Thicker Than Water

At first, Apricot had thought Pollux’s latest lesson would be the easiest yet. After showing his teacher the pristine knots he’d tied, Apricot had expected some new challenge of even greater precision, or maybe even some battlemagic. It had been hard to hide his disappointment when Pollux had assigned his apprentice his next task: Listen to the song of the forest. When you can hum it back to me, we’ll move on.

Sighing, Apricot had restrained his questions. He knew Pollux wouldn’t budge—no matter how trivial the task seemed, he’d learned it was futile to ask his mentor to skip to the good stuff. He resigned himself to a day spent listening to birds and rustling leaves. Opening himself to the magic, he searched for the rhythm of the song. It came quickly now, that steady beating; no longer the lapping of waves on the bank but the pounding of a deep drum, the heartbeat of magic itself.

Since entering the Elderwood, the music had been getting harder and harder to follow. It wasn’t hard to find, but staying with the steady rhythm he’d learned on the ship was difficult when it was drowned out by a cacophony of random sounds. Little notes of magical energy intruded constantly, disrupting the flow. And now Pollux wanted him to make a song out of this mess.

It was hopeless. He’d hear a melody, a trilling series of notes, and focus on it. But each time, the music swiftly dissipated back into the swirling noise. Another, separate set of sounds would soon draw his attention, only to suffer the same extinguishing. No matter how intently he focused on any of the fragments, it vanished before he could even grasp the rhythm. After ten minutes without discerning so much as a unified time signature, Apricot huffed in dismay. As far as he could tell, there was no song of the forest. More like a thousand songs, all playing over each other. It was about as useless as singing with a tuning orchestra.

It had to be another trick question. Apricot had learned to recognize the little pleased flash in Pollux’s red eyes whenever he correctly guessed one of those. Exasperated after half an hour of craning his ears for birdsong and snapping twigs, he offered this suggestion to Pollux. All he got in return was a frown, a shake of his teacher’s head, and an admonition to “keep listening.”

Glumly, he returned to his fruitless endeavor, trudging along after Kaduat’s cart and trying to hear the sounds of the forest over rattling wheels and clacking barrels. Every lesson Pollux gave him seemed to have some hidden complexity beneath the seemingly simple task. It couldn’t be pointless—it never was—but the exercise was more frustrating than any he’d been given so far. Apricot was so preoccupied with listening that he didn’t realize when the cart ahead of him stopped.

Thunk. “Ow!”

Rubbing his nose, he looked around. They’d come to a halt in a large glade. Though the trees surrounding them were largely aspens, a few huge oaks and maples towered over their neighbors. Thick foliage dotted the perimeter of the glade, leaving it hushed and secluded. Above, a rare clearing in the tree canopy revealed the clear azure sky. Apricot could still see the sun high above the trees. Were they stopping to camp already? Lunch had only been a few hours ago…

Apricot leaned left around the cart and peered toward the front. The entire caravan had halted. Trotting curiously forward, he paused at the front of the cart beside Kaduat, who had been driving it all day. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know, kiddo. Can’t tell from back here.” She craned her head, but the cart hitch didn’t give her a lot of freedom to move. With a huff, she rolled her shoulder beneath the wooden yoke. “Maybe one of the lead carts threw a wheel.” She raised an eyebrow and gave him a crooked smile. “Mind scouting it out for me?”

“Sure! I can do that.” Apricot set off briskly toward the head of the line, strutting with purpose. He loved it when the mercenaries asked him to help. Whenever Kaduat or Beatriz gave him some small task, he felt like an actual member of the expedition, instead of a load. If only his parents saw him that way…

When he reached the front of the caravan, the problem became instantly clear. The path led to a gap in the foliage at the northern end of the glade, where the line of carts ended. Yet in that gap, lying across the path, dozens of trees lay felled as if a giant had pushed them over. They were piled atop one another like a sloppy beaver dam, their branches tangled messily. Many of the trunks were blackened and split. Standing before the pile of lumber were Pwyll and the pegasi brothers. The three stood circled around the nearest fallen tree, eying up the pile.

“Lightning strikes,” grumbled Castor, tapping the wood. “What a mess. Strange that it only hit the trees beside the hoofpath, though…” He looked uneasily around the otherwise-pristine glade.

“Not so strange,” said Pwyll. “I told you, the forest doesn’t like visitors.” He surveyed the fallen trees, rubbing his chin. “This wasn’t here last time I passed through.”

“We could just climb over it, were it not for the carts,” sighed Castor. “This’ll take hours to hack through.”

“Can’t we just go around?” asked Pollux.

“Not unless you want to get cut to pieces by those brambles,” said Pwyll, gesturing to the thick foliage. “And on the east side, the river curves south. It’s too deep to get across until we reach the ford about a kilometer north of here.” He nodded at the blockage.

Castor lifted an eyebrow at his brother. “I don’t suppose you can lift these clear.”

Apricot sprang forward. “Let me help?”

Pollux chuckled as the other two turned in surprise. “I’d welcome the aid, but I don’t think it would be that easy.” He looked around at the collapsed aspens, some of which were nearly as thick around as a pony. With a low whistle, he pointed a hoof at the nearest tree. It hadn’t broken so much as toppled, its roots ripping halfway out of the ground like a twisted earthen spider.

Pollux frowned. “See that? They’ve fallen over, but some of them are still rooted. Even together I doubt the two of us can rip a dozen whole trees out of the ground. That’s a quick way to overload your horn.”

Wincing at the memory of sharp pain and blinding light, Apricot gave a subdued nod. “What about cutting through?”

“We’d need a lot of energy to cut through with magic alone, and with just two of us it would be slow going,” said Pollux, glancing back at his brother. “I think this calls for a more mundane solution.”

Castor lifted an eyebrow, evaluating the barrier. “Agreed. We brought a few timber saws in case we needed to put up a base camp. And I suppose we could use the wood later.” He exhaled apprehensively. “It’s going to take a while, though.”

“We’d best start immediately, then,” said Pollux. “Count Vallen is already displeased by the delays.”

“Did he say something to you?”

“He doesn’t have to. Every time we tell him about a setback, those eyes of his could cut stone.”

“Let me worry about our employer,” said Castor, waving this aside with a hoof. “I’ll get Kaduat and the boys on the saws. Perhaps we ought to set up camp for the evening…”

Pwyll scratched the trail with his hoof. “Better not. I’ve got a bad feeling about this place. Makes my antlers itch. We shouldn’t camp till we pass the river ford. It’s quieter on the other side.”

“There’s not a quiet place in this whole damned forest,” muttered Castor, as the wind set the aspen leaves whispering again. To Pwyll, he shook his head. “We’ll see. Depends on how fast we can get through the blockage.” With that, he strode off in Kaduat’s direction.

“Fast, I hope,” murmured Pwyll, rubbing his antlers.

“Don’t worry. Our people work quickly.” Pollux watched his brother depart, before turning back to Apricot. “And how’s your lesson going?”

“Still nothing,” admitted Apricot, not meeting his eyes. “I’m trying, really. But I can’t focus on a single stream of magic. It’s like a thousand instruments playing over each other.”

“Hmm. Keep at it.” Pollux ruffled his messy curls. “I think you’re close.” He passed by, following Castor toward the carts.

Apricot sat down beside the tangled pile of fallen aspens, sighing. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and craned his ears.

“What are you listening for?”

Opening his eyes, Apricot blinked, realizing that Pwyll was still standing beside him. The young deer’s head tilted curiously. Apricot shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “The song of the forest… whatever that is.”

“Oh.” Pwyll sat beside him. He looked around, scanning the treetops with a look of meditative serenity. “You can’t hear it?”

“No!” Apricot nearly groaned. “I mean, I can hear lots of things. But it’s just… noise.”

The breeze shifted abruptly, the leaves hissing around them. Pwyll took a slow, deep breath. “The magic here is very strong… I’m not surprised you find it overwhelming.”

“Could you… hum the song for me?” Apricot asked, as casually as he could manage.

Pwyll tapped his lips, raising an eyebrow. “Would Pollux approve?” he asked, neutrally.

With a guilty shrug, Apricot sighed. “No.” He kicked a pebble.

“I know something that might help, though.”

Apricot looked back up. “Yeah?” He blinked. “Uh, I mean—yes, please.”

“There’s a story every young buck learns when his first antlers grow in,” said Pwyll, shifting to get more comfortable. “Lady Ciaran told it to me when I was a child.”

Apricot looked at him dubiously. “Okay…” He scratched a fetlock, not sure how this would help.

“Long, long ago, even before the war between the gods and the dragons, the world was different. Mortal species had yet to discover magic. Weather moved without intervention, the sun and stars rotated in the heavens of their own accord, and the seasons came and went with a will of their own. It was a time when spirits and fae roamed the earth with mortals and immortals alike. It’s said that sometimes animals could speak, and even the trees had voices.” Pwyll’s eyes glinted as he glanced around at the whispering woods. “The old forests teemed with friendly breezies and fearsome dryads. At night, the dreaded dúlachán roamed beneath the trees.”

“Doo… doolahan?”

“A headless elk who never ceases his hunt for souls. If he catches you, he’ll cut off your own head and add it to the bag he carries at his flank.” Pwyll grinned. “Don’t worry. No one’s ever seen a real one… at least, no one who’s lived to tell about it.”

Apricot giggled, though his eyes flicked nervously around the trees for a moment. Strawberry would like that one. His brother had a penchant for collecting monster stories.

Pwyll cleared his throat and continued. “In a village by the forest, there lived a young elk named Dáire. Each morning, his parents sent him out to the forest’s edge to find mushrooms, but before he left their house, they always delivered a stern warning: don’t stray beneath the trees. It was a warning he always heeded.”

Apricot sensed a but coming. “Until…?”

“One day, as he foraged along the edge of the treeline, he found a perfect circle of mushrooms standing in the grass. ‘Strange,’ he thought, but they were the best mushrooms he had ever seen—plump and savory-looking, sure to make a fine addition to his family’s pantry. As he picked the first cap, a tiny voice cried out indignantly: ‘Hold, thief!’

“The buck turned to see a hare standing on its hind legs, staring at him with beady black eyes. At first, he looked around for the voice’s source, but then it spoke again, and he realized it was the hare itself: ‘How dare you rob my home? Release what you’ve stolen!’

“Dáire dropped the mushroom at once, astonished by the talking creature. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘for I did not know this place was your home.’

“‘That’s no excuse for thievery,’ said the hare, though its anger seemed to have calmed. ‘And one ill turn deserves another. But I can see that you are hungry, and so I forgive you.’ It hopped up to Dáire, tilting its head. ‘If you like, I can show you where other mushrooms grow. Larger and more delicious than mine. I often go there myself to pick a cap or two.’

“Still amazed by the talking rabbit, the buck spared a look at his foraging bag. It was almost empty, and the sun had already crossed its highest point. ‘Thank you for your generosity,’ he said, bowing to the hare. ‘Lead on.’

“‘As you wish,’ said the hare. ‘Now stay close!’ With that, the hare leaped off into the trees. The buck hesitated for only a moment—though he remembered his parents’ warning, he was so curious about the talking rabbit that he could not bear to turn back now. Following the hare, he went deeper and deeper into the forest. Through trees and bushes, over creeks and up hills, the two pushed on into the dense greenery.

“For hours, they went on. The sunlight dimmed, and it grew harder and harder to see the hare ahead of him. The buck stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and when he looked up his guide had vanished. ‘Hello?’ he called, feeling fear rise in his throat. ‘Friend hare, where have you gone?’

“‘I must leave you, now!’ came the mocking reply, coming from the trees all around him. ‘We have reached the center of the forest, and only thieves and villains belong here.’

“‘And what of liars?!’ cried Dáire, panicking. ‘You have betrayed me!’

“‘I did not lie—after you starve, or are eaten by wolves, your remains will blossom with delicious mushrooms, just as I promised. When I return to pluck them, their taste will be all the sweeter for knowing their source. Farewell, thief!’ And with that, the hare disappeared, leaving the poor buck to his fate.

“The young elk wandered for hours, desperately seeking an escape from the forest, but the sun had set and he was hopelessly lost in the dark. He wept bitterly, cursing his foolishness. After much fruitless walking in circles, he came to a clearing with a small pool of water beside a mighty maple tree. Gazing down at his reflection, he bemoaned his terrible misfortune. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘here I will die, and my family will know naught of my fate. A pox upon that hare and his evil ways!’

“Just then, he heard a loud, long howl in the woods beyond the little glade. Another joined it, and another, until the whole night was alive with the cry of the hunt. A healthy young elk could feed a pack of wolves for a week or more; he knew they would not let such a prize escape them. Quickly, he scrambled up the maple tree’s branches, praying that the beasts had not noticed him.

“He was not so lucky. Slowly, dark shapes crept out of the trees around the clearing. One, two, five, eight… the wolves prowled closer, tails swaying with anticipation as they circled the pool and the lonely maple tree. Dáire watched from his precarious perch in the tree, wiping cold sweat from his neck. ‘Come down,’ said a soft voice from within the pack. ‘Come down and join us for dinner. We must show hospitality to the forest’s guests.’ The whole pack rumbled with laughter.

“Having learned his lesson about trusting talking animals, Dáire stayed put in the tree. One of the wolves leaped up, trying to reach him, but he was too high. Another scrabbled at the tree trunk, but its claws could find no purchase on the sap-streaked bark. He was safe… for now. But the wolves were patient. They curled their tails around their legs and sat in a circle, staring up at him with deadly calm.

“Dáire did not sleep that night. When morning came, he hoped the wolves would leave, but not a one of them so much as twitched. As the sun rose into the sky, his growling stomach told him that he could not stay in the tree forever. He remained as still on his branch as he could manage, hoping against hope that the wolves would give up any minute.

“At the end of a nearby maple branch, a pair of goldfinches were building a nest. With nothing else to do, he passed the hours watching them. One frequently took flight, passing into the woods to gather twigs, soon returning to deposit them into the growing mass of sticks. The other stood watch, chirping at things Dáire could not see. When the sun set at last, he spent another night watching their feathers rise and fall as they rested.

“As the dangerous days and sleepless nights passed, he spied more creatures of the forest. A squirrel had used the tree to store its acorns through the winter, and was still nibbling on the last of the hoard. The pitter-patter of his tiny feet on the bark quickly grew familiar. The hours glided by, and the wolves and the elk waited. A tiny beetle crawled across the nearest leaf. Dáire watched it, listening to the buzz of its wings, wishing that he too could fly away.

“His growling stomach became his constant companion. Soon he resorted to scavenging nuts from the squirrel’s hoard, worrying away at acorns with his bare teeth. Dáire began to clack his tongue along with the rattling of a woodpecker. He hummed with the chirping of the nesting finches, buzzed with the beetles, and chattered back at the furious squirrel when it emerged from its hole to gather more food.

“Every midnight, the moon glittered high overhead, and all the wolves lifted their heads to howl. One night, Dáire, half-mad with exhaustion, felt a sudden urge to join their chorus. He raised his chin and let out a howl of his own, binding his own voice to their music. Together, they crooned in the night, a dozen voices wending through the trees.

“And for the first time in his life, Dáire felt truly free: the freedom of nature, of feral ferocity and primal purity, a mind free of concerns beyond the present. He howled and howled, letting go his self, slipping into the stream of life all around. There was the forest, and the thriving creatures within it, and nothing else mattered.

“Dáire leaped down from the tree, and the wolves’ howling ceased. They stood, staring intently at him. And Dáire looked into the pool once more, and saw no antlers, no elk, but the sharp fangs and yellow eyes of a proud wolf. He lifted his head once again and howled, howled with the passion of a hunter. The others threw their heads back and joined him, all raising their voices together.

“Blood pumping, they raced in circles around the clearing, howling and barking with each other. The pack broke suddenly, bursting off into the foliage with Dáire running in their midst. Under branch and over bramble they ran, following the scents of prey on the wind. When they caught a hare, the wolves sank their fangs into it, and Dáire tasted bloody victory. Time blurred together, as the moon waxed and waned and waxed again, and Dáire hunted with the pack.

“He did not know how much time had passed with the wolves, but one night he smelled the familiar old scent of elk. Chasing this new prey, he led the pack all the way to the edge of the trees, where the wolves came to a halt. ‘Stop!’ they warned him, ‘for the land beyond belongs to the hoofed ones! They will kill us if we leave these woods.’

“But Dáire could not stop. He bounded forward, leaving the trees, following the irresistible scent. His family howled behind him, but they dared not follow. Heedless of any danger, Dáire rushed onward, spying distant lights in the darkness. Candles, he remembered faintly, from another lifetime. As he ran, the smell of the ocean reached his senses, and he was thrust back in time.

“He approached the small seaside town where he had once lived. The buildings were all familiar, as were the elk walking the road and the fields. He smelled the sweat of a hard day’s labor, the baking of bread, and the fresh decay of fish. Most of all, he smelled home.

“Stumbling into the town square, he heard gasps of surprise and horror. Dáire felt weak and woozy, making his way unsteadily to the fountain at the center of the village. Looking into its waters, he saw a beleaguered elk staring back up at him, his fur matted and his chin covered with dried blood.

“Though the villagers were terrified, some recognized him. When his parents were brought to him, they embraced their son, who had been missing for months and thought dead. They bathed him, dressed him, fed him. Returned him to civilization, with all its trappings.

“For months, Dáire tried to return to his old life. Yet it seemed a pale and pallid thing now that he’d known the freedom of the forest. What joy could there be in tilling the earth, when he had felt the wind rushing against his face on the hunt? What cleanliness could be found in a still, brackish bath, when he had felt the cold purity of a running stream? What pleasure was there in the taste of bread, when he had sunk his fangs into the beating heart of his prey?

“One day, his parents entered his room only to find that Dáire had vanished. All he had left were words, carved into the walls of his room with sharp claws: ANY WHO SEEK TO LEARN THE SONG OF THE FOREST, FOLLOW ME AND LEAVE YOURSELF BEHIND.

Pwyll fell quiet, smiling faintly up at the swaying trees. “There are always some who cannot be sated by the comforts of civilization. Those who felt the call of the wild followed his message, vanishing into the forest. There, Dáire taught them how to change their skin. And eventually, some of them returned, bringing magic to the rest of us, and the song of the forest spread throughout the lands of the elk. So goes the tale of Dáire, the first spellsinger.”

Apricot blinked, puzzled. For a minute, he simply sat beside Pwyll, processing the story. A few birds flew overhead, chirping. “Um…” He scratched a fetlock. “Huh. It’s not a true story, is it? I mean… I’ve never heard of magic that can turn someone into a wolf. And rabbits can’t talk…”

“Can’t they?” Pwyll stood, brushing some dirt from his hooves. “In order to escape the forest, Dáire first had to become a part of it. And once he was part of it, it was part of him forever after. It started with the smallest creatures—the squirrel, the beetles, even the leaves. He had to sing with the birds before he could howl with the wolves. Think on it for a little while.” He departed, heading back toward the carts with the others.

Apricot still wasn’t sure what the point of the story had been, but he closed his eyes and opened himself once again to the magic. It was just as noisy as before, a chaotic jumble of chords. Leave yourself behind, he pondered. The wind shifted again, and he felt the magic vibrate. Rather than try to hear the whole song at once, he focused on the smallest strain of sound.

A branch above creaked, jolting the birds who sat upon it. They took off again, chirping as their wings beat the air. Apricot heard a fluttering melody burst to life as they went, fading as they alighted on another tree branch. As they touched down, a faint tremolo of energy shook the tree, sending a dozen insects scurrying across the white bark. Each sent a cascade of tiny hums through the surface of the tree, down into the roots, so imperceptible that if he hadn’t been listening to the insects already he’d never have heard it. That tremor carried into the ground, where it flowed back up into the flowers growing at the base of the tree. As the wind changed tack, the flowers bent, and a droplet of dew slid from the petals, splashing to the ground with a vibration that rang in his horn.

Apricot’s eyes snapped back open, and he found himself out of breath. Those currents of magic had been minute, unstructured, yet he had followed them almost without meaning to. After spending so long sharpening his attention on those tiny knots, it was not so different a task to pick up on even the tiniest shifts in the magic. Maybe, instead of trying to hear a larger song, it was time to listen to the little songs themselves. He inhaled deeply, and sank back into the music.

Now he realized what those flashes and fragments of melody he’d been hearing were. They were life itself—birds flitting amongst the trees, worms shifting in the dirt, a fox scampering out of the path of the caravan, a fish winding past pebbles in a stream, a wolf eyeing the intruders warily… All the creatures of the forest, growing and playing and hunting and dying and joining and parting and eating and soaring—

Breath rushed from his lungs like the wind through the leaves. The trees themselves breathed, one vast organism, all their roots joining below the ground in a tangled web of life. Their song was a cold one, quietly hiding at the back of consciousness, yet omnipresent beneath the rest of the melodies. There was anger in them, or disdain, so old its cause transcended mammalian comprehension. Yet even they were part of the grander forest, the Elderwood made manifest in the magic, all the countless insects and birds and creatures of root and burrow swarming in the springtime woods.

It was like diving into the sun. The heat and light of all that life washed over him, annihilating his sense of self. He could sense so much, hear it, feel it, clamoring in his ears with the intensity of a burning star. It was no tuning orchestra; it was a choir, millions strong. There was no way not to sing along, to add his own voice to the greater whole. He felt his horn warm, his magic enwreathed by the forest’s song.

For a moment, he could feel everything. The creatures, the trees, the wind, even the members of the expedition. Kaduat’s muscles ached, making her wince as she lifted a bottle to her lips and tasted the sweet burn of rum. Virgil’s talons clicked as he nervously fretted over the timber saws, running calculations in his head to see if they could make it through the barrier before nightfall. His grandfather Tybalt scowled, watching a pink mare, with a sour pit of self-loathing in his stomach. Zaeneas, glad for any chance to do the only thing she loved, measured out ingredients and crushed them in a pestle. She filled a drinking flask with some strange mixture before handing it to Inger, who simmered with a rage ready to burst to the surface—

Apricot snapped forward, gasping. The connection broke. All at once, the forest seemed to fall silent, his horn winking out. In his chest, he could feel his heart pounding like he’d just run all the way home from the bakery. Short, jerky breaths were all he could manage. “What… what was…” He sank to the ground, feeling the cool grass kiss his skin. His thoughts were racing as fast as his heartbeat.

The soft thumping of hooves on dirt drew his gaze back up. Pollux’s eyes shone from beneath his hood’s shadow. Apricot felt his mentor’s pride, almost physically, emanating toward him like the heat of a campfire. Confused and disoriented, he stood, swaying. “Pollux…?”

“You’ve done it,” said Pollux, his voice thrumming with excitement.

“I don’t… I don’t understand what just happened,” said Apricot, blinking dizzily.

“You were singing with the forest,” said Pollux, simply. “I could feel it. Your music touched my thoughts.”

“How… how could I feel…” Apricot swallowed. “That wasn’t normal magic.”

“Follow me.” Pollux beckoned with a hoof. Still stunned, Apricot stumbled after him. As they departed, he saw Kaduat and some of the other mercenaries coming toward the tree pile with giant two-handled saws. As Kaduat took a drink from her bottle, Apricot perfectly recalled the liquor’s taste, though a drop had never touched his lips. He shivered.

They wandered to the side of the glade, brushing through the thick foliage. Pollux kept a languid pace, moving plants aside with his glowing horn. “Every place has its own song, Apricot. The forests, the mountains, even cities. Canterlot has as much music as these woods, in its own way.”

“But… I’ve never felt anything like that before.” Apricot wiped his brow, feeling cold sweat.

Pollux took a deep breath of the forest air. “All life has magic in it. Earth ponies and pegasi may lack horns, but they have magic all the same. Every living creature has a song of its own. Usually, it fades into the background, part of the ambient magic. Yet here… the old forests of the elk are special places. There’s so much magic in the trees, the creatures, even the ground itself, that you can hear it all.”

“I could… I could hear their thoughts…” Apricot shook his head, steadying himself on a tree. “Or… their emotions, anyway. The mercenaries… my parents…”

“What you felt was an echo. You can’t pass through a place like this without becoming part of it,” said Pollux. “As long as we reside beneath these trees, we’re all joined in the Elderwood’s greater song. Every strong emotion sends an echo through it. Those echoes can carry for a long time, if you know how to listen. Memories, emotions, choices… they sink into the roots of the trees, reflecting back up to us.”

“It’s so much,” whispered Apricot, feeling sick and shaky. “I don’t know if I can handle that again.”

“To hear the song as you just did requires letting go of all boundaries. You can lose yourself if you do it long enough. The greatest elken bard-sages can spend their whole lives communing with the forests, feeling the echoes of a thousand lives all at once. The rarest can walk as the creatures of the forest do, losing all sense and even their forms. They pay a price for this connection, however. They cannot control their magic, for the song is singing them. But you can sing your own song. That’s what can bring you out, if ever you sink too deeply. Listen for your own voice, and follow it back to yourself.”

Apricot hummed, almost instinctively, the same melody he’d sung while breathing with the trees. Pollux stopped and turned, with an eager glint in his crimson eyes. “On the ship, you learned how to hear. Now, you’ve learned how to listen. And with those lessons mastered, I think you’re ready to sing.”

“Haven’t I already been spellsinging…?”

“To an extent. You’ve been singing defined spells, ones that rarely change. Now, you’re ready to learn more complex spellsongs. The kind that are unique every time you cast them.” Pollux tugged the hem of his robe with a wry smile. “It’s time to start learning battlemagic.”

Apricot blinked woozily, lifting his head. “Really?” An hour ago, that would have sent him hopping for joy. But now he was still reeling too much from the scorching experience of the forest-song to feel as excited as he should.

“Really.” Pollux brushed the front of his robes, freeing a few leaves. “Go and get a drink of water, take a few minutes to recenter yourself. Then meet me back here.” He glanced around, at the small clearing they stood in. It was more private than the glade, not open to the sky, and the noise of the saws barely carried past the wall of bushes. “This should do nicely.”

Apricot didn’t want to give Pollux a reason to delay the lesson, so he simply nodded before trotting away. He made sure to put a few trees between him and his teacher before sagging against a nearby aspen.

Resting for a moment, he watched a blue jay flit through the branches above. It had a twig clutched in its beak, carefully threading it into a rough circle of other twigs. The jay’s nest was starting to come together. Was Apricot merely imagining the bird’s feathery feeling of satisfaction? He shivered, before finding his hooves and heading for the cart holding the water barrels.

* * *

The unplanned break had given Cranberry more time than she wanted to think.

These dreams she’d been having weren’t just dreams. It wasn’t the first time she’d had the particular nightmare that had haunted her last night, and the night before. A memory she’d rather have forgotten. One stupid mistake, she thought bitterly. But she’d never had the dream so many nights in a row.

Glancing up again at the shivering aspens, her grimace hardened into a scowl. It was this forest, she was certain of it. That, and—she admitted unhappily—perhaps it was guilt over the way she and Inger had been fighting. His words kept echoing. I wish you’d just be mad at me…

Hoofsteps to her left signaled someone’s approach. Cranberry’s eyes flicked nervously over, relaxing only slightly when she realized it was Pwyll. Swallowing, she nodded to him. The young buck smiled back and returned the nod. He strolled past and sat across from her with his back to a cart, still scratching his velvety antlers. “Hello, Professor. I think we’ve still got some time to go.” Pwyll tilted his head aside toward the front of the caravan, where the cacophony of saws was still hard at work. “It’s quite a roadblock.”

“Mm,” she grunted.

“I was just talking with your son,” he continued lightly. “I told him the story of Dáire the skinchanger. You’ve heard that one, right?”

Cranberry couldn’t resist a smile. “Of course.” She rubbed her chin. “Actually, that was one of the first texts I translated under Professor Locke, back when I was a student.” Her grin turned wry. “On my first attempt, I mistranslated faelcu. Locke found it quite amusing when I told him Dáire was accosted by a pack of howling geese.”

Pwyll broke into a fit of laughter. “You know,” he managed, snickering, “I’ve met some pretty mean geese…”

Ruefully, Cranberry nodded. “It’s a wonder he still wanted to work with me after having me as a graduate student.”

Pwyll’s mirth faded as his eyes sparkled with keen interest. “What’s it like? Working on elkish history, I mean.”

“Mostly, it’s a lot of reading.” Cranberry idly traced an elkish rune in the grass, recalling hours spent in Locke’s dusty office, poring over texts. “Stone fragments are about the only writing that survives from the era, and anything written on stone tends not to be a minute historical record. But there are other things—the ancient pony tribes created troves of writing of their own on the Dominion, and some of that still exists for us to find. We do our best to piece together the past from stone chips and crumbling pages. Sometimes, it’s more art than science.”

“What do you mean?”

She finished tracing the runes stair ársa, meaning ancient history. “A book about elken spellcasting foci might mention in passing the name of a king, who also appears in a reference to the crushing of a rebellion led by a faction known as the faekin. That catches your eye, since you recall a missive from an elkish healer complaining about the faekin hampering the shipment of medical supplies to the newly constructed tower of Vensae Siral near the Antlerwood. And you piece that together when you find a Nordpony record describing how their ancestors were put to work ferrying stone and mortar north of the forest…”

Cranberry grinned. “And that’s how the tower we call Middengard was discovered a few centuries ago. More recently, the clues there led Pad—and now us—here. So in a way, this expedition’s been thousands of years in the making.”

Pwyll bit his lip with unmistakable yearning. “Middengard… It sounds incredible. Actually walking in the halls of our ancestors…” He shook his head. “It feels like Lady Ciaran and all the rest of my village want to pretend our ancient forbears never existed. Whenever I ask about our people’s past, they stonewall me.” He scratched his velvety antlers. “Most of what I know, I’ve learned from old stories the pearl traders tell. And a few books I managed to buy from merchants over the years.”

“Ah…” said Cranberry, suddenly nostalgic. She remembered scrounging through the Canterlot markets for any scrap of nordpony literature, haggling over small artifacts and soaking up every Sleipnordic legend that travelers could share. “Sounds familiar. You ever considered a career in archeology?”

With a bashful laugh, Pwyll rubbed his neck. “That would be amazing, but… I couldn’t possibly…”

“Why not?”

“I’m just a—a country bumpkin,” he said, eyes meeting the ground. “I’ll never match the likes of Professor Locke. Or you.”

Professor Sugar raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? You already know more than half the first-year students I teach. You’re supposed to be educated coming out, not going in. What matters most is that you’re willing to learn.”

“I—I mean…” he stammered, “there’s the cost, too… even after Count Vallen pays me for this job, I’ll only have enough to take a ship to Cariboulla. I was planning to find whatever work I could for a few years. I can’t afford—”

“I happen to know the University of Cariboulla has a very good scholarship program,” said Cranberry gently. “Locke and I have worked with them closely over the years. Professor Deirdre in the history department is always hungry for new students. As you’ve said, most elk prefer to ignore their past.” She smiled. “I’d be happy to write you a letter of recommendation when we get back to Port Faeloch. If you take that to the admissions department, they’ll help you with all the paperwork.”

Swallowing, he lifted his head and met her eyes. In them, she saw a flickering, wary hope. “You really think I could do it?”

Rather than answer directly,Cranberry looked off into the trees with a small smile. “I was afraid the university wouldn’t accept me, either—I was entirely self-taught before then. I knew some ancient languages, but as I learned in Sleipnord, you can’t really learn how to speak a language just from books. I thought everyone at the college would instantly know I was a fake.”

She scratched a foreleg. “Even when I got my degree, the feeling didn’t go away. Surely they’re just currying favor with the Dragonslayer’s wife, I thought. And still, thirty published papers later, that feeling comes back sometimes. You’ll never fully get over it.” With a nostalgic sigh, Cranberry gave him a wry grin. “When I was first starting out, I was scared. Inger was away fighting the griffons in the south, the city was still a mess from the fighting, and I was terrified that after all we’d gone through I couldn’t handle another huge change. I told my friend Rye that I was afraid I wouldn’t cut it. He told me that the only thing harder than pursuing what you want is not pursuing it.”

“Perhaps he’s right.” Pwyll bit his lip. “I’ll consider it, Professor. Thank you.”

A new voice spoke from behind Cranberry. “Rye Strudel… he’s that pegacorn acquaintance of yours, isn’t he?”

Hello, Tybalt. Cranberry’s eyes narrowed. Some ponies wouldn’t have caught the tiny pause in Tybalt’s voice before the word pegacorn, but her ears were finely tuned to the slight. She turned to see her father-in-law lurking at the edge of the path, loitering underneath a swaying aspen. “Yes,” she said, as cordially as she could manage. “Celestia’s Royal Ambassador.”

Perhaps noticing the clipped irritation in her voice, Pwyll froze. He cast a worried glance between her and the count. Tybalt, however, seemed unfazed. “He sounds like a good friend. The two of you must be close.”

Not bothering to stand, Cranberry turned to face him. “He is a good friend. And a good pony. And he’s proven that to all of Equestria more times than anyone should have to.”

“No doubt. My son keeps impressive company.”

She scoured his voice for sarcasm, but couldn’t detect any. Tybalt continued, idly fiddling with the hem of his summer robes. “Forgive my curiosity, but I’ve never met a pegacorn before. It’s said they can’t fly, or do magic, despite their mixed blood. Is that true?”

“Does it matter?” she asked. “Neither can I.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” Tybalt blinked, as enigmatic as ever. “A shame, though. To have your birthright kept from you. Perhaps his children will have those gifts?”

Cranberry remembered her last conversation with Tyria, and that look in the mare’s eye. Pegacorns can’t even have… That painful secret wasn’t hers to share. Especially not to this rude, arrogant—she ground her teeth. “I don’t know,” she said curtly. “Maybe.” Where the hell was this line of questioning coming from, anyway?

From the front of the caravan, Castor’s voice called out. “Pwyll! Get up here!”

Visibly relieved, Pwyll stood. “Uh, it sounds like I’m needed. If you’ll excuse me…” with a final look between Cranberry and Tybalt, he sucked in a tiny breath through his teeth and trotted off with raised eyebrows.

To Cranberry’s displeasure, Tybalt didn’t likewise take the opportunity to end the conversation. Instead, he watched Pwyll go, leaning against the tree and folding his right foreleg over his left. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to speak with you alone,” he said. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?”

“Well, you are my daughter-in-law.” Tybalt looked briefly hesitant. “I thought we should get to know each other a bit better.”

Cranberry was still wary, but she softened a little. “Oh.” Was that stuff about Rye just his attempt at breaking the ice? Gods, he was worse at small talk than Locke.

“I know we haven’t gotten off to the best of starts…” Tybalt cleared his throat awkwardly, leaving the tree to take Pwyll’s seat across from her. “But perhaps that’s my fault. You just remind me so much of—”

“Your wife,” Cranberry interjected sourly. Aha.

“Myself,” he corrected softly. She blinked in surprise. Tybalt held up his hooftip and eyed it pensively. “We have a lot in common; not all of it good. I can be stubborn. Impulsive. Unafraid to speak my mind. That last one, I fear, gets me into more trouble than the rest.”

The frank analysis was a little too on-the-mark for comfort. Her cheeks heated. “And you wonder why we got off to a bad start?”

Tybalt laughed ruefully, setting his hoof down. “Apologies. I came here to make peace, and instead I’m insulting you.” He shook his head. “Father always said I had the manners of a soldier and the muscles of a diplomat… Let me try again. I, ah, I was hoping to ask you something.” He hesitated for a moment, uncharacteristically awkward. “How did you and my son meet?”

“He hasn’t told you?” She blinked in surprise.

“He… gave me the short version. But I’m curious about your perspective. Indulge an old stallion’s curiosity about his son?”

Cranberry searched his face for any sign of falsehood. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but then, they never truly lit up around anyone except Inger. It seemed a genuine request. And yet…

This feels like a trap.

“The war had just started,” she said, carefully. “Word had just reached the princess about the griffon incursion in the south. Things weren’t going well with the council… so she turned to our ancient allies, the nordponies. She sent my friend—”

“Strudel,” he murmured.

“Rye, yes; she sent him to Sleipnord to gather the aid of the thanes. And she sent Inger along with him as a guard.” Cranberry couldn’t help but smile. “And as a minder, in retrospect. Rye was quite young to be taking on such a mission. We all were.” Blinking away the memory, she continued. “I followed them from Canterlot. Partly because I wanted to see the north—I always had—but mostly because I didn’t think Rye should be walking off alone with a stallion who…”

Tybalt raised his eyebrow at the pause. Cranberry flushed. “Inger used to be a little… stuffy.” He used to say ‘pegacorn’ the way you do, she thought. Then she paused. Inger had grown past that. Perhaps his father could, too. She ought to at least give him the chance. “A-anyways, on the way north, the three of us found ourselves in danger over and over again. And each time, Inger defended us. Kept us safe. I got to see that there was more to him than soldierly discipline. He was brave, and gentle, and after some of that icy formality melted, kind, as well.”

Cranberry looked wistfully past Tybalt, recalling the little gestures Inger had made as their journey wore on and they’d gotten to know each other. Offering her some of his precious rations after a trying day of climbing, listening patiently with genuine interest as she prattled on about nordpony history, watching over her while she recovered from her brush with the freezing Sleipnordic elements…

And in her darkest moment, when she let curiosity overpower sense and nearly doomed their mission and their homeland with an act of petty greed, he’d forgiven her in a way that even Rye couldn’t. When she thought she’d driven everyone away, Inger was still there for her. As he always was.

She recalled the comforting weight of his hoof on her shoulder at Papa’s funeral, and felt her eyes mist. Clearing her throat, she wondered how she could put that kind of gratitude into words for Tybalt. “Traveling the world with someone brings you closer. You have to rely on each other. Talking at night under the stars, you tell each other things about yourselves that you hide from the rest of the world. When your life is in someone’s hooves every day, you learn to trust them. And by the time we reached the roof of the world together, we trusted each other. More deeply than I’d ever felt before.”

Tybalt fiddled with his locket. “I hope you realize what a precious thing that is…” His golden eyes held a deep melancholy.

“I do,” said Cranberry quietly.

“If you ever break that trust, you’ll never get it back.” He wasn’t looking at her. “No matter how much either of you want to.”

“I would never do that,” she said, frowning.

“No, of course not. Just know this—I’ve felt what it’s like to hide love for another in your heart. I know what a hollow marriage feels like. How everything you do afterward leaves echoes that remind you of that betrayal. I’ve seen that guilt in the mirror each morning, for ten years, caught between wishing you’d never done it, and wishing you had the strength to simply end this sham.”

Cranberry’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

Tybalt met her gaze, all regret gone, replaced by a steely glint. “And I know how it ends, Cranberry. You can’t fool the ones you’ve betrayed forever. In fact, you never really fool them in the first place. All they have to do is stop fooling themselves. And if that day comes for my son, I only hope he’s strong enough to survive it.”

“Listen to me. Very carefully.” Cranberry’s voice was dangerously low. “I’m not like you,Tybalt. I’ve never betrayed Inger. I didn’t abandon him for a decade. Pin your guilt on someone else.” She leaned forward, fire in her eyes. “I love my husband, and nothing has threatened that in all the years we’ve been together. Not until you showed up. From the moment you barged into our lives, you’ve been dripping poison into his ear. If you think you can destroy us, ruin our marriage like you ruined your own, then I’ll warn you this once: Try to break what we’ve built and we’ll bury you. You’ll lose him forever.”

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t his sudden, cheerless smile. “Good. Just so we understand each other.”

The two locked eyes silently for a few moments, before Tybalt exhaled and stood. He dusted his robes once, before brushing past her to head for the back of the caravan.

Cranberry found that she was breathing hard. That miserable, old, vile fool, how dare he even suggest—

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “He’s just projecting,” she muttered. “Just…”

Glass clinked behind her, like an empty wine bottle on a moonlit night. Cranberry’s head whipped around to see Kaduat digging in the back of the nearest cart before withdrawing her latest bottle of rum. The camel took a long drink without noticing her.

Sweat cooled on the back of Cranberry’s neck. I’ve never betrayed Inger. Not like Tybalt. Not that badly.

She sat there for another few moments, trying to think about something, anything else. The leaves above swished in the wind, hissing all around. Cranberry bent suddenly to place her head in her hooves, wishing for silence, a mere moment to catch her thoughts. The white-barked trees offered no solace.

Maybe writing it down would help. Pull the old sin from her mind and place it onto the page, like an exorcism. Perhaps then she could finally get a night of peace. She stood, shakily, and walked toward the cart with her journal.

Damn those golden eyes.

* * *

By the time Apricot finished drinking from the barrel tap, he’d regained his bearings. The forest song was still there, still endlessly mutating and changing around him, but so long as he did not follow it, the magic was manageable instead of overwhelming. Part of him was terrified that it would be like this forever, now, but Pollux and Pwyll had both said that the forest was unusual. Once they were out of the woods, things would be quieter again.

He hoped.

“You all right, Junior?”

Apricot turned to find his father standing there, sipping from a small flask. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing his temples with a hoof.

Inger frowned. “You sure? You look shaky.” He took another drink.

How could he even begin to put it into words for someone who didn’t hear the song? “It’s just… unicorn stuff,” he said, setting his hoof down.

“Oh. Unicorn stuff.” His father bit his lip for a moment. “Hey, how about I sit in on your next lesson?”

“Uh… yeah!” Apricot blinked in surprise. “You want to see what Pollux is teaching me?”

Inger recapped the flask and let it hang from a cord around his neck. “I want to know more about unicorn stuff,” he said, smiling faintly.

Apricot returned the smile, remembering their last walk to the bakery, and showing off his spells. “I—sure! Pollux is waiting for me right now, actually. You want to come along?”

Casting a brief glance toward the front of the caravan, where the mercenaries were still sawing away at the fallen trees, Inger nodded. “Looks like we’ve got time. Let’s go.”

With a new vigor in his gait, Apricot trotted into the trees as his father followed. Now that he’d had time to center himself, the excitement was starting to rise again. He was going to learn battlemagic, just like he’d hoped when he told Strawberry why he wanted to follow the red-robed mage. Even in his wildest flights of fancy, he sometimes wondered if this day would ever really come. A small bounce crept into his hoofsteps.

They found Pollux sitting in the middle of the little clearing, idly tossing a smooth stone up and catching it with his hoof. “Lord Vallen,” said Pollux, nodding to the unexpected new arrival. “Is something amiss?”

“No,” said Inger, “I’m just curious to see what Apricot’s learned.”

“I see.” Pollux’s forehead creased momentarily. “I don’t object, but… are you sure you wouldn’t rather rest while we’re stopped?”

Now that he mentioned it, something about Apricot’s dad seemed off—he looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, though his green irises burned bright and alert. His feathers were ruffled, far from their usual pristine preened state. And there was that strange echo of anger Apricot had felt from him earlier.

But none of that mattered right now. How often did he get the chance to share magic with his father? For once, Strawberry wasn’t around to get all of their dad’s attention…

“I’m fine,” Inger assured Pollux. “So, what’s today’s lesson?”

Apricot teetered on his hooftips. “Fireballs? Lightning?”

“Warding spells,” said Pollux, giving the pebble another toss.

“Aww.” Apricot settled back onto his hooves.

“Trust me,” said Pollux dryly, “you need to learn shield magic before fireballs. You wouldn’t want to set yourself aflame.”

Sheepishly, Apricot shared a glance with his father. Inger grinned but remained mercifully silent.

Pollux gave the stone a final toss, catching it with a swipe of his foreleg. “There are two elements of any warding spellsong: matter and energy. Do you know the difference?”

“Uh, I think so.” Apricot flicked an ear, racking his memory. “Energy is what you need to move, or change something. Matter’s just… stuff.” He gestured aimlessly at the forest around them.

“Not bad,” Pollux nodded approvingly. “You’ve read some natural philosophy.”

Inger ruffled Apricot’s mane proudly. “He’s a bookworm, just like his mother.” Apricot felt a warm tingle in his chest.

“Here,” said Pollux. “Catch.” He lobbed the stone toward Apricot. It arced gently through the air and landed in the colt’s upturned hooves. Pollux brushed the front of his robes with a hoof. “Energy and matter both affect the quality of the wardsong. The more mass—the more matter—the ward forestalls, the louder your volume must be. Against more purely energetic dangers, like fire or a direct magical attack, the tempo of your spell will determine the effectiveness. Matter and energy are almost always linked; most often, you’ll need both at once.”

“That’s a lot to keep track of,” said Apricot, intimidated.

“It sounds more complicated than it feels,” Pollux reassured. “Using four legs in harmony to walk is a balancing act, too, but after you learn how you barely have to think about it.” Apricot nodded, not sure he was convinced. “Now, listen to my melody.”

Hesitantly, Apricot plunged into the music. The sounds of the forest returned, thrumming in his mind. A thousand different songs tugged at his attention: the croaking of a tiny frog, the chirping of a cricket, the frantic paddling of a duck’s feet beneath the serene surface of a pond. Apricot ignored them all after a concentrated effort, focusing forward on the golden sound of Pollux’s magic. It was like hearing a violin solo pierce through a noisy concert hall. Apricot trilled a magical touch toward it.

“Hello,” said Pollux quietly, smiling at the mental brush.

Apricot grinned, sparing a glance toward his father. Inger glanced between the unicorns with their lit horns in clear befuddlement, but gave Apricot an encouraging nod.

Pollux closed his eyes. “Do you recognize the song?”

Listening closely, Apricot followed his teacher’s notes as they rose and fell. “Yes… it’s the one you sang every evening on the ship.”

“That’s right. But there’s something else, too. Do you hear it?”

Apricot closed his own eyes, following along. Unconsciously, he lifted his hoof, waving it to the music’s time. Buried in the music he caught a familiar series of four notes, woven into the song so smoothly that they seemed a natural part of it. Yet he recognized them. “It’s… it’s the levitation spellsong!” The combined music was beautiful, carried by the warding melody and the forest’s own backing performance to create a breathtaking three-part harmony. He was beginning to understand why Pollux always insisted that simplicity meant strength—he couldn’t imagine a more complex spell melding so easily with the wardsong.

“Very good. Now, throw that rock at me, and listen close.”

Apricot’s eyes fluttered back open. Hefting the rock with magic, he swallowed. With a little hesitation, he tossed it at Pollux.

Inches from the unicorn’s face, the rock struck something. For an instant, a spherical wall of crimson flashed to life, brightest beneath the stone. The song surged, growing loud and sharp for a measure before returning to its previous volume. The stone spun away to land on the grass with a faint thump.

Pollux’s horn glimmered, and the stone returned to his hoof. He tossed it up again, catching it easily. “The more massive the object or objects you want to deflect, the louder you need to sing.”

“Huh. Seems… easy enough.” Apricot tried the melody himself, feeling an electric tingle across his skin. “What about warding against energy?”

“We’ll get there once you’ve got matter wards down.” Without warning, he flicked his hoof and sent the stone sailing lazily toward Apricot.

The colt flung up the wardsong, almost on instinct. Rose light flickered around him, but the song jerked in his head, suddenly discordant. Flying right through his glowing barrier, the stone popped him on the forehead. “Ow!”

Chuckling, Pollux yanked the rock back to himself. “It does take practice.”

Behind them, a bush rustled violently as a bronze-feathered pegasus shoved his way through the foliage into the little clearing serving as their practice area. “Oi, Pollux!”

Blinking at his brother’s appearance, Pollux raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong, Castor?”

“Those fallen trees are sap-filled little devils. Our saws are getting gummed up so fast that we’re barely making progress.” Castor blew out a breath, shaking his head. “I figured a little magic might clean them off faster than Virgil and me scraping at it with rags. I’ve already roped Pwyll in to help, but his antlers haven’t fully come in yet.”

“It won’t be the worst mess of yours I’ve cleaned up,” said Pollux impishly. “You remember that time in Trottingham when you got your hoof stuck in a jar of honey—”

Castor rolled his eyes, masking an embarrassed cough with a hoof. “If the saws were as dull as your wit, we’d be here all week.”

Snorting, Pollux turned back to Inger and Apricot. “I guess we’ll save the rest for later. Think you have enough to practice on your own?”

“I’ll help,” volunteered Inger, scooping up the rock. He winked at Apricot. “Right, Junior?”

Any dismay he felt at Pollux’s departure instantly vanished. “Right!”

Pollux nodded to them both. “Then good luck.” Cracking his neck, he sighed. “All right, let’s hope this goes faster than last time…” Together with Castor, he departed through the trees.

Alone with his father, Apricot bounced once on his hooves. “Did you see my shield?”

“I did,” said Inger, grinning despite his tired eyes. “And I saw that you need a lot more practice. Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Okay.” Apricot summoned up the ward again, stronger this time. He waited a few moments, settling into the rhythm. The forest sang with him, beautiful and alive. He felt a measured tranquility descend as he followed the music, leading the song through his horn. “Ready.”

Inger cast the stone. It arced gently toward him, heading straight for his snout, before a rosy sphere flickered into being in front of it. With a crack, the rock collided. This time, Apricot was ready for the intrusion, and his spellsong surged to meet it. The stone bounced back and landed between them. Apricot blinked before spotting the rock lying at his hooves.

The meditative peace vanished in an instant. Apricot whirled in excitement. “I did it!” He stared down at the little stone, triumphant.

“You did it once,” said his father, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s see if you can do it twenty times in a row.”

“Twenty!?”

With a laugh, Inger picked the stone up again. “Now you sound like Wheatie. Come on, less whining, more magic.”

Wheatie—that was one of his dad’s Firewings. Apricot felt light as a feather as he realized that this was training, real training, just like his dad had given Strawberry and all the Firewings up at the castle.

Inger tossed the rock again, and Apricot deflected it with ease. He’d picked up a lot of spells over the last week, and this one was actually one of the simplest to sing. Cheered, he lifted the stone with magic and spun it around him in intricate loops.

“You’ve gotten so much better,” said his dad, watching with a smile. “I remember a month ago, you were having trouble with doorknobs.”

Apricot tossed the rock back to him. “It’s like… learning a different language, I guess. But sometimes it feels like I’ve always been able to speak it, and Pollux is just teaching me new words.”

Inger rubbed his chin. “What’s the word for duck?”

“Wh—ah!” Apricot jerked back as the stone flew at him, barely raising his shield in time.

The stone ricocheted away as Inger chuckled. “Good work. Keep your guard up.”

“Only eighteen to go,” said Apricot, cheekily jerking his chin up. The two grinned at each other.

After another two successful blocks, one got through and rapped him on the snout. Inger made him start the twenty over again, but Apricot didn’t even mind. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had this much fun together. Was this what Strawberry felt, when he and Dad went flying over the city?

Six stone throws later, he felt confident enough to ask his father to throw harder. Inger did so, hesitantly at first, but when Apricot deflected the next two with ease he began putting real effort into his volleys. Pride rose in Apricot’s chest as the stone bounced away from him again and again.

Inger pulled his hoof back and hurled the rock again. It slammed into the barrier like it had been whipped from a sling, and the notes rang inside Apricot’s head like gongs. The shield held, but he exhaled hard. “That one was tough.”

“Want me to ease up?”

“No! Keep going, as hard as you can. You’re always telling Strawberry he has to push himself, right?” Apricot licked his lips, narrowing his eyes in determination.

Inger hesitated, holding the stone. “Okay.” He smiled. “I’ll trust you to know your limits. Just tell me if you need me to stop, all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, go already!”

His father nodded once and whipped the stone forward. It crashed into the barrier hard, before spiraling away. Apricot winced at the impact, shaking his head. A tiny ache flared in his forehead.

Inger darted after the stone, scooping it up and flinging it again in one motion. It slammed against the shield, so fiercely that Apricot twisted his entire body to face it and knock it aside. Before he could take a breath, the stone came flying at him again, ringing off the magical barrier with a crack.

The rose sphere wasn’t even fading between strikes anymore. The song thrummed loudly in his mind, punctuated by his father’s heavy breathing as he raced back and forth to hurl the stone with all his strength. Apricot cringed at each collision, no longer able to focus on emotions, his father, or anything else besides maintaining the barrier. Squeezing his eyes shut, he was filled with the song, planting his hooves and concentrating on the melody with all his might.

There was a furious gasp of air, and Apricot’s eyes flashed open. For an instant, he saw his father mid-swing, a look of burning, bitter anger on his face.

The stone slammed into the shield, and the rose light burned white. Apricot’s horn flashed as it overloaded, and the sphere shattered into a million prismatic shards. The rock flew through and hit him, right on the bridge of his nose.

Yelping, he dropped to his haunches, clutching his face with both hooves. His horn ached sharply, even more than his nose. With a whimper, he curled up for a moment, his head throbbing from the overload. Deep breaths, he thought, remembering the trick Pollux had taught him. Biting his lip helped a little, but the cut on his nose was already beginning to burn enough to make his eyes water.

“Apricot!” His dad was there in an instant, all traces of that anger he’d seen completely wiped away by terror. “Sisters, Junior, are you all ri—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Nodding, he sat up, wincing as he lifted his hooves from his nose. There was a tiny smear of red on them. Gingerly, he pressed the cut, cringing. Great. This is going to hurt tomorrow. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked Dad to throw it quite so hard. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” said Inger, looking ready to burst into tears. Apricot felt his stomach shift queasily. He’d never seen his dad cry before, not even after Mr. Strudel had died. Inger sat beside him, cautiously pressing his son’s hoof aside. “Let me see it.”

Apricot rolled his eyes before leaning his head out patiently. The cut smarted, sure, but he’d gotten worse scrapes before from horsing around with Strawberry. It had already stopped bleeding; the worst he had to look forward to was a bruise. Why was his dad getting so worked up?

Inger inspected the injury with frantic eyes, tenderly brushing his son’s mane. “I’m so sorry, Apricot, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s fine, Dad,” repeated Apricot, awkwardly patting his hoof. “It was an accident.”

“Sisters, I just got so caught up in venting, I—” Inger took a shaky breath. “This shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Apricot’s brow knit with confusion. “I know. It’s okay, really.”

To his relief, his dad didn’t actually start weeping, but as he settled back he looked dismayingly frayed. There was dirt in his mane from diving after the rock, and his feathers were even more unkempt than before. The worst were his eyes, full of a deep, miserable shame.

Inger pulled him suddenly into a crushing hug, drawing a little oof. He bent his head over Apricot’s, squeezing him. “I love you. You know that, right?”

Apricot had never been comfortable with mushy stuff like this, but he was starting to feel a sick suspicion. The things he’d heard on the boat came back to him, like leaden weights in his stomach. “Dad… is this about Mom?”

The silence was a straighter answer than any words could have been. Inger released him, sitting back and staring past him into the trees with sunken eyes.

Unsure of what to say, Apricot pressed a hoof back to his nose. “Are you two mad at each other?”

Inger’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t have to worry about your parents.”

That doesn’t mean I don’t need to, Apricot thought queasily. A horrible chill ran down his spine as he remembered the exchange after they’d found him in the cargo hold. “Is it because of me?” he asked, his voice nearly a whisper. “Because I came along? Because she wanted me to go back?”

“No,” said his father hoarsely, jerking as though startled. “Sisters, no, Apricot. None of this is your fault. Your mother is upset about a lot of things. And… I…” He pawed the ground anxiously. “It’ll be okay. I promise. All right?”

For all his newfound skills, Apricot suddenly felt powerless. What good was magic at fixing something like this? He wanted to help his parents, make them happy again, but how could he do that if he didn’t even understand what was wrong? It was impossible to shake the terrible feeling that this was his fault somehow, but his father’s pleading look begged him to believe his assurances.

So, he tried. Apricot nodded, doing his best to keep the cold fear in his chest from showing. “Okay.”

Inger sagged in relief. “Good. I’m… that’s good.” He weakly nudged the stone. “Do you want to keep practicing?”

It was suddenly hard to concentrate on the wardsong. The clamoring forest was loud in his thoughts. Faint vestiges of emotion swirled in the air. Shame and buried anger rolled off his father like a waterfall. Swallowing, Apricot shook his head. “Um… let’s take a break. I should catch up on my readings. I’m supposed to finish chapter ten of Kemholtz today.”

His father nodded. “Right. Good. I, uh… I’ll go talk to Zaeneas again. She might have something to put on that scrape.” He stood abruptly, a loose feather fluttering free, and swiftly cantered away toward the carts.

Apricot watched him go, nibbling a hoof.