II. In the Dark Backward

“Shift it a little to your left.” The Pony of Shadows’ voice was as whispery and unnatural as always, although her focus was on the work rather than Caballeron and, as a result, she was using her businesslike tone.

Caballeron grumbled quietly to himself, but he put his shoulder against the small boulder and gave it another solid push. He winced at the pain which came from his back legs – the bite wounds there still hadn’t fully healed. The rock shifted slightly and he eased off. Somehow, that new positioning felt right to him. Better than it had been.

“Good. Just so. Leave it there.” She directed.

Caballeron took a step back and mopped his dripping brow with an equally soaked pocket hoofkerchief. He eyed his associate suspiciously.

She, in turn, trotted out of the shade of the canyon wall to inspect the rock Caballeron had spent the afternoon moving into position. It had been a grueling job: setting up rollers and the fine sand, followed by a lot of shoving, some waspish comments from the Pony of Shadows, and then (after the boulder had lurched forward a few more meters) it was time to put in the braces (so there would be no back-sliding.) Next: reset the rollers, sweep the sand back to the front of the affair, and start the whole process all over again.

Caballeron was reasonably sure that this work was, in fact, necessary to their plans here. While he certainly wouldn’t put it past the Pony of Shadows to play cruel games with his time and labor, she didn’t like being in the Valley of Dreams, prison to Lost Tambelon, any more than … well … anything else did. Indeed, it seemed like she wanted to get this arcane working of theirs finished even more urgently than Caballeron himself. This was why they were working during the daylight hours.

In addition to her tattered cloak, the Pony of Shadows had acquired a ladies parasol – a white thing edged with frilly lace – which she now held close. In the light of day, she kept to the puddle of shadow it provided whenever she crept away the safety of the darker sides of the spires of stone.

While she inspected the boulder, Caballeron opened his canteen and took another long drink. He wasn’t particularly worried about running out of water as there were some surprisingly clear freshwater springs hidden deeper in the Valley of Dreams. Chalk that up on the “pro” side of the very mixed bag of pros and cons they had uncovered in the past few days.

The biggest pro (and the biggest relief) was that, as of yet, they had uncovered no sign of Tambelon’s return. All throughout these desolate canyons (which snaked through the hills and desert in this part of the Badlands) the Valley of Dreams was empty. Even the plants that grew here were stunted and small. And neither the birds nor the beasts that haunted the regions surrounding the valley ventured in here. In some ways, this lack of wildlife was particularly disturbing when one considered the relative abundance of water the valley boasted.

But it was also a damn good thing too Caballeron thought as he unwound the bandages on his right rear leg. There had been a nasty bit of work fighting their way through the caves and into this part of the canyons. He’d had to use more of his flash-bangs than he would have liked. And he’d broken or lost two of his knives. Even the Pony of Shadows had turned her dark magic on the swarming beasts. Getting through them had been more difficult than he would have wished. But they had managed it. And with all their equipment too. Mostly because the snarling creatures had simply refused to enter the Valley of Dreams. They had paused at the threshold and withdrawn back into the darkness of the caves. But not before they had gotten in several nasty, and probably venomous, bites.

Thankfully the swelling was finally starting to go down. Eyeing the distinctive teeth marks, Caballeron shook his head and grimaced. He muttered quietly to himself, “Chupacabras. Why did it have to be chupacabras?”

“Hmm?” The Pony of Shadows directed her attention to Caballeron.

“Nothing, mon cher. Just remembering our warm welcome to sunny Tambelon.”

Her yellow eyes narrowed at the mention of the sun. “Tambelon is a place of shadows and bells, of cages and pits, of ruins and crumbling towers. Were any of it returning to the Valley, trust me, ‘sunny’ isn’t a term you’d use to describe it. Be thankful that the ancient wards remain so thoroughly intact.” She was frowning at him. He could tell from the squint in her eyes.

“Oh, I am mon cher.” But Caballeron braced himself as he replied. That frown of hers was worrisome. Especially when it was directed at him.

Which made what came next surprising. “You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.” Even her tone offered grudging praise, and a hint of suspicion.

Caballeron blinked. “Better at moving rocks?” Now that was a back-hoofed compliment if ever he heard one.

She snorted. “No. You’re just as useless at the moving part of it as I expected. It’s the positioning bit that is surprising. You got it perfect. On the first go. Let’s hope it’s not beginners luck.”

Caballeron grinned smuggly. “Well, mon cher, I have always had a bit of a knack for working my way into places that the pony-folk of ancient times had sealed away. And a knack with acquiring the treasures hidden there. What we’re doing here is much the same, non? Navigating and manipulating both the mundane and magical barriers that keep us from an ancient, hidden place containing something valuable to us.”

That was all mostly true, even if he preferred to rely on his even greater knack for swooping in after others had done all the heavy lifting involved in an excavation and then absconding with whatever treasures other archaeologists or treasure hunters had uncovered. That was much easier! And more profitable.

Caballeron paused to brush some of the sand off his jacket before adding, “I am the best at this, you know. That is why Ahuizotal recruited me.”

From the tilt of her hood, it looked like the Pony of Shadows was considering Caballeron’s response. Her reply, while cold, sounded almost hopeful. “True. I had not considered that your natural magic … your facility for tomb robbing … (especially when yoked to the common earth-pony gifts for moving stones and dirt about) might give you something of an intuitive grasp of the ritual practice needed to manipulate the chthonic magics here to allow us access.”

Her yellow eyes narrowed. “Let’s see how well you handle the next step. Perhaps …” she trailed off.

Caballeron’s brows had lowered. “Perhaps?”

“Perhaps we won’t need to recruit a unicorn at all.” The Pony of Shadows sounded like she grudged every word of that admission.

Caballeron kept his surge of triumph from showing on his face. This had been one of their many disagreements. She had wanted to bring along a unicorn – somepony who she could coach through the magic and spells needed to shift and manipulate the old wards keeping Tambelon (and, more importantly, Grogar) banished to the Shadow Lands. Such tampering should allow enough shadow-stuff to seep through from the outer realms so as to form a pool that they could then use. A properly prepared pool of such darkness, gathered in one of the sealed caverns beneath the valley, and Trotwine’s ring could be immersed there … its power renewed … and then ….

Well Caballeron wasn’t exactly looking forward to telling the Pony of Shadows to take a long walk off a short pier, but once he had a direct means of arcane communication to Ahuizotal that didn’t require her presence, Caballeron certainly had no desire to have her around “assisting” him. No, Caballeron's attempt to break into the Silver Vault of the North so as to steal some magicked diamond for Ahuizotal would go much more smoothly without her continuing interference.

Indeed, the biggest reason Caballeron was on board with this little ring enchanting detour was so that he could be shot of the Pony of Shadows for good. Let Ahuizotal’s murderous, spectral lapdog – his incorporeal messenger of shadows and spite – run the old jungle devil’s errands elsewhere.

Admittedly, the work of moving stones would probably go faster with help. But, after Albion, it would be an understatement to say that Caballeron had ’serious doubts’ about working with the Pony of Shadows at all. He just knew that anypony they brought in would be ... expendable. And anypony in the valley who was expendable would be expended before this work was done. Worse, if they brought in somepony (for example, a unicorn who the Pony of Shadows found she could manipulate more easily than she did the rogue archeologist) then suddenly Caballeron might find himself to be the expendable one.

If Caballeron had any rock solid rules or principals that governed his life it was that he, himself, was never expendable!

This, ultimately, was why they were here alone. Anypony Caballeron might trust to bring along on this expedition was simply too useful to him, long term, to justify sacrificing them here in the desert. Anypony Caballeron might be willing to string along but leave behind … to leave their corpse behind, if Caballeron was being completely honest with himself … well, they would be an unacceptable risk to Caballeron’s own well-being.

Although, after having moved that boulder, Caballeron was beginning to have second thoughts. Wasn’t working dark magics all supposed to be scribbles with chalk, burning incense, weird chants, and blood sacrifice? When was shoving rocks around part of all that?

The Pony of Shadows interrupted Caballeron’s train of thought, “Let’s see how well you do with this next bit.”

“And what is this ‘next bit?’” He glared at her suspiciously.

“You’ll be using some chalk to trace a moderately complicated mystic symbol here,” her cloak lifted and the shadowy hoof beneath it lightly touched a flat face of the boulder.

Caballeron grimaced.

“Just follow along as I point it out,” she added, shifting her position to stand beside him, far more closely than Caballeron found comfortable.

He dug out a stick of chalk and, as the tattered hem of her cloak slowly traced a swirling pattern of coils and jagged shapes, interspersed with the stylized figures of strange creatures, he followed the trailing fabric, chalk held in his mouth.

When they finished he spat out what was left of the stick. At least he had the foresight to purchase his chalks sugar coated. Even so, too much sketch work left a bitter aftertaste. After taking another swig of water he asked, “Are we done here, mon cher?”

She chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Oh no, Doctor Caballeron, we’re only just beginning.”

He sighed.

She continued, “Next we must carve that sign into the rock. Hammer and chisel work. You must strike the first blow at the moment the sun finishes setting, and you must complete the work before the sun rises tomorrow. There are rare incenses we must burn. Further, the entire time you are shaping the stone, there is a chant you must recite. I will teach it to you.”

Caballeron glared at her. “More manual labor, eh? And what will you be doing while I’m polishing my sculpting skills?”

“I’ll be pouring power into your work. Unless,” her tone was biting, “you’d rather be the pony who directly channels the energy of the great void through their being and into the stone for several hours.”

Caballeron snorted and muttered, “If you could actually hold a hammer, I’d consider it.”

She heard him. Her reply was delivered with an undertone of controlled anger that sent shivers down Caballeron’s back.

“If I could actually hold a hammer, then you’d be of no use to me at all.”

Caballeron felt his stomach knot up as her gaze drifted down to his bandaged leg. She was staring at the blood stain there. His blood.

“Well …” she continued, “… almost no use.”

As Caballeron glared back at her what ran through is mind was: well, that wasn’t ominous at all – in his most sarcastic mental tone of voice. Time for a change of subject. Caballeron cleared his throat and said, “So … about this chant? Are you sure it will work?”

She chuckled again. “Quite sure. The unicorns of old used powerful magic to seal up Tambelon. But I know magic more ancient and potent still. Now attend, and follow along carefully ....”

By the time the sun was setting, she’d drilled the chant into his head very thoroughly indeed. The words were originally in an ancient, dead language – but, as she said, it was the meaning rather than the specific sounds which were important in this case. And, for Caballeron, the chant would have more meaning in a modern tongue.

So now he stood, bronze hammer and iron chisel in hoof, surrounded by the smell of burning myrrh, in the darkness of the valley. The sun had vanished beyond the canyon’s rim hours ago. Any moment now, the last sliver of day’s light would slide beneath the horizon. Behind him the Pony of Shadows hovered in the darkness.

“Now,” she whispered.

Sunset. Nightfall. It was a very clear night. Caballeron swung the hammer. Blue and purple sparks flew from the stone as the first chip of rock broke free.

Caballeron began chanting:

The doors of heaven are opened for me.
The doors of earth are opened for me.
The bars and bolts of iron are opened for me.
The first gate has been unfastened for me by the dark below.
Behold, I was watched and prisoned, but now I am released.
Their chains will not hold me.
Their cords will not bind me.
Behold, the wards have been opened for me.
Their protections have been unfastened before me.
Their power has been given to me.
I shall come forth by night into whatsoever place I desire.

With every phrase chanted there was another swing of the hammer, further scoring and deepening the arcane glyph they had sketched in chalk upon the side of the boulder. The Pony of Shadows seemed to cast an ever deeper, colder darkness upon the newly graven rock. As this terrible power spilled from her it pooled in the carving and slowly soaked into stone. Blue and purple sparks continued to dance in the air with each hammer blow, pulsing and shimmering in rhythm with Caballeron’s chanting.

The doors of heaven are opened for me.
The doors of earth are opened for me ….

There was no light in the cavern. Light had not shown in this place for over a thousand years. It was dry, and still, and quiet.

This was as it should be.

Night fell, but with it came a faint sound. Iron striking rock. Not in here, but somewhere far distant. The echo of of that sound shivered through the chamber like a single note of music.

Now there was motion in the cavern. A unicorn’s withered flesh twitched and shifted around its empty eye sockets. It could see again. Hear again. It frowned and grimaced. The crystal collar around its throat was cool and heavy, but not so cool and heavy as to keep it fully pinned to the stone slab, locked in slumber. That meant something.

It meant that there was a disturbance in the valley above. Minor. Very minor. But, nevertheless, a disturbance.

Disturbances were not permitted. Not here. Not ever.

The unicorn’s dead gaze flicked around the cavern. Good. They were all still here. Arms. Long and grasping, with talons and claws … taken from dragons and yeti and griffons and trolls and other exotic, dreadful beasts. All these severed limbs were long withered. Their flesh, like the unicorn's own, was mummified by time and the desert air. All wore crystal bracelets and iron chains.

Like the other disturbances from centuries past, this was still only a small thing thus far. As a result, the unicorn had only the faintest traces of power … of awareness … to work with. It focused that power, that awareness, on one of the arms.

“Go.” It said. “Hunt.” It commanded.

There was a sound like a crystal bell being crushed beneath an iron wheel. The bracelet and chains binding one of the arms (that of a young yeti) crumbled to sand. The withered limb fell to the floor.

The arm began to twitch. It flexed and twisted until it lay palm down, clawed fingers digging into the sand. A moment passed before, spider-like, the long dead limb began to crawl towards one of the cavern exits.

Oniate. Dry-fingers. Its touch brought death.

Awareness began to fade from the unicorn’s flesh. This disturbance would be ended. Just like the others had. If one Oniate wasn’t enough to deal with it, there were always more. And the dry fingers were only the first and least of the defenses here.

Disturbances were not permitted.

Horst slowed his pace. He held a wadded up napkin to his nose. Already the blood had dripped from it onto his blue Rein Spooner Aloha shirt, droplets splattering against its pattern of large white flowers. Horst rather liked the shirt. It made him feel a bit like he was on vacation.

A few houses down the road Horst could see that Doctor Fether was speaking with a mare. The good doctor was sitting at a table at a café’s, in the open air beneath a tree; she was standing nearby, shifting from hoof to hoof. No sign of Burl, nor his near identical Aloha shirt (the same pattern as Horst’s but with a red background and blue flowers.) Horst frowned slightly at that. Hopefully his brother’s investigations up at the Palace were going better than Horst’s own had.

Horst lingered on the edges of this little plaza here in Ponyville. It was hardly more than an extra large bit of yard around which a half-dozen shops were gathered. It was late. Night had fallen. It was a very clear night. In the far distance, Horst could see fireworks illuminating the spires of Canterlot. Must be a hell of a party going on there right now.

Horst waited for the good doctor to finish his conversation. It took a few more minutes, during which Fether scribbled a couple of additional notes and handed them to the pale blue filly. Her hoof trembled slightly as she took it. She bounced off, full of energy and happiness. Horst frowned. She seemed a bit too full of energy, really. Fether returned to his review of the information they had collected since their arrival at Manehatten a few days prior.

At least Horst’s nose-bleed seemed to have slowed down.

Horst approached Doctor Fether’s table. Horst could move surprisingly quietly when he wanted to. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat that Fether looked up from his notebooks. The remains of soup and salad had been pushed to one side of the table to make room for papers and ink.

“Ah, Mr. Knott,” Doctor Fether’s voice held a hint of satisfaction. Something must have gone right.

“Doctor Fether,” Horst replied. He pursed his lips unhappily. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to report.”

“You spoke with Rosa Cuer ... or rather, nurse Redheart?” Feather inquired.

“Briefly.” Horst winced. “Very briefly. I hadn’t even finished my ‘good evening’ before she slammed the door on my muzzle and told me to clear off before she called the authorities to have me removed from her property.”

Doctor Fether nodded. “Good. That confirms it. Cantor has been here. He’s spoken with his sister, and she’s been warned to expect us.”

“Fiesty,” Horst commented as he took a seat at the table.

“She is at that, even if she doesn’t look it. That’s one of the reasons I sent you to question her rather than going myself.” Fether stared at Horst’s muzzle for a moment. He tsked. Then he waved one hoof in a commanding fashion.

Seconds later a waiter appeared, as if by magic. “Sir?” the uniformed stallion inquired.

“Some ice, and a fresh napkin, for my friend here.” Fether’s request was polite but firm.

“Yes sir.” The waiter trotted off.

Horst watched him go, then raised an eyebrow at Doctor Fether. “I’m sorry sir, did you say ‘confirms?’ Was it the mare?”

“I did, Mr. Knott. I did indeed. Your brother Burl still hasn’t returned from his errand, so we’ve no indication about whether or not Cantor actually ventured to the Palace Library, nor what sort of knowledge or aid he may have sought there ... but,” Fether's drew out the word, indicating this was the important bit, “it turns out that young mare you saw leaving is a real chatterbox.”

Then Tarrent Fether frowned. There was a touch of worry, perhaps even sympathy, mixed in with his usual dispassionate expression.

“Sir?” Horst’s inquiry was cut short by Fether’s raised hoof. The waiter had returned with ice and clean cloth. Fether’s magic swiftly assembled an improvised ice-pack which Horst gratefully took. The waiter retired after Fether waved him off.

Once the waiter was gone Fether continued, “That mare who was here? She and I were talking shop. While she’s receiving surprisingly good care for her condition, there are some modifications to her treatments – both medicinal and magical – that I know of which should be able to help quiet the side effects you doubtless observed. Specifically the tremors and the occasional episodes of mania. All very cutting edge. So, little wonder that the local psychiatrists haven’t heard of it yet. I gave her references to pass on to her own doctors and pharmacists. They would need to be the ones to further customize her care as there are doubtless factors specific to her case of which I remain unaware. Which reminds me …” Tarrant Fether pulled out a sheet of paper and rapidly jotted down a list of what looked like titles which he then folded up and handed to Horst. Horst stuck the paper in his pocket without really reading it over.

Fether went on, “Anyway, in addition to a frank and open discussion of her mental issues which I cannot discuss in good conscience (even if there isn’t, strictly speaking, an official doctor-patient confidentiality issue here), she spent a good deal of time warning me that there was a ‘bad doctor’ due to come through town soon and that I shouldn’t tell him anything.”

Horst blinked in surprise. “You don’t mean …”

Tarrant Fether chuckled with wry amusement, “Oh yes. Miss Loose is a friend of Cantor’s. She’d been warned to tell the bad doctor Fether nothing. It is fortunate that I never mentioned my name to her. And that she is so very … distracted.” When Fether said that last word there was, once again, a hint of concern beneath his businesslike demeanor.

“Ah,” Horst nodded.

Fether continued, “I asked her when this ‘bad doctor’ was supposed to come through town. She didn’t know. So I asked exactly when she had heard about ‘him.’ She obligingly told me. As a result we now have dates for Cantor’s arrival in Ponytown. Once Burl reports on the situation at the Palace Library we’ll be able to formulate a rough idea as to how long Cantor stayed here before heading to the Badlands. At a guess, it would be no more than a day or two spent here talking with his sister. Add on a few more days should Cantor also have done some digging in the library – Burl can let us know how many, if any, that would have been. Then with that information, we can narrow our inquiries with the station master to a reasonable window of time. I’m confident that before noon tomorrow we’ll have learned precisely when Cantor left, down to the train-car and seat assignment, and precisely where he was going.”

Feather picked up his glass and took a drink of ice-water before he concluded with, “Burl and I shall leave you directions on how to catch up with us.”

“Sir?” Horst’s spoke with some confusion.

Tarrant Fether sighed and gestured at Horst’s nose. “Cantor Mortalis has spoken with his sister, nurse Redheart. This would seem to be his primary (if not his only) reason for coming here. The ... forcefulness of her reaction to your arrival at her doorstep leads me to believe that Cantor may well have convinced her to withdraw her support for his detention. We’ll need to prevent or delay any suspension or revisiting of the court orders which permit our acquisition and treatment of Cantor that might result from Rosa’s change of heart. So, assuming you remain willing,” Fether paused and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course, sir. You needn’t fear that. What do you need me to do?” Horst spoke with solid sincerity. He and his brother would carry this business of tracking down Cantor to the bitter end, no questions asked. The twins would be the brawn to back up Fether’s brains.

“Well then,” Fether continued, “I’ll need you to catch a train back to Manehatten. There you will secure an appointment with Judge Astrid Gavelstroke and inform her that we know Cantor Mortalis has returned to the Equestrian mainland and that he may have used enchantment magic to help convince his sister Redheart to appeal for a stay on Judge Gavelstroke’s initial orders.”

Horst started up suddenly, “Do you think Cantor did ensorcell her?”

Fether shrugged, “I have no idea if he did or not. Cantor is quite persuasive even without the use of magic. Redheart has no reason to love me. That I am the one pursuing her brother might be enough to encourage her to act without any form of arcane compulsion being invoked. When you speak with Astrid be sure to be honest on this point: we have only suspicion and conjecture.”

Fether pursed his lips and made a dismissive gesture with his forehoof, “But for our immediate purposes it really doesn’t matter whether he used magic on his sister or not. That Cantor might have done so should be enough to throw doubt on anything Redheart requests from Astrid. With Cantor’s deteriorating mental condition, the odds of his using such magics (even on close friends and family) grows greater. In short, he had the opportunity, the ability, and the motive to do so. Again, assuming Redheart attempts to rescind the detention order, then the subsequent and necessary investigation into whether or not Redheart had suffered some sort of mystical compulsion (rather than acting on her own) should be enough to draw the affair out for several extra weeks, if not months.”

Fether shrugged, “Best case for us? Redheart wasn't convinced by her brother to drop her request for his committal and there is no need for worry. But we cannot afford to count on that. So, a little effort spent now should help mitigate a worst case scenario, to wit: Rosa has agreed to help Cantor remain at large in the world. Let us assume the worst, and notify Judge Astrid accordingly. That way, if Cantor did use some form of enchantment on his sister (and if that comes to light in the inquiry) then the restraining orders may well stay in place regardless of Redheart’s objections. Even if they don’t, even if the orders are ultimately rescinded, then it’s still more time to find our quarry. But you understand that we need to move on this, now, to insure that no hasty decisions are made behind our backs.”

Horst nodded. “I understand sir. Speak with the Judge, then rejoin you and Burl.”

Fether nodded, “Yes. And there is another errand as well.” He passed a small, but heavy purse full of bits over to Horst. Horst took it and stowed it away. Fether said, “That paper I handed you earlier? It is a list of medical books and two journals. You are to contact the appropriate publishing houses in Manehatten and secure a copy of each book and a year-long subscription to both journals for Ponyville General Hospital. A gift from an anonymous donor.”

Horst stared at Fether in surprise. “Why sir?”

Fether frowned slightly, he seemed a touch surprised (or perhaps annoyed) by Horst’s confusion. His tone indicated that the answer to the Horst’s question should be obvious. “Because those materials have information that will help Miss Loose’s doctors treat her mental illness better.”

“But … sir … she’s … not your friend.” Horst struggled to wrap his mind around Fether’s unexpected of generosity.

Fether (on the other hoof) cocked his head to one side, his frown deepening. After a moment Fether sighed and said, in a patient tone, “Horst, I’m a doctor. I heal hurt ponies. It’s more than what I do, it’s who I am. My chosen field of endeavor is the mind. I don’t do what I do for the praise or for the sense of power. Celestia knows I don’t do it for the money, even if the money is good. No, I do it because it is the right thing to do. I honestly don’t care what those I treat think of me on a personal level, provided I can help them. Whether I am seen as a savior or a monster, it doesn’t matter. What matters, what always matters, is that she gets the help she needs.”

Fether’s tone hardened, the steel of his resolve showing in his voice, “Whether my worst enemy or my best friend – I will help where I can. And that’s why we are here. That’s why I’m spending my sabbatical chasing Cantor.”

Beyond steel, beyond resolve; an echo of inevitability ... of total certainty ... could now be heard in Doctor Tarrant Fether’s voice, “Cantor Mortalis is broken. His mind is damaged. He needs to be fixed ... to be healed. And I fix broken ponies.”

Inevitability, Horst suddenly discovered, could sound an awful lot like obsession.

Fether concluded, unconsciously grinding his forehoof far too hard against the table, “I will fix Cantor. I will show him there are no such things as ghosts.”