Thicker Than Water

17 September, 328 AC

At times like this—meaning both the start of a grand expedition, and the interminable sea voyage between distant lands—I find myself looking back and taking stock of the forces that brought me to this point. With all the time I spend reading the words of those long past, it seems only fitting to leave some of my own for the future. And on a journey over a decade in the making, there is much to tell.

I first met Tybalt Vallen twelve years ago. It was shortly after my work in Antellucía on the broken tower near Felucae, a twin to Equestria’s own Middengard. I was returning north from the land of the antelopes, and stopped in Silverglen on the way. It was autumn, and I wanted to sample some of the Rose Valley’s famous wine and enjoy the sun-soaked southern vineyards for a few days before heading back to the chilly capital.

News of my presence reached the local lord, and he took an interest in the academic passing through his city. Whether he was simply curious or already sought collaboration, I never thought to ask. At the inn where I was staying, I received a written invitation to visit the Vallen manor to discuss my work over a bottle of 277 Marelot. Never one to refuse free wine, especially so refined a vintage, I agreed. And I admit, I was curious to meet the mysterious Rose Lord, about whom I had heard many rumors in even my short time in the valley.

The manor grounds—known to the locals as Rosegarden—sat at the outskirts of town, the residence itself resting on a hill overlooking the count’s vineyards. The count’s wife, Lady Eurydice, greeted me personally at the entrance, and bade me wait in the study for her husband. Inside, I found a venerable house paneled in rich wood and aged stone. Beautiful tapestries hung from the walls, their gorgeous colors faded with time’s passage. The Vallens’ private library was extensive, filled with books on subjects ranging from winemaking to history to politics; even including (to my amused delight) a few of my own works. Paintings of Canterlot and the valley presided over the study, dignified and exquisite despite their age. Their paint seemed somehow on the verge of cracking, yet always remained whole, as if held together by a sense of duty to the house and family that owned the artwork. It is a place that, I believe, reflects the stallion who owns it: opulent, yet unpretentious; dedicated to duty, yet permeated by the weariness of age; proud and confident, yet with a tantalizing vulnerability beneath the surface.

When Tybalt himself arrived, he gave me a gregarious shake of his hoof and a clap on the back. He’d recently discovered my work, he explained, with evident excitement, and upon hearing of my presence had decided to seize the moment. It was not unusual for a noble to become interested in the academic disciplines, and indeed the university encourages us to foster relationships with those who might become reliable patrons of the arts and sciences. It rapidly became clear that Tybalt would need little convincing on that front. His questions about my recent papers were keen, demonstrating that those books were not simply for show.

The best way I can describe Tybalt is this: he has an intensity about him, a way of narrowing the whole world between you and he. His eyes are like golden quicksand, pulling you in and trapping you before you even realize you’ve been ensnared. A most unnerving stallion; though rarely do you notice in the moment, so focused and passionate does he become on the subject of your mutual transfixion.

Over a bottle of the finest wine I’ve ever tasted, we discussed many things throughout that evening, and in the evenings to come—for I soon extended my stay in the valley, for professional interest as much as pleasure. Tybalt’s curiosity about the Elken Dominion was, like my own, insatiable. He probed me for details on everything from their governing to their gardening, whittling the hours away in rapacious learning. His favorite subject was their technology, the magical devices that powered everything from their famous gravity-defying architecture to the turning of the celestial spheres.

Thus, naturally, the topic of our most fervent discussion was my recent discovery in the Antellucían tower. In an underground chamber, I and a team led by Professor Duiker from the Gazellan Institute found an elken artifact unlike anything on record. It was made of stone, with the appearance of a single monolithic cylinder bent in three places that formed an inverted equilateral triangle. The bottom tip rested in a divot within a large stone pedestal, towering over the small room. Alas, the years had taken their toll, and some ancient tremor of the earth had ravaged the artifact along with the rest of the tower. The triangular ring was shattered, the entire top-right angle broken and scattered across the ivy-choked floorstones.

But, as they say, when the gods close a door, they open a window. The damage revealed the artifact’s secret: the stone triangle was a layer wrapped around a central core of black glass, an obsidian so marvelous that I had never seen its like. Perhaps my friends in the geological studies department would find it risible to call such a substance “pure”, given that mineral impurities are what give volcanic glass its distinctive color (Georg Geodehunter, 71 AS); yet I can think of no other word to describe it. The glass was dark and limpid, so clear that one could read text through the sample shards we gathered, as if they were shaded spectacles. Many fragments were in my bags, returning with me to the university. Tybalt was equally fascinated by their umbral clarity when I shared them with him.

The purpose of the arch still eluded me at the time. I was growing eager to return home, to bring my findings to the department and put more eyes and minds to work on the fragments. At last, with no small regret, the centripetal pull of my duties back in Canterlot overpowered my reticence, and I bid the count a fond farewell. He sent another bottle with me, along with a promise to stay in correspondence so that I might keep him updated about any news regarding the mysterious arch.

Upon returning, I published two papers; co-authoring one with Dr. Duiker and her team regarding the state of the tower and the evidence of former occupancy we’d found (Duiker et al., 319 AC), and a second solo effort discussing the obsidian arch and the fragments I now possessed (Locke, 318 AC). I became convinced that, given the evident similarities between the tower in the south and its Equestrian twin, there must be another arch. Such a thing had never been reported in the centuries of Middengard’s occupation by our military, however, which cast doubt upon my theory. Despite numerous efforts over many years, I was unable to secure dispensation to lead an expedition to Middengard to search for signs of a second artifact. Fruitlessly, I appealed to the crown for access to the military garrison there, but progress was slow and not always forward.

And then, the War of Whitetail seemed to put my hopes permanently to rest. After the general chaos and devastation brought by the griffon invasion, academic concerns were wholly subsumed by military ones. Middengard became even more firmly off-limits to civilians, given its renewed importance as the wayrest between Equestria and our now-vital allies in Sleipnord. Doing my best to prevent disappointment from transmuting into despair, I turned my attentions and efforts elsewhere. The tapestry of elken history had other threads to pull.

It was around this time, shortly after the war’s end, that I met another pony who would change the course of my life, along with our understanding of pre-Equestrian history. Cranberry Sugar, the wife of the Dragonslayer himself, had returned from her venture in the far north with a wealth of knowledge and the discovery of the city of Tyorj. The bilingual copy of the Platinum Codes she brought back has revolutionized our ability to translate ancient documents that were once thought forever impenetrable. She joined the university’s ranks, and my attention was, of course, instantly captured by the potential of her discoveries.

Though at first my interest was purely professional, in my encounters with her I was pleased to find Cranberry a sharp, inquisitive pony; as dogged in her pursuit of the truth as any student I had ever had. I quickly took her under my wing (to borrow the pegasus expression), and both of us became deeply enmeshed in the studies of the writings coming south from Tyorj. The work there fills several other journals, but in my eyes the most valuable find was Cranberry herself. She grew rapidly from student to colleague, as we pushed each other to greater and greater heights of historical inquisition.

An irony. The spring and summer of my life have been filled with many friends, yet the greatest of them all appeared in its autumn. Would that I had another twenty years to spend peeling back the borders of time with her. Though I had good reason, it was difficult to leave her behind.

Our work in Tyorj turned up direct mentions of a hidden chamber in Middengard, just as I had predicted years ago. All the old, buried excitement came welling back up. Digging out my old papers, I eagerly shared them with Cranberry, whose enthusiasm soon matched my own. Now backed by hard evidence (and perhaps thanks in part to her husband’s influence), we finally broke through the military’s wall of resistance around Middengard, and received permission to search for the chamber. All that remained was securing funding.

And I knew exactly where to turn. As the years had passed, my correspondence with Tybalt Vallen had grown sparser, but we still remained in contact. In the days since the war, where both of his children perished in the fighting, his letters had taken on a more solemn tenor. It seemed at times as though my friend was withering away, scarcely able to summon up the intense lust for knowledge that we’d once shared. Yet when my news reached him about the new revelations regarding the tower, the old fire came rushing back.

With an excitement so fierce that it was visible in his pen strokes, he wrote back that I would have whatever funding I required, that this might be the most important project either of us had ever been a part of. He asked only two things: first, that I keep him regularly informed of our findings—he could not bear the wait for a published paper—and second, that I conceal the source of the money.

Though an unusual condition, I understood his concerns. Tybalt’s name had possessed a mixed reputation even before the war; when he threw in his lot with Celerity Belle and her abortive rebellion against the crown, it became positively poisonous in certain circles. The blanket postwar amnesty had shielded him from legal consequences, but not the social ones. Any who tied their careers to him risked their own reputations. The results of an expedition associated with him might face resistance when it came time to publish. I was already established, and could survive such a shadow over my waning professional years, but Cranberry deserved a clean slate. For her sake, I agreed to his request.

But still, I wonder if I should have told her then who we were getting in bed with.

Cranberry’s eyes rose from the page, staring at the gentle whorls of drifting light inside the tóirse. “So that’s why,” she whispered to it, as though her words would carry through the glass to her friend’s ears.

Inger snorted in his sleep, kicking fitfully. One of his ears flicked as he mumbled “Enj… whilast…” before turning over. Cranberry blinked, and then turned to Locke’s next entry.

20 September, 328 AC

The excitement of the past few days has ended, thankfully—the storm ultimately passed over us without damaging the ship. As for the crew… no permanent harm, but we were tossed about like dice in a cup for so long that I was starting to fear I’d never regain my balance. Despite Hobb and his fellow antelopes doing their best to ward the ship against leaks, we still had a few moments of frantic bilging. But things have calmed, the sun is shining, and it’s no longer so impossible to keep down solid food. As an added bonus, the ship is now steady enough to write once more.

Allow me to resume my account of the events that brought us here. In Middengard, together with Cranberry (by this time a distinguished researcher in her own right), our hunt for the hidden chamber began. Many of the garrison, understandably bored in such a remote outpost, were delighted by the novelty of an academic expedition, and helped us in our search. It took weeks to bear fruit, but eventually it was my colleague who spied the patch of incongruous stonework on the floor of the cellar. Where the tiles should have met the wall, they instead seemed to continue on right under a short section. Our helpers from the garrison were quite enthusiastic about helping us disassemble the stonework—perhaps too much so, as we had to talk them out of simply sledgehammering through it.

Behind the false wall was an archway that led to a descending stair. Lighting my horn, I led the way into the depths that no soul had tread since time immemorial. Even knowing what we expected to find down there, the tension was palpable. The chamber was only about ten meters down, but it felt like a descent into the underworld. I’ve never tasted air so damp and stale, nor felt such an omnipresent aura of ancient gloom.

The light revealed a chamber identical to the one I’d studied with Dr. Duiker a decade prior. Circular walls of weeping stone surrounded a central pedestal that bore a great triangular ring of stone. My heart pounded in my breast as I lay eyes on another arch, this one wholly intact.

Cranberry had never seen the other in person, merely the fragments in the university’s vault—and the shard I kept on my desk as a decoration. I was gratified and amused when her jaw quite literally dropped at the sight of such a magnificent elken artifact. The soldiers were likewise awed, to the point that several of the more superstitious among their ranks fled upstairs and refused to return below for the duration of our stay.

Though many books were stored in the chamber, water had compromised the stonework aeons ago, and moisture had ravaged their pages. Cranberry began cataloging and attempting to decipher anything that remained, whilst I focused my attentions on the stone arch itself and an analysis of the magic within. It became apparent over the following days that arch was merely the centerpiece, the fulcrum of some larger mechanism. I came to believe that the entire tower was a device of some kind, made to channel magic through—or from?—the triangle, though to what purpose I could only guess.

The days turned to weeks. While Cranberry made steady progress on translating text fragments, I found myself stymied by the inscrutable stone. I could not map the interior structure of the glass without irreparably damaging the exterior, and the arch remained stubbornly insensate to all my magical probing. Any magical energy I sent into it simply slipped beneath the stone surface to sink into the obsidian core, returning nothing for me to study. My days grew longer and longer as I threw every test I had at the artifact. Locked in that humid underground vault for hours on end, surrounded by rotting books and seeping stone, my initial triumph was inexorably corroding into dismay. As the dark circles under my eyes deepened and time lost meaning under the torchlight flickering off the damp walls, I became certain that this was my last chance.

I do not have many working years left. While my career has been successful, I have never unveiled the kind of revelation that puts one’s name into the history books. Working with Cranberry—who already secured her place in legend before reaching the age of ten—I found myself newly aware of my own mortality, and the abyss of obscurity looming at the end of my life.

How many middling researchers have preceded me, forgotten to time? The authors of ten thousand books, the diligent historians whose names were lost before I was born… this fate terrifies me. Is it merely pride? In part, surely; but to me, it is less a matter of making my name than of proving it was all worth something. Proving that I’ve spent my life on something that matters, even if only to a niche community of academics. A way of leaving something behind. I wish to leave a legacy grander than a mere source of citations.

Cranberry touched the page with a heavy hoof. Pad always grumbled when the department threw him an anniversary. She’d lost count of the times he’d feistily declared that he wasn’t retiring until they had to roll him out of his office in a wheelbarrow. It was one of those jokes with a kernel of fear at its heart, but she’d never realized just how deeply he dreaded obsolescence.

She sent him silent reassurances. You aren’t spent yet, Pad. He was always two steps ahead and racing to the next discovery, as he had been for as long as she’d known him. In her eyes, his legacy was already built. His body of work on the elk far surpassed anyone else working in the field today.

Even so, she could understand his fears. Whenever she gave a public lecture after hours at the university, regardless of the topic, the follow-up questions invariably turned to her experiences with Inger in the north. She could never shake the sinking suspicion that her greatest achievements already lay behind her in Sleipnord. With each year, the bittersweet taste of peaking early grew more bitter than sweet. Ruefully, she returned to the words.

And so I paced around the pedestal later and later, night after night, carving a circle into the dust. I had brought with me the fragment of the other triangle I kept on my desk, as sort of a lucky charm and worry stone. I turned it over and over with my horn, staring at the arch, churning out detection spells and elken passphrases, wondering if perhaps the artifact was simply stone-dead after thousands of years without power.

One evening, Cranberry forgot some tool, and upon coming down to retrieve it she found me still pacing that circle on the floor. When she cleared her throat, I was so startled that I dropped the fragment. I caught the worry in her eyes, but she merely asked if I wanted a drink of water. I assented, mostly hoping to assuage her concern.

The obsidian shard was still razor-sharp. It nicked my fetlock as it tumbled, slicing so cleanly through the skin that I didn’t even notice until I moved my hoof to pick it up and felt a drop of blood trickling down. A crimson droplet fell from my hooftip, landing on the black surface of the shard, where it glowed for an instant before sinking imperceptibly into the glass like a sponge.

Before I could be alarmed, I felt a pinging sensation in my horn. My blood had woken something in that fragment, sending a formless echo through the ley currents around me. Eureka! Of course, I realized, this had been the answer all along—for what elken masterpieces of this era were not powered by the greatest source of energy that mortals can tap?

If the hour had not been so late, and I so restless, perhaps I would have waited for Cranberry to return, or for the following morning; but the spirit of discovery had instantly descended upon me, and so I swiftly smeared my bloody foreleg across the stone triangle. My lifeblood seeped through the stone like a sieve, vanishing inside the arch. And then I felt it, another echo, this one far stronger, racing through the walls of the tower and then suddenly away, like a floating log cast into a rushing river. I followed it as long as I was able, but soon the echo faded.

Such a paltry sacrifice could not power the whole tower, of course, no more than a lone twig could ignite a bonfire. Yet this breakthrough would prove to be everything we needed. For the magical echo had a direction, a course, a linear trace to some other place, far to the northwest. The other tower I had visited was in the south, so this must be some third location—the center of all the towers, the hub betwixt their far-reaching ethereal spokes.

Cranberry returned to find me yelping with glee, racing about the room in triumph. I grabbed her, heedless of her cry of concern at my bloodstained hoof, and told her of this new discovery. It was not long before her alarm became an excitement that matched my own, and the late night soon turned to early morning as the two of us delved into our studies with renewed vigor.

Over the days to come, I repeated the experiment, spilling more sanguine drops along the stone. Cranberry protested at my continued usage of my own blood, but what choice was there? The garrison’s emergency stores for wounded soldiers were off-limits, and sourcing more from a Canterlot infirmary would have taken weeks or months, given our distant remove in the mountains. With the fine obsidian edge of my fragment, the cuts scarcely hurt. In truth, I began to see the criss-crossing notches on my foreleg as a symbol of progress. Each one brought us closer to finding the exact angle, the exact degree and direction that the magical trail led down.

Soon maps covered the walls of the chamber, and I grew so inseparable from my compass and protractor that I was reliving old geography courses from my undergraduate years. Charcoal lines swept across continents and oceans, widely scattered at first, yet narrowing as I honed my senses on the archway’s origin. At last, after another week of frenzied effort, the tip of my pencil crossed Elketh. The line passed straight through the great Elderwood that covers the northern reaches of the island.

It was clear now that Middengard was only the beginning. But Cranberry and I could not do it alone. My hastily-penned letter flew from the tower by pegasus courier, speeding across Equestria and the seas east of Grypha into Antellucía to reach Dr. Duiker. She immediately grasped the significance of these discoveries, and arranged her own return to the broken tower, to repeat my experiments there.

The following weeks were agonizingly long. Cranberry and I wrapped up our work at the site, bundling up the few surviving books and various other trinkets we’d found in the chamber, and began the return to Canterlot. I must admit that traveling by pegasus carriage is a far better way to pass the Antlerwood than the trail. I was grateful that Cranberry had so vehemently insisted upon it.

Once we arrived back home, she immediately began penning the first draft of a paper about our discoveries, but I found myself unable to concentrate enough to be of much aid. Nervous energy sent me pacing in my office, leaving campus to check the post office three times a day. I fidgeted endlessly with the little obsidian fragment that had become my constant companion. Whenever I stared into it, I could almost see that tenuous, tenebrous connection to the distant source.

After a nerve-wracking eternity, Dr. Duiker’s response finally arrived. Elienne had found her own tower’s connection, broken and warped as it was thanks to the damage. Like Middengard, it sent a line straight into the heart of the Elderwood, over five thousand kilometers away. The distance was so great that we had to account for the curvature of the Earth in our calculations. Yet our triangulation revealed the unmistakable location of the source of the connections: the Black Gorge, deep within the reaches of the Elderwood.

What lies there? In my darker moments of doubt, I fear that perhaps whatever ruin these arches came from has been completely worn away by time. Yet in my heart, I do not believe it so. The towers still have a connection; they still call home, still wait for a response. Given enough power, I am certain that the great wheel could awaken once more. From my communion with the archways, I have come to feel, though I have little proof, that they are far-walking gateways, part of a vast teleportation network, all leading to a vast elken city lost for time beyond living memory, even the Princess’s.

Cranberry is dubious of my speculations, and her scientific skepticism is well-warranted. But she is not a unicorn. She cannot feel the tingling course of the magic as it flows into the invisible conduits, or the cold touch of the archway as it swallows my lifeblood. She cannot hear the faint whispers of truth that pass through my ears and horn as I hold the shard tight to my breast. I know I’m right. All that is left is to prove it.

Dr. Duiker was not the only one I had corresponded with since the discovery at Middengard. Another letter, this one more furtively sealed and sent, had gone straight to Silverglen. My old friend was so aroused by the news of our findings that he decamped at once from his estate and arrived in Canterlot within the fortnight, whereupon we met to discuss the future. To my delight, Tybalt agreed that this success was only a prelude to further collaboration. He had as much interest as I in finding the source of these gates, and he was fully prepared to fund another expedition.

This was to be a larger undertaking than Middengard. Cranberry and I alone would not be able to carry the supplies needed for the full excavation and analysis of an entire buried city. We would need a great number of workers, as well as proper mages for artifact studies, and a group of such size would no doubt require security… It was an investment that would require significant liquidation of my friend’s assets to fund, no small risk for even the Count of the Rose Valley. Over the next few weeks we hashed out the details, and eventually this new venture took shape.

As I prepared, Cranberry continued her work on the Middengard paper. No doubt she found my apparent distraction puzzling, given my previous passion for the project, but she raised no concerns to me. I fought with myself, wondering whether I ought to bring her with me or leave her in the dark until I returned from the trip to Elketh. She deserved to know, both of the gate nexus and of the source of our funding; yet every time I worked up the courage to tell her, something gave me pause.

Sometimes I told myself it was to keep her clean from Tybalt’s involvement. Other times, I was reluctant to speak of going behind her back to ask Dr. Duiker for aid, and feared bringing it up now would only hurt her feelings. Part of me was reluctant to tell her that, despite her evident worry, I had continued to use my blood for the experiments, even after our return to Canterlot. Though I find it beautiful the way the fragments of the arch sing to me, hazily pointing the way to my destination, I know she would not understand.

And yet I worry that, beneath all the bluster and fear, it was a venemous little serpent of envy that stayed my tongue. Cranberry has already had her moment to shine in legend—this was to be mine! A foolish thought, and one I would discard if I could, but it rose unbidden time and again as the days passed and my departure drew closer. And on the occasions when, berating myself, I momentarily overcame that jealousy, I was too full of shame to tell her and reveal such thoughts had ever existed.

So I stayed silent. Cranberry knew that I was leaving, as I could hardly hide my coming travel from the department, but I had remained so tight-lipped that all she knew was that it bore some relevance to our Middengard work. In a cowardly move, I planned to leave her a letter explaining my task in more detail.

A few crossed-out words followed, and then:

Alas, I must break off for the day. They’re serving dinner in the galley, and if I miss another meal then Hermia, our head of security, promised to drag me down there by the ear.

Cranberry’s lips tightened. That letter had explained almost nothing. He said he’d found some new evidence that needed investigating out in the Commonwealth, and to expect him back before winter. No mention of a nexus, or of Dr. Duiker, or Tybalt. She’d been hurt, and she still was… but now she was freshly, intimately aware of how powerful the force of shame could be. Enough to silence someone for six years, she thought, swallowing. Longer, if they aren’t revealed. Her eyes slowly swept over to Inger, still slumbering at her side. Trying not to think about dreams of wine on a clear, moonlit night, she read onward.

21 September, 328 AC

Three days before the expedition was due to leave Canterlot, with my bags packed and my nerves frayed, I finally decided to tell Cranberry everything. I was just about to leave my home for the university when Tybalt paid me an early visit. He had with him Hobb, the antelope in charge of the expedition’s magical complement. Tybalt wanted the three of us to speak before we departed.

I agreed impatiently, hoping to get this conversation out of the way before my courage failed me on the matter of my friend. I pointedly did not offer them tea, but neither seemed to notice. And then Tybalt leaned in with those quicksand eyes of his, and asked me if I had ever heard whispers in the obsidian shards.

I was so alarmed that I nearly tripped over my own rug as I backed away. How could he have known such a thing?

Mayhap I should not call them “whispers”. It is not a thing with words, or intent, the way “whisper” would imply. But when blood spills upon that glass, the echoes I sense are more than a mere magical resonance. There is a form to them, a shape, the silhouette of something far away, and perhaps the remnant of some ancient will. Like a blind mouse feeling an elephant, I can only describe vague sensations, little more than mere shadows of paltry pieces of the whole. Yet this was enough to convince me that the arches are gates, enough to make me certain that the city beneath Elketh still exists in some form.

Tybalt knew this because Hobb had felt them too. The antelope shared with me his own probing exploration of the fragments—which had been made available to him at Tybalt’s request—and he shared my conclusions. And with his greater magical sensitivities and experience, Hobb had heard more than I in the ethereal song of the shards. He believed that—perhaps by design—the gate network was part of a machine that somehow linked to the sun itself. With hesitant awe, he told us that he thought the elk were trying to tap into the power of the goddess, for reasons still unknown.

As he laid out his hypothesis, I watched Tybalt’s face. My old friend’s longstanding fascination with elken artifice was apparent, but there was an edge of desperate hope that I had never before seen in him. When Hobb was finished speaking, Tybalt asked exactly what I feared the most:

“Is it possible that this machine still works?”

I laughed, harshly and without mirth, and said, “That would assume it ever worked. You’re suggesting mortals can harness the sun itself. The power of a god.” Sick to my stomach, I watched him and Hobb share a guarded look. And then he replied, “Yes.”

For many years, I’ve thought the count’s reputation was ill-deserved; that too many took his patriotism and obstinate arguments with the crown as rebellion. Even his brief alliance with Celerity Belle was done out of faithful stewardship for his people. Undeniably, he has no love of royalty, but he does have loyalty to Equestria. His daughter died defending it, after all.

But that day, I learned his conception of such loyalty went further afield than I could ever have imagined, crossing—with deadly seriousness—into territory occupied by only the mad and the foolish. I have met many charlatans and cranks who claim they can tap into the powers of the divine, that the goddess speaks through them or guides their hooves to perform miracles.

My old friend Tybalt is no crank. He’s something altogether more dangerous.

Perhaps sensing my dismay, he gave an easy laugh and clapped my shoulder. It was simply an eager, academic hope, he explained. What a fine discovery it would be, to find a functional artifact! We’d all have our names written in history. Then, citing more duties related to the expedition, he and Hobb made a swift exit, leaving me to my business.

I did not resume my course to the university that morning. Now it was not shame or envy that kept me away from Cranberry, that prevented me from telling her the truth. A fear had kindled in my breast that has not left since, a discomforting wariness of a pony that I had believed I knew well. It was for safety that I left her behind, in the hope that whatever thorny tangle I’ve found myself in will not entrap her, too.

And now I have an even greater duty than discovering the truth. If we do find something intact, if we stumble upon some elken artifact meant to harness power beyond mortal reckoning, then I must ensure it does not fall into the wrong hooves. I may have to save my old friend from himself. Otherwise, my dream of leaving a legacy will come true in the darkest way imaginable. I only hope I am up to the task.

I’m sorry, CB. I wish you were here with me.

Cranberry’s eyes burned with tears. “Stubborn old fool,” she whispered, missing him terribly.

Perhaps these revelations should have shocked her, but Cranberry felt more like she’d simply had her suspicions confirmed. Tybalt was after more than dusty scraps of books and elken ruins, that was now clear as glass; but that had already been evident to her when he’d pushed them to continue after the wildfire. And it changed nothing for her, either—Locke was still down there somewhere, and Cranberry would be damned before she abandoned him.

Even though he’d left her behind. It stung, deeply, to know that her friend had burned with such secret envy, that he’d been so ashamed about it, and that he’d never let her in enough that she could have eased his mind. To take such a mission on himself was the height of both prideful folly and generous sacrifice. Could it truly be a betrayal, if done out of love?

“Oh, Pad,” she murmured, letting the journal rest in her lap.

Without warning, her husband exploded into motion. He flailed in his sleep, his face full of distress, slapping his hooves against her. Before she could react, his eyes snapped open. Inger jerked upright, panting like an injured animal, and gave her a look of anguish, before he jumped to his hooves and fled the tent.

She sat frozen for a minute, wondering what the hell had just happened. As the initial shock faded, Cranberry looked back at the journal. The rest could wait until morning. After she found out what had Inger so jumpy, she needed to share what she’d learned with him. Surely he had also sensed by now that something was off with their mission. She stuffed the book and the tóirse back into her satchel, checked to make sure Apricot was still soundly asleep, and then left the tent to follow her husband.

* * *

Inger stares, still not quite believing his eyes. Before him, her head rising from the surf, floats a mare who is pony above the waist, and porpoise below. Hippocampi, or seaponies, the legendary fourth pony tribe, were all but extinct, he’d thought.

Leave it to Rye to make friends with a whole city of them.

The turquoise mare offers him a hoof. “A pleasure to meet you,” she says, smiling. “My name is Meri.”

Shaking it, Inger stares at her tail with wonder. “Inger Dragonslayer,” he responds, surreptitiously trying to determine whether she has gills below her ears.

“Dragonslayer?” she notes, astonished. “There must be quite a story behind that.”

“I’ll trade you for your own,” he offers, smiling. “Rye’s been so busy with the preparations for today that he’s barely had time to tell us how you all met.”

Hoofsteps come thumping toward them, and Inger turns to see Strawberry racing across the beach with Apricot in tow, kicking sand up behind them. “We got ‘em, Dad!” says his oldest son, thrumming with excitement. The two colts are wearing bulky flotation vests made of linked wooden blocks and stuffed with cork. The wedding reception has provided them for any landbound guests that want to join the attending seaponies in the ocean shallows for a time.

Strawberry beams at Meri. “Can you show us that place down the shoreline you were talking about? With the old shipwreck and the crabs that live in the seashells?” The young colt’s enthusiasm is infectious, putting a smile on Inger’s face. Apricot, still too shy to speak to the strange seapony, hides behind his older brother’s leg, staring at Meri with awe.

“Of course,” she says, pushing herself away from the shallows back into the water. “Can either of you swim?”

“Not really,” admits Strawberry.

“Well, then, come on in and hold on to me.” Meri gestures, and the colt plods into the water, splashing it around his hooves.

Apricot stays rooted to the ground. Inger gently prods him. “Go on,” he encourages. “Your brother and Meri will keep you safe.”

“No ground,” says the colt plaintively.

“That’s what this is for,” replies Inger, lightly knocking a hoof against the vest. “You’ll float in the water. It’ll be like flying.”

“Fly?” Apricot’s eyes light up. “Like you and Strawberry?”

“That’s right.” Inger grins. “Go ahead. It’ll be fun.” He gives Meri a nod. “I’ll see you back here in a couple of hours.”

Apricot plunges into the surf, clumsily paddling toward the seapony as his vest holds him aloft in the rolling breakers. She offers a foreleg for him to grab onto, before giving Inger a nod and setting off. He watches her tail gracefully undulate through the water as she rapidly disappears down the coastline to the south.

Inger turns away, heading back up the beach toward the colorful tents where the reception is still in full swing. He’s still amazed at just how many guests are here. Seaponies, Zyrans, Equestrians; even a few griffons are tucked away in the corners. It seems like the ambassador managed to befriend half the city in a scant three months. Inger shakes his head, grinning.

The open bar is serving with style. A zebra bartender, her mane tied tight behind her head, mixes cocktails with aplomb. She juggles the shaker into the air as she whisks ingredients together, before pouring the drinks into waiting glasses for the suitably-impressed partygoers. Inger snags a mojito on his way past, sipping the minty drink with pleasure as he slides up to the two mares already sitting at the counter.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

The Sugar sisters both raise their glasses to his arrival. Inkpot blinks and sways, taking a sip from an exquisite-looking strawberry daiquiri. “Do we ever have to leave? I think I could spend the rest of my life out here…”

Cranberry laughs. “I didn’t want to go home either, last time we visited the Golden Isles.”

Gazing at her, Inger can’t help but recall their honeymoon in the Sugarhearts, not far from here. Around her neck lies a beautiful cobalt-blue and ivory necklace, a gift from Rye and Tyria. Together with the gleaming wedding band on her ear, and her own bright blue eyes, the effect is stunning.

He hops up onto the stool, turning around to face the open beach and the ocean horizon. Karran Island’s vistas are still beyond anything he’s seen in Equestria. The city of Zyre lies above them to the west, covering a significant portion of the island, but the jungle surrounding the city’s walls gives the isle a vibrancy unmatched by even the thickest Equestrian forests.

The tent overhang shades them from the rays of the warm summer sun, and a cool breeze off the ocean keeps the air light and fresh despite the humidity. Guests sun themselves on the beach with relaxed abandon, as pegasi give rides to zebra foals above. The air is filled with easy laughter and cheer. Today is a slice of paradise that Inger hopes he’ll never forget.

“Mm,” mumbles Cranberry, wiping her lips after another drink. “I need to get the recipe for this. It’s some sort of pineapple thing, I think…”

Inger tilts his head. “How’s the rum?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she shrugs, setting it back down. “This one’s dry.”

He grins. “Don’t want a repeat of Saddlestead at Rye’s wedding, huh?”

With a long-suffering sigh, his wife rolls her eyes. “You two are never going to let that go, are you?”

“I liked those Sleipnordic sea shanties,” he says with a wink, but he relents. “I haven’t seen Wheatie about. Either of you know where he’s gotten to?”

“I doubt you’ll find him for a while,” says a new voice. Two ponies round the side of the tent, taking up seats next to the Sugar clan. Rye’s bright, canary-yellow robes flutter softly in the breeze, flecked with sand from the warm beach. Tyria, radiant in her white wedding dress, adjusts the plain black patch covering her left eye. “I saw him and Zanaya earlier,” she continues, with a crooked smile. “The two of them ducked into one of the supply tents. They looked pretty busy.”

Inger chuckles. “I’ve never seen him so smitten. You know he told me her name? He never does that. I guess we’ll let him enjoy the trip while it lasts.”

“Sorry we’ve been so scarce,” says Rye, waving to the bartender. The mare slides him something blue with an umbrella in it. He sips, closing his eyes for a moment. “Mmm.” Blinking, he looks back to his friends. “We’ve been running around playing hosts all afternoon.”

“Hey,” says Inger, with a shrug, “I’m just glad it’s your turn. Be grateful you don’t have the princess here, showing you off to the city like a piece of new jewelry.”

With a snicker, Tyria leans against her new husband. “My father was in Canterlot for your wedding. He says it was a circus. I told him we wanted something small.” She raises an eyebrow at the dozens of guests. “I guess that’s a matter of perspective, though.”

Rye impishly smacks his lips after tasting his drink. “So,” he says, directing the question to Cranberry, “have you and my mother decided to speak to me again?”

Cranberry sighs crossly, giving him an exasperated glare. “‘I’ll write you once a month,’ you told us. Windstreak was checking the post office every day. And then the first message we get is that you’ve been kidnapped by pirates, followed by a wedding invitation!”

“I mean, you were supposed to read the other letter explaining it all, first.” Rye rubs his ear bashfully.

“It’s the last time we let Wheatie deliver our mail,” says Tyria dryly.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Rye withdraws an envelope from some interior pocket of his robes. “This came for you, love. It arrived just this morning. I figured you’d want to open this one.”

“There’s no return address…” Tyria says, taking it from him curiously. “Why would I—” She turns the letter over and her eyes widen. “That’s the Pit Viper seal!”

“Well, I don’t think they call themselves that anymore,” says Rye, grinning. “The postage is Antellucían. Seems like they’ve left the Golden Isles for good.”

Inger tilts his head. “Those pirates? Why would they send you a letter?”

Tyria rips open the envelope, pulling the letter out and scanning it. An irrepressible smile creeps onto her face as she reads it aloud, adopting an unfamiliar accent. “Congratulations, girl. Me offer still stands, should ye tire of matrimony. And tell the unipeg he owes me a sack of gold. Smooth sailing to the both of ye.” Folding the paper, she slides the letter back into the envelope with a laugh. “Thank you, Captain…”

“You’re not going to take him up on that, I hope.” Rye rubs his shoulder with a more meditative smile. “Heh. Enemies to allies, strangers to friends… Hard to believe how fast things change.”

“I’ll say,” adds a very tipsy Inkpot. “You know, it seems like yesterday that the two of you were little foals making trouble at the bakery. Now you’re both all grown up.” Sniffing, she downs the last of her daiquiri. Rye and Cranberry both blush. “Oh, come here!” Inkpot leaps from her stool to wrap them both in a hug.

Tyria smiles, flashing Inger a look of amusement between observers. He returns it, chuckling. How did Rye find this mare? he wonders again. From meeting to married in a scant few months, it must have been a whirlwind romance even by pony standards.

Of course, the more he gets to know Tyria, the more it makes sense. Between her military background, her gentle manner backed by unyielding confidence, and her patient hoof when reining in Rye’s exuberances—it’s impossible not to notice how much she shares in common with Windstreak. Her coat is even blue, he thinks, hiding a smile. Perhaps everyone is doomed to marry a copy of their parents.

“Is your father around?” he asks Tyria. “I’ve been hoping for a chance to talk to the admiral. It’s not every day you get to meet a legend. The Firewings aren’t usually involved in naval operations, but even we studied the battle of Triponi Bay in training.”

“Ah,” she says, eyes glinting mischievously. “I’m sure he’d enjoy meeting a legend, himself. He’s sitting over by the snack table with Rye’s parents.”

“So far, our stratagem is working,” adds Rye. “Distract my father with baked goods, and get the two old warhorses talking to each other. They’ll be at it for hours, swapping war stories instead of pestering me about grandchildren or Tyria about her career.”

Tyria rolls her eyes. “The Metrels have served the princess for thirteen generations, young lady,” she intones, imitating a gruff stallion. “You need to know your history, or you can’t appreciate the importance of your uniform. Why, your great-great-great-grandfather once set a record for digging the company latrine in twelve minutes! They gave him a medal…”

Rye and her share a laugh, pressing up against each other. Inger smiles at the pair. Whenever their eyes meet, they sparkle with starry delight. He’s glad for his friend. And, though he will never say it aloud, relieved. It feels like a weight has been lifted. Silly, to feel that way from someone else getting married, but…

As the years passed, he’d begun to worry that Rye might never find a partner. That Inger’s happiness came at the cost of his friend’s. The distant recollection of a drunken pegacorn slinking away from a bar after midnight still haunts him sometimes. But seeing the joy in Rye’s eyes over the last few weeks, he smiles knowing that it’s one memory he can safely consign to the dustbin.

“Ack!” Rye sets his drink down and steps away from the bar. “Some of our guests are escaping. Come on, Tyria, we’d better go thank Marquis Zahira before she and her entourage depart.” He tugs Tyria’s foreleg.

“Do we have to?” groans Tyria.

“Part of the job,” he says, annoyingly cheerful. “Better get used to gladhoofing with abrasive nobles in the name of diplomacy. Don’t worry, it gets easier with practice. We’ll see the rest of you later.” He does that little bow of his, before sweeping her away.

Inger finishes his mojito, feeling the cold condensation trickle down the glass onto his skin. They make them strong in the isles, he recalls, too late. One drink and his sense of balance is already wobbly. A glance back at the bartender and he notices the giant label on the bottle she’s pouring from, reading OVERPROOF beneath the Madame Zenubia logo.

But who cares? He’s not on duty. If Wheatie can enjoy himself, so can he. Grinning, he orders another.

“Hey, grab that and come on,” says Cranberry, nudging him as she stands. “I’ve been sitting all afternoon. I want to stretch my legs.”

Inger tips the bartender and follows, sipping through a paper straw as he manages the awkward three-legged gait of a pony carrying a drink in one hoof. The two set off toward the jungle’s edge, striding beneath the towering palms. The sound of the partygoers fades into the ceaseless white noise of the surf.

It’s Cranberry who eventually breaks the peaceful quiet. “So, he finally did it, huh?”

“You doubted him?” Inger raises an eyebrow.

“Well… no, but…” Cranberry tilts her head reluctantly. “I don’t know. Some ponies never find anyone. Professor Locke’s still unmarried, and he’s turning thirty-one next month. Stubborn old fool,” she adds fondly.

“Some like it that way.”

“True.” Her eyes soften. “But not Rye.”

“Right… Have you two, uh, talked about it before?” He vaguely recalled his wife trying to set Rye up with a mare from the university, but it hadn’t gone anywhere.

“No. We don’t talk about it.” Her gaze is distant. “Pointedly.”

The trees beside them shiver. Inger looks up at the white trunks mixed between the palms. Aspens, in this climate? Strange, he thinks, shrugging.

“Mm.” He returns to nursing his mojito, enjoying the minty flavor that mutes the sting of the alcohol. “Well, it worked out in the end. Him and Tyria are head over hooves for each other, that much is obvious.”

“That they are,” she says warmly. With a wistful sigh, she looks up into the canopy beside them. “It’s funny. I guess now I know how he felt when you and I got married. It’s kind of like I’m losing him. Part of him, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… he and I always confided in each other, growing up. If something big happened, he was the first one I told. The day he got the letter saying he’d be permitted to apply for the officer’s academy, he came racing up to me at the library, practically bursting with excitement.” She smiles at the memory. “But after we met, you filled that role for me. The first one to hear about anything. My closest confidant. And now he’s got Tyria for that. I oughtn’t be jealous when I’m so happy for them both, but… I can’t say I won’t miss it just a little.”

Inger shifts the straw to the corner of his mouth. “He’s still our friend,” he assures her.

“I know. And this won’t change anything important,” she says, nodding calmly. The corner of her mouth creeps up. “I wouldn’t want to, anyway. It’s too cute, the way those two bounce off each other.”

The couple stride onward, down the treeline. The breeze shifts, sending the palm fronds swaying with the aspen leaves. The taste of the ocean is in the air. Inger’s feeling warm from the sun and the drink, pleasantly lightheaded and loose. When they come upon a large boulder at the edge of the trees, they pause to take advantage of the shade it casts. The two sit next to each other in the soft white sand, comfortably leaning on one another. Looking back toward the tents, they enjoy the distant sound of the ocean rolling in to shore.

“So…” The corner of Inger’s mouth turns up slyly. He takes another sip from the nearly-empty glass. “Do you think they waited?”

“Hm?”

“Rye and Tyria. You know.” Smirking, he makes an obscene hoof gesture.

Cranberry’s cheeks go pinker than usual. Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head. “Boys,” she mutters, but she can’t keep herself from smiling. “No, I don’t think they waited.”

“Oho!” Inger leans in. “Why? Did he say something to you?”

“No, but… we didn’t,” she says, with a guilty grin.

Inger matches her grin, pulling her closer to his side. “And they don’t even have to sneak around. Although I think that made things more fun sometimes. You remember having to let me in the library window so your sister wouldn’t know I was over?”

“I do… and so does Inkpot,” she says dryly, drawing a rueful chuckle from him. “We weren’t as sneaky as we thought we were.” With a light smile, she rests her head against him. “I miss those can’t-keep-my-hooves-off-you days.”

“Who says they ever ended?” asks Inger, finishing his drink with a sly smile. He tosses the glass aside, making a mental note to retrieve it later, and spins Cranberry around into a kiss.

At the welcome surprise, she jolts, but then rests her forelegs over his shoulders and returns it vigorously. “You know,” she pants, pulling her lips away from his just far enough to speak, “returning to the isles does take me back… I miss that little hammock I liked reading in. Remember? Between the palm trees, out by that beach house we stayed at?”

Inger snickers. “I remember how fun it was to get you out of it.”

“You dumped me in the sand!” she says, giving him an indignant swat. “Twice!”

“You forgave me later!” he defends, still laughing. Recalling just how that forgiveness had played out, his heart beats a little faster. Kissing her again, the sweetness of the rum and the mint mixes with the tartness of the pineapple on her lips. They sigh happily together. “You still look gorgeous, by the way.”

Toying with her necklace, Cranberry coyly bats her eyelashes. “You’re not so bad yourself, Captain.”

He leans her back with a hoof, their lips meeting again. As his other hoof slides down her side, she suddenly pushes him gently but firmly back. “Uh-uh. Not here.” She glances down. “I learned my lesson about sandburn last time.”

“All right, then,” he says gamely, ducking down and hoisting her onto his back with a single smooth motion.

“Hey! I can walk!” Laughing, Cranberry flails her legs as he carts her into the treeline.

Shouldering through the foliage, he finds a small clearing not far from the edge. Lush flowers and shrubs cover the ground, soft and inviting. Perfect. As he steps onto the carpet of undergrowth, his hoof clips a root, and the two take a tumble. “Whoops!”

“Oh!” yelps Cranberry, still giggling as they roll onto the ground.

Before Inger can sit up, she pounces on him and straddles his midsection with her hind legs. Cradling his head with both forehooves, she plants kisses all over his snout. “I guess I can’t keep my hooves off you,” she whispers.

Inger’s own roving hooves find purchase on her lower back. He pulls her close against him, stealing a kiss of his own when she leans in again. She grinds into him, her nethers against his, sending a fuzzy pleasure up through his spine that can’t quite pierce the cocktail-induced fog in his head. It’s warm, and it’s good, and despite his excitement, he can feel the allure of a cozy afternoon snooze. Grinning, he slips his hoof down between them, and is rewarded with a sensuous “Mmm…” from Cranberry as she bites her lip.

As their tryst progresses, his wife’s breath grows husky. “I think I need a little more than hooves,” she says, her tail swishing behind her. “Got something better for me?” Her own hoof caresses the sensitive length between his legs, which hasn’t quite risen to the occasion.

Though he nods with a smile, a flash of frustration passes through him. Usually, he’d be ready to go by this point. “You’ve always had trouble being patient,” he teases.

“Oh, and you love that about me.”

“Mmm. You know I do.” He gives her ear a nip, drawing a sharp little breath from her. “It’s fun to make you wait.”

Sometimes he draws things out until she begs. Right now, though, he’s after more immediate pleasure. But his body doesn’t seem to be cooperating. “I think the second mojito might have been a mistake,” he admits, trying to cover his sudden nervousness with humor.

“Oh,” she says, smiling but mercifully not laughing. “Need a little help?” Without waiting for an answer, she plants her hooves to his sides and slides down. As she kisses her way down his undercarriage, Inger’s eyes half-close with anticipation.

The next few minutes make his breathing hard, but little else. He can feel her getting frustrated through the growing intensity of her kisses and other ministrations, though she keeps flashing him smiles. Inger tries not to read disappointment lurking on her face.

A sudden breeze passes through, and the aspens around them seem to titter with mocking laughter. Inger sits up, face burning, startling Cranberry. “I don’t…” He can’t meet her eyes. “Sorry. I don’t, uh, I’m not sure what’s… I’ve never had this, uh…”

“I know,” she says warmly, moving up beside him to give him a nuzzle. “It’s okay. There’s other things we can do…” Her hoof lightly tip-toes up his chest. Pulling him close, she whispers in his ear. “How would you like it if I sat on your face?”

Usually hearing her say something that dirty would have him panting for more. But that disappointment in her eyes still stings, and the pleasant afternoon warmth suddenly feels stifling and humid. “Sorry, Cranberry. It’s just—the liquor, I think, just—”

She seems to suddenly realize just how embarrassed he is. Her whole body language changes in an instant, from sultry to subdued. “Hey, it’s okay,” she repeats, this time straightforwardly frank. “Maybe later?”

Inger nods, standing stiffly. “I should go get that glass before we head back,” he mumbles. Without waiting for a response, he canters out of the little glade.

The aspens harass him with laughter the whole way. It feels like he’s been humiliated in front of a crowd. The obvious way she was trying not to make him feel bad about it just makes the shame burn hotter.

You can bet Wheatie never has that problem, the little dragon whispers. That zebra of his must be having a wonderful time.

Inger exits the treeline by the boulder from earlier, and quickly spots the empty glass he’d carelessly tossed aside. He picks it up with his mouth, not heeding the sand caked onto the spots where moisture had remained. Glancing behind, he realizes Cranberry hasn’t followed him out. He turns back to get her. They should head back to the party together.

As he pushes through the ferns again, he hears a new sound cut through the whispering aspen leaves. A faint whimper from Cranberry. His heart rate spikes. Is she hurt? Has something happened?

His hooves quickly patter through the soft shrubs as he races toward the place he’d left her. He hears her voice again, a low groan. Were it not for the glass in his mouth, he’d call out to her, but his head is still too thick with an alcoholic buzz to think of simply dropping it. He’s nearly reached the glade when he hears her voice again, clearer this time.

“Oh… just like that…”

Inger stops dead at the edge of the clearing, spying Cranberry sitting against the base of the nearest palm with her back to him. Her right hoof is shoved between her legs, working up and down. “Mmm…” she softly moans.

The shame returns with searing heat. Of course, sneers the dragon. Is she supposed to go without just because you aren’t stallion enough to satisfy her?

It doesn’t seem like she’s noticed him, and he can’t bear the embarrassment of interrupting now. Inger retreats, fuming. The air seems to pulse around him, the trees all craning in above his head. His canter turns into a desperate gallop. The forest seems suddenly deeper than before, trees stretching on endlessly ahead of him. Inger runs and runs, his heart pumping, his wings fluttering uselessly, his head pounding.

He breaks from the treeline, passing the boulder. Skidding to a stop in the hot sand, he twists his head and hurls the glass against the rock with a furious yell. It shatters on impact, bursting into a thousand iridescent shards. They make a ringing wail that fills the air, growing louder as he falls to the sand with his hooves clapped to his ears.

The sand darkens, as if stained by spilling ink, blotting all around him. As if a great stopper below has been pulled away, it suddenly begins to sink, cascading down steep walls. Inger is pulled with it, scrabbling desperately for purchase in the shifting black grains. Sand fills his eyes, his mouth, his lungs. Then, through the sound of the laughing leaves and the ringing glass and the rushing sand, he hears Cranberry’s voice cry out in thoughtless, climactic bliss.

* * *

Inger woke with a hoarse gasp, lungs burning. His hoof bumped against the flask of ginkgo tonic as he clutched his chest, heaving for breath with the claustrophobic tent crushing in around him.

Air, urged the dragon. Get to open air.

He belatedly registered Cranberry’s shocked face, lit by that blue globe she’d found. Staring at her, he felt words churn uselessly in his throat. Time for that later, the dragon insisted. Get out. Now! Like a drowning pony crawling from the ocean onto shore, he stumbled to his hooves and fled the tent.

Above, the cloudless night twinkled with a billion stars. Inger inhaled deeply, sucking down fresh oxygen as desperately as if he were seven kilometers up. His panicked gallop from the tent cooled to a light canter as he circled the campsite.

Open sky always had a calming effect for pegasi. Gazing up at the stars, Inger felt his heart rate slowly start to fall. Running a hoof through his mane, he tried to collect his scattered thoughts. You’re fine, he told himself, even as the touch of the black sand beneath his hooves sent more adrenaline racing through him. Deep breaths.

He managed to calm himself enough to stand still for a moment. With another slow inhale and exhale, Inger looked back to the campfire. It was still burning bright and rosy, which meant it was likely still first watch. Kaduat was nowhere to be seen. Off getting plastered, no doubt.

Inger approached the fire, sitting heavily on one of the log benches the mercenaries had arranged for dinner. His forehooves pressed into the sand before him, as his mind raced with memories of the dream.

It was another few minutes before he sensed someone walking up behind him. He didn’t need to look to know who. She set her satchel down against the log, before stepping over it and sitting beside him. Folding her forehooves, she took a deep breath and let it out, slowly exhaling as the fire crackled.

Inger reached down to his flask and brought it to his lips. The bitter, acrid liquid poured over his tongue.

“More of that tonic?” Cranberry asked quietly. “You can’t stay awake for the entire expedition, Inger.”

“Watch me.” He took another drink, wincing at the vile taste. Already, it was working. The tired ache behind his eyes didn’t go away, but he could feel vigor returning to his limbs.

She frowned with concern. “You need rest.”

“And you think I’ll get any by sleeping?” His laugh was brittle and dark.

Letting it go with a sigh, she turned back to the fire. “What was the dream about this time?”

If you tell her, warned the dragon, it’ll only make things worse.

Inger didn’t see how that was possible. Bluntly, he began recounting it all to her. The seapony, the wedding, the drinks, Rye and Tyria, the private conversation after, and their abortive, humiliating encounter amidst the trees.

Cranberry was still and silent as the words spilled out. When he reached the part where she’d confessed her jealousy of Tyria, she flinched, but remained quiet. Inger’s voice grew shakier as he neared the end, almost faltering entirely at the point he found her alone in the clearing. The final terrifying moments of the nightmare rushed out in unsettled haste.

For a while, she just sat beside him, processing. After a minute without any response, the tension in Inger’s chest was almost unbearable. He was about to beg her to say something when finally, she spoke. “That’s not quite how I remember it.”

“No?” Inger kicked the sand. “So you’re saying you didn’t have to finish by yourself after I crawled away like some pathetic—”

“Stop,” she ordered calmly, cutting off his self-pitying tirade like a knife. Inger’s lips pressed together. Cranberry took a deep breath before continuing. “I remember a warm day spent with friends and family. I remember feeling nostalgic about my oldest friend moving on to a new stage of his life. And I remember a husband who loved me so much he couldn’t wait till after the wedding to show it.”

She blinked, looking at him with tender appreciation. “Not every time we make love has to be worthy of song, Inger. All the satisfied paramours in those raunchy ballads have an advantage we don’t—they aren’t real.”

He bent his head. “But I couldn’t—”

“You made it up to me later that evening,” she smiled, nudging him. “And a thousand other times, besides.”

“More and more, it just feels like… like I’m not good enough,” he confessed. “As a husband, or a father, or a—a lover.” His cheeks burned.

“You’re my Dragonslayer,” she said softly. “You’re good enough for anyone. I’ve always been glad you chose me.”

Dragonslayer, the little dragon snorted. If only she knew.

Cringing, he shook his head. “Then why’d you need someone else?”

“Someone else?” she asked, puzzled.

Inger gave her a dark look. “When I came back to the clearing. You were…” He swallowed. “You were thinking about him, weren’t you? Rye.”

Cranberry jerked back as if struck. “What? Sisters, no!” A look of disgust passed her face. “He’d just gotten married, Inger. That would have felt just… wrong.”

“Can you say, truly, that you’ve never had those thoughts about him?” The question slipped from his lips before he could stop it.

Cranberry’s lips tightened. “I won’t lie to you,” she said, after a moment. “I have. But never more than in idle fantasy. And definitely not that day.”

“Fine. So if it wasn’t Rye, who was it?” He faced her, pulse quickening. “Our old friend Eberhardt, maybe? Or your mentor Locke? Is that why you’re so eager to find him?”

“Stop it,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing.

Okay, then, hissed the dragon. Let’s fight.

Inger jerked upright. “If it wasn’t him, then why won’t you tell me who?”

“I don’t even remember! I was probably thinking of you, given the circumstances.”

Scowling, he shook his head. “Right.”

Her face was red as she leaped to her hooves, hotly rejoining, “Oh, sure! I guess you won’t believe it unless I write it down in my journal for you to read when I’m asleep. It’s not like I deserve any privacy.”

She stamped a hoof in the sand as venom dripped from her words. “What a stupid thing to fight about. I can’t believe I’m hearing this! What about you, Inger? How do you spend the lonely nights when you’re five months away on deployment in some far-flung province? Are you honestly going to pretend you’ve never had thoughts about other mares?”

“Never one that I’ve kissed!” He was on his hooves now too, wings flared.

“Oh!” Her eyes burned. “So that’s it? I made one stupid mistake when I was drunk and scared—before we were even married, at that—and now I’ve lost the right to feel affection for anyone but you?”

It felt like she’d punched him in the stomach. “So you do still feel something for him,” he said, taking a step back. It’s possible for a pony to have more than one love. Would that it were not.

“Not like that, you stubborn—”she spluttered. “I told you! If I ever felt that way about him, it ended when you and I put on these rings.” She angrily dinged the golden band on her ear with a hoof.

“My father was right,” Inger muttered, barely paying attention to her words. His eyes darted restlessly back and forth. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. How long has this been going on right under my nose?”

Cranberry’s patience was completely exhausted. “Gods damn it, Inger, I am not having an affair!”

Acidly, he asked, “How many times do you think Tybalt told his wife that?”

“Augh!” Cranberry whirled around, kicking the ground and sending a shower of black grains cascading across the campfire. “I’m done with this. Sit out here and stew if that’s what you want, but I’m through defending myself.” She gave him a fiery scowl. “I’ve told the whole truth now, Inger. If you still don’t believe it, it says more about you than me.” She picked up her satchel and flung it over her shoulder before storming off.

“Go on, then!” he yelled after her. “Have all the dreams you want about him!”

“Fine!” she shouted back.

“Fine!”

Inger turned back to the fire, collapsing to his haunches. Holding his head with a hoof, he used the other to take another drink of tonic.

I did tell you it would only make things worse, sighed the dragon, settling back into supine lethargy. When will you learn to listen to me?

“Stop talking to yourself,” Inger muttered.