A Canterlot Morningby GrassAndClouds2ChaptersThe musical mareThe mysterious mareEpilogueThe musical mareOctavia liked the mornings. There was something musical about them, she thought, and not just the songs of the birds or the last few sighs of Canterlot castle before it went to sleep for the day. Those were lovely on their own, of course, but there was something more that tied it all together – the sun, silent though it was. As it rose, its light gradually slipped over the castle ramparts and began to bathe the courtyards and hallways in light. The morning dew and fog evaporated into nothingness as the sun struck them, leaving behind clean, pure fields and walls, ready for whatever the day had to throw at them. Everything seemed fresh and new. Like a blank piece of staff paper, the possibilities were limitless. Whenever Octavia stayed overnight in the castle – and that was happening more and more, lately, as the number of late-night concerts she gave to the nobles kept growing – she made it a point to watch the sunrise from one of the towers, with a nice cup of tea and perhaps a light scone. She partook of few physical pleasures, having sacrificed most of them for the sake of her craft, but this was one that she allowed herself. These mornings often inspired her, even, giving her ideas for her next compositions and putting her in the mood to practice some of her more joyous, hopeful works. The cellist drained the last of her tea and watched as the Canterlot streets continued to come alive. Though the Court was nocturnal, much of the rest of Canterlot still worked by the sun, and she could see the residents beginning to open their windows and perform their morning chores. From somewhere close by, she heard the hoofsteps and shouts of marching ponies, the Royal Guard out for their morning drills. More distantly, the Early Express tooted its horn as it began its journey to the furthest reaches of Equestria. Near and far, the sounds of the city were that of a town waking up for a brand new day. Octavia smiled, savoring those sounds. She heard them all with a clarity and precision that, she knew, few ponies could match. Thirty thousand hours of cello practice, of listening training, of relentless effort, to sharpen her ears to the point where she could hear even the faintest deviation of a note from the intended frequency. That she could hear other sounds too was a nice bonus, one that she took great pleasure in. It was a reward, Octavia liked to think, for her hard work and discipline. The gray-coated mare smiled as she rose from her seat. It was a beautiful day, she had just heard a beautiful morning, and now she had four hours all to herself where she could further refine her talents and master her craft. The mare shut the window and trotted over to the music stand and her cello. Nopony would disturb her as long as she practiced; the floor, ceiling, and interior walls of the room had been perfectly soundproofed, and she had verified this herself – not even she could hear anything inside the room from outside, or vice versa. The outer wall wasn’t soundproofed (that would have required treating the external surface, and as she was near the top of a tower, that wouldn’t have been safe), but unless somepony was hanging onto the wall, that wouldn’t matter. She would be free to experiment and improve without having to worry about some pasesrby pony hearing a mistake. It wasn’t like her practice room at home, she thought. As much as she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to soundproof it perfectly, and while her neighbors were perfectly kind, she hated the thought of them hearing her mistakes or incomplete compositions. But one thing Greengrass had promised her when she signed on with him was a practice room, and— Greengrass… And just like that, her good mood vanished. Clenching her teeth just slightly, Octavia picked up her cello and carefully balanced it. Greengrass wasn’t important, and the more she could just forget about him when she practiced and performed, the better. There was only the music, transformed by her skill and her instrument from notes on a page into gloriously beautiful sounds. This particular warm-up piece was a light, happy ditty, not without its complexities but still simple enough that she could play it without much thought. She picked up her bow, took her cleansing breath, focused on the cheerful, upbeat energy in the piece, and began to play. Five minutes later, when she was done, she had to admit that it hadn’t gone well. She got all the notes, right, of course, and the gross details – dynamics, tempo, phrasing. It would have been acceptable for most private parties, or many concert halls. Even many of the nobles would have liked it. But Octavia knew better, and she was too honest with herself to pretend that it was a good performance. That spark, the happy core of the piece, wasn’t coming through. The tones were just a bit too muted, the phrasing a shade too constricted, and as a result, the music just didn’t meet her standards. The cellist looked out the window in a vain attempt to recapture her good mood, but she knew it was futile and almost immediately chided herself for her weakness before turning away. She had never before needed to worry about her emotional state before a performance; calm and taciturn by nature, she could easily connect with whatever emotion was needed for a particular piece. But lately, she was finding that harder – especially for happy and light works. Octavia, unlike many of her colleagues, did not believe that a musician should attempt to put herself in a mood congruent with whatever music she was about to play. She had tried it, on recommendation from her teachers, but it had always felt fake, and so had the resultant music. She could make herself happy by visualizing a beautiful morning, or a perfect performance for Luna, but that was never the precise shade of ‘happy’ inherent in the piece. It might be close, but for her close was never close enough, and the resulting mismatch between her own emotions and those of the music always dragged down her performances. She could hear the incongruity, even if nopony else could. Rather, she tried to connect with whatever emotion was already there, in the music. Her own mood, she figured, was not relevant. So long as she could feel the sadness in “The Lament of Dalimare,” or the sheer joy in “Triumph over Tirek,” what did it matter if she herself was happy or sad? It was the music that was important, not her, and by now she had perfected her ability to forget herself and immerse herself in the music, to demonstrate whatever emotion had been inscribed there by the composer without letting her own feelings leak into it. Were her performances influenced by her personal style? Yes… but in deliberate ways, particular phrasings that she chose for specific reasons, or carefully controlled improvised sections to reinforce certain themes. Nothing so frivolous as ‘being sad that day.’ Or at least, that was how she used to be able to perform. But lately, she was finding it harder and harder to look past herself and play happier works. It was like there was a wall there, preventing her from connecting with them. Octavia shook her head and hefted her bow again. She knew why she was having trouble connecting with happy pieces, and it didn’t matter. She would work through it. Octavia Philharmonica was a musician, not some pathetic whiner who would throw down her bow whenever she was not in the right ‘mood’ to play. She would fight past this blockage and be all the stronger. There was no use wallowing in self-pity or remaining in this state for one moment longer; unless she was going to channel her angst into some new composition or improvised performance, she -- She froze for a moment, then shifted her stance slightly, one more appropriate for a longer piece. Maybe that will help, she thought. To ‘play it out’. Maybe then I can move past this… this lapse and get back to my usual training regime. And so she began to play a tone poem. The introduction was bright and strong, outwardly simple in its purity, yet with enough subtleties to denote a sort of elegance and refinement. The Hero, thought Octavia, distantly, with whatever fraction of her mind was unoccupied with synthesizing and performing the piece. Hard-working and honorable. Virtuous. Noble, even. And the music gained in complexity, layering back upon itself as if to demonstrate the ‘hero’ character’s advancement and progression. From a young idealist to a skilled craftsmare, the music progressed in a clean warm manner. She began to play in the lowest reaches of the cello – most ponies couldn’t play two voices at once on the instrument, but Octavia had the skill – to add in the second character. The lower ‘voice’ started by simply filling in a few holes that the middle voice couldn’t quite reach, but gradually took on more and more until it was constantly assisting the middle tones, hitting whatever notes they couldn’t and allowing them to sing in more and more intricate patterns. But then the Helper threatens to leave. The Hero is frightened. The lower voice began to miss at odd intervals, forcing the middle notes to leap around and race to plug in the missing gaps. The music sounded extraordinary – intricate melodies that seemed almost to jump off of the cello as they switched between the battling voices – but Octavia ignored this. Her mind was on the performance; praise could come later. At last, the Hero weakens. She will do what the Helper demands. The lower voice rose a bit in triumph, the middle falling in meek acceptance – but then they played together again, two allies at peace, with no enmity between them. The music resumed the heights it had reached earlier, the middle voice weaving melodies, the lower one reinforcing, setting a beat, and performing all the useful tasks that the middle one needed to shine. The Helper slowly died away, and the third voice – at the upper reaches of the cello – came in. The middle and high voices bounced off each other, testing as the middle raced upwards and the upper descended – but in a light, teasing way, the manner of two old friends who were so close that they could challenge each other without any risk of hatred or fear. And, indeed, after a few moments, the two began to build on each other. But unlike with the Helper from before, the Hero and her Friend didn’t have a ‘leader’ and a ‘backer’ between them. They both sounded beautifully, casting melodies and harmonies into the early morning air, taking turns in front or sharing the spotlight. They completed each other, each much stronger with the other voice than it could possibly be alone. But – after a few minutes of this – trouble arose. The middle voice grew in prominence, racing to outperform and defeat the high voice. The high voice at first was almost swept away, hanging on by a few notes in the upper reaches that could do no more than deflect the vanguards of the middle voice’s harmonies. Victory for the ‘Hero’ seemed certain. One could almost hear echoes of the Helper, though his notes were not in evidence, from the melodies woven by the Hero. It is not to be. The Friend realizes at last what she must do, and because she is still true to herself – honest and pure – she sweeps aside the Hero. The high voice began to grow, slowly at first, but faster and faster, until it was the Hero who was barely hanging on. And this was no longer a sweet tune, but a vengeful rampage. The Hero’s melodies were shattered or thrust aside by the unstoppable force of the Friend, who drove down the cello in a whirlwind of sharp, pointed harmonies and a single melodic line that marched onwards unstoppably and left no room to escape. The middle voice collapsed, and the Friend’s melodies were the only ones heard. In the end, Octavia played a few melodies of the Friend – now mournful, but still undaunted and unbroken, a mare who still had the integrity to face the world. The Helper was there too, much the same as before; none of this had hurt him in any way. But the Hero… well, the final melody was limping and sad. There was still beauty there, and of course skill, but it was clear that the Hero voice had lost something very important. The piece ended on a few final notes that trailed off, as if following whatever it was the Hero had discarded. Octavia collapsed on her stool when she was done, emotionally drained. She realized, to her slight surprise, that she’d spent almost an hour playing. That was a lot longer than she’d planned, but she felt like she’d accomplished something. She felt refreshed and clean. That is proof that I am still honest in my music, if in nothing else, she thought. Whatever I said to Lyra, whatever my other depraved and traitorous acts, the integrity of my music is not compromised. I suppose that is something. She did not often wonder whether or not Lyra would forgive her for her betrayal. In a certain sense, it didn’t matter. She judged herself by her own standards, nopony else’s, and by those standards, she’d committed a foul and traitorous act, no matter how often the Duke said that ‘everypony did it.’ But sometimes, in her more wistful moments, she did find herself wishing that Lyra would write her and tell her that it was alright; that she understood; that she was forgiven. That they could again be friends. And then she caught herself and cast those thoughts out. If Lyra wrote that, it would be a lie. It was not acceptable what she had done, and she deserved no forgiveness. On top of that, now she apparently wanted Lyra to lie in order to make her feel better – another crime on top of the first. So Octavia forced herself not to think of such things. She had failed, she was not worthy of being Lyra’s friend, and that was all there was to it. But at least she could appreciate that failure and see it honestly, even to the point of demonstrating it in her music. Moreover, even though her piece was critiquing her, she hadn’t let that stop her from playing her best. There was a kind of honesty in that. Still, I don’t think I’ll play that one in public, she thought, with a small smile. In terms of technical skill, it was extraordinary, and there definitely was beauty there, but it was still a very dark and depressing piece. Like a painting of some horrible tragedy, it was an excellent portrayal of something that nopony would want to see. The kind of music they would play when sentencing some famous war hero or legend, after having uncovered some horrible scandal. Not suitable for the dinner parties and ceremonies I play at. She drank from her water bottle and rose. She felt a lot better now, and was feeling up to trying that warm-up piece again. She felt confident that she could play it correctly now, and then maybe she could move on to her real pieces. She had a new sonata for the wedding of Vicereine Puissance’s cousin that she had to finish, and she was scheduled to play for one of Fancy Pant’s charity balls later in the week. She’d need to practice the core piece of that performance, the Sonata Grande and the Valse Brilliante– She heard the faintest noise from the direction of the window. Most ponies would have disregarded it. After all, it sounded like a hoofstep, and it was obviously impossible for a pony to be walking on the outside of the tower – set aside that the walls were vertical and almost sheer, Octavia was high above the rest of Canterlot, and any climbing pony would certainly be badly hurt if they fell. This logic gave even Octavia a moment of pause. But her ears were among the sharpest in the country, and she very rarely made mistakes. If she heard some interloper, they were there. Is it an obsessed fan who wanted to hear me practicing? No, more likely it’s a political spy, thought Octavia, frowning, as she went over to the window and opened it. Who would have thought that being a Court cellist would lead to so much intrigue? Well, it’s my own fault for getting involved with it. Octavia looked out the window, and then carefully examined the tower wall, but didn’t see anything. The wall appeared to be perfectly empty. So either she really was hearing things, in which case she had a very serious problem, or whoever was spying on her was invisible… which was also a serious problem. She did know some techniques to find invisible or illusioned ponies, mostly by playing a note and listening for oddities in the echoes, but they didn’t work outside, where there was nothing to echo against. What could she do now? She heard another faint sound; something padded scraping on stone. She turned so that she was looking straight up the tower, at least as much as she could, and squinted. Was there something vaguely hazy above her? She couldn’t tell – her eyes were no better than an average pony’s, and she couldn’t see through illusions – but she was absolutely confident that the sound had come from this direction. “Can I help you?” she asked. There was definitely a sound in response to that, a rustle of fabric on stone. Like whoever it was had been spooked and was gripping the wall a bit more tightly. “I can hear you,” said Octavia. “If you want to listen to my performances, purchase a ticket. I am—“ The space above her shimmered, and suddenly, she could see a pony head looking at her. It was covered in a mask with colors rippling across it; some kind of unicorn weave, probably. All she could see beneath the mask were the eyes, two bright, curious orbs. “Oh!” said the floating head. “I’m sorry. I know it was terribly rude of me to eavesdrop.” The voice also sounded familiar, -- a female voice, light, musical, and refined -- but Octavia couldn’t place it. It was distorted in some way, just enough to mask its owner. “But I was just passing by and I heard your music, and it was so extraordinary that I couldn’t help but stop to listen.” “I wasn’t aware that burglars enjoyed the Grasshopper Sonata,” managed Octavia. Calm. Stay calm. That’s not really a talking head. The rest of her body is still invisible, that’s all. I don’t know if she’s a spy or a burglar or some complete lunatic, but I will not be afraid. I am Octavia Philharmonica and I will not be scared by some deranged mountaineer-groupie. I will take a moment to regain control of myself, and then I will call the guards. “That first piece? Oh, no, I meant the one you just did. The three-voice tone poem. It was incredibly moving.” Octavia blinked, her plans to call others forgotten. Spy, or burglar, or whatever, apparently they knew a little something about music theory. That was… unexpected. “It’s not at all like your usual works,” continued the head. “And I'm not a burglar. Would you like me to come in? It must be uncomfortable for you, craning your neck like that.” You’re the one hanging off a castle wall, thought Octavia. But she wasn’t sure what else to do, and despite herself, she was curious. So she nodded her head. “I suppose.” The head vanished, but Octavia heard faint hoofsteps and scratching sounds approaching her position. She pulled herself back into the room, and a moment later, she heard a quiet clonking sound as the invisible mare swung in and dropped to her hooves. If this is a spy, it’s a very unusual one, she thought. And then the invisibility spell vanished, and Octavia could see who she was talking to. The mysterious mare“Do you always travel via exterior wall?” asked Octavia, unsure of how to begin the conversation. The mare chuckled. She was clad from horn to hoof in that same fabric that concealed her face. It rippled, catching the light and throwing it back at the cellist, making it very difficult for her to look directly at the newcomer. Octavia could see a horn and could tell that the pony was female, but that was about it. The masked mare didn’t answer the question. She just said, “If you don’t mind me saying so, that piece you just played sounded particularly inspired. And it was technically brilliant too – it sounded like you’d been polishing it for weeks. Remarkable improvistory technique.” “Why do you think it was improvised?” “There were a few places that you would have refined more, had you rehearsed this piece. That first time when the middle and high voices met, for instance – if you were playing that for an audience, that part would have been more gradual. The complex melodies began so quickly that it wasn’t clear, at first, that the two voices hadn’t ‘met’ in some time. If you performed that piece after some more practice, I think you would usually wait about thirty seconds more before increasing the complexity.” It was a surprisingly accurate criticism. This mare seemed unusually knowledgeable about music. “You seem to know a lot about my music.” “Your music is worth it.” The mare trotted closer to Octavia. “And this particular piece – incredibly complex rhythms and melodies, yet the basic ideas were remarkably clear. The protagonist’s rise, her flourishing, her temptation… the interplay between the lower and middle voices was brilliant… then her corruption. She meets the higher voice, she wavers in her conviction, but in the end she falls.” Octavia raised an eyebrow. Even among the nobles of the city, many of whom had music training (if only for appearances), it was rare to find somepony who grasped her so well. “I think the ending was my favorite part. The high voice not only resists being corrupted, but her melody reinforces what remains of the middle voice to build her back up and redeem her.” Oh. So she doesn’t understand me after all. “I may need to revise the ending, then. No redemption of any kind was intended. The piece was intended to be a tragedy.” She couldn’t say how, but the mare looked disappointed, somehow. “I thought you believed that honesty was the most important virtue in music. The ending was perfect, Octavia, and you know it. If you changed it to alter the message, you would be performing a lie.” “Then you misunder… wait.” Octavia’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that about me? Who are you?” “You might be able to persuade yourself in your thought,” continued the mare, “But you’re too honest of a musician to lie in your work. Your final melody was not the lament of a prisoner or the cries of a wreck, but a direct callback to the beginning, when the middle voice was just starting out and had not yet fallen. Those last few notes were the basis for the first melody in that work. If you extended the piece for another minute, it would come full circle.” “Who are you?” repeated Octavia. “A friend. A friend who is aware of what happened between you and Lyra Heartstrings, and who wishes to help you mend your relationship.” Octavia’s smile was bitter. So that’s her game. “I see. You promise me that I can make up for my mistake if I sign on with you or your superior and leave my current patron. I am not interested.” The mare laughed. Octavia had never heard anything quite like it, it was a light and tinkling sound, almost bird-like. “Is that who you think I am? A political recruiter?” “Yes. I know of no other way you could know what transpired, nor any other reason why you would be interested in this matter.” She turned to leave, but the mare somehow got around her – she was amazingly fast – and stepped between her and the door. “I am interested,” she said, quietly, “Because, I am on the Court – you are correct in that – and you’re an Equestrian pony. That means that I am supposed to look out for you. That is the purpose of the Court.” “There are innumerable ponies in Equestria. Do you scale all of their houses?” The mare laughed again. “No. But you’ve been harmed by the Court, and so – even though I had nothing to do with it – it is partially our responsibility to help remedy that harm.” No. Octavia still had her pride and some semblance of integrity, and she could not let that statement pass unchallenged. “On the rare occasions when I have erred during a performance,” she said, her voice calm and strong, “There is always a cadre of ponies who swarm me afterwards to tell me that the mistake was not my fault. It was due to a defect in my cello, or an overly humid environment, or a piece of spoiled fruit I ate the night before. I have never accepted this as an excuse. I alone am responsible for my performances. Other factors may make my job more difficult, but it is my job to overcome them and perform correctly regardless.” The cellist took a breath. “It is the same here. Nopony has harmed me. I did what I did willingly, and I will not blame another for my act. Any subsequent harm was self-inflicted. If your concern here is genuinely remedying some injury done to me by the Court, you may consider your task discharged. The look the mare gave her was gentle. “Isn’t that a rather high standard? Could any pony blame you if some horrible disaster hurt your performance, or some incredible pressure—“ “I do not ask other ponies. I am my own critic. If I didn’t have high standards, I would have no right to perform.” She frowned. “A musician who stands before a crowd implicitly promises to play something worthy of their time. Something so remarkable that no other task those ponies could be performing would be as beneficial as listening to that performance. If I could only play well in a clean, perfectly controlled environment, I could never hold up my end of that bargain when I took the stage.” The mare tilted her head. “I see. You take your job very seriously.” “Yes. So, if you’re here to convince me that I am an innocent victim who has done nothing wrong, or—“ “Oh no, Octavia. I respect you too much to lie to you like that.” The mare began to approach the door. “You took a step down the wrong path. I’d just like to help you understand that you can get back to the right one. Why don’t we have some tea and talk about it?” “I have to practice—“ “This won’t take long. And it’s very important.” The mare’s voice grew more serious. “Lyra needs your help, Octavia.” “I cannot help her.” “That is very unfortunate.” And the mare’s voice became harsher still. “Because without you, it is likely that she will be hurt. We both know what your patron wants with her, and what he will do when he learns he can’t have her.” “I have no influence over him, and no power to shield her from his grasp.” “There will come a time when Lyra will depend on you.” The mare opened the door. “If you want to be able to help her, come with me.” Slowly, as if hypnotized, Octavia followed. The tea was very good. Octavia had never tasted anything quite like it. It was sweet without being cloying, and strong but not overpowering. “It’s my special blend,” said the mare. She still hadn’t removed her bodysuit. In fact, it had turned invisible again when they’d left the practice room, and Octavia had been forced to follow the mare by her hoofsteps. She had only made it visible again once they entered a small, secluded door into a cozy, living-room like area with no hitns as to who owned it. “My mother made it when I was young.” “It is good,” said Octavia. “By the way, you still haven’t told me who you are.” The mare shrugged. “Does my name matter? I’m trying to help you.” “My patron said the same thing. And he has, in many ways. My agent can scarcely keep up with the bookings, and even Viceroys and Vicereines desire my services.” “Octavia, please. I know you aren’t happy with obtaining your success in this way.” Octavia bowed her head and said nothing for a long moment. Then, “What do you want from me?” “I want you to help Lyra when she needs it. Which means, I want you to acknowledge that you can.” “I had that opportunity before, and you know the course I took.” Octavia shook her head. “Like you said earlier, I value honesty. I will not pretend that I have more integrity than I demonstrated—“ “So take a different course next time!” The mare rose. “Octavia, have you wondered why your patron selected you? You are a spectacular musician, but there are more than one of those in Canterlot.” “Because I was Lyra Heartstrings’ friend and mentor, and so could influence her the most.” “Why has he retained you, then?” “I have access to every noble who commissions a performance from me. Also, I can identify ponies by ear, not just by sight, and so am… useful… when he wants to identify a disguised pony.” The second part of that seemed to surprise the mare. “By their hoof patterns, I suppose.” “Yes, by their gaits. According to my patron, most of the ponies in the castle with illusion magic only change how they look, not how they sound.” She snorted. “Even Fancy Pants, who I understand is supposed to have substantial magical talent, makes the same mistake. He was in disguise at that big social last month – pretending to be a pegasus servant, apparently he planned to surprise his marefriend Fleur de Lis – but I heard him walk by and, without seeing him or knowing that he meant to keep his presence a secret, greeted him by name. My patron was… impressed. He said that I am very unusual in being able to hear that well.” “And how does he know you will use that hearing – or, for that matter, your acces to other nobles -- to help him?” The mare approached Octavia. “He knew how critical you are of yourself. He knew that, once he manipulated you into thinking that you couldn’t resist him, that you would sell out, you would never permit yourself to think otherwise. That you would forever work for him because you couldn’t forgive yourself that one error and allow yourself to think that you could resist him.” “I…” Octavia hesitated. She had never told anypony what she was about to say. “You act as if I never tried to fight him before, as if he swindled me or took me by surprise. That was not the case. It had been obvious for days that he was going to try to recruit me. He sent me messages, he attended my concerts, he even ‘arranged’ for me to play at a prestigious charity ball – one of Fancy Pants’ large parties – and then leaked that he had done it. I had no desire to work for him; I wanted, of course, to rise based on my own talent. I laughed to myself for a week about how foolish he was, trying to buy me, and imagined myself excoriating him and sending him home empty-hoofed when he finally approached me. I was as prepared as I could be. It didn’t matter.” “What, exactly, did he offer you?” “He had me meet him in his office in the castle. He told me that, if I helped him with a few small favors, he could ensure that I was playing for members of the Court day and night if I chose. Any orchestra in the country would beg to have me. And if I didn’t, he would end my career, and see to it that I could not find work anywhere. And all I could see was myself as an old crone with a dusty instrument that hadn’t been played for an audience in fifty years. I saw myself, prevented from doing the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life.” She bowed her head. “I accepted his terms. And I know I would accept them again.” “Would you? Knowing what they’ve cost you?” Octavia hesitated. “If he approached Lyra with the same terms, what would you tell her?” “To reject him,” said Octavia, immediately. The mare raised an eyebrow knowingly. “But…” Octavia blushed. “No.Lyra has more to fall back on, and her character is superior in that—“ “Be honest with yourself,” the mare interrupted. “Please. Consider that you’re better than you give yourself credit for.” Octavia hesitated for a long moment before shaking her head. “I am only as good a musician as I am,” she said, “Because I do not forgive myself any error—“ “Yes. That is your weakness. Greengrass is exploiting it,” said the mare. “When you have a weakness in your technique, you correct it. This is no different. If you want to be a great musician and a true friend, you need to be able to forgive yourself.” “And suppose I take your advice, inform Lyra that I will aid her, try again, and fail?” The mare chuckled. “Do you hide from difficult tasks due to fear of failure, Octavia? Do you shy away from challenging pieces? Is that what a true musician does?” Octavia didn’t answer. Instead, the cellist finished her tea and rose. She was feeling, quite strongly, that she needed to escape the room, lest the mare start to sway her. “I… I will think about what you said. I really must return to my music now. Thank you for the tea.” “You’re welcome. If you want to speak again, just stick a piece of parchment outside your practice room window. I will find you.” Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Do you climb that tower every day?” “Yes. I find it a particularly exhilarating form of exercise.” “And the guards don’t mind?” “Dodging them is half the fun!” The mare laughed, and it was bright and joyous – it sounded almost like Greengrass’s laugh, but more wholesome, somehow. “But if you wish, I won’t climb that tower while you’re practicing. I play music myself, a little, and I know it can be irritating to be eavesdropped on while practicing.” “I would appreciate that, thank you.” Octavia exited the room, and began the long trot back to the tower. EpilogueFancy Pants smiled when he entered his quarters in the castle. “Hello, dear.” Fleur’s form rippled into visibility. She was hanging on the ceiling by her hind legs, reading a report. “Hi!” She jumped down, flipping so that she landed on her four hooves. As she trotted over to kiss her coltfriend, she asked, “How was your night?” “Productive. I think I’m finally starting to nail down Greengrass’s supporters, and – and what are you smiling about?” Fleur’s eyes twinkled as she slipped behind Fancy Pants and shut the door. “Oh, I was just remembering a certain charity ball a little over a month ago. You know, the one you were going to go in disguise as a pegasus servant to.” “Yes… what about it?” “You wouldn’t tell me, when I saw you, why you’d dropped the illusion. But I was just having a delightful chat with one Miss Octavia Philharmonica, over in that little lounge in the eastern tower, and…” Fancy Pants’s face was bright red. “Oh.” Fleur giggled. “Didn’t you once tell me that you were so good at illusions that you could fool even the Shadowbolts? But I suppose a cellist is a different thing.” “Alright, alright.” Fancy Pants smiled, and bowed in defeat. “But let’s be fair. Philharmonica’s hearing is remarkable. I don’t think any pony can get by her.” He chuckled ruefully. “How long did it take her to identify you?” Fleur’s smile became a big, bright grin. “… She didn’t, did she,” managed Fancy Pants. “Don’t be upset, dear. I did learn from the best.” Fleur slipped over to the kitchen area. She was almost skipping with happiness, although more of that was due to Fancy Pants’s return than at her triumph. Well, half of the happiness, at least. “But no, she has no idea who I am.” “How?” Fancy Pants paused, looking at Fleur walk. “Wait. That’s not how…” Fleur poured two glasses of wine. When she trotted back to Fancy Pants, the wine hovering before her, it was with more refined and regal motions. “You taught me how to talk, and move, and even walk to fit in with these high society ponies. But I never forgot how I used to be. Octavia can identify ponies by their gait, but I have two – the high-society concert one you taught me, and the street one I used to use. She’s only ever heard me in my role as your empty-headed consort.” Fleur chuckled. “I just used the gait she hadn’t heard before.” “Ahh.” Fancy Pants stretched and sat down on a couch against one end of the room. “You surpass me once again.” “Dear, if I didn’t surpass you on occasion, this would be quite a dull relationship.” They both laughed and snuggled together on the couch. Fancy Pants sighed in contentment. “I’m a little surprised, though. I thought you weren’t going to talk to her for another week or two?” “I wasn’t, but I felt bad for her.” Fleur’s happy expression vanished. She looked angry. “It’s not right what Greengrass is doing. Half the nobles in the Court will forgive themselves any crime or failing if it’s in the service of wealth or power – and that’s if they see anything wrong with what they do in the first place. Octavia won’t forgive herself anything and blasts herself for even the smallest fault. And then Greengrass convinces her that she’s the most corrupt and least honest among them.” “He has no scruples,” said Fancy Pants. “I hate him.” Fleur shook her head. “Taking down other nobles is one thing. Half of them deserve it, and they at least they took the risk knowingly. But involving civilians, the ponies he is supposed to protect, and hurting them so he can manipulate them more easily—“ “I know, dear.” Fancy Pants nuzzled up against her. “I don’t like him either. But we have to be careful. If he thinks that Octavia will betray him and tell his secrets, he won’t think twice about removing her, and he’s so enmeshed in the Court that we might not be able to stop him.” “She won’t make any sudden moves. It’s not in her personality. And I’ll keep a close eye on her… and him.” “No, I’m watching Greengrass. He still thinks you’re a vapid fool, so he’d grow suspicious if you seemed to be focusing on him.” “I don’t mind acting that way usually, but when I see him, and see how that slimy jerk holds me in contempt…” Fleur sighed. “I suppose it’s a good thing there are rules against bucking bad politicians off of Canterlot Tower.” “There wouldn’t be many left, is the thing,” said Fancy Pants, and they both laughed. “How did you contact Octavia, anyway?” “She heard me on the outside wall and invited me inside.” “Did you let her?” Fancy Pants blinked. “Wait. Fleur, the outside wall of a castle tower? In daylight? Are you—“ “Come on, Fancy. I need to keep in shape, right?” Fleur winked. “I might not be breaking into mansions anymore, but I’d go crazy if I didn’t at least keep training.” “Training is one thing, but on the castle and in the light? If you get arrested, it will be a problem, and--” “Then I won’t get caught.” She kissed him on the cheek. “And as for whether I let her hear me… you know, I believe I will leave that to your imagination.” Fancy Pants chuckled. He couldn’t stay displeased at Fleur for very long, and he knew that she was very skilled at not being seen when she didn’t want to be. “I think I can guess the answer.” “But back to what we’re working on -- what about the Elements?” asked Fleur. “If Greengrass moved tomorrow, would they be able to beat him?” “I doubt it. I’m worried about Trixie’s political abilities. She beat Octavia, but Octavia’s talents aren’t suited to a political fight. Going up against Greengrass, she’d need help. And Greengrass can offer more to most of the ponies she could use than she can, so she can’t hope to buy or trade for allies.” “So she needs friends,” said Fleur. “Ponies who will stand by her even if it’s not the most profitable option.” “More than that, she needs to be a friend. I’ve noticed that Greengrass tried to recruit Lyra and Carrot Top, and has plans for the other three, but none whatsoever for her. He’s going for her allies first. And if she lets him have them… well, then she’ll be truly alone, he’ll be able to get her as well, and even we won’t be able to stop him. Trixie fought for Lyra, but she only had to deal with Octavia, who was a political novice. I’m worried that she might let the others go too easily if the fight is harder. “ “I still think we should tell her. Help her, even.” “No.” Fancy Pants shook his head. “We can’t do everything for her. Greengrass isn’t the only pony that will try to seize control of the Elements. She needs to learn how to deal with this problem. If we bail her out now, what happens when Corona tries, or another nation, and we can’t save her?” He paused. “Besides. Princess Luna has faith in her. And I trust the princess.” “As do I.” “Then we watch, and observe, and bring information to the princess. That’s our job.” Fancy Pants floated over the bottle of wine and refilled their glasses. “And, where we can, we try to help out the ponies who get caught up in the Court’s schemes.” Fleur looked serious. “And – even if it takes a while – we ensure that the ponies who abuse their position on the Court pay for it.” “Yes, we do.” Fancy Pants smiled. “That is one of the more enjoyable parts of the job.” Fleur snuggled up against his side. “By the way, if you want to learn how to walk with a different gait, I’d love to teach you.” “Teach me?” Fancy Pants pretended to glare. “I taught you everything you know about imitating a Courtier’s walk.” “Yes, but it wasn’t me whose disguise was broken by a musician with no spycatching training, was it?” They both laughed. Back in the tower, Octavia resumed her practicing. She was far behind schedule and would likely have to skip lunch, but that didn’t matter. Going without lunch was far less of a problem than letting her skills slip, however slightly, through neglect. Actually, she thought, just before she began playing her warm-up piece, That mare might have a point. Just because I failed once doesn’t mean I can’t recover— No. That kind of thinking leads to lax performances. A musician who forgives herself errors is one step away from tolerating errors, and when that happens, her performances will suffer. But I’ve made mistakes in performances before, and I practiced harder and overcame them. One mistake doesn’t mean I can never play a piece… She shook her head. These thoughts were traitorous, and she wouldn’t think them. She had integrity. She would not allow herself to think she was any better than she really was. She was a phenomenal musician, and a failure as a friend. Any other thoughts to contradict those would be lies. But, try as she might, even as she began to play, she couldn’t quite shake the mare’s words from her mind. And somehow, she found it a little bit easier to play that warm and happy Grasshopper Sonata than she had a short while ago.
The musical mareOctavia liked the mornings. There was something musical about them, she thought, and not just the songs of the birds or the last few sighs of Canterlot castle before it went to sleep for the day. Those were lovely on their own, of course, but there was something more that tied it all together – the sun, silent though it was. As it rose, its light gradually slipped over the castle ramparts and began to bathe the courtyards and hallways in light. The morning dew and fog evaporated into nothingness as the sun struck them, leaving behind clean, pure fields and walls, ready for whatever the day had to throw at them. Everything seemed fresh and new. Like a blank piece of staff paper, the possibilities were limitless. Whenever Octavia stayed overnight in the castle – and that was happening more and more, lately, as the number of late-night concerts she gave to the nobles kept growing – she made it a point to watch the sunrise from one of the towers, with a nice cup of tea and perhaps a light scone. She partook of few physical pleasures, having sacrificed most of them for the sake of her craft, but this was one that she allowed herself. These mornings often inspired her, even, giving her ideas for her next compositions and putting her in the mood to practice some of her more joyous, hopeful works. The cellist drained the last of her tea and watched as the Canterlot streets continued to come alive. Though the Court was nocturnal, much of the rest of Canterlot still worked by the sun, and she could see the residents beginning to open their windows and perform their morning chores. From somewhere close by, she heard the hoofsteps and shouts of marching ponies, the Royal Guard out for their morning drills. More distantly, the Early Express tooted its horn as it began its journey to the furthest reaches of Equestria. Near and far, the sounds of the city were that of a town waking up for a brand new day. Octavia smiled, savoring those sounds. She heard them all with a clarity and precision that, she knew, few ponies could match. Thirty thousand hours of cello practice, of listening training, of relentless effort, to sharpen her ears to the point where she could hear even the faintest deviation of a note from the intended frequency. That she could hear other sounds too was a nice bonus, one that she took great pleasure in. It was a reward, Octavia liked to think, for her hard work and discipline. The gray-coated mare smiled as she rose from her seat. It was a beautiful day, she had just heard a beautiful morning, and now she had four hours all to herself where she could further refine her talents and master her craft. The mare shut the window and trotted over to the music stand and her cello. Nopony would disturb her as long as she practiced; the floor, ceiling, and interior walls of the room had been perfectly soundproofed, and she had verified this herself – not even she could hear anything inside the room from outside, or vice versa. The outer wall wasn’t soundproofed (that would have required treating the external surface, and as she was near the top of a tower, that wouldn’t have been safe), but unless somepony was hanging onto the wall, that wouldn’t matter. She would be free to experiment and improve without having to worry about some pasesrby pony hearing a mistake. It wasn’t like her practice room at home, she thought. As much as she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to soundproof it perfectly, and while her neighbors were perfectly kind, she hated the thought of them hearing her mistakes or incomplete compositions. But one thing Greengrass had promised her when she signed on with him was a practice room, and— Greengrass… And just like that, her good mood vanished. Clenching her teeth just slightly, Octavia picked up her cello and carefully balanced it. Greengrass wasn’t important, and the more she could just forget about him when she practiced and performed, the better. There was only the music, transformed by her skill and her instrument from notes on a page into gloriously beautiful sounds. This particular warm-up piece was a light, happy ditty, not without its complexities but still simple enough that she could play it without much thought. She picked up her bow, took her cleansing breath, focused on the cheerful, upbeat energy in the piece, and began to play. Five minutes later, when she was done, she had to admit that it hadn’t gone well. She got all the notes, right, of course, and the gross details – dynamics, tempo, phrasing. It would have been acceptable for most private parties, or many concert halls. Even many of the nobles would have liked it. But Octavia knew better, and she was too honest with herself to pretend that it was a good performance. That spark, the happy core of the piece, wasn’t coming through. The tones were just a bit too muted, the phrasing a shade too constricted, and as a result, the music just didn’t meet her standards. The cellist looked out the window in a vain attempt to recapture her good mood, but she knew it was futile and almost immediately chided herself for her weakness before turning away. She had never before needed to worry about her emotional state before a performance; calm and taciturn by nature, she could easily connect with whatever emotion was needed for a particular piece. But lately, she was finding that harder – especially for happy and light works. Octavia, unlike many of her colleagues, did not believe that a musician should attempt to put herself in a mood congruent with whatever music she was about to play. She had tried it, on recommendation from her teachers, but it had always felt fake, and so had the resultant music. She could make herself happy by visualizing a beautiful morning, or a perfect performance for Luna, but that was never the precise shade of ‘happy’ inherent in the piece. It might be close, but for her close was never close enough, and the resulting mismatch between her own emotions and those of the music always dragged down her performances. She could hear the incongruity, even if nopony else could. Rather, she tried to connect with whatever emotion was already there, in the music. Her own mood, she figured, was not relevant. So long as she could feel the sadness in “The Lament of Dalimare,” or the sheer joy in “Triumph over Tirek,” what did it matter if she herself was happy or sad? It was the music that was important, not her, and by now she had perfected her ability to forget herself and immerse herself in the music, to demonstrate whatever emotion had been inscribed there by the composer without letting her own feelings leak into it. Were her performances influenced by her personal style? Yes… but in deliberate ways, particular phrasings that she chose for specific reasons, or carefully controlled improvised sections to reinforce certain themes. Nothing so frivolous as ‘being sad that day.’ Or at least, that was how she used to be able to perform. But lately, she was finding it harder and harder to look past herself and play happier works. It was like there was a wall there, preventing her from connecting with them. Octavia shook her head and hefted her bow again. She knew why she was having trouble connecting with happy pieces, and it didn’t matter. She would work through it. Octavia Philharmonica was a musician, not some pathetic whiner who would throw down her bow whenever she was not in the right ‘mood’ to play. She would fight past this blockage and be all the stronger. There was no use wallowing in self-pity or remaining in this state for one moment longer; unless she was going to channel her angst into some new composition or improvised performance, she -- She froze for a moment, then shifted her stance slightly, one more appropriate for a longer piece. Maybe that will help, she thought. To ‘play it out’. Maybe then I can move past this… this lapse and get back to my usual training regime. And so she began to play a tone poem. The introduction was bright and strong, outwardly simple in its purity, yet with enough subtleties to denote a sort of elegance and refinement. The Hero, thought Octavia, distantly, with whatever fraction of her mind was unoccupied with synthesizing and performing the piece. Hard-working and honorable. Virtuous. Noble, even. And the music gained in complexity, layering back upon itself as if to demonstrate the ‘hero’ character’s advancement and progression. From a young idealist to a skilled craftsmare, the music progressed in a clean warm manner. She began to play in the lowest reaches of the cello – most ponies couldn’t play two voices at once on the instrument, but Octavia had the skill – to add in the second character. The lower ‘voice’ started by simply filling in a few holes that the middle voice couldn’t quite reach, but gradually took on more and more until it was constantly assisting the middle tones, hitting whatever notes they couldn’t and allowing them to sing in more and more intricate patterns. But then the Helper threatens to leave. The Hero is frightened. The lower voice began to miss at odd intervals, forcing the middle notes to leap around and race to plug in the missing gaps. The music sounded extraordinary – intricate melodies that seemed almost to jump off of the cello as they switched between the battling voices – but Octavia ignored this. Her mind was on the performance; praise could come later. At last, the Hero weakens. She will do what the Helper demands. The lower voice rose a bit in triumph, the middle falling in meek acceptance – but then they played together again, two allies at peace, with no enmity between them. The music resumed the heights it had reached earlier, the middle voice weaving melodies, the lower one reinforcing, setting a beat, and performing all the useful tasks that the middle one needed to shine. The Helper slowly died away, and the third voice – at the upper reaches of the cello – came in. The middle and high voices bounced off each other, testing as the middle raced upwards and the upper descended – but in a light, teasing way, the manner of two old friends who were so close that they could challenge each other without any risk of hatred or fear. And, indeed, after a few moments, the two began to build on each other. But unlike with the Helper from before, the Hero and her Friend didn’t have a ‘leader’ and a ‘backer’ between them. They both sounded beautifully, casting melodies and harmonies into the early morning air, taking turns in front or sharing the spotlight. They completed each other, each much stronger with the other voice than it could possibly be alone. But – after a few minutes of this – trouble arose. The middle voice grew in prominence, racing to outperform and defeat the high voice. The high voice at first was almost swept away, hanging on by a few notes in the upper reaches that could do no more than deflect the vanguards of the middle voice’s harmonies. Victory for the ‘Hero’ seemed certain. One could almost hear echoes of the Helper, though his notes were not in evidence, from the melodies woven by the Hero. It is not to be. The Friend realizes at last what she must do, and because she is still true to herself – honest and pure – she sweeps aside the Hero. The high voice began to grow, slowly at first, but faster and faster, until it was the Hero who was barely hanging on. And this was no longer a sweet tune, but a vengeful rampage. The Hero’s melodies were shattered or thrust aside by the unstoppable force of the Friend, who drove down the cello in a whirlwind of sharp, pointed harmonies and a single melodic line that marched onwards unstoppably and left no room to escape. The middle voice collapsed, and the Friend’s melodies were the only ones heard. In the end, Octavia played a few melodies of the Friend – now mournful, but still undaunted and unbroken, a mare who still had the integrity to face the world. The Helper was there too, much the same as before; none of this had hurt him in any way. But the Hero… well, the final melody was limping and sad. There was still beauty there, and of course skill, but it was clear that the Hero voice had lost something very important. The piece ended on a few final notes that trailed off, as if following whatever it was the Hero had discarded. Octavia collapsed on her stool when she was done, emotionally drained. She realized, to her slight surprise, that she’d spent almost an hour playing. That was a lot longer than she’d planned, but she felt like she’d accomplished something. She felt refreshed and clean. That is proof that I am still honest in my music, if in nothing else, she thought. Whatever I said to Lyra, whatever my other depraved and traitorous acts, the integrity of my music is not compromised. I suppose that is something. She did not often wonder whether or not Lyra would forgive her for her betrayal. In a certain sense, it didn’t matter. She judged herself by her own standards, nopony else’s, and by those standards, she’d committed a foul and traitorous act, no matter how often the Duke said that ‘everypony did it.’ But sometimes, in her more wistful moments, she did find herself wishing that Lyra would write her and tell her that it was alright; that she understood; that she was forgiven. That they could again be friends. And then she caught herself and cast those thoughts out. If Lyra wrote that, it would be a lie. It was not acceptable what she had done, and she deserved no forgiveness. On top of that, now she apparently wanted Lyra to lie in order to make her feel better – another crime on top of the first. So Octavia forced herself not to think of such things. She had failed, she was not worthy of being Lyra’s friend, and that was all there was to it. But at least she could appreciate that failure and see it honestly, even to the point of demonstrating it in her music. Moreover, even though her piece was critiquing her, she hadn’t let that stop her from playing her best. There was a kind of honesty in that. Still, I don’t think I’ll play that one in public, she thought, with a small smile. In terms of technical skill, it was extraordinary, and there definitely was beauty there, but it was still a very dark and depressing piece. Like a painting of some horrible tragedy, it was an excellent portrayal of something that nopony would want to see. The kind of music they would play when sentencing some famous war hero or legend, after having uncovered some horrible scandal. Not suitable for the dinner parties and ceremonies I play at. She drank from her water bottle and rose. She felt a lot better now, and was feeling up to trying that warm-up piece again. She felt confident that she could play it correctly now, and then maybe she could move on to her real pieces. She had a new sonata for the wedding of Vicereine Puissance’s cousin that she had to finish, and she was scheduled to play for one of Fancy Pant’s charity balls later in the week. She’d need to practice the core piece of that performance, the Sonata Grande and the Valse Brilliante– She heard the faintest noise from the direction of the window. Most ponies would have disregarded it. After all, it sounded like a hoofstep, and it was obviously impossible for a pony to be walking on the outside of the tower – set aside that the walls were vertical and almost sheer, Octavia was high above the rest of Canterlot, and any climbing pony would certainly be badly hurt if they fell. This logic gave even Octavia a moment of pause. But her ears were among the sharpest in the country, and she very rarely made mistakes. If she heard some interloper, they were there. Is it an obsessed fan who wanted to hear me practicing? No, more likely it’s a political spy, thought Octavia, frowning, as she went over to the window and opened it. Who would have thought that being a Court cellist would lead to so much intrigue? Well, it’s my own fault for getting involved with it. Octavia looked out the window, and then carefully examined the tower wall, but didn’t see anything. The wall appeared to be perfectly empty. So either she really was hearing things, in which case she had a very serious problem, or whoever was spying on her was invisible… which was also a serious problem. She did know some techniques to find invisible or illusioned ponies, mostly by playing a note and listening for oddities in the echoes, but they didn’t work outside, where there was nothing to echo against. What could she do now? She heard another faint sound; something padded scraping on stone. She turned so that she was looking straight up the tower, at least as much as she could, and squinted. Was there something vaguely hazy above her? She couldn’t tell – her eyes were no better than an average pony’s, and she couldn’t see through illusions – but she was absolutely confident that the sound had come from this direction. “Can I help you?” she asked. There was definitely a sound in response to that, a rustle of fabric on stone. Like whoever it was had been spooked and was gripping the wall a bit more tightly. “I can hear you,” said Octavia. “If you want to listen to my performances, purchase a ticket. I am—“ The space above her shimmered, and suddenly, she could see a pony head looking at her. It was covered in a mask with colors rippling across it; some kind of unicorn weave, probably. All she could see beneath the mask were the eyes, two bright, curious orbs. “Oh!” said the floating head. “I’m sorry. I know it was terribly rude of me to eavesdrop.” The voice also sounded familiar, -- a female voice, light, musical, and refined -- but Octavia couldn’t place it. It was distorted in some way, just enough to mask its owner. “But I was just passing by and I heard your music, and it was so extraordinary that I couldn’t help but stop to listen.” “I wasn’t aware that burglars enjoyed the Grasshopper Sonata,” managed Octavia. Calm. Stay calm. That’s not really a talking head. The rest of her body is still invisible, that’s all. I don’t know if she’s a spy or a burglar or some complete lunatic, but I will not be afraid. I am Octavia Philharmonica and I will not be scared by some deranged mountaineer-groupie. I will take a moment to regain control of myself, and then I will call the guards. “That first piece? Oh, no, I meant the one you just did. The three-voice tone poem. It was incredibly moving.” Octavia blinked, her plans to call others forgotten. Spy, or burglar, or whatever, apparently they knew a little something about music theory. That was… unexpected. “It’s not at all like your usual works,” continued the head. “And I'm not a burglar. Would you like me to come in? It must be uncomfortable for you, craning your neck like that.” You’re the one hanging off a castle wall, thought Octavia. But she wasn’t sure what else to do, and despite herself, she was curious. So she nodded her head. “I suppose.” The head vanished, but Octavia heard faint hoofsteps and scratching sounds approaching her position. She pulled herself back into the room, and a moment later, she heard a quiet clonking sound as the invisible mare swung in and dropped to her hooves. If this is a spy, it’s a very unusual one, she thought. And then the invisibility spell vanished, and Octavia could see who she was talking to.
The mysterious mare“Do you always travel via exterior wall?” asked Octavia, unsure of how to begin the conversation. The mare chuckled. She was clad from horn to hoof in that same fabric that concealed her face. It rippled, catching the light and throwing it back at the cellist, making it very difficult for her to look directly at the newcomer. Octavia could see a horn and could tell that the pony was female, but that was about it. The masked mare didn’t answer the question. She just said, “If you don’t mind me saying so, that piece you just played sounded particularly inspired. And it was technically brilliant too – it sounded like you’d been polishing it for weeks. Remarkable improvistory technique.” “Why do you think it was improvised?” “There were a few places that you would have refined more, had you rehearsed this piece. That first time when the middle and high voices met, for instance – if you were playing that for an audience, that part would have been more gradual. The complex melodies began so quickly that it wasn’t clear, at first, that the two voices hadn’t ‘met’ in some time. If you performed that piece after some more practice, I think you would usually wait about thirty seconds more before increasing the complexity.” It was a surprisingly accurate criticism. This mare seemed unusually knowledgeable about music. “You seem to know a lot about my music.” “Your music is worth it.” The mare trotted closer to Octavia. “And this particular piece – incredibly complex rhythms and melodies, yet the basic ideas were remarkably clear. The protagonist’s rise, her flourishing, her temptation… the interplay between the lower and middle voices was brilliant… then her corruption. She meets the higher voice, she wavers in her conviction, but in the end she falls.” Octavia raised an eyebrow. Even among the nobles of the city, many of whom had music training (if only for appearances), it was rare to find somepony who grasped her so well. “I think the ending was my favorite part. The high voice not only resists being corrupted, but her melody reinforces what remains of the middle voice to build her back up and redeem her.” Oh. So she doesn’t understand me after all. “I may need to revise the ending, then. No redemption of any kind was intended. The piece was intended to be a tragedy.” She couldn’t say how, but the mare looked disappointed, somehow. “I thought you believed that honesty was the most important virtue in music. The ending was perfect, Octavia, and you know it. If you changed it to alter the message, you would be performing a lie.” “Then you misunder… wait.” Octavia’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that about me? Who are you?” “You might be able to persuade yourself in your thought,” continued the mare, “But you’re too honest of a musician to lie in your work. Your final melody was not the lament of a prisoner or the cries of a wreck, but a direct callback to the beginning, when the middle voice was just starting out and had not yet fallen. Those last few notes were the basis for the first melody in that work. If you extended the piece for another minute, it would come full circle.” “Who are you?” repeated Octavia. “A friend. A friend who is aware of what happened between you and Lyra Heartstrings, and who wishes to help you mend your relationship.” Octavia’s smile was bitter. So that’s her game. “I see. You promise me that I can make up for my mistake if I sign on with you or your superior and leave my current patron. I am not interested.” The mare laughed. Octavia had never heard anything quite like it, it was a light and tinkling sound, almost bird-like. “Is that who you think I am? A political recruiter?” “Yes. I know of no other way you could know what transpired, nor any other reason why you would be interested in this matter.” She turned to leave, but the mare somehow got around her – she was amazingly fast – and stepped between her and the door. “I am interested,” she said, quietly, “Because, I am on the Court – you are correct in that – and you’re an Equestrian pony. That means that I am supposed to look out for you. That is the purpose of the Court.” “There are innumerable ponies in Equestria. Do you scale all of their houses?” The mare laughed again. “No. But you’ve been harmed by the Court, and so – even though I had nothing to do with it – it is partially our responsibility to help remedy that harm.” No. Octavia still had her pride and some semblance of integrity, and she could not let that statement pass unchallenged. “On the rare occasions when I have erred during a performance,” she said, her voice calm and strong, “There is always a cadre of ponies who swarm me afterwards to tell me that the mistake was not my fault. It was due to a defect in my cello, or an overly humid environment, or a piece of spoiled fruit I ate the night before. I have never accepted this as an excuse. I alone am responsible for my performances. Other factors may make my job more difficult, but it is my job to overcome them and perform correctly regardless.” The cellist took a breath. “It is the same here. Nopony has harmed me. I did what I did willingly, and I will not blame another for my act. Any subsequent harm was self-inflicted. If your concern here is genuinely remedying some injury done to me by the Court, you may consider your task discharged. The look the mare gave her was gentle. “Isn’t that a rather high standard? Could any pony blame you if some horrible disaster hurt your performance, or some incredible pressure—“ “I do not ask other ponies. I am my own critic. If I didn’t have high standards, I would have no right to perform.” She frowned. “A musician who stands before a crowd implicitly promises to play something worthy of their time. Something so remarkable that no other task those ponies could be performing would be as beneficial as listening to that performance. If I could only play well in a clean, perfectly controlled environment, I could never hold up my end of that bargain when I took the stage.” The mare tilted her head. “I see. You take your job very seriously.” “Yes. So, if you’re here to convince me that I am an innocent victim who has done nothing wrong, or—“ “Oh no, Octavia. I respect you too much to lie to you like that.” The mare began to approach the door. “You took a step down the wrong path. I’d just like to help you understand that you can get back to the right one. Why don’t we have some tea and talk about it?” “I have to practice—“ “This won’t take long. And it’s very important.” The mare’s voice grew more serious. “Lyra needs your help, Octavia.” “I cannot help her.” “That is very unfortunate.” And the mare’s voice became harsher still. “Because without you, it is likely that she will be hurt. We both know what your patron wants with her, and what he will do when he learns he can’t have her.” “I have no influence over him, and no power to shield her from his grasp.” “There will come a time when Lyra will depend on you.” The mare opened the door. “If you want to be able to help her, come with me.” Slowly, as if hypnotized, Octavia followed. The tea was very good. Octavia had never tasted anything quite like it. It was sweet without being cloying, and strong but not overpowering. “It’s my special blend,” said the mare. She still hadn’t removed her bodysuit. In fact, it had turned invisible again when they’d left the practice room, and Octavia had been forced to follow the mare by her hoofsteps. She had only made it visible again once they entered a small, secluded door into a cozy, living-room like area with no hitns as to who owned it. “My mother made it when I was young.” “It is good,” said Octavia. “By the way, you still haven’t told me who you are.” The mare shrugged. “Does my name matter? I’m trying to help you.” “My patron said the same thing. And he has, in many ways. My agent can scarcely keep up with the bookings, and even Viceroys and Vicereines desire my services.” “Octavia, please. I know you aren’t happy with obtaining your success in this way.” Octavia bowed her head and said nothing for a long moment. Then, “What do you want from me?” “I want you to help Lyra when she needs it. Which means, I want you to acknowledge that you can.” “I had that opportunity before, and you know the course I took.” Octavia shook her head. “Like you said earlier, I value honesty. I will not pretend that I have more integrity than I demonstrated—“ “So take a different course next time!” The mare rose. “Octavia, have you wondered why your patron selected you? You are a spectacular musician, but there are more than one of those in Canterlot.” “Because I was Lyra Heartstrings’ friend and mentor, and so could influence her the most.” “Why has he retained you, then?” “I have access to every noble who commissions a performance from me. Also, I can identify ponies by ear, not just by sight, and so am… useful… when he wants to identify a disguised pony.” The second part of that seemed to surprise the mare. “By their hoof patterns, I suppose.” “Yes, by their gaits. According to my patron, most of the ponies in the castle with illusion magic only change how they look, not how they sound.” She snorted. “Even Fancy Pants, who I understand is supposed to have substantial magical talent, makes the same mistake. He was in disguise at that big social last month – pretending to be a pegasus servant, apparently he planned to surprise his marefriend Fleur de Lis – but I heard him walk by and, without seeing him or knowing that he meant to keep his presence a secret, greeted him by name. My patron was… impressed. He said that I am very unusual in being able to hear that well.” “And how does he know you will use that hearing – or, for that matter, your acces to other nobles -- to help him?” The mare approached Octavia. “He knew how critical you are of yourself. He knew that, once he manipulated you into thinking that you couldn’t resist him, that you would sell out, you would never permit yourself to think otherwise. That you would forever work for him because you couldn’t forgive yourself that one error and allow yourself to think that you could resist him.” “I…” Octavia hesitated. She had never told anypony what she was about to say. “You act as if I never tried to fight him before, as if he swindled me or took me by surprise. That was not the case. It had been obvious for days that he was going to try to recruit me. He sent me messages, he attended my concerts, he even ‘arranged’ for me to play at a prestigious charity ball – one of Fancy Pants’ large parties – and then leaked that he had done it. I had no desire to work for him; I wanted, of course, to rise based on my own talent. I laughed to myself for a week about how foolish he was, trying to buy me, and imagined myself excoriating him and sending him home empty-hoofed when he finally approached me. I was as prepared as I could be. It didn’t matter.” “What, exactly, did he offer you?” “He had me meet him in his office in the castle. He told me that, if I helped him with a few small favors, he could ensure that I was playing for members of the Court day and night if I chose. Any orchestra in the country would beg to have me. And if I didn’t, he would end my career, and see to it that I could not find work anywhere. And all I could see was myself as an old crone with a dusty instrument that hadn’t been played for an audience in fifty years. I saw myself, prevented from doing the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life.” She bowed her head. “I accepted his terms. And I know I would accept them again.” “Would you? Knowing what they’ve cost you?” Octavia hesitated. “If he approached Lyra with the same terms, what would you tell her?” “To reject him,” said Octavia, immediately. The mare raised an eyebrow knowingly. “But…” Octavia blushed. “No.Lyra has more to fall back on, and her character is superior in that—“ “Be honest with yourself,” the mare interrupted. “Please. Consider that you’re better than you give yourself credit for.” Octavia hesitated for a long moment before shaking her head. “I am only as good a musician as I am,” she said, “Because I do not forgive myself any error—“ “Yes. That is your weakness. Greengrass is exploiting it,” said the mare. “When you have a weakness in your technique, you correct it. This is no different. If you want to be a great musician and a true friend, you need to be able to forgive yourself.” “And suppose I take your advice, inform Lyra that I will aid her, try again, and fail?” The mare chuckled. “Do you hide from difficult tasks due to fear of failure, Octavia? Do you shy away from challenging pieces? Is that what a true musician does?” Octavia didn’t answer. Instead, the cellist finished her tea and rose. She was feeling, quite strongly, that she needed to escape the room, lest the mare start to sway her. “I… I will think about what you said. I really must return to my music now. Thank you for the tea.” “You’re welcome. If you want to speak again, just stick a piece of parchment outside your practice room window. I will find you.” Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Do you climb that tower every day?” “Yes. I find it a particularly exhilarating form of exercise.” “And the guards don’t mind?” “Dodging them is half the fun!” The mare laughed, and it was bright and joyous – it sounded almost like Greengrass’s laugh, but more wholesome, somehow. “But if you wish, I won’t climb that tower while you’re practicing. I play music myself, a little, and I know it can be irritating to be eavesdropped on while practicing.” “I would appreciate that, thank you.” Octavia exited the room, and began the long trot back to the tower.
EpilogueFancy Pants smiled when he entered his quarters in the castle. “Hello, dear.” Fleur’s form rippled into visibility. She was hanging on the ceiling by her hind legs, reading a report. “Hi!” She jumped down, flipping so that she landed on her four hooves. As she trotted over to kiss her coltfriend, she asked, “How was your night?” “Productive. I think I’m finally starting to nail down Greengrass’s supporters, and – and what are you smiling about?” Fleur’s eyes twinkled as she slipped behind Fancy Pants and shut the door. “Oh, I was just remembering a certain charity ball a little over a month ago. You know, the one you were going to go in disguise as a pegasus servant to.” “Yes… what about it?” “You wouldn’t tell me, when I saw you, why you’d dropped the illusion. But I was just having a delightful chat with one Miss Octavia Philharmonica, over in that little lounge in the eastern tower, and…” Fancy Pants’s face was bright red. “Oh.” Fleur giggled. “Didn’t you once tell me that you were so good at illusions that you could fool even the Shadowbolts? But I suppose a cellist is a different thing.” “Alright, alright.” Fancy Pants smiled, and bowed in defeat. “But let’s be fair. Philharmonica’s hearing is remarkable. I don’t think any pony can get by her.” He chuckled ruefully. “How long did it take her to identify you?” Fleur’s smile became a big, bright grin. “… She didn’t, did she,” managed Fancy Pants. “Don’t be upset, dear. I did learn from the best.” Fleur slipped over to the kitchen area. She was almost skipping with happiness, although more of that was due to Fancy Pants’s return than at her triumph. Well, half of the happiness, at least. “But no, she has no idea who I am.” “How?” Fancy Pants paused, looking at Fleur walk. “Wait. That’s not how…” Fleur poured two glasses of wine. When she trotted back to Fancy Pants, the wine hovering before her, it was with more refined and regal motions. “You taught me how to talk, and move, and even walk to fit in with these high society ponies. But I never forgot how I used to be. Octavia can identify ponies by their gait, but I have two – the high-society concert one you taught me, and the street one I used to use. She’s only ever heard me in my role as your empty-headed consort.” Fleur chuckled. “I just used the gait she hadn’t heard before.” “Ahh.” Fancy Pants stretched and sat down on a couch against one end of the room. “You surpass me once again.” “Dear, if I didn’t surpass you on occasion, this would be quite a dull relationship.” They both laughed and snuggled together on the couch. Fancy Pants sighed in contentment. “I’m a little surprised, though. I thought you weren’t going to talk to her for another week or two?” “I wasn’t, but I felt bad for her.” Fleur’s happy expression vanished. She looked angry. “It’s not right what Greengrass is doing. Half the nobles in the Court will forgive themselves any crime or failing if it’s in the service of wealth or power – and that’s if they see anything wrong with what they do in the first place. Octavia won’t forgive herself anything and blasts herself for even the smallest fault. And then Greengrass convinces her that she’s the most corrupt and least honest among them.” “He has no scruples,” said Fancy Pants. “I hate him.” Fleur shook her head. “Taking down other nobles is one thing. Half of them deserve it, and they at least they took the risk knowingly. But involving civilians, the ponies he is supposed to protect, and hurting them so he can manipulate them more easily—“ “I know, dear.” Fancy Pants nuzzled up against her. “I don’t like him either. But we have to be careful. If he thinks that Octavia will betray him and tell his secrets, he won’t think twice about removing her, and he’s so enmeshed in the Court that we might not be able to stop him.” “She won’t make any sudden moves. It’s not in her personality. And I’ll keep a close eye on her… and him.” “No, I’m watching Greengrass. He still thinks you’re a vapid fool, so he’d grow suspicious if you seemed to be focusing on him.” “I don’t mind acting that way usually, but when I see him, and see how that slimy jerk holds me in contempt…” Fleur sighed. “I suppose it’s a good thing there are rules against bucking bad politicians off of Canterlot Tower.” “There wouldn’t be many left, is the thing,” said Fancy Pants, and they both laughed. “How did you contact Octavia, anyway?” “She heard me on the outside wall and invited me inside.” “Did you let her?” Fancy Pants blinked. “Wait. Fleur, the outside wall of a castle tower? In daylight? Are you—“ “Come on, Fancy. I need to keep in shape, right?” Fleur winked. “I might not be breaking into mansions anymore, but I’d go crazy if I didn’t at least keep training.” “Training is one thing, but on the castle and in the light? If you get arrested, it will be a problem, and--” “Then I won’t get caught.” She kissed him on the cheek. “And as for whether I let her hear me… you know, I believe I will leave that to your imagination.” Fancy Pants chuckled. He couldn’t stay displeased at Fleur for very long, and he knew that she was very skilled at not being seen when she didn’t want to be. “I think I can guess the answer.” “But back to what we’re working on -- what about the Elements?” asked Fleur. “If Greengrass moved tomorrow, would they be able to beat him?” “I doubt it. I’m worried about Trixie’s political abilities. She beat Octavia, but Octavia’s talents aren’t suited to a political fight. Going up against Greengrass, she’d need help. And Greengrass can offer more to most of the ponies she could use than she can, so she can’t hope to buy or trade for allies.” “So she needs friends,” said Fleur. “Ponies who will stand by her even if it’s not the most profitable option.” “More than that, she needs to be a friend. I’ve noticed that Greengrass tried to recruit Lyra and Carrot Top, and has plans for the other three, but none whatsoever for her. He’s going for her allies first. And if she lets him have them… well, then she’ll be truly alone, he’ll be able to get her as well, and even we won’t be able to stop him. Trixie fought for Lyra, but she only had to deal with Octavia, who was a political novice. I’m worried that she might let the others go too easily if the fight is harder. “ “I still think we should tell her. Help her, even.” “No.” Fancy Pants shook his head. “We can’t do everything for her. Greengrass isn’t the only pony that will try to seize control of the Elements. She needs to learn how to deal with this problem. If we bail her out now, what happens when Corona tries, or another nation, and we can’t save her?” He paused. “Besides. Princess Luna has faith in her. And I trust the princess.” “As do I.” “Then we watch, and observe, and bring information to the princess. That’s our job.” Fancy Pants floated over the bottle of wine and refilled their glasses. “And, where we can, we try to help out the ponies who get caught up in the Court’s schemes.” Fleur looked serious. “And – even if it takes a while – we ensure that the ponies who abuse their position on the Court pay for it.” “Yes, we do.” Fancy Pants smiled. “That is one of the more enjoyable parts of the job.” Fleur snuggled up against his side. “By the way, if you want to learn how to walk with a different gait, I’d love to teach you.” “Teach me?” Fancy Pants pretended to glare. “I taught you everything you know about imitating a Courtier’s walk.” “Yes, but it wasn’t me whose disguise was broken by a musician with no spycatching training, was it?” They both laughed. Back in the tower, Octavia resumed her practicing. She was far behind schedule and would likely have to skip lunch, but that didn’t matter. Going without lunch was far less of a problem than letting her skills slip, however slightly, through neglect. Actually, she thought, just before she began playing her warm-up piece, That mare might have a point. Just because I failed once doesn’t mean I can’t recover— No. That kind of thinking leads to lax performances. A musician who forgives herself errors is one step away from tolerating errors, and when that happens, her performances will suffer. But I’ve made mistakes in performances before, and I practiced harder and overcame them. One mistake doesn’t mean I can never play a piece… She shook her head. These thoughts were traitorous, and she wouldn’t think them. She had integrity. She would not allow herself to think she was any better than she really was. She was a phenomenal musician, and a failure as a friend. Any other thoughts to contradict those would be lies. But, try as she might, even as she began to play, she couldn’t quite shake the mare’s words from her mind. And somehow, she found it a little bit easier to play that warm and happy Grasshopper Sonata than she had a short while ago.
