II. In the Dark Backward

Two rooms, three halls, forty minutes, and five more failed ghostly excursions later, Cantor and Valentina finally spotted Jon Quill on the far side of the main ball-room. Actually, it was Magpie who spotted him first and pointed him out. All three haunts were sticking close to Cantor at the moment.

Jon Quill was looking dapper in a formal tux and tails. His boutonnière was, appropriately, a jonquil. He wasn’t with Dame Providence. Cantor and Valentina had seen Providence earlier, mingling with other exceedingly proper and aged ponies. Dame Providence had acquired an escort, a peach unicorn with a cream mane who, judging from his dress, was a retired colonel.

Valentina gave a small gasp of delight when she saw that Jon Quill was currently chatting, in a most friendly fashion, with the Maestro.

The Maestro, Cantor noted, had a brilliant white coat, a wispy white mane, and a short white tail. His cutie mark was a treble clef in red, the same shade as his eyes. Some ponies might attempt to cultivate such an exotic look, but the albino coloration seemed entirely natural on this ancient stallion. His clothing (a formal tailed coat, shirt, and vest – all likewise pure white, with sequins and golden buttons) seemed almost dull by comparison to his body. The cut of the coat and the vest were remarkably similar to Cantor’s own.

The Maestro glowed. And, to Cantor’s sight, that glow flickered like a candle flame. This was a phenomena Cantor had only rarely encountered before, so it took him a moment to realize what that glow meant. When Cantor did, he reflexively tightened his grip on Valentina’s foreleg and shot her a glance full of sudden sympathy.

Valentina had been surprised to learn her old dancing master was still among the living, but Cantor could tell he wouldn’t be for much longer. The Maestro’s spirit was strong. Perhaps that had something to do with his peculiar magic, or perhaps he was just a strong willed pony. Regardless, that spirit now shone from his flesh in a way that seemed to shimmer visibly, at least to Cantor’s spirit-sight. The Maestro’s spirit was, Cantor knew, almost free from the body that contained it. His ghost was beginning to leak out.

Which wasn’t to say the Maestro was actively dying. Or, at least, his body was not in the final stages of failure. Not yet. No, while very aged, the Maestro looked quite healthy and happy. Mischievous even. And, Cantor suspected, he likely would remain healthy right up until he just suddenly … stopped. Probably sometime in the next day or two. If not in the next few hours.

“Valentina,” Cantor said softly.

“Hmm?” She replied, her eyes shone with pleasure. They were working their way towards the corner table where the Maestro sat and Jon Quill stood. Jon saw them and waived.

“If there’s anything you want to say to your old friend, I suggest you do it now. Tonight. Don’t wait. Just … don’t.” Cantor’s tone was serious. Valentina blinked at him in surprise. Then her eyes widened and pleasure there dimmed. She understood.

“Oh.” That was all she said. Cantor felt a lump in his throat. But then she smiled again, and there was actual gratitude in it – which, given the sort of news he had just delivered, was a rare thing in Cantor’s experience. She squeezed his foreleg and added, “Thank you. I will.”

As Cantor and Valentina reached his table, the Maestro rose, passing his baton to Jon. The Maesto beamed with joy. Before either Valentina or Jon could say anything, he stepped forward and took Cantor’s hoof. The Maestro said, in a voice which was thin and reedy, but still quite musical, “Hello Death! It’s so good to see you!”

Cantor’s train of thought derailed hard. Cantor held the old stallion’s hoof very gently. Cantor’s expression of shocked surprise just made the Maestro grin more broadly, wrinkles deepening around his eyes.

“Beg pardon?” Cantor replied. His tone one of polite, gentle, and entirely confused inquiry.

The Maestro laughed and embraced Cantor, kissing him on both cheeks. Cantor, mystified, returned the hug and the welcoming gesture.

“Given and granted,” the Maestro said, quite cheerily. He also sighed wistfully as he added, “And of course you’d have a voice like wine and honey, ready to sing me lullabies in a sleep without end.”

“Uhm, sir? Not to be rude, but he’s not … uh … death.” Jon Quill interjected worriedly.

“He’s a friend,” Valentina added.

The Maestro’s eyes twinkled. “Oh really, young story-teller? Then why does he sound like Death? And Death,” the Maestro addressed Valentina, “is a very good friend to all.” The Maestro retrieved his baton, pointed it at Cantor, and continued, “He is tuned to the key of glory, of triumph and finality. He is D major. And he … resolves. Oh how he resolves! So resolute.”

Cantor smiled and said, “Ah. Sorry, but I don’t follow you.”

The Maesto laughed, “But you follow everypony! You tidy up their loose ends. You bring a conclusion. Peace. Rest. Finality. Ergo: Death!”

“You know,” Morari commented, “he’s not entirely wrong about that part.”

“You sure, Scribbler?” Magpie was dubious, “Sounds ta me like ‘e’s a nutter.” Her tone also indicated that, at least in this case, she might approved of nutters.

“What greater resolution, nor more final end, than helping unquiet souls find true peace?” Admiral Fairweather nodded in agreement with Morari. He then frowned, “But how, pray tell, does this Maestro know all that?”

Cantor’s eyes widened. The Maestro had tilted his head, frowning in confusion. The set of his ears, and the attention he directed, it was towards each of the three haunts in turn. It didn’t look like he could see them, nor understand what exactly they were saying; but it looked like the Maestro could hear something when they spoke.

The Maestro's gaze sharpened, he gestured for Cantor and Valentina to join him at the table. As they sat (Cantor pulling the chair back for Valentina and Jon Quill politely waiting until last to take his own seat) the Maestro gave Valentina a quick smile, but one accompanied by a hushing gesture. His attention was still on Cantor.

“I have a question for you, sirrah, before we continue” the Maestro said, with a sudden seriousness, “And I require a truthful answer. Pure honesty, clear and bright. I will know if your words do not ring true.”

“Ask away,” Cantor stated. He was still gathering his thoughts. Valentina was right, not only was this ancient unicorn odd, but Cantor also found himself rather liking him.

“Are you a villain?”

There was a simple, direct seriousness to the Maestro’s question. One that was remarkably free of judgement.

Cantor found himself answering without really even thinking about it. “My goodness, I certainly hope not!” The words just popped out. His friends heard genuine worry and concern in his tone.

The Maestro rocked back in his chair. He looked shocked. “Oh,” he said. He said it quietly.

A smile started to spread across his face. “Oh, my!” he continued. His tone one of surprised pleasure.

He began to clap his hooves together with excited delight. “Oh, my dear, beamish boy! My most lovely Death! Sweet singer of the end of all things! Do you know, that is one of the best answers I’ve ever gotten to that question? Do you have any idea how much it tells me about you?”

Cantor shook his head.

Valentina chimed in, “Maestro, I think you are confusing my dear friend.”

Cantor nodded.

The Maestro blinked and continued, “I do confuse ponies, don’t I?”

Jon added, “In part because half of what you say makes a weird kind of sense, and it really shouldn’t.”

The Maestro grinned, “Well, I can explain all that easily enough.” He took a quick drink of champagne then, in an off hoof manner, said, “I can hear the music of creation.”

Jon quill blinked. He said, “Pardon?” Valentina rolled her eyes. Her expression said that she had heard this before, but that this hardly explained anything.

Cantor, on the other hoof, frowned. Not so much in confusion, but as though he thought that he understood, but wasn’t quite sure of himself.

“I think he may be speaking literally,” Morari added. The ghostly scholar’s expression mirrored Cantor’s own.

“Eh, wot?!” Magpie shook her head. “Nutters. Tha lot of ya!”

“You … are speaking literally, sir? You … hear music, yes?” Cantor’s tone was that of a pony politely seeking clarification.

The Maestro’s face expressed profound appreciation as he nodded yes. Cantor knew that look, though he rarely had the opportunity to wear it. It was a look that expressed the same relief, gratitude, and happiness that Cantor felt when he told somepony he could see ghosts … and they just believed him.

“There’s plenty of music around to hear,” Jon Quill added. For once, he seemed rather lost and confused. However, where most ponies would find such confusion rather upsetting or off-putting, Jon looked pleased that there was a mystery of some sort here which he didn’t yet understand.

“Not that music, Jon,” Cantor gestured in the general direction of the stage. “The music of creation. Themes, variations, patterns. So … you say my own idée fixe or leitmotif is in a D major? Something that’s a final resolution of a piece? Funereal?”

Tears started up in the Maestro’s eyes. “He knows his music and his opera, too! Where were you thirty years ago, o Death? I could have taught you so many things.”

“You understand him?” Valentina chimed in, addressing Cantor. “I never could quite make heads or tails of it,” she admitted.

“You were very young at the time, my valiant little dancer!” the Maestro answered.

Cantor nodded. He addressed his explanation not only to Valentina and Jon Quill but also Fairweather and Magpie. Morari already seemed to be at least vaguely familiar with the arcane concepts involved. “You know how when you’re attending a musical, an opera, or even just a play with orchestral accompaniment there will be certain little themes that reoccur? A short ditty, maybe just a particular rhythm or a few notes; a bit of musical short-hand so the audience immediately knows what they’re seeing?”

Jon Quill blinked, “Oh! Yes, I think so.”

“Like a dramatic bum-bum-ba-dum for when the hero walks onstage, or a dum-dum-doooom for the villain?” Valentina asked.

“Yes,” Cantor said. The Maestro was nodding. Cantor continued, “Just so. Certain philosophers have contended that there is that kind of music woven into the magical land of Equestria. That our day-to-day is underpinned with bits of song. That ponies (and their activities) have certain musical themes that just echo out from them … but that the vast majority of ponies can’t hear them.”

The Maestro tapped his baton on the table as he interrupted. “Usually. So called spontaneous musical numbers are an exception to this general rule.”

Cantor shuddered slightly, but then grinned back at the Maestro, adding, “As are you! Yes?”

The Maestro gave a refined, exceedingly proper, and polite little seated bow to signal his agreement.

Cantor sighed as he concluded, “And that’s all I really know about it. I imagine it could be a handy talent to have.”

“Oh, it is!” The Maestro said, quite seriously. “Especially when you’ve lived as long as I have and heard the same sorts of incidental music and themes recurring over and over again, with so many lovely variations. It is how I know you are a writer of stories,” he pointed at Jon Quill, “You sound like a writer. Your music does, that is; not your voice. And your music sounds like a particular sort of writer. One interested in the exotic and fantastic, the mystical and magical.”

The Maestro pointed to Valentina, “This dear child has always had a martial air to her, a particularly vivacious march to be sure! But now that she has grown up and found herself, there is such a relaxing, welcoming element to it too. The sort of march played to welcome the victorious back to home and rest.”

His hoof moved to Cantor as he added, “He’s Death, as we’ve already covered, and they …” his hoof swept to include the haunts, “are the echoes of tunes that should be finished but aren’t.”

Cantor grimaced. The haunts, Jon, and Valentina stared at the Maestro in shock.

The Maestro went on, frowning, and addressing Cantor, “Have you tried resolving them? Getting them past all that tinkley almost-collapsing-on-that-final-note-only-to-go-wandering-endlessly-around-it business? It’s quite distracting. And annoying. I imagine it’s rather annoying for them too.”

Cantor’s grimace grew more pained. He spoke with considerable reluctance, “I’ve ... tried. It’s kind of what I do. It … hasn’t worked for these. We don’t really know why. And we’re none too pleased with it.”

The Maestro closed his eyes. He looked like he was concentrating … like he was listening. “Give it another try, if you would,” he said.

Cantor shrugged and turned to his spectral friends. Fairweather stepped forward, “Please, you have my permission.”

Cantor spoke, though with the skullduggery ahead he didn’t dare spend any of his limited arcane power to support his words, “My friend, you told me you wished to return to sleep, so why don’t you? Feel free to lie down, rest, relax … let this all go. It would please me to no end knowing I was able to help any of you.”

Even without the backing of magical spells, Cantor’s enchanting voice soothed and lulled. Fairweather’s eyes drifted slightly shut but the never really closed completely. Jon Quill yawned, which made Valentina yawn.

The Maestro, though, blanched and shuddered, his white coat going almost gray as his eyes popped open. Cantor noticed and stopped speaking.

“Are you alright?” Cantor asked.

“I’ve ... been better. I ... ugh ... heard something.” The Maestro’s tone, and the expression on his face, indicated he didn’t like what he heard.

“What was it?” Valentina asked.

“A scream. A mare screaming. The closer they get to … how did you put it? Sleep? The louder it rings through them.” There was a moment of silence. The Maestro raised his eyebrows in an inquiring fashion, “How can they sleep with all that screaming, eh? Even if they don’t know they hear it … they hear it.”

Cantor sighed. “We’re here trying to …”

“Trying to do something about it, yes?” The Maestro interrupted. He tsked at the resulting series of confused stares. “Have you been paying no attention? I hear the music of creation. Always. In all places, at all times. It’s my special talent. All this?” He gestured dismissively at the Gala. “Heard it before. Rather repetitive and dull if you ask me. The sound of very important ponies wanting to show off for one another at a party. I’ve only been forced to listen to the Gala's themes perhaps two dozen times in my career. I honestly can’t see how she stands it every year. And she smiles through it too! A thousand years of this insufferable twaddle? I’d go mad!”

The Maestro's disgusted expression softened, “Oh there are occasionally much more interesting and lively tunes being played out among them. Young lovers. Joyful souls for whom all this is new. You lot? You are one of those very different melodies. You three are clearly together. You’re not here for the party at all. And you’re …” the Maestro’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “clandestine!”

“Considering all that,” Jon Quill spoke up, “I’m glad you haven’t called over the guards! Thanks!”

“Why, think nothing of it, my dear tattle-tale! I’m bored. You’re interesting. If I were to stop you from doing whatever it is you are doing, then it would all just be boring again.” The Maestro’s smile was back. Mischievous. He bore the expression of an old pony who enjoyed misbehaving, and one who was long past caring about propriety and appearances.

No wonder Valentina liked him, Cantor thought. The Maestro went on to add, “It’s quite clear to me from Cantor’s answer to my first question that you’re not harboring ill intent or wicked plans. So even if wickedness comes from what you do (and I’m not saying it sounds likely that it will) then such ill results will be entirely unintentional.”

“Oy!” Magpie chimed in, “If’n the ol’ codger ain’t just mad ‘n’ he c’n hear what’s what in tha world, think ‘e could listen at tha doors ‘n’ give us a nod?”

The Maestro blinked. “That sounded important,” he muttered to himself before shooting Cantor an inquiring glance.

Cantor leaned I close, “Would you do us a favor? We’re trying to find the way to proceed, and we need to know which path to follow. Do you think you could let us know which one … uh … sounds right?”

The Maestro’s grin grew broader, but his eyes narrowed. He looked decidely impish. He also seemed to be listening for something in particular now.

“I might, but ...” the Maestro drew out the words.

“Yes?” Cantor nudged the ancient unicorn verbally.

“But … I would like a moment or two alone with my old student Valentina. Would you kindly give us a bit of privacy, Death? Perhaps you should go get a drink? The punchbowl,” the Maestro pointed with his baton, “is that way.”

Cantor nodded and rose saying, “Thanks!” He drew in a breath and looked from Valentina to the Maestro and back again.

Given the urgency of their mission Jon Quill was rather surprised to hear Cantor say, with gentle seriousness, “Take your time. Take all the time you need.”

Cantor went limping away, slowly navigating his way through packs of ponies who were dancing slowly to the music being played. Morari accompanied him. As per their plans, Fairweather was sticking by Jon Quill and Magpie by Valentina – that way if something happened while Cantor was separated from the others they could let him know.

Jon Quill rose to depart too, but the Maestro tapped him with his baton and pressed him gently back into his seat.

Jon frowned in confusion. The Maestro’s expression shifted to one of delighted, eager expectation. He was watching Cantor’s progress across the floor.

“Maestro,” Valentina spoke softly. She was blinking back tears.

That got his attention. He smiled at her as his expression changed to one of great fondness, “Yes, dear little dancer?”

“I don’t know that I ever thanked you. For the lessons. And for your kindness.” Valentina spoke softly, and there was a little catch in her voice as she continued, “I ... I don’t know if I’ll have the chance to tell you again … so … I just wanted …” she trailed off.

“Oh, dear little filly,” the Maestro answered with heartfelt compassion and gratitude, “You are such a fine young mare! It was a delight teaching your fierce spirit how to move with grace and poise. You took to it so naturally! You and your sister both. I am pleased to know that you remember an old stallion fondly. And if this is to be our goodbye, then know I have many fond memories of you too.”

She gave him a tight hug and held on. Jon Quill wiped a tear from his eye. He didn’t try to pretend it was from the candle smoke, or the various perfumes or colognes ponies were wearing.

But then Jon saw … her. She had just entered through the main door. Because of this, she was looking directly at the refreshment table.

Jon froze, staring.

The Maestro saw her too. His expression was once again that of mischievous, naughty delight, of breathless anticipation. His grin seemed to say, “oh, this is going to be good!”

Suddenly, it clicked for Jon Quill. He whispered, “You old bastard! You knew! You ... you heard this coming somehow and you sent him …” Jon Quill trailed off.

Valentina looked up in confusion. The Maestro lightly touched her chin and directed her gaze towards the main entrance to the grand ballroom. She gasped and froze. Her gaze jumped to Cantor as she squeaked, “Oh no!”

“Oh yes!” the Maestro replied. He was gleefully rubbing his hooves together.

Cantor made his way towards the punch bowl. He was going over their plans in his mind. The meeting with the Maestro had been … well … Cantor wasn’t entirely sure what it had been. Intense was a good enough word he supposed. And at least the ancient unicorn was apparently wanting to help them out.

Cantor couldn’t help shake the feeling that a large part the old musician’s helpfulness was grounded in the desire for amusement. For something fun to watch. For a good laugh. Sometimes that sort of thing could be all well and good. But, it could also wind up being quite uncomfortable for those caught up in the middle of things.

Genteel nods, half-bows, a slow and limping avoidance of ponies in the midst of their dances. The occasional quiet pleasantry. Cantor has his formal mask of an expression back on. It was already feeling tiresome.

“You seem worried,” Morari said.

“I am worried,” Cantor replied, muttering as quietly as he could. “I hope the Maestro both can and will help us. I want to trust him. Heck, he’s Valentina’s friend. It’s clear she likes him. But … with what we’re currently about …”

“It is a risk of exposure. But, a point: if the Maestro wanted to expose us, he could have done so by now. Also, consider: while Furlong doesn’t want us heading south to the Badlands, he does want us to get into the crypts and deal with whomever has risen there. That’s why he gave you those two Gala tickets. While I wouldn’t expect anything like open aid from him or the Mares of S.M.I.L.E. I’m quite sure he knows what we’re about tonight … and he will have had a door left open. We just need to find it.”

Cantor nodded. Morari, as usual, raised excellent points.

Cantor reached the punch bowl. He gave courteous nods and bits of small-talk to the ponies there. He had a bellini. The sparkling wine and peach juice were expertly mixed and deliciously chilled. The result was quite sweet and refreshing, something Cantor felt he needed. He had a second, and then a third. Which was when he realized that the drinks packed a surprising kick.

He glanced back at the others. They were staring at him.

He didn’t like their expressions. Shocked concern from Jon and Valentina, and … did the Maestro just wink at him? And give him an encouraging “you can do it” sort of gesture with one hoof?

Cantor felt suddenly warm. A strange, electric tickle seemed to settle all around him.

“Oh shit,” Morari said.

Cantor glanced at the spook.

“Nothing!” Morari lied. “Uh, let’s get back to the others. Quickly. Quietly. Trust me: head down and just move your hooves Cantor.”

“What?” Cantor felt his heart beat picking up. The drink seemed to be acting much more swiftly than usual. It must have been more potent than he had suspected. There was a pleasant warmth that seemed to be slowly filling him up, starting in his bones and working its way outward. Like the heat of the sun on a midsummer day, when one was lazing about on the beach.

“Later,” Morari sounded nervous. “Pick up the pace, my friend. Hurry. But, casually. Don’t make it look like you’re hurrying. Try not to be noticed, but don’t look like you’re trying to be stealthy.”

“That’s not very helpful,” Cantor muttered. But he picked up his pace a bit, and murmured his excuse me’s to the dancers he was wading through.

Morari groaned briefly then said, “Uh, that’s not … er … Cantor slow down. No, slower.”

Cantor obliged. That sense of intoxicating warmth grew ever stronger. He really should have eaten something before having those drinks.

“Cantor,” Morari adopted a firm tone. No nonsense. All business. Resigned but also somehow very encouraging. “Don't panic. You can do this. You’re a good pony. We’re here trying to do good things. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then why does it sound like I should be worried?” Cantor hissed at him. The crowd was suddenly opening around him a bit, giving him space. With this clearing, he might be able to reach his friends in a minute or two if he were to hoof it.

Morari sounded almost grim. “Three-quarter turn right, then bow.”

Cantor paused.

“Do it,” Morari said. “Do it now.”

Cantor turned. The pivot was oddly graceful. His bow, on the other hoof, wasn’t.

If the light of the Maestro’s still living ghost shone from his body like a candle, her light was blinding. Not because she was near death, far from it. The power that filled her flesh, the magic there was so ancient and great that were she made of solid iron the radiance within would still shine through to Cantor’s spirit-sight. Mere flesh? Little more use than glass. Stained glass.

And behind it? The sun.

She had stopped walking.

Cantor’s eyes were already tearing up. He could see things in that light, glimpses and hints and whispers of he knew not what.

This was no mere unicorn noble confronting him, this was royalty. This was an Alicorn – a majestic pony, bearing the signature traits of all three pony kindreds: a unicorn horn, pegasi wings, and the strength and resilience of an earth pony. They were as close to immortals as it was possible to be. Only four such Alicorns existed in all of the known world, their magic flowing from and tied to fundamental forces of creation: day and night, love and friendship. Although, Cantor suddenly recalled, technically there were five Alicorns now, what with the recent birth in the Crystal Empire of an Alicorn daughter for the Princess of Love. Two Alicorns were attending the Gala tonight. A third was elsewhere in the palace, but night had fallen so she had other duties.

This Alicorn? She was the eldest and most powerful of them all. She and her sister had been born Alicorns in the prehistoric times before the founding of Equestria (unlike the Princesses of Love and Friendship, each of whom had ascended, transformed, and undergone apotheosis ... one within the past few decades, the other within the past few years ... to achieve their exalted forms and royal status.)

Her cutiemark was a golden sun and every day her magic caused the sun to rise ... to move through the heavens ... and to set. For the thousand years of her younger sister's corruption and banishment she had been the singular ruler of Equestria, governing both day and night. She could have borne the title of Queen ... of Empress, and none would have gainsaid her, but she preferred to be the ’first among equals’ ... to rule with her restored sister at her side. Thus, the elder sister only permitted herself to be called a Princess. The Princess of the Day.

And here was Princess Celestia (Soli Reginae! Dea Solis!), standing far too close to Cantor for comfort.

Cantor dipped his head a bit lower. “Your majesty,” he said.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was thinking. This situation was one for which he honestly hadn’t prepared. One he would have chosen to avoid if at all possible. His mind was racing in far too many directions at once. He hoped he wouldn’t faint. He also hoped she couldn’t see through to his thoughts, because he was screaming internally. The part of his mind that was still trying to find a rational way out of this brilliant mess really wished the rest of his mind would just shut up and let him think.

He had to get out of here.

Cantor took a step back.

Princess Celestia took a step forward.

Another step back for him, another step forward from her.

Cantor tried a step to one side, Celestia followed. Gracious. Liquid. It was as if he were a particularly unwieldy stone sunken in a pool, but no matter how the rock pulled away, to the right or left, forward or backwards, the water always was there. Right there. Flowing into the space the rock had vacated.

Cantor tried to step the other way, to move away from her again. No use.

Celestia was amused. Not the polite, masked amusement … the pleasant, perfect face … she kindly showed to all her subjects. No, Cantor could feel her pleasure. She was genuinely enjoying this. She seemed to glow brighter. Warmth and encouragement flowed from her.

Cantor found himself concentrating on her white coat, the peach and rose dress and the simple, elegant golden accent of a pin holding it shut. Celestia wasn't wearing her usual pectoral, but she was wearing her golden horse shoes. Her light seemed to dim as Cantor's eyes reflexively shifted in an effort to escape that radiance ... but Cantor still couldn't turn away from her. Cantor realized (but only after the fact) that there was so little dark about Celestia’s spirit that in changing his own perception, in striving to see by darkness, her body finally snapped into focus.

That … wasn’t much better. He was staring straight ahead. While ordinarily this would have Cantor gazing slightly over the head of many mares, as he was just a bit on the tall side, in her case this meant he was staring squarely at Celestia’s chest. She towered over him. Her massive, white wings were tucked at her sides. She was distractingly beautiful. Her presence was just as overwhelming as before.

Cantor tried to step forward, around her. She slid back. At no time since he had addressed her had Celestia permitted any more or any less than a single hoof-width’s of space to exist between them.

She smelled nice. Some sort of exotic, spicy scent. Of course she did.

Cantor was still screaming internally. The more rational portion of his mind was getting rather annoyed by this. Especially because it kept him from really hearing whatever it was Morari was saying. The ghostly scholar's tone sounded encouraging, at least.

Time to try something risky.

Cantor gave a slightly deeper bow, including a brief, awkward flourish from one fore hoof. He also tried stepping back at an angle away from the princess. He hoped that the gesture, the withdrawal, and the unusual direction would at last let him break free from her orbit to flee into the crowd.

It went all wrong.

There are moments when time seems to slow down. This was one of them, Cantor noted. His weight had shifted to his bad leg and it just buckled. Worse, the knee brace locked in tight – and the lock was designed in such a way so as to help steady and propel his gait forward, not backward. His other rear leg tangled with the useless, rigid, stumbling block of his bad leg.

When falling down was all there was, then how one fell mattered. Cantor’s initial impossible stance and tangle of hooves left him with effectively two options, a gentle slip forward or a mad, thrashing flip over onto his left side.

It was at this moment that Cantor finally realized he had been dancing. They had been dancing together.

A gentle slip forward would mean falling onto Celestia. Celestia was already stepping gracefully forward, her presence pushing at him as he pulled away.

So with the only bit of control he had left, Cantor tumbled gracelessly over himself to smash into the ball-room floor with a resounding thud.

It didn’t hurt. A fall like that? It should have hurt. A lot. So, confirmation that at least his fortification spell was still somehow active. Though now it was doubtless a bit less potent than before.

All around the room there were gasps. The music stuttered to a stop. Morari held a hoof to his mouth in horror and concern.

Cantor, though, felt a surge of profound relief. He hadn’t fallen into her. Celestia, and her gown, were unscathed by his terrible missteps.

Cantor struggled to get his hooves back under him. He glanced up at her. It was the first time he actually looked at Celestia’s face. Beautiful. Her face was as white as her body, her unicorn horn rising like a spear from her brow, and her golden crown was holding back a mane of pastel blues, greens, and purples that sparkled and visibly undulated from the power that filled her. A tail of the same hues shimmered and waved behind her.

This was also the first time Cantor actually met Celestia's gaze. Cantor felt an electric shock run through him. Even seeing almost entirely by darkness, his own eyes now nothing but pools of empty night, the light of her spirit glimmered in her purple eyes like a star. Her eyes widened in surprise at what they saw.

She was reaching down to help him, and her expression was shifting from delight to sudden concern. Now mixed with a touch of curiosity.

Cantor reluctantly took her hoof and let her help him stand again. That felt like a defeat of some sort. He was heavy, but she was strong. Stronger than even she realized, Cantor suspected.

“Excuse me …” Cantor and Celestia spoke in unison, and both stopped as one.

Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Why should you apologize for my knocking you over like that?”

“Because,” Cantor found himself answering, “I was taught it is the role of a stallion on the dance floor to make their partner look good. To make her own grace shine more clearly.” That was true. As was what followed, “Even if I could dance, I could never serve as anything but a clumsy counterpoint to your majesty.”

“Ah,” she said. In that word, Cantor heard a hint of her boredom with such courtly pleasantries and compliments, but it was mixed with a touch of appreciation for the genuine and heartfelt sentiment behind Cantor's words. Celestia went on to say, “You are, perhaps, overly kind.” Her eyes seemed to bore into his own and, after a moment, she added, softly, “You have been injured.”

Cantor winced, “An old wound. I wasn’t much of a dancer even before my leg … well …” He trailed off.

Celestia’s expression gentled. Her voice was still quiet. “I wasn’t speaking of your leg.”

Cantor felt his heart lurch. He finally managed to tear his gaze away. He lowered his head, once again bowing as formally as he could manage. He had to give his leg brace a quick smack with one of his hooves to get it to unlock. He then said, “If your majesty will excuse me …”

“And what if I won’t?” Her tone was teasing. Laughter hid somewhere under there. She sounded, for all the world, like Valentina or Magpie in one of their naughtier, feistier moods.

Cantor blinked. He glanced back up at her, his distress written clear on his face as he replied, “Well then, I shall be honored. And delighted. And overwhelmed. And probably faint sometime in the next few minutes. But most of all I shall be forced to be boring and dull.”

Both Celestia’s eyebrows shot up. “Dull?” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you’re only the third interesting thing I’ve come across here this entire night! Dullness simply won’t do.”

“Then grant me permission to withdraw, and the liberty of the palace, and I shall strive to make the result interesting. Or, at least, good.”

Celestia laughed. “You’re an odd one! No introduction, no name, only one dance, and already you want to flee the Gala? Am I so poor a hostess as that?”

Cantor’s expression was appalled, it him took a second to see that she was teasing him again. Before he quite realized what he was doing he had pursed his lips, rolled his eyes, and given her a look that seemed to say “Really?” in an almost disgusted fashion.

She grinned. Then her formal mask was back on. So well-worn and seamless one would hardly know it to be a mask.

“Very well. Done and done. We wish you a good night.”

“My thanks, your majesty.” Cantor scooted away two steps then turned and made his way towards the Maestro’s table. His friends there were stunned. Heck, Cantor was stunned. The Maestro was waving his baton happily, almost as if directing the proceedings. Magic trailed from it like a flag.

At the moment, Cantor couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss the ancient unicorn or wring his scrawny neck. Cantor felt elated. He felt like he was light as a feather and walking on clouds. He also felt exhausted, embarrassed, and drained, so (luckily for the Maestro) Cantor hadn’t the energy for either kissing or strangulation at the moment.

Celestia stared after the pale, nameless unicorn. He was embarrassed. He was chubby. He was clever. He was clumsy. It was somehow surprisingly adorable. He was muttering to himself, which wasn’t usually a good sign. His mane was shot with gray, but it seemed that his spirit was still gentle and kind; no, age hadn’t hardened that stallion.

This pleased Celestia. It took a real and rare strength to stay soft, to stay gentle, when hard things happened. The pale unicorn had the look of a stallion who had been dealing with hard things for much of his life. She fancied that the painful shadow of too many of those hard things lurked somewhere in the depths of his dark eyes.

He was a child, of course. They were all children compared to her.

He looked vaguely familiar. She knew she had never met him specifically; she was certain she would have remembered him if she had. But over the centuries she had seen others like him. Possibly his relatives. Possibly just those of a similar nature or build. With all those millions of ponies she had known … those tens of millions … those hundreds of millions … everypony looked vaguely familiar to her.

She stopped that line of thought easily enough. It was unproductive. Nostalgia was a vice she couldn't afford. Especially since she had duties in the here and now.

Celestia's smile brightened. That was one of her duties too: to try to find all this as enjoyable as possible. To show her pleasure so that others would be at ease. Even if her apparent delight was merely a facade.

The odd thing was, the facade often mirrored the underlying reality. Celestia showed her court and her citizens a pleasant, smiling face – a soothing expression of gentle encouragement and regal, caring regard. Most of the time that was almost exactly how she really felt, which made it a bit less exhausting. At least in the mornings. Once evening rolled around ... or when her royal duties kept her up into the night ....

Really, one of the few genuinely good things about the continuing awfulness of the Grand Galloping Gala, from Celestia's point of view, was it afforded her an opportunity to relax that tiresome mask a bit ... she could watch the fireworks, figurative rather than literal ... even subtly instigate a few entertaining flare ups of her own. She could look for some real amusement.

In thinking of amusement, Celestia's mind strayed back to the pale unicorn. After a thousand years of court functions, of dances and fêtes and galas, it was obvious to Celestia that whoever he was he was not here for the party. No, that stallion was up to something! Having spoken with him, it seemed equally obvious to Celestia that whatever it was he was up to, he (at least) meant well. Oh, she had been wrong about such things before, but she didn’t think she was wrong this time.

Celestia’s gaze had trailed back to him. She blinked in surprise. What was this? He was chatting with the Maestro?

When had the Maestro gotten so old? That realization sent a bittersweet pang through Celestia. But this was another unproductive line of thought. She stopped it and returned her attention to the clumsy dancer. Perhaps he was a spy? He didn’t look like a spy. But the good ones never did. It was a mystery.

“Yes, he will be trouble,” Celestia spoke quietly to herself. “Still, those eyes were quite unusual. I can’t think of the last time I’ve seen their like. At least, not on a pony.”

A familiar purple Alicorn finished working her way through the chattering crowd and finally reached Celestia’s side.

“Celestia? Are you o.k.? What was that about?” Twilight, the Princess of Friendship, was concerned. Still far too concerned about such things, or so Celestia believed. Twilight was such a dear, but she really ought to lighten up. Cut loose. Do something unexpected and entertaining. With that thought, Celestia's gaze tracked back to her most recent dance partner. He and several other ponies were leaving the ball room now.

“I wonder what sort of trouble they’re getting into?” Celestia murmured to herself. She was a bit wistful. Whatever it was, it was almost certainly more interesting than the next few hours of smiling her way around the ball seemed likely to be.

“What was that?” Twilight asked.

Celestia said “Hmm?” her attention returning to her friend and protégé. Well, there were some other potential amusements around. Celestia’s eyes sparkled merrily as she added, “I was just thinking, where has Discord gone off to?”

“Uh …” Twilight scanned the crowd worriedly. There was no immediate sign of the draconeques. Given that Discord (Celestia's ancient enemy, and now mostly reformed ... though still erratic, ally) was a long, lean, chimerical creature and easily four times the size of a pony, he should stand out in a crowd. Even without tonight's garish outfit. Well, usually he would stand out, unless he didn't want to. Discord was also capable of astounding feats of shape-shifting and reality warping. If Celesta was arguably a demigoddess of the Sun, Discord was assuredly the demigod of Chaos, and one of the few creatures as old and powerful as she. Older and more powerful, actually ... in ancient times Celestia had only beaten him by using a magic more powerful than either of them, the magic of the elements of Harmony. Having him around again could be quite amusing ... and occasionally dangerous. Especially when you couldn't see what he was up to!

Twilight looked annoyed and distressed, but she didn't look like she was panicking, so: progress. Twilight-the-unicorn of a few years ago, Celestia's star student, would have been panicking right about now.

Celestia continued in a bright and cheerful tone, “We wouldn’t want to miss his latest shenanigans. He is one of only three interesting things going on here tonight after all!”

Twilight shot Celestia another worried look. Twenty minutes ago Celestia had made an off hoof comment about there only being two interesting things at the Gala. Twilight trotted along as Celestia strode majestically towards the rear hall.