Thicker Than Water

The warehouse was so unremarkable that at first Inger thought he’d gotten the address wrong. Plain, utilitarian wooden walls held up the roof, bearing only a few windows and the bare minimum of white paint. What it lacked in appearances, it made up for in activity. The front of the building was positively bustling with camels moving barrels and crates from the building into large carts parked outside. It was rare to see even one camel in Canterlot, let alone dozens. This had to be the place.

Inger studied the mercenaries for a while before approaching, noting the symbol of a fiery horseshoe emblazoned on each of the crates. He’d never heard of Katabasis Company before, but that wasn’t surprising. War was—thankfully—too infrequent in Equestria for large scale mercenary organizations to maintain any consistent presence.

The griffon invasion had led to a booming cottage industry of them for a while, as the depleted Equestrian forces hired help to clear the remaining would-be warlords of Shrikefeather’s fractured army from the southlands. Inger had even fought alongside a few mercenaries with Wheatie in the cleanup action. Most, though, had disbanded after a few years of peace and quiet.

Where on earth did my father find these people?

His father. The words still sounded alien, even in his head. Inger shook his head, still feeling as if the earth had shifted under his hooves. What do I say to him? Inger scraped a hoof sheepishly across the ground. Observing the mercenaries at work was a feeble excuse to put off this meeting for another few minutes.

One of the camels, a female, was joking in her native tongue with a fellow Dromedarian, when the barrel over her back began to slip. She noticed too late, and it fell to the ground with a crash. The top of the barrel was knocked loose, spilling black dirt to the ground.

“Damn it, Kaduat!” A griffon came storming out of the warehouse waving an exasperated claw. “Do you know how expensive that is?”

Inger’s eyes widened. That looked an awful lot like the Gryphan blackpowder Rye had told him about. He trotted toward the mercenaries, who were quickly scooping it back into the barrel. The camel, Kaduat, replaced the barrel lid and slammed her foot on it a few times. “It’s not my fault you packed them badly,” she grumbled in perfect Equestrian.

The griffon scoffed. “Don’t pin this on me. You’re the one who promised Castor we could have everything packed by tomorrow morning.” He noticed Inger’s approach, and his back straightened. “Uh… hello, officer,” he said, growing noticeably prim.

Even without his armor, Inger had the aura of a guard. He felt urge to snicker, but resisted. “What’s in the barrel?”

“Ordnance,” said the griffon nervously. “We’ve got all the permits, if you want to see them. Blackpowder’s still legal to ship overland through Equestria…”

Well, at least they weren’t hiding it. “What’s it for?”

“Demolitions, for clearing cave-ins. We’re a search and rescue team.” The griffon bowed hastily. “My name’s Virgil. I’m the chief engineer for Katabasis Company.” He jerked a claw over at the camel. “That’s Kaduat, our XO.”

The camel gave Inger a cheery wave. “Hey there, handsome. What can we do for you?”

Inger blinked, caught off guard. “Er… I’m here to see Tybalt.” The two stared at him. “Tybalt Vallen,” he added, unnecessarily.

“Hang on…” Virgil’s eyes widened. “You’re the count’s son!”

Inger nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. Virgil beamed, offering a claw. “Good to meet you, Lord Vallen. We’ve heard all about you, of course. Is it true you killed a dragon? I always thought it was just a story, to tell the truth…”

Inger shook his claw awkwardly. “It’s true.”

“Incredible!” Virgil’s claw bobbed up and down. “Any chance you’ve got that magic hammer lying around? I’d love to take a look at it.”

“Er, no. We sent that back with the nordponies after the war.” Bemused, Inger gave the griffon another look. In his line of work, he hadn’t met many griffons who weren’t actively trying to kill him. Virgil, though, seemed somewhat tweedy. He had that sorry-I’m-taking-up-space air that many of Cranberry’s shyer academic colleagues possessed.

“Go take him up to see the count,” said Kaduat. “We can handle the rest of the blackpowder without you, Virgie.”

Virgil gave her a pleading frown. “Don’t call me that,” he complained.

“Why not? Beatriz does,” said Kaduat, grinning.

“That’s—erm, well…” Inger had never seen a griffon blush before. Virgil cleared his throat. “Ahem. If you’ll follow me, Lord Vallen?”

Nodding assent, Inger fell in behind as the griffon headed for the warehouse entrance. “Just Inger is fine.”

“Of course, Lord Inger.” Virgil popped open the door and ducked through.

Not bothering to correct him, Inger followed him into the warehouse. It was huge, but rapidly emptying. More camels were inside, leaning on some crates. Virgil snapped a claw. “Hey! We’re on a schedule, here.” They scurried back to work. Virgil rolled his eyes, then beckoned Inger down a hallway.

They passed an open door, and Inger caught a glimpse of a zebra mare sitting at a desk, surrounded by a menagerie of glassware. Beakers, bottles, tubes, and heating elements lay strewn about her desk. She was deep in some enormous tome, not bothering to look up as they passed.

Quite the eclectic bunch, Inger thought. “Katabasis is mostly Dromedarians, then?” he asked, keeping pace with Virgil as they reached a set of stairs.

“Nowadays, yes. We’re a small unit,” Virgil explained, ascending the steps. “Thirty souls, all told. Most of that number are the camels who joined up with Kaduat a year ago. We used to be mostly antelopes and ponies before that, but the War of Whitetail reduced our ranks significantly.”

“Oh… I can empathize,” said Inger, grimacing. “The Firewings have been rebuilding ever since.”

“I’d heard. They said you lost a lot of ponies in the battles at Whitewall and Canterlot.” Virgil paused, clearing his throat. “I, erm… to be clear, I wasn’t part of Shrikefeather’s forces when they came marching into Equestria. I finished my time in the army ten years ago, and I’ve been running with Castor and Pollux since then.”

“I… can’t fault anyone for fighting for their country,” said Inger. Not an attitude Wheatie shares. Then again, I was in Sleipnord for most of the war; he lived through the worst of it at Whitewall and Trellow.

“That’s generous of you. I’m not sure my countrybirds deserve it,” said Virgil, darkly. “After the things I saw during the Alastrian campaign, I didn’t want any further part of Grypha’s wars.” He sighed, resuming his walk down the corridor. “At least I can use the skills they taught me for good, now.”

“You do a lot of search and rescue jobs?”

“It’s our bread and butter,” said Virgil. “Not exclusively, though. We helped liberate a few forts in Westermin and Everfree from Warlord Lionsclaw after the war. Since then, Castor’s picked up whatever work comes our way—clearing out bandits, guarding merchant caravans, rescuing ransomed nobles… whatever pays the bills.”

“Huh. Not far from what the Firewings do, to be honest.”

“Well,” Virgil said dryly, “our armor isn’t as fancy… Here we are.”

They’d reached a plain door in the middle of the hallway. Virgil lifted a claw to knock, but before he could, a disgruntled voice carried through from the other side. “All I’m saying is that if we made a stop at Icehollow Bay on the way north, we might pick up a few nordponies to join the company.”

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be opposed, but we’ve no time,” said another—Tybalt.

Inger’s throat went dry at the sound of his father’s voice. With military discipline, he willed his hoof to stop trembling. You’re here for answers, he reminded himself.

Tybalt continued, “The ship’s already chartered, Castor. The Aurora’s captain isn’t willing to make any detours. It was hard enough securing passage to Elketh. He wants to get there and leave as soon as possible… it’s not as though he’s going to get any cargo worth selling in Port Faeloch.”

Pollux’s light voice cut in as he chuckled. “Ignore my brother. He just wants to sample some more of that Sleipnordic mead we had last time.”

“I didn’t complain when we stopped on the way here for your spellbooks,” said the first voice, grumpily. “But I’m serious. We could use the extra help—”

Inger shifted, and a floorboard creaked. From the other side of the door, he heard Pollux perk up. “Ah! Hold that thought, Castor. We’ve got visitors.” There were a few hoofsteps, and the door swung open. Pollux smiled at Inger and Virgil, his horn softly aglow as he released the door. “Lord Vallen. I thought it might be you.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “You can never surprise a mage…”

“Not magic, Virgil,” said Pollux, “Just good hearing.” He stepped back to let them through.

Virgil held back. “I’d better return to Kaduat and the others. Goodbye for now, Lord Inger.” Before he left, he poked his head around the door. “Oh, Pollux, are you coming to practice tonight?”

“I am.” Pollux winked. “Don’t get too warmed up with Beatriz before I arrive.”

Virgil coughed. “We’ll be tuned and ready to play.” As he departed, Inger stepped into the room after the mage.

It was an office, albeit a hastily-converted one. A simple straw bed took up half the far wall, and the “desk” on his right was a mere folding table. Sitting on the near side was another pegasus. Castor couldn’t look more different than his brother—where Pollux was wiry and pale, Castor’s rich mahogany coat covered impressive muscles. They shared one thing, though—identically mild, relaxed smiles.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Castor, waving a hoof in a lazy salute.

Behind the desk sat Tybalt, who looked like he’d just won a million bits. “Inger! You came.” He beamed. “I… I confess, I wasn’t sure if you would. Does this mean you and Professor Sugar will be joining us?”

Inger tried to steady himself, but the sight of his father was making his head spin again. “We are. Both of us.”

“Yes!” said Tybalt, leaping to his hooves. “I’m overjoyed to see you again, Inger. Truly.” He rushed forward and embraced his son.

Inger’s legs weakened. He hugged Tybalt back, a little harder than he intended to. How often had he pictured this moment, staring up at the ceiling of the Firewing barracks as a foal?

Castor sighed, then tossed a coin toward Pollux, who caught it with a grin. Castor snorted with annoyance. “Thank the gods,” he grumbled, as his brother tucked the bit away. “Looks like we won’t have to rely on Pollux’s attemptsto read elkish, after all.”

“I do all right,” said Pollux, wounded. “But I agree—the professor’s a welcome addition to the mission.” He lifted a wry eyebrow at Inger. “Plus, now we have a pegasus who knows how to fight and dress himself.”

Castor shot him an exasperated look. “I apologize for my younger brother’s attempts at wit.”

“Younger by five minutes,” scoffed Pollux.

“And don’t you forget it.”

Inger blinked, releasing the embrace with his father. “Five minutes? You two are twins?”

Castor laughed. “Fraternal, obviously. I got the color—”

“—and I got the brains,” finished Pollux, smirking.

“As well as the humility, clearly.”

“Well,” Pollux yawned. “Someone’s got to keep your head from getting too big.”

With a pained look, Tybalt cleared his throat. “Gentlecolts…”

“Sorry, my lord.” Castor turned back to Inger. He offered a hoof, which Inger shook. “Katabasis Company, at your service. You’ve already met Virgil—we can introduce you to the others later.”

Tybalt returned to his seat, gesturing for Inger to take the cushion beside Castor. “So! Did the prof—er, Cranberry, explain our mission?”

“Only the goal,” said Inger, sitting. “We’re heading to the Elktic Commonwealth to rescue Professor Locke. What happened to him, exactly?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” Tybalt jerked his chin up at a large map hung on the far wall. Inger looked it over, recognizing the island of Elketh.

What little he knew was through Cranberry. Though the island was the largest landmass of the Commonwealth, it was a sparsely inhabited place of little value or interest to most, lacking any major population centers or natural resources of note. The elk were notoriously reclusive, and the natives of Elketh even more so than most. The island was actually further north than the border between Equestria and Sleipnord, though Inger was vaguely aware that the climate stayed mild—something about oceanic air currents interrupting Equestria’s runoff weather.

The northern half of the map was dominated by a vast green swath. The name Elderwood curved gently across the map, but it was the only written label. The rest of the forest was a blank, green enigma. Pins were stuck into the cloth, tied together with red string that made a trail from the center of the forest down to the coastline. They terminated in one of the few marked cities on the map, Port Faeloch.

Inger tilted his head at the pins. “I assume that’s the route we’re taking.”

“More or less.” Tybalt steepled his hooves, in what Inger had begun to recognize as a habit. “Only the locals know the precise paths that Locke took. The Elderwood remains virtually unmapped, even a thousand years after the formation of the Commonwealth.”

“No roads,” muttered Castor. “Bad visibility, centuries of overgrowth… getting the supply carts through there is going to be a challenge.”

“Professor Locke managed,” said Tybalt. “So will we.” He tapped his hooves. “According to Locke’s reports, the trail ends at a valley somewhere in the heart of the forest. It’s a gorge filled with dark sand and sheer cliffs, cut right into the earth between the trees. There, we’ll find the entrance to a large cave system. Deep within lie the elken ruins he was seeking.”

Inger shivered. “Caves, you say…?”

Pollux, leaning casually on the wall beside the map, quirked an eyebrow up. “Afraid of the dark, Lord Vallen?”

“We can use Pollux as a night light,” said Castor, snickering.

Inger quelled the brothers’ humor with a grim glance at the map. “It’s not the dark that worries me,” he said. “I’ve been through an elken forest before. The Antlerwood.”

Shifting uneasily, Pollux stepped away from the wall. “Ah. I’ve passed through it once or twice myself. Not an experience I’m eager to repeat.”

“Well, below that forest was a massive cave system like the one you’re describing. There were things living down there that…” Inger shivered again, shaking his head. “If Locke ran afoul of creatures like them…”

“His reports didn’t mention any monsters,” said Tybalt pensively. “The only things the expedition encountered on their journey were trees and rocks.”

“Until they went dark,” said Castor, dourly. He gave Inger a grim look. “You think they dug something unfriendly up?”

“I don’t think anything, yet.” Inger shrugged, shaking off unpleasant memories. “All I’m saying is, elken forests are dangerous places.”

“We’re prepared.” Tybalt rested his snout on his hooves, leaning forward. “And I have faith that we’ll find Locke alive. But even if some ill fate has befallen him, we’ll have the tools we need to complete his work.” He nodded at Inger. “Now that we have Professor Sugar’s expertise, of course.”

“Are you and her ready for the trip?” asked Castor. “It’s going to be a hard few days on the road before we reach the ship at Fillydelphia.”

Inger smiled, remembering the journey to the roof of the world and back. “Cranberry and I have experience with long roads.”

“Ha! So you do.” Castor stood, dusting his hooves. “Well, my lords, I’m sure you both have a lot to catch up on. Pollux, let’s go see if Kaduat’s finished loading the ordnance.”

The brothers bowed and took their leave. As the door closed, Inger felt his mouth go dry. For the first time in his life, he was alone with his father.

Tybalt and he gazed across the table at each other, as an awkward quiet descended. All the words he’d spent the night rehearsing were suddenly tangled together somewhere in his throat. It was small comfort that Tybalt seemed to be having just as much difficulty speaking—his hoof kept tugging at the collar of his rose-patterned robe. The table creaked.

Someone had to go first eventually. “That’s a very nice… uh… map,” said Inger, lamely gesturing at Elketh.

Tybalt blinked. Then he snorted and burst out laughing. It was infectious—Inger couldn’t help it as a smile broke out, and soon he too was laughing. The two sat there, giggling helplessly as the tension between them snapped under the pressure.

“Oh,” said Tybalt, rubbing his eye as the mirth subsided. Apprehensive, he shook his head. “Oh, Inger. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Well…” As he caught his breath, Inger felt a sudden overpowering craving. Since opening that locket, a burning need for knowledge had awakened in his breast, lingering there all night. “I wondered if you could tell me what—what my mother was like?” Some of the only faint memories he had of her were of scrounging for food, or the way she held him as they fell asleep together. He could scarcely remember the sound of her voice.

Tybalt pressed a hoof to his locket. “Of course…” He smiled, but it was filled with sadness. “She was confident. Funny. And kind, so kind…”

Inger rubbed a foreleg. Awkward yet curious, he asked, “What… what kinds of things did she like to do?” Who was she, as a pony?

“She loved music. I think we attended every single performance of the Canterlot City Orchestra that summer. And she was always singing little songs while she walked with me.” Tybalt’s eyes were misty with memory. “She used to tease me that she’d teach me to carry a tune if I taught her to fly.” He chuckled fondly. “I did my best. With her on my back, I flew us up above the city at night, when all the lights were twinkling down below. The castle was positively aglow for the Summer Sun festivities. Meg said that she’d never seen such beauty…”

Inger felt an ache of longing more intense than he could bear. Taking a deep breath, he tapped his hooves together. He almost didn’t dare ask the next question, but he forced himself. “Did she love you? Truly?” The words sounded pitiful to his own ears.

“To my eternal, delighted gratitude,” said Tybalt, returning to earth with a melancholy smile. “My rank, my position—they didn’t seem to matter to Meg. She said she liked my… how did she put it? My old-fashioned noblesse oblige. Although she always added we can work on the stuffiness. She made a game out of getting me to laugh.” His eyes creased with amusement. “She was good at it.”

Noblesse oblige, hm? Inger tilted his head. Somehow he hadn’t expected that to be one of his father’s qualities. “You know… I’d long assumed that my father—whoever he was—was an aristocrat. But somehow I pictured you as, um…” He tried to find a charitable way to say a pompous, selfish bastard. “More like Emmet Blueblood.”

“Ach.” Tybalt winced and rubbed a shoulder. “The duke was always the worst of us, even back then. I swore to myself that I’d be better than him—like Celerity Belle.”

“Celerity? I wouldn’t call her much better,” said Inger, frowning. “She started a civil war.”

“To protect Whitetail,” countered Tybalt, but he sighed and tapped his chest to acknowledge the point. “I always respected her. At the royal diet, Celerity and I were the only ones to challenge the princess on some of the more substantial taxes being levied upon the peasantry and the merchant class—which proved prescient,” he added darkly. “The Fillydelphia rebellion was only a few years later.”

“Hm.” Inger blinked, processing this. When he was still a foal, he’d imagined his father as some shining knight, like Bergeron or Windstreak. As he’d grown older, the fantasies had grown less adoring, as the mental silhouette of his father turned from paragon to bitter villain. Some evil noblepony, abusing his mother’s trust and abandoning them to wither away, laughing at their plight. Eventually, he’d grown past that as well, figuring that the mysterious stallion hadn’t even cared enough about Inger to hate him.

Perhaps the truth was a painful blend of all those phantom Tybalts. A noble stallion, trying to do right by his vassals, yet carelessly naive about matters of the heart. If Inger had been trapped in a loveless arranged marriage when he met Cranberry, could he have been any stronger? And rather than an uncaring disposal of his mistress, it was duty and loyalty that had pulled Tybalt away from Canterlot, or so he claimed. His father had been selfish, yes, and thoughtless, but cruel? Inger couldn’t see any sadism in the stallion before him. Just an overwhelming guilt, barely hidden behind those hopeful eyes. Maybe his father had a little dragon of his own.

It was too early to decide how he felt about it all. But there was one thing that he did believe Tybalt about, one thing that rang absolutely true in those tiny anecdotes and the warmth of his father’s memories.

She loved him.

That eased a terrible burden within him. In his darker moments, Inger had wondered whether his birth had been a choice, an accident… or a crime. It was a relief to know that it wasn’t the latter. Though his mother hadn’t spoken much of his father, her silence had never been an angry one. It simply… hadn’t come up. I was too young to know how wrong our situation was.

Why hadn’t she said anything? Was she trying to protect Inger from the pain of abandonment? Or to protect her lover from the ruin a bastard son would bring to his life? Was she simply scared and alone, trying the best she could as the plague ravaged the city streets?

I’ll never know, he repeated to himself, the same conclusion he’d drawn a hundred times. And my father clearly doesn’t have those answers, either. All wondering will do is drive us both crazy.

Sighing, he looked back up from his hooves at his father. Tybalt and he shared a gaze across the table, uncertainly evaluating each other. “So here we are,” Inger said at last, briefly lifting his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I had all these things I wanted to say. I had a whole speech prepared, once. And somehow, when I look at you, I forget all of it.”

“I remember my speech,” offered Tybalt, with a hesitant smile. “I’m afraid it’s not very good. But the gist of it was this:” He grew somber. “Inger, what I did, what I didn’t do, the way I failed you and your mother—it’s unforgivable. You’ve every right to hate me. Yet, despite my failings… I’m so happy to see how you’ve thrived. Married, with two beautiful children; serving as the captain of the royal guard, a hero so famous that even these mercenaries know your deeds.”

Tybalt looked near to bursting with pride. “I just wish that I could have been part of those achievements, part of your life, like a father ought to have been. But there’s still time.” He took a deep breath. “I know you scarcely know me, but that’s why I wanted you to come with us to Elketh. I can’t hope to atone for my neglect in a few short weeks, but maybe… we could start to build something new together. The family we should have always been.” Finished, he tapped his steepled hooves nervously, waiting for Inger’s answer.

“I…” Inger found himself breathing hard. The room had started to spin again. His heart pounded in his chest as his father’s words echoed through his head.

You love me? You don’t even know me.

“You’re right,” said Inger, looking away. “You can’t fix this in a few weeks.”

Tybalt remained silent, but the dragon had woken in Inger’s chest, and it was angry. “My earliest memories of my mother are the two of us running from dogs, after stealing scraps of food from some noble’s refuse pile. That was my childhood, because of you. No one realizes that the mighty Dragonslayer spent his early years scrounging in the garbage to fill his growling belly. And my mother—the sacrifices she made for me—”

Inger choked as bitter tears welled up. “She always made sure I ate before she did. Cradled me while we slept in alleyways, trying to shelter from the freezing rain. Told me stories about the castle she worked in before she had me. When I asked why she’d left, she wouldn’t answer. Was she ashamed to have a bastard son? Was she worried about your career? Did someone know, and blackmail her? I’ve asked myself why for years. Why did we have to live the way we did? Why did I have to hear her coughing up blood as the scarlet plague took hold? Why did—” his voice broke.

Jerking back to face Tybalt, he spat, “Why did I have to watch them bury my mother alone?”

Tybalt bowed his head, and Inger realized with a start that he was quietly weeping. “Inger,” he said, brokenly, “I’m so sorry.”

Inger felt his righteous fury deflate. As much as the most wounded part of himself yearned to believe it, the crying stallion before him wasn’t evil. His absence had not been calculated cruelty, or romantic self-sacrifice, or even emotionless disregard. It was, in the end, merely a mistake made in ignorance. After all his wildest imaginings, his father was simply mortal. It didn’t excuse him, or make the hurt go away, but…

What purpose does holding this grudge serve, now? Inger exhaled. As the anger subsided, something else bubbled up to replace it: a familiar need, the same one that appeared whenever Windstreak gave him one of those maternal smiles. Family, he thought, watching his father weep. An idea stirred inside him. “If you really want to start making amends…”

“Anything,” said Tybalt, lifting his head. Though red-eyed and teary, he looked determined. “Anything, Inger. My word on it, as Count.”

Inger focused on his father’s locket, and swallowed. “I want to see her grave.”

* * *

Cranberry took a sip of tea and sighed with relief. “I can’t thank the two of you enough.”

“It’s no trouble.” Across the small round table, Tyria Strudel brushed a lock of brown mane out of her good eye. “Rye and I thought you might ask, after you told us about this expedition last week. Actually, he mentioned the idea again before he left for the castle this morning. Princess Celestia isn’t planning to send us anywhere soon—peace seems to have broken out over the whole globe.”

Tyria wore that crooked smile Cranberry had come to know so well in the last two years. She adjusted her eyepatch. “Anyway, we’d be happy to watch Apricot and Strawberry while you’re gone.”

“I know, I just… on such short notice…”

Tyria shrugged. “Life happens fast.” She tapped her eyepatch once more for good measure, subdued. “After Rye’s father… well. I hope being busy with the kids will keep him distracted, for a while.”

Cranberry sat her teacup back on the plate. “This must be hard for you, too.”

“I feel like I’m failing him.” confessed Tyria. She hunched over her cup, sighing. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve never lost a parent. I’m out of my depth.”

We all are, thought Cranberry, eyes creasing sadly. Rather than speak, she took another sip of tea.

There was a clatter from the other room. Cranberry frowned. “Apricot, you’re not making a mess in there, are you?”

Her son’s head poked around the door, cringing. “Sorry. I was trying to levitate the palette, and…”

Tyria hid a smile behind her hoof, shooting Cranberry an amused look. Cranberry sighed. “Just be careful, would you? Those paints are expensive.”

“Sorry… sorry…” he ducked back out.

“It’s all right,” said Tyria, eyes twinkling. “That room hasn’t been clean in years. He’s not the first to spill paint in there.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Rye and I keep planning to turn the guest room into a proper studio, but we just haven’t had time.”

“Not with Celestia sending you off to all four corners of the earth,” said Cranberry, glad for the change in subject. She shook her head, smiling. “I forgot to ask. How was Lleru?”

“Gorgeous,” said Tyria, brightening. “The jungle climbed right up the mountains. In the mornings, mist would come rolling down over the ziggurats, flooding through the trees like water…” She grinned confidently. “You wouldn’t believe some of the sketches I got. I’m going to do a whole series of landscapes.”

“You think they’ll be ready soon?”

“Define soon,” Tyria said wryly. “Rye doesn’t say it, but deep down he still thinks I could paint one of those huge canvases in a week, by sheer willpower. Always in a rush, that stallion,” she laughed. “I’m still mulling over titles, but I’ve already got the centerpiece in my head: Heart of the Llandes.” She sipped some tea. “I might have the linework and basic color blocking done by the time you and Inger return. How long do you plan to be gone?”

“A month, maybe two.” Cranberry traced the wood grain on the table. “Depending on what Locke discovered out there.”

“Digging up ancient elken ruins sounds so exciting.” Tyria rubbed her hooves with a wistful sigh. “Part of me wishes I was going with you. I’ve never been to the Commonwealth, but I hear it’s spectacular. They say there are hills covered in flowers as far as the eye can see. And the forests! Thick and moody, with trees older the princesses. If I could get out there for a couple of weeks with some pencils and drawing pads…”

“If you want some closer to home, there’s the Antlerwood…” Cranberry shivered. “I wouldn’t recommend it, though.”

“Right. Rye told me about that place. He always gets a little… twitchy if I mention it.”

Cranberry snorted. “He’s been twitchy ever since we were foals. It’s all that energy being crammed into a four-foot frame.”

“You don’t think he’s mellowed with age?” asked Tyria, wryly.

“If anything, he’s getting worse. I used to say he’d bounce to the moon if he didn’t calm down.”

“You’ve known him longer, I suppose…” Tyria blinked. She hesitantly adjusted her patch again, and let out a small laugh. “You know, I think he used to have a crush on you.”

The room abruptly cooled. Cranberry’s tea tasted ashen in her mouth. Tyria had clearly been joking, but Cranberry felt a flash of old guilt. She’d never quite forgotten the moment Rye had first found out about her and Inger, on the trek north through Sleipnord. Rye himself had long since moved on—especially after meeting Tyria—but Cranberry’s own memory of how badly she’d hurt him had never quite faded.

Choosing her words carefully, she shrugged and said, “We grew up together.” Smiling, she gave Tyria a little nod. “And I’ve never seen him as happy as he’s been since he came back from Zyre.”

“Oh!” Tyria lit up. “I—Oh, that’s…” She fiddled with the corner of her sketchpad, blushing.

“That said,” Cranberry eased back in her cushion, “if you ever strangled him in a fit of irritation, we’d all understand.”

The other mare snickered. “Oh, he’s not so bad…”

“Hey, Aunt Tyria!” Apricot’s head poked around the door again. “Do you have any reds brighter than crimson?”

“Vermillion #2932. Top shelf, sixth bottle from the left,” she recited. “Don’t use too much. That one really is expensive.”

“I just need enough for the eyes,” he said, lost in thought. Horn glowing rose, he vanished once more.

Tyria’s eyebrows lifted approvingly. In a low voice, she spoke to Cranberry. “Y’know, I realize he mostly paints for the levitation practice, but he’s not bad. If you wanted me to give him lessons, I think I could make a real artist out of him.” She chuckled, shrugging. “Although he cares more about magic than color theory.”

“I just wish one of the boys would take an interest in history,” sighed Cranberry ruefully. “You and Rye ever think about having your own?”

“We’ve talked about it.” Tyria stopped fiddling with her sketchbook.

“Summer’s coming up,” said Cranberry, slightly embarrassed at her own suggestion. “Best time of the year to try.”

“It wasn’t that.” Tyria lifted the pad and flipped through a few pages. She frowned, scanning the charcoal sketches. Just when the silence had grown awkward enough that Cranberry was about to change the subject again, Tyria spoke. “When I first brought it up, Rye was terrified.”

“Really?” Cranberry blinked. “But he’s so good with Strawberry and Apricot.”

“Well… he was worried that any children we had might be…” Tyria tilted her head, grimacing. “You know. Like him. Pegacorns.”

Cranberry’s stomach sank. “Oh.”

“I told him I didn’t give a damn,” said Tyria, suddenly fierce. “I’d love our children whether they had horns, wings, both, or neither.”

“Windstreak and Apricot loved him, too,” said Cranberry sadly, fiddling with her teacup. “But it didn’t make his life easy. It still isn’t. You remember those awful ponies at the funeral.”

Tyria nodded, her mouth tight. “But he overcame it. He’s happy now. Well… aside from…” She sighed, shaking her head. Apricot Strudel’s ghost loomed over them both. After a gloomy pause, still fiddling with her sketchbook, Tyria continued. “I convinced him to at least go with me to see the royal physician, to prove to him that the chances of our child being a pegacorn were small. But… it backfired.”

She looked up at the ceiling, biting back emotion as the sketchbook slipped from her hooves. “The doctor did some research in the archives, and got back to us with bad news. She told us that pegacorns can’t… they can’t even have…” Tyria faltered. “That is to say, there… aren’t any records of pegacorns having children at all.”

On the table, the sketchbook lay bare. Cranberry glimpsed a page filled with drawings of colts and fillies, of all three pony races. Lost for words, she swallowed. “Tyria…”

“She might have been wrong. I mean, pegacorns are so rare in the first place, maybe no one really knows for sure.” Tyria bit her lip again.

Cranberry didn’t think she wanted pity or trite platitudes, so she gave her friend a hug. Tyria returned it, exhaling. “All we can do is try,” she said, determined. “We’ve beaten the odds plenty of times before. And hey,” she continued warmly, “watching your kids is good practice. We’ll keep them out of trouble while you and Inger are off with Count What’s-his-name.”

“Vallen.”

Tyria twitched in surprise. “Wait a minute. Vallen? Tybalt Vallen, of the Rose Valley?”

Cranberry had a sinking feeling. “Yes. You know him?”

Tyria bit her lip. “I know of him. My hometown, Ferndale, is very close to Silverglen. If we’d lived a few kilometers north, he’d be my family’s liege lord.”

“Uh…” Cranberry shifted uncertainly. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Well… I don’t know.” Tyria closed her sketchbook, chewing her lip. “Tybalt has a… mixed reputation in the south. He’s a champion of the common pony in the council of lords. He’s invested heavily in public works projects, and he’s very attentive to his vassals. But, uh, he’s very principled. Dangerously principled. They don’t call him Rose Lord as a compliment—roses are pretty to look at, but venture too close and you’ll get pricked by the thorns. He has a way of tangling ponies up in his schemes. Sometimes they get hurt.”

“What kinds of schemes?” asked Cranberry, eyes narrowing. Is that what happened to Pad Locke?

“It’s well-known he doesn’t love the crown. He’s infamous for his confrontations with Celestia in the council of lords, always pushing for more southern autonomy. Growing up, I heard the word sedition thrown around.” Tyria shook her head. “Ultimately, he backed Celerity Belle in the civil war—and lost both his children to it. I haven’t heard much about him since the princess granted blanket amnesty for the southern nobles.”

Cranberry’s stomach swam uneasily. Should I tell Inger? She remembered that longing look in her husband’s eyes. Could she tear that hope from him based on so little? Not if I don’t have to… “I don’t think it’ll matter in Elketh. Our expedition has nothing to do with the princess.”

Tyria looked out the window, still frowning. “When it comes to Tybalt Vallen, I’m not sure that’s ever true.”

* * *

The tiny copper plaques were half-coated by a creeping verdigris patina. The dull green blended so well into the grass that the eye could slide right over them, even if you knew they were there. Tucked away behind a carpenter’s workshop, atop the slight knoll that rolled down into a series of residential areas, the place was like a tiny island of nature in the busy city streets.

Inger had walked and flown past this place a thousand times, unsuspecting. There was no sign out front, no marker or notice that this sleepy little backstreet held over a dozen burial plots. They were so small that they didn’t even have tombstones, just the little plates of copper. All bore the same date—314, the year the scarlet plague had swept through the city in a brief, deadly summer. The dying had been so rapid and widespread that, for a few brutal weeks, the city had buried victims wherever they could find room. Record-keeping and tracking the names of the dead had been secondary to preventing the spread. Many of the plaques read Unknown.

But not the one at Inger’s hooves. He stared down at the small name engraved in the copper. Pomegranate.

Tybalt, at his side, gently set down a white rose on the nameplate. They’d stopped together at a florist’s on the way, buying flowers in uneasy silence. Neither had said much on the walk here. Inger’s own flower, a tulip, fluttered gently in his mouth as a breeze passed. As his mane billowed in the wind, Inger was suddenly plunged back in time.

A small, crying foal stood on the far side of the hill, and watched as the doctors in thick dark robes emptied the cart. They wore so much protective gear that they scarcely looked like ponies. Beaked nightmares ferried the bodies from the cart into the wide stretch of earth that had been hastily shoveled open. The foal’s mother already lay within, as if sleeping. He still hoped that they’d been wrong, that even now she would open her eyes again and walk away with him.

The vividness of the memory shook him. The tulip fell to the ground, rolling onto the plaque, as Inger’s vision blurred. Hot tears dripped onto the grass. “I was here when they buried her,” he choked. “They… they asked me if I knew her name, so I told them. Then they pressed it into that plate with some metal machine and… and started shoveling the dirt onto them all…”

With a quake, his legs nearly failed him. Inger sniffed, wiping his eyes. “She was so pale. All of them were…”

Tybalt looked as if he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t coming. He rested a hoof on Inger’s shoulder. Inger looked at him, tears flowing freely. “Why weren’t you here?” he asked again, closer to a plea than an accusation.

“Because I was a coward,” said Tybalt, his voice filled with self-loathing. “I was too afraid to come back for you and Meg. I was worried about losing my family, about Eurydice, about my house’s reputation. In the end, I lost them all anyway.”

Inger wiped his eyes, sitting back in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Eurydice died in childbirth along with our third foal,” said Tybalt tonelessly, staring up at the clear sky. “Orpheon and Atalanta, my beloved children, both perished in the War of Whitetail. My house’s reputation was ruined after the war. I had nothing left. Nothing but the faint, dim hope that somewhere, my last child still lived.”

With a deep breath, he pressed his hoof to the copper nameplate. “I visited dozens of mass graves. After so much fruitless searching, I began to think that the two of you lay buried together in some nameless street, just a plaque with Unknown to mark your resting place. But then I found hers… and her name was the only one on the plate. I knew you were alive. So I swore that I’d find you, even if it took the rest of my life and all the wealth my house had left.”

“All gone…?” Inger felt a sudden, keening loss. Part of him had wanted fiercely to meet his half-siblings. Now, he never would.

“You are my only living blood, Inger.” Tybalt looked gaunt. “My last chance for… redemption. To be the father I should have been sixteen years ago. To show you—to prove to you that I love you. I always have. Even before I knew your name.” He hugged Inger briefly, before giving him a little space.

It still hurt. But now, the pain was tempered with hope. The old bitter edge of his grief had softened. Tybalt’s frank admission of his failings had finally broken down his doubts. That desire for reconciliation was genuine, Inger was certain of it.

“I don’t want to be your redemption,” said Inger, with hoarse, wounded honesty. “Sixteen years is a long time, Father. But…” He put his hoof on Tybalt’s shoulder, meeting his gaze. “We are family. And… I’m willing to try to fix things.”

Tybalt’s golden eyes brightened for the first time since reaching the grave. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Inger found that he meant it. “Even if it hurts. I…” His voice caught. “I’d like to know my father.”

“And you will,” insisted Tybalt, standing up with sudden vibrant energy. “By the time we’re finished in Elketh, Inger, we’ll be a true family, the way we always should have been. I swear it to you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Inger, managing a smile. He looked back down at the flowers and the plaque. “I think I’m ready to go.”

Goodbye, Mother. He kissed his hoof and pressed it to the plaque, feeling the breeze filter through his mane.

As the two departed, Tybalt looked up at the glittering gold minarets of the Sun Castle. “So… what’s it like, being in the royal guard?”

Inger marveled for a moment at the mundanity of the question. I suppose we have to start somewhere. He flapped his wings. “Why don’t I show you? Let’s go for a flight over the castle. I can get us in closer than they let most civilians.”

Tybalt nodded hesitantly, before breaking out into a smile. “All right.” His onyx wings spread wide. “I haven’t actually seen it up close since the reconstruction.”

“And on the way,” said Inger, as the two took to the air, “you can tell me about the Rose Valley. What’s your home like?”

“It’s a lot warmer down there than Canterlot,” said Tybalt, with a small chuckle. “Right around this time of year, the grapevines are starting to bloom. You can see the family vineyard right out the window in my chambers…”

As his father talked about his distant home, Inger realized that he was actually looking forward to the coming journey. Maybe, he thought, almost afraid to admit it to himself, just maybe, this could actually work.

* * *

The rest of the week passed in a blur. Cranberry made the arrangements for her leave of absence at the university, which proved easy—the rest of the classics department was equally invested in discovering Professor Locke’s whereabouts. Inger had little trouble obtaining an extended leave either, with well-wishes from the princess and wry approval from Wheatie.

Both began the frenzy of packing that always preceded a dig. Inger was bringing his armor and little else, but Cranberry’s supplies soon took up several bags. Innumerable brushes, shovels, and magnifying lenses of varying degrees constituted the bulk of her excavation tools. She was also bringing copies of dozens of texts on the Dominion—a few of which she had helped to write—quills, a copious quantity of ink, and a blank journal, with fresh pages ready for notes.

Locke was the one who’d gotten her into the habit of always starting her expedition logs before the actual day of departure. The research begins long before you get dust on your hooves, he’d often told her with a smile. Even though the dust is the fun part. Squinting in the dim light of the oil lamp on her bedside table, she scribbled the first entry.

Tomorrow we set off for the coast. Behind her, Inger lay slumbering with a hoof draped over her side. Cranberry did her best to stay still while writing, hoping that the scratching of her pen wouldn’t wake him. It’ll be nice to see the countryside again. It’s been half a year since I last left the city to visit the Middengard dig. Even longer since my trip to the Commonwealth to visit the university in Cariboulla. Sadly, we won’t be stopping there on our way to Elketh. Perhaps on the return journey? I’m sure they’ll be fascinated by whatever Locke has found.

I can’t help but wonder about it. He spent nearly five months at this mysterious ‘nexus’ of his, yet all the reports Tybalt’s shared with me were generic updates about food stocks and tunnel systems. They definitely found something down there, but the details are sketchy at best. Something about a large cavern, some kind of siphon, and a curious river—barely any details about any of them. I’m itching to get a look at it all firsthoof. Once we arrive, Locke can explain his findings… and why he hasn’t kept in touch with me since departing on the expedition.

Inger shifted in his sleep, pulling her closer. Cranberry smiled. Inger might be even more excited than I am. He’s been spending nearly every waking hour at the warehouse with his father. It reminds me of how Rye used to get when Papa Strudel made sweetrolls…

She paused, chiding herself. This was supposed to be an academic document, not a personal diary. Though… she would, of course, have the chance to edit it before anyone else saw it. And writing things down made her feel better.

I’m worried that Apricot isn’t taking our departure well. This morning, he asked again if he could come with us. I wish it was a sudden interest in elkish history, but his motives are pretty clear. Every time Inger comes home from the mercenary lodgings, Apricot’s all over him asking if he saw that mage, Pollux. I’ve tried explaining why we can’t bring him along, but once he gets an idea in his head he never lets go… He got so mad at me today that I’m not sure he’ll even want to see us off tomorrow.

Between all this and the funeral, I’m starting to feel stretched thin as gossamer. All I want is to forget it all for a few weeks, and get deep into some artifact study with Pad.

With a sigh, she abruptly tucked the pen between the pages and snapped the journal shut. Setting it down on the nightstand along with her folded reading glasses, she extinguished the oil lamp and laid her head down on the pillow. Perhaps tonight, sleep would come more swiftly than it had of late. Cranberry closed her eyes and willed her consciousness to recede.

* * *

Two rooms down the hall, there was another Sugar finding no respite. Apricot stared up at the ceiling from his bed, hooves tucked over the sheets and fidgeting restlessly.

The entire house had been bustling and churning with dozens of unfamiliar faces for a week. Camels, mostly, but there had been a griffon and an antelope as well. None stayed long, merely conferring with Apricot’s father or picking up his mother’s supplies before departing. It was exciting to be around them, especially when the camel named Kaduat had asked him to show her a few magic tricks.

Yet that wasn’t the reason Apricot had spent every morning with his snout pressed up to the window, waiting for them arrive. One mercenary had not returned since that first night. He’d seen no sign of the red-robed unicorn named Pollux all week. Apricot sighed, turning over to stare at the wall.

“Quit rustling around,” grumbled Strawberry from the bed on the other side of the room. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Meekly, Apricot pulled the covers up over his shoulders. It wasn’t like he was tryingto keep his brother up, but there was no way he was going to be able to sleep tonight. His parents and the expedition were leaving tomorrow. The next morning might be his only chance. His last chance.

Magic is his whole job, he ruminated, his thoughts running through well-worn grooves. He knows things even Mr. Strudel didn’t. Apricot tucked his chin down, feeling another pang of loss. While he missed his teacher, he couldn’t deny the desperate hope that Pollux had kindled inside him. This is the closest I’ve ever come to having a master like the ponies at the academy.

It would be almost a year before he was old enough to even apply for entry into the Canterlot Royal Magic Academy. They were the most selective institution in the north, and how was he going to get in if he couldn’t even lift a pot of vegetables without struggling? But if someone could train him before then, if an experienced battlemage like Pollux took him as an apprentice… maybe he wouldn’t even need the academy. He had to convince his parents to bring him with them.

Of course, he was no further along with that plan than he had been a week ago. And now, he was out of time. Apricot twisted over to bury his face in his pillow, huffing in despair. This might be his only chance, and it was already slipping through his hooves.

Strawberry let out an aggravated groan. “Just count sheep or something, Pinky.”

Muffled by the pillow, Apricot retorted, “I’m not pink, I’m cerise.” He lifted his head and looked over at his brother. “I never even got the chance to ask that mage to teach me! He never came back to the house, not once.”

“Don’t you think that’s your answer?” Strawberry sighed, sitting upright. “I’m sorry, Pinky. I don’t think he wants a student. He’s a mercenary, not a teacher.”

“But they didn’t even let me ask!”

Uneasily, Strawberry gestured with a hoof. “Mom and Dad’ll find you a new teacher when they get back—”

“Ugh,” said Apricot, giving his pillow a frustrated thwack. “That’s what they keep saying, but it’s always later, later, and then it never happens.” He sat up straight, nervously nibbling a hoof. “They tell me to practice my magic, but whenever I do Mom says it’s too dangerous, or Dad tells me not to do it in the house, or they say there isn’t time right now. Mr. Strudel’s the only one who ever—”

His eyes were suddenly damp. Wiping them, Apricot took a sharp breath. “He told me to never give up. Now that he’s… gone, Pollux is my last shot.”

Strawberry managed a sympathetic look. “There are plenty of mages out there. You’ll find another. Now let’s go to sleep, okay?”

“You don’t know if I’ll find another one,” shot back Apricot, gritting his teeth in frustration. “Besides, what are the odds the next unicorn is somepony who knows as much as him? He’s a mercenary, a real battlemage,someone who casts all kinds of spells, for real, not just in classrooms.” He gave his brother a pleading stare. “You got to learn flying from the captain of the Firewings. Who’s going to teach me?”

That hit home. Strawberry chewed his lip, thinking for a few moments. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. Apricot watched curiously as his brother mulled something over, finally turning back to face him. “Apricot… How bad do you want this? Really?”

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” said Apricot wistfully, rubbing a hoof on his horn. He glanced at his bare flank, wilting. “I want to be good at magic. Really good. The way you want to be as good at flying as Dad is.”

Strawberry sucked air through his teeth, then let it out with a resigned sigh. “I’m going to regret this…”

Apricot’s ears perked up. “Regret what?”

“Do you remember when we used to play the quiet game?”

Apricot frowned. “That wasn’t a game. You just wanted me to shut up.”

“And you were good at it, until you figured that out,” said Strawberry, dryly. “Point is, you think you could stay that quiet again?”

With a scowl, Apricot rolled his eyes. For a moment, he’d thought his brother was going to help, but he just wanted Apricot to be silent so he could go to sleep—

“For… say, two whole weeks?”

Apricot blinked. “Huh?”

Strawberry rubbed his chin. “They said it’ll be two weeks before they reach the island. If you get that far, they couldn’t just turn around and send you back…”

Apricot’s eyes widened. Not trusting himself to speak, he watched Strawberry mull it over, his orange feathers fluttering. “We could hide some food with you…”

“What are you saying…?”

Strawberry rubbed his chin. “I’m still deciding.” He grimaced, raising an eyebrow. “You’re gonna owe me for this, Pinky. Big time.”

“Not pink, cer—”

“I mean it,” his brother cut him off, swatting a hoof. “Mom and Dad are going to kill us both. Aunt Tyria, too.” He snickered. “Although Uncle Rye might be impressed, if we pull it off.”

Apricot finally threw his covers aside and stepped out of the bed. “Pull what off?”

Strawberry rolled out of his bed and trotted swiftly over to their window. With a brief grunt, he hauled it up, letting the cool night air roll in. Peering out, he looked down. “It’s a bit of a drop. We’ll have to be as quiet as we can.” He looked back at Apricot. “I, uh… followed Dad to the warehouse a couple days ago. From the air. I just wanted to see what they were doing over there. Maybe, uh… see our grandpa.” Shrugging, he turned back out the window. “I remember how to get there, but we won’t have much time.”

With a gulp, Apricot nodded. Strawberry took it for assent and stepped out through the window, flapping his wings as he hovered. “You can’t take anything with you. We’ll work out how to hide you when we get there. And you absolutely can’t get caught, got it?”

“Got it,” said Apricot, springing toward the window. His heart was pounding. Is this actually happening?

Strawberry helped him clamber out, and managed to lower him down slowly enough that the two alighted on their hooves rather than an undignified pile. Apricot was trying not to hyperventilate, as the realization of how many rules they were breaking began to set in.

“What about Rye and Tyria?” Apricot whispered, as they started off into the night-shadowed city streets.

“Let me worry about them,” said Strawberry. “Now shh; we don’t want to attract any attention.”

“Okay. And Strawberry?” Apricot followed him with growing hope. “Thank you.”

Strawberry grinned. “Thank me when you’re a mage, Pinky.”

Apricot was too busy thinking about the red-robed unicorn to correct the name.