Thicker Than Water

“Inger, if that had been a different spell—”

“But it wasn’t. And now that we know what he can do, it just makes it even more important that he—”

“Then what happens when he starts learning dangerous magic? Imagine if he’d set the whole ship aflame. Someone’s going to get hurt, Inger.”

“That’s what Pollux is here for. Just give him a chance to—”

“I gave him a chance, Inger, against my better judgment, and our son nearly—”

Apricot’s ears flattened as he sank against the wall beside the cabin door. He’d been gently but firmly ejected from the room before his parents started talking, but their voices were so loud that he didn’t even have to press up against the door to hear them.

He could still scarcely believe what he’d done. That spell was bigger than any he’d ever cast, even if it was just a levitation charm. In a week, he’d made more progress than the last year. Pollux was giving him everything he’d wanted. He couldn’t stop now…

Beyond the door, a hoof thudded angrily into the floorboards. “He’s not a soldier, Inger! He’s our son!”

“I know that!” A deep breath. “He might not need training to fight off griffons or use battlemagic, but he needs to know how to use his gift, for everyone’s safety. Including his own.”

“So Pollux insists. But this wasn’t an issue before he started teaching him.”

“Cranberry—” Inger’s voice sounded suddenly weary. “Are we going spend our whole lives fighting about the kids? They need to grow up someday.”

“We’re not—” Her voice cut off. When she spoke again after a few moments, she was muted and anxious. “I know. I know they do. I just—I’m scared, Inger. Terrified. We could lose him to this.”

“If we stop him now we really will lose him. He’d never forgive us if we sent him home.” Apricot heard the lower bunk creak as Inger sat on it. “It scares me, too. I don’t understand these gifts of his, but… if we want what’s best for him, then we need to let him take the leap.”

Apricot smiled hesitantly. Deep down, he sometimes wondered if his father wished he were a pegasus instead, like his brother. Yet here he was, fighting for Apricot’s right to be a unicorn. He’d never expected him to stand up to Mom like this. The smile faded. Of course, he wished they weren’t fighting at all.

The bunk creaked again as Cranberry took a seat beside her husband. “And if you’re wrong?”

He’d sat listening for long enough. Suddenly determined, Apricot thrust open the door, stepping into the cabin. “He’s not.” Both of his parents looked up at him, surprised. Apricot’s gaze met his father’s for a grateful moment, before turning to Cranberry. “Mom, I know you’re worried, but I can do this. I’m not a baby anymore.”

Cranberry put a hoof to her mouth, eyes creasing with concern. Clearly, she still saw a little foal standing in front of her. “Honey…”

“The things I’m learning, I can use them to help,” he insisted. “We’re going to find your friend, right? I can help with that!”

“Apricot…” Cranberry closed her eyes and slowly exhaled. “Since I’m the only one who—I don’t want to be the one that…” She swallowed. “Okay. I won’t argue any more.”

He hugged her, nuzzling his cheek against her chest. “Thanks, Mom.”

She embraced him back, resting her chin on his head. “Don’t grow up too fast,” she whispered.

Pulling back, Apricot nodded. “I’ll make you proud. I promise.”

Inger smiled. “Every day.”

A little bashful, Apricot stepped away. “Well… I need to learn, uh, common time by tomorrow, so…”

“Of course,” said his father, standing out of the bunk. “Let’s give him some quiet to study, honey.”

While Inger led Cranberry to the door, Apricot clambered up into his bunk and flipped open Kemholtz to the chapter on time signatures. He paused at the chapter heading, looking up at his parents as they exited the cabin. Inger gave him a wink, and shut the door.

As their hoofsteps faded away through the wood, Apricot heard his mother mutter under her breath, “He looks just like you when he gets serious…”

Reddening, he turned back to his book.

* * *

To Cranberry’s combined relief and dread, the last few days of the voyage passed quickly. She was still unhappy with Apricot’s presence, but there were no more incidents. His lessons with Pollux remained subdued, although he was practically glowing whenever he explained to her what he’d learned that day. Apricot hadn’t been this happy since before Papa’s death. Her own misgivings were starting to melt away.

Things between her and Inger were still uncomfortably frosty. Twice now, they’d fought over Apricot, and she’d lost. Every time she felt like properly reconciling, delivering a heartfelt apology, she’d seek him out only to find him deep in discussion with Tybalt over some trivial matter or another, and the moment would pass. Does he feel more at ease with that deadbeat than his own wife? Frowning, she’d give the two a terse nod and go elsewhere.

It wasn’t fair to begrudge him this time with his father. Like any new relationship, they were still in the heady early days of getting to know each other. Give it time, she assured herself hollowly, and the shine will wear off. The noblepony himself had been markedly chilly toward her since Apricot’s magical accident. Cranberry wasn’t sure what had changed, but more than once she’d caught those golden irises watching her, blank yet piercing. She tried not to think of him as a rival for Inger’s affections—How petty that would be, she thought—but with Apricot in the cabin at night, there was now scarcely any time to be alone with her husband.

She passed her time by poring over Locke’s enigmatic reports at a table in the galley. The third read was proving no more enlightening than the first.

29 October, 328 A.C.

Our guide, Pwyll, has departed the encampment to return to Port Faeloch. He promised to return with the first resupply run. By then I hope to have made progress on the door. We’ve circled the carts to give some shelter from the wind in the gorge. Hermia has been helping Arrian with the repairs. Hobb and I have been spending all our time in the cave. He was the first to suggest that the door engravings are bloodlines, and I’ve come to believe he’s correct. They’re the first intact ones I’ve ever seen in person, yet we dare not activate them without further study.

No signs of snow, yet. The aspens still cling to their leaves. Nothing else to report.

Cranberry frowned, flicking the corner of the letter. It was definitely Pad’s hoofwriting; she recognized the little curls of his gs and is; but it didn’t sound at all like him. The niggling feeling that something was wrong wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she read the words.

If she had been the one funding the expedition, and these reports were all she’d been receiving, then there was absolutely nothing to suggest they’d run into problems. A cessation of communications ought to have prompted a courier or two, not an entire mercenary force. Why had Tybalt spent so much on a rescue team at the first sign of trouble? Frowning deeper, she pushed her hoof into her snout, pondering the text. I don’t think he’s telling me everything.

“Why the long face?” asked a cheerful voice.

Cranberry glanced up as the antelope mercenary, Beatriz, took a seat across the table from her. Cranberry’s lips twisted wryly. “Was that a horse joke?”

“Guilty as charged.” Beatriz winked. “I see you in here every day, reading those things. And I haven’t seen you smile much while doing it. What’s the matter?”

“I’m not sure,” murmured Cranberry, sitting back and stretching her forelegs over her head. With a sigh, she rested them back on the table. “I’m worried about Locke.”

“We’ll find him,” said Beatriz, with quiet confidence.

“But are we too late?” Cranberry asked, swallowing. “It’s been months without word.”

“He’s still alive,” said the antelope. “And we’ll save him, along with the rest of them. I’ve seen Castor pull off rescues more impossible than this one.”

“Is that so…” Easy for the mercenaries to have confidence. They’re paid to be. Tilting her head, Cranberry folded her forelegs on the table. “How long have you been with the company?”

“Longer than any save the twins,” Beatriz said, swiping a hoof along one of her curved horns. “My husband and I joined up with them back in Alastria.”

“Oh! I didn’t know you were married.” Cranberry had seen her and Virgil sharing a kiss or two, but hadn’t realized it was so serious.

“I… was,” said Beatriz, her eyes flitting away. “His name was Simone. We met back in Antellucía, where he was a smith. That’s where I learned the trade—he taught me everything I know about armoring and smithing. At first, he handled armorer duties for Katabasis, and I was just the quartermaster.” She smiled briefly, but it swiftly went away. “I lost him in the War of Whitetail.”

Good job, thought Cranberry, wincing. You’ve put your hoof in it now. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t even the fighting,” said Beatriz, with a shaky sigh. “About a month before Lionsclaw’s holdouts officially surrendered, Simone cut himself on a rusted speartip while oiling it. Such a small cut; he didn’t think anything of it. A week later, the infection took him.” Slowly shaking her head, Beatriz looked down at the table. “Such a little thing…”

“I’m sorry,” repeated Cranberry, miserably. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” said Beatriz, patting her hoof. “You didn’t know. And it was a very long time ago.” She gave a small, fragile laugh. “And here I thought I would be cheering you up.”

So that’s what this is. Even the mercenaries can see how lonely I feel. Cranberry rubbed the back of her neck, ashamed. “Sorry…”

“It does get better,” Beatriz said, with a knowing look. “I… heard about your father. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Cranberry merely nodded. She appreciated the gesture, though she didn’t feel like opening that wound again. Not with Beatriz, not yet. But—it was nice to talk with someone. “What was Simone like?”

“A poet,” said Beatriz, snorting with a little smile. “Not a very good one, mind you. But I loved his little sonnets. He was a much better artist in the smithy. The things he could make—Oh! I’m afraid I’ll never be on his level. I can bang together repairs, forge new armaments and my plate armor is serviceable, but the little touches he’d put on things… there was this breastplate he made for a general down in Antellucía. It looked more like silver than steel, with a thousand paisley curves etched into the metal with acid. It took months to make, and when he finished it he was strutting around the smithy like a peacock.”

Cranberry grinned. “He sounds like quite the character.”

“He was. Well-traveled, too. The tales he could tell you about other places… I was never sure if half of them were true. The huge buildings of Elefala were a favorite. And the giant wooden walls of Saddlestead.”

“Those are definitely real,” said Cranberry, leaning forward. “I’ve seen them myself.”

“Really?” Beatriz blinked. “Ah… right! So, those songs about your journeys are true.”

“Mostly. They leave out some important parts.” Cranberry shook her head. Not the time or the place to be that hobbyhorse. “Saddlestead’s walls are bigger than you’d expect. Entirely made of wood—at least, the facade. There’s some stone shoring them up from behind. But the faces are still enormous—they were built with trees from the Giant’s Forest, over a hundred kilometers away. Every plank stands nearly thirty meters high. It’s right beside the lake, so it’s constantly coated with brine spray—they have to chisel off the salt when it gets too caked on. And the carvings!”

Cranberry cast her eyes up, wistfully recalling the sight. “The whole history of Sleipnord is up there. The creation wars, the revolt that cast out the elk, the three tribes and the coming of the great winter…” Coyly, she grinned. “And I’m up there, too, believe it or not.”

Beatriz arced an eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

“It’s true! Along with Inger, and our friend Rye. We did play a critical role in King Eberhardt’s coronation. It ended decades of clan warfare. I’m not sure you could say we brought peace to Sleipnord… but the nordponies wouldn’t care much for total peace, anyway.” She chuckled. “They had the three of us carved into the walls to commemorate the reunification. I got to see the finished art for the first time a couple years back, when I passed through Saddlestead on my way to the Tyorj excavation.”

“Wow,” said Beatriz, visibly impressed. “That’s quite a legacy. Like Virgil’s always saying: stone, wood, and steel will outlive us all.” She snickered. “Engineers, you know.”

“He’s not wrong,” mused Cranberry, looking back down at Locke’s reports. “The ancient elk have been gone for nearly five thousand years, but the things they left behind still speak to us…”

There was a rap on the wall from the door. Both their heads swiveled to see a harried-looking Castor, gesturing toward Beatriz. “One of the water barrels sprung a leak, right over the hardtack stores.”

“Oh, damn,” muttered Beatriz, leaping to her hooves. “I’ll be right there.” Castor nodded and raced off. “Sorry,” she said, turning back to Cranberry, “I need to take care of this.”

“Of course. Thanks for the talk, Beatriz,” said Cranberry, more grateful than she’d realized.

“Call me Bea.” The antelope winked, before trotting off after her captain.

With her concentration well and truly shattered, Cranberry gave up the effort to decipher Locke’s notes for the day and retired up to the deck. After dinner, she found a spot at the port gunnel to surreptitiously watch Apricot’s latest lesson with Pollux. She was too far to catch many of the words, but she could see the wooden blocks held by her son’s sparkling roseate aura. They spun around, looping in different patterns, as Pollux calmly delivered instructions.

She was still incredulous at the progress Apricot had made in just a week. How many months had she watched him struggle to open their front door with magic? Now, he was making objects dance through the air. The near-permanent awestruck look on his face said that he was as surprised as his parents.

Perhaps having another unicorn along with them would be a good thing. Dominion civilization ran on magic; it was entirely possible they’d need some simply to progress. Locke, a unicorn himself, had puzzled for years over the stone gates that had led him on this expedition in the first place. Inverted stone triangles with cores of obsidian glass, they were frustratingly inactive.

It was possible they hadn’t worked at all, even when new; just a failed attempt to solve a growing problem. At its height, the Dominion had become too large to govern effectively. The distance between the Elktic Isles and the mainland was—as everyone on the Aurora had now personally experienced—lengthy enough that communications across the sea were slow and difficult.

A magical transportation network could have solved that problem, but Cranberry wasn’t sure it had succeeded. Or even if that’s what the gates were for. The towers that contained them weren’t located in obvious travel destinations. If they’d been for transport, then surely they would have resided in elken cities, not desolate mountainsides like Middengard…

Chewing on the mystery that had consumed her professional life for the last several years kept her busy as the sun sank toward the horizon. She was musing over mental maps of the Dominion, staring over the waves, when a tap on the wooden railing beside her snapped her back to reality.

“Hi, Mom.” Apricot had planted his hooves up on the railing beside her. His lesson for the evening had ended, she surmised… and he was stalling before being sent to help Beatriz with the dishes. “You okay? You look a little seasick.”

“No,” she said, laughing, and tossed her mane. “Just thinking.”

“Me too,” he said, looking off at the dusky sky. “I heard Castor say we’ll reach the island soon. What’s it like there?”

“I’ve never actually been, myself,” she said, leaning over the railing and resting her chin on her hooves. “Only to Cariboulla. But there are thousands of poems about Elketh. That’s the Equestrian name for it, but the elk call it Ellanon, an ancient word meaning home. They’ve never forgotten where they came from.”

Apricot nodded, chewing his lip. “Is it pretty?”

“Beautiful. It’s a special time of year, too. All throughout winter, the forest is dark and empty, dusted with snow, but on the first day of spring the entire island bursts into bloom. Right now all the hills are covered with flowers. The ancient cities of the Dominion have all turned into gardens.”

Her son peered off toward the bow with delight. “You think we’ll see any flower-cities?”

“We might,” she said, shrugging. “It depends on where my friend’s path takes us.”

“I hope we do…” Apricot’s hoof bounced eagerly on the rail. “I can’t wait to tell Strawberry about all of this.”

Cranberry’s lips thinned dryly. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up while the two of you sort every shelf in Aunt Inkpot’s library.”

His ears flattened as he gave her a pleading look. “Come on, isn’t the dishwashing enough?”

“We’ll see. Maybe, if you stay on your best behavior once we make landfall.”

“I will! I promise. I can even help unload the boat.” He stepped back from the rail, beaming. “I can lift whole barrels now. Pollux thinks I’m ready to start doing more than levitation tomorrow.”

Cranberry couldn’t refuse the earnest hope in his eyes. “Then why don’t you ask Castor if you can help out? After your chores with Beatriz.”

“Yes!” Apricot nearly pranced at the thought of using his magic to do something useful. “I’ll ask him when he comes down.”

“Down from wh—” Cranberry followed Apricot’s eyes upward. “Oh,” her voice cooled. Castor was perched above the mainsail… along with the other two pegasi. So that’s where Inger’s been hiding all day. Returning to Apricot, she cleared her throat. “Now go on. Those plates won’t clean themselves.” She shooed him off toward the stairs leading into the hold.

Turning back to the ocean, she rested her chin once more upon her hooves, watching the gentle waves break around the ship. For a moment, she wished she had wings, to fly up and join them. She glared up at Tybalt, watching as he laughed at something Inger said.

A chuckle distracted her, along with the sloshing of liquid in a bottle. She lifted her head as Kaduat passed by, another bottle of Madame Zenubia-branded rumswinging between her toes. “Hard luck, Professor,” said the camel, not unkindly. “You can’t choose your family.”

“No?” Cranberry frowned. “I’ve always thought you could.”

“The problem with that,” Kaduat smiled in sympathy, before taking a swig from her bottle, “is that they can choose you, too.” As she walked on, Cranberry looked back up at the pegasi, her frown deepening.

* * *

“Fifty-one hundred meters,” said Castor, smug. “Hard to say exactly, of course, but at least that high. The clouds were all stretched out below me. Felt like there was barely enough air to flap my wings.”

Inger nodded appreciatively. “Not bad. Not bad.” He gave the other pegasus a sly smile. “Some of our junior recruits top out around fifty-two.”

Castor snorted. “Sure. And when they pass out from anoxia, who catches them?”

“The senior officers, on our way up to the moon,” said Inger, with a cheeky grin.

“Ha!” Castor took the chest-thumping in stride. “Come on, then. What’s your highest?”

“Depends.”

Scoffing, Castor tilted his head back. “Depends on what?”

Inger turned and gave his father a knowing wink. “On whether you mean with my hooves on the ground or not.” Tybalt chuckled at the allusion, but Castor looked puzzled, so Inger explained. “I once rode a magical lift to the top of Mount Jormundr. The peak stands ten kilometers high.”

Making an indignant noise, Castor waved his hoof. “Doesn’t count!”

“All right, all right. Fair enough. The highest I’ve flown on my own? If I remember right…” Inger tilted his head, reminiscing. “Oh, about… fifty-six hundred meters.”

“Pff. I don’t believe you.”

Tybalt chuckled knowingly. “Oh, it can be done, Castor.”

Inger shrugged with mock humility. “This was back during the fighting in Southlund. Around Fort Verdanfeld, if you’ve heard of it—”

“Right,” said Castor, nodding, “Katabasis saw some action around there during the later months of the war. We were working with General Aubren’s forces.”

“Oh! Then we must have been in the same encampment at some point,” said Inger, surprised. “So, then, you’ll recall that team of griffon commandos giving Aubren so much trouble. The remaining Firewings were sent in to root them out before the main push on the fort. Nasty fight.”

Waving a hoof, he continued. “Well, one of the griffons fancied himself a height junkie—I found myself tangling with him high above the clouds, both of us totally cut off from our support. Higher and higher and higher. He kept trying to get above me so that he could plunge down with those talons like a hawk. I’d seen the tactic before. I had to stay higher than him, or he’d have ended the fight in a single strike.”

Castor still looked dubious, but Tybalt nodded appreciatively. Inger leaned forward, gesturing dramatically. “We traded a few blows along the way. The oxygen depletion was getting to us both by the time we passed four kilometers. What is that, half normal air pressure?”

“Sixty percent,” offered Tybalt.

“Anyway, I was starting to black out, but he was having just as much trouble. At some point, the fight turned into a chase. He was trying to get away, and I was too oxygen-starved to realize I ought to just let him run. Up and up and up, so high we were brushing through those wispy cirrus clouds that hang around over the scrubland.”

Castor whistled. “Fifty-six hundred… you’re lucky you survived.”

“We both did, actually. I’m not sure who passed out first, and I’ll never know just how high we got. Thankfully the wind rushing around me as I plummeted woke me back up, along with the griffon. Neither of us were in much shape for fighting, so we both peeled off to head back down toward the ground. That afternoon, the griffons started their retreat.”

“And you’re saying that was your doing, hm?” said Castor, raising an eyebrow. “He was that intimidated?”

“I think they were more worried about the two thousand ponies Aubren had camped outside the fort,” said Inger wryly, giving Castor an acknowledging dip of his head.

“Heh.” Castor stretched his wings. “How about you, Count Vallen?”

Tybalt had a small, triumphant smile. “Seven thousand, thirty-three meters.”

Inger and Castor both stared. “Bullshit,” said Castor, flatly.

“That does seem…” Inger began, but his father grinned.

“I was young and daring once, believe it or not,” said Tybalt. “And unlike you two, I brought an altimeter.”

A sudden noise interrupted them. Above the three pegasi and their perch along the mainsail yard, the wooden planks in the crow’s nest creaked. A sailor craned over the side, cupping his hooves to his mouth. His voice loud enough to carry through the whole ship: “LAND AHEAD!”

Instantly, the ship swarmed with activity. Below on the deck, ponies and mercenaries rushed toward the bow, craning to see the tiny dark smudge on the horizon. It would have been unnoticeable if not for the minuscule flicker of light that signified the port town. Inger peered at it through the dim, dusky sunset, feeling a twinge of anticipation. The mysterious land of the elk, at last…

Castor brushed his wings off. “I’ve got work to do, gentlecolts. I’ll see you later.” He gave them a lazy salute as he twisted sideways and fell off the spar, dropping toward the deck. He landed with a flourish of his wings, instantly trotting off and barking orders to the mercenaries.

“Show-off,” grumbled Tybalt, but he was smiling.

“We’d better help them unload,” said Inger, standing and cracking his neck. The port was rapidly approaching, as the Aurora cut smoothly through the water. “How long do you think it’ll take to reassemble those carts?”

“Sorry, but I can’t assist you tonight,” said Tybalt. He stood up beside Inger, balancing easily on the yard.

Inger cleared his throat. “Ahem.What happened to inspiring loyalty?”

Tybalt snorted. “Sisters! I must be the only father in Equestria whose son gives him chores. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to wriggle out of helping. There’s expedition business to take care of in Port Faeloch. I need to speak with the ealdordeer, Lady Ciaran.”

“At this hour?”

“Oh, she’ll be awake.” Tybalt stepped off the yard, gliding down. Inger followed, circling the mast. “We’re right on time, and Ciaran’s been expecting us. She’s got some materials that Zaeneas requires for the journey, and we’ll also be picking up our local guide.”

“Then I suppose I’ll see you tomor—”

“Actually,” his father interjected, “I was hoping you’d join us. Zaeneas is not the most… conversational zebra.” He grinned. “Please. Don’t leave me alone with her.”

Inger snorted, exactly the same way as his father, which made both of them laugh. “All right.”

“Good, I’ll go let her know. Meet the two of us on the pier after we make land.” Tybalt’s hooves touched the deck as the two pegasi landed. He rolled his shoulder and groaned. “We’re all staying at the inn tonight. These might be the last real beds we get for a while. We’d best enjoy them.”

The two walked past busy sailors and mercenaries, staying out of the way. “The tents between Equestria and the coast weren’t so bad.” Inger rubbed his neck. “I wake up a little stiffer than I used to, maybe…”

“It only gets worse,” said Tybalt morosely. “One day you’ll rise and all your bones will ache. It happens to all of us.” He raised an eyebrow. “Even Celestia, I’ll bet. Does she creak in the mornings?”

“Ah,” said Inger, grinning. “So that’s why you don’t like her. You’re jealous.”

Tybalt chuckled. “No. Even if I could take what she has for myself, I wouldn’t.”

“No?”

Shaking his head, Tybalt smiled. “No one should escape time’s march.”

“Then maybe you could buy her a pocketwatch,” said Inger dryly.

“Ha!”

Inger spotted Cranberry by the gunnel, and paused. “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you and Zaeneas on the pier once we dock.” Tybalt gave him a nod and headed for the hold. Trotting up behind his wife, Inger’s tail swished with anticipation. Real beds tonight, he thought slyly.

“Hey,” he said, sliding up to the railing beside her.

“Oh, hello.” She exhaled, looking out toward the approaching island. “Almost there, huh? Feels like we’ve been on this ship for months, not a week and a half.”

“Well… a lot’s happened.” Inger looked around. “Where is Apricot, anyway?”

“He’s down in the hold,” she said, with a reluctant smile. “He wanted to help Kaduat unload cargo. A chance to show his progress…” Cranberry sighed slowly. “These lessons with Pollux are really working. I guess you win, after all.”

Inger swallowed, resting a hoof on hers. “I wasn’t trying to ‘win,’” he said softly.

“I know. I’m just…” Cranberry grimaced, as if in pain, then restored an expression of neutrality. “It’s been a hard month, Inger.”

As the Aurora pulled into the port, Inger tried to think of something to say. Calls rang out across the deck as the crew’s activity reached a frenzied pitch. Chain rattled as the anchor dropped into the water, and the boat shuddered as it came to a complete halt. Below, Inger caught glimpses of a few young deer in the orange glow of the lanterns that hung from poles above the pier. Ropes were cast overboard to them, and he heard wood scraping as the crew hauled a boarding plank over to the side.

“Cranberry…” he began, still not sure what could make her feel better.

“You were right, I was wrong. Let’s leave it at that.” She sounded tired, but smiled. “And… it’s nice to watch him spread his wings a bit. Figuratively speaking.”

Inger nodded, pulling his hoof back and forcing a smile. “Does this mean you’ll give my father a chance, too?”

Her faint smile vanished. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Why not?” Inger made a frustrated noise. “He’s been nothing but polite to you. And he’s really quite charming when you get to know him.”

Cranberry’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust him.”

“Why not? What’s he done to make you hate him so much?”

“You mean besides abandoning you? He’s the reason my friend is missing,” she said, with sudden ferocity. “If it weren’t for his secrecy and his scheming, Locke would still be safe in Canterlot with me.”

“Come off it,” said Inger, irritated. “You’d have leaped at that chance in a heartbeat, too. Locke wasn’t forced into it.”

“Wasn’t he? You think he cut off all contact because he didn’t want to tell me about his search for the elken ruins we’ve been hunting together for years?” Cranberry kicked the bag at her hooves, containing her colleague’s notes. “Those reports of his are worthless. He was hiding something, Inger. Something they discovered down there. I don’t know why, or from whom. But I think Tybalt does.”

“This is ridiculous.” Inger’s face was getting hot. “He’s a good pony. You’d know that if you’d said more than six words to him.”

“And then there’s the way he treats you,” she snarled. “That, that doting act of his, I can’t believe you’re falling for it.”

“Doting act? Cranberry, we argue all the time. He’s not buttering me up. He just wants to understand me. And I enjoy talking to him, even the arguments. Which, again, you’d understand if you actually talked to him.”

“He’s lying to you.”

“About what? I haven’t seen the stallion break his word once.”

“How about his wedding vows?” Cranberry shook her head. “If you really believe—” Her mouth clapped shut.

“What?” Inger’s brows furrowed, his voice lowering dangerously. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

“Fine,” she said, angry words spilling out in a rush. “You know what I think, Inger? Tybalt’s wife is gone. His children died in the war. No respectable noblemare would marry an anti-royalist, especially not one so old. When he goes, his entire family line will end, and all his property will be divvied up among distant nieces and nephews. His ego couldn’t stand the thought of it. And then he remembered his bastard child, the one he abandoned two decades ago. A chance to save his family name.”

Her voice cracked. “Don’t you get it, Inger? You’re the spare.”

The dragon hissed. Discarded, unwanted, forgotten. Only dug up to be used. Blood rushed in his ears. Inger stamped a hoof. “And you’re just jealous!”

Cranberry stepped back, her face frozen. “What?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You wince every time I say father. You can’t stand it, can you?” Inger was surprised at the strength of his own bitterness. “You can’t just let me be happy, because you’re in pain.” His chest rose and fell roughly. “I lost hope a decade ago. Now that I’ve got a family after all, the only thing you can do is accuse him of—of—you don’t even know what,” he sputtered.

“I’m not—” Cranberry was ashen. “Inger…” Tears leaked down her cheeks.

Didn’t you talk her into this trip to stop her tears? whispered the dragon, snidely. Instantly, far too late, the flames of his anger guttered out. The emetic taste of regret lingered on his tongue. He hadn’t meant to throw it in her face. He understood her pain, he understood it, he’d told himself that a dozen times… this was the last thing he’d wanted.

Raising a hesitant hoof, he said, “Cranberry…”

“Just go,” she choked.

“Cranberry, I’m sor—”

“Go,” she whispered. Inger turned, ashamed, and his eyes widened. He could feel the sweat on his neck freeze.

Apricot, his horn lit a brilliant rose, and a large barrel hovering behind him, stood staring at the two of them. His horn dimmed and the barrel settled to the deck as his parents went deathly silent. Apricot’s eyes darted between the two of them, wary and questioning. “I, um,” he mumbled, very quietly, “I got the barrel up the stairs all by myself.”

Inger’s heart was pounding. “That’s… very good,” he managed, gesturing limply at the barrel. “You’re getting so much better.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he said, almost inaudible. “Like I promised.” His gaze flicked to Cranberry as she wiped her eyes.

You’ve made a mess of everything, Inger thought, feeling his stomach sink into the ocean. He ought to stay and clean it up, but he had no idea where to start. If only she wasn’t so stubborn…

But then, that was half the reason he’d fallen in love with her in the first place.

Inger turned to his wife, apologies on his lips, but found only cold stone waiting for him in her face. Cranberry spoke to Apricot, but her eyes stayed on Inger. “Get our things from the cabin, honey, would you? Your books, my materials, your father’s armor. See they get loaded onto the carts, please.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, turning and slinking away. He cast a look back at his parents, his ears flattened. Inger felt guilt settle around his neck like a plowing yoke.

“You should go,” said Cranberry, still toneless. “Your father’s waiting.” She jabbed a hoof over the side, toward the pier.

“I…” Inger wasn’t sure staying would do any good, now. “I’ll see you later at the inn. We’ll… we’ll talk.”

Her only answer was to tighten her mouth.

* * *

Dragging his hooves beneath him, Inger trudged down the plank. His father and Zaeneas were already at the far end of the pier, deep in discussion about something. He’d never seen the zebra so animated before.

As he reached them, the alchemist nodded and scribbled something down in the tiny notebook she always carried. Withdrawing it into the pocket of her vest, she flicked an ear at Inger in welcome. Tybalt brightened at the sight of him. “Good, you’re ready. If I remember the map of the town correctly, the ealdordeer’s hut is this way.” The trio set off into the village as dusk finally gave way to night.

Outside the docks, there was a long dirt road leading up toward the village proper. Inger watched lamplight flicker in the windows of the small houses as they passed, wondering why no one was outside. He’d seen plenty of sleepy backwater towns in Equestria, but even the most rural farming communities didn’t go to sleep the instant the sun set.

The quiet made him uneasy. It left him too much time to dwell on his words with Cranberry. Fumbling for a distraction, he asked, “Seems awfully small, for a port town. I don’t see any farming fields… Do either of you know what the elk here do for a living?”

It was Zaeneas who answered. “Pearl diving off the coast,” she said, her sentences clipped and brusque. “Traders come here to buy the pearls for jewelry, or alchemy. Elketh pearl dust is top quality. Use it myself, when I can afford it. Very high purity.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Inger felt another pang of guilt. Cranberry would have known that. And the whole history of the profession and the cultural significance of pearls, no doubt… He could almost hear her chattering away with her wide smile and bright eyes. Wincing, he fluffed his wings anxiously. “I wonder where everyone is.” The dirt road was completely empty, aside from their little party.

“Well…” Tybalt peered around them curiously. “As I said, the elk are reclusive.”

Inger spotted a doe watching them from an open window as they passed a small house. She straightened abruptly and shut the window with a thunk. “I get the impression we’re not welcome. I thought you said they were expecting us.”

“They’re not fond of foreigners, out here. We’ll only be staying one night.” Tybalt shrugged. “The innkeep, at least, will be happy to see us. This far out, I doubt he gets thirty paying customers a week, let alone in a single night. Elketh is practically the end of the world.”

They turned off the main dirt road onto an even rougher path. This one led up a small hill toward an isolated hut. Smoke rose from a small stone chimney, carrying the scent of boiling potatoes. Stars glimmered overhead as they arrived at the doorstep. Inger eyed the door, unevenly set in its frame, wondering if his father had gotten the wrong building.

Tybalt lifted a hoof and knocked twice on the door. “Greetings, Lady Ciaran,” he said loudly. “It’s Count Tybalt Vallen, of Equestria.”

There were a series of hoofsteps and a scratching sound from the other side of the door, followed by the rasp of a deadbolt sliding open. The door swung inward to reveal not one, but two elk. The larger of the two by far was a wizened female. She bowed her head gravely to the newcomers. “Good evening, Rose Lord. You’re early.”

Like all true-blooded elk, she was huge, even taller than Inger. Shaggy brown fur, the last remnants of her winter coat, hung from her neck. Cool, dark eyes took in the two stallions and the zebra mare. The straightness in her back was almost regal—despite her humble surroundings, she reminded Inger of the princess. The other one was a young white-tailed buck rather than a true elk. He stared at them with open curiosity. His antlers were still short and stubby, covered in soft velvet. He met Inger’s eyes and nodded with a smile.

Inger returned the nod, marveling at his antlers. They were just as complex and twisty as Cranberry had described, though lacking the elegance they’d possess once hardened and sharp. Inger counted four tines on each antler, all curving gently upward. His eyes slid back toward the female elk, and the intricate talisman dangling from a cord around her neck. A focus, no doubt; the magical instruments the elk used to cast their spells in the off-season. It was smooth and lacquered, the color too uniform to be wood. Inger shuffled his hooves, trying not to stare too long at either of them.

“It’s good to finally meet you in person,” said Tybalt, raising a hoof. Ciaran slowly took it and shook. “And you must be Pwyll,” Tybalt continued, turning to the deer.

The buck’s head bobbed eagerly. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Rose Lord.”

“Please, call me Tybalt.” The noble gestured to his companions. “This is Zaeneas, our team’s alchemist, and Inger Dragonslayer…” He straightened with pride. “My son.”

“I-I’m Pwyll,” said the buck, nodding nervously to Inger and Zaeneas. “I helped Professor Locke through the forest when he came to Elketh.”

“Greetings,” Inger blinked, “uh… P… Pu-ish?” He winced at his mangling of the elktic name.

Pwyll smiled. “Close enough. You can say Pwill if it’s easier.”

“I’m told you spend a great deal of time in the Elderwood,” said Tybalt.

Pwyll bit his lip. “Only the edges. The deeper you go, the more dangerous it gets. The only times I venture further than the outer trees are when Lady Ciaran asks me to gather herbs…”

“Might we discuss this inside?” Ciaran gently interrupted. “My old bones are starting to chill.”

The group entered the hut, nodding thanks. Ciaran shut the door behind them, and Inger felt the welcome heat of the fireplace wash over them. The ealdordeer’s home was plain and unassuming, with little more than a main living area next to the firepit and a bedroom with no door. A pot hung over the crackling fire, bubbling with oil. A rug, covered with elaborate curling designs spread across the center of the floor.

Ciaran and Pwyll took their seats on the rug, gesturing for their guests to follow suit. “How was your journey?” she asked. Her voice was wispy with age, almost ethereal.

“Long and tiring, though the company made it bearable.” Tybalt flashed Inger a smile. “I wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome, but there’s been virtually no one to greet us. Did you decide we weren’t coming?”

“Quite the opposite.” The elk looked over each of them slowly. Inger fidgeted under her steady gaze, wishing she’d blink. “My whole village knows about the mad foreigners heading into the forest. They want no part of your doomed quest.”

“Doomed?” Inger lifted an eyebrow.

Tybalt gave a brittle laugh. “Superstition is contagious. Tell your people to relax, Lady Ciaran. They won’t have to deal with us for long; we’ll be departing tomorrow.”

Ciaran’s lips thinned. “Pwyll, would you check on the potatoes? Don’t let dinner burn.” As the young deer nodded and leaped to his hooves, Ciaran’s eyes returned to Tybalt. “The last we saw of the previous expedition was that young griffon, Hermia. She said that she thought Locke might be in trouble, and that she was going back in to look for him. We haven’t heard anything from them since.”

Inger’s eyes widened. “Did she say what kind of trouble?”

“No. She didn’t seem sure, herself,” said Ciaran, her dark eyes focused on Tybalt.

“That’s why we’ve come.” Tybalt frowned. “I’m here to find out what went wrong and rescue the lot of them.”

Ciaran shook her head. “I will give you the same warning that I gave the scholar, Rose Lord. The road you’ve chosen will end in sorrow, for you and the ones you love.” For a brief moment, her eyes flicked toward Inger, before returning to stare evenly at Tybalt. “Our ancestors birthed blasphemies in the dark forests of the world. Those who seek them out rarely succeed. And those who find them regret it forever.”

Pausing, she touched her talisman. “The only thing waiting for you in those trees is death.”

Tybalt looked at Inger, and a shadow of doubt crossed his face. It was the first time Inger had ever seen anything but righteous surety in his golden eyes.

His father’s face hardened with resolve. “No one can see the future,” he echoed softly. “Not even a goddess.” Tybalt turned back to Ciaran, raising his head. “I won’t let fear stop me from doing what’s right.”

The elk gave a long, weary sigh. “So be it.” With a defeated shake of her head, she looked at Zaeneas. “No doubt you wish to take the materials you requested in that letter.” She gestured to Pwyll. “Show the alchemist our stores, if you would…”

“Right away.” Pwyll stepped away from the fire to the large cabinet on the wall beside it. Cracking it open to reveal dozens of vials and pouches, he glanced over his shoulder. “What all did you need?”

Zaeneas was on her hooves in an instant. Her eyes devoured the cabinet greedily. She walked briskly over to join him, one hoof raised as she counted. “This is going to be a difficult brew. I’ll need drakeroot, talliweed, erynia, a smooth pearl still wet with seawater, and three grams of elyric essence.”

As Pwyll retrieved ingredients for her, Zaeneas watched with obvious respect. “Quite the stock you’ve got, Lady Ciaran… many of these items are difficult to find, even in Zerubia.” She looked back to Tybalt. “My stocks of yarrow and powdered sapphire are still in storage. Did you want me to begin the process tonight?”

Tybalt steepled his hooves. “How long will it take to finish?”

“Six days, assuming all goes well. The heating has to be done in phases. It can cool in my cart during the day, and boil over a fire when we make camp at night.”

“The travel won’t affect its potency?”

“Not if the elyric essence has the promised purity.” Zaeneas raised a brow toward the elk.

Ciaran nodded sternly. “It does. I ground it from Pwyll’s own antlers myself.”

Pwyll sheepishly scraped a hoof on the floor. “They didn’t grow very big, last year.”

“Smaller is better for alchemy. Makes the mixture stronger,” said Zaeneas, stuffing the vials and pouches into the pockets of her bandolier. She took the slender beaker with a pearl suspended in seawater with special care. “Count Vallen, I’m ready to leave when you are. I can get started portioning out the ingredients as soon as we get back.”

Inger cleared his throat. “Mind filling me in?”

Tybalt nodded grimly. “Another… precaution. It’s very possible that whatever’s befallen Locke is magical in nature. Zaeneas here is one of the few alchemists in this hemisphere capable of brewing the most powerful defense against magical dangers—Elyrium. Actually, it’s why I hired Katabasis over their larger competitors.”

Inger blinked in shock. Elyrium? After the mess in Zyre, Inger had heard all about the stuff from Rye and Tyria. His eyes widened. Why on earth are they cooking up that witch’s brew? A powerful magical grounding substance, it could be lethally dangerous, especially to mages. Like Apricot…

Uneasily, Inger rubbed his neck. “How much are you making?”

“About a gallon,” Zaeneas said brusquely, tucking away a shining pearl. “That ought to be enough to handle anything.”

A gallon! According to Rye, even a drop of the stuff was enough to kill an unwary unicorn. The blackpowder had been worrisome enough, but this… his father must be more worried about Locke than he’d realized. “I’ll warn Apricot to keep his distance,” said Inger, shifting uncomfortably. “Cranberry’s not going to like this…”

“Cranberry?” said Ciaran, her eyes swiveling to land on him. “You don’t mean Cranberry Sugar?”

Inger nodded hesitantly. “She’s my wife. We came here together, to help her friend Locke.”

And to make her feel better, laughed the dragon. How’s that going? Inger ignored it. “How do you know her?”

Pwyll bounced on his hooves. “Professor Locke told us all about her. I didn’t realize she’d be coming with you—do you think you could introduce me?”

“Uh… I don’t see why not,” said Inger, baffled.

Ciaran sighed wistfully. “Then you’re still set on going with them, child?”

Pwyll nodded firmly. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“I’ve said my warnings. It’s in your hooves, now. May the gods guide you.” Ciaran bowed her head to him, before turning to Tybalt with sudden sternness. “Pwyll has agreed to take you into the forest after the others. You will be in his care… and he will be in yours. Protect him with your life, Rose Lord.” She shrank back, looking at the young deer. “He is precious to the people of this village.”

“Not so much that you have to baby me—” said Pwyll, before shutting his mouth tight and looking away.

“I know. That’s why I’m letting you guide them.” She took a deep breath. “Just… please, be careful.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, with a sunny smile. “And they’ve got Cranberry Sugar with them! Professor Locke said she knew as much about our ancestors as he did. More, about some things.”

Inger felt a little warmth in his chest at that. Cranberry always spoke highly of Locke; it was nice to know their respect was mutual.

“We’ll take good care of him,” said Tybalt. Turning to Pwyll, he bowed. “And of course, pay you for your time.” He reached into his robe and tossed a small pouch toward Pwyll, who caught it with a clink. “There’s a small advance, in case you’d like to join us for a round or two at the inn tonight and meet the others.”

“Of course! I can’t wait to meet Professor Sugar.” Pwyll tied the pouch to a thin drawstring around his neck.

“Farewell, Rose Lord.” Ciaran gave him one last, long look. “I don’t believe we will meet again.” With that ominous parting, she bent her head and closed her eyes.

They gave Pwyll a chance to collect his things and say a more private goodbye to Ciaran. She spoke a few words to him quietly before giving him a satchel and one of the cooked potatoes. After they’d finished, the four left the hut, closing the door behind them with a click. As they headed back down the dirt path toward town, Tybalt huffed. “What a gloomy old cow.”

Pwyll scratched his antlers. “She’s not normally so serious… she just isn’t happy about me going into the Elderwood with you.” He made an annoyed grunt. “They all still treat me like a kid. Until Saoirse had her fawn last autumn, I was the youngest one in the village by a decade.”

Inger was reminded uncomfortably of Apricot’s words earlier in their cabin. “Why do you want to come with us so badly?”

The buck lifted his head, looking up at the night sky with eager eyes. “I’ve been saving up for almost two years. With the payment from helping the professor and his team, I nearly had enough—thanks to this expedition, I’ll finally be able to get off this island.”

Tybalt made an approving murmur. “Locke said that you got them to the black valley without any trouble. He was very impressed. Do you think our journey will be as smooth?”

Pwyll scratched his antlers again, scrunching up his mouth with annoyance at the itch. “Should be. The wet season isn’t here yet, so I’m hoping there won’t be any mud for the carts to stick in.”

“Excellent. I don’t suppose you have a map for us to look over?”

The pace of Pwyll’s antler-scratching intensified for a moment before he sighed with relief and set his hoof down. “No maps. They don’t really work in the Elderwood.”

Inger tilted his head. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Rather than explain, Pwyll shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. As long as we’re slow and careful, respecting the forest, we’ll make it through just fine.”

“Not too slow. Haste is of the essence,” said Tybalt. “Are there any dangers besides bad weather?”

“Hard to say.” Pwyll frowned. “The Elderwood is… strange. I wouldn’t say it’s aware, but there is a… will to it. The trees all look alike sometimes. It’s easy to get lost. Compasses don’t always point north. Sometimes you’ll walk in a straight line for hours only to end up where you started. And the deeper you go, the more it feels like you’re not wanted.”

Tybalt snorted. “You think we’ll be attacked by walking trees?”

“They don’t walk.” Pwyll shook his head. “But… I try not to spend much time there after nightfall. We should be able to pass through the outer regions in a few days and reach the black gorge by the end of next week. That’s where I left Locke’s team. They tried putting up guide posts for their supply runs, but the posts kept disappearing. I had to lead in the first couple of couriers, too, before they got the hang of it.”

Up ahead, the inn had come into view. The small group rounded the corner at the base of another hill, arriving at the largest building Inger had seen in the village yet. It was still quite humble, merely two stories tall, but it looked well-kept and the yard was lovingly maintained. A dozen carts stood beside the building, all emblazoned with the flaming hoofprint of Katabasis Company.

“Looks like Castor’s people moved quickly,” said Tybalt, pleased. “They’re already done unloading…”

The inn’s windows blazed with lantern light. Inger could hear the noise of a bustling crowd even from outside. A lone camel stood guard over the carts, giving them a nod as they passed. Tybalt reached the door first, holding it open for the others with an after-you gesture.

Stepping inside after Zaeneas, Inger’s ears flattened slightly at the noise. Virgil and Beatriz had their instruments out, playing a ditty over on the other side of the room. Several of the camel mercenaries were stomping their feet to the song, cheerfully waving flagons of ale. Most of the others were seated at various tables or the bar, cheerfully chattering away. Everyone looked relieved to finally be out of the cramped quarters on the ship.

“I’ll start mixing the Elyrium and retire for the night,” muttered Zaeneas darkly, scowling at the crowd. She quickly swept off toward the stairs to the building’s upper floor. Tybalt yawned and, after bidding them good night, followed suit. Inger was left standing at the entrance alone with Pwyll.

“So, um,” began the young deer, with badly contained excitement, “do you think you could introduce me to the Professor?”

“Of course,” said Inger, cringing internally. Not what I wanted to talk to her about, he thought, but if he refused Pwyll would naturally ask why, which was a conversation he wanted even less. “See a pink mare anywhere?”

“Over by the bar,” said Pwyll, pointing as casually as he could manage.

“The bar? She doesn’t drink,” said Inger, confused. But sure enough, Cranberry was perched on the stool at the very end of the bar. He jerked his head for Pwyll to follow, and approached.

The innkeep, a weathered old true elk, swept up on the other side of the counter as they reached it. “Can I get you lads anything?”

“No thanks,” muttered Inger.

“Evening, Eoin. Nothing for me, thanks,” said Pwyll. Cranberry looked up at his unexpected voice, catching Inger’s eye.

Inger sent silent apologies toward her, hoping that tempers had cooled. “Drinking…?” he ventured.

“Tea,” she said quietly, shaking her little mug. “It calms me down.” Turning to the deer, she tilted her chin up. “Who’s this?”

“Pwyll,” Inger said, hoping he hadn’t butchered the elkish pronunciation too badly. “He’ll be our guide.”

“It’s thrilling to finally meet you,” gushed the buck, darting forward with an extended hoof. Cranberry shook it, smiling despite herself. “I’ve heard so much about you from Professor Locke. He lent me copies of a few of the studies you two have done on my ancestors. I must have read them all five times over by now.”

Intrigued, she lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ve seen your name mentioned in his logs. You two were friends?”

“We spent a lot of time together on the way into the forest. And we kept up correspondence until he… stopped.” Pwyll’s face darkened with worry for a moment, before brightening again. “I—Well, that is, if you don’t mind, I had some questions that I was hoping you’d be able to answer…”

Inger could see her inner lecturer awaken fully as she sat up straighter on her stool. “I’d be delighted.” She glanced at Inger.

“I, uh, should go check on Apricot.”

“We’ve got a room upstairs,” she said. “Fourth door on the right. He went to bed early. Said he wasn’t feeling well.” There was no accusation in her eyes, but Inger felt a stab of guilt all the same.

Nodding, he left her and Pwyll to chatter about archeology. The last thing he heard as he ascended the stairs was Pwyll asking, “I was hoping you could tell me more about bloodlines…”

Upstairs, the noise of the partying below was muted. Inger found the door Cranberry had indicated and pushed quietly inside. There were two beds within, but the room was dark. He hadn’t seen the telltale rose glow of his son’s horn under the door, so perhaps Apricot really had gone to sleep early. He was resting in the far bed, his back turned to the door.

“Apricot?” whispered Inger. No response. His shoulders sank as he trudged over to the empty bed, rolling into it on the side he usually took.

What was he going to say to Cranberry? A simple apology wasn’t going to cut it. He had a terrible feeling that, heated as they may have been, both of them had meant what they’d said. Thumping his head into the pillow, he rehearsed a dozen different ways to say I’m sorry, but none had the same venomous truth as you’re jealous. Words of repentance were still swirling uselessly in his mind as sleep came for him, stealing him away in the half-empty bed.