winning version by Ralph Stanley which appeared in the film (and soundtrack album) "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?".

The adapted version of "O Death" invoked by the Maestro in the chapter above would be closer in feel and orchestration to either the version by Jeff Grace that appeared in the credits and on the soundtrack for the game Until Dawn or the version by Jen Titus used in the show Supernatural.