Thicker Than Water

6 October, 328 AC

We’ve nearly reached the gorge at the center of the forest, according to our guide. Pwyll is a bright young lad, with a keen interest in the ancient elk we’re here to study, but I have been unable to persuade him to come with us into the canyon—the ealdordeer was quite firm on this point, it seems. I’ll be sad to see him go, but we’ve promised to keep up a correspondence. He will remain on-site for a few days as we establish a base camp, then return to Port Faeloch with our pegasi Mistral and Borras, who will establish our supply line back to town.

Those two are eager to get out of the forest for a few days, and I can’t blame them. Though our passage has been peaceful, everyone has been feeling the weight of this place on their minds. The quaking aspens are earning their name, filling the air with the shivering rustle of golden leaves. I cannot help but recall the botany lecture Professor Vivian gave two years ago at the annual Canterlot Cross-Disciplinary Conference.

Among other fascinating tidbits, she spent a good portion of her talk discussing the nature of aspen forests. They are not truly “forests” at all, but a single enormous organism united by a vast system of roots. White trunks spring up from this hidden web, creating more trees, but these are not children so much as more creeping tendrils of the underlying entity. The whole forest thrums with a single breath, as the wind fills the figurative lungs of this massive plant with that ceaseless rustling.

According to Vivian, we have been unable to place an upper limit on the age of aspen colonies. They can survive even the fiercest fires, thanks to their far-reaching root structures, and replace dead trees with new ones just as the individual trees grow new leaves each year. The latest evidence suggested that the first seed of this great forest may have fallen into the soil over fifty thousand years ago—an incomprehensible number, and one that might in fact be merely a lower bound. If any earthly creature can attain immortality, the aspen may be the closest.

We historians speak in terms of centuries and millennia, usually beginning our chronology with the conflict between the gods and the dragons, in what we dramatically refer to as the Creation Wars. The titular ‘Creation’ was the gods’ sharing of their divine spark with mortals. In that sense, history began the moment they gave us reason and speech, the building blocks of our modern world with all its diverse cultures and peoples.

But in truth, our world is far older. When our ancestors were as simple-minded as the animals around them, it was the dragons who ruled the land and sky. And even they are newcomers in the cosmic sense, fresh-faced upstarts compared to the silent rocks and rolling green hills of this planet. According to our oldest living witness—the Princess herself, infamously taciturn concerning such matters—the natural world once moved of its own accord. Weather, the orbits of the sun and moon, even the motion of the stars; none required magical intervention before the clash of the gods and dragons tore the world asunder.

This forest could be older than the dragons, perhaps even older than some of the gods themselves. Just how long has it been here, growing in the cool breeze? What things has it seen, whispering through the antediluvian expanse of time? What was this island like, a million years before the first elk or pony set hoof upon its shores?

We often say the forests of the elk are places of deep magic, inevitably shaped by the echoes of their inhabitants. But perhaps we’ve had it backwards all along. As I listen to the breath of the Elderwood, I wonder—what if was the elk who were shaped by the forests?

Cranberry shivered, looking up from her colleague’s words.

The party had stopped for a break some time ago, after Pollux had taken a bad stumble. It was hard to tell how much progress they’d made so far, with no idea how far ahead their destination lay.

All around them, the pale limestone walls of the cave dripped with moisture. The narrow tunnels had gradually widened as they progressed, occasionally opening up on the sides to reveal an endless dark beyond. This cave system was deep and vast, bigger even than the one that ran beneath the Jotur mountains that she and Inger had traversed so many years ago.

Their route, following Locke’s signs, had been circuitous and twisting. Many times, the tunnels took sharp u-turns or bent at odd declinations, sometimes going up and other times plummeting so steeply that they had to clamber a few meters down rough rock faces. Getting the caravan through this would have taken Locke’s people days or even weeks, and Cranberry was almost grateful that they’d been forced to leave their own cumbersome carts behind.

Almost. The rumbling of her stomach was getting harder to ignore. The hardtack hadn’t been very filling to begin with, and their last good meal had been a day before that. More concerning was the group’s lack of water. If they didn’t find more within a day or two, they might not have the strength to make it to Locke’s gateways and get one of them working.

Assuming they could even figure it out. The panicky thought kept tugging at Cranberry that the gates were permanently broken, or had never functioned in the first place, or that Locke had simply been wrong about their purpose. If so, then the group was already doomed, and she was leading them on a death march . But she had to believe there was a chance. She didn’t have the luxury of giving up. Not with Apricot and Inger’s lives riding on it.

She closed the book, glancing over at her husband with a thin-lipped frown. He’d been wisely keeping his distance since they’d begun the long walk. Cranberry had no intention of forcing a conversation. After that last fight, she wasn’t sure she even wanted his forgiveness about the thing with Rye. If he wanted to be this stupid about things, let him.

Lifting the journal again, she rested her hoof on the tóirse and briefly gave a glance toward the other end of the tunnel, where Tybalt was resting with his eyes closed. Neither her father-in-law nor anyone else seemed to have realized yet that she’d discovered the journal’s secret. They must have assumed she was still just poring over the empty pages like she had by the fire earlier tonight. Or was it yesterday? Time was hard to track in the endless dark of the underground.

Cranberry shook her head, trying to ignore her growing hunger as she returned to her reading.

12 October, 328 AC

Well, I finally won the argument with Hermia, though I don’t feel very good about my victory. Tomorrow, Hobb and I will be leading the first foray beyond the bloodline door and into the caves, along with two supply carts. The rest of our expeditionary force will remain here in the gorge at what we’ve designated Camp Whisperleaf. Our chief engineer, Zerrikess, measured out the cave entrance and concluded that the wagons should fit without issue, though of course there is no guarantee they will make it the entire way. We shall have to see.

I understand Hermia’s concerns, but we’ve gotten as much information out of the door itself as we can right now, and we aren’t going to discover anything by sitting around in this canyon forever. Though I doubt that we’ll encounter any dangers that a sword can solve, as an olive branch I asked her to come along with one of the other griffons on her team. It means we’ll have to leave behind two of Hobb’s mages, which will likely impede our ability to navigate the caves, but I want to show her that I am taking her advice seriously. I’m already having enough difficulty managing Hobb’s insular little group; I don’t need the griffons growing surly as well.

Oh, Cranberry. How I wish you were here. This place reminds me of our visit to Feláthouir. Those old ruins in the Everfree Forest were scarcely more than rubble, but those magnificent frescoes we studied were unforgettable. The symbols on the door remind me of them, possessing the same ethereal, abstract beauty. I wonder what you would make of it?

14 October, 328 AC

Another dead end. We’ve doubled back again to take a different tunnel, crossing out the erroneous chalk signs behind us. Hobb was certain we were on the right track that time, though I don’t know how he can follow such a faint tingling of magic with any confidence.

At least it has not been time completely wasted. I stumbled upon an ancient, fossilized antler back there. Perhaps one of the workers who built the gates lost it in the winter. More morbidly, it may have belonged to a blood magic sacrifice. The elk were certainly not above using their own people for such ends. Either way, it means we are getting closer.

Hermia has proven a remarkably congenial companion as we trundle through the caves with our bulky wagons. She seems less interested in my work on the elk than in pony culture, of all things. I admit I find it amusing and a little humbling to have my own people treated with the same kind of curiosity that I hold for the ancients. Her perspective reminds me that Equestria is its own, distinct culture, rather than some kind of default.

She keeps being surprised by things I take for granted, like the idea of a birthday party. Apparently, the griffons have no such tradition. Instead, they throw a tremendous celebration on the first of January, treating the new year as a sort of birthday for their entire people. Every griffon counts their age up by one on the same day. Hermia says the streets fill with acrobatic performers, and bakers serve delicious, buttery scones from street carts all through the streets of Gryphandria. It sounds delightful, yet Hermia seems to find our smaller, more private festivities equally intriguing.

She talks freely of her people, but less so of herself. I don’t think she has been a private contractor long—those tags about her neck look military. I will not press her about her past. We all have our secrets—like a journal written in enchanted ink to protect it from prying eyes.

I have been making my reports back to Tybalt intentionally sparse. We received his first reply a few days before embarking on this underground venture. With little to discuss as yet, it was primarily just a congratulations on reaching the site, as well as a confirmation of the coming supply shipment in a week or two, depending on the seas.

I don’t wish to tell Tybalt more than the necessary details until I know exactly what we’re dealing with down here. My old friend’s feverish curiosity is heedless of danger, and after our last meeting, I worry that it might get the better of him if we do discover some working pieces of elken machinery. Best not to put temptation in his path—I can always give him a more detailed report and analysis once I’ve had time to study the city, and made sure that it’s harmless.

With a frustrated sigh—and wryly amused, despite herself—Cranberry tapped the tóirse. As she’d suspected, then, the reports Tybalt had received were useless on purpose.

Well, she thought dryly, I knew something was wrong after he went three paragraphs without any ten-letter words. Her colleague’s florid style had long been the source of fond ribbing from the rest of the faculty. Professor Esbert often joked that Locke wrote like he was being paid by the syllable.

The terse, clipped sentences in the reports Tybalt shared had felt like being given the cold shoulder by a friend at a party. But now, reading the theatrical prose of Locke’s private thoughts, it was like she had him back again, sitting beside her and chattering away. She smiled warmly at the page, running a hooftip along the curly letters.

The sound of a hoof scuffing across stone drew her attention. Pollux had finally regained his footing. He tugged his hood back down over his white mane, and re-lit his horn. “I’ve had enough rest for now,” he said.

His brother’s eyes creased. “You sure? We can spare another few—”

“I’m not going to hold the group up. I’m fine, Cas,” he said, giving the worried pegasus a small smile. “You don’t need to mother me.”

Reluctantly, Castor nodded assent. “All right. Kaduat, go wake up Tybalt.” He blinked, looking at Cranberry. “By your leave, Professor.”

Her stomach growled pressingly. Cranberry shut the book and slid it back into her satchel. “On we go, then.”

* * *

Cranberry led the group, holding her tóirse aloft as she navigated the tunnels with the help of Locke’s chalk markings. The pale blue light cast jagged shadows on the walls as they passed through caves filled with rough stalagmites, gingerly stepping over sharp surfaces of pitted karst. At times, the dark, wavering projections seemed to branch and split like the shadows of Pwyll’s antlers.

A chill pervaded the underground. The air was wet and clammy, and the stalactites bristling from the ceiling dripped frigid water onto the party as they passed. Cranberry envied Pollux his robe and hood, shivering as another droplet splashed on the back of her neck. As they followed the markings through another place with six branching tunnels, she wondered how Locke had ever found his way through this subterranean maze. If not for the symbols leading their way, she was certain they would have become fatally lost within minutes.

Eventually, the tunnel opened into a wide chamber with a sloping floor. There, they found a long cord tied to pitons driven into the stalagmites, draped with small, colorful triangles of cloth. The flags stretched on into the darkness ahead, marking a trail through the expansive space. More chalk cutie marks were drawn on the stalactites above every piton securing the line of flags, though several of the signs had been severely degraded by the moisture weeping down the limestone.

“Watch your step,” Cranberry warned, as they came to a winding strip of water that cut across their path. It was only a couple of centimeters deep, cloudy-white and scarcely moving fast enough to be called a stream, but the slippery wet stone glistened dangerously in the tóirse’s light. Carefully, she stepped through, feeling the cold, milky water flow around her ankles.

Ahead, she heard more trickling water. Lifting the tóirse higher, she peered into the darkness, but she could not yet see the source of the sound. As she stepped past the little stream, she shook the cold water from her hooves with distaste.

“Ah!” From behind, Beatriz let out a sudden yelp.

Cranberry twisted around to see the antelope’s hoof skidding across the wet stone. She fell, nearly smacking her head against the ground, before a rosy aura caught her. The spell jerked her back upright. “Thanks,” she managed, clutching her chest.

Apricot trudged through the water without even nodding. Cranberry watched him as he passed her, taking a few steps ahead before looking back to wait for the others. His eyes were sunken, and he didn’t quite meet her gaze. Apricot had been growing more quiet and sullen as the time and tunnels stretched on. Cranberry wished it were just crankiness from the long walk and the lack of sleep, but motherly intuition sensed that it ran deeper than that.

Unfortunately, there were a plethora of reasons for Apricot’s dark mood. From the dismal, endless caves, to his injured mentor, to having watched Virgil die right before his eyes, the issue was not so much which thing was on his mind, but the combined weight of the last, miserable few hours. And none of them were within Cranberry’s power to fix. She glanced at Inger, frowning. Not even that one, she thought ruefully.

As they regrouped and continued on, they soon discovered the source of the sound. It was another river, this one more significant—though still only a third of a meter deep—running parallel to the course of the flags. Locke’s expeditionary trail appeared to follow the water. Apparently they hadn’t tried to ford it with their carts of supplies.

Several more minutes passed as they walked in relative quiet, with only the sound of the running water and their echoing hooves to fill the cave. Ahead, Cranberry’s ears picked up a rushing sound from the little river. Out of the darkness loomed a sudden end to the walls, as the river reached the edge of a cliff and went pouring over.

Cranberry carefully edged her way up to the cliff, holding her light source aloft. The subterranean chamber ahead must have been enormous. Her light revealed neither floor nor ceiling, and she couldn’t even hear the water hitting stone below.

“A dead end?” asked Pollux.

Zaeneas shook her head, pointing with a hoof. Far to the right, a narrow strip of the cavern floor carried on into the chamber, arcing up into a natural stone bridge. The other end was hidden deep in the darkness. Cranberry eyes it hesitantly. It was barely wide enough for three ponies to walk abreast, and the surface was bumpy and uneven. Worse, it was wet—everything about it screamed hazard. But Locke’s team had evidently found no other way forward. Metal stakes were hammered into the stone on either side, and thin lines of rope extended forward into the dark as guard rails.

“All right,” muttered Cranberry. “Looks like we don’t have a choice.”

“Hold on to the ropes,” warned Castor. “If anyone goes over that edge, I’m not sure we could catch you in time, even with wings.”

Carefully, the group began to cross the natural bridge. Taking Castor’s advice, Cranberry stashed the tóirse back in her satchel and kept a steady hoof on the rope. By the light of Beatriz and Apricot’s horns, they inched their way out onto the rocky arch. It was not as slick as she’d feared, but each step was still nerve-wracking.

Peering over the edge despite the stomach-churning vertigo, Cranberry’s eyes widened. Far, far below them, she could see a vibrant orange glow. This chamber must be at least two hundred meters deep, she thought, amazed. And the cave system went deeper, still: the light seemed to be seeping up through several crevasses in the bottom of the chamber, too far and indistinct for her to make out anything besides the light. Magma? she wondered, noting curiously that it didn’t flicker the way a fire would. After a moment’s further consideration, she decided she could live without an answer.

Behind them, the solid cave floor melted away into the dark. This bridge was far longer than she’d hoped or expected, and it began to narrow even further as they ascended. Imagine getting a cart across this thing, she thought, shivering. And Locke’s team would have had to make the first crossing without even the rudimentary railings. She was clinging to the rope a little more tightly than she meant to.

After a few minutes they reached the halfway point, made evident by the gradual lessening of the bridge’s inclination, and its eventual reversal. Almost across, she thought, sighing with relief. Her heart rate was finally beginning to settle, when her hoof came down on a slick patch of stone and found no purchase.

“Oh!” was all she had time to yelp as she slipped forward. Her other forehoof was torn from the rope as she crashed to the rock. The others cried out in surprise as she slid ahead with violent speed. Cranberry tucked her hind legs in, flailing with her forelegs for the rock, but her momentum carried her across the damp stones with gathering speed. Down the length of the arch she went, careening out of the hornlight and into total darkness.

She closed her eyes in fright, bringing her forelegs up to protect her head. Her leg clipped a rocky bump, and her slide became a tumble. She rolled over and over until suddenly her back slammed into unyielding stone. The impact brought her to a total halt. With the wind knocked out of her, she lay still, wincing as she panted for air.

“Mom!”

“Cranberry!”

Blinking, she looked up to see Apricot and Beatriz’s hornlight a few dozen meters ahead. Inger had taken to the air, his wings flapping as he paused uncertainly at the edge of the light. His head swerved back and forth as he searched the darkness helplessly.

“I’m okay,” Cranberry called, groaning. “I think I found the other side…”

Moving gingerly, she sat up and popped the latch on her satchel. When she withdrew the tóirse, its cerulean glow revealed that she’d shot past the edge of another cliff and crashed into a stalagmite. At least there was solid ground around her.

“Watch your footing, everyone,” said Castor, his warning quite unnecessary. The others slowly made their way down the remainder of the bridge, studiously avoiding the spot where Cranberry had taken her spill.

While they descended from the bridge, Cranberry looked around. More jagged karst outcrops and stalagmites were all that greeted her. Her eyes caught a matte white streak on one of the moist stones, and she squinted at yet another one of Locke’s markings high on a stalagmite.

The trail hasn’t gone cold yet, she thought, relieved. The pale columns stretched up like aspen trunks to either side of her, leaving a small path between them into the dark beyond. As she stepped toward the fountain pen sigil, her hoof kicked something that went skidding across the stone. Cranberry looked down and was hit with a sudden jolt of shock as she realized she’d bumped into a pile of bones.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped back, looking more closely. It was a skeleton, or what was left of one, wedged between two stalagmites with one foreleg outstretched across her path. No wings, horns, or antlers decorated the bones. A zebra, or perhaps a short earth pony—impossible to tell at this late stage. The skeleton was only held together with the brittlest of fossilized tissue. The metacarpal she’d kicked had broken free with ease. There were no identifying possessions or clothing that she could spy.

Was this one of Locke’s crew? The body had clearly been here long enough to be stripped clean by time and rot, but given how damp it was down here that might not have taken very long. Whoever this was might well have died around the same time as Hermia, or hundreds of years ago. Cranberry’s eyes narrowed. There were pale fungi growing on the remains behind the stalagmites. Strange to realize that, even far below the light of the sun, there was a living ecosystem. We’re still inside the Elderwood, in a way…

“Well,” said Pollux from behind her, drawing Cranberry back around. “That was an adventure.” He stepped gingerly off the bridge, letting his hoof drop from the rope guard rail. The others milled around the base of the archway, looking reluctantly into the passage ahead.

“Who’s your friend?” asked Kaduat, pointing at the skeleton.

Cranberry shook her head with a frown. “No idea.”

“Maybe we should pick some of those mushrooms,” said the camel. “Wouldn’t hurt to have some food in case we’re down here longer than we hope.”

“What if they’re poisonous?”

Kaduat frowned grimly. “Once we’ve gone two weeks without food, that could be a mercy.”

“Stow that,” reprimanded Castor. “And leave those alone. We’ve got enough problems without puking our guts out.” Chastened, Kaduat gave him an informal salute and walked further down the passage.

Inger approached Cranberry as the others gathered themselves. “Are you hurt from the fall?” he asked quietly.

“Just a bruise, if anything.” She looked away.

“Okay.” He inhaled, then seemed to think better of it and walked past her after Kaduat. Cranberry followed, mouth thinned.

They’d only gone another hundred steps before Pollux doubled over in a fit of hacking coughs. Everyone paused, giving the ailing mage and each other concerned looks. “I’m… fine,” he wheezed, between more coughing. “Keep…”

“Actually, I could use a break after that tumble,” Cranberry announced, rubbing her aching shoulder. “Let’s take fifteen, everyone.” Castor shot her a look of relieved gratitude for saving him the embarrassment of making it an order.

As the others settled down to catch their breath, Cranberry picked a secluded spot behind a set of stalagmites to pop open the journal once again. Her eyes scanned the page as the spidery blue text scratched out once more beneath the tóirse’s light.

Locke’s next entries mentioned passing through underground chambers he called the star-lake and the garden that had served as breaths of fresh air after finding so many dead ends and blank tunnels. He seemed convinced that they were still on the right track. More passages mused on whether these tunnels were natural, or formed by the elk when they built the city. One entry caught Cranberry’s eye, with the date rendered in thick bold, as if he’d written and re-written it, hesitant to proceed to the actual text.

24 October, 328 AC

We have passed something like a river. The crossing was more harrowing than passing through the forest above. Only academic duty forces me to write about it. It is a terrible place, and I do not wish to speak of it at length.

Still. I told Hermia what it reminded me of.

It is a curious fact that the pegasi, our brothers and sisters who spend so much of their lives in the air, are the source of our most detailed myths of how the dead enter the underworld. Perhaps it makes a certain kind of sense: the cthonic myths of the earth ponies all deal with magical creatures and hidden treasure, of life below ground; but to the pegasi, passing beneath the earth is inseparable from death itself.

The oral traditions of the pegasus tribe say that when we die, our souls must descend through several rings of the underworld to reach eternal paradise on the other side of the earth. Each ring is surrounded—or guarded—by a wide, otherworldly river. They cannot be crossed by wing or magic.

There are five, in total. First is the Mnemelon, where souls who touch the waters recall, in minute detail, all their lives, both the good and the bad. Some are lost there forever, drowning in their own memories, unable to move on from their greatest triumphs or most devastating failures.

Next comes the Syngnómilon, where the dead repent for their evil deeds in life, no matter how great or small. Dark creatures lurk beneath its lily-covered surface, swallowing any who attempt to cross without shriving their hearts bare.

Then follows the Somnolon, the river of sleep. It cannot be crossed alone. Here, the dead must pay the ferrymaster’s toll: two gold coins for passage across its black waters. The ferrymaster Kóree, the pale alicorn of death, warns all who ride upon her back not to touch the water, for any who do will be instantly taken by a deep and dreamless sleep. They will slip from her safe hold and fall into the gentle current, never again to wake. The souls of those who do not heed her warning float all around the goddess as she glides through the water.

At the next ring comes the most dangerous river of all, the Katalon. The souls must swim across its raging currents, fighting the river’s pull. It seeks to pull them down and scatter them, until they become carried forever in its wake. But here, the souls are close enough to hear the voices of those who have already passed on, calling encouragement and praise to the strugglers for having come so far already. Buoyed by the words of their fellow ponies, they drag themselves from the waves to stand on the shore of the final ring.

Finally, at the deepest point of the lowest level of the underworld, they reach the Nepenthelon. It is the gentlest river, where at last the dead bathe to rid themselves of the sorrow of losing their old lives. Their pain and regret wash away, leaving only acceptance and excitement for what comes next. When their hearts are free of sadness and their hooves bouncing with joy, they gallop onward through the center of the earth, and finally begin the ascent to their new home in the world beyond this one.

I told all this and more to Hermia. I also told her that, as a child, the river that haunted my dreams was the Somnolon. That black, coursing stream of soporific stillness seemed to me like a death after death, a true oblivion just when one was so close to freedom.

Today, that old terror woke. I feel as if I have seen the river of sleep with my own eyes.

When I voiced these thoughts, Hermia reassured me. “If so, then you’ve conquered your fear—you made it across,” she said, before giving me a hug. Perhaps she is right. It is true that we made that unearthly crossing without incident.

Yet I cannot help but wonder whether Kóree’s toll remains to be paid.

25 October, 328 AC

Our road has terminated at the edge of a vast sinkhole, spanning at least thirty meters in diameter. It is a perfect circle, or so near to one that our instruments cannot tell otherwise. It’s a good thing I brought the griffons—all four of our pegasi are still back up at the base camp. Hermia flew a torch down into the pit and discovered a large spit of rock stretching out from the wall, far below, like a platform. Another tunnel entrance lies where the rock meets the wall of the sinkhole, though Hermia did not explore it more than a few meters before returning to us to report.

At one point there were stone steps spiraling down from where we now stand to this platform, but ancient rockfalls from the ceiling high above have damaged them beyond safe passage. Hobb believes that our destination lies beyond that tunnel below, but we will not be getting the supply carts down there easily.

Thus, I have made the decision to turn the edge of the sinkhole into our second expeditionary camp. We’ve designated it Camp Moonstone—Hermia’s suggestion. At first I was set on “Darkreach”, but she shook her head with a wry smile.

“When you’re working in the cold and dark, you want someplace warm and welcoming to come back to for food and sleep,” she said. “This cave is going to be bad enough for the expedition’s morale. Don’t add to it with a gloomy name.”

I’ve learned to defer to her experience when it comes to managing and reading people—she’s excellent at it, judging from how consistently she cleans the rest of us out at seasail every night. So: Camp Moonstone, after the cozy little village near the Everfree Forest that Cranberry and I visited on our way to the ruins of Feláthouir.

We’ve set up the tents and circled stones for a firepit, which was sorely needed after nearly two weeks in the caves. Additionally, we have begun unpacking the carts to set up an artifact study center for anything we recover below. After consulting with head engineer Zerrikess, she believes that we have enough lumber, nails, and rope back above at Camp Whisperleaf to construct a large pulley system and a lift. Once built, we should be able to ferry our wingless team members—and perhaps even some of the smaller carts—down into the pit. Assuming we can get the material down here. She estimates a week and a half for construction, plus transportation time.

Neither Hobb nor I are willing to wait another two weeks; not when we’re this close. So, the group is splitting up. A team of six will stay here and continue building out the camp. Three others, including Zerrikess, will return to Whisperleaf following the signs we’ve left and bring back more workers and the required construction material, as well as fortifying some of the passage on their return trip—that nerve-wracking stone arch in particular could use some railings.

And finally, Hermia and her fellow griffon will fly Hobb and myself down to the passage along with enough food and water for a two-day excursion. We’ll press on as far as our rations allow, or until we reach the buried city.

I am so close, now.

Cranberry turned the page, and realized she was holding her breath. Exhaling, she saw the next entry scribbled in a shakier script than before. Fear, or excitement? Knowing Locke, it was surely the latter, she thought, smiling. Her spirit yearned to fly back through time, to stand there with him as he reached the end of this journey she’d joined him on back at Middengard.

26 October, 328 AC

It’s real.

How many times have I nearly lost faith? Dark nights when I let the doubts of my colleagues and financiers creep in and corrode my own certainty? But they were wrong, and I was right. WE were right. Cranberry, when you see this place, you’ll know that everything we did was worth it.

The city lies below in a vast, cavernous chamber. The whole cave is bathed in a dense mist that obscures the ground, lit from within by an otherworldly green light that diffuses through the fog. I can see no buildings within the mist, but poking out are the unmistakable tops of trees, of all things—they must be stone statues, for no sunlight penetrates this place. An artificial Elderwood in miniature, lurking deep below the real one. Above, the strange light from the mist reveals a shadowy domed ceiling, at least half a kilometer above us at its peak. This place is immense, easily large enough to fit the entire Sun Castle and still have room for a third of Canterlot.

At the center of the misty forest, a stone hemisphere rises from the mist. Upon it looms an immense tree, larger than any I have ever seen or imagined. The titanic roots swathe the stone dome below, sinking into the mist. Its trunk is so vast that, were it to topple, it could crush entire villages. It stands at an impossible height, its gnarled bark twisting up into the air so high and huge that it makes the aspens below it look like toothpicks. Enormous tentacles of glass wreathe the trunk, melded with the wood so tightly that it appears as if the tree grew around them. They wrap around it in translucent obsidian helices, tapering as their serpentine ascent terminates in narrow points that coalesce above the tree’s top.

It has no leaves, and only six branches. Each branch stretches out horizontally from the very top of the tree, their tips equidistant and hexagonally arranged despite the naturally warped shapes of the branches themselves. Using a spyglass, I could make out a familiar form standing at the end of each: an inverted stone triangle, each perfectly whole, just like the one beneath Middengard.

I cannot wait to descend the steps that lead down into the mist and toward that grand tree, to finally stand in the place that I’ve spent half my life searching for. Just what secrets lie waiting for us down there?

A whistle broke her concentration. Cranberry jerked up from the page to see Kaduat peering around the stalagmites at her. “Let’s go, Professor. Tybalt wants us moving again.”

She swore internally, but she couldn’t think of a way to extend the halt without revealing the journal’s secret. “All—all right, give me a moment.” Stuffing the book back into her satchel, she stood, stretching her legs, and wished for a regretful moment that she’d actually used the break to rest. She followed Kaduat to rejoin the others, her mind churning with visions of a giant, underground tree.

* * *

As the group settled down, Apricot eyed his teacher with trepidation. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Pollux’s usually bright and alert eyes were haggard, but at least the coughing fit had subsided.

“I’m fine,” the unicorn said hoarsely, sitting back against a column of limestone. “You don’t need to worry about me.” He looked over Apricot’s shoulder, to where Castor was lingering. “Either of you.”

But it wasn’t just Pollux’s appearance that had Apricot so concerned. In the magic, even the faint hum of Pollux’s hornlight spell was weak and shaky. How much had his battle with that glass creature drained him? Would he ever recover?

When Apricot voiced his concerns, Pollux just laughed—followed by another bout of coughing—and patted a reassuring hoof on Apricot’s shoulder. “I just need a good night’s sleep. A little food wouldn’t hurt, either, if we find any.” He rubbed his horn. “It feels like the aftermath of a nasty horn overload. But I can still hear the song just fine.”

Exhaling, a little relieved, Apricot nodded. “What was that monster, anyway?”

“Hunger on legs?” said Pollux, with a dark glance back the way they’d come. “A ravenous magical void. I’ve never felt the like.”

“At least it’s dead,” murmured Castor.

Pollux frowned thinly. “Are you so sure?”

“That explosion took half the cavern with it. I can’t imagine something made of glass survived.”

“Did that… thing run into my mom’s friend?” Apricot shivered, recalling the way the thing had moved. “Do you think it got them all?”

“It certainly looks that way,” said Pollux reluctantly. “We’re lucky it didn’t get all of us. If it weren’t for Zaeneas’s Elyrium, it might have.” With a weary sigh, he rested his head against the stone, waving off Castor. His brother bit his lip and nodded, before walking away to confer with Inger and Tybalt.

Apricot’s eyes followed him, landing on his dad. He swallowed, looking away. It hadn’t escaped his notice that his mother and father had barely exchanged ten words since they’d entered the caves. Neither had the cold looks they kept shooting at each other when the other wasn’t looking.

Hoping for a distraction, he asked, “What’s our next lesson?”

“Ah,” Pollux winced, “I’m not sure I’m up for any more lessons right now, Apricot. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. That’s okay.”

The mercenary glanced at Inger, frowning. “I’m sorry,” he repeated in a low voice, “about your… Well. If there’s anything I can do…”

“No,” said Apricot, his stomach sinking. “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. It’s my…” his words trailed off.

My fault, he thought, flicking his eyes between his dad and the blue glow of his mother’s artifact, coming from behind the stalagmites. I wonder if they’ll let me and Strawberry stay together. An icy kernel of fear formed in his chest. What if they make him stay and me go? Will I have to leave Canterlot forever, like Beezy?

He didn’t want to cry in front of Pollux. Change the subject, quick. “That was really amazing, when you threw that whole cart at the monster,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

“Ha! It’s been a long time since I managed to lift something that big,” said Pollux, grinning with rueful pride. “But I hear you have me beat. The way Castor tells it, you held up that cave-in all by yourself while I was unconscious.”

Apricot smiled, despite himself. “I have a good teacher.” The smile faded as he relived the struggle in the cave. “But—”

When he didn’t continue, Pollux lifted an eyebrow. “But…?” he prodded gently.

“Virgil,” said Apricot, hanging his head. “He took that blackpowder barrel and stuffed it under the creature. It—it got him killed,” he said, haltingly. “I should have… I could have done it. If I’d just shoved the barrel in there with magic, and stuck the torch in it myself, then Virgil would still be—”

“You were shielding everyone, weren’t you?” Pollux asked brusquely. Apricot gave a reluctant nod. Pollux sighed. “If you’d been busy with the barrel, you may not have thrown the ward up in time to save us from the blast and the rockfall. Don’t blame yourself.” He softened. “You can’t save everyone, Apricot. Even with your talents.”

“Why not?” insisted Apricot, wracked with guilt. “What good is my magic if I can’t save one life?”

“You did save his life, from the wildfire. Along with all the rest of ours.”

“Only for a little while,” said Apricot bitterly.

Pollux rested a hoof on the colt’s shoulder. “If you give it long enough,”he said with a sad smile, “It’s always only for a little while.”

That didn’t really make him feel any better. “What if it had been Mom, or Dad?” His eyes narrowed accusingly. “Would you say that if it was Castor?”

He sensed he’d scored a hit from the way Pollux’s hoof recoiled. His teacher looked away, disconcerted. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But my brother and I have been living as hooves for hire for a long time. It’s something we all know could happen to us, on any job. Virgil—he chose when. He gave his life to save us. I think he’d want us to feel grateful, not guilty.”

Sadly, he looked over at Beatriz, who sat crumpled beside the cave wall. “Though it might take time for others to see it that way.”

Tybalt sent a sharp whistle through the cave. “I think we’ve rested long enough,” he called. When Castor began to protest, Tybalt waved him down. “Locke’s second campsite lies ahead. There might still be survivors or supplies there. We can’t be far, now. If we reach it today, we can get a proper night’s sleep on bedrolls instead of stone.”

“Now that sounds good to me,” said Pollux, standing and dusting off his robes. Castor exhaled through his teeth, but merely gave a nod in reply.

After Kaduat fetched Cranberry from her hidey-hole behind the columns, the group resumed their trek into the underground. There were no branching tunnels for a change; the cave seemed to be funneling them in one direction now that they’d passed the stone bridge. With his horn aglow, Apricot took the lead this time, wanting space to think.

But try as he might, he couldn’t seem to corral his thoughts into anything coherent. He just kept remembering the way his mother shouted Fine! as she stormed back into the tent. He wished that Strawberry were here. His older brother would know what to say, or at least how to deal with it. He always did. For a brief moment, Apricot wondered whether he would trade the new marks on his flanks along with all his spellsinging, just to go back to the way things had been before that final lesson with Mr. Strudel.

The ringing echoes of his hoofsteps went suddenly silent, and Apricot lifted his head in surprise. They’d left the tunnel and entered another huge, dark space. Ahead lay what could only be described as the shore of a lake. Water, milky-white and opaque, stretched out from his hornlight into the blackness. It was impossible to gauge its depth. The surface was absolutely still, without so much as a ripple or a wave to confirm that it was even a liquid.

The path stretched on in front of him, gently curving left and then right, winding ahead into the lake. Though textured with stony bumps and ridges, the path itself was flat just above the surface of the water. The sides of the stone sloped gently down into the lake. It didn’t seem purposefully cut or sculpted, but nothing about its sinuous course felt natural.

As the others entered the chamber behind him, he heard several intakes of breath. Apricot looked up, and his mouth opened in wonder. Above, the night sky twinkled in the dark. Countless stars shone down, bright and faint alike, forming familiar constellations. The cloudy swathes of the Via Nubilum stretched across the sky, including the bumpy track of dark dust at its center.

Yet he felt no fresh breeze of the nighttime air. The stars, while familiar, were constellations that hadn’t been up a week ago. And most of all, suddenly hitting him with a sense of wrongness: there was no moon.

“Remarkable,” said Tybalt, with understated amazement. “A perfect replica…”

The stars curved over them like the dome of the sky, but they terminated a little too high on every side to be a true horizon. Apricot realized that it was the ceiling of yet another cave, speckled with glowing points of light. “What are they?” he asked, staring upward.

“Gems, perhaps?” ventured Tybalt.

“No…” Pwyll’s lilting accent was full of wonder as he exhaled. “They’re producing their own light. Can you hear them singing? So quiet… I think they’re more tóirsí.”

Cranberry took a few steps out, looking around as she spun a slow circle. “This is… I’ve never…” Her eyes sparkled with reflected starlight. “They even recreated the Cloudy Way!” For a moment, the well-traveled Professor was once again a jubilant young explorer.

“If you wanted to,” murmured Inger, “you could fly up and touch the stars…” He sounded wistfully tempted.

“Careful, Professor,” warned Pollux, suddenly. Cranberry halted her circling, a few steps away from the shore of the underground lake. “I think it’s best if we don’t disturb the water,” said the mage, eyeing it warily.

“Of course,” she said, retreating from the shore. Her enthusiasm returned quickly as she turned her gaze back up. “It must have taken them a lifetime to build this. Look at them all! Hundreds of thousands of stars…”

Pwyll nodded, tracing constellations with his hoof. “I recognize them… it’s the summer sky, I think.”

Kaduat’s voice, flat and harsh, broke through the euphoria. “Castor, which way is north?”

Castor blinked, then pointed. Kaduat nodded, grimacing. “It’s the solstice.” She pointed at Ursa Minor. “Assuming it’s midnight, the bear’s tail points directly south on the night before the summer solstice. The longest day of sunlight in the year.”

The ponies all looked unsettled. Apricot swallowed, too. That was the Summer Sun Celebration, when all of Equestria honored their Princess for her duty and burden of raising the sun each day. He remembered his mother’s lessons about the unification of the pony tribes under the alicorn sisters, upon their arrival on the earth all those centuries ago. But this place had existed long before then. What had the solstice meant to those ancient elk?

“All right, come on…” Cranberry reluctantly tore her gaze away from the subterranean heavens. “It’s beautiful, but we still have a ways to go.”

The group set off onto the path, beginning the crossing of the still, pale lake. In moments, the tunnel behind them was swallowed by the dark. Their hooves clipped off the stone without echo, any resonance lost in the vast chamber. They were careful not to brush the water’s edge. Apricot could sense nothing from the lake, but he could feel the faint magical ringing of the stars above them just as Pwyll had said. It felt like they were walking in a tiny bubble of light beneath the endless song of the universe.

Though beautiful, something about this place felt unwelcoming. Not hostile, like the aspen forest, but a cold, secluded privacy that made Apricot feel like an intruder. The underground was not a realm meant for the living to inhabit. He kept imagining that they were wandering inside a vast clockwork machine that lay dormant, waiting for instructions. Above, he could sense inactive lines of magic lying betwixt the constellations, as if the whole night sky were united in one enormous circuit of incomprehensible complexity. He could imagine it glowing like the door, rays of radiant green light spreading from star to star as the entire sky came to life…

“How are you holding up, Junior?”

He hadn’t heard his dad approach. When he looked back down, Apricot realized he’d fallen behind the main group. “Sorry. I’m fine. Just got distracted.”

“Sorry?” Inger seemed genuinely confused. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Junior.” He took a deep breath. “You know, you’ve saved us twice now. It’s a good thing you stowed away in that barrel. Even your mother can’t argue that now.”

Apricot’s blood ran cold. So they ARE still arguing about it. He trudged along without saying anything.

“You’re going to have one heck of a story to tell Strawberry.” Inger’s smile seemed anxious. “And with a cutie mark like that, getting into the Academy should be a breeze. I was thinking, once we got back, maybe you could apply for early admission—”

Apricot’s eyes widened. It had been his dream to get into the Canterlot Royal Magic Academy for as long as he could remember. But… “I want to stay with Pollux,” he interjected. Now presented with the possibility,he suddenly realized he couldn’t imagine giving up lessons with his mentor to learn in some classroom from strangers. Did the Academy mages even know about spellsinging?

“Oh. I, uh… I understand.” Inger’s ears flattened for a moment. His smile turned melancholy. “Unicorn stuff, right? I know I don’t really get it the way Pollux does. But I’m still so proud of you, Jun—Apricot.”

Their eyes met, and for an instant, Apricot felt absolute relief. No matter what had happened, his parents still loved him.

But do they still love each other?

Breaking eye contact, Apricot looked away over the still waters. He bit his lip, not wanting his dad to see the sudden tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “Thanks.”

This was too much to keep inside anymore. He had to say something, but he knew his words weren’t good enough. “Dad…?”

“Yes?” Inger’s wings stiffened, alert.

“Are you and Mom…” Apricot swallowed. “Are you two… do you still…” He took a shaky breath that nearly betrayed him with a sob. “Is she going to go away? Like Beezy’s mom did?”

Apricot took another two steps before he realized his father had frozen still. He came to a stop and turned his head. Inger was staring into the black abyss beyond the path. The words seemed to have cut his father more deeply than a cast stone. “Apricot,” he said, hoarsely. “that’s not… we’re—you—”

Apricot desperately searched his father’s eyes for answers, but all he found there was shame. Lip trembling, Apricot suddenly wanted to be away from here, back in his room in Canterlot, or by the gently buzzing apiaries in the park, anywhere at all but trapped in this dank stone tomb with his parents and their pain. He turned and ran, hooves clopping on the stones. The mercenaries yelped as he pushed roughly past them on the narrow path. He burst through to the front of the line, and raced ahead.

On and on he went, as his canter turned into a gallop. There seemed to be no end to the lake path as it wound in gently waving curves. The stone walkway turned in toward the middle and back out again, over and over, as if drawing wavy rays out from some central source on the lake’s surface. He wanted an end to the back and forth, an escape from this cold chamber with its humming stars and silent waters. At last, his breath gave out and the tears flowed freely, and his hooves slowed to a walk as he bent his head to cry.

Trudging alone along the path, his shoulders heaved. Little jerks of his snout followed each failed attempt to repress a sob. Even the magic was no comfort. The light of his horn wavered as he maintained the spell. A gentle song touched his own, with a familiar golden timbre, but Apricot slammed up a wall against it. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Not even Pollux.

Time passed in a wet-eyed blur. Eventually, after he gave up and let the tears overtake him, he cried and cried until his nose ran and his chest ached. More minutes dragged on, until at last the sobs faded. He wiped his eyes dry, feeling emptier than ever. He decided to focus on the path, on putting one hoof in front of the other over and over like an automaton. If he couldn’t be happy, maybe he could at least find numbness.

When he finally heard hoofsteps behind him, he debated fleeing further ahead, before deciding it wasn’t worth it. He didn’t offer a greeting, and neither did whoever had caught up. For a little while, they just walked with him, pulling up to his left side.

Finally, he heard his unwanted partner clear his throat. “Would you like to hear a story?”

Apricot blinked in surprise, lifting his head to look over. He hadn’t expected Pwyll to be the one to come after him. The rest of the group was still far behind them, walking in the light from his mother’s artifact and Pollux’s faint red hornglow. Apricot frowned and looked back down at his hooves. One in front of the other.

Beside him, the young deer smiled, seemingly not taking offense at being ignored. “It’s from a time before the war between the dragons and the gods. A tale about old King Gruffudd the Foolish. ”

Curious despite himself, Apricot lifted an eyebrow. “There was a king called the Foolish?”

“One of those titles given after the fact, I suspect…” Pwyll snickered. “King Gruffudd was renowned throughout the isles for his sweet tooth. The king loved candies and chocolates and, above all else, baked goods and pastries. It’s said he paid for bakers from all around the isles and even from lands beyond the ocean to come to his court and prepare their finest delicacies.

“One day, a visiting bard sang about the feasts of the faeries. According to legend, the tables of the fae court held wondrous confections unlike any that mortals had ever baked, or tasted. Flower-shaped treats that melted in your mouth, or dissolved into sparkles at the slightest touch. Little cookies shaped like animals, that moved on their own, darting about the tables until they were caught and eaten. Colorful strips of candy that could change the hue of a diner’s coat, and a hundred others, each more fantastical than the last.”

Apricot almost smiled, imagining the magical desserts. He wouldn’t mind trying out some different colors… Strawberry couldn’t tease him about being pink—cerise, he corrected automatically—if he had one of those.

Pwyll continued, “King Gruffudd’s imagination was captured, perhaps better than the bard had intended. He ordered seven of his most trusted couriers to enter the enchanted forest on his kingdom’s northern edge, each carrying a letter sealed with the king’s royal signet. It was an invitation to all of faerie kind, to visit his castle and join him for a great feast to be held one year hence. If they were pleased by the culinary prowess of the mortals, he hoped they would return the invitation to a feast in their own court, that he might experience the wonders of their gastronomic arts.

“Many thought him mad, or at least too credulous by half, but the messages were sent. The couriers returned from the forest, having left the letters in places where the fae had been spotted throughout the years, but none reported sighting even a single Bwbach or Breezie. Most of the castle staff simply resigned themselves to humoring the king, and preparing for the feast.

“The day came at last, and all was arranged as decreed. Nobles from all over the land had come, many bringing their daughters in the hopes of catching the eye of the king’s young son. Just as the last of the court had arrived, and all were sat down to dine, a great knock came at the door to the feasting hall. The doors were opened, and in sprang a spry and vibrant elk with two translucent, glimmering butterfly wings upon his back. He introduced himself as Aedyrn, King of the Faeries, and said that he had brought with him members of the Seelie court and samples of their finest confections.

“In poured all manner of strange creatures, to the alarm and delight of the guests. There were pixies and sprites, goblins and brownies, as well as many fae that appeared like elk, yet possessed gossamer wings and a strange, ethereal agelessness. The faerie king’s daughter was one of these, bowing gracefully as she was introduced to the court. The prince took her hoof eagerly, leading her to the seats of honor reserved for the faeries at the high table. She was the most beautiful elk he had ever seen, and the two soon struck up a friendship over the rich repast.

“The fae were rambunctious guests, dancing on the tables and tossing plates to each other with unerring accuracy. The treats they had brought surpassed even the bard’s fanciful tales, sprouting into great plants made of frosting and pastry and bursting like fireworks into starry sparkles. Gruffudd was delighted beyond words. The prince, however, was too distracted by the enchanting conversation and mien of the faerie princess to partake in the victuals.

“As the two courts dined together, something strange began to happen. The laughter of Gruffudd’s nobles began to sound like the barking of dogs and the bleating of goats. The king’s own chortles at Aedyrn’s jokes took on the grunting harshness of a snorting pig. With every pastry the guests consumed, their aspect became more bestial. Until, at last, the laughter turned to screaming, and joy to terror. When the prince looked up, he realized that the entire court of mortals had been transformed into mindless animals, crying out in distress. His own father, porcine and corpulent, sat upon the throne with the crown slumped atop his pig’s head, heedlessly burying his snout in the pile of pastries as he gobbled them down.

“The faerie king laughed and laughed, rolling on the table as tears of mirth streamed down his cheeks. As the prince surveyed the room in horror, Aedyrn stood and loudly called for quiet. The faeries and animals fell silent as he addressed the crowd. ‘My thanks again to our hospitable hosts!’ he cried, gesturing with a hoof to the crowned pig. The fae let out a stamping of hooves and roars of appreciation. ‘A finer feast we have not seen in many a year,’ Aedyrn praised. ‘As requested, the next one shall be ours to host! I hope to see you there, my good people, at the Seelie court in the heart of the forest, one year to the day from now. Farewell!’

“And with that, he sprang down from the high table and trotted out of the feasting hall. The fae poured after him, laughing as the distressed animals milled aimlessly about, knocking over tables and spilling food and wine to the floor. The prince began to draw his blade to pursue, but the faerie princess stood in his path. ‘My father has tricked you,’ she explained, ‘but it was not meant in malice. The fae respect those who can play our games, and are bored by those who righteously cleave through them with fire and steel. I did not wish him to do this, but it has been done, so now we must work together if we wish to see it undone.’

“She gave the prince a burlap sack, and told him to keep it with him. In one year, he must enter the forest and find its heart, and bring the sack with him. She described her plan to help him save his father and the other unfortunate victims of the faerie king’s prank. The prince agreed, and reluctantly bade her farewell.

“A year passed, with much trouble and despair in the kingdom. The prince maintained that he was not to be coronated, as his father remained alive. So he served as a sort of regent, making sure the cursed guests were taken care of in the meantime. At last, the appointed hour came, and he gathered the remaining members of the court. He told them he was going to rescue the cursed ones, and that if he did not return, they were to rule in his stead. With that, he set off into the woods, carrying only the burlap sack.

“After days of wandering, he finally stumbled out of the trees into a fantastic field of flowers and toadstools. The faerie castle was made of dandelions and roses, woven together into giant walls. Yet the doors stood wide open, invitingly unguarded. The prince made his way inside, finding himself in a feasting hall much like his own, yet with seats and tables made of living trees instead of dead wood. Atop the high table, King Aedyrn was addressing the court. As he gave the signal to begin the feast, the prince approached the table and made himself known.

“The king was shocked to see that a mortal had found his way here, after all, but a great smile lit up his face. ‘Welcome!’ he boomed, gesturing to the empty chairs at his side. ‘I am delighted to see at least one of you make good on your father’s promise!’ The prince apologized, for the rest of his entourage was still indisposed from the last feast, and were unable to make the journey. The faerie king laughed himself nearly to tears once again, recalling the pig king. ‘I hope you bear no ill will,’ said the faerie, his impish voice bearing both jest and a warning.

“The prince said that he had been angry at first, but the king’s daughter had explained the faeries’ ways to him, and he believed he now understood. There was to be no bad blood between their peoples. ‘However,’ he added, ‘I do have one request.’

“Aedyrn was happy to oblige. ‘Anything, good prince,’ he promised, ‘within reason, of course.’ The prince explained that, as his father was unable to come himself, it only seemed right that he be permitted to bring back some of the food from the feast so that Gruffudd could once more sample the finest desserts in the world. Pig or no, nothing would make him happier. This request was granted with great laughter by the faerie king, who gave him permission to take back as much as he could carry.

“At that, the prince withdrew the sack that the princess had given him. Into it he began to push food from the plates, first emptying his own, then the princess’s, then the king’s. As the court watched, more and more plates vanished into the bag, which seemed to grow no fuller. On the prince went, shoveling table after table into the bottomless sack. Soon, he had taken half the feast, and showed no sign of stopping. Aedyrn began to panic, his brilliant wings aflutter. ‘Stop, stop!’ he cried. ‘You will leave my guests without any food at all! What kind of host would I be, to abuse the guest-right so?’

“The prince rubbed his chin, but continued to stuff buns and sweetrolls into the sack. ‘I will release you from your promise, and return all that I have taken, if you agree to another request,’ he said. ‘Of course!’ said the king, fluttering anxiously above the ground. ‘I wish my father and all his court returned to their own forms,’ said the prince, ‘with no memory of their ordeal.’

“Grumbling, the faerie king lifted his hooves, and clapped them together. ‘As you wish! It is done.’ The prince smiled, and dumped another plate into his bag. ‘And I have one other request,’ he called, as Aedyrn groaned. Turning his eyes toward the king’s daughter, the prince beamed at her. ‘I have never met a maiden so fair and clever as your princess. I humbly ask that I might have her hoof in marriage.’ At that, the princess raced from the table to embrace him.

“As the prince and princess kissed before the court, the king of the faeries saw how he had been fooled, for this had been his daughter’s plan all along. Yet, as she had told the prince, the fae were delighted in both trickery and in being tricked, so instead of anger, the king was filled with wry amusement. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘though I do not believe the request is truly yours. Take her, then, and may you both find good fortune in the land of the mortals.’ As the two left the hall hoof in hoof, Aedyrn called after them, ‘And should you ever wish to return, our feast table will always welcome members of the Pig King’s court!’ Howling laughter followed the pair as they left the castle.

“Once they returned home to the prince’s keep, they found that the faerie king had kept his word. Gruffudd and all the nobles had been returned to their elken bodies, and the last moment they recalled was the joyous feast. The prince introduced his new bride to them, and the whole kingdom lifted their voices in celebration.”

The storyteller smiled, scratching one of his antlers. “And that’s how Pwyll, Prince of Ellánon, joined his house to the otherworld court.”

“Pwyll?” Apricot blinked in surprise.

“Mhm.” Pwyll’s smile widened. “My namesake. We have many stories about him. A tough legacy to live up to. I’m no trickster or brilliant leader, but I hope to save my people, as he did. In my own way.”

Though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, the story had cheered him a little. Apricot smiled wistfully. “I’m named after someone great, too.” For the hundredth time, he wished Mr. Strudel were here. He could get my parents to talk, Apricot thought. The gentle baker had always been able to calm tempers with a well-timed word and a treat.

“I know you’re having a rough time, with—with everything,” said Pwyll quietly. “All I have to offer you are stories. But I thought… maybe that’s what you could use right now.”

Apricot sighed, but he appreciated that at least Pwyll hadn’t given him some useless lie that everything would be all right. He nodded gratefully. “Can you tell me another one about the prince?”

The deer smiled. “Of course. My favorite was always when Pwyll and the Lord of the Mosswood exchanged places for a year, and all the troubles that found them. It started on a cool spring day…”