Thicker Than Water

The creaking planks of the Aurora woke Inger with gentle insistence. Yawning, he blinked in the bright morning sun. The tiny porthole at the end of the room was facing east, shining a beam right into his face. Inger shielded his eyes with a hoof, turning his head to see Cranberry’s golden curls flutter as she snored softly beside him.

Smiling, he toyed with a frizzy lock of her mane. The bunk was meant for one, so they were squeezed in tight. Though, he thought smugly, there are worse fates than waking up pressed against a gorgeous mare. She could have taken the top bunk instead, of course… but since the Aurora’s captain had been generous enough to give them the room to themselves, they’d taken advantage of the privacy.

Nuzzling her, Inger traced a hoof along the curve of her hip. She was always beautiful, but never more so than when she was asleep. Her face was wiped blank of all worry, her soft mane spooling across the pillow, completely at peace. It was the first time he’d seen her this relaxed in weeks.

Cranberry’s eyes blinked open, and she tilted her head incrementally with a faint smile. “Morning…”

Inger kissed her cheek, rubbing her leg. “Sleep well?”

“I never sleep well on ships,” she said, her smile turning coy. “Despite your efforts to exhaust me.”

“It’s still early,” he said, nibbling her ear. Cranberry inhaled sharply, closing her eyes. Inger’s hoof slid lower. “Plenty of time for a nap…”

Cranberry tensed, and then pressed her hindquarters back into him with a faint sigh. His hoof wiggled between her legs, teasing. Inger raised an eyebrow. “Or we could pass the time another way.”

“You…” she breathed, “are incorrigible.”

“What can I say, being on a ship with you reminds me of our honeymoon to the tropics,” he said, stroking his hoof gently. “Besides. Those tents we slept in on the way to Fillydelphia were too thin to… risk any noise.”

“Oho,” she purred, twisting over in the bunk to face him. “So, you’re all pent up, is that it?”

Inger bit his lip as he felt her hoof slip down beneath the sheets. “Mhm. Reminded me of being on patrol without you. I can never wait to get back home…”

Cranberry’s hooftip traced up along his sensitive skin. “And here, we don’t even have to wait for the kids to fall asleep.”

“Remind me to thank my father for the opportunity,” said Inger, exhaling with a happy shiver.

“Oh. Yes.” The hoof on him paused. Cranberry’s eyes unfocused for a moment, then she rapped his chest with her free hoof. “You were going to go cloudbreaking with him and Castor today, weren’t you?”

Inger had the sinking feeling that he’d made a mistake of some kind. “Um… if the need arises. But I don’t have to leave right—”

“No, no.” Cranberry rolled over and stepped out of the bunk, yawning and going into a catlike stretch. “I shouldn’t keep you.” She stood up straight after the stretch, with a smile that seemed a little too stiff. “After all… you came on this trip to spend time with him.”

Sitting up with the sheets spooled around him, Inger watched her tread over to the smudged mirror on the cabin wall, where she began fighting her mane under control. It was to spend time with you, too, he thought, but he wasn’t sure saying so would be wise. Instead, he threw the sheets aside and stepped out of the bunk onto the swaying floor.

Joining Cranberry by the mirror, he picked up the wooden toothbrush provided with the cabin, and began scrubbing the sleep out of his mouth. “Learn anyfing elfe about Locke laft nigh’?” he mumbled around his hoof.

“Not a lot,” she said, frowning. “I’m still poring over the reports he was sending back. They’re unusually terse, by Pad’s standards. Just dates, brief geography, and the barest descriptions of some ruins. Very vague. And very strange. Normally, he’s pretty wordy in his journals… even more than I am.”

“Mebbe th’ courier shervice made ‘im pay by the word,” said Inger, still scrubbing.

Cranberry let out a gratifying snicker. “It’s not cheap to send missives from somewhere as remote as Elketh,” she admitted. “Still, your father seems to have spared no expense on Pad’s expedition. They had a lot of material with them—a bunch of carts, supplies, and enough lumber to build a small village. The reports don’t mention anything about trouble on the way into the forest. In fact, it seems like everything went smoothly…”

Wiping his mouth and splashing his face in the small bucket of water they’d been given for hygiene purposes, Inger smacked his lips, freshened. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll find them.” He gave her a kiss, drawing a reluctant smile out of her worried expression.

“I know.” She sighed. “I’m going to read through from the beginning again. Maybe I’ve missed something.” Cranberry nudged his shoulder. “Now, go on. Your father’s waiting for you.”

Inger nodded and stepped away toward the cabin door. As he pulled it open and stepped through, he cast a glance back over his shoulder. Cranberry was still gazing into the mirror, with a strangely resigned look. He wanted to say something, or tug her back into bed to make her forget all her troubles for a few minutes, but she noticed him out of the corner of her eye and turned with a smile. “Scoot!” she said, gesturing with a hoof.

With a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, Inger slid out the door and shut it behind him.

* * *

Though Inger didn’t love sea travel, he had to admit there was something invigorating about the brine-soaked oceanic air. It was somehow organic, carrying that faint salty odor of paradoxical freshness and decay. The water stretched out to infinity on all sides around the Aurora, broken by minor swells and rippling waves. The weather had been calm so far on their voyage. The expedition’s three pegasi had yet to encounter anything resembling an incipient storm while doing their rounds.

It wasn’t wasted time, though. Flitting through the thin wisps of cirrus together was a chance to get a real feel for the others. You never truly knew another pegasus until you’d flown together, as the old saying went. So far, Castor had proven as capable a flier as any Firewing. Attentive to the weather patterns, detail-oriented, yet calm and willing to let his fellow pegasi do their job without micromanaging. Inger’s estimation of him as a commander rose daily. It was little wonder that Katabasis Company was still around even after a decade of activity.

Tybalt, too, was revealed by his efforts. While obviously not as practiced at weatherforging as the two soldiers—Inger doubted that the noblepony had done much of his own climate maintenance back home in Silverglen—he had admirably kept pace with them despite his age. More tellingly, he did so without complaint. When Inger had obliquely questioned him about it, Tybalt had grinned and replied, “I’m a part of this expedition, aren’t I?”

The two had returned from the most recent afternoon flight only a few minutes ago, alighting on the long yard holding the mainsail. Castor departed to see to some logistical matter, leaving them alone in a peaceful quiet. Tybalt relaxed by draping his hooves over the yard, while Inger leaned back against the mast and watched the waves lap against the sides of the hull.

The sun had sunk low enough in the sky that dinner couldn’t be far off. Enough time to talk. Glancing at his father, Inger grinned. “You ever been on a ship this big before?” he asked, idly toying with a loose bit of line.

“Only once,” said Tybalt. He smiled down at the deck, where a few members of the ship’s crew and some of the mercenaries were playing cards. “I took a ship from the Delta up to the Duchy of Norhart with my father back when I was a colt. We passed quite close to the coast of Wyrmgand on the way around the peninsula. I remember it vividly, especially when a dragon flew over the ship. Just a little one, not even the length of the vessel, but I’ll never forget it. All those glittering blue scales, those vast, featherless wings… I’ve never seen its like since.”

“They are beautiful,” Inger mused, scratching his chest. “Terrible, but beautiful.”

“Hmm,” said Tybalt, raising an eyebrow. “They say Celestia still keeps the skull of the dragon you killed in the castle sublevels.”

Inger nodded with a shrug. “It’s down there, in some storage chamber. We weren’t really sure what to do with the body after the battle. It was huge, at least thrice the length of the Aurora.” He gestured below at the ship, for a sense of scale. “No chance of burning it—dragons bathe in liquid rock for fun. Once it started to rot, though, we had to do something. You could smell it everywhere in town, and it was bad enough to make your eyes tear up.”

“Eugh.”

“I think it was Windstreak who came up with the idea of hauling the carcass up into the mountains. It took over a hundred pegasi, forty mages from the academy, and the Nordpony king’s entire retinue, but we managed to shift the whole bulk out of the field and into the peaks. We let the vultures have it, like an old griffon sky burial.”

Tybalt looked simultaneously nauseated and fascinated. “Then how did it end up beneath the castle? Did Celestia take it as a trophy?”

“Er, no… I don’t think that’s really her style.” Inger shook his head. “Nature stripped the carcass clean in a few months, but the bones were too big for wild animals to cart off, and they wouldn’t decay. The princess didn’t want such a macabre tourist attraction right next to the capital, so she had them disassembled and collected. Some went to mages’ towers across the nation—I know the archmage of Whitetail was eager to get his hooves on some. Tremendous magical properties, dragonbone. We never did find a place for the skull, though, so it’s just sitting in the basement with the rest of the royal junk.”

He’d walked in on it, once. It was dark down there, with no light except what you brought with you. Inger had been searching for some mothballed Firewing training equipment, and stumbled into the storage room with his torch to find the massive, grinning skull staring at him with empty eye sockets flickering in the torchlight. Merys’s teeth were still as huge and sharp as the day Inger had fought him. Shivering at the memory, he knocked a hoof against the mast behind his head. “If the dragons had a government, I’m sure she’d return the remains to them. But the dragons don’t really do… nations.”

“No,” said Tybalt, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Imagine how much trouble we’d be in if they ever organized.” He grinned at Inger. “You’d have to ask the nordponies to lend you that hammer again.”

Inger snickered. “I don’t know how many more dragonslayings I have in me.” Sobering, he exhaled. “Besides. Even with the hammer, the only reason I won against Merys was because Celestia had wounded him so badly already.” Fraud, whispered the tiny dragon. He ignored it.

“So humble! You know, you’ve got noble blood,” Tybalt teased, “you’re allowed to be a little full of yourself.” He returned his eyes to the waves below, his warm smile turning sour. “A shame it took a dragon setting her castle on fire for Celestia to enter the war.”

Inger blinked, momentarily wordless. “Father!”

“Hm?”

“You shouldn’t talk about the princess that way,” Inger said, nervously rubbing his shoulder. “It’s… it’s…”

Tybalt’s mouth thinned. “Entirely warranted, I think.”

“She’s our goddess!” Inger gaped at him.

“That doesn’t make her infallible.” Tybalt calmly raised an eyebrow, giving Inger an even look. “Does it?”

“Well… no, of course not…” Inger fidgeted. “I’ve seen her make mistakes. But—”

Tybalt nodded once, sharply. “And her dithering at the start of the war was a mistake, the worst she’s made in our lifetimes. If it weren’t for Celerity Belle, we would have lost to the griffons without so much as a fight.”

“The princess was trying to avoid a civil war,” protested Inger. He sat forward on the yard, wings fluttering anxiously. “One that did nearly as much damage as the griffons, in the end.”

“I know,” said Tybalt, shaking his head, “but her inaction helped cause that war. Good intentions dig mass graves.”

“So do cold calculations,” said Inger, with a bleak sigh. He’d talked enough with Rye about diplomatic crises to know that high-stakes politics were usually more about holding on to the reins than choosing a destination. “No one can see the future. Not even a goddess.”

“True…” Tybalt acknowledged this with a rueful nod. “In that, she’s not so different from us.”

Encouraged, Inger pushed on. “Emmet Blueblood and Celerity Belle caused that war, not Celestia. And she did as much as she was able to, in the circumstances—she sent me and Ambassador Strudel to Sleipnord, and the Firewings to Trellow.”

“Oh?” Tybalt’s eyebrow arched further, his voice extremely dry. “I thought the Firewings were acting on their own, by going to Trellow…”

That was the official story, and if anyone believed it, then Inger had a bridge to sell them. He gave his father a deadpan look, and Tybalt snorted, amused. “Fair enough, then. But she doesn’t get many points for that. If she’d come to Trellow herself, the griffon invasion would never have passed the river.”

“She didn’t bring down a flood of fire on the griffons at Trellow for the same reason she didn’t crush Emmet and Celerity.” Inger could see he wasn’t convincing his father, and tried to find better words. “She wants us—not just ponies, but all mortals—to be free to make our own choices.”

“If that’s so,” said Tybalt, giving Inger a curious look, “then why does she remain Equestria’s ruler? Why not let us self-determine our own leadership?”

Inger was thrown yet again. “You mean like the Antellucíans?”

“I don’t mean a parliamentary system,” said Tybalt, frowning thoughtfully. “I’m not sure mob rule would be an improvement over monarchy. But the council of lords ought to be invested with their nominal authority in truth.” Frustrated, he shook his head. “Equestria has a whole aristocracy, raised to serve their subjects as capable rulers, only to realize as they come of age that they have no true power. Is it any wonder that so many turn to money-grubbing, like Emmet Blueblood? Or wasteful extravagance, like Lady Weatherforge? Or social climbing like the Bellemonts? Whole generations of us become wastrels because Celestia asks nothing better of us. She’ll take care of things for Equestria.”

Tybalt suddenly sagged a little. “We could be so much better, Inger, if only we were allowed to rise to the task. Surely we can rule ourselves—the Antellucíans and Zyrans don’t need a goddess to lead them, so why should we?” The question was mild, his voice gentler than Inger expected after such fiery words.

Inger wasn’t convinced. “Celestia’s wiser than you give her credit for. Before the War of Whitetail, we had three hundred years of peace. No other nation can match that record.” He chewed his lip. “I admit, she’s not perfect; but you don’t live for six thousand years without having a lot of mistakes under your belt.”

“That’s my point, Inger,” insisted Tybalt. “I won’t be around that long. One way or another, in twenty years I’ll be dead. The ponies who come after me will have changed to fit the times, more capable leaders for their era than I or anyone else alive now could hope to be. They’ll have new perspectives, new directions for Equestria to pursue… but it won’t matter, because the crown will still rest on Celestia’s head.”

“You think we’ve stagnated,” said Inger, quietly.

“I know we have.” Tybalt waved a hoof. “Look at how quickly the world is changing. The nordponies have united under a king. The griffons are developing new technologies with vast destructive potential. The Zyrans are building a sea-spanning economic empire. When was the last time Equestria acted, instead of reacting? We’re following the elk into the footnotes of history.”

Inger was at a loss for a response. Rye would have some counterargument, he was certain, but heady political matters weren’t something Inger spent enough time thinking about to come up with anything convincing. “I…”

Tybalt sighed with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to push so hard. Political griping is what sustains us old nobles, you know.” That managed to draw a nervous chuckle from Inger. Tybalt nodded to him. “Never be afraid to test your beliefs against others. Especially if you disagree. It’s a good habit.”

“I just… Celestia’s more than my princess,” said Inger, fiddling with his hooves. “She’s my friend.”

“Ah.” Tybalt softened. “I’ve never been quite sure what to think of all her talk about friendship. How can an immortal alicorn have any true companions? We’re like mayflies to her.” He gave a mystified shrug. “I always assumed it was a trick to encourage loyalty among her servants. After all, the pay can’t be that good.”

“It’s not a trick.” Inger lifted an eyebrow. “You think she really needs a full guard retinue? This is the mare who fought a dragon the size of a fortress by herself, and nearly killed it. When the Firewings aren’t on deployment, we’re mostly there for her company, not her protection.” He grinned. “And the pay’s not that bad…”

That got a laugh out of Tybalt, as well as a thoughtful nod.

“You only see her as the princess, but to me…” Inger smiled. “When she’s alone with her Firewings, she relaxes. There’s a side to her that most ponies never see. Warm, casual, even a little silly—and obsessed with tea. I think she goes through two kettles a day.” He laughed, shaking his head. “And she can pull a prank like no one else. One time, she had the new recruits thinking there was a vampire goose lurking somewhere on the castle grounds. She says her sister was even better at it.”

“Hm…” Tybalt contemplated the setting sun with a faint smile. “Perhaps she’s more mortal than I give her credit for.”

A sound of wood scraping over wood drew Inger’s attention downward. Glancing below at the deck, he saw camels hauling tables into position on the deck. “Looks like it’s dinnertime. Let’s go help them set up.”

Tybalt groaned, but smiled. “More work…? My wings are sore from all that flying.”

“Come on. Beatriz and Kaduat will appreciate it.” Inger winked. “Think of it as a… trick, to encourage loyalty.”

“Oof!” Tybalt laughed, standing up and flexing his wings. “You get that tongue from your mother.”

“The work ethic, too, apparently,” chuckled Inger. “You were just saying it’s a noble’s duty to serve.”

“Serving carrot stew wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Tybalt muttered with a lofted brow, making Inger snicker as the two leaped off the yard to flutter down to the deck.

* * *

The tables were heavier than they looked. After fifteen minutes, Inger was beginning to regret volunteering himself. He puffed out a weary breath as he prepared to start moving yet another up from the hold, when the other end of the table was taken by a familiar pony.

“Tsk, tsk,” murmured Cranberry, lifting up her end of the table, resting it over her back with a foreleg raised to steady it. “What happened to my big, strong pegasus?”

Bashfully, he cleared his throat. “He’s hungry! I’m sure he’ll be recovered after dinner.”

“A likely story,” she teased. “Come on, or we’ll miss the stew while it’s hot.”

Together, they hauled the table through the hold, stepping past the racks and racks of supplies the mercenaries had brought on the Aurora. Near the barrels just before the steps up to the deck, they crossed paths with Castor. He was peering intently at one of the barrels, rubbing his chin. Inger paused beside him, hefting the table. “What are you looking for, leaks?”

Castor grunted. “Rat droppings. Beatriz tells me more supplies have gone missing. Another loaf of bread, which makes three since we left Canterlot.”

Cranberry shivered. “Oh, no. I hate rats.”

“I haven’t seen any vermin…” Inger frowned. “You’d think we’d hear them scurrying around at night.”

“We would,” muttered Castor, standing up and rapping the barrel’s lid. “And we’re not just missing bread. I’ve never known rats to steal a canteen.” He stretched his wings with a grimace. “I think we have an unlisted passenger.”

Inger tilted his head, puzzled. “Who would want to stow away on a ship to the Elktic Commonwealth? There’s nothing out there but trees and rocks.”

“More likely they’re trying to get away from Equestria.” Castor’s frown deepened. “A fugitive criminal, I expect. Could be dangerous, if cornered. Just keep your eyes open, hm? If either of you see anything strange…”

“We’ll tell you right away,” said Cranberry, peering curiously around the hold. Inger couldn’t help but smile. Now you’ve done it, Castor. Once she has a mystery to solve, she’ll never give up…

Castor sighed. “Enough searching for now. Come on, I’ll help you get that table up the steps.”

As they hauled the table out of the hold, Inger looked around at the deck. The tables were set up in the usual evening configuration: four making a square around the main mast, within which Beatriz had the cauldron of boiling stew set up and stirring. The ladle moved steadily in the blue grip of her magic, as the antelope poured drinks for the mercenaries. The camels passed by the square to grab their mugs before heading to the other tables, arranged around the deck to give open views of the sea.

Kaduat was seated at one of the tables constituting Beatriz’s countertops, seemingly determined to make it into a bar. As usual, she already had a mug of rum in one foot, sipping from it and joking with Virgil beside her. She kept trying to convince him to let her show him some sort of knife trick, but Virgil always declined—and privately warned Inger and Cranberry to do the same. “She usually doesn’t miss,” he’d admitted, “but last time, I nearly lost a talon.” Kaduat had taken his lack of faith in good humor. That crooked smile almost never left her face.

The other mercenary officers were less garrulous. Zaeneas, the zebra alchemist, had barely said five words to Inger since leaving Canterlot. She was always deep in some tome or another, idly mixing things with a mortar and pestle between page flips. Pollux was more amenable, but very reserved. He only really came to life when he was talking to Castor—when not in his brother’s presence, the pale unicorn spent most of his time near the bow of the ship, gazing out into the sea. Inger still couldn’t suss out what Pollux’s place in the mercenary chain of command was—despite being the mercenaries’ XO, Kaduat never issued him orders, yet Pollux didn’t ever command anyone.

Beatriz, the final member of the team—at least, the final member who didn’t communicate entirely in Dromedarian—was the group’s quartermaster, armorer, and cook. Inger had approached her a few times already, seizing the chance to get some old dings banged out of his armor plates. She was friendly, and unmistakably knew her way around a hammer and anvil, but they hadn’t spoken much beyond that.

The ship’s galley was only large enough for the Aurora’s crew to eat in, so Katabasis had been using the deck. Most of the crew came up to join the mercenaries in the evenings, as much for the food as the company—Beatriz had been producing good grub, especially by naval standards. Inger had eaten a lot worse on assignment. Even Tybalt, no doubt more used to fine dining, looked forward to meals with unmistakable enthusiasm.

Speak of the devil, thought Inger, as Tybalt walked up with a legful of burlap seating pads, setting them by the table as Cranberry and Inger arranged it. “You were right about setting up,” Tybalt said lightly, adjusting a cushion. “Kaduat’s thanked me twice already tonight. A good trick.” He winked.

“See? Nothing like doing chores to make someone happy.” Inger grinned at Cranberry, but found her staring somewhat stonily at Tybalt. Recalling how closed-off she’d been that morning, Inger felt his stomach sink. What’s wrong? It’s something about my father, that’s clear. “Honey, I think I forgot my, uh, mug, down in our cabin. Could you help me find it?” He wanted to get to the bottom of this.

Cranberry’s mouth thinned, but she nodded. From behind Inger, he heard Kaduat whistle, “Don’t take too long, you two.” Inger turned and forced a grin for the camel, who gave him a broad wink. “I’ll save seats for you both.”

With a wave of thanks, he followed Cranberry toward the steps, and descended after her to the crew deck. Wood creaked under their hooves as they tread in silence. They hadn’t gone far toward their cabin at the other end of the ship before Inger stopped and rested a hoof on her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

Cranberry looked away, pursing her lips for a moment, then sighing. “Inger, let’s not…”

“I’m just worried about you.” That sinking feeling was getting worse. “If you’re not feeling well, you can tell me…”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why do you freeze up whenever my father’s around?”

Her shoulders hunched. “Inger, I don’t want to fight.”

“Fight!?” Inger’s hoof jerked back as if pricked. “About what?”

She put a hoof to her forehead. “Can we just drop it?”

“I think he’d like to get to know you more,” said Inger, earnestly. “He likes you. Says you remind him of his wife.”

“The one he cheated on?” Cranberry asked flatly. “Look, Inger, I’m glad the two of you are getting along so well. Just don’t expect me to pretend we’re all a big, happy family, now. Not after all he’s done.”

“You’re angry about him and my mother. I get it.” Inger tapped a hoof, frowning. “You think I’m not? He’s got a lot to make up for, Cranberry. But he’s trying. He’s trying so hard it hurts to watch, sometimes. Can’t we try, too?”

“Inger—” she began, but a sudden noise interrupted her. Wood clacked against wood, but muffled, coming up through the deck below them. Both of them froze, ears twitching. “What was that?” she whispered.

“Castor’s thief?” hissed Inger.

Cranberry’s eyes lit with excitement. “We can catch them in the act. Come on!” she darted past him, back toward the steps. Inger sighed, suspecting that her enthusiasm was more about ending the conversation than catching a stowaway.

Inger followed as quietly as he could. “Wait up! Be careful.” If it really was some Equestrian fugitive, then they could be armed. He wasn’t worried about himself—no thief or highwaypony alive could handle a Firewing—but Cranberry could get hurt if there was any fighting. “Maybe you should go get Castor.”

“Nonsense,” Cranberry whispered. “Shh! There it was again. It’s coming from the cargo hold.” She crept down the stairs.

In the hold, the dim lantern swung slowly from its hook. The lower deck was cast in shadow, quiet but for the creaking of wood and the sea beyond it. The barrels stood arrayed in formation, like a sinister line of troops. Inger’s pulse quickened as his ears craned for any hint of the intruder.

Something pattered in the far reaches of the hold, hidden in the darkness. Hoofsteps. Inger’s wings rose like hackles. “Cranberry,” he whispered urgently, “get behind me.”

She obeyed, though staying closer than he’d have liked. Creeping into the dark, the two inched after the sounds. The unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing sounded from further into the ship. Inger paused to grab the lantern, holding it aloft with a forehoof. The heat flickered uncomfortably on his face.

They crept to the bow end of the hold, finding a set of doors. Utility closets, Inger realized. Mops and buckets for swabbing the decks were stored inside… it wouldn’t be hard to make enough space for a stowaway in one of them. The unmistakable sound of chewing came faintly through the nearest door. Inger set the lantern down, motioning Cranberry to step back.

One, he counted silently, holding up a hoof. Two. His legs slid out into a combat stance. Three!

He burst forward, slamming his shoulder into the door—which turned out not to be locked. It banged open as the occupant yelled in surprise, and a canteen clattered to the floor. Inger stopped cold as he laid eyes on a unicorn colt, staring up at him and Cranberry in absolute panic. The colt covered his mouth with a bright pink hoof.

No, not pink. Cerise.

His son’s hoof dropped to his mouth as he nibbled on the tip. His eyes flicked to Cranberry, then back to Inger. “Uh… h-hi, Dad…”

* * *

There were only two times in Apricot’s life that he’d seen his father truly furious.

The first time, two years ago, Strawberry and some of his friends had been out in the street playing with a low-hanging cloud. Strawberry had been trying for weeks to produce lightning, and Apricot had been eagerly waiting for him to succeed. Their father had always warned Strawberry not to weatherforge so low to the ground, but at his friends’ prompting he’d ignored the rule and kicked out some lightning at last. Their mom had seen it too… and nearly been struck by the bolt.

When their dad found out, he’d thrown the others out and grounded Strawberry for a solid month—no flying at all. Apricot had actually enjoyed the chance to play with his brother without him soaring off for once.

The second time had been just a couple weeks past, that night they’d come home from Mr. Strudel’s funeral. When they’d found Grandpa and Pollux sitting at the table, Apricot had thought for a moment that his father was going to fight them. The way his wings had gone straight out, that tension coiled in his spine; he’d never seen his dad like that before.

Now, watching Inger’s rapidly purpling face and twitching wings, Apricot realized with rising panic that he had a third addition to the list.

Fortunately—perhaps—his mother was the first to speak. “Apricot Sugar!”

He straightened, trying to ignore the ice creeping up his spine. “Hi, Mom,” he said, with a sickly smile.

It wasn’t often that Cranberry was lost for words. “I can’t believe—!” She lifted a hoof, and Apricot winced in anticipation of a smack, but she stamped it down hard on the floor instead. “What are you doing here?”

Biting his hoof again, he, stammered, “I—I, um… you know, I just…”

“Answer her.” His father’s voice was low and dangerous. Apricot gulped, looking deep into his eyes and finding no mercy. Inger was glaring at him so sternly he could have cowed a dragon. Suddenly Apricot had an inkling of why everyone seemed to find his gentle, patient father so intimidating.

Apricot had one tried and true escape plan. When in trouble, blame your brother. “S-Strawberry said he’d help—”

“Don’t even try it.” His father’s steely gaze would brook no foolish attempts to weasel out of this. “Apricot, what—” air hissed from Inger’s snout. “What madness possessed you to come here?”

Excuses rose in his throat and withered on his tongue. Apricot’s mouth moved wordlessly for a moment. Unwanted, the truth leaped out of him. Desperately, he shouted, “I want to be that mage’s apprentice!”

Inger turned his head, failing to restrain a snarl. Cranberry marched furiously forward, looming over Apricot. “Do you have any idea the trouble you’ve just caused us all?”

“I’ve only taken a few loaves of bread and some water,” he protested, but she cut him off with a fierce stomp of her hoof.

“I don’t mean the supplies! This is a rescue mission, Apricot, not a game. We can’t focus on saving the others if we’re trying to keep you from getting hurt. You’ve made everyone’s job harder, especially your father’s.” She closed her eyes, face filled with a disappointed anger that cut him deeply. “I can’t believe you’ve been so selfish.”

Apricot wilted. “But—”

“Rye and Tyria must be worried sick that you’re missing. Did you even think about them before you stole off?”

That brought a little indignant defiance back to him. “Of course we did! Strawberry told them I was sick in my room, and didn’t want to talk to anyone but him. He said he’d tell them the truth after, uh, well, after it was too late for them to do anything about it.”

“Gods,” muttered Inger, shaking his head. “No doubt their letter’s still chasing us from Canterlot.”

Cranberry’s chest puffed out. “Young stallion, you’re turning around the instant we get back on land and going straight home.” She put a hoof back to her head to fend off a headache. “I suppose your father or I will have to take you.”

Apricot jerked forward, aghast. “What? No! You can’t send me back until I talk to Pollux—”

“We can, and we will.” Cranberry’s eyes were harder than iron. “This is no place for a colt.”

“I’m almost four! I’m not going to be a colt that much longer.” Apricot gritted his teeth. “You went adventuring with dad when you were a kid!”

She stamped an indignant hoof. “I was much older than you are now, Apricot, and—”

“Two years isn’t much older, Mom!”

Inger coughed, covering his mouth with a hoof, but Apricot thought he saw a small smile behind it. Sensing a point had been scored, the colt pressed on. “Please. You’ve always said you didn’t regret following dad to Sleipnord. Let me take my chance!”

Cranberry reared back, clearly ready to begin a full-blown tirade, but Inger placed a foreleg across her chest. “Cranberry,” he said calmly, shooting another frown at Apricot, “Let’s talk about this outside.” He gestured out of the cramped utility closet.

She looked between the two of them, favoring her husband with a glower. “Apricot, stay.” She left first, her teeth grinding. Inger followed her out, firmly shutting the door behind them.

In the darkness of the storeroom, Apricot leaned up against the wooden door, craning his ear to eavesdrop.

“Gods,” muttered his mother, “What the hell has gotten into him?” Apricot winced. When his mother reached the point of swearing it usually meant that he was in for a legendary punishment, like sorting all of Aunt Tyria’s paints, or copying down a thousand lines of translated nordpony poetry…

“Exactly what he told us,” said his father ruefully. “He’s set on learning spells from Pollux.”

“Yes, but to follow us out of Equestria—I thought he was smarter than this.”

“Smarter? Or just more timid?”

Cranberry’s reply was tart. “Don’t you dare say you’re proud of him.”

“Not for disobeying us. But… you have to admit, this proves how serious he is about his magic. This isn’t just some passing childhood interest. It’s only going to get worse if we don’t get him a teacher.” Inger paused for a moment, snorting. “And to think,” he said dryly, “you were talking about having a third one.”

“A girl,” muttered Cranberry. She sighed. “Strawberry was never this—impulsive.”

“Well, we know where he gets it from…”

Apricot heard his mother splutter with embarrassment. “He’s—I’m not—” Inger laughed. Cranberry growled and stomped her hoof again. “It’s different, Inger. I was older when I snuck off after you and Rye, and even then it was a stupid thing to do—”

“Oh, now you think so,” said Inger, still chuckling.

“And we weren’t going into some Sisters-forsaken elken ruins where forty people have already vanished—”

“No, just an icy wasteland full of ponies trying to kill us.” Inger’s tone was gentle, but insistent. “It was just us and Rye, back then. This time, we’ve got a whole mercenary company between him and danger.”

“I don’t know if it’s enough,” whispered Cranberry, her voice trembling. “What if he tumbles off the boat in the night and drowns? What if he brushes up against some poisonous plant in the forest and drops dead before we can get the antidote? What if Pollux teaches him to hurl fireballs, and he blows himself up?”

Apricot nearly rubbed his hooves together with glee at the thought of learning fireball spells, but paused when he heard his father speak again. “Cranberry… we went through this when Strawberry started flying, too. If we don’t let them out there, let them take some risks, they’ll never learn to use their gifts and grow.”

“I just—I can’t—” She sounded disturbingly close to bursting into tears. Apricot slid slowly down the door, suddenly ashamed. He’d never wanted to make her cry.

“Honey…”

Cranberry took a shuddering breath. “I can’t lose any more of my family, Inger. I cannot.”

“I’ll keep him safe. You too, and my father, all of us. It’ll be all right.”

“You don’t get it, Inger. That’s not good enough.” Cranberry’s hooves rapped the wood as she paced. “You remember the Antlerwood? You and I would both have died without Rye there to save us. And neither of us could have even put up a fight. Elken forests are not safe, and the dangers aren’t always things you can hit with your hooves.”

There was a short silence. “Do you think the Elderwood will be the same way?”

“I don’t know, Inger. The ancient elk were powerful blood mages. They did terrible things in the forests they called home. There’s a reason today’s elk hate their ancient forbears.” She gave a frustrated sigh. “Locke told me a long time ago that atrocities like those leave echoes. I have no idea what we’ll find in the Elderwood, but I guarantee you that if it was safe, Pad wouldn’t need a rescue party in the first place.”

“If—” Inger made a frustrated groan. “If you thought things would be this dangerous, why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“Because I care about Locke, and—” Cranberry’s voice caught, suddenly brittle and angry. “And because you were so excited about the chance to spend time with Tybalt that I didn’t want to start a row about it.”

“This is about our son,” said Inger, his voice darkening. “Not my father.”

Apricot nibbled his hoof again. His parents bickered all the time, but always with smiles and winks. This argument sounded different. Uglier.

“Oh, please. Everything on this trip is about him.”

“What’s that mean?”

Cranberry’s pacing stopped. “I thought we were doing this together, Inger, but you keep spending every free moment you get with that pompous, selfish, disloyal—”

“Every time I try to spend time with you, you push me away! What did he do to make you hate him so much?” Inger sounded aghast. “I know he’s a little stuffy, but he’s humble, and principled—”

“Dangerously principled,” muttered Cranberry.

“What?”

“Something Tyria told me,” she said quietly. “You know what? Forget it. Do what you want. If you think it’s best that our son learns how to set the ship on fire, so be it. I’ll just do my best to clean up the pieces.” Her hooves thudded as she abruptly galloped away toward the stairs.

“Cran—” Inger broke off with a gloomy sigh.

Apricot waited in the dark for a few nervous moments, his heart beating rapidly. An uncomfortable sinking feeling settled in his stomach. He’d just wanted to learn magic, not make his parents fight. Sure, he and Strawberry had expected them to be mad, but not at each other. Tentatively, he cracked the door open to see his father standing with his shoulder slumped and his head hung low.

The door creaked, and Inger’s head whipped up. He fixed another stern gaze on his son. “All right, Apricot. Come on out. You can stay—for now.”

The uneasiness burned away in a sudden blaze of excitement. Apricot pulled the door all the way open and darted out. “Really?”

“Really.” His father’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t think there won’t be hell to pay. I’m sure your mother can come up with something. But…” he softened, “you can ask Pollux if he’s willing to train you a little.”

Apricot couldn’t stop himself from bouncing. “Yes!”

“You’ll have to wait until after dinner,” said Inger, frowning, “and if he says no, that’s that.”

“He’ll say yes, I know it!” Apricot raced forward and flung his forelegs around his father’s leg. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Inger rested a gentle hoof on his back. “Just make sure you earn it. If he agrees to teach you, you’d better give it your all.”

“I will. I want this, Dad, so much…” Apricot’s mind raced, thinking of all the incredible things Pollux could show him. Fireballs, invisibility, lifting huge burdens without a hoof and Sisters-knew what else…

“And you need to apologize to your mother,” said Inger, his eyes turning away toward the stairs. “She’s very upset.” His voice lowered so much that Apricot could barely hear him. “With both of us.”

That nervous, bad feeling suddenly returned. Apricot gulped and nodded, before beaming again. Despite getting caught, he’d done it! Days and days spent cramped up inside a barrel, sneaking out at night to take food from the stores, not making a peep all day even though he was so bored he’d resorted to counting rivets in the wood; all worth it in the end. When they returned to Equestria he’d do anything Strawberry wanted to pay him back, even doing all his chores for a month.

A bell pealed from the deck above. Inger looked up. “Well, dinner’s started. Let’s go join the others. If I’m lucky, your mother’s already explaining this to Castor…”

Prancing with delight, Apricot followed him toward the upper decks, and the unicorn in the crimson robes.