Thicker Than Water

by DSNesmith

Rating: mature
Tags: Adventure, Violence, Princess Celestia, Sex, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Drama, Original Character
Length: 183697

After a royal guard meets his father, he soon finds his family drawn into a dark and dangerous journey to steal fire from the sun.

Inger of Canterlot believes that he put the mystery of his parentage to rest long ago. Cranberry Sugar is certain that her greatest archaeological discoveries are behind her. Apricot, their son, fears that his dreams of becoming a mage are quickly slipping out of reach.

All three are about to be proven wrong.

Tybalt Vallen, the maverick Rose Lord of Silverglen, enters their lives with news: Cranberry’s colleague Professor Locke has vanished on the island of Elketh along with his entire expedition. Tybalt’s rescue team has a place reserved for her… as well as his long-lost son and heir, Inger.

Apricot follows his parents on Tybalt’s mysterious mission of mercy, hoping to learn from the mercenary spellsinger Pollux; but the Sugar family soon finds that not all is as it seems in the shadowy lands of the ancient elk. Under the whispering trees of the Elderwood, old secrets come to light, bonds of love fray, and trust wears thin. As they descend, Inger begins to realize that the secrets beneath the aspen leaves will shape their fates forever—not just his family's, but that of the very gods themselves.

Published 2022-06-19 15:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2024-12-31 01:16:30 UTC

1. The Last Lesson

Spring was late again.

An outbreak of feather-flu had put almost the entire Canterlot City Weather Division out of commission for two full weeks, and the snow had lingered so unseasonably long that it had begun to melt on its own. Even now in late April, the beleaguered weather teams were shoveling off the last of the rooftops and scrambling through the clouds to put together the first true spring shower of the year.

Yet none of that mattered, Inger mused, smiling as the wind fluttered through his outstretched feathers. The intoxicating spring scent in the air made up for its lateness; that unique seasonal aroma of fresh greenery laced with the promise of rain and new growth.

Far below him, Canterlot had begun to explode in verdant bloom. At this height, the city looked nearly organic; like a tangled weave of ivy spreading from the great wall up the side of the mountain where it was crowned by the vast castle above, glittering gold in the afternoon sunlight. Inger still spent some nights up there, at the Firewing barracks just outside the castle grounds, but only when there was an emergency. There had been less and less of those in the years since the war.

The city streets below were still pockmarked by signs of damage, if you knew where to look. A broken tower here, an empty plot between houses there… but the old scars had long healed over, even from Inger’s aerial vantage point. Tracks of green streaked the city, trees regrown and buildings rebuilt. The Clement Blueblood Memorial Park was bursting with color inside the surrounding perimeter of brown-roofed buildings. All the blossoming trees made winter seem a distant memory already.

Inger inhaled deeply between wingbeats, with a satisfied smile. “Lovely day, huh, Wheatie?”

His flying companion, a brown-speckled pegasus, dipped his wings as they turned. “Very.” Wheatie grinned. “Though I’m looking forward to tonight even more.”

“Playing cards with Lieutenant Whiskwind's group again?”

Wheatie shook his head, grin widening. “A date.”

“Ah.” Inger’s eyes twinkled. “Well, you’ve earned it, for a change. That was some good work over the field today, Sergeant.”

Wheatie winced, massaging the back of his neck. “You know, you could ease up a bit. Just because the weather’s taken a turn for the better doesn’t mean you need to overdo it. I’m going to be sore for days after all those displacement rolls.”

Inger chuckled, gliding for a few meters to let his wings rest. “You baby. Windstreak used to make us do forty sets of those a day.”

“Not in a row. I thought poor Cherrylen was going to puke.”

The two juked left, gliding past a stray cloud as they began their descent toward the streets. Inger felt a sudden gust of wind tug at his feathers, and adjusted his posture to cut through it with the unconscious ease of a lifelong precision flyer. He cast a dubious eyebrow at Wheatie. “If anything, I’ve been taking it too easy on you all. Old Bergeron could have eaten this lot for breakfast.”

Wheatie laughed. “True enough. He put the fear of the Sisters in us during boot.” The sergeant’s smile turned melancholic. “I miss him.”

“So do I.”

“It was never the same after Whitewall,” said Wheatie, pensively looking down at the flowering city as it drew closer. “I miss all the old faces. Don’t get me wrong, I like the newbies, but…”

“They’re not so new these days,” said Inger, as the two circled down to land. They touched down onto the cobblestones with the faint clop of bare hooves on stone. Inger pushed a hoof against his chin, cracking his neck. “Oof. We’re just getting old.”

“Hmph! Speak for yourself.” Wheatie fluffed his feathers and broke out into a parade canter. “Come on, Captain, keep up. Or do you need me to help you cross the street?”

Inger grinned, matching Wheatie’s pace. They’d been working hard all day over the flying pitch, but a little more exercise wouldn’t hurt. The soreness in his muscles was a good ache. It meant he was still pushing his limits, still at his physical peak. Most days, he felt like he could fight another dragon if he had to.

Most days. He stretched his wings with a tiny wince. “So, who’s the girl?”

Wheatie coughed, caught off-guard. “I… didn’t realize you took an interest, Captain.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Windstreak and I have been waiting for you to get hitched for years.”

It wasn’t easy to make the sergeant blush. Inger felt a silly little surge of victory at Wheatie’s reddened cheeks. “I, uh, don’t think that’s in the cards. She’s nice, but…”

“But…?” Inger’s grin widened.

Wheatie rolled his eyes, still blushing. “Look, just because you got married to the first girl who caught your eye doesn’t mean we all want to. Some of us prefer to play the field.”

“Some of us don’t have to,” Inger countered.

“Touché,” said Wheatie, shrugging with a faint smile.

Inger took another lungful of that invigorating air as they passed a florist’s shop flanked by kaleidoscopes of gorgeous bouquets. “Cranberry and I have been together for six years now. I’d say we got it right the first time.” He elbowed Wheatie. “Come on. You’ve thought about settling down, haven’t you?”

Wheatie adjusted the silver circlet around his right foreleg. “Once or twice…”

“I suppose family’s been on my mind a lot, these days. The boys keep surprising me. Strawberry’s almost old enough to take the Firewing entrance exams, can you believe it?” Inger shook his head. “Time moves so quickly when you’ve got kids.”

“It’s not the kids, it’s the rank,” said Wheatie with a sly grin. His hoof jabbed Inger’s shoulder where the captain’s bars would sit when in uniform. “All senior officers are perpetually doomed to feel old. You’ve got a whole flock of children to manage at the barracks. That’s why Windstreak was always so maternal.”

“Ha. You know something strange? Just the other day, I realized—I’m the same age she was when she retired.” Inger turned a corner, Wheatie following close behind. “Although I’m sure she’d still be ordering us around today if not for the injuries.”

Wheatie’s trot quickened slightly as he pulled up beside his captain. “Not thinking of joining her in blissful boredom, are you?”

“No, no,” Inger reassured him. “It’s just funny how these things sneak up on you.” When Wheatie’s nervous squint remained, Inger chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on quitting anytime soon.”

“Good. I don’t want your job,” said Wheatie, relaxing again. “I prefer flying.”

“I fly!”

“Sure,” chuffed Wheatie. “You fly that desk real well.”

Inger rolled his eyes. “Someone has to organize Celestia’s protection detail.”

“Oh, no argument here. I’m just glad it’s you, not me.”

Rolling his shoulder, Inger grimaced. “Now you mention it, it has been a long time since I got out in the field… Maybe I should lead some of the cadets on a patrol out west.”

“Forget a patrol,” said Wheatie, flicking an ear. “You need a vacation, Dragonslayer.”

“Ach.” Inger grimaced. “You only call me that when you’re angling for something.”

“Guilty as charged,” Wheatie chuckled. “But it’s for your benefit, this time. When was the last time you took leave?”

“Er… Rye and Tyria’s wedding, come to think of it.”

“The wed—goddess, that was nearly two years ago, Inger!” Wheatie looked genuinely aghast. “That settles it. You’re taking a vacation. A month of it, at least.”

“A month? Wheatie, I can’t be gone that long—”

Wheatie frowned, eyebrows furrowing in mock disapproval. “And why not? Celestia can’t say no to Equestria’s biggest hero asking for a break.”

“I know she can’t,” said Inger unhappily. “That’s why I’ve always been reluctant to ask.”

“Captain.” Wheatie looked evenly at him. “Section one-sixty-six.”

Inger rolled his eyes, but he had the blasted Firewings combat manual memorized. Avoid exhaustion and overwork by taking rest days between periods of extreme exertion. A longer rest period of at least one week and not exceeding thirty days, is required at least once a year to keep the mind focused and the wings strong.

He shrugged. “Yes, yes, but there’s always so much to do—”

“I can handle training the fresh recruits and your administrative duties for a month, Inger. I’ve been at this almost as long as you have, you know.” Wheatie winked. “Almost.”

“But what if something happens? We only had four days of advance warning when the griffons took Southlund and kicked off the war…”

Wheatie waved this away. “They’re not marching to war again anytime soon, and our Nordpony neighbors are still on good terms. Everyone else is far enough away that we’ll hear them coming if they want to make trouble.” He nudged Inger with a hoof. “Go on. Take a vacation. You need one worse than anypony I’ve ever met.”

“Well…” Inger’s jaw worked for a moment. “I have been trying to find time to take Strawberry out to Lake Alazure to teach him some more advanced weatherforging…” His lip curled, and he narrowed his eyes accusingly. “You’re just trying to get out of more displacement rolls, aren’t you?”

Wheatie snorted. “Yep. You got me.” The joke came with an expectant look.

With a sigh of defeat, Inger waved a hoof. “All right, all right… I’ll think about it.” He rolled a leg to work out a bit of soreness. Ahead, he saw the signpost that signaled the point on their daily trip home from the castle where the two pegasi would part ways. “In any case, I’d better get home before the sun goes down. See you tomorrow, Wheatie.”

“Goodnight, Captain. Say hello to the professor for me.” Wheatie departed with a wave.

* * *

The rest of Inger’s walk was calm and peaceful. The weather hadn’t warmed enough for the streets to reach a true bustle, but there were plenty of other ponies enjoying the spring air. He nodded to the ones he knew as he passed, and endured the gawks of those he didn’t with a patient smile. Inger had long given up hope that he could fade into a crowd in this city—there weren’t many cherry-red pegasi with gold rings for cutie marks around.

The famous Dragonslayer of Canterlot had always been uneasy about the fame that came with being the first to take down a dragon alone in nearly a thousand years. For one thing, he’d have had no chance if Celestia herself hadn’t done most of the work beforehoof; for another, his brothers- and sisters-in-arms had sacrificed far more than him to kill the other dragon involved in the war. But Equestria needed heroes after suffering so much loss and misery, and so Inger played the part for his country’s sake.

The sunset had just begun to darken into night when he reached the front door of his family’s cozy two-story cottage. Raising a hoof, he knocked twice before resting it on the knob. Before he could turn it, the door swept inward to reveal a pink mare with a curly blond mane, glancing away from him over her shoulder.

Words tumbled out of her mouth with customary breathlessness. “Good evening! I’m so sorry, the house is still a mess, I wasn’t expecting you for another—” She turned to face him and blinked in surprise. “Oh! Inger. Hi, honey.”

He darted forward and stole a kiss, receiving a giggle in return. “Hey. Were you expecting someone else?”

“Yes, we’re entertaining tonight,” she said, stepping aside as he entered and shutting the door behind him. “I got cornered by some noble stallion today at the university after my lecture. His name’s Count Vallen, from Silverglen in the Rose Valley down south.”

Inger followed her into the kitchen. “Never heard of him.”

“Me either.” Cranberry adjusted her reading glasses, blowing out a sigh. “Apparently he’s in town on business. He said it was right up my alley; wanted to discuss it after hours. And of course, we haven’t cleaned the house in weeks…”

“Months, actually,” said Inger dryly. His wife was normally as lax as her husband and the colts about keeping their home prim and proper, but whenever formal company loomed she transformed into a tidying tyrant. “Did this Vallen character say what he wanted? I thought you were still too busy right now teaching classes to take on anything new.”

Cranberry’s normal bouncy good cheer went suddenly flat. “He said it was about Locke.”

Inger rubbed his chin. He knew the name. Pad Locke was Cranberry’s closest colleague in Canterlot University’s classics department. “Oh. Has he still not returned from that dig in the Elktic Commonwealth? I thought he was due back months ago.”

“He was.” Cranberry’s mouth thinned with concern. “He warned us that he wouldn’t be communicating much until the dig was well underway, but nearly a year without a word? He’s almost as bad as Rye about keeping in touch on trips, but that’s extreme even for him.”

“As bad as Rye?” said Inger, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe he got married on Elketh, and the postcard’s still on its way,”

Cranberry’s serious expression vanished as she glared up at the ceiling with an exaggerated groan. “Oh, ye gods. Hi, everyone. Sorry I haven’t written, got kidnapped by pirates. By the way, you’re invited to my wedding to a mare you’ve never met… I don’t think Windstreak’s forgiven him yet.”

“I think Windstreak has…” said Inger with a grin. He glanced around the kitchen. The mess on the counters looked worse now than it had last night, after their oldest son had tried his hoof at cooking the family dinner. Inger frowned. “Is there a reason Strawberry’s not helping you?”

“He’s off cloud-diving with his friends.” Cranberry rolled her eyes again. “I told him he could stay out late. At least he won’t be running around underhoof while I’m speaking with the Count.”

“I’ll have a talk with him later.” Annoyed, Inger prodded a dried soup-encrusted pot with a hoof. “In the meantime, I can take these out to the pump and start washing.”

“Thanks, honey, but I need you to take Apricot to the bakery tonight.” She flung a rag over her shoulder. “He’s got magic lessons with Papa.”

“Oh—tonight?” Inger hesitated. “I thought those were on Wednesdays.”

“Normally. But I was too busy to take him this week, and you had guard duty at that castle soirée, so we rescheduled.” She lifted a bucket of well-water onto the counter and began scrubbing the pot. “Besides, you ought to go with him more often. He wants to show you what he’s been learning.”

Inger scraped a hoof guiltily on the floor. “I’ve… I’ve been meaning to. I just get home so late this time of year, with all the new Firewings starting basic training…”

Cranberry set the rag down and prodded him in the chest with a stern look. “You made time to teach Strawberry how to fly.” She softened. “Apricot deserves the same attention.”

He wilted a little. “I know. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t love spending time with their youngest. But Strawberry was a pegasus, and Inger knew everything there was to know about flying. Apricot, a unicorn, was fascinated by magic, and Inger knew as little about the arcane arts as he did about farming.

“Papa’s been teaching him how to levitate things,” said Cranberry, amused. “Thankfully, I caught him before he started practicing with the eggs I bought last weekend.”

Despite himself, Inger chuckled. “All right, I’ll get him out of your mane.”

“Thank you.” She leaned close and kissed him. Lowering her voice, she murmured, “I’ll show you how much I appreciate it later.”

Inger kissed her back, grinning. “Looking forward to it.” Playing the field? Wheatie doesn’t know what he’s missing.

“Now, go on,” she said, making a scoot gesture with her hoof. “You two are already running late. Oh! And if Tyria’s back early and you run into her there, tell her I’m still on for tea this Tuesday.”

He gave her a parting kiss on the cheek and trotted into the living room. Stopping at the base of the steps to the second floor, he looked up and cupped his hooves to his mouth. “Hurry up, Apricot! Time to go to the bakery.”

“Coming, Dad!” The sound of hooves pounding on the floor echoed from above. A short, pink colt skidded into view at the top of the steps, his face lit with excitement under his curly mop of ruddy pink hair. “You’re taking me tonight?”

“Mhm,” said Inger, smiling. “We can still get there in time for dinner if we hurry.”

“Let’s go, then!” His son’s voice warred between excitement and impatience. Apricot raced down the stairs, beating his father to the door. His horn glowed a rich, rosy pink, and the knob twisted. The door swung open.

Apricot shot him a look of badly-hidden eagerness. “Very good,” Inger said, nodding in approval as he hid a small chuckle. He was rewarded by his son’s proud smile.

After a hurried exchange of farewells with Cranberry, the two headed outside into the street. A few meters down the road, Inger tilted his head back toward the house. “You’re getting better at that. The door, I mean.”

Apricot beamed. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it.” His grin turned sheepish. “Mrs. Strudel said the bell on her door was driving her crazy from all the practice.”

Inger snickered as the two turned down the street in the direction of the Strudel bakery. “Windstreak’s not fooling anyone. She’s wanted another colt in the house for ages.”

“Do you think Uncle Rye and Aunt Tyria will be there tonight?”

“I doubt it,” said Inger, shaking his head. “They’re not due back from Lleru for another day or two.”

“Aw.” Apricot was practically bouncing on his hooves. “I want to show Tyria the trick with the colored sparks. She promised to watch it when she got back.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one yet,” said Inger, curious.

“Really?” Apricot’s eyes lit up even further. “You want to?”

“Sure—”

“Or I could show you featherfall. Mr. Strudel had me start working on that one three weeks ago. I, uh… don’t really have it down yet, though. Last time I tried it I broke a plate…” Apricot rubbed his neck. “Uh, I could try icemaking! That one’s amazing. You can actually see the water freezing. Or how about polylevi… uh, pol… er, lifting a bunch of things at the same time? I tried that the other day and I got three or four spoons going at once. Or—”

Inger smiled, holding in a laugh as his son kept talking. Apricot spoke so fast the words practically tripped over each other coming out. Definitely his mother’s son, he thought.

“Oh,” the colt said, jerking upright, “I know a good one.” His hooves stopped, and he looked up at Inger with sudden caution. “Do… do you want to see me make fire?”

Taken aback, Inger blinked. “Mr. Strudel’s teaching you how to set things on fire?”

“N-no, not… I mean, we haven’t gotten there, yet, but…” Apricot also shared his mother’s nervous tic of nibbling the tip of his hoof. He glanced down at a nearby puddle in the road, his eyes darting across his reflection. “Well, sometimes when I’m over there, Mr. Strudel lights the ovens, and I can feel what he’s doing… And, uh, I think I can do it too.” He swallowed. “Actually, I… I have done it. Once.”

“Not indoors, I hope,” said Inger, feeling a twinge of worry. “You figured the spell out just from watching him?”

“Not watching, exactly.” Apricot’s mouth scrunched up as he searched for the words. “I sort of… heard it?” He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain—”

“To a non-unicorn, right,” said Inger with a reassuring smile that belied the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He understood the difficulty. After all, could I truly share how flying or weatherforging feel with a pony who can’t do either? As hopeless as the concept of color to someone born blind. Apricot Strudel understands him better than his own father…

“All right,” Inger said, with sudden resolve. “Why don’t you show me a flame, then?” He cleared his throat as Apricot’s legs tip-tapped with excitement. “A very little one.”

“Yeah, sure!” Apricot took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. His horn glowed a vibrant rose, and sparks swirled around his head. Inger had always found his son’s magical aura beautiful, but he’d learned not to embarrass him by saying so.

A small light flickered at the tip of Apricot’s horn. Inger watched, transfixed, as a small tongue of rose-colored flame leaped into the air. It vanished so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d even seen it, but Apricot’s teeth gritted in concentration and another flicker followed.

There was a sudden electric tingle in the air, like the feeling right before a kicked cloud emitted a snap of lightning. Inger had barely begun to raise a hoof in concern when the largest flame yet burst from Apricot’s horn, so bright that Inger instinctively winced.

“Ah!” Apricot scrabbled backwards, one of his mane’s rosy locks aflame. “Put it out! Put it—”

Not wasting a moment, Inger swiftly scooped a hoof down into the puddle, flinging water up at his son’s forehead and dousing the colt in muddy water. The flame drowned instantly, leaving merely a sodden young unicorn. The two stood frozen for a moment, staring at each other.

Inger cracked first, releasing a halting “Ha!” of relief, and then both of them broke into laughter.

“S-sorry,” said Apricot, giggling nervously, as he wrung out his dripping mane. He gulped. “I guess I need more practice with that.”

Inger ruffled his son’s curls with a hoof, his heart still pounding. “Agreed. I think maybe you’d better wait for Mr. Strudel to teach you that before trying it again.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “And, er, let’s not tell your mother about that particular trick just yet.”

Apricot nodded glumly. Wordlessly, he turned and resumed the course down the street. Inger followed, with an internal sigh.

He was trying to impress you, not make a fool of himself. Apricot was still at that awkward age between foalhood and full adolescence, a walking knot of nerves and anxiety. It had been difficult for his older brother, too, but at least Inger had been able to show Strawberry the basics.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Upon a turn down a deserted back road shortcut to the bakery, Inger made a stab at lifting Apricot’s spirits. “I’m impressed that you managed that without any training, you know.”

His son’s head just fell further. “Managed what, setting myself on fire?”

Inger converted a snort into a cough. “Hey, everyone makes mistakes at first. It took me months to figure out how to make clouds rain when I was your age. I kept getting hail.”

“Not everyone,” said Apricot, kicking a pebble. “Strawberry gets everything right.”

“Not the first time. He practices a lot.” It had practically been Inger’s second job for a year or so. Ten hours spent drilling the Firewings before coming home to spend another five with his son, getting down the basics of breathing and good wing posture… and I love it, he admitted to himself.

“I know, I just…” Apricot sighed heavily. “He’s just so good at being a pegasus, and I’m so bad at being—me.” He gave Inger’s wings a longing look. “I wish I was like you.”

Inger swallowed. Had he slipped? Were his own anxieties spilling out enough to affect his son? Or, even worse, was this Apricot’s own worry? He frowned and stopped, giving Apricot an even stare as he followed suit. “Do you really mean that?”

“I… guess not,” said the colt, still not meeting his eye. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

Standing beside him on the dusty cobblestones, Inger placed a hoof around his son’s shoulders and pulled him against his side. “Apricot, wings aren’t better than horns. They’re just different. The world would be dull as dirt if we were all the same.”

“But you and Strawberry can do so many amazing things that—that I can’t ever—” Apricot wiped his eye with a sudden frustrated sniff, clearly angry at himself for the tears. “I just wish I could be up there with you.”

“Oh, Junior…” Inger hugged him again. “All right, so you can’t fly. But you can do things that Strawberry and I couldn’t even dream of. That fire? That’s something I’ll never be able to do. And you figured it out all by yourself! You’ll be an incredible mage someday.”

“I don’t know.” Apricot didn’t sound any cheerier. “I’m pretty sure you need a cutie mark for that.”

Inger glanced down at his son’s empty pink flank. “That’ll come in time.”

“Strawberry had his by now,” said Apricot, scratching a hoof on the cobblestones. “And you got yours even sooner!”

“And your mother didn’t get hers until she was nearly five.” Inger ruffled his mane. “It’ll happen when it happens. No point worrying about it.”

“But what if I’m not good at anything?”

“Well then,” said Inger dryly, “you’d be perfect for the council of lords.” Apricot gave him a puzzled look. Inger shook his head, smiling. “Listen, Junior, the more you worry about it the longer the wait will seem. Focus on what you enjoy. You like learning new magic, right?”

“More than anything,” said Apricot wistfully. His horn glowed pink, and a large pebble rose shakily to eye level. He squinted, jaw trembling for a moment, before the aura vanished and the rock fell. Apricot exhaled in defeat. “I’m just not any good at it!”

Inger frowned, watching his son’s ears droop. A military pep-talk wasn’t the answer here, and he didn’t have his friend Rye’s gift with words. Maybe another unicorn can boost his morale a little, he thought, looking down the street at the faint trail of smoke rising from the direction of the bakery. Apricot Strudel was the kindest stallion Inger knew. If anyone could cheer up a disgruntled colt, it would be him.

“We’d better get moving,” he said, resuming his. “Or Mr. Strudel might decide we’re not coming and start dinner without us.”

A flash of alarm broke through Apricot’s gloom. He trotted after, slightly jittery with worry. “I wanted to help him cook again tonight,” he said, shifting from hoof to hoof.

“We might get there in time if we run.” Inger grinned, pausing and drawing a line across the dusty cobblestones. “How about we make it a race?”

At last, a smile returned to his son’s face. “Okay, you’re on. Start on three?”

Inger nodded, crouching slightly. The two both faced down the street, braced to break into a sprint. Apricot swept his mane out of his eyes. “Ready, Dad? One… two…”

The colt took off in a sudden blur of pink. “Three!” he yelled over his shoulder as he turned the corner.

With a dismayed grunt, Inger raced after him, hooves pounding on the cobblestones. “Not very sporting of you,” he called ahead. Apricot just laughed, galloping down the road.

Inger shook his head, smiling. His legs were still sore from training, but he quickly began to close the gap. While Strawberry was old enough now to give his father a genuine run for his money—on the ground, at least—Apricot still hadn’t hit his growth spurt. Even at a full sprint, his legs were simply too short to match Inger’s practiced gallop. The older stallion kept things interesting for him, pulling ahead, but letting the colt overtake him once or twice.

The streets flashed by, as the two dodged the odd passerby, and Inger reveled in the fresh air as it rushed against his face. “Pace yourself,” he reminded a gasping Apricot, who had fallen a few steps behind. “Remember those breathing cadences I taught you.”

“I—” Apricot panted, “—remember!”

Up ahead, Inger spied the bakery at last. It was a plain, unassuming little building, right next to the post office. A thin taper of smoke rose from its brick chimney, carrying the smell of bread on the air. “Almost there!” He moved ever-so-slightly faster, drawing ahead. “I’m going to wi-in,” he sang, and he meant to. Closely enough that Apricot wouldn’t feel bad about it, but enough to serve as well-deserved payback for that head start.

Apricot’s voice was strained but gleeful. “No—you’re—not!”

Inger saw a flash of rose light, and his brows furrowed. What was—

His hoof hit a vine and he tripped. Inger lost his balance, tumbling forward and plowing into the cobblestones. Lifting his head with a wince, he saw Apricot reach the bakery door and triumphantly slap it with his hoof. The colt turned toward him and sat heavily, his chest heaving, but wearing a wide smile. “Beat you!”

As he stood and massaged his shoulder, Inger cast a wary eye down at the vine that had sent him sprawling. It was an ordinary plant, poking up between the cobblestones, nothing special… except he could see the deep indent in the dirt where it had lain before he tripped on it. Something—someone—had pulled it out of the ground like a snare.

The kid’s got more talent than he realizes. Inger smiled to himself. Trotting up to the door to join Apricot, he made a good-natured hmpf of disapproval. “You cheated.”

“I won,” Apricot corrected, tilting his head up. His smile was more cheeky than smug.

The corners of Inger’s mouth twitched. “And who taught you to be so cutthroat?”

“Strawberry,” said Apricot, matter-of-factly. “He kept beating me because he used his wings.”

Inger shook his head, grinning. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or someone would strangle you.”

“I’m not cute—” Apricot began to protest, but he was interrupted by the jingle of the bell over the bakery’s door. It cracked open, and a blue pegasus with a graying mane of orange and red peered out.

“Aha,” she said, eyes twinkling with delight at the sight of them, “I thought I heard voices.” She opened the door, and waved hello to Apricot, who returned the gesture with enthusiasm. “Good to see you, Inger. You haven’t been by in a while.”

“Evening, Captain,” he said, tilting his head respectfully. Even after all these years, he felt the urge to salute her, but he knew she’d give him one of those embarrassing maternal chuckles if he did.

Windstreak’s eyes creased with amusement. “I haven’t been your captain in years, Inger.”

“You’ll always be my captain,” he said, lightly sweeping a hoof across the ground.

Apricot, fidgeting on the doorstep, could wait no longer. “Can we come in?”

“Of course, of course.” Windstreak stepped back and opened the door wide to let them inside. “Honey,” she called into the bakery, “they’re here!”

As Inger stepped inside, the scent of yeast and sugar hit him like a brick. He paused a moment to acclimate, surveying the rows of delectable-looking pastries that lined the storefront. As the years passed, this place seemed to grow cozier and cozier. Beautiful floral displays, tended with great care by Windstreak, decorated the entire shop. The air was comfortably warm after the cool breeze outside, thanks to the residual heat from the ovens keeping the cold at bay. It was no surprise that Cranberry still enjoyed spending time here, after all these years.

“Hi, Mr. Strudel!” Apricot bounced on his hooves as a beige-colored unicorn strode out of the central kitchen area, wiping a hoof off with a magically-suspended towel.

Apricot Strudel was older and grayer than his junior counterpart, but the energy behind his smile was just as vibrant. The older unicorn’s eyes lit up. “Aha! You made it after all. I was starting to worry I put too many dumplings in the oven. And how’s my favorite pink colt doing?”

Apricot huffed. “I’m not pink,” he complained. “Pink’s girly. Aunt Tyria said I’m, uh… ser… cerise.”

The baker grinned, but nodded. “Well, I’m not foolish enough to argue with my daughter-in-law about color.” Chuckling, he turned back toward the kitchen. “How about you come put those cerise hooves of yours to work helping me feed the sourdough starter? It’ll be good levitation practice.” Head bobbing in affirmation, Apricot practically pranced after him.

“Come on, Inger,” said Windstreak warmly. She strode past him toward the kitchen and the dining room beyond it. “Feels like we haven’t caught up in ages. They’ll be at it for a while; we’ve got a few minutes before dinner’s ready.”

He followed her through the kitchen, sliding past the two unicorns as they measured flour and water portions on a hanging scale. His gaze lingered on his son’s glowing horn as he tipped a small bag of ground spelt flour into the waiting bowl, mouth screwed up in concentration. Just keep at it, Junior.

The dining room was much smaller than the storefront, but the table was large enough to seat more than the four sets of silverware and cups of water it was set with. Windstreak sat on the nearest cushion, brushing a long tress of fiery hair over her shoulder. Inger still wasn’t used to her wearing her mane so long; in the military she’d kept it trimmed to a still-generous shoulder-length.

He sank into the adjacent seating cushion with a groan. Windstreak snickered. “I know that look. Long day on the training pitch, huh?”

Inger nodded ruefully. “I’m going to be stiff tomorrow morning.”

“You’re not driving them too hard, are you?” Windstreak rested her head on a hoof. “It’s possible to overtrain, you know.”

“Wheatie certainly thinks so,” said Inger dryly, taking a sip from his water glass.

She snorted. “Wheatie hasn’t changed. I remember when he’d sneak naps during survival training, thinking Bergeron and I weren’t watching.” Fiddling with her glass, she gave it a meditative swirl. “Still, you can’t deny he’s one hell of a soldier. Saved my life, after all.”

“He’s a good instructor, too. He’s helped me whip over a hundred recruits into shape now. We’re almost halfway to recovering our numbers from the war.”

“Good,” said Windstreak. The pride in her voice made Inger sit up a little straighter. “I still speak to the princess, you know. She says you’re doing a wonderful job as captain.”

“That’s kind of her,” said Inger, awkwardly tapping a hoof on the table. He’d never been good at handling praise from Celestia; it always left him feeling a strange mixture of happy and embarrassed. “I’m happy to say the new Firewings are living up to your reputation. Thanks to our efforts, there haven’t been any major bandit raids or monster attacks in two solid years. No griffon trouble, either—I think we’ve finally cleaned the southlands out completely.”

Windstreak exhaled slowly. “I’m glad to hear it. To tell the truth, I was worried the war would be the end of our unit. Shrikefeather almost wiped us out after Whitewall. I wondered at times if I’d live to see the end of the Firewings…” she shook her head. “Well, it’s good to be wrong.”

“Thanks to you,” said Inger, with a respectful nod. “With all the crazy stunts you pulled during the war, you turned the Firewings back into legends. The best fliers from all over Equestria keep pouring in every year to join us.”

“I think you deserve more credit than I,” said Windstreak, touching a hoof to her cheek. Half of her face was a slightly darker blue than the rest. The old burn scars had never fully faded. “After all, you’re the one who took down a dragon. Without losing hundreds of troops and getting scalded half to death.”

“Captain…” Inger frowned. “Those lives bought Equestria’s freedom. You don’t have anything to regret.”

“I know,” she said, calm but meditative. “Inger, the hardest part of being a commander is learning you can’t save everyone. Sometimes, you have to choose who lives and dies, even though you love them both. Even when you make the right call…” she sighed. “You don’t forget them.”

“I’ve never actually had to do that, myself.” Inger fiddled pensively with his hooves. “My entire tenure as captain has been during relative peacetime. Even the fighting against Warlord Lionsclaw was nothing compared to the battles you faced.” He swallowed, giving her a searching look. “I admit… sometimes, I wonder if I’ve really got what it takes to do that. To make the kinds of sacrifices you did. To look a friend in the eye, knowing you’re about to get them killed. I just… I’m not sure I’ve got it in me.”

Windstreak’s eyes flicked away from his, staring somewhere far away and dark. “I wish I could tell you that it doesn’t get easier.”

“Well…” Inger smiled. “That’s why Celestia keeps the ambassador around. If we’re lucky, he’ll put all of the Firewings out of a job.”

That got a laugh out of her, breaking the dour mood. “You know, I used to hope that Rye would become a soldier. Help Equestria and make ponies respect him.” She brightened again. “Now, some days I find myself wondering if he hasn’t done more to keep the country safe than you or me.”

There was an enthusiastic grunt from the kitchen entrance. “Not to mention protecting my pocketbook,” said Apricot Strudel, sweeping into the dining room with a plate full of steaming dumplings held in his magical grip. “That trade agreement he worked out with the Zyrans brought the cost of sugar down so much that our profits jumped nearly thirty percent last year. Kid’s making me proud.”

Windstreak grinned. “And he even found someone to keep him company. Tyria’s a saint; I don’t know how he doesn’t drive her mad.”

“It’s all that cooking I taught him,” said Apricot Strudel, chuckling. “That’s how I got you to stay around, after all.” He set the dumplings down on the table, taking a long sniff and smiling. “Ahh, perfect.” Inger had to agree; the smell of them already had him salivating. “Just a few more things and then we can eat.”

Inger’s son staggered into the room, eyes fixed on a wobbly bowl of vegetables hovering just above his glowing horn. “Where do I—” he began, his voice strained.

“Right here,” said the baker, gesturing to a space next to the dumplings.

The junior Apricot guided his burden down to rest on the table, giving a relieved puff of breath as his horn’s light winked out. “That’s a lot heavier than it looks.”

“Sounds like we need more practice,” the older Apricot said cheerfully. “Come on, you can help me get the salt and pepper shakers out.” The two vanished back into the kitchen.

Windstreak smiled after them. “Speaking of Rye and Tyria…” She glanced sideways at Inger. “Cranberry hasn’t heard anything, but you and Rye go out for drinks every now and then.” Tapping her hooves together, she looked uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Has he said anything to you about… erm, children?”

Inger blinked, jerking upright. “No. Are they—”

Windstreak slumped back into her cushions with a disappointed huff. “Not as far as I know.” She tsked. “You’d think a year and a half would be plenty of time, but who knows. Maybe they’re waiting until Rye’s career settles down a bit. I suppose sailing across the world every few months isn’t conducive to raising a family.”

With another exasperated shake of her head, she smiled at Inger. “At least Apricot and I get to play grandparents for yourlittle ones.”

“Cranberry and I appreciate it,” said Inger. “Truly. I don’t know how we’d have managed Junior’s first year without you two watching him all those nights.” Without that help, either Inger or Cranberry would surely have had to give up their careers to have a second child. If the Firewings were everything to him, then the university was everything to Cranberry. Not having to make that choice had been Windstreak and Apricot’s greatest gift.

“You’re welcome.” She twirled a strand of her mane wistfully. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve been taking in children my whole life.”

“Ah,” Inger smiled, “you mean Cranberry and her sister?”

She blinked calmly, meeting his eyes. “And you, in a way.”

“Wh—” Inger tilted his head. “Sorry?”

“When you applied to join the Firewings, standard procedure would have been to reject you,” said Windstreak, half-smiling. “Normally, the proctors don’t let foals who lie about their age even get to the flight section of the exam.”

His face heated with embarrassment. “Wait, they knew I lied?”

Windstreak gave him an are-you-serious look. “You think you’re the first one to try it?” She shook her head, still smiling. “But while I was reviewing the files on each recruit, I noticed you didn’t have any parents listed.”

“Oh. So that’s why you…?” His hooves slid off the table. Inger wasn’t sure how to feel about this. His mother’s early death was so long ago that he had only the barest warm memories of her. His father… well, whoever he was, he hadn’t cared enough about Inger for there to even be memories.

“Mhm.” Windstreak gave him a fond wink. “I had to make sure you could actually do the job, of course. But you did better than colts almost twice your age during the flight trials. With that kind of performance, well… if you had nowhere else to go, I thought I ought to give you a place to stay, and a way to do some good for the world in the meantime.”

Inger fluffed his wings awkwardly. “I never… I must have been useless those first few years.”

“You’ve trained how many recruits now?” she asked wryly. “I’m sure there have been a few worse than you were. I made sure you weren’t treated like a charity case; you got the same training as everyone else in the program. But… I admit, you were one of my favorites.” She took a sip of water. “That’s why I let you marry my foster daughter.”

He coughed. “Uh…”

Snickering, she set the glass down. “I’m kidding, Inger. We were all very happy for you two.”

Processing her words, he sat quietly for a few moments. Still dazed, he lifted his head to look her in the eyes and nod. “Thank you, Captain. For everything.”

Laying a hoof on his shoulder, she smiled kindly. “I think it’s high time you started calling me Windstreak.”

“I’ll… I’ll try, Cap—Windstreak,” he said, fumbling over the name. He grinned sheepishly as she laughed again.

There was a thud and a clattering sound from the kitchen. Inger winced, hoping Apricot hadn’t broken anything valuable this time.

“Careful in there, you two,” called Windstreak. “We’ve already gone through one set of dishes this month.”

“Heh,” said Inger. “He’s still got some work to do, but he’s made a lot of progress. He loves these lessons; they’re practically all he talks about the whole day before.”

“And Apricot was delighted to get the chance to teach someone magic.” Windstreak’s eyes suddenly flicked away. “He always wanted to do it with Rye, but…”

There was a scuffling sound, and his son’s head poked out from the kitchen entryway. The colt looked worried. “Dad?”

Inger met his eyes expectantly. “Did you two get the spices?”

Apricot ignored the question, turning his head hesitantly back toward the kitchen. “Dad, I think something’s wrong with Mr. Strudel. He—he fell down, and he’s not moving.”

An icy pit formed instantly in Inger’s stomach. He and Windstreak stood abruptly, rattling the silverware on the table. “Honey?” called Windstreak. “Are you all right? Apricot?”

There was no response.

After seconds of terrifying silence, Windstreak jolted into motion. She brushed past the colt into the kitchen with her wings half-raised in agitation. Inger heard her breath suck in. He turned to his son, who was running his hoof through his mane again. “Apricot, stay in here.”

“What’s happening?” Apricot’s eyes were wide. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know yet. Please, just stay here until I come back for you.”

Inger stepped past him without waiting for a response, entering the kitchen. His stomach fell as he saw Windstreak sitting on the tiled floor, cradling her husband’s head in her lap. “Apricot…?” she whispered.

First-aid had always been a weakness in his skill set, but Inger swiftly sat beside them and held up the stallion’s hoof. He felt the ankle for a pulse. Nothing.

You’ve never been good at finding it, he thought, feeling his own pulse quicken. Strudel’s chest wasn’t moving, but maybe Inger just couldn’t see the shallow breathing, considering how badly he was shaking.

He forced the panic deep down. Windstreak needed him to be strong, now. “I’ll get help,” he said, a little too quickly. “The doctor on Fairweather Street isn’t far.”

“Honey?” Windstreak sounded more lost than Inger had ever heard her. She stroked her husband’s forehead. “Apricot, can you hear me?” Her hoof trembled. “Wake up, honey…”

Inger turned toward the exit, his legs still shaking. If that doctor was home, he could get him back here in ten minutes, tops. The unicorn did good work; he’d managed to get Strawberry through that dangerous bout of whooping cough a few years ago. Surely he could…

Distracted, Inger bumped into the store counter on his way out. Clutching his shoulder with a hoof, he started toward the exit, when the bell above the door jingled. Looking up, he saw the door swing open, and in trotted the last pony in the world he wanted to see right now.

Rye Strudel’s eye-searing yellow robes flapped around his hooves as the outside breeze followed him in, carrying the scent of rain. He had a stack of woolen clothing piled on his back, tied neatly with twine. His wife Tyria came in behind him, adjusting her black eyepatch with a hoof. Both beamed in unison when they saw Inger.

“Surprise!” said Rye, hauling the clothes off his back and setting them on the floor. “We got back early.”

“Total success, by the way,” said Tyria, offering a hoof toward her husband. He clapped it agreeably, grinning.

“I’d say so. The llamas have agreed to release our ships, without even a fine for disorderly conduct. Crisis averted.” Rye winked at Inger. “I was worried. You know how badly behaved those navy types are.” He cast his wife a smirk.

Tyria snorted, elbowing him. “We’ve dealt with worse.”

Inger, throat dry, tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. Rye raised an eyebrow. “What, cat got your tongue?” He shrugged, grinning. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you tonight, Inger. We were going to hit your place tomorrow, but this is good—you can take your ponchos right now. They’re real alpaca wool, you know. Extremely cozy.” He swept a hoof over the stack of clothes. “Pick whichever colors you like! We got enough for your family along with Mom and Dad.”

He looked past Inger toward the kitchen entrance. “Speaking of, do I smell dumplings?”

Inger leaned forward, clenching his teeth. “Rye, your father’s—”

A low moan of sorrow echoed out from behind them. Inger’s heart seized up. Oh, gods, Windstreak…

“I—I have to get a doctor,” said Inger, moving for the door.

Rye’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mom? Dad?” He left the clothes on the floor, hesitantly walking past Inger.

Inger paused as he passed Tyria, locking eyes with her. “Please, my son’s here—make sure he stays here until I get back, okay?”

Tyria nodded, eye wide. “What’s going on?”

Suddenly, Rye’s voice rang through the house, cracked with terror. “Dad!”

Go! Inger flung open the door and charged out into the street. His wings unfurled, and he took flight in a flurry of feathers.

The weather teams had finally gotten their act together. It had begun to drizzle outside, drenching the city and turning the roads to mud. The smell of spring was doused by the crisp dampness of rainfall. Inger swiped water out of his face, wings beating the air as he strained for speed. His teeth ground together as he raced above the rain-dappled rooftops, mentally replaying the image of Windstreak rocking with her husband in her lap. The tracks streaming down his cheeks weren’t from the rain. One question ran through his mind over and over again:

What will I say to Cranberry?

2. The Rose Lord

“My apologies,” repeated Cranberry, gesturing at the empty table. “If I’d had more warning I’d have cooked something.”

“It’s no trouble,” said the stallion, calmly taking his seat. “I know this was on short notice. Unfortunately, outside forces dictate my haste.” As the gentle rain pattered on the windows, Cranberry sat across the table from him, and cast an evaluating glance over her guest.

Tybalt Vallen, the Count of Silverglen and Lord of the Rose Valley, was a striking pegasus. His coat and feathers were a deep, dark gray, almost black, and his dark gray mane was curled and tightly cropped. Sharp, golden eyes gazed across the table at Cranberry, calm and analytical. He wore a short summer robe, whose hem only came down to his knees. It was pale white with a blush of pink, and embroidered with curling, thorned stems that ended in a large rose near his shoulder. Around his neck hung a small copper locket, the latch worn with use.

Opening the bag he’d brought, he lifted out a dark bottle and set it on the table. “A gift, for the inconvenience. A bottle of Silverglen’s finest Pinot Noir. 253 was a good year.”

“Oh,” said Cranberry, astonished. The vineyards of the Rose Valley were legendary even in northern Equestria. “I’m sorry, I don’t drink.”

“Ah. Well, keep it anyway. A gift for a friend, perhaps.” He smiled, though it didn’t manage to warm the intensity of his gaze.

Cranberry had felt him taking her measure since the moment she’d opened the door, but she wasn’t yet sure why. “What brings you to the capital from the sunny south, Lord Vallen?”

“Academic pursuits,” he said, steepling his hooves. “I understand you work closely with Professor Pad Locke on elken archeology.”

“Yes,” she said, brushing a curl of golden hair out of her eyes. “Locke and I have published several papers together since I joined the university. He was my graduate advisor, in fact.” Her lips thinned as she restrained her annoyance. They had been working closely… until Pad had up and left on some hush-hush expedition seven months ago without telling her much of anything.

“I read your paper on the tablets from those ruins near the Antlerwood last year. Fascinating.” Tybalt blinked. “Please, if you don’t mind; I’m curious about your current project.”

Brightening at the chance to talk about her work, Cranberry nodded. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the Platinum Codes—”

“Of course,” said Tybalt, tapping his forehead and spreading his hoof in acknowledgment. “Lady Platinum’s set of laws. The one that kickstarted your career, if I’m not mistaken. You’re the one who found that famous translation of them in Sleipnord, after all.”

“Ah. You’ve read my CV.”

“And heard the songs,” he said, with a slight smile. “The Mountain, the Mare, and the Dragonslayer has a whole verse about your discovery of Tyorj.”

Cranberry smiled in return, but it was sour. “I’ve never much liked that song.”

“No?”

Frowning, she folded her forelegs. “The only reason we got out of Sleipnord alive was my friend Rye Strudel. If not for him, Inger and I would never have made it back south, and Canterlot would be a smoking ruin. But the song doesn’t even mention him. None of them do.”

“Rye Strudel? Celestia’s pegacorn?” Tybalt raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Interesting. But back to your work—you were saying?”

“I found a translation of the Platinum Codes that let us decode hundreds of texts, both at the Sleipnord site and in the university archives.” Cranberry sat back, staring fondly past Tybalt as she remembered those thrilling months of discovery. “One subject came up in the Tyorjan books, time and again: the Elken Dominion.”

“The world’s first civilization,” mused Tybalt, resting his snout behind his steepled hooves.

“Unless you count the dragons, and few do,” said Cranberry, grinning. “The ancient elk were a fascinating people. As widespread as they were diverse—we call them elk, but their empire had deer and caribou citizens as well. Not to mention all the lands they conquered—ponies, antelopes, even griffons were all subservient to them for a time. At its height, the Dominion spread all the way from the arctic circle to the Bay of Winds in modern Antellucía.”

She twirled a hoof. “They were masters of magic that haven’t been matched since. They had floating castles of diamond and glass, huge cities in the high branches of their forests, vast roads and towers that connected their empire…” Cranberry waved vaguely toward the city walls. “The great road that runs through Equestria was originally of elken manufacture, you know.”

“I did,” said Tybalt, with a small nod.

A little deflated, Cranberry cleared her throat. “Oh. Well, the old unicorns in Sleipnord were obsessed with them. Half the books in that library were about the Dominion. They wanted to know how the elk performed such feats, about the invention of spellsinging and how—before the princesses—the elk began to raise the sun.” Cranberry rubbed her chin. “And of course, why they disappeared.”

“We really have no idea?”

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of ideas,” she said, dryly. “Take your pick: war, disease, famine, political fragmentation. The problem is backing any of those theories up.” She shook her head. “For all their spread and influence, we still know so little about the ancient elk. Even my colleagues in the Elktic Commonwealth don’t know much about their ancestors. Six thousand years is a long time for any records to survive if not written on stone.”

Tybalt dipped his hooves toward her. “Yet, you and Locke found a way.”

“There are still a few ruins that haven’t been completely plundered over the centuries. Locke had been working on some artifacts down in a tower in Antellucía for half a decade before we met. One in particular was noteworthy. A large, inverted stone triangle… that I found described in several of the books from the library site. The books called it a gate.”

“A gate?” Tybalt’s voice was unreadable, but his eyes flashed.

“Yes. And it wasn’t the only one.” Cranberry rubbed her hooves, still remembering the adrenaline rush from decoding those words. Locke had come running into the archives in alarm to find her whooping triumphantly. “The tower was a twin to the one we call Middengard, in the mountain pass between Equestria and Sleipnord. We hoped that there would be another gate there—an intact one.”

Cranberry rapped the table. “Locke already suspected that there was more to find in Middengard—a hidden chamber of some sort. We’d just never had enough proof to get the funding to go looking for it… until now.” She leaned back with a satisfied smile. “It didn’t take long after that for Locke to find us funding. He got it from some mysterious backer—wouldn’t tell me who; they wanted to keep their privacy. Probably some noble. You wouldn’t believe how paranoid some of them are.” Belatedly, she remembered who she was speaking to. “Er…”

The count tapped his hooftips blandly. “Where do the gates lead?”

“Well… that’s what we hoped to discover.” Cranberry tapped her hoof anxiously. “After a month of digging and knocking down walls, we found what we were looking for. A room beneath Middengard, with the gate inside, incredibly well-preserved. In perfect condition—but inactive. Neither Locke nor I could figure out how to turn it on, or whether it still worked at all. It might not even have been meant for transporting living creatures—perhaps a conduit of magical energy, or a food distribution network. Or maybe a communications hub—”

Cranberry stopped herself. She could talk for hours about her work, if she wasn’t careful. But she still didn’t know why Vallen was here, and she was starting to get a bad feeling about the way those golden eyes were staring at her. “At any rate, that’s what’s been consuming all my time for the last year and a half. Locke’s, too… until last September. He left to… work on something else.”

Something he wouldn’t tell me about, she fumed internally, but her anger was laden with anxiety. It wasn’t like Pad to keep her in the dark, or to stay out this long after he was supposed to have returned. “You said this meeting was about Locke. Do you have any idea what he’s doing, Count Vallen?”

“Less than I’d like,” said Vallen, finally revealing an emotion other than bland politeness. His eyes narrowed and he glanced pensively down at his hooves. “You see, Cranberry, I funded that dig at Middengard.”

She blinked, swearing internally. Now you’ve gone and put your hoof in it, she thought, before the realization hit her. “Wait… then you were also his mysterious backer for the expedition last year, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“What was he after, Tybalt?” She bit her lip. “He wouldn’t tell me. That’s not like him.”

“Something important. Bigger than Middengard.” He met her eyes again. “Bigger than the Sleipnordic site.”

Cranberry’s mouth was suddenly dry. “The gateway destination.”

“So he suspected.” Tybalt leaned in on the table. “Locke told me he’d traced the location to the island of Elketh.”

“That’s…” Cranberry wet her lips with her tongue. “That’s not possible. The Commonwealth islands have plenty of ruins, but they were all picked over centuries ago.”

“Not this one. Locke believed it was hidden deep underground, beneath the old growth of the Elderwood. He said it was a city. The nexus of elken civilization, he called it.” Tybalt’s eyes glinted. “Last September, I sent him to find it. Forty expeditionaries: mostly ponies and antelopes, but a few griffons for security, as well. They reached the island near the end of the month, and set up supply lines between the dig site and Port Faeloch, the nearest local settlement.”

“And? What happened?” Cranberry leaned close.

“Things went as planned for several months,” said Vallen, frowning, “until sometime in late January, all communications ceased. The carts stopped coming out of the forest for resupply. There was no indication of anything going wrong before then—the whole expedition just went dark overnight.”

“So you have no idea,” she said, her heart thumping. “Are they still alive?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” said Tybalt, lifting his head. “And I was hoping you could help. I’m leading another expedition to the islands—better supplied and better armed. We’re leaving in two weeks. I’d like you to join us, if you’re willing.”

Fearful hope sprang in her chest. The greatest archaeological find in a thousand years—one to make even Tyorj pale. And if Pad’s in trouble, I’ve got to save him.

Before she could accept on the spot, Tybalt lifted a hoof. “I don’t expect an answer tonight. Take a day or two to think about it and make any arrangements you need.”

Cranberry nodded slowly. Hushed, she said, “Count Vallen, before you lost contact…” She leaned all the way forward, craning over the table as she stared into his golden eyes. “Did they find anything?”

Tybalt matched her stare. “Yes,” he whispered.

The door burst open so loudly that Cranberry jumped, mistaking it at first for a thunderclap. The rain poured loudly beyond the doorway as someone panted for breath. Inside stepped her husband, his feathers sodden and his mane drenched.

“Inger!” Cranberry stood, walking around the table. “Back so soon?”

He pulled wet locks of his mane away from his face, and she blinked in confusion. He looked haggard, as if he’d sprinted all the way back from the bakery. Behind him, Apricot trudged in, equally soaked, and not meeting her eyes.

Inger rested a damp hoof on her shoulder. “Cranberry…” His eyes were red and bleary.

Had something gone wrong with the magic lesson? Apricot didn’t look injured… “I didn’t expect you two back for another hour or so. I was just talking with Count Vallen…” She awkwardly waved a hoof toward the dining room table.

Vallen was staring at Inger, his face full of unconcealed amazement. “Inger of Canterlot,” he said. “The Dragonslayer. It is you.”

“Cranberry, honey, I think you should…” Inger took a deep breath. “You’d better sit down.”

Her stomach sank. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh…” He looked at Vallen.

The noble stood abruptly, approaching them. He was still staring intently at Inger, almost hungrily. “A red pegasus…” he murmured, touching a hoof to his locket. “Orange mane… about the right age… but I didn’t expect the eyes…”

Inger shifted uncomfortably. “Look, Count Vallen, I don’t mean to be blunt, but I don’t have time to play celebrity tonight. This is a… a family matter.”

A family matter? Cranberry’s blood ran ice-cold.

“Yes,” said Tybalt, holding the locket tightly. He blinked, looking back at Cranberry. “Oh—I’m sorry. I can see this… isn’t the time. I’ll take my leave. Please, Professor Sugar, consider my offer. And…”

He returned to her husband, “Inger, you and I should talk as well. As soon as possible. It’s urgent.” His eyes burned with desperate intensity. Hesitating with another long look at Inger, he took a deep breath and strode past them to leave.

Inger and Cranberry ignored him as he slipped out into the rain, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Cranberry swallowed, resting a hoof on Inger’s. “What happened?”

“It’s Apricot,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Apricot Strudel.”

“Papa…?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“The doctor…” Inger shook his head slowly, struggling with the words, “He said it was the heart. A, a… myocardial… something. Almost instantaneous. There… there wasn’t anything he could do.”

Cranberry blinked, staring numbly at the door. When she didn’t say anything, Inger swallowed and continued. “Apricot, he… he’s gone, Cranberry. I’m so sorry.”

He hugged her tight, but Cranberry couldn’t return it. Her legs weren’t working. Gone…?

“The doctor said he wouldn’t have felt much pain,” said Inger, resting his head against hers, dripping rainwater down her shoulder. “He was just there one minute, and the next…”

Words spilled from her lips. “Are they going to close the bakery?”

What a heartless thing to say. Is that all I care about? His business? Her mind was somehow racing yet empty, a mousewheel of white noise.

“I’m not sure,” said Inger, stepping back and trying to guide her toward the seat cushion. “Rye said—”

“Oh, gods,” said Cranberry, closing her eyes and dropping her head. “Rye was there? He saw it?” Sisters, how cruel…

“No, thankfully. But bad enough. He got there just afterward.” Inger touched her shoulder again. “Honey, let’s go sit down.”

Why wasn’t she crying? She ought to be bawling her eyes out, but no tears were coming. Cranberry shook her head in a daze. “No, we… we should head over. Windstreak and Rye shouldn’t be alone.”

He brushed her mane with a tender hoof. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s raining. I’ll… go get the parasol…” Like a sleepwalker, she plodded past him and headed up the stairs toward their room.

Passing Apricot and Strawberry’s room, she could hear her son’s pillow-muted sobs. He loved Papa as much as I do. Never again would she get to see the two unicorns doing magic together, with her son wearing that beaming grin.

As if her soul had left her body, she marched on like an automaton. Cranberry pushed into her room, stepping around the bed toward the closet. She opened it, searching for the parasol buried somewhere behind the clothing.

They’d have to organize a funeral. Her older sister Inkpot would insist on taking charge of the whole thing. Inky had always been good in a crisis. When the two sisters had found their father frozen to death after that murderous blizzard, it was Inkpot who’d asked Apricot Strudel to help them melt the door lock out of the ice. Cranberry could still remember the day vividly. The frigid wind, the crust of ice coating the furniture, the brief glimpse of her father slumped over his last, unfinished coat. Crying outside in the snow until Inkpot told her they’d be living with Apricot and Rye for a while…

Her hooves passed over items in the closet, aimlessly rifling through the inventory without even looking at it. Why’d she come up here, again?

The smallest mercy was that she wouldn’t have to worry about feeding the family for a while. She and Windstreak were going to be drowning in food as all their friends and acquaintances descended to help, in the only way anyone ever knew how. They’d bring basketfuls of fruits, vegetables, and freshly baked bread…

That was what did it.

Cranberry’s knees buckled, and she slumped against the bed with a howl of grief. Her shoulders shook violently as the tears came flooding down. Clutching her forelegs around herself, she shook and wailed again.

Papa’s gone.

Gone was the silly smile he wore whenever he saw the child she’d named after him. Gone was the crinkling of a paper bag as he packed her a free muffin on her morning stop by the bakery. Gone were those mouthwatering desserts, and all the masterful skill he possessed in the kitchen. Never again would his hooves guide hers to knead a lump of dough, teaching her to make something whole and beautiful out of the simplest ingredients.

Once again, she’d lost a father, and she couldn’t even remember the last thing she’d said to him.

Cranberry wept with hacking sobs as the door burst open and Inger rushed in to hold her tight. She cried and cried, bawling into Inger’s shoulder as the grief welled endlessly out of her, until there was nothing left inside but echoes of warm summer days and the scent of baking bread.

3. Memoriam

One week later, on a pale, chilly morning, Cranberry had no tears left to shed.

The Canterlot City Cemetery was bleak and beautiful. Situated near the southern end of the Clement Blueblood Memorial Park, it lay in a quiet copse of maple and oak. The trees were all in bloom, their bright blossoms shaking defiantly against the overcast sky. Seasonal birds had yet to return to the north, so the only sounds were the flowering branches rustling quietly in a faint breeze.

The cemetery itself was a few small acres, enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. The bars were still shiny, unmarred by rust. They had been built along with the rest of the park six years past, replacing a long streak of burned-out ruins from the griffon siege. The tombstones were spaced widely and scattered beneath the trees, but only one held meaning for Cranberry today. It bore little text, befitting a stallion who’d never bothered with frills unless he was decorating his pastries.

Apricot Strudel

303-329

Twenty-six was far too young, even for a pony. Cranberry felt that hollow ache in her chest again as a few stray leaves from vanished autumn brushed over the grass. Apricot had deserved another decade at least, time to spend with his wife, his son, the grandchildren he’d never meet… She drew closer to Inger, who squeezed her shoulders with a sturdy foreleg.

The unadorned pine box, mercifully closed, lay in a rectangle of open earth beneath the stone. Circled around the grave were dozens of mourners, dressed in funereal black. Rye’s ink-dark robes had the opposite effect of their ordinary yellow counterparts, seeming to leach him of life and vibrancy. A few splashes of color were present thanks to Windstreak, Inger, Tyria, and a few other veterans and soldiers wearing bright blue dress uniforms.

Inkpot, a white flower pressed neatly into her reddish mane, stood at the foot of the grave behind a small podium. Her eyes were calm and tired, but she still held her head high. Cranberry was amazed she hadn’t collapsed days ago, with how thin she’d been spreading herself during the arrangements. Rye and Cranberry had both taken up as much of the slack as they could, but Inkpot had gently insisted on being the one to deliver the eulogy. I owe him, she’d repeated, more than any of you know.

Rye wasn’t holding up as well. He looked older than Cranberry had ever seen him. Those heavy black robes and the dark circles under his eyes seemed to age him a decade. Was he grateful to be here for his mother’s sake, she wondered? Or did he wish that he was still in some distant land, blissfully unaware? Beside him stood Tyria, drawn and reserved in the prim military uniform she’d dusted off for the funeral.

Cranberry’s eyes flicked over to Inger, standing at her side. She would never have made it through the last excruciating week without him to lean on. She knew that, deep down, he didn’t truly understand what this felt like. His mother, Pomegranate, had died so long ago that Inger—with shame—had privately admitted to her that he barely remembered her face. But he was trying to help anyway, making sweet, clumsy gestures of love like laying out her clothing this morning to save her the trouble of digging the funeral wear out of the attic. It helped, just a little, to know that she wasn’t alone.

Not like poor Windstreak. Cranberry’s heart hurt whenever she looked at the old war hero, standing proud and utterly shattered in her crisp Firewing blues. The mare’s parade-ready stance revealed no hint of the hurricane of grief that must be tearing her apart inside. Always putting on a brave face for her children, thought Cranberry, brushing a lock of golden hair out of her eyes. The thought of that great pegasus standing alone in the empty bakery was almost too much to bear.

“Are they starting soon?” Apricot hesitantly shifted in his spot in front of her.

“Shh,” scolded his older brother, scowling. Strawberry was a light orange pegasus who’d inherited his father’s prematurely serious air. He tapped Apricot’s leg to quell the younger colt’s fidgeting. “Not everypony’s here yet. Settle down and be patient.” He flashed an apologetic look at Cranberry.

She patted Apricot’s shoulder. “It shouldn’t be much longer, honey.”

Her son nodded and resumed staring at the muddy ground. He’d taken the loss of his teacher hard, spending most of the last week sequestered in the brothers’ shared room. One day she’d spied him levitating his pillow through the ajar door; before she could congratulate him, he’d dropped it to plunge his head into the down and burst into tears. Fighting maternal instincts, she’d let him be. Apricot hated when his parents saw him cry.

Though childishly blunt, his concerns about the delay were understandable—the ceremony was supposed to have started almost ten minutes ago. Cranberry returned to her surveillance of the park entrance, wondering when the final guest would arrive. A gust of wind shook the trees, and she caught a flash of gold through the foliage. She straightened.

Two pegasi in full Firewing battle armor marched around the bend. She recognized Major Specklestraw on the left, but the other was someone new she didn’t know. Behind them strode the reason they were both in armor, not uniforms: Princess Celestia, flanked by a second pair of Firewings, appeared from the trees. Her enormous mane shimmered with all the colors of the Sleipnordic aurora.

It was impossible to dress more formally than her daily wear, so the princess had gone in the opposite direction. No crown adorned her head, no gold lay around her neck, and no jeweled boots encased her hooves. Celestia was here as a family friend, not a ruler. Cranberry swallowed. She’d never seen the princess look so… mortal.

Inkpot was the first to bow, followed by all the other funeral-goers. The Firewings took up their places at the back of the group, and the princess walked slowly through the parting crowd to stand beside Windstreak and Rye.

Windstreak was the first to raise her head. “Your majesty,” she said, her voice cracked and raspy, “thank you for coming.” She looked up at her liege with a trembling jaw.

Celestia bowed her head to the new widow briefly, eyes solemn. “You are most welcome, Windstreak.” She lifted her head again, looking sadly down into the grave.

Inkpot cleared her throat as the small crowd settled. “Welcome to all of you. For those who haven’t met me, my name is Inkpot Sugar. I was not Apricot Strudel’s daughter by blood, but he and Windstreak cared for me and my sister for many years. Today we gather to pay our respects to him: as a father, friend, and,” she smiled, “the best cook in Canterlot.”

A few sad chuckles emerged from the crowd. Inkpot’s smile remained, but her eyes fell to gaze into the open grave. “Apricot never liked long ceremonies unless there was cake involved. I’ll do my best to keep this short.” She lifted her head. “Then again, that may be difficult—Apricot touched so many lives, from all kinds of ponies. Soldiers, librarians, artisans, aristocrats… we’ve all enjoyed his marvelous confections and warm smiles.”

She glanced around at the gathered ponies. “They say you can measure a pony’s worth by the quality of the company they keep. If that’s true, then Apricot was the greatest stallion I’ve ever known. He was the beloved husband of Windstreak Firemane, the mare who led our troops to victory over the griffon invaders. He was the father of Rye Strudel, our most accomplished ambassador, who’s saved our nation from a dozen new threats of war since then.”

Cranberry caught a few faint whispers in the crowd. Someone behind her muttered, “Mutant.”

Her jaw tightened. Could the poor stallion get no respite, even at his father’s funeral? Rye bent his head, his too-small wings drooping just enough for her to notice. Windstreak’s back straightened as one of her ears twitched. Cranberry could see a small flicker of fury in the lines of her face.

Princess Celestia cleared her throat sharply, and the whispers instantly ceased.

Inkpot handled the moment with grace, moving swiftly on. “And Apricot was a dedicated member of our city’s community, using his bakery to turn birthdays and weddings into memories we’ll all treasure forever.” She took a deep breath. “But pastries were not his greatest gifts to me and my sister.” She met Cranberry’s eyes, and the two shared a silent, mental hug.

After a moment to gather herself, Inkpot continued. “Twelve years ago, the vicious blizzard of 317 claimed the lives of our mother and father. We had nowhere to go, until Apricot…” she smiled, eyes glimmering, “Apricot took us both in without a moment’s hesitation. He and Windstreak opened their doors to us and made us part of the family. Whenever Cranberry skinned a knee playing with Rye, Apricot would bandage it up. Whenever I came home late from a long shift at the library, he would tuck me into bed.”

Wiping an eye, she nodded and her smile widened. “The spring I turned eight, I had finally saved up half the money I needed to purchase the deed to my library. I thought it would take another five years of hard work to finish the job, but Apricot matched my funds to help buy it that year, and all in my name. He even helped me with the paperwork, and moving our furniture when my sister and I went to live there.”

Cranberry smiled, remembering how much he’d sweated getting her favorite silly pink bookshelf up the stairs. Oh, Papa…

“And…” Inkpot paused, her eyes focusing on something far away, “that winter wasn’t the only time he saved my life.”

Cranberry blinked, eyebrows furrowing. It wasn’t?

“Six years ago on the day of the red sun, when the griffons rained from the skies and poured into our streets, I went to the bakery to rescue the stallion who’d been a father to me.” Inkpot’s voice cracked. “But he saved me instead. Two griffons broke into the bakery just after I arrived, and before they could—hurt us, he, he—” She paused, rattled, and took a deep breath. “He stopped them, by himself. I owed him my life twice over. And he never said a word about it afterwards.”

Neither did you, thought Cranberry, staring in shock. A quick glance at Windstreak and Rye’s horrified expressions meant this was new to them, too. Cranberry felt her stomach turn. The way Inky had said hurt us…

Inkpot lifted her head again. “And I know that he didn’t save me so that I could waste his gift by mourning him forever. Apricot would want me—us—to remember the good things: those lazy summer evenings at the bakery, helping knead dough; listening to Windstreak’s stories about the Firewings after our lessons, watching my sister and Rye playing by the building without a care in the world, because they knew they were taken care of. Those things will always be with me. And so will Apricot Strudel.”

She placed a hoof on her chest, looking around at the gathered ponies. “So let’s keep him alive in our memories. Let’s always remember the kind, warm stallion who made our lives a little better, one pastry at a time. And the next time you and your loved ones share a fresh loaf of bread, hot from the oven, think of Apricot.” Inkpot bowed her eyes and nodded once. “Now, we return him to the earth, to find peace in the world beyond.”

The crowd suddenly rumbled, murmuring in surprise as Celestia stepped forward. Her horn glowed brightly, and the piled earth beside the grave began to pour down into the pit. In moments, the casket was hidden from view. The earth packed neatly down into the plot, leaving a brown rectangle of dirt beneath the tombstone.

Celestia laid her hoof on the loamy surface. Her horn brightened, and glowing trails of magic curled down her leg like paisley. The radiant tendrils plunged into the soil, and green shoots burst up from the loam around her hoof.

Cranberry looked on in awe. It was easy to forget sometimes that Celestia was fundamentally different from a pegacorn like Rye. She embodied not just the pegasi and the unicorns, but the earth ponies as well. An avatar not just of the sun, but of all three pony races. Reverence stirred in Cranberry’s breast as she realized some of that old earth pony magic ran in her blood, too.

The plants bloomed as they sprouted, revealing roses, tulips, violets, and brilliant orchids all brimming with life. Celestia removed her hoof, and the light faded. Bowing her head once more to the tombstone, she stepped back into the crowd.

Apricot Junior sucked in a tiny breath. He was staring at the princess, transfixed. “Wow…”

The ceremony, brief as it was, had concluded. The mourners began to take their leave, filing past the tombstone to pay their final respects as they departed. Soon, only a few remained with the Sugars, the Strudels, and the princess’s retinue. Cranberry pulled her black cloak tightly around her neck and leaned on Inger, watching the blossoming branches sway in the wind.

As the final few guests gave their condolences, Inkpot joined them by the graveside. “Was the speech good?” she sounded hesitant, looking down at the bed of flowers. “I didn’t think he’d want something long.”

“Inky…” Cranberry wasn’t sure how much to ask, or say, in front of the kids. Throwing caution to the wind, she bolted forward and hugged her sister. Inkpot jolted, then softened and returned the hug. Hushed, Cranberry said, “Inky, you never told me about the griffons.”

Inkpot stepped back, shaking her head. “For good reason.”

“Do you want to talk about it…?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Not now, anyway. Maybe never.” Sighing, she gave Cranberry an apologetic look. “But if I change my mind… I’ll let you know.”

Cranberry nodded, swallowing. “Okay.”

The awkward moment was interrupted by a familiar, too-loud whisper from behind them. “Strawberry, did you see that?” Apricot’s voice was never as quiet as he thought he was. “The princess growing all those plants with magic! You think I could learn how to—”

“Quiet, Pinky,” said Strawberry, boxing his ears. “Be respectful.”

Apricot’s ears drooped. “Sorry,” he muttered, and fell silent.

A rich alto broke the quiet. “Greetings.” Cranberry and Inkpot turned to see Celestia standing before them, almost glowing in the pale morning sunlight. The Sugars all bowed deeply—though Strawberry had to nudge a starstruck Apricot to follow suit.

Celestia dipped her head. “Please, rise.” She focused on Inkpot. “Your words were lovely, Miss Sugar. I’m sure Mr. Strudel would have been grateful.”

“Th-thank you, Princess,” said Inkpot, shifting anxiously. Cranberry restrained a smile. Inky had never had as much exposure to the princess as the rest of the family. “And, um… thank you for the flowers.”

Celestia nodded sadly. She caressed one of the stalks of lavender with a gentle hoof. “Even after six thousand years, the pain of losing someone cuts deep each time. There is no secret to it. Nothing I can say will make the hurt heal faster. Yet…” She cupped a rose’s petals with her hoof. “Healing does come, in time. I promise you that.”

It was true, Cranberry knew—the ache of her blood parents’ loss had long faded to bittersweet memory, but it did nothing to make this pain less fresh. Celestia let the flowers go. “If any of you need someone to talk to, I will always be willing.”

“I couldn’t impose, Princess—”

“I make time for my subjects, Cranberry. Always.” Celestia turned her head. “Including you, Inkpot.”

Inky, her tail tucked unconsciously down at the royal attention, nodded meekly. “Thank you, Princess.”

“And Inger…” Celestia looked at her captain of the guard. “Extend your leave as long as you wish. For your family’s sake, if not your own.”

“My lady,” Inger began, “I couldn’t…”

“You’ve been there for me and Equestria without fail for over a decade, Inger. Now, they need you.” Celestia gestured to Cranberry and the colts. She flashed a dry smile over her shoulder toward Wheatie. “The sergeant can handle matters in your absence.”

Inger grimaced. “So he claims.”

A sudden sob broke the air. All eyes turned to see Windstreak sink to the ground beside the tombstone, shoulders shaking. Rye hugged her tight, covering them both with his wings. Tyria joined the hug, looking helpless.

Celestia frowned. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping away to comfort the Strudels.

As she left, Cranberry exhaled heavily. “I should stay a little longer, honey. If you want to take the kids home now—”

“Wait!” said Apricot. “Can I ask the princess to teach me that flower spell?”

Inger choked. “Apricot, you can’t just ask the princess to be your magic tutor.”

“Why not? She said she’d always have time for—”

Cranberry placed a restraining hoof on Apricot’s shoulder. “The princess was just being polite, Apricot. She’s very busy.” She sighed, focusing on his horn. “We’ll find you a new teacher soon, I promise.”

Apricot’s face fell. “I didn’t mean—I’m not trying to replace—” His eyes darted toward the gravestone, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll wait with you here,” said Inger to Cranberry, patting her back. “Take as long as you need.”

Inkpot blew out a breath through pursed lips. “I have to get going, sis, I’m sorry. I’ve got to be back at the library to get some books ready for someone.”

“Shouldn’t you take a break, Inky? You didn’t even close the library for the week…”

“Working helps me cope,” said Inkpot grimly. “Always has, ever since Mom and Dad. I’ve got to stay moving.”

Maybe it would work for Cranberry, too. If she’d spent the last week teaching classes, instead of wandering around the house like a ghost, then maybe she wouldn’t have had all that time to dwell. She gave her sister a little nod. “Okay. Who needs the books so badly?”

“It’s some pony from out of the city. He wants practically every reference I have on elkish spellsinging,” said Inkpot, shaking her head. “Strangest unicorn I’ve ever met. He gives me a bad feeling.”

“Elkish?” Cranberry’s eyes sharpened. “But he’s a unicorn, you said? Not a pegasus?”

“Yes, why?”

“Hmm.” Cranberry bit her lip. “Nothing, I guess. Just a strange coincidence.”

Inkpot bid the rest of the Sugars goodbye, then walked away down the trail. As she left, Cranberry traced a small cross in the dirt, like the ones Papa always made on the top of his bread loaves.

She watched as Celestia spoke quietly with Windstreak and Rye, losing herself in the princess’s mane. It reminded her of the auroras in the Sleipnordic sky, and the legends of the valkyries that carried the valiant dead to the next life. Surely warriors weren’t the only ones to carry on after death. What evergreen fields waited beyond the veil for bakers?

They stayed another hour, long after the Princess had departed. There was little to say to the Strudels, but the two families remained together in silent solidarity. As the sky began to darken, Cranberry at last gave the grave a final press with her hoof and turned away.

She took a deep breath and nodded to Inger. “Let’s go home.”

4. Heir to the Rose

The walk home was chilly and subdued. Inger kept a discreet watch over Cranberry, but she didn’t have that frayed, on-the-verge-of-tears look in her eyes that he’d grown to dread in the last week. Perhaps the funeral had brought her some peace, after all. Or maybe she was just exhausted. Inger looked away, downcast, wishing he could help her somehow. At times like this, it felt like all he knew how to do was hit things, and you couldn’t punch someone's grief into submission.

A voice like his own, yet reptilian and alien, wriggled into his thoughts. Some hero you are.

In childhood flights of fancy, Inger had often imagined that a tiny dragon lived inside him. It was a cold thing, a creature that breathed ice instead of fire. It feasted on fear, on the lonely desperation of an orphaned colt, on the terror of wandering the streets searching for food, whispering with a sibilant hiss of the dangers lurking for him in every shadowed alleyway.

Many imaginary monsters had been set aside as he’d grown up, but not the dragon. It stayed with him as he joined the Firewings, as he fought the griffons, as he married Cranberry and started a family. It nestled in his chest, slumbering so quietly that most days he could forget it was there. The little dragon was his constant companion, speaking the ugly thoughts he dared not say, not even to Rye or Windstreak.

It said the things he couldn’t even tell Cranberry.

He had ways to keep the dragon at bay. When the bards sang about his defeat of Merys the Red, pride could quash it. When Cranberry gave him a warm smile, it melted away. When his loyal Firewings offered firm salutes, Inger could pretend that he was worthy of their respect, pretend that the dragon was vanquished. But in the dead of night it woke, crawling up to whisper in his ear. And these days, it had new fears to feed on.

If you were faster, you could have saved him. She blames you for letting her father die.

The Dragonslayer, they called him. A cruel joke. The tiny dragon couldn’t be killed with golden armor and a magic hammer. It was always there, perched between his ribs, seeing through the hero’s mask he wore.

You’ve got the others fooled, but you can’t fool me. Someday they’ll see you for what you really are, and then you’ll lose them all, one by one. Who will go next? Maybe Windstreak. She must blame you, too. You were supposed to be her best student, her successor, and you let her husband die.

Or will it be your son? Apricot knows he isn’t your favorite. You can see it in his eyes, can’t you? He knows you don’t love him as much as Strawberry. You know what it’s like to grow up without a father. He was the first to leave you.

Inger squeezed his eyes shut tight, exhaling. The intrusive thoughts slithered through his brain, unabated.

But no. Not them. We both know who you’re going to lose next. After all, she only married you because you were the first stallion to kiss her. And vice versa.

His jaw clenched. That wasn’t true. It had never been true. He’d fallen for Cranberry because of who she was; because of her passion for history, her curiosity, her intelligence, even her fiery temper—

Oh, yes. It had nothing to do with being the first mare willing to let you into her bed. You shared a tent all those nights because of her ‘passion for history’. The dragon snorted. Don’t feel bad about it. She settled for you, too. But six years is a long time for young love to last.

Snapping his eyes open, Inger ground his teeth. Neither of us settled for anything. We’ve built a life together because we wanted to.

The dragon’s breath was cold in his chest. You let her father die. You can’t even comfort her. Why should she stay? How much longer before she decides to… how did Wheatie put it? Play the field. See what she’s been missing.

Foolish thoughts. Old insecurities mixing with fresh survivor’s guilt. Not real. Inger stared firmly ahead. I love her. And she loves me.

The dragon sneered. Then why can’t you get her to smile? It hissed laughter as it settled back into a supine slumber.

Inger cringed, looking back at his wife. Cranberry looked so cold and reserved in her black funeral robe, with her golden mane tied up tightly behind her head. She could have been a statue, frozen in stone and suffering in noble silence. For days, Inger had tried to break her free from that stony prison and bring back some warmth to her face, but nothing had worked. Wasn’t that his job as her husband? To make her feel better?

Up ahead, their home had come into view. The glow of the kitchen’s oil lantern radiated from the nearest window. Inger squinted. “Did you leave the light on?”

“No, I…” Cranberry’s face fell. “I must’ve forgotten to put it out before we left. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he amended hastily, hoping the question hadn’t come out as an accusation. “You’ve had a lot on your mind. It’s fine, honey.”

She nodded, still crestfallen. “I’ll put it out… boys, go put your cloaks away upstairs before we have dinner.”

Apricot and Strawberry mumbled assent as the family reached the front step. Inger stuck the key into the lock, but found that someone had left it unlocked. With a glance at Cranberry, he decided against mentioning it. No point in making her feel worse. He pulled the door open and waved the boys past. As Cranberry followed them in, Inger glumly berated himself for his carelessness.

A shriek rang out from the dining area, wiping the recriminations from his thoughts. Inger rushed into the house, wings flared, to find Cranberry standing stock-still with her hoof pressed to her mouth. Seated at the table were two stallions. One, Inger instantly recognized: Tybalt Vallen, wearing another one of those rose-embroidered summer robes, this one a deep purple. His hooves were folded calmly on the table, as though he wasn’t sitting uninvited in their home.

Beside him sat someone new. He was a unicorn, wearing a wine-dark red robe. The hood was pulled down over his head despite the warmth of the house, the hem resting just above his horn. The fur coat on his snout and the strands of his mane that poked out from beneath the hood were pure white—an unusual color. Most ponies with white coats, like Wheatie, were tinged pink or cream underneath, but this unicorn’s skin and hair were as colorless as chalk. Blood-red eyes peered out from under the hood, curious but calm.

“Strawberry,” ordered Inger, stepping between his family and the intruders, “take your brother to your room and lock the door.”

Strawberry was staring wide-eyed at the intruders, but nodded and pulled his sibling with him toward the stairs. Apricot stumbled beside him, head turned over his shoulder to stare at the strange unicorn. “Who’s that?” he whispered, beforehis older brother shushed him.

Tybalt stood, lifting a placating hoof. “Inger, Professor Sugar; my sincerest apologies for the—”

“Get out,” said Inger, graven-faced. “Now.”

The robed unicorn’s eyes flicked sideways toward Tybalt with a resigned frown. “I told you we should have waited outside.”

“And risk being turned away?” Tybalt shook his head curtly. “This is too important. Inger, we need to—”

Inger slammed a hoof into the kitchen floorboards so hard the table rattled. “Out. Now.”

“Wait,” insisted Tybalt.

“Is this about your expedition?” asked Cranberry, looking warily between the noble and his companion. “Count Vallen, I haven’t made a decision yet. And you shouldn’t have come into our home.”

“I know. I regret the need. But time is too short to delay for the sake of politeness.”

Funny. Inger wasn’t feeling very polite, either. “Last warning, Vallen. I will throw you out.”

Behind Tybalt, the hooded unicorn’s eyes narrowed. Frowning cautiously, his horn glowed a soft red. Tybalt noticed and slashed a hoof through the air. “Pollux, relax.”

Pollux blinked, then his hornlight faded out. Shrugging, he sat back on his cushion. “Your funeral, my lord.”

At the word funeral, Cranberry stiffened. Inger took a step toward the intruders, but she barred his path with a hoof. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll hear you out, for Locke’s sake. Make it fast, Tybalt.”

“The expedition team arrived in the city yesterday morning,” said Tybalt, sitting again and gesturing to his companion. “A mercenary group I’ve hired called Katabasis Company. They’re led by a pegasus named Castor, a veteran of the War of Whitetail. This is his brother Pollux, an accomplished mage in his own right. Together, they’re veterans of over a hundred operations. More importantly, Pollux possesses a great deal of knowledge about the magical techniques of the elk.”

“And I can carry a tune,” said the pale unicorn, with a wry smile. His eyes had relaxed again. Without any apparent hostility, he gave the Sugars a nod.

“If whatever befell Locke’s team was some kind of magical catastrophe, Pollux will help us put a stop to it.” Tybalt steepled his hooves in his familiar tic. “Please, sit.”

Inger was still glaring, but Cranberry stiffly took a seat at the end of the table. Against his better judgment, Inger joined her.

Tybalt tapped his hooves. “Katabasis Company also employs an engineer, an alchemist, and a number of ex-Dromedarian soldiers. The quartermaster, Beatriz, has been busy stocking up enough supplies to feed not just our expedition, but Locke’s people as well, once we reestablish contact.”

“Sounds like you’ve covered all your bases,” said Cranberry, distantly.

“All but one. We still need an expert on the Dominion. Someone who can read ancient elkish script, and finish Locke’s work if necessary.” Tybalt tipped his hooves toward Cranberry. “Not to mention your knowledge of Locke himself. It might be useful in any number of ways.”

In lieu of a response, Cranberry rested her mouth behind her hoof. Tybalt continued, “A local guide waits for us in Port Faeloch, to show us the path Locke’s group took into the Elderwood. We plan to leave Canterlot with several supply carts at the end of the week, traveling west to Trottingham, where I’ve chartered a ship that will take us to the Elktic Commonwealth. The full journey should take about two weeks, weather permitting.”

Inger bit his lip, suddenly captured by the idea. Despite Tybalt’s impertinent intrusion, he might have just given Inger the answer to the dragon’s question. If there was one thing that always got Cranberry buzzing with excitement, it was an archaeological dig. She was never more alive than when she was packing for a trip to some Sleipnordic or Elktic ruin.

This could make her smile again.

But Inger knew, better than anyone, how tenuously Cranberry was holding herself together. Could he really suggest she go sailing to the ends of the earth without him there to comfort her?

Cranberry touched his hoof, visibly torn. “I… I’m worried about Locke, but…” she said, hesitantly. “Things are so difficult right now.”

“I, um…” Tybalt sounded strangely reticent. “I thought that you might wish to accompany us as well, Inger.”

Hope sparked in Cranberry’s face. Inger swallowed. “Why me?” he asked, glancing warily at Tybalt. If this was just a ploy to convince Cranberry…

“Your martial prowess is, quite literally, the stuff of legends,” said Tybalt, looking strangely nervous. “But more than that, I, um…” His hoof touched his locket, almost unconsciously.

Inger tilted his head, his brow furrowing. A niggling feeling that had been bothering him since the night they’d met came to the fore. “Count Vallen… do we know each other?”

“No,” said Tybalt, his voice hoarse. “Not as well as we should.” He was staring at Inger with strained intensity.

Inger squinted again. He couldn’t recall ever meeting a golden-eyed, onyx-coated pegasus before. Yet… there was something in the shape of his jaw, the proud set of his shoulders, that dimly rang a bell. Could he be the relative of one of the Firewings? His raised chin had a trace of that haughty air some of the fresher ‘Wings possessed. It reminded Inger uncomfortably of how he’d carried himself in his younger days in the guard. It was Cranberry, thoroughly unimpressed with the act, who’d made him realize how foolish he looked.

“The time has come to confess. This trip was not entirely about recruiting you, Professor,” said Tybalt, never tearing his eyes away from Inger. “In fact, I’ve wanted to meet you for some time, Inger.”

Tybalt rose and began to pace, yanking the locket’s chain. “I want to tell you the truth directly, but I don’t think you’d believe me. So, instead… allow me to explain the facts, first.”

What in the world was he talking about? Inger, feeling more uneasy by the moment, merely nodded. Tybalt licked his lips, forced himself to stop pacing, and sat once more. He took a deep breath. “Very well. Seventeen years ago, shortly after I came of age, my parents arranged my marriage to Lady Eurydice Blueblood. The duke’s niece, in fact—she was second in line to inherit Emmet’s titles and estates, until she was bumped to third with the birth of his son.” Tybalt shook his head. “Poor lad.”

Everyone knew the end of that sad tale. Inger, still wondering where this was going, raised a brow.

“It was a smart match, but the bet didn’t pay off. The stallion in line before Eurydice survived the war, and had a whole brood of children.” Tybalt’s wry smile suggested he found this more amusing than disappointing. “No Norharren lands are passing to the House of the Rose in this generation. But,” he continued, “the wedding felt full of promise at the time. We married in Whitetail, near the start of June.”

His eyes grew distant as he reminisced. “Eurydice found no happiness in my southern homeland. She missed the mountains and her family in Norharren. All the delights Silverglen and the Rose Valley could offer weren’t enough to put a smile on her face. Our marriage was… dutiful, at best, for all that we tried. I thought perhaps our first child would bring us closer together, but I soon learned that our love for him did not far extend to each other.”

Perhaps noting Inger’s raised eyebrow, Tybalt cleared his throat and pressed on more swiftly. “The following summer, duty brought me to the capital. All the lords and ladies of Equestria’s noble houses were summoned to Canterlot for the decennial Royal Diet. It’s always an excruciating affair. We deliver census results and argue about the tax code affecting the next ten years. Which usually means the nobles weaseling out of as much of the crown’s financial burden as they can.” He snorted dismissively. “I expected to be bored out of my mind. But then…”

He touched his locket again. “Then, I met Meg.” He trailed off, hints of a smile playing on his lips. “She was beautiful. Smart, too, and ambitious. She was working at the castle as a scullery maid when I met her, with an eye on working her way through the ranks of the staff to become Celestia’s personal majordomo. It’s a position of great, if subtle influence. Meg told me she’d be there in five years. Her drive was… magnetic.” With a fond sigh, he rested his chin on his hooves. “And she had quite the sense of humor.”

A noble stallion from the south, swooping a young mare off her hooves. He used her, then left her, thought Inger sadly. Just like my father used and left my mother.

Inger’s heart forgot to beat. He suddenly sat up straight, staring at Tybalt with new eyes. Wait.

Tybalt was too deep in memory to notice. “Meg and I spent two months together, here in Canterlot. We had to be discreet. She was a commoner, and I a married noblepony… but every moment was a treasure. I wish we’d had more time together.”

He looked suddenly drawn and reserved. “However, two weeks after the grand diet had concluded, my continued presence in the capital was beginning to attract attention. Silverglen needed its lord, and Eurydice was raising our son alone. I had to return home. If only I’d brought Meg with me…” Tybalt clenched his teeth. “I thought our parting would be brief. I told her I would return before the year was out. I was already manufacturing excuses for Eurydice on the carriage ride back to Whitetail. I didn’t know at the time that… that Meg was with child.”

“Meg,” said Inger, his voice brittle with shock. “As in Pomegranate.”

Cranberry’s eyes widened. “Wait. That’s your…” She connected the dots at last, and gasped. Her hooves flew to her mouth as she stared at Tybalt. “You can’t be—” She dropped her hooves to the table in astonishment, her head twisting back to Inger. “You’re saying he’s your father?”

The world spun. Inger’s tongue didn’t seem to be working. His head swam as Tybalt lifted the locket from around his neck and gently offered it. Inger pulled it over with shaking hooves, and snapped it open. Within was a lovingly-painted portrait, of a dark red mare with brilliant green eyes. Inger recognized them instantly—after all, he saw them every day in the mirror. He took in his mother’s image, hearing his own heartbeat thumping in his ears.

“I’m sorry it took so long to find you,” said Tybalt. “So, so sorry…” His wings fluttered in distress. “So many years, searching… All I had to go on was a brief description from the castle staff: a cherry-red pegasus with an orange mane. None of them recalled your name, or where you and your mother had vanished to.”

“You mean… you came back?” Suddenly Inger wasn’t the Dragonslayer, or the Captain of the Firewings, or even Cranberry’s husband. Little Inger of Canterlot, orphaned and hungry and alone, gazed across the table at the stallion he’d spent his whole life wondering about.

Tybalt’s ears wilted at the challenge. “Of course I came back,” he said gently. “I loved her, Inger.” Tybalt looked down at his hooves, ashamed. “But my return came too late. Three years too late. By then, Meg was no longer at the castle.”

“Of course not,” said Cranberry hotly, her pale face reddening. She banged her forehooves on the table, half-rising. “She was busy coughing up blood in the street—”

“Cranberry,” said Inger, instantly quelling her. She sat down, glaring at Tybalt. Inger gently closed the locket, looking back up into his father’s eyes. Why wasn’t he boiling with that same anger? Maybe he was still too shocked to process it. It felt as if he was operating his tongue and lips remotely, like a puppeteer. “What took you so long? Why… why didn’t you come back for us sooner?”

“Eurydice wouldn’t let me out of her sight once I returned.” Tybalt shook his head weakly. “She was no fool. I know she suspected the truth, or something close to it. If I’d gone back for Meg, we’d have been found out for certain. The political ramifications would be…” He swallowed. “But I swear to you, Inger. If I’d known I had another son, I would have come back for you, and damn the consequences.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“I don’t think she knew yet when we parted,” said Tybalt. His eyes pleaded with Inger. “I’ve been searching for you ever since I found out. Years spent chasing leads down dead ends, spending gold like water… and all that time, you were living in the Firewing barracks, scarcely a kilometer away from where the search began.” He suddenly slammed the table with a hoof. Beside him, Pollux jumped slightly. “Damn! So much wasted time…”

Tybalt stood abruptly, and began pacing again. “I heard about you after the war, of course—the Dragonslayer, Hero of Canterlot. A crimson-feathered legend in golden armor. But I never thought… it didn’t even occur to me that Equestria’s greatest hero could be my son.”

Tybalt’s pace sped to a frenzy. “Then, six weeks ago, when I began preparing the expedition, I reviewed Professor Sugar’s dossier. It had an entire section on her famous husband, of course—I skimmed over your well-known feats, but the simple physical description caught my eye. A red pegasus. Orange mane. Seventeen years old. No known relations. That’s when everything clicked into place.”

He tugged reflexively at his neck for the locket that was still clutched in Inger’s hooves. “I didn’t send a letter. After so many false hopes, I… I was afraid to get my spirits up prematurely. I had to be sure. That’s why I came to meet you myself, last week. And—” Tybalt’s steps paused. “You have Meg’s eyes,” he said simply. “I knew I’d found you at last.”

Inger felt lightheaded. “She died.” He pushed the locket back toward his father. “The scarlet plague…”

Tybalt took it, and gently replaced it around his neck. “I know. Years ago, my search for you led me to her grave, here in Canterlot.”

“Her—” Inger blinked. “You know where she’s buried? I was so young when it happened, I never remembered the place…”

“I do. We… could visit it together,” he offered hopefully. “I can’t even begin to make up for how I’ve failed you, Inger. And I’ll understand if you want nothing to do with me. But you’re my son. If you’re willing, I… I’d like to be part of your life.”

There was a long, thick pause.

“I… I need time to think,” said Inger, dry-mouthed.

“Of course. As I said, the expedition is leaving at the end of the week. When the two of you decide whether you’ll join us, or…” Tybalt winced, “or not, I’ll be staying at this address until then.” He nodded to Pollux, who slid a sheaf of paper with scribbles on it over the table. “I hope you decide to come. We could use you both.” The longing in his eyes went unvoiced.

With Pollux close behind him, he left the dining room and headed for the door. “Ah!” said Tybalt, halting in surprise. “Hello.”

Two yelps of surprise rang out from the stairwell. Inger’s whirling thoughts were momentarily becalmed by stern disapproval. How long were those two eavesdropping?

“You must be Strawberry and Apricot,” said Tybalt, practically beaming at his grandchildren. “I—” a quick look back at Inger and Cranberry muted his delight. “I’m afraid we must be going. But I hope I’ll get the chance to know both of you, next time we meet.” With a sigh, he nodded at his companion. “Come then, Pollux. We’ve a long walk back to the warehouse.” Tybalt opened the door and descended the step.

“Wait,” said Apricot, barging forward and tugging on the dark red hem of Pollux’s robe. “You—you’re a mage, aren’t you?” He was staring up at the unicorn with barely-disguised awe. Pollux nodded with a bemused smile. Apricot’s starry eyes sparkled. “A real mage… could you—”

“Pollux! Let’s be on our way.”

The red-cloaked mage jolted. “Coming, my lord.” He gave Apricot a parting head bow, and stepped through the door. Inger heard him whistle a strange, lilting melody as his hoofsteps rang out on the cobblestones. A red glow surrounded the doorknob, and the door firmly clicked shut.

“Up to your rooms,” said Inger firmly. Strawberry stared bashfully at his hooves, mumbling an apology. Apricot didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, still staring out the window after the mage. Inger’s frown deepened. “Go on, both of you. Your mother and I need to talk in private.”

Apricot finally tore his gaze away and scurried up the steps. Strawberry made to follow, but paused. “Dad… was that really our grandfather?”

Inger looked out the window as Tybalt and Pollux turned a corner and disappeared into the streets. “I think he was,” he said.

* * *

As the silence stretched on for minutes, Cranberry tried to corral her emotions. She’d been thrown off-balance enough today by the funeral, but now this… Looking at Inger, she couldn’t even imagine what was going on in his head.

She tried to recall what he’d said to her over the years about his father. There hadn’t been much, as he’d never known who the stallion was. A noble, he’d long suspected, given the name his mother had chosen—Inger wasn’t a commoner’s name like Cranberry or Rye—but beyond that, pure conjecture. Not that Inger had ever seemed very interested in conjecturing about it… Cranberry had always found it a little strange how incurious her husband was on this one matter, how little anger he seemed to hold.

Now, though… Seeing the wounded bewilderment in his face and the slump of his shoulders, Cranberry realized that his cavalier, resigned attitude about his parentage had been a defense mechanism. If he didn’t care who his father was, then not knowing wouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t burn him up inside.

She gently took his hoof in her own. “Do you believe him?” she asked at last.

“It all fits.” Inger nodded slowly. “The time frame, the locket, my mother…” He swallowed. “And… he looks like me. I kept trying to place it. The way he sits, the way he moves.”

“I noticed,” said Cranberry, pale. She scratched an ear. “Sisters, Inger. How do you feel?”

“Like… like I’m flying through a stormcloud.” Inger took a shuddering breath. “Being blown this way and that, blinded until some realization flashes like lightning—he was looking for me, Cranberry! I don’t… what am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know if you’re supposed to do anything,” she said, shaking her head with stunned ambivalence. “You believe that he’s your father. But what about the rest of it? Him trying to find you?”

“He did find me,” said Inger, fiddling with his hooves on the table.

“Yes… but seventeen years is a long time. Do you even want what he’s asking for? To… try to be a family?”

Inger gritted his teeth, but it was an expression of distress, more than anger. “Half of me wants to punch him.”

“And the other half…?”

He had a strangely familiar hunger in his eyes. “I used to want to meet my father, more than anything. Growing up in the Firewings, I’d lie awake at night, making up fantasies about him coming back for me. I gave up hope of finding him years ago, before you and I had even met. But now he’s here, and I don’t know what I want, anymore.” His stare was practically burning a hole in the table.

Suddenly, Cranberry knew where she’d seen that expression before. It was the same look Rye got when he talked about magic, the birthright he’d been cheated of. A piece of him that had been missing ever since he’d been born. Inger’s soft green eyes now held the same desperate longing.

Cranberry’s hooves fidgeted uselessly. “So… what are you going to do?”

“I… I need to know.” Inger fiddled with an imaginary locket. “I need to know if he’s telling the truth about… about loving me. About us being a family again.” His brows knit with sudden resolve. “And I can’t wait months for him to return. I have to go with him to Elketh.” He bit his lip, and with visible difficulty, shook his head. “But only if you want to go with me. I won’t leave you on your own right now. Even for this.”

Oh, Inger… He was willing to put her needs first, even in this? She lunged forward and kissed him, drawing a surprised mmf. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling back. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “I need to find Locke. Whatever’s happened out there, I have to make sure he’s safe.” Her eyes narrowed in determination. “I’m not losing anyone else.”

Inger gave her a gentle nudge. “It’ll be like old times. You and me, picking through ancient ruins. Maybe we’ll find something big enough for them to write a few new songs about.” Cranberry could tell his good cheer was forced, but not the hope lying behind it. He really did think this might help.

Cranberry laughed softly. “Maybe so.” She tugged her mane loose from its funeral knot. Golden curls streamed down around her head. “Just like old times…” She rubbed her eartips, unnaturally shortened by the frostbite she’d endured on their trip to Sleipnord. “The Elderwood may be dangerous. I doubt Locke stopped reporting in because he ran out of ink.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” Inger promised, grinning. “Guard you like the princess herself.”

“You always do.” Smiling, she nuzzled Inger’s cheek. “Okay. We’ll have to make the preparations fast. Tomorrow morning I can see about putting the boys up with Rye and Tyria while we’re gone. Then I need to get my tools from the university.”

“And I’ll go tell my… father,” Inger stumbled over the word, “that we plan to join the rescue party.”

“All right. This sounds…” Cranberry felt the fresh excitement that always preceded a new excavation filling her breast. “Good.” She wished she could tell Papa that she was finally close to what she and Locke had been searching for. With a sniff, she realized her eyes were watering again, and wiped them.

Inger kissed her. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Maybe Inkpot was right,” Cranberry said, exhaling. “Some distracting work could be exactly what I need. Maybe by the time we get back, things won’t… hurt so much.” The ache in her chest hadn’t gone away, even with Tybalt’s revelation.

He hugged her, and she squeezed back. They stayed together for a time. Eventually, Cranberry smiled slyly. “Old times… do you remember when you first kissed me, out in the snow?”

“Of course, Miss Cranberry,” he murmured.

Her eyebrows rose. “You haven’t called me that in a while…” A giggle escaped her.

Inger grinned, then kissed her again. Cranberry’s lips met his, and for at least a little while, she could forget everything but the stallion who loved her. As they pressed together she felt the cold chill fall from her like her cloak, as all the shock and heartbreak of the long day melted away at the warmth of his touch.

6. Extra Sugar

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.

7. The Song

Half an hour later, the deck still buzzed with activity. Dinner was well underway, as mercenaries and sailors jostled each other in line for second servings. Cranberry was seated at the central square of tables, sourly staring into her half-finished bowl of stew. With the wooden spoon clenched tightly in her teeth, she toyed with a floating chunk of carrot, thoughts churning.

Unbelievable. Am I the only sane adult on this ship?

Surely, she’d thought, the mercenaries would take the unexpected arrival of her son seriously. Yet, one by one, she’d found that none of them seemed to care. Beatriz had groused about an extra mouth to feed, but she’d done so with a smile—they’d brought enough food for both Katabasis and Locke’s team, so one additional colt wouldn’t even make a dent in their stores. Virgil had just shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with children, and Zaeneas hadn’t even looked up from her books.

Castor was the one pony she’d expected to agree with her, sending the vulnerable civilian home at the first opportunity, but he’d had a quick, hushed discussion with Tybalt and then merely said that her presence here was too invaluable to lose, so they’d merely make sure Apricot stayed out of trouble. It was a cold reassurance, at best, not helped by the curious look Pollux had given her son from across the deck when she’d explained his foolhardy quest. She’d at least put her hoof down about letting Apricot talk to him until after dinner.

The worst of all was Kaduat, who seemed downright pleased to have the colt along. Apricot was sitting between her and his mother, eagerly explaining his caper to the appreciative camel.

“So Strawberry snuck into the warehouse through the second floor window and managed to find an empty barrel. Then we packed it in with the others in the water cart, and I squeezed in.”

Kaduat, shaking with mirth, slapped her mug of rum back down on the table. “In a barrel! So much for our perfect security,” She wiped her eyes. “Kiddo, you’ve got a knack for infiltration.”

Apricot’s grin was bashful. “It was really my brother’s idea…”

“Oho, I see,” said Kaduat, elbowing him. She glanced up at Cranberry with a conspiratorial wink. “Well, by the time you get back, maybe you’ll have some new tricks to show him.”

“I hope so.” Apricot looked wistfully toward the ship’s bow, where Pollux was doing his usual survey of the empty ocean.

Cranberry grimly let her spoon rest. “You’ll be learning more than magic.” She looked up as the antelope cook whisked past, handing off another bowl of stew to a Dromedarian mercenary. “Beatriz, you wouldn’t mind teaching Apricot the finer points of scrubbing all those pots and pans after dinner, would you?”

Beatriz grinned. “Not at all.”

Apricot grimaced and turned back to his dinner, as Kaduat laughed. She nudged him amiably. “Win some, lose some, kiddo. Could be worse.” She took a swig of rum, wiping her lips as she gave a nostalgic sigh. “One time on patrol duty in the Ceracen ocean, I was supposed to tie cargo down to the belaying pins while we did a series of maneuvers, but I used the rigging line by mistake—when the sail turned, the barrels went flying. Potatoes all over the deck. My old CO had me gather them all up, and then I was stuck preparing them every night. Weeks of peeling potatoes. I couldn’t get the smell off my feet until we made port a month later…”

As Apricot giggled, Cranberry glanced around at Kaduat and the other Dromedarians. “Did all of you serve on the same ship?”

“Nope,” said Kaduat, shaking her head. “Most of these boys were ground pounders; general infantry. That’s why I’m the only one that speaks much Equestrian—navy wanted us to know the basics, since we had more of a chance of running into ponies. I met up with the others near the end of the civil war, and we all came to Equestria together.” With a snort, Kaduat grinned at her troops. “And to think, my brother always said the army and the navy couldn’t work together.”

“Is he here?”

“No.” Kaduat’s smile vanished for the first time. She looked into her mug with cool disinterest, frowning as she found it empty. “Fadil got tapped for that damn fool mission to Zyre a couple of years ago.”

“Oh…” Cranberry swallowed. “He didn’t make it?”

“All I’ve got left of him is this,” mused Kaduat, reaching into her jerkin and withdrawing a glittering silver knife. “Taught me how to use it when we served together on the Aten-Re. I was never as good as he was, though.” She smiled at her reflection in the brilliant blade.

“So… is that why you left the military?”

“Not exactly…” Kaduat sighed, giving her empty mug a shake. “The Zyre operation was a total fiasco. Dozens of ships lost, thousands of dead soldiers, and then the zebras cleaned out the treasury in the peace settlement. The pharaoh’s cousin decided that Dromedaria had suffered enough under his rule, and that it was time for… new leadership.”

She plunged the tip of the dagger into the table with a thunk, waving Beatriz down. “More rum, eh?”

“Madame Zenubia, at your service,” said Beatriz dryly, reaching into her stores and withdrawing a bottle with an elegant zebra mare imprinted on it.

As Beatriz poured her a refill, Kaduat returned to Cranberry. “It was a short war… but I picked the wrong side.”

“I see,” said Cranberry, carefully neutral. “You survived, though.”

Kaduat shrugged, nodding thanks to Beatriz and taking a long drink. “Aye,” she said, slamming the mug back down on the table with a satisfied grunt, “along with the rest of these unlucky sods.” She swept a foot at the other camels. “Life’s not been so bad in Equestria. We ran into Castor in Norharren a year ago, and since then we’ve been doing good work. Things we can be proud of.”

“Like what?” chirped Apricot, eyes wide.

Warmth returned to the mercenary’s face as she grinned at him. “Fighting bandits, rescuing princesses, that sort of thing.”

“You rescued Princess Celestia?” he asked, tilting his head dubiously.

Kaduat laughed. “No, it wasn’t a princess, technically. We did a job for some noblepony out in Helmfast. His daughter had been kidnapped by a group of lumber-cutters turned highwayponies…”

Cranberry let Kaduat’s animated storytelling slip from her attention as she looked over to her right, where Inger and Tybalt were still deep in conversation. They’d been talking about the Vallen vineyards for what seemed like ages. Apparently, her husband had discovered a sudden fascination with wine-making.

Mhm. Or he’s avoiding me. Cranberry restrained a sigh. They hadn’t had a chance to talk in private since their fight belowdecks. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to continue it—she’d been surprised by her own vehemence. But just like the mercenaries, she couldn’t understand why Inger didn’t seem to realize how dangerous this was. The thought of losing Apricot, so much worse than losing Papa just a few weeks ago—Cranberry closed her eyes tightly, taking a deep breath.

I can’t tell him why I’m so angry, she thought, shamefully. It’s not fair to him, or to Tybalt. And saying it aloud would make me sound insane.

Blearily, she opened her eyes and resumed stirring her bowl. But it’s not fair to me, either. Why did I have to lose my father for Inger to find his?

It was such a petty, ugly envy. She wished bitterly that she was above this hollow jealousy, but every time she saw that light in Inger’s eyes when he talked about his father, she wanted to throw something, or cry, or scream how unfair it was for him to find such happiness while she was in so much pain. She still woke up weeping some mornings, recalling that chilly morning by the grave. And now Inger, who had been her rock, the pillar she could always count on to keep her standing, had abandoned her for the stallion who’d abandoned him.

He hasn’t abandoned me, she chided herself. How hurt would he be if those words left her lips? Inger can’t know I feel this way. No one can. And so, she kept her silence—a silence she feared would soon swallow her up.

“—and then, when I broke down the door, this mare comes flying at me out of nowhere with a broken bottle. Nearly got me, too, I barely dodged.” Kaduat pointed to a thin scar across her shoulder. “Turned out our little ransom victim had been doing a pretty good job of escaping on her own. She had the bottle for a weapon, she’d built a rope out of her torn-up dress, even gotten into some of the lumberponies’ wood oil and painted herself up with it, so her white coat wouldn’t be as visible in the woods at night.”

Apricot was enthralled. “Was she going to make it?”

“Well…” Kaduat waggled an ambivalent foot. “They’d caught her in the escape attempt and locked her in that room until their leader got back from foraging. It’s a good thing we got there when we did. Made a clean getaway before the rest of the bandits returned. Still, we were all impressed. I thought Castor was going to offer her a job,” she chuckled.

“Why didn’t he?”

“She was a noble’s daughter, after all. Her father wouldn’t have approved of her roughing it with a bunch of mercenaries.” Kaduat snickered. “In fact, he paid us extra to leave the same night we returned her. ‘Course, that might’ve been because she kept making doe eyes at Virgil over there…”

Across the deck, Virgil’s head swiveled at the sound of his name. Primly, he cleared his throat. “Entirely unreciprocated, you know,” he called over. “It’s not my fault we had to skip town…”

“I know it wasn’t,” said Kaduat with a grin, “because that was the night I went to get some booze from the cart and found you bending Bea over a—”

Cranberry coughed emphatically, jerking her head toward a curious Apricot.

“Er, right.” Kaduat shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry, kiddo.” She ruffled Apricot’s mane.

Beatriz placed her hooves on the table and leaned over it, smiling tightly with a deadly glint in her eye. “Anyone need a refill? Or a smack to the head?”

Kaduat grinned and pushed her mug toward the antelope. “Hey, Bea, I don’t judge. I like boys with wings myself.” For an instant, her eyes glanced to the right, past Cranberry.

At Inger.

Cranberry planted her hoof on the tabletop and jerked her head into Kaduat’s line of sight, glaring daggers. Fortunately, Inger and Tybalt were still blathering about fermentation, and hadn’t noticed.

Kaduat’s spine instantly straightened, and her smile was wiped away by a nervous frown. “Ah, on second thought, Bea—maybe that’s enough for tonight.”

“Agreed,” said the antelope dryly, whisking away the empty mug with a glow of blue magic. “Let’s try to at least make it to the island before you get yourself murdered, mm?”

Cranberry’s smile was mirthless and flinty. “I spend a lot of time digging up bodies in my line of work. I’m sure I could bury one.”

Kaduat rubbed the back of her neck, laughing anxiously as she tried to parse whether Cranberry was making a joke or a threat. “I’d rather not find out.” Cringing, she mouthed sorry. Cranberry frowned, but gave her a single, terse nod.

Apricot, apparently having missed the conversation’s subtext, took a drink of water from his cup. “What’s it like?” he asked.

“Er…” began Kaduat, blushing.

“The island, I mean.” he continued. “And the elk, what are they like?”

Cranberry nudged her spoon, giving up on the stew. “What we call elk are actually a variety of species,” she said, watching the ripples. “There are the true elk, who are enormous—some are three meters high, counting the horns. They can get even taller than Princess Celestia. Then there are their cousins, the deer, who are a lot smaller. White-tailed and red deer are the most common, and the most likely to travel—my colleagues at the University of Cariboulla are all deer. There’s also the caribou, who are the most reclusive of the lot—they all live in the forests of the commonwealth islands, in elaborate treetop towns linked by bridges. They’re not fond of outsiders. I doubt we’ll run into any of them; there aren't any caribou settlements on Elketh.”

Apricot looked up at the sails, clearly trying to visualize them. “What do they look like?” He glanced at Beatriz, who was wiping a mug down with a rag. “Kind of like antelopes?”

“Our horns aren’t as fancy as elk antlers,” said Beatriz, looking up with a smile. “But they don’t fall off, either.”

“Their horns fall off?” Apricot paled, reaching up to touch his own, as if to assure himself it was still there.

“Every year,” affirmed Cranberry. “They grow a new pair in the spring and summer, then lose them in the winter. And that’s just the males; female elk don’t grow antlers at all.”

“So they can’t do magic?” he looked into his mug, crestfallen. “That’s sad…”

“Oh, they can do magic,” muttered Kaduat. “Pollux hasn’t shut up about it for weeks…”

At the mention of his idol, Apricot perked back up. “How?”

“Necessity’s the mother of invention, so they say.” Cranberry was beginning to feel enthused, now that the conversation had turned to the subject of half a lifetime’s study. “The ancient elk carved talismans out of fallen antlers, using them to channel magic in new ways. They developed the art of spellsinging, to weave enchantments more intricate than any of the other magical races. And they discovered the magic-storing properties of glass, using their homeland’s native veins of volcanic glass to create vast devices and marvelous architecture.”

Twirling her spoon under a hoof, she shifted with growing excitement. “Records from the Anno Dominium era tell of incredible things like the great floating city of Caomh and automated transportation systems. More than one source claims it was possible to travel from Elketh to Grypha in the blink of an eye, and that the whole empire of the Dominion was united by a single language.”

“A floating city…” Apricot’s eyes were wide. “Are we going to see it?”

“No…” Cranberry’s enthusiasm dampened. “It’s long gone. All the ancient wonders of the elk were destroyed or crumbled to dust thousands of years ago. The only things we have left are fragments…”

Apricot frowned. “There’s got to be something left.”

Well, Cranberry mused, perhaps there is. Not that Locke’s reports describe it very well… They were so vague that she was growing convinced that Pad was hiding something on purpose. Soon enough, she’d have the chance to find out for herself.

“In a way, we still have one legacy of the elk,” she said, lifting a hoof toward the setting sun. “They were the first to raise and lower the sun each day.”

Kaduat shifted. “Hm. I thought your princess had always done that.”

“The gods fought the dragons for rule over the new world at the beginning of time,” said Cranberry, enjoying the rapt attention of the small group. It reminded her of teaching. “The creation wars spanned a hundred years, ravaging the earth. Weather, seasons, and the movement of the celestial bodies were all thrown out of their natural cycles. The gods saw the destruction they’d wrought and agreed to leave the earth, giving it to the mortals to heal. Celestia and her sister, Nightmare Moon, the goddesses of the sun and stars, departed with the rest, ascending to their heavenly home.”

Cranberry could tell this was new to Beatriz and Kaduat as well, who were both listening with interest. “They returned eventually, when the disunity of the pony races they’d created in their image threatened to drive us all to extinction. But there was a long, long time between their departure and their return. When the gods first left—abandoned, some said—the world, the mortals found themselves trapped in a world of eternal winter and night.

“In Elketh, the first home of the true elk, their nascent empire was about to form. The islands were disunited, as the deer warred against the elk, but the vanishing of the gods brought the conflict to an abrupt halt. With the moon frozen in the sky, and the snow failing to melt, the mortal races began to despair. Without the sun, famine and death seemed inevitable, and all was lost.”

Really getting into the story now, Cranberry leaned in. “The elk called a council between their warring tribes. All their anger at each other finally had another outlet—the gods who had left them. Peace seemed possible at last, and they signed an accord to unite as one people. They called it the Triarchy of Cervida, ruled by three kings or queens, one from each of the major islands. For a year, the fragile alliance held, but the food was quickly running out. There could be no harvest in the endless night. Things were beginning to fall apart.

“Then, from a small village on the coast of Cariboulla, an elken astronomer claimed to have made a discovery that could save them all. By studying the shadows on the surface of the moon, he had learned that the moon was reflecting light from a single source, somewhere on the other side of the world. The sun had not vanished after all, he claimed. It was still there, lighting up the moon from the far side of the earth, locked in the sky as it had been at the moment of elendriolanera’s—the Lady of the Sun’s—departure.”

Beatriz, the mug she’d been cleaning long forgotten, leaned against the table. Kaduat, too, was watching intently, cleaning her teeth with the tip of her knife.

“In their private chambers, the triarchs argued over what they should do. One wished to flee the islands, carrying the whole of the elken people across the sea in ships to seek the sunlight. Another felt that salvation lay underground, where at least edible mushrooms could grow without sunlight. The third simply left them to fight, and stepped out of the chambers. While the others squabbled, he addressed the gathered lords of the elk. I can save us, he told them, but only through unity. We must be one people, one nation, if we are to survive.

“He outlined his plan to the gathered elk, and it was agreed. That very night, he was proclaimed the sole ruler of the new Elken Dominion, Spéir Leighis, the Sky-Healer. He had a flair for the dramatic,” Cranberry said, raising an eyebrow. “The rival triarch who wished to leave on a ship was drowned, and the one who wished to retreat into the caves was buried alive.”

Apricot shivered. “Then what?”

“Spéir brought the greatest mages from across the islands together, and showed them his grand designs. They would build a vast device to channel their magic into the sky, arcing around the world to the very point where the astronomer had calculated the sun’s position. Construction took forty days, a miraculously short time driven by the desperation of the elken people. When it was ready, the elk poured all their magic into it, reaching for the heavens and grasping the sun.”

Cranberry’s eyes sparkled. How it must have felt, to hold the heavens in their hooves. “They pulled the sun and the moon around the planet, recreating the natural orbits they had once possessed. The world was saved, and the elk were united like no mortal race had ever been before. And the Dominion was formed, with a purpose: to maintain the movement of the sun and moon, to take the gods’ place as rulers of the world.”

Beatriz blanched, lifting her rag and resuming cleaning the mug. “Obey us or starve, right?”

“A lot of power for one nation,” said Kaduat, sliding her knife back into her jerkin. “I guess we should be grateful the pony queen doesn’t have the same ambitions, eh?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” said Inger, giving Cranberry a jolt of surprise. She looked over to find him smiling. “Celestia’s got no interest in world domination. If anything, the griffons keep trying to dominate us.”

He winked at Cranberry. “I love hearing you talk about history,” he murmured. “It’s cute, the way your eyes light up.”

She blushed a little, returning the smile. Oh… it’s hard to stay mad at you, she thought, with a tiny sigh.

Past her husband, Tybalt was watching her with an enigmatic look. His golden irises seemed hazy with thought. “So the elk were able to move the sun with a machine?” he asked, absently.

“For a time. Later on, they created techniques that could be used anywhere in the world, as long as enough mages joined their powers together. When the Dominion collapsed, the unicorn tribe was already familiar with some of them, and they inherited the task of moving the sun and moon.”

Tybalt said nothing in reply, merely steepling his hooves and sinking his chin behind them. He had a strangely hopeful smile. Before Cranberry could inquire further, the sound of scraping tables drew everyone’s attention. Toward the bow, the sailors and mercenaries were swiftly pushing a couple of tables toward the ship’s gunnels, clearing the forward section of the deck. Pollux had stepped down from his perch at the prow, and stood alone in the open space.

“Ah!” breathed Beatriz, batting her smock to shake off soot, before removing it. “I’m needed elsewhere.” She ducked out of the central square of tables and trotted toward Virgil, who was holding up two strangely shaped black cases. She took the smaller one, before the the two headed toward the bow to join Pollux.

Kaduat nudged Apricot with an elbow. “How well could you hear things in that barrel, kiddo?”

“Not very…” Apricot blinked curiously.

“Good.” Her smile broadened. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

Virgil set his case down, kneeling beside it to open the latches. “Are we still playing Faleirin?”

“Mhm,” said Pollux, with a subdued smile. “I need to practice my elkish.”

All around, mercenaries were scrambling to finish the last of their dinners. Those who were done turned to watch the trio eagerly. Cranberry watched Apricot lean forward, peering at Pollux, his curiosity plain. Inger nudged her from the side, and her heartbeat quickened. Flashing her a small grin, he winked. Cranberry managed a smile in return.

The whistle of a flute broke over the quiet rumblings of anticipation. Beatriz closed her instrument case before blowing another few notes. Her horns glowed as she adjusted the flute’s length. On Pollux’s other side, Virgil slipped a half-glove over his left claw, the padded tips safely blunting his sharp talons. Swiftly, he rosined a long horsehair bow, then with the casual ease of long practice, he reached down to grab the neck of a lovingly-kept violin. Hopping up onto a barrel, he hoisted it to his shoulder, leaning his cheek against the chin rest. The strings groaned as he pulled the bow across them, tuning the pegs with his gloved claw and an absent expression.

Pollux sat, lifted his hooves, and let down his hood. These evening performances were the only times Cranberry saw him do so, and it was always striking. The long white tresses of his mane hung loose around his head and neck, a sharp contrast to his vibrant robes. His crimson eyes glimmered in the dying sunlight, and his horn glowed a faint red to match. He hummed a few notes along with Virgil’s fiddle.

The bow ceased its movement, and the entire deck fell silent. Virgil’s beak twitched once, and he began tapping his hind right paw against the barrel. He swept the bow suddenly into motion, a low rolling rumble that grew like a wave, cresting without warning and exploding into a flurry of short strokes.

Cranberry instantly felt the urge to tap her hoof to the jumping melody. She found her head nodding, and smiled. Beside her, Apricot’s eyes were bouncing as they followed Virgil’s bow, his mouth half-open in delight.

The flute fluttered down to join the violin, and the lilting music swayed to life around them. Virgil’s bow danced a jig across the strings, scattering triplets and sliding through glissando jumps. The beat of his tapping foot quickened, and the world seemed to breathe with it. A sudden cascade of notes descended, and the song lulled for a brief measure. The violin and the flute paused for an instant. Cranberry twitched forward instinctively.

Then Pollux began to sing.

Apricot’s eyes opened wide, and his hoof dropped to the table. Cranberry would have laughed, if the music hadn’t stolen her breath.

Pollux’s voice was like liquid honey, a warm, bubbling, sweet sound that filled her head and heart and left no room for anything besides the joyous melody. It seemed impossible that his normal half-whisper could give way to this glowing alto that poured out rich, vibrant strength into the crowd. The whole deck stared in universal rapture.

The lyrics, delivered in flawless elkish, bounced along with Virgil’s tapping foot.

“Va feinn valeri arinn,

va men talen faleirin,

amet apenrimela,

va men valeri tairen…”

Kaduat was grinning, waving a tipsy hoof along like a conductor’s baton. The other camels’ heads were nodding in time, a few trading eager glances. Castor watched his brother with a proud smile. Even Zaeneas looked up from her book, her eyes torn away from the page by the power of Pollux’s voice.

Cranberry glanced right and met Inger’s eyes. He cleared his throat quietly, with a hesitant look at Apricot. “Be my partner?” he whispered. Am I forgiven? she heard.

She was still angry about Apricot’s foolishness, and hurt that Inger hadn’t supported her, but at this point she had to admit it was a fait accompli. Her son was coming along, so she could either accept it or be angry for the rest of the trip. Pushing her misgivings aside, she nodded and brushed his cheek. “Of course.”

Pollux’s golden voice sprang into the second verse, drawing her attention back like a moth to flame. Sisters, but that stallion can sing. She’d dropped her bowl the first time she heard those notes shaking the air. They resonated in her chest as the chorus neared.

“Amell valen dulani, mareill va feinn etrani;

mari velannona, alen tilen vemaney, EY!”

Abruptly, every mercenary leaped to their hooves and feet. Inger did likewise, offering her a hoof. Cranberry took it warmly, hopping up to join him.

The expedition circled the musicians, pairing off. Kaduat dragged Apricot with her, yelling, “I hope you can dance, kid!”

Virgil lifted his bow off the strings and slammed it back down with gusto. Hooves and feet struck the deck in time to the music as the chorus arrived.

“Alla mena teneirn, vafamme na la faleirin;

Olandriolanera, dula neman petrenna…”

Cranberry felt an irrepressible smile creep onto her lips as she and Inger went through the steps, whirling around each other. They’d learned the dance from the mercenaries on the road from Canterlot. It had taken her a day or two to master the step-ball-change, but it all seemed like second-nature now, listening to that golden melody fill the air around them.

“Amana felbriner ta nem,

vasem le saoreh fin brolem,

salehm viseir arin adsu kaliarmena vildranen…”

The song entered the bridge, and everyone spun once and clapped. Cranberry and Inger beamed at each other, breathing hard as their hooves rapped the planks to the rhythm. Past her husband, Cranberry could see Kaduat laughing and clapping appreciatively as Apricot stumbled through the steps.

Every voice rose in song to join the mage in another ringing ey! as the tempo leaped upward again. A hundred frantic hooves pounded the deck in unison as the dancing rose to a fever pitch with the final chorus. Cranberry’s legs ached, but exhilaration carried her onward. Inger pressed a hoof against hers, lifting it over her head as they both spun again.

Tails swinging, heads swaying, the dancers whirled and clapped. The notes of the violin and the flute exploded around them as Pollux reached the climax. The crew belted out the final words with him as hooves crashed down in an inelegant, exuberant flurry of raps and taps.

“Vallan afeir vaneirin,

ta ten ri val faleiriiiiiiiin!”

Cranberry flung herself forward, twisting around to throw her hooves in the air with a final ey! Her husband caught her effortlessly, sitting heavily on his hindquarters with her in his forehooves. He leaned down and kissed her, and she pulled his head closer to return it eagerly.

Lifting his head, his eyes twinkled. “Love you,” he murmured, panting for air.

“I know,” she whispered, grinning as she pushed his cheek to turn his head. “Right back at you, Dragonslayer.” As she giggled, he pulled her back up and kissed her again.

“Blech,” said a young voice from behind them. Cranberry snickered. Gently extricating herself from Inger’s hooves, She stood up and brushed off her chest. “All right, Junior, I’ll stop embarrassing you in front of your new friends.” Apricot rolled his eyes.

Kaduat laughed, though there was a slightly brittle edge to it. “You’ll think it’s cute when you’re older, kid.”

The colt shrugged, but his eyes kept darting away from his parents toward the trio. Through the crowd of laughing, clapping mercenaries, Pollux and his fellow musicians were taking bows to scattered applause. Pollux dipped his head to the crowd, quiet and unassuming once more. Apricot stared at him, all but licking his lips with anticipation. Cranberry shared a brief look with Inger, who nodded.

“All right, Apricot.” she said begrudgingly. “You can ask him tonight. But first, we’re going to help Beatriz collect all the dishes for the wash. And you’re going to help her in the galley after you talk to Pollux.” It was a mark of how excited Apricot was that he didn’t even complain.

Leftover stew was tossed overboard, though there wasn’t much that hadn’t been greedily devoured. Together with Beatriz, the Sugar clan dashed to and fro across the deck, grabbing bowls from tables and snagging a few that had fallen under the furniture during the dance. Beatriz thanked them all, especially Apricot—the antelope seemed enthused at the prospect of a minion to help scrub everything clean.

As they worked, Cranberry lifted an eyebrow and turned her head toward her son. “So, what did you think of the song?”

“It was beautiful,” he said, looking back at Pollux with awe. The mage had bid his fellow musicians farewell after the song and retreated back to the prow. “What was it about?”

“In new elkish, Faleirin means ‘seashells’. It’s about a seashell merchant arguing with his daughter’s would-be suitor. The buck asks him for her hoof in marriage and he refuses for the first two verses, but at the end of the song the girl shows up and says that she loves the buck enough to leave her family if her father won’t give them his blessing. Of course, her father relents to let the two be together.” She hummed the final bars. “And that’s the way a father’s love gives way like sandy seashellllllls…”

Apricot gave his head a quizzical tilt, and she laughed. “It rhymes in elkish. As for the name, ‘sandy seashells’ are an old elk idiom. It means clinging to something after a change renders it pointless, like sand on a seashell after it’s been taken from the water. Fascinating history, actually—”

Seeing her son nod in the vague way that meant he was just pretending to listen to her ramble on about her work, she smiled and rolled her eyes. Clearly, his mind was over with the red-robed mage. “All right, you’ve been patient. After this table we’ll go ask him.” Apricot beamed.

They finished in short order, and Inger rejoined the two of them. Together, the Sugars made their way across the deck toward the mage. Pollux had his forehooves placed on the ship’s railing as he let the ocean breeze carry his mane back. He turned his head as they approached, reaching instinctively to pull his hood back up, but paused when he saw Apricot.

“Hello, Pollux,” said Inger, dipping his head. “We came to ask a favor…”

“I see…” Pollux peered down at Apricot, rubbing his chin as he looked the young unicorn over. “Hello there, Apricot.”

He remembered his name, thought Cranberry, as Apricot brightened. She patted his shoulder. ““We were wondering if you might—”

“Can you teach me magic?” burst Apricot, straining forward as if against invisible bonds.

“Hmm.” Pollux kept looking him up and down, evaluating. His eyes narrowed curiously, squinting at the young colt. “That depends on you. Tell me, why do you want to learn from me?”

“You’re a proper mage, and you’ve seen so many different lands and magics…” Apricot fidgeted. “And I want to be like you. A mage.”

Pollux rubbed his chin. “Why?”

“Why?” Apricot glanced uncertainly at his parents. “Magic’s… a part of me.”

“It’s part of every unicorn,” said Pollux, shrugging. “What makes you different?”

“I don’t just want to learn some tricks,” Apricot insisted. “I want to learn it all. To be good at it, really good. Not just lifting pots and pans, or threading sewing needles, I want to know how it works.”

“Curiosity, then?” Pollux’s eyes narrowed further, piercing. “I don’t think that’s all. You didn’t stow away on this ship because you’re curious. Why are you here, Apricot?”

Apricot looked at his father, pressing his lips together, before his eyes fell. “Because…” He turned back to Pollux, shaking his head. “Because my dad’s the Dragonslayer. My mother’s got songs written about her. My brother’s going to be a Firewing, and I’m just… just…” He looked up, deflated. “Me.”

Pollux’s eyes looked briefly past them all. Cranberry followed his gaze over her shoulder and landed on Castor, who was still packing up one of the tables at the far end of the ship.

The mage’s mouth grew firm. “I see.” He watched Apricot for another moment. “And what kind of teaching did you have in mind?”

“Everything,” said Apricot, his eyes wide. “Like—like that spell you were doing when you sang!”

Pollux’s eyebrows rose. “You felt that?”

“Yeah! It felt like the one Mr. Strudel cast on his ovens before he baked in them. Except you were doing it to the whole ship.”

Cranberry raised an eyebrow. “You were casting a spell?”

“A very subtle one,” murmured Pollux, looking at Apricot with renewed interest. “I was warding the ship’s hull against water, to prevent leaks. A small favor I offered the ship’s captain when we set sail. It’s very similar to a ward against flame.” He nodded to Apricot. “Something a baker might cast on an oven, to keep it from losing heat at the seams.”

“I knew it!” Apricot hopped, thrilled. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

“I believe I could,” said Pollux, slowly drawing a colorless hoof across his chin. “Not many unicorns could have felt a spell that quiet, you know. Even with training. Have you ever met a spellsinger before?”

“A spell-what?”

“Interesting.” Pollux’s head abruptly snapped back up to Cranberry and Inger. “I’ll teach him.”

The couple blinked. “Just like that?” asked Cranberry.

“Just like that.” Pollux’s hoof dropped back under his robe. He looked more alive than she’d ever seen him. His usual languid air of confidence had been replaced by alert drive.

Inger rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you want us to pay you, or…”

“No need.” Pollux met Apricot’s eyes, and he nodded. “You need to learn how to use your abilities, Apricot. Anyone attuned enough to hear that warding spell is going to need training for their own safety. Not to mention everyone else’s.” He tilted his head, red eyes flicking between the two adults. “It’s strange… If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that your parents were both powerful unicorns.”

His chest puffing a little with paternal pride, Inger beamed. “He must get it from his mother’s side. Her father Strawberry was a unicorn.”

Cranberry’s misgivings weren’t entirely quelled, but she was at least convinced that some instruction from a real mage would be good for Apricot. She ruffled her son’s mane. “Do us proud, Junior.”

Apricot blushed, grinning. “When can we start?”

“Right now,” said Pollux, before pausing. “Unless you have other duties to attend to…” He gave Cranberry an amused look, flicking his ear.

He must have heard me giving Apricot cleaning duty, she realized wryly. With a stern look at Apricot,she pursed her lips. “His penance can wait a little while. I’m sure Beatriz will still have plenty of dishes left when you two are finished.”

“Very well, then. I’ll send him to the galley when we’re done.”

Inger leaned in and whispered into her ear. “We’d better go make room for him in our quarters. Looks like we’ll be sharing a bunk for the rest of the trip, after all.” He didn’t sound enthused.

Cranberry gave a suffused sigh, already mourning the end of their privacy. They’d have all the discomfort of the cramped bunk without the pleasure of any activities beyond sleeping. “Let’s go, then…”

As they departed, she cast one last look over her shoulder toward Apricot, trying to ignore the icy worry in her stomach.

* * *

I did it, I did it, I did it! Apricot could barely restrain himself from dancing. He was an apprentice now, a mage-in-training, taking the first steps on the road to… whatever his future would be. An archmage, he thought greedily.

Pollux turned toward the ocean, placing his hooves back on the railing. “Let’s begin with a fundamental question.”

Apricot joined him, eyes alight with excitement. He had to rear all the way up on his hind legs to get his chin over the rail, but he managed. “Okay.”

His new teacher stared out at the horizon, where the sun had finally disappeared completely. The stars were already visible above, the waxing moon still just beginning to rise. He pulled his robes tighter around his neck. “What is magic?”

Eagerly, Apricot lifted his head as high above the rail as he could. “It’s the special talent that unicorns—”

“No. What is magic?”

Hesitant after such a quick rejection, Apricot pondered the question more seriously. Biting his hoof for a moment, he tilted his head and tried again. “Magic is a… a metaf… metaphysi…physical framework of, um… energy, and—”

The pale mage snorted, but gave Apricot’s messy mane a friendly tousle. “No, no. Forget whatever book you read that in. It was written by scholars, not mages. What is magic?”

Feeling a little desperate, Apricot searched for the answer. If he couldn’t even get this right, would Pollux decide he wasn’t worth teaching? “Magic is—” he paused, suddenly relaxing. “Magic is a river.”

Pollux smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who taught you that?”

“Mr. Strudel,” said Apricot, his voice sinking. He watched the sea split around the bow of the ship as they cut through the waves. “He taught me everything I know about doing magic. And other things… like baking, and numbers…” Something seemed caught in his throat. “I miss him.”

“He sounds very wise,” said Pollux quietly. He looked out over the waves, letting the wind carry his mane behind him. “And he was right—many unicorns experience magic as flowing liquid, be it a river, a waterfall, or a stormy sea.”

His horn glowed, and soft motes of light streamed between them. Apricot’s eyes widened in delight as the pattern resolved into a magical river of red sparkles.

“I can feel the river, the real one,” said Apricot, brightening a little. He reached out with his mind and plunged into the magical current. “It’s… cool to the touch, if that makes sense. And I can do things with it.”

Pollux traced a hoof through his river of light, causing a whirl in the surface. “To an extent, yes… You can splash in it, swim in it, even channel trickles of that power to perform spells. But can you divert the river itself? Change the course of the flow?” Pollux met his eyes, tilting his head expectantly.

“No, I…” Apricot shook his head, suddenly puzzled. “Nopony can do that.”

“You’re right.” Pollux’s horn glowed brighter as he dipped his hoof into the image of the river. The flow spread around his hoof, before rejoining on the other side. “Changing the course of a river isn’t something a single pony can do. That’s why you can’t think of magic as a river.”

Apricot blinked, completely lost. “Then…?”

Pollux set his hoof down, and the river of light vanished. He stared into Apricot’s eyes with sudden intensity. “Magic is a song.”

“Why is that different?”

Pollux looked up, as if mulling over the words. “A song flows like a river, but it has parts, pieces, elements that can combine to create a thousand different melodies. You could try with all your might to block the course of a river and fail, but all it takes to change a song is a single voice.” He blinked, returning to Apricot. “Your voice.”

Apricot felt a chill race through him, licking his lips in anticipation. “So… who’s playing the song?”

That intense look suddenly vanished as Pollux laughed. “Now there’s a question for the philosophers. I’m afraid I can’t answer—all I can do is teach you to sing.” He smiled. “But first, you have to learn how to listen.”

Nodding, Apricot stepped back from the railing, lifting his chin in determination. “I’m ready!”

“Good. Close your eyes. Reach out for the river, the way Mr. Strudel taught you.”

“Okay.” Apricot shut his eyes tight, and his horn began to shimmer with rose light. He felt the eddies and currents of the magic around him, and sank slowly into it. “Now what?”

“Listen to the water. The way it rushes around you, the waves lapping gently against the banks. Do you hear them?”

“I think so…”

And he could, in a way. It wasn’t hearing, exactly. The sound wasn’t in his ears, it was in his head. The same way that the cool water didn’t touch his hooves, but his mind. Yet there it was, all the same, the calm motion of the river.

“Shh. Listen closer.” Pollux’s voice was hushed.

Apricot’s eyebrows furrowed, and then he gasped. “I hear—”

His teacher whispered, “Yes?”

“I hear a beat.” Apricot opened his eyes and looked up at Pollux, shocked.

The pale mage grinned. “What is magic?”

Apricot closed his eyes again, feeling the rhythm of the water—of the magic itself—thrumming inside him. He could follow it with his hoof, mouth slack with wonderment. “Magic is a song…”

8. Music Theory

Over the next few days, things on the ship settled into a new routine. From sunrise to noon, Apricot spent most of his time up on the deck with Pollux, learning musical theory out of a ponderous tome the mage had lent him, written by some pony named Kemholtz. He still wasn’t sure how knowing scales and harmonics was going to help him cast spells, but he wasn’t about to question his new mentor.

In Apricot’s eyes, the real lessons only began after lunchtime. The two unicorns sequestered themselves at the Aurora’s prow, where Pollux showed him more about listening to the song, and demonstrated what it sounded—felt—like when a mage cast spells within it.

After dinner, while he was helping Miss Beatriz down in the galley, Apricot would do his best to practice listening, feeling the rhythm of magic all around him as he scrubbed pots and pans. It made the time pass quickly, but more importantly, he was getting better at it—for the first two evenings, it had taken nearly a minute to transition from the river to the song, but now he could latch onto the beat in moments.

Cleaning dishes was boring, but at least it gave him an excuse to delay going to the cabin he and his parents were sharing. Though the top bunk was inarguably more comfortable than the barrel, sleeping in his parents’ room was embarrassing—he hadn’t done that since he was a tiny foal afraid of thunder and lightning. And then there was the strange way his mom and dad kept acting…

He wasn’t sure what was wrong, but whenever he started on an excited explanation of his latest lesson, his mother had a tendency to go quiet and close off. His father was more supportive, but Apricot didn’t miss the way Inger’s eyes kept flicking toward Cranberry, or the worry buried within them. And sometimes, late at night while he stayed up late, skimming through Kemholtz under the covers by faint hornlight, he could hear urgent whispers below him. More than once, he’d heard his name, but whenever he tried to catch the words they fell silent again.

It was easy to forget about it in the light of day. Gradually, he felt something approaching, some new knowledge that he’d been skirting the edges of with Pollux. Even the combination of the northern ocean’s frigid winds and a particularly dull chapter on time signatures weren’t enough to quell his enthusiasm for the lessons.

“Tempo is vital,” said Pollux, rapping his hoof rhythmically on the deck. “It’s the way you pour energy into your spellwork. The faster the tempo, the more energy. But you must keep it controlled to perform spells with precision. If you don’t pay attention to the time of the music, your grasp will slip and you’ll lose the magic like water through a sieve.”

Pulling a loaned blanket emblazoned with the Katabasis logo tightly around him, Apricot shivered in the cold. “Are faster songs hard to control?”

“Yes. Aside from the mental strain, energetic magic is difficult to handle by nature. That’s why we practice time signatures until they’re an unconscious skill.” Pollux pointed down to the open book on the deck between them. “This one, 4/4 or common time, is what you’ll use most often. It’s simple to keep track of, and gives you plenty of room for variation. More complex spells might use 5/4, 7/8, or esoteric ones specific to the individual enchantment.”

Pollux raised an eyebrow as he lifted a strand of his hair. “I once came across a spell for growing out manes that was in 13/5. I didn’t have the courage to try it out before I forgot it… I’ve spent years wondering if it actually worked.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

Apricot nodded hesitantly, wondering how he was going to keep track of all these numbers while doing magic. Casting a simple spell already took all of his concentration; he didn’t think he could count some strange beat out at the same time.

Pollux calmly closed the book with a thump. “I’d say that’s enough theory for one day. Are you ready to get some practice in?”

“Already?” Instantly, Apricot berated himself for questioning his good luck. Of course he wanted to leave the book behind and do some real magic.

“That’s right. It’s time you did more than listen. I think you’re ready to try it for yourself.”

Apricot straightened so sharply that Pollux laughed. “Don’t get too excited. You’re not going to like this: it’s time you unlearn what you know about casting spells.”

His stomach sinking, Apricot tugged his mane. “What do you mean?”

“How did Mr. Strudel teach you to lift something with magic?”

“Well…” Apricot lit his horn. “I touch the river, and then… I just think about the thing lifting, and it does. I can make it do what I want by kind of… picturing what I want it to do, and then letting the river flow through my horn.”

Pollux nodded. “That’s called instinctive or visual spellcasting. A lot of mages, even professional ones, can go far with that alone. But there are deeper ways to use magic. Harder and more complex, but in the end, more rewarding.”

“Spellsinging,” said Apricot, echoing the word his mentor had used so many times.

Smiling, Pollux gave him a nod. “Thousands of years ago, the elk were the first to discover the art. Your mother knows all about their government and their artifacts, but it’s their magic that’s long interested me. I’ve spent most of my life learning the techniques they passed down to their descendants. At first, from an old book—a grimoire of spellsongs that my brother gave me when we were children. Later, I sought out living masters.”

“How? Aren’t they all… gone?”

“Not all. Their descendants have forgotten much about their ancient kin, but spellsinging survives in the remote villages of the commonwealth. I traveled there with Castor a long time ago, after we left our homeland Alastria.” Pollux gazed fondly toward the horizon and the islands of the elk that lay somewhere beyond it. “I spent two years learning from the great spellsinging masters in the treetops of Cariboulla. They humbly call themselves bards; but they’re mages without equal.”

Apricot tugged his blanket tighter as a chill breeze passed. “Why’d you leave?”

“Castor wanted to return to the mainland. Katabasis was already a gleam in his eye, and he was certain I was ready to put my new skills into practice. I wasn’t so sure, but I owed him.” Pollux smiled toward the stern, where Castor stood conversing with the other pegasi. “I’d never have made it this far without my brother.”

With a hesitant grin, Apricot fiddled with the hem of the blanket. “Me either. Strawberry’s the only reason I’m not stuck back in Canterlot.” The smile grew strained as he looked over his shoulder toward the pegasi, whose wings were still glistening with condensation from cloudbreaking. Inger laughed at something Castor was telling him and Tybalt. “I hope my parents don’t get too mad at him…”

Pollux raised a sly eyebrow, not taking his eyes off Castor. “Oh, when my brother and I were colts, we broke plenty of rules. That book he gave me? Stolen, from a passing merchant.”

Apricot blinked, appalled. “He’s a thief!?”

“No, no,” said Pollux, laughing. “A bit full of himself, maybe, but he’s not in the habit of stealing things. That merchant had it coming.” His eyes narrowed. “No decent pony would refuse to spare a few scraps of bread to starving orphans just because one was red-eyed and pale.”

Curiosity at last overpowered Apricot’s manners. “Why is your coat like that?”

“Ah,” said Pollux, calmly. “You’ve never seen an albino before, have you?”

Grateful that his teacher wasn’t angry, Apricot shook his head. Pollux nodded, lifting a white hoof and turning it idly back and forth. “Whatever it is that makes your fur pink—”

“Cerise!”

“Cerise,” amended Pollux, with a chuckle, “I don’t have any of it.” He tugged his hood down further, shielding his face with shade. “Bright lights hurt my eyes, my skin burns easily in the sun, and at times I find it difficult to stay warm. But other than that? I’m the same as you.” He sighed. “Of course, not everyone sees it that way. Like anything rare, we’re surrounded by rumors.”

“Uh… like what?”

“Some say we’re vampires,” said Pollux dryly. “It’s the red irises, I think.” He pulled his lip back, revealing a set of ordinary flat teeth. Rolling his eyes, he let the lip fall back into place. “Others believe we’re evil from birth, the chosen ones of a dark god. And some…” he shivered, huddling deeper under his robes, “some think our bodies have unique alchemical properties, and want to collect.”

“Oh…” Apricot rubbed his foreleg uncomfortably. “Well, you don’t seem evil to me. My dad says I shouldn’t believe rumors about my uncle Rye, either. He’s a pegacorn.”

“Your father’s a wise stallion,” said Pollux, nodding. “Those who do believe such things…” His eyes lost focus for a moment. “Let’s just say if it wasn’t for Castor, I’d likely be dead by now.”

Awkwardly, Apricot nibbled a hoof. “Sorry I asked.”

“Don’t be,” said Pollux, suddenly cheerful. “You’re my apprentice. It’s my job to answer your questions. Now, back to the lesson.” His horn glowed, and Apricot instantly felt the sound of his magic. It was like his voice, bright and golden, sung with skill and grace. “Are you ready to try it?”

“Yes!” Apricot leaned forward, then hesitated. “So… how do I do it? I have to think about a song?”

“No,” said Pollux, lifting an eyebrow, “you have to sing one.”

Apricot’s ears flattened in embarrassment. “Out loud?”

“Well, that might help at first, but it’s not necessary.” His teacher’s horn glowed, and his robes fluttered. He lifted his hem with a hoof to let three small wooden blocks float out, each bearing a carving of one of the traditional signs of the pony tribes: a tall, thin horn for the unicorns; a pair of spread wings for the pegasi; and a five-petaled flower for the earth ponies.

The cubes settled in a row between the two unicorns. Pollux swept a hoof over the blocks. “All right. Go ahead and lift them. Do it the way Mr. Strudel taught you.”

Apricot nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. He’d lifted things heavier than these blocks before, but… he still had trouble levitating more than one thing at the same time.

Screwing his mouth up, he squinted fiercely at the blocks. This was the first time Pollux had asked him to cast a spell. He wasn’t going to botch something this simple. His horn glowed a soft rose.

It was still more natural to dip into the river than the song, so he followed his old habit and felt the coolness rush around him. Picturing the center block lifting, he was gratified to see a rosy sparkle around it as the block leaped into the air.

There’s one… He licked his lips, trying to loosen up his legs. Why was he so tense? He’d done this spell a hundred times.

Not with your new master watching, whispered an unhelpful voice in his head.

His eyes flicked between the other two blocks. The left one wobbled, before jerkily rising from the deck. The other gave a spastic twitch, before flopping limply over onto another side. Apricot’s brows knit in frustration. He squinted harder, his horn flaring with light. The third block quivered, its corner lifting a few millimeters from the wooden panels.

Suddenly, he felt a searing heat in his horn, and a brilliant white flash forced his eyes shut before the light winked out entirely. The blocks clattered to the deck as he yelped, holding his forehead. A familiar pain was already setting in.

“Horn overload,” said Pollux sympathetically. “Sorry, kid. Take some slow, five-second breaths; it’ll make the headache fade faster.”

Apricot inhaled deeply, and let the breath out slowly. To his surprise, it worked. After a few repetitions of the breathing exercise, the dull throbbing that always followed one of those flashes had lessened to a slight ache. Normally he was out for at least five minutes after one of those.

As the pain faded, his cheeks burned. Levitation was basic stuff, hardly the kind of mastery he’d wanted to learn from—and, if he was honest, show off to—Pollux. Mr. Strudel could lift a dozen different pots, pans, and silverware settings at the same time while he flitted about the kitchen, doing the work of a whole restaurant staff by himself. If Apricot couldn’t even handle some stupid foals’ toys, how was he ever going to match that kind of skill?

A nudge on his shoulder drew him back to the present. Pollux gave him one of those quiet head tilts. “You’re getting lost inside your head.”

“Sorry.” Apricot looked away, humiliated. “I must’ve—not been paying attention.”

“Hm.” A sudden freezing wind passed them, and both unicorns hunched against the cold. Pollux shook a few drops of sea-spray from his hoof. “You know, most unicorns your age have difficulty with spells.”

“I’m not—” Apricot bit back a foolish like most unicorns. Everyone always said his brother was an exceptional flier for his age. As much as he wished for it, no one had ever said the same about his magic. Glum, his shoulders slumped under the blanket. “I just thought…”

“You feel like it ought to be easy for you,” said Pollux.

Apricot looked up at him warily, but the older unicorn sounded warmly understanding, not accusatory. Unable to hold his gaze, Apricot turned back down to his hooves. “I know how that sounds,” he said, scraping one against the deck with guilt.

“After all, this is what you’re supposed to be good at, right?” Pollux hefted the unicorn block with a hoof, looking down at the horn symbol emblazoned on its faces. “Your brother and father have their wings…” He tipped the pegasus cube over. “And your mother’s got her knowledge…” He nudged the earth pony block. “But you’re the only one with magic.”

“It just—” Apricot stared down longingly at the carved pegasus wings. “It just seems so easy for them.” He shook his head, feeling rebellious tears at the edges of his eyes. He took a deep breath and buried the urge to cry. He was embarrassed enough. “I know Strawberry practices all the time, but sometimes it seems like he never has any trouble learning things. And I… I can’t even lift a stupid block.”

“I know what it’s like, believe me.” Pollux’s horn flashed, and the wing block leaped up into his other hoof. “I know how it feels to lie awake at night, burning with envy, wishing you were something else. Someone like your brother, strong and confident, able to do anything or get any gir—ahem.”

Clearing his throat hastily, he turned the block in his hooves. “The hard truth is that you’ll always have to work more for it. The road to true mastery is longer for unicorns than pegasi or earth ponies. Our gift is complicated, dangerous, intangible. Few ever learn more than basic telekinesis and a few spells related to their marks.”

He lifted the unicorn block up to the sun. “But those who do can move the stars.”

Apricot’s mouth was dry. He remember the way Princess Celestia’s magic had felt that day in the cemetery. “Even me?”

“Well, not if you give up.” Pollux stood and lightly tossed the unicorn block down to join the other two. “But you’re not the kind of pony to quit, are you? Come on, let’s go again. This time, just lift one of them.”

Holding the blanket around his neck, Apricot stood and took another deep breath. Focusing, his horn blazed to life, and the block hovered a half-meter into the air.

Slowly pacing a circle around him and the blocks, Pollux nodded. “Now, listen to the spell you’re casting.”

Apricot closed his eyes, maintaining the image of the block. He sank into the magic, listening for the beat. And there it was, calm and steady, but… there was something new. Something shaky and hesitant, but familiar. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he found the sound of his own voice amid the rolling drumbeat of the current.

It was a faint, simple tune. He liked the sound—his magic was light and filled with verve. Smiling, he listened to the notes. “Hang on… didn’t we hum this together yesterday?”

“That’s right. You’re hearing the melody of levitation.” Pollux whistled the short, repetitive ditty, somehow perfectly in tune with the one in Apricot’s head. “It’s one of the simplest songs.”

“Simple, huh?” Apricot opened his eyes, watching the other two blocks gloomily. Not simple enough for me to lift three foal’s toys…

“Don’t let your guard down just because it’s not complex. Simplicity is strength. You can easily alter a simple song, make it louder, softer, faster, weave other music into it…” Pollux pushed the floating block with the tip of his hoof, and Apricot felt a sudden pulsing chord as it spun. “Now, instead of focusing on the block, concentrate on the song itself. Keep the magic flowing.”

A little confused, Apricot obeyed. He let the block fade from his attention, focusing entirely on that song. Unconsciously, he hummed the melody under his breath. “This isn’t so hard…”

“Good. You’re singing the spell—you’ve gathered all the power you need, and you’re ready to release it. For complex enchanting, you’ll lay the groundwork for releasing that magic ahead of time, but for simple spells like levitation or ones that require speed, like battlemagic, you can just visualize the spell as you did before.”

“But how’s that any different than using the river?”

Pollux’s smile had a triumphant edge. “It’s the difference between throwing a rock and aiming a loaded trebuchet. Before, you were wasting most of your energy just summoning up the magic to do what you wanted. Now, you’ve already got it primed in your horn, just waiting for you to let it out. Lift the block.”

Not quite understanding the distinction, Apricot shrugged and looked back at the unicorn-carved block. Still singing the song, he pictured it rising. It shot into the air, hovering instantly at eye-level without a quiver of motion.

“Good. Now…” Pollux tapped the block again, but this time it didn’t spin. Apricot’s eyes widened slightly. The intrusive chord had appeared again, but he was so deep in singing that it didn’t shake his magical voice at all. Pollux smiled. “Lift the others.”

Apricot’s heart beat faster. This is it, he suddenly realized. This was why he’d come to Pollux. Almost fearfully, he envisioned the other blocks rising.

Immediately, they flew up to join the first, bobbing to the rhythm of the song. Apricot stared, transfixed.

“Now you see it,” said Pollux, hushed. “It’s not that spellsinging makes you stronger. It’s that it gives you control, letting you use all your magic to do exactly what you want. Skill trumps power every time.”

Still singing, Apricot sent the blocks spinning around each other in a circle. Fascinated, he quickened the pace of the song, and watched them whirl faster. It wasn’t even a struggle… all he had to do was keep the melody going.

Slowly, his eyes slid toward a coil of rope lying by the railing of the ship. I wonder how hard it would be…

In the magic, he raised his voice, and a glimmer of rose light surrounded the rope. The entire coil lifted, drooping in his magical grip. Still, there was no strain, just a slight increase in tempo. The blocks continued spinning.

“All right.” Pollux smiled. “I think you’ve got enough to practice on your own tonight. Tomorrow we’ll pick up time signatures again before we move on to harmonics.”

Only half-listening, Apricot nodded. Turning around as the blocks swirled about him, his mouth hung open in wonderment. It was so easy this way…

A few nearby barrels scraped the deck before rising into the air. Pollux turned, noticing them, and his eyes widened. “I think that’s enough for now, Apricot.”

“Please, just a little more,” said Apricot, lost in the song. He wasn’t even thinking about the objects anymore. The notes rose in crescendo as he sang, feeling his magical voice ring through his horn. The blanket fluttered around him, lifting from his shoulders.

“Careful, now. Don’t try too much, too fast. Take it slow.”

“Just a little—”

“Apricot. Slow down.”

Apricot’s eyes snapped back down to see his teacher’s robes billowing around him, glowing rose. He froze. “Y—your clothes… I’m not trying to do that.”

“You have to control it,” said Pollux, his steely red eyes calm, yet full of buried urgency. “Slow the tempo.”

He tried, but the music was so loud and quick that it was hard to concentrate. Apricot clenched his teeth, trying to hum slowly under his breath, but it was as if the song was carrying him away. “Pollux… I think something’s wrong—”

“Sing with me,” said his master, horn glowing. Apricot felt Pollux’s voice join the song, and tried to follow, but he couldn’t seem to match his teacher’s lethargic tempo. It was like running down a hill, trying to stop before crashing at the bottom. His own momentum carried him forward.

The blocks climbed upward, passing the forward sail. Apricot spaced his legs out, trying to balance in the swirling magic. “Pollux!”

“Listen to my song!” Pollux’s horn flared brighter, his eyes locked intently on Apricot’s. “Slow it down. 4/4!”

Apricot focused on his teacher’s voice, heart pounding as he grasped for it, but the moment he reached out, his own song surged forward faster than ever. Frantic, he looked around at barrels, loose yardage, belaying pins, and their own clothes, all floating as if gravity had vanished. At the far side of the deck, his father and the other two pegasi had all turned to watch with bafflement.

“Control, Apricot, you need control,” said Pollux.

The deck lurched beneath his hooves, and he cried out, “Dad!”

* * *

Inger snorted. “You’re telling me that actually fooled the guards?”

“Oh, my brother’s disguise was very convincing,” said Castor, grinning. “Had them eating out of his hooves. Pollux looks good in a dress. At least, that’s what I say when I want a rise out of him.”

“You’re making this up…”

“If you ask Pollux, he’ll say I am.” Castor shrugged, still smirking wickedly. “Once we were past the guards, finding our employer’s stolen ledger was easy.”

Tybalt’s snort was eerily similar to Inger’s. “Where was this, anyway? I’ve never heard of Brackwater Village.”

“Alastria,” said Castor, his smile souring. “It was our last job before leaving our homeland. If we’d stayed any longer, then we’d have been there when the griffons marched into the protectorate and seized the capital.”

“Ah,” said Tybalt, nodding grimly. “I expect there was plenty of work for mercenaries after the—” He paused, looking at Inger, who was staring at him in puzzlement. “What? Have I got something on my face?”

Inger pointed mutely at his father’s locket, which was floating above the collar of his summer robe. All three pegasi stared in confusion.

“What the—” Castor suddenly spread his wings, watching water droplets drip up off of them into the air, where they hung like beads. His head whipped toward the bow of the ship, where Apricot and Pollux were in the midst of their afternoon lesson. Inger peered at them, suddenly alert.

His son’s horn was glowing a brilliant rose, and debris was floating all around him. Inger’s mouth went slack. Were the two unicorns casting some spell together? He’d never seen Apricot do anything like this. He’d never seen anyone do anything like this.

Suddenly Tybalt’s locket jerked upward, choking him. His wings flapped. “Gah—!”

“Dad!” cried Apricot.

Inger exploded into motion, galloping across the deck toward his son. Wind rushed past his face, forcing him to squint at the searing light attached to Apricot’s head. Soap bubbles from a spilled bucket floated past him, casting his frantic reflection back.

Beneath him, his hooves lost traction on the deck as gravity seemed to wither. For a moment, his legs scrabbled uselessly at the air as he hovered, before his wings flared wide and he streaked through the air. Pollux was reaching a hoof out to touch Apricot, his own horn blazing red. “Cut off the spell,” he shouted. “Stop the song, before you—”

There was a tremendous flash of white and a vast tectonic rumble. A spherical shell of rose light burst outward over the entire deck. Inger’s wings froze for a moment as he plummeted back down, landing on wide-spaced legs with catlike grace. Barrels and loose tools clattered to the deck as gravity reasserted itself. Ahead, Apricot had fallen too, clutching his head with both forehooves.

Inger reached them in moments, wrapping a hoof beneath his son and lifting him. “Apricot!”

“He’s all right,” panted Pollux, head hung low with exertion, but face turned up with alert eyes. “Another horn overload. Bit more intense than the last one…”

Apricot was huffing and puffing, his eyes still squeezed shut. “S-sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Inger wasn’t even sure what had happened. All he knew was that Apricot apparently wasn’t injured, and that was enough for a flood of relief to crash over him. He hugged his son tightly, tucking Apricot’s head under his chin and releasing a heavy breath that puffed through the colt’s mane. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a headache,” said Apricot, opening his eyes at last and letting his hooves drop. He winced, glancing up at Pollux. “I didn’t mean to…”

“And that,” interrupted the older unicorn, sounding worn but bizarrely cheerful, “is why we memorize time signatures.”

Wide-eyed, Apricot nodded. He squirmed against Inger, who let him go and stood back. “I—I understand. I’ll learn them all, I promise.”

Pollux raised his head at last, brushing the front of his robes. “Good!”

All three of them looked around, surveying the damage. One of the barrels had cracked open along one side, spilling liquid—water, fortunately, not flammable alcohol—across the deck. Others were still slowly rolling as the ship swayed. The ship’s crew were all staring at them from the deck and the rigging above, giving the unicorns a wide berth as they secured loose pins and rope.

Apricot looked pale and shaky under all those wary eyes. Inger stood between him and the others, tipping his son’s head up with a hoof. He peered into Apricot’s pupils, which were wide and dilated. “I think you should go back to our cabin for a while.”

Mutely, the colt nodded. He lifted his heavy book from the deck—with his hooves—and tucked it under one foreleg. Pausing, he looked up at the other unicorn. “Pollux…”

“Don’t worry,” said the mage, beaming as he tugged the hood of his robe back on. “No one got hurt. Just make sure you keep it small and slow when you practice from now on, okay?”

“Okay.” Apricot hesitantly trudged past Inger toward the stairs to the lower decks. Inger moved to follow him, but paused as he saw Cranberry standing at the far end of the ship. Their eyes met, and she gave him a tight-lipped shake of her head.

All eyes followed the young unicorn as he crossed the deck to meet her. She ushered him down the stairs, casting another worried look back at Inger, before she disappeared after him.

Tybalt and Castor breached the gap between them and the rest of the crew, trotting up to join Inger and Pollux. “All right,” said Castor, raising an eyebrow. “Mind telling us what the hell that was about?”

Pollux favored his brother with a breathless grin. Turning to Inger, he said, “Lord Vallen, your son’s the most powerful unicorn I’ve ever seen. For a moment there, I thought he’d send the whole ship floating off into the sky.”

Inger blinked, stunned. That lurch he’d felt beneath his hooves, all the floating objects—his son had done that?“That’s not—Apricot’s—I mean, until now he’s had trouble levitating pans and opening doors. How could he do all that?”

“Spellsinging. I’ve never seen someone pick it up so quickly,” said Pollux, shaking his head in wonder. “The kid’s a natural. If he actually starts doing the readings I assign, in a few weeks he’ll be putting the apprentices at the Celestial Magisterium to shame.” His smile faded at last. “Which makes it even more important that he learns to control his abilities.”

“I’ll say.” Castor whistled, looking around the deck. “You’re not planning on teaching him any battlemagic, are you?”

“Not until he’s had a lot more practice with the basics.” Pollux puffed out an apprehensive breath. “At any rate, Lord Vallen, you ought to be proud. He’ll be a fine mage someday.”

If Inger was feeling any pride, it was still buried by cooling terror. Grimly, he watched the shattered fragments of a barrel rock on the deck. “I’ll make sure he takes your lessons seriously.”

Pollux gave him a brief nod. “Now, if you gentlecolts will excuse me, I’d like to give the ship a thorough examination, make sure there’s no leftover magic lingering anywhere.”

“Go ahead,” said Tybalt, looking around at the mess on the deck with fascination. “Please, report back if you find anything.”

Castor gave Inger a nudge with his hoof. “Guess it’s a good thing we’ve got him along after all, eh? Nothing in the Elderwood’s going to trouble us with two mages around.”

Inger swallowed, hearing Cranberry’s voice echo in his head. The dangers aren’t always things you can hit with your hooves…

“I’m going to go check on our supplies,” said Castor, turning to leave, “make sure nothing moved around or broke open down below. I’ll see the two of you at dinner.”

After he departed, Inger stood silently, head whirling with thoughts. A touch brought him back to earth. Tybalt was standing beside him, looking curious. “Quite impressive.”

“I didn’t know he could…” Inger slowly shook his head. “He’s been struggling with the simplest spells for months. Mr. Strudel told us that some unicorns don’t master levitation magic until they’re five or six.”

“I wouldn’t call it mastery yet,” said Tybalt, glancing at the broken barrel. “Still. Such power… and neither you nor Cranberry are even unicorns. Where did he inherit such a gift?”

“Cranberry’s father was a unicorn,” said Inger, fluffing his wings with a puzzled frown. “I’ve heard it skips a generation.”

Tybalt stared off the bow, unreadable. “So it would seem.”

Inger folded his wings tightly, taking a bracing breath. “I’ll need to talk with Cranberry about this. She wasn’t happy with him coming before, and now…”

“Now, she oughtto be thrilled to have somepony as competent as Pollux teaching him.” Still expressionless, Tybalt touched a hoof to his locket. “Surely leaving him untrained would be even more dangerous.”

Doubt gnawed at Inger. “This might sound ridiculous, but did the first expedition report any strange feelings in the Elderwood? Any kind of… magical weariness? Any suspicion that they might have been enchanted?”

“No.” Tybalt’s enigmatic facade finally dropped as he scoffed. “To tell the truth? I’ve come to believe that the tales about these old forests are all myths. The elk are notoriously private. They spin those wild tales about monsters and renegade magic to keep visitors from poking around their homelands, nothing more. I doubt we’ll be in any more danger here than we would be in the glades outside Canterlot.”

“They’re not all myths.” Inger swallowed, remembering the stifling darkness under the trees of the Antlerwood. “And Apricot’s gifts might make him a target.”

“A target for what?” Tybalt laughed warmly, patting Inger’s shoulder. “There’s nothing in there but trees and elken ruins.”

“I—” Inger caught himself, sighing. “You’re right, you’re right.” The reassurance was more for himself than his father. “And clearly, the lessons are working. He’s learning so quickly…”

A loose barrel slowly rolled past them. Inger’s gaze followed it, as he felt something strange stirring in his breast. Pollux was right, he realized, with a belated smile. I am proud of him. With a faint smile, he murmured, “The most powerful unicorn he’s ever seen…”

9. Port Faeloch

“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.

10. A Crown of Flowers

Springtime in Elketh was an explosion of color. Miles of verdant, rolling hills were covered with an endless sea of flowers. They covered every inch of the grass, burying the path under a carpet of blossoms and petals. White, scarlet, violet, blue; every color of the rainbow and more, with even golden and ink-dark flowers nudging through the crowded field to spread beneath the sun. There had to be millions of them, far more than anyone could hope to count. They swayed in the breeze like ocean waves, rippling across the buried road.

Sailing languidly across the floral sea, the train of carts and camels trundled along through the petals. The only landmarks amongst the gentle hills were occasional islands of rustling trees. The stands of oaks and cedars, their branches already burgeoning with leaves, waved slightly in the ceaseless, shifting breeze. Faeloch had long since vanished into the hills behind, along with the inn and the room where Cranberry had spent much of the night lying awake, staring at the wall as she listened to Inger’s soft breathing.

She and Inger still hadn’t spoken about their fight last night on the Aurora. In the bustle of leaving the port, it had been easier to focus on the task at hoof, both of them too busy helping to get the carts hitched and underway to talk. Once on the road, it was likewise easy to focus on walking, with Inger naturally taking up a position near the head of the caravan alongside Castor and Pwyll, and Cranberry falling back between the carts with Apricot.

Pollux had given his apprentice the task of tying various knots in a length of string, which kept Apricot’s horn aglow and his eyebrows knit in concentration. Cranberry kept having to gently readjust her son’s course to keep him from walking off into the flowers. Every time he got one of the knots, he’d burst out with bubbly excitement, drawing a smile from her. When his brother Strawberry had learned to fly, he’d been dedicated and intense like his father, but Apricot’s flavor of study was a mirror of her own. She recognized the delight of not simply discovery, but sharing what he was learning.

He seemed to have forgotten all about witnessing his parents’ argument. Cranberry had waited all day with dread for him to bring it up, but he’d only spoken about his magic lessons, and how proud he was to help with the mercenaries’ logistical efforts. Whenever he caught a falling barrel or helped one of the wagon wheels over a ditch in the rough road, he’d earn an appreciative mane ruffle from Kaduat, who seemed to already consider him part of the team.

Cranberry still wasn’t sure what to think of the camel. Kaduat was in many ways her opposite. She was a soldier, where Cranberry was a scholar; she seemed effortlessly relaxed at all times, while Cranberry felt more wound up by the day. Kaduat was a self-admitted alcoholic—in jest, though it was one of those jokes that painted a smile on the truth—whereas Cranberry had been stone cold sober for years. Frowning at the unwanted memory of her last sip of alcohol, Cranberry watched Kaduat strain at the yoke of the lead wagon, taking her turn pulling the cart as the afternoon wore on.

“A florin for your thoughts?” asked a friendly voice, and Cranberry smiled as she turned to see Beatriz walking beside her. “You’ve got that scrunched-up look again.”

“Just thinking about last night,” Cranberry temporized.

“Ah. I saw you and that young deer huddled over in the corner.” Beatriz laughed. “Academics. You can spy them launching into a lecture from a kilometer away.”

Embarrassed, Cranberry’s ears flattened. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Beatriz snickered. “Just a funny one. So, what were you two talking about?”

“At first he wanted to hear about bloodline writing. It’s an ancient elken technique,” she explained, pausing to nudge Apricot back on course. “A fairly obscure one, at that. The knowledge of making bloodlines has been lost for millennia. When I asked where he’d heard of it, he said that Locke had brought it up. Turns out the two of them were exchanging letters after he led the expedition into the forest.”

“Oh,” said Beatriz, lifting an eyebrow. “So you think Locke might have run into some of those, uh, bloodlines, then?”

“Exactly.” Cranberry pursed her lips. “So then Pwyll and I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out what was going on down there from the rest of Locke’s letters. It still isn’t very clear, but it paints a different picture than his official reports. Or at least, a more interesting one.”

Beatriz nodded curiously. Cranberry chewed her lip, recalling the conversation. “Pwyll said Locke seemed focused on magical storage. The word reservoir came up several times in their letters. Something about finding an inordinate amount of glass in the caverns. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Locke wrote.”

“Glass?” Beatriz blinked. “Well, they probably weren’t building windows underground…”

“Glass makes a good storage medium for magical energy,” said Cranberry. “If he found that much down there, then the elk must have been using it to store quite a lot of power.”

“For what?”

“If Locke was right about the towers back in Equestria, then it was a gateway network. It would take incredible amounts of energy to send travelers across the globe with magic. But it raises another question—where were they getting all that power from?” Cranberry frowned unhappily. “I’ve got a bad feeling that serious blood magic was involved. Especially if Locke found bloodlines.”

At that, Apricot’s ears perked up. For the first time all day, he emerged from his shell of concentration on the knotted cord. “Blood magic?”

Cranberry nodded, grimacing. “The modern elk despise their ancestors, and for good reason,” she said. “The Dominion was powered by blood magic, and lots of it.”

Apricot’s eyes widened. “But what is it?”

A new voice joined the conversation from behind them. “It’s power,” said Pollux, uncharacteristically stone-faced. Cranberry stepped to the side to let him walk forward between her and Apricot. There was no sign of his usual easy smile. “Spellsinging gave the elk unparalleled control of magic. Blood gave them the raw power to use it.”

His scowl deepened. “Every living creature has a connection to the song, especially those with horns. That connection runs in our blood… which means it can be tapped into. Stolen. In the moment blood is spilled, that creature’s link to the song is lain bare for anyone to touch, to steal, to burn as fuel for their own magic. It’s the ultimate act of selfishness.”

Apricot shivered. Grimly, Pollux looked down at his apprentice. “All you need to know about blood magic is to stay far away from it. Now,” his voice lightened again as he poked a hoof at the hovering little cord, “those knots won’t tie themselves. Back to it.”

Subdued, Apricot nodded, returning to his task. Pollux gave Cranberry and Beatriz a nod, before continuing ahead toward his brother at the front of the caravan.

Cranberry’s gaze lingered on him for a few worried moments, before she returned to Beatriz. “Something strange is going on,” she muttered. “With this whole expedition. With Locke. I think he was hiding something.”

Beatriz’s eyebrows knit together. “From who?” she asked, hushed.

“I don’t know, yet.”

Tybalt, said an eager voice in her head. Frowning, she suppressed it. She had no proof, yet.

Oh, but wouldn’t it be perfect? Vallen the villain, out to destroy your marriage, steal your husband, and kidnap your colleague. Then you could prove Inger wrong. Prove that you’re not just jealous.

Huffing, she shook her head. “Just keep an eye out for anything strange, Beatriz.”

“Hey, I told you,” said the antelope, winking, “call me Bea.”

Cranberry couldn’t help but smile in return. “All right, Bea. Thanks.”

* * *

Inger heard it before he saw it. At first, it sounded almost like running water, faint and constant in the distance. But a river wouldn’t shift with the breeze, nor grow louder as the wind rushed faster. The sound grew in a crescendo and then lulled to quiet, over and over, like a faint whisper at the edge of hearing. As the caravan climbed over a tall hill, the source was at last revealed by the evening sunlight.

The Elderwood spread out before the travelers. A line of white-trunked trees rose like a forbidding cliff against the ocean of flowers, stretching out to either side for kilometers to disappear over the horizon. A few oaks and hickories dotted the treeline, but the vast majority of the trees were quaking aspens. Huge ones, bigger than any in Equestria, some nearly thirty or forty meters tall. True to their name, they shivered in the wind, fresh green leaves quivering and creating the rushing sound that filled the air.

The leaves whispered on the wind, seemingly stealing the warmth from the air. Inger shivered in the chilly evening breeze. This place was old. He’d known that already, of course, from Cranberry’s descriptions, but now that he was actually seeing it for himself he could feel it deep in his stomach. Before they’d even set a hoof beneath the trees, Inger already felt like an unwelcome intruder.

Pwyll was the first to break the silence. “We’ll be heading in through there.” He pointed a hoof at a slight gap in the trees, off to their right. “Although it’s getting late. I don’t recommend we move through the forest at night.”

“Agreed,” said Castor. “Last thing we need is a wheel getting caught on a root in the dark.” Putting a hooftip in his mouth, he gave a sharp whistle that carried over the entire caravan. “Circle ‘em up, people! We’ll camp at the forest’s edge tonight and get an early start tomorrow morning.”

Kaduat barked orders in Dromedarian, and the caravan began descending the hill toward the treeline. Inger found his pace slowing, as if his hooves were unwilling to approach the aspens. He stepped aside, letting the carts pass as he surveyed the forest. The eerie, whispering leaves made the hair on his neck stand up. From the top of the hill, he could see for what seemed like kilometers over the treetops. There were no mountains in the distance to provide scale, or tall conifers poking through the canopy; just an infinite, verdant sea.

“Magnificent, isn’t it,” said Tybalt. Startled, Inger turned to see his father standing beside him, gazing out across the trees. Tybalt slowly nodded, scanning over the endless green. “This forest has been here longer than the princess herself, you know.”

Inger braced himself for more griping about Celestia, but the expected complaint never came. Tybalt glanced sideways at him, then cleared his throat hesitantly. “How are you feeling, Inger?”

“Uh?” He shifted uncomfortably. “Fine, why?”

“You’ve been very quiet ever since we left Faeloch.” Tybalt idly dipped a hoof through the flowers. It was merely an observation, but Inger heard the invitation in it: You can talk to me.

“I, um…” Inger took a deep breath. “It’s Cranberry.”

Tybalt did not press, waiting patiently for Inger to gather his thoughts. With another fortifying breath, Inger continued. “We… we had a fight.” Wincing, he amended, “Are having a fight.”

His father looked down to the forest’s edge, where the mercenaries had circled up the caravan carts, and were busy erecting the tents. Tybalt slowly nodded. “Over Apricot?”

“That’s how it started,” said Inger, shaking his head. “But then it turned into… something else. She… she doesn’t like you. She said that you’re—that I’m just a replacement heir for you.”

Tybalt jerked as if struck, before giving him a dismayed look. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Inger, with a forlorn glance. “I can’t stop thinking about what she said.”

“She’s wrong,” said Tybalt, firmly. “Whether you become my legal heir or not is up to you.”

Inger gave him a puzzled look.

“I had a scribe draft the official forms to claim you as my heir before we left Canterlot, but I haven’t filed them yet. I instructed the notary not to validate them without your verbal and written consent. The claim can’t go into effect unless you want it to.” Tybalt looked back out at the aspens. “Becoming Lord of the Rose Valley is no small thing. It would uproot your entire life. I saw what you have in Canterlot—the Firewings, your family. I would never ask that you leave that all behind to govern some place you’ve never even seen.”

Inger blinked, shocked at the thought. “Then why’d you do the paperwork?”

“I thought… if something were to happen on this trip, then I might not get another chance,” admitted Tybalt. “I wasn’t going to tell you about it until we returned to Equestria. But the choice is yours, Inger.”

“But you’re hoping I accept.”

“No,” said Tybalt, smiling. “You deserved to have the choice, that’s all. If you don’t want it, then my nephew Anderian becomes the new count. The Rose Valley will be fine.” He tilted his head. “Inger, I already have what I want. I didn’t spend all those years searching for an heir. I was searching for my son.”

“Oh,” whispered Inger. He rubbed his eyes, feeling a rush of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

“I’m sorry,” said Tybalt, his ears drooping. “I was so excited to meet you that I’ve been monopolizing you for weeks. I can see why Cranberry is upset with me. She needs you, too.”

“It’s… not only that.” Inger cringed. “She just lost her father. And I…”

“Found yours,” finished Tybalt, with dawning understanding.

Inger hung his head. “That’s what I said to her. I told her she was jealous.”

“Ah,” said Tybalt, wincing. “Some things are better left unsaid, you know.”

Gloomily, Inger flicked his tail. “I’ll fix it, somehow. We’ve had fights before. But… this is a bad one. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Apologizing is usually a good start.” His father spread a hoof around them. “We’ve got plenty of flowers…”

Inger managed a small chuckle. “No chocolate, though.”

Tybalt smiled, but his eyes were distant. “I envy you two, you know.”

Inger raised an eyebrow. Tybalt exhaled slowly. “My wife and I weren’t always at odds. We tried to make it work. We truly did.” Sadness creased his face. “But how could we build trust on such an unsound foundation? I’d thrown her aside for Meg in less than a year. I don’t know how much Eurydice knew, but it was enough. I could see it in her eyes, when she thought I wasn’t looking.” There was bitterness in his voice, directed inward.

Unsure what to say, Inger waited. Clearing his throat, Tybalt shifted on his hooves. “You and Cranberry, what you have… It’s worth protecting. Don’t let me come between you. Don’t wind up like me and Eurydice.”

“Did you hate her?” Inger asked, before he could stop himself.

“It would have been easier if I did.” Tybalt sighed wearily. “Sometimes, when her paranoia and her attempts to control me were too much to bear, I wanted to hurt her. Badly. To dig the knife deep, and twist it: to tell her all about Meg, and that little bed with the lavender-scented sheets. To tell her that all her fears had already come true.”

Inger fluffed his wings uncomfortably. He couldn’t imagine feeling that vicious.

“But despite it all…” Tybalt’s voice was a rasp. “I did love her, as much as I wished I didn’t. Our children were beautiful and bold, the best part of our lives. Some days, when things were good, we could both pretend so hard that it seemed real. And that’s why I never told her the full truth. In the end, I couldn’t bear to cause her that much pain.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath. “We can’t choose who we love. All we can do is show them.”

Inger nodded, standing straighter with sudden resolve. “I’m going to talk to Cranberry.” He glanced around at the sea of flowers, a smile tugging at his lips. “She likes peonies…”

Tybalt grinned, though it had a tired edge. “I’d help you pick some, but it seems the sort of thing you ought to do yourself.”

“Agreed.” Inger’s smile faded. “Did… did Eurydice forgive you, in the end?”

His father stared hollowly into the forest. The breeze shifted, flowing through his dark gray mane as the aspens whispered.

At last, he answered quietly. “I never asked her to.”

* * *

The campfire crackled beneath the stars as Virgil’s violin hummed warmly in the night. Cranberry listened, entranced, as she warmed her hooves by the flames. Circled around the fire with her were the few members of the expedition who hadn’t yet retired for the night. Pwyll sat to her right, and Kaduat to her left. Beatriz was at Virgil’s side, but seemed content to let him play alone tonight. The antelope smiled as she watched Virgil’s bow dart across the strings.

The lilting violin carried the melody on its own, the lively notes dancing with the fire. Cranberry recognized the tune, and knew there were lyrics, but Pollux was too busy to sing for them. The mage was deep in discussion with his brother, both of them standing near the camp’s edge, both gesturing occasionally into the nearby forest.

With a reverberating glissando, the violin melody dove into the chorus. Kaduat, sipping from her bottle, nodded along to the tune as she twirled her knife with her free foot. “Always liked this one,” she murmured, setting the bottle down.

“Me, too,” said Pwyll, leaning forward. He was watching Virgil with rapt attention. “You know what it’s called?” When Kaduat shrugged and shook her head, Pwyll continued, “Valendriolanera. It means Lady of the Flowers. Er…” He gave Cranberry a hesitant look, but his translation to Equestrian was correct. She nodded approvingly. Beaming, he looked back toward Virgil. “It’s about the Gardener Queen, Saesa.”

From her seat beside Virgil, Beatriz laughed. “Gardener Queen? That’s a strange sobriquet…”

Cranberry nearly spoke, but caught Pwyll giving her another hopeful look. Smiling, she gave him an outstretched hoof. Go on. All yours.

“She was one of the greatest rulers in elken history. One of the few Dominion monarchs we still tell stories about,” said Pwyll, his eyes lighting up with fervor. “A few centuries after the founding of the Dominion, a terrible civil war nearly destroyed the islands. For nearly forty years, the fighting raged on. Whole forests were set aflame, fields burned and cities razed. By the fourth decade of the war, all the major claimants for the throne had perished on the battlefield, and the whole empire feared that soon there would be total anarchy.”

He looked into the fire, scratching his velvety antlers with a hoof. “No one left by that point had enough forces at their command to seize the crown. Leaderless armies of mercenaries roamed the islands, demanding tribute from villages lest they be burned to the ground.”

“Many did the same in Dromedaria’s civil war.” Kaduat sipped her rum, staring into the forest. Her eyes hardened, and her voice lowered. “If Castor ever tells me to burn a village, he can get fucked.”

Cranberry winced at the language. But then, she recalled the sight of Canterlot aflame after the griffon siege, and felt a fierce urge to agree with the camel. She settled for a vehement nod as Virgil’s song came to a close.

“I’ll second that, Kaduat,” said the griffon soberly, as he took a small bow to scattered claps from the circle. He set the violin down in its case, closing the latches. “In Alastria, I saw two villages destroyed. I still dream about it, sometimes.”

Beatriz nuzzled him. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.

“It was my job to make the blackpowder bombs, Bea,” he said quietly. “That’s why I left. I promised myself I’d never watch another home burn.”

Looking a little subdued by the intrusion of grim reality into romantic history, Pwyll silently scratched his antlers. Cranberry reached out a hoof, gently tapping his shoulder. “Go ahead,” she encouraged, “tell us the rest of Saesa’s story.”

He nodded, and launched back into the tale. “Saesa was a common herbalist, living in a small village in the peat bogs on the isle of Talamh Bháite. It’s a nasty place,” Pwyll explained, “Full of mosquitoes and mud. One day, a group of brigands visited her town, looking for easy prey. But by the time they made it through the bog, they had lost most of their supplies, and many—including their leader, a former soldier named Talendrin—had fallen sick. They arrived in Saesa’s village on death’s door, with grumbling stomachs and weeping sores on their skin.

“Moved to pity by their pleas for help, Saesa took mercy on them. When she looked at these thugs and murderers, she saw only more victims of the war, and conceived a chance to break the cycle of violence. Instead of turning away or killing the weakened bandits, she offered them as much hospitality as her village could provide. The villagers shared their food, and Saesa tended the brigand leader’s illness with her precious herbal medicines. Against all odds, he recovered, and soon the bandits were well enough to leave. Talendrin, grateful to his savior, asked her what she wished in return.

“Saesa had only one request: that he and his troops travel with her, to unite the villages of her island; not with violence, but with the mercy and healing she had shown them. Talendrin, tired of the bandit’s life and ashamed of what he had been reduced to, took up her dream as his own, and Saesa’s first followers joined her. They traveled the length and breadth of Talamh Bháite, visiting towns ravaged by the war and helping them rebuild. They defended villages against roving marauders, always showing mercy to their defeated foes. Many of those former enemies joined the cause, eager to see an end to the bloodshed. Everywhere they went, Saesa planted gardens of herbs and lilacs. Soon, everyone knew that any village where the lilacs bloomed was under the protection of Saesa the Gardener.

“As word spread, more elk flocked to Saesa’s side. She began to wear a circle of woven lilacs upon her head—a crown not of gold, but flowers. In three short years, she united the entire island, reminding them of the pride the Dominion once instilled in their people. By this time, word had reached the other islands as well, and the smallfolk of all the isles were ready to rise up and join her, the Lady of the Flowers, the Lilac-Queen. The surviving nobility, seeing which way the wind was blowing, offered Saesa the throne.

“She accepted—on the condition that Talendrin took his place at her side as royal consort. The competing noble houses had caused the war, and she knew that selecting her husband from one of them would only further the conflict. Her rule was to be an end to the old order, and the start of a new peace.” Pwyll smiled. “And over the years, struggling together to bring the shattered elk back into harmony, she and Talendrin had fallen in love. She refused to be parted with him, no matter what the nobles wanted.

“The aristocrats were unhappy, but the war had left their resources exhausted, and they all agreed the fighting must end. And so, after forty years of war between the great families of the elk, the Dominion came to be ruled by an herbalist and a former brigand.” Pwyll sighed wistfully. “Saesa spent the rest of her reign healing the land. She seeded vast swathes of the islands with hardy tubers and wildflowers. Under her rule, the forests were protected and allowed to regrow.”

A gust rustled the aspens, drawing Cranberry’s eye back to the trees. Were any of these trees alive yet, back then? she wondered. Did Saesa walk the same paths as us? She always got a slight thrill from the thought that someone, thousands of years ago, had stood exactly where she was, seen the same sights and smelled the same spring breeze. It was like stepping back in time.

Pwyll continued, “They say the trees grew massive under Saesa’s care. There are tales of oaks a hundred meters tall, of whole cities built in the branches of a single tree. With her magic and kindness, she brought the world back to life. It was a golden age of peace and discovery.” His eyes creased with longing. “Of course, it’s all lost to time, now…”

Cranberry smiled. “Not all.”

“You’re right,” he said, perking back up. “That’s why you’ve come here, after all.” He nodded with enthusiasm. “Sometimes it seems like everyone in the Commonwealth wants to just forget about our ancestors. I know they did a lot of terrible things, but… there was good in them, too. I’m glad you and Professor Locke can see that.”

Kaduat snorted. “Sounds like she just had the biggest army, kiddo. All that healing talk is real easy to write down after you’ve won.”

“It’s possible,” Cranberry said, shrugging. “But,” she countered, “while we can’t know her motivations, Queen Saesa did save the Dominion. After forty years of carnage, she managed to restore the empire to stability in just four. It lasted for at least another six centuries after that.”

Grudgingly, Kaduat acknowledged the point with dip of her head and a raise of her bottle. “Fair enough. Not bad for a gardener.”

Beatriz stretched her forelegs and beamed at Pwyll. “Well, that was fun,” she yawned, “But I’m beat after all those hills. Come on, Virgil, let’s go to sleep.”

The two headed off for their tent, exchanging waves with Kaduat. The other mercenaries soon dispersed as well, and as Pwyll bid them good night, Cranberry found herself and Kaduat alone by the fire. “Not going to bed?” she asked the camel.

“I’ve got first watch duty while we’re in Elketh,” said Kaduat, winking. “Castor always puts me on it when we’re heading somewhere dangerous. Best to have someone who speaks Equestrian and Dromedarian on guard.” She forced the cork back into her bottle, setting it aside.

Cranberry scanned the dark trees. “Somewhere dangerous…” I hope we’re both wrong about that, she thought queasily. “Is he expecting trouble?”

“Nah.” Kaduat shrugged. “But it never hurts to be careful. Wouldn’t mind some company, if you’re going to be up late.”

“Maybe another night,” said Cranberry, standing up and dusting herself. “Beatriz was right, all those hills tired me out. Goodnight, Kaduat.”

The camel nodded, bidding her farewell with a wave of her foot. Cranberry threaded through the ranks of tents, searching for the one with a number eleven stitched on the sides. When she found it, she paused, suddenly apprehensive. Inger was standing outside, fiddling with something in his hooves.

Cranberry cleared her throat, alerting him to her presence. Inger jerked upright, hiding the thing in his hooves behind a half-spread wing. “Hey,” he said weakly.

The two met eyes and waited, as the silence quickly grew strained. Cranberry managed not to wince. Let’s get it over with, she thought, gearing up for an awkward conversation.

“Inger—”

“Cranberry—”

They stopped, blinking, and then laughed. Inger shook his head, sighing. “Me first?” She nodded. Inger fidgeted. “I, uh, made you this,” he said hopefully, offering up his mysterious item. Cranberry peered at it in the darkness, before her eyes widened. It was a small circle of pink flowers, woven together. “A flower crown,” he said, “just like the one Pwyll was talking about.”

“You were listening?” she asked, taking the little circlet of peonies with a disbelieving smile. “Why didn’t you come sit with us?”

“I… figured I should apologize in private.” He scratched a hoof awkwardly in the grass. “So, um…” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

She waited for the rest, trying to keep her face neutral. Inger rubbed the back of his neck. “When you said—I was just so angry that I… It doesn’t excuse it. What I said about your father… that wasn’t right. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” she said bluntly.

Wincing like she’d slapped him, he slowly nodded. “Yes… I did. But I shouldn’t have said it. I was angry, and…” He huffed. “You said I was a spare!”

Cranberry looked down at the circlet of flowers hanging from her hoof, and felt an ache. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

The aspens rustled in the night, as the breeze turned. The sudden gust of wind caught the ring of flowers, yanking them off of Cranberry’s hoof and into the air. She swiped frantically after them, but in an instant they were gone into the night. “Ah!” Clutching her hoof to her chest, she looked back at her husband. “Oh, Inger…”

Inger’s wings drooped, but he gave her a tired grin. “It’s all right. I can always make you another one.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, touching his cheek. She sighed. “Look. I won’t pretend I’m not still angry. But… I don’t want to keep fighting.”

“Me either.”

“So… let’s just go to sleep, okay? We can talk more tomorrow.” She softened, hugging him. “I still love you, you know.”

“I’ve never doubted it,” he said, a little too quickly. He nuzzled her.

They parted from the hug and headed into their tent, stepping carefully over Apricot, who was fast asleep at the foot of the entrance.

Though they had separate bedrolls, the distance between them felt smaller than it had in their shared bed last night. “Night, honey,” she whispered, reaching out a hoof to touch him.

“Night,” he murmured, resting his hoof on her own, before his breathing settled into a gentle rhythm.

Soldiers, she thought dryly. She’d always envied his and Windstreak’s ability to instantly fall asleep. Staring up at the angled roof of the tent, she closed her eyes and waited.

Outside, the leaves whispered in the night. As the wind gave voice to the trees, her half-awake brain searched for words in the white noise. Her ears twitched as inky darkness swallowed her up.

11. Leaves of the Elderwood

She hits the ground, hard. Fortunately, the back alley behind the bakery isn’t paved. As bad a cushion as the dirt makes, it’s better than cobblestones. Cranberry sits up, wincing and rubbing her shoulder. “Owww…”

“Are you okay?” A young colt comes running up, his stubby wings fluttering with worry. Rye’s mane is even messier than usual, thanks to his fight against the terrible Manticore of Mountua—which Cranberry nearly won, this time.

“I’m fine,” she says, grinning. “Manticores heal fast!” She shoots a glance up at the rooftop. “That’s higher than it looks…”

“I told you climbing to the roof wasn’t going to work.” Rye hops from hoof to hoof with nervous energy. “I always went out my bedroom window, until Mom nailed it shut.”

“Maybe if we climb that tree…”

A line of white-trunked trees stand tall around the bakery, shivering in the breeze. It’s dark beyond them, the rest of the city hidden from view as if by black fog. Cranberry sizes up the one nearest to the building, wondering if she could shimmy her way up to the branches. “Good thing manticores can fly!” she says, before charging toward it.

She doesn’t even make it to the lowest branch before her grip fails. Tumbling down into the dirt again, she whinnies—more frustration than pain. “Darn it!”

“Taking advantage of the manticore’s distracted attempts to escape, the Firewing pounces!” Rye tackles her, and their earlier tussle resumes.

Cranberry gives as good as she gets, landing a solid thwack to his chest and boxing his ears. Rolling in the dirt, the two struggle to pin the other. “Roaaaar!” she says, swiping imaginary claws across his face. Falling aside, Rye clutches his head, howling with enthusiastic pain.

“The manticore strikes for the kill!” Unfortunately, her tail isn’t three meters long, prehensile, and tipped with a venomous stinger. She makes do by twisting around and sweeping it down at him.

“For Equestria!” he suddenly shouts, rolling out from under her tail strike. Before she can react, his wings fling out and he leaps back at her. It catches her off-balance, and they crash back to the ground—with Rye solidly on top. Cranberry struggles to move, but he has her firmly pinned, this time. “Hiyaaa!” he yells, drawing back a hoof and then pounding the ground beside her head repeatedly.

Cranberry reacts to the blows, “Oof! Ah! Ow!” Her eyes roll up and her tongue lolls out. “Euuuugh…”

Sliding off her and sitting upright, Rye dusts his forehooves. “Once again, the Firewing is victorious!” He jumps up to his hooves, strutting in a circle around the slain manticore with his wings raised and his chest puffed out.

Rolling over onto her stomach, she props her chin up on her hooves. “And so, the Beast of the Bakery was slain,” she intones theatrically. For a moment, she can almost see him as a real Firewing; clad in shining golden armor, dust-covered and dinged up from the victorious battle. Something strange stirs in her at the thought.

“Canterlot is safe once again,” Rye says, saluting the distant Sun Castle, hidden in the dark somewhere beyond the trees.

“Now you can rescue the duchess it kidnapped,” says Cranberry, standing up.

“Oh, right!” He blinks. “The Firewing makes his way up into the beast’s lair…” glancing up at the roof, he pauses. “Uh… through the ground entrance.” His too-small wings give a subdued flap.

Cranberry flings herself at him, hugging him tight. “Oh, thank you, Captain Strudel! I knew you’d save me.” Falling back on her haunches, she clasps her forehooves beside her cheek.

“All in a day’s work, Lady Sugar,” he says, still puffed up.

Seized with a sudden impish inspiration, she bats her eyes. “The manticore cast a spell on me, brave captain. I can’t leave this place. But you can break the spell with a kiss.”

Rye jolts. “Er, what?”

“Come on, the hero always kisses the fair maiden.” She’s done enough illicit reading of her older sister’s romance novels to know that.

She hasn’t seen him this embarrassed since the time old Jensine caught them using her cane as a sword. “I’m, uh, not sure how exactly to…” he mumbles.

“Well, then! You’d better practice if you’re going to be a real Firewing.” She leans forward, puckering her lips and closing her eyes.

After a few moments without a sound, she cracks one eye back open. He’s standing right in front of her, his own eyes shut tight and his right forehoof quivering anxiously in the air.

Well, if he isn’t going to work up the courage, she’ll have to. Darting forward, Cranberry plants a clumsy kiss on his mouth, pressing his lips against her own. She feels him go very still. Closing her eyes again, she focuses on the strange new sensation of another pony’s lips.

All around, the leaves of the white trees shift eagerly.

This isn’t so bad. She kind of likes it, actually. Maybe this is why the adults are always doing it in Inkpot’s books. Sometimes there’s more that comes after the kissing parts, but she never understands any of it, and she knows asking Inkpot to explain will only get her a scolding for reading them in the first place. Still, this is nice…

Rye breaks away, making a pfft sound over and over as he scrubs his tongue. “Blech!”

She giggles. “Thanks, Captain Strudel.”

“That was weird.” He glances at her, nervously. “Well, did it work?”

“Yes. I’m free!” She prances past him, her tail swishing happily. “And I’m starving. You think Papa’s making macaroni again tonight?”

“Nahhh.” Relaxing, he follows her at a trot. “We just had that last week. Dad never cooks the same thing twice in a fortnight.”

As they reach the front door of the bakery, she pushes it open. The bell dings above, as she grins over her shoulder at Rye. “Then I bet you dinner’s going to be—”

There’s a dull clink of heavy glass, like a bottle bumping against something metal. Suddenly she feels a cold breeze from inside the building, and the whispering leaves of the trees hiss and shudder.

“That’s a good vintage,” says Rye.

The ground falls away, taking the bakery with it. She stands in the circle of pale trees, her hooves resting on a black void. “This is good,” her own voice says, from somewhere in the treetops.

“I’m not going to have to carry you down the mountain, am I?”

* * *

Cranberry’s eyes opened.

Sweat clung to her, plastering her mane against her neck. Her heart pounded in her chest like she’d just run a marathon. Outside the tent, she could hear the wind brushing through the leaves. The pale light of early dawn filtered through the tent, still so faint that she doubted the sun had yet risen above the horizon.

Sitting upright, she found herself out of breath, pressing a hoof to her chest. A quick look to her side assured her that Inger was still fast asleep, though he was stirring fitfully. He mumbled something, though the only word Cranberry caught was dogs. She was still too frazzled to attempt to parse it.

What in the hell had that been? She stared at the fabric flap covering the exit as her racing heart began to steady. The tent felt suffocatingly small. Grabbing her journal, she stepped over Apricot and pushed her way out into the daylight.

The morning air was filled with the scent of flowers, the sky a faint blue as the world began to wake. Cold dew painted her hooves as she tread through the grass toward the fire, which had guttered out sometime during the night. A camel, one of Kaduat’s people, was sitting on watch beside the ashes. She gave Cranberry a mute nod before returning to watch the forest. Taking a seat across the remains of the campfire, Cranberry began to scratch new letters on her journal’s pages with a trembling grip on her pen.

We’ve reached the Elderwood at last. It’s not a welcoming place. The air is filled with this foreboding chill, and the noise of the aspen leaves is ceaseless. My first night beneath the trees was filled by a dream of a silly childhood game. A real one I once played. It was more vivid than my own memory, though strange—there have never been trees near the bakery. Yet the other details…

Her pen paused. Those details burned in her brain like flaming arrows. The soreness from losing that wrestling match, the warmth in her belly at the thought of a proud Firewing rescuing her, the feeling of Rye’s lips on her own in her first childish kiss—she shivered, and continued writing. For some reason, she felt compelled to put the entire dream down on the page, while it was still fresh in her mind. Just a stupid dream, she thought, as words filled the page. Just kids playing around.

Of course, there was that other memory, the one that had begun to bubble up at the dream’s end… Was that what had woken her?

“Morning,” yawned someone from behind her.

Inger? she wondered, pulling the journal up against her chest and turning her head. But it wasn’t her husband; it was Virgil. The griffon rubbed his eyes and nodded to her. Cranberry gave him a single nod in return. “Good morning.”

“Bea’s getting breakfast ready,” he said, yawning again and gesturing toward the carts, where Cranberry spied Beatriz gathering supplies. “Sleep well?”

“Just fine,” she said, closing the journal with the pen inside. “You?”

Virgil peered blearily into the forest, blinking at the sea of green leaves. “Just fine,” he echoed.

* * *

Inger swatted aside a twig, stepping carefully around the tangled roots to his right. “Watch out for those,” he warned Kaduat, who was pulling a cart a little ways behind him.

“Mm,” she grunted, steering wide around them.

So far, the Elderwood was nothing like Inger’s last venture into an elken forest. Rather than a dense, dark blanket of silence, the aspen wood was open and filled with sound. The ever-shifting canopy of leaves let in the sun along with their whispering, letting dappled light play across the shadowed ground. Birds chirped among the treetops, building springtime nests. It was peaceful, bucolic even, but Inger couldn’t settle the queasiness in his stomach. Just Beatriz’s oatmeal, he assured himself, stepping around another root. I never did like heavy breakfasts.

It had taken longer than usual for the expedition’s tents to be packed and the carts to start moving again. The cause of the delay could have been breakfast, or the early start—everyone looked as tired as Inger felt—but the other culprit was Zaeneas’s alchemical brew. Inger glanced up ahead at the zebra, who was pulling her own tiny cart. It was a strange-looking contraption, with an inverted v-shaped roof and a chimney-esque little vent on the top. Steam trickled out gently as the wheels trundled on.

Last night, Inger had caught a glimpse of the cauldron inside, and the strange iron wire-work that held it. Rows and rows of vials and pouches covered the sides, filled with ingredients as common as dandelions and as rare as powdered gemstone. The cauldron had bubbled all night above a small coalpile the alchemist had built at the edge of camp. It had taken a good twenty minutes this morning after eating for Zaeneas to load it properly into her cart without spilling anything. Now, hours later, the vent was still leaking steam.

Elyrium, Inger thought. Let’s hope we don’t need it.

“So?” Tybalt’s voice drew his attention back. Somehow, he’d snuck up on Inger while he was lost in thought. “How’d it go?”

Inger cocked his head. “Huh?”

“You know,” Tybalt said, hushed. He glanced around, apparently determining that Kaduat was too far behind them to overhear. “The apology.”

“Oh.” Inger frowned unhappily. “I’m not sure. Last night, she said she wanted to stop fighting, but she was still angry. And this morning, when I tried to talk to her, she seemed jumpy. When Apricot asked if any of those books she brought had anything about spellsinging in them, she took off like a lightning bolt for the cart with our things to find one for him. We haven’t had a chance to speak since then.”

Glumly, he drifted to the side of the path, looking around Kaduat’s cart to see if Cranberry was alone yet. No such luck, however; she was still deep in some conversation about elken relics with Pwyll. Apricot was nearby, still wrapped up in his exercises with the knotted string. “I think she’s avoiding me.”

“… Ah.” Tybalt frowned in sympathy. “Maybe she just needs time.”

“I don’t know. I could be imagining things. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Inger yawned.

“Bad dreams?”

“Mm.” Fluffing his wings, Inger’s lips tightened. “About Mother.”

Tybalt started at the word. “Meg…?”

“Yes. An old memory I’d nearly forgotten about,” said Inger, shaking his head, “We were at this house, this huge mansion on the edge of the noble districts in Canterlot. We’d gone there to steal food from the refuse piles behind the kitchen. But just as we found some half-eaten fresh bread, they set the dogs out. Mother and I ran from them through the trees, on and on…” He shivered.

Pale beneath his onyx coat, Tybalt swallowed. “I wasn’t sure whether you were exaggerating, before. The two of you really had to scavenge in the garbage?”

“Sometimes,” said Inger, flatly.

“Sisters,” muttered his father, looking sick. “Inger, I’m—”

“You didn’t know,” he interjected, cutting Tybalt off. “Forget about it.”

“I should have known,” said Tybalt. “You’ve a right to be angry with me.” He sounded almost pleading, as if he wanted to be punished.

I’m not your judge, or your redemption. Inger restrained a sudden snarl. “Of course I—” he paused, and took a deep breath. “Look. Neither of us can change what happened. And feeling guilty or angry about it isn’t going to help.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s just keep our eyes facing forward, all right?” Softening, he looked ahead. “The past is past, but the future’s what we make of it.”

“Yes…” Tybalt slowly nodded. “A wise philosophy. Thank you.”

They walked together without words for a minute or two, before Tybalt cleared his throat. “I had a strange dream, myself. Of Eurydice. I haven’t dreamed about her in years…” For a moment, his eyes were haunted. “Serves me right for bringing her up last night.”

“Good dream, or bad?”

“It was rarely that simple with her,” muttered Tybalt. “I was dreaming about the time I returned to Canterlot with her, and learned that Meg had disappeared from the castle. Grief and fear were whirling around inside me the entire trip, but I couldn’t let Eurydice see any of it. The secrets were like burning coals in my chest. The simplest questions from her would give me anxiety attacks. She kept asking why I was so jumpy. It was a hellish week.” Shaking his head, he exhaled. “Bad,” he said, changing his mind. “Definitely a bad dream.”

“Hey!” barked Kaduat from behind, jolting both stallions. She rolled her right shoulder, hefting the harness she was pulling the cart with. “Either pick up the pace or move to the back, boys. You’re slowing down the whole line.”

Inger and Tybalt shared a rueful look. “Sorry,” said Inger, as they quickened their gait to a vigorous trot. The conversation ended there, leaving the two to trod in companionable quiet beneath the green-gilded white trees.

* * *

Lunch was called later than Cranberry’s growling stomach would have liked. Yet, once the rations of bread and cheese had been passed out, she found herself immediately wishing they could get moving again. Sitting still beneath the ceaselessly rustling aspens was making it hard to keep her mind off last night and the things now written in her journal. Mindlessly chewing her meal, she stared at a nearby tree, one of the few they’d passed with a dark trunk. A maple, she thought, if she remembered the leaf shape correctly. It seemed foreign in the endless ranks of aspens.

“Ah—listen!” Beside her, Beatriz craned her ears forward, and Cranberry followed suit, grateful for the distraction. She heard a new trilling in the distance, beneath the ceaseless rustling of the leaves.

Fee bee-ee! Fee bee-ee!

One of the maple branches above burst into a flurry of motion as two chickadees took off, fluttering around each other in a whirlwind of feathers. Cranberry watched, instantly delighted. “You think they have a nest nearby?”

“Not yet; spring’s just begun. They’re probably building one right now.” Beatriz beamed as a blue jay skree’d somewhere in the distance. “Back when I lived in Antellucía, I used to go out into the woods every morning to listen to the songbirds. I don’t often get the chance anymore. We’re always on the road, and there’s not much work for mercenaries in forests.”

“Is that why you took up the flute?” Cranberry’s eyes followed an orange-and-black streak as a blackbird raced through the canopy overhead.

Beatriz laughed. “No, that I picked up from my aunt.” She tossed a scrap of bread away from the campsite into the treeline around the meadow. Less than a second passed before a bright yellow blur swept past and snatched the food. “Warblers! My favorites. This forest is gorgeous.”

“It’s not what I was expecting,” Cranberry admitted. “It’s very… open.”

Virgil grunted an affirmation as he tore into his small loaf. “Smooth path, too,” he mumbled around the food. “The carts are doing better than I expected.”

“Don’t talk with your beak full,” said Beatriz, giving him a gentle swat. “I forgot to pack the lid back on the water barrel. Could you go hammer it a few times for me?”

“Sure,” he said, through another bite of bread. He hopped up and headed for the nearest supply cart.

The domestic display sent a twang through Cranberry. She glanced over her shoulder to where Inger and Castor were trading war stories again. Before he could notice her, she quickly looked back to the maple. She still couldn’t figure out what to say to him.

What is there to say? You had a bad dream. Not even worth mentioning.

Running a hoof through her mane, she asked Beatriz, “How’d you and Virgil end up together, anyway?”

“Ah…” said Beatriz, turning melancholy. “After Simone died, I was… I was a wreck, to put it plainly. Not eating. Barely speaking to anyone. I just threw myself into the work, hammering plates of armor and serving plates of food.” She smiled weakly at her own wordplay. “No one else in the company knew what to say. They all avoided me, whether out of respect or fear that my dark cloud would hover over them as well. Except for Virgil.”

She fiddled with her hooves. “He knew I played the flute sometimes. He told me that he was a musician, too. Showed me the old violin he’d brought from Grypha, that he hadn’t touched in years. I’d never seen him use it. But he asked if I wanted to practice with him, do something… fun for a change.” Her voice caught. “At the time I thought he just wanted me to stop moping around. Later, I realized… his music makes him so happy that he was hoping some of that would catch.”

Cranberry remembered the long black nights just after Papa’s passing, and the way Inger had quietly tucked a book on her nightstand each evening. An offered distraction, something he knew would pull her out of her own head for a time.

Beatriz smiled, running a hoof up across a white twig. “I didn’t even play my flute at first. He didn’t say anything about that, but he was more than willing to play for me. Aurelian’s Sixth Concerto is his favorite piece.”

“It’s a good one.”

“One day, I guess I just couldn’t stay silent any longer. I grabbed my flute case and popped it open while he was rosining his bow. I still didn’t say anything, but we played a few songs together. Gods, I was terrible. Horribly out of practice.” Beatriz snickered. “But it became a weekly activity. Then a daily one. Eventually we were confident enough to play for the others, and we learned about Pollux’s impressive lungs. He started to join our little shows.”

Cranberry nodded, with a faint smile. “That’s very sweet.”

“After playing for the night, while we were packing up our instruments, I found that I could talk to Virgil. About things I otherwise couldn’t say. About Simone.” Beatriz took a deep breath, but forged on. “It got easier. And one day, I wanted to thank him for being so patient, and understanding, and I…”

The antelope’s cheeks tinged with pink. “Well. One thing led to another.”

Cranberry wished she’d used a different phrase. “I’m happy for you.”

“Hmm. Is everything all right?” Beatriz glanced up as another pair of birds darted overhead. “You seem distracted today.”

“Just… a lot on my mind.”

“Okay.” Beatriz shrugged amiably. “By the way, keep an eye out for woodpeckers! I heard one earlier today, but I didn’t catch a glimpse of him. I haven’t seen a woodpecker since living in Antellucía.”

“I’ll let you know if I spot one.” This time, the smile was genuine. “And thanks for the company.”

A shrill whistle carried over the caravan. “All right, people, wrap it up!” shouted Castor. “We’re moving off in five minutes.”

Scarfing down the last of her bread, Beatriz leaped up. “That’s it for lunch, then. I’m going to check on that barrel before we head out.” And then, she was gone.

Cranberry chewed her own meal, barely tasting it. Kaduat passed her, looking refreshed from the break. The camel reached the cart she’d been hauling, checking the hitch for loose nails or frayed straps. Once satisfied with the harness’s condition, Cranberry watched her slide up to the front of the cart and reach inside. She lifted out the bottle she’d stashed in the front corner and took a surreptitious sip.

Words echoed under the whispering leaves, swirling into Cranberry’s ears. That’s a good vintage.

She finished her bread with trembling hooves.

13. Words of Warding

At first, Apricot had thought Pollux’s latest lesson would be the easiest yet. After showing his teacher the pristine knots he’d tied, Apricot had expected some new challenge of even greater precision, or maybe even some battlemagic. It had been hard to hide his disappointment when Pollux had assigned his apprentice his next task: Listen to the song of the forest. When you can hum it back to me, we’ll move on.

Sighing, Apricot had restrained his questions. He knew Pollux wouldn’t budge—no matter how trivial the task seemed, he’d learned it was futile to ask his mentor to skip to the good stuff. He resigned himself to a day spent listening to birds and rustling leaves. Opening himself to the magic, he searched for the rhythm of the song. It came quickly now, that steady beating; no longer the lapping of waves on the bank but the pounding of a deep drum, the heartbeat of magic itself.

Since entering the Elderwood, the music had been getting harder and harder to follow. It wasn’t hard to find, but staying with the steady rhythm he’d learned on the ship was difficult when it was drowned out by a cacophony of random sounds. Little notes of magical energy intruded constantly, disrupting the flow. And now Pollux wanted him to make a song out of this mess.

It was hopeless. He’d hear a melody, a trilling series of notes, and focus on it. But each time, the music swiftly dissipated back into the swirling noise. Another, separate set of sounds would soon draw his attention, only to suffer the same extinguishing. No matter how intently he focused on any of the fragments, it vanished before he could even grasp the rhythm. After ten minutes without discerning so much as a unified time signature, Apricot huffed in dismay. As far as he could tell, there was no song of the forest. More like a thousand songs, all playing over each other. It was about as useless as singing with a tuning orchestra.

It had to be another trick question. Apricot had learned to recognize the little pleased flash in Pollux’s red eyes whenever he correctly guessed one of those. Exasperated after half an hour of craning his ears for birdsong and snapping twigs, he offered this suggestion to Pollux. All he got in return was a frown, a shake of his teacher’s head, and an admonition to “keep listening.”

Glumly, he returned to his fruitless endeavor, trudging along after Kaduat’s cart and trying to hear the sounds of the forest over rattling wheels and clacking barrels. Every lesson Pollux gave him seemed to have some hidden complexity beneath the seemingly simple task. It couldn’t be pointless—it never was—but the exercise was more frustrating than any he’d been given so far. Apricot was so preoccupied with listening that he didn’t realize when the cart ahead of him stopped.

Thunk. “Ow!”

Rubbing his nose, he looked around. They’d come to a halt in a large glade. Though the trees surrounding them were largely aspens, a few huge oaks and maples towered over their neighbors. Thick foliage dotted the perimeter of the glade, leaving it hushed and secluded. Above, a rare clearing in the tree canopy revealed the clear azure sky. Apricot could still see the sun high above the trees. Were they stopping to camp already? Lunch had only been a few hours ago…

Apricot leaned left around the cart and peered toward the front. The entire caravan had halted. Trotting curiously forward, he paused at the front of the cart beside Kaduat, who had been driving it all day. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know, kiddo. Can’t tell from back here.” She craned her head, but the cart hitch didn’t give her a lot of freedom to move. With a huff, she rolled her shoulder beneath the wooden yoke. “Maybe one of the lead carts threw a wheel.” She raised an eyebrow and gave him a crooked smile. “Mind scouting it out for me?”

“Sure! I can do that.” Apricot set off briskly toward the head of the line, strutting with purpose. He loved it when the mercenaries asked him to help. Whenever Kaduat or Beatriz gave him some small task, he felt like an actual member of the expedition, instead of a load. If only his parents saw him that way…

When he reached the front of the caravan, the problem became instantly clear. The path led to a gap in the foliage at the northern end of the glade, where the line of carts ended. Yet in that gap, lying across the path, dozens of trees lay felled as if a giant had pushed them over. They were piled atop one another like a sloppy beaver dam, their branches tangled messily. Many of the trunks were blackened and split. Standing before the pile of lumber were Pwyll and the pegasi brothers. The three stood circled around the nearest fallen tree, eying up the pile.

“Lightning strikes,” grumbled Castor, tapping the wood. “What a mess. Strange that it only hit the trees beside the hoofpath, though…” He looked uneasily around the otherwise-pristine glade.

“Not so strange,” said Pwyll. “I told you, the forest doesn’t like visitors.” He surveyed the fallen trees, rubbing his chin. “This wasn’t here last time I passed through.”

“We could just climb over it, were it not for the carts,” sighed Castor. “This’ll take hours to hack through.”

“Can’t we just go around?” asked Pollux.

“Not unless you want to get cut to pieces by those brambles,” said Pwyll, gesturing to the thick foliage. “And on the east side, the river curves south. It’s too deep to get across until we reach the ford about a kilometer north of here.” He nodded at the blockage.

Castor lifted an eyebrow at his brother. “I don’t suppose you can lift these clear.”

Apricot sprang forward. “Let me help?”

Pollux chuckled as the other two turned in surprise. “I’d welcome the aid, but I don’t think it would be that easy.” He looked around at the collapsed aspens, some of which were nearly as thick around as a pony. With a low whistle, he pointed a hoof at the nearest tree. It hadn’t broken so much as toppled, its roots ripping halfway out of the ground like a twisted earthen spider.

Pollux frowned. “See that? They’ve fallen over, but some of them are still rooted. Even together I doubt the two of us can rip a dozen whole trees out of the ground. That’s a quick way to overload your horn.”

Wincing at the memory of sharp pain and blinding light, Apricot gave a subdued nod. “What about cutting through?”

“We’d need a lot of energy to cut through with magic alone, and with just two of us it would be slow going,” said Pollux, glancing back at his brother. “I think this calls for a more mundane solution.”

Castor lifted an eyebrow, evaluating the barrier. “Agreed. We brought a few timber saws in case we needed to put up a base camp. And I suppose we could use the wood later.” He exhaled apprehensively. “It’s going to take a while, though.”

“We’d best start immediately, then,” said Pollux. “Count Vallen is already displeased by the delays.”

“Did he say something to you?”

“He doesn’t have to. Every time we tell him about a setback, those eyes of his could cut stone.”

“Let me worry about our employer,” said Castor, waving this aside with a hoof. “I’ll get Kaduat and the boys on the saws. Perhaps we ought to set up camp for the evening…”

Pwyll scratched the trail with his hoof. “Better not. I’ve got a bad feeling about this place. Makes my antlers itch. We shouldn’t camp till we pass the river ford. It’s quieter on the other side.”

“There’s not a quiet place in this whole damned forest,” muttered Castor, as the wind set the aspen leaves whispering again. To Pwyll, he shook his head. “We’ll see. Depends on how fast we can get through the blockage.” With that, he strode off in Kaduat’s direction.

“Fast, I hope,” murmured Pwyll, rubbing his antlers.

“Don’t worry. Our people work quickly.” Pollux watched his brother depart, before turning back to Apricot. “And how’s your lesson going?”

“Still nothing,” admitted Apricot, not meeting his eyes. “I’m trying, really. But I can’t focus on a single stream of magic. It’s like a thousand instruments playing over each other.”

“Hmm. Keep at it.” Pollux ruffled his messy curls. “I think you’re close.” He passed by, following Castor toward the carts.

Apricot sat down beside the tangled pile of fallen aspens, sighing. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and craned his ears.

“What are you listening for?”

Opening his eyes, Apricot blinked, realizing that Pwyll was still standing beside him. The young deer’s head tilted curiously. Apricot shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “The song of the forest… whatever that is.”

“Oh.” Pwyll sat beside him. He looked around, scanning the treetops with a look of meditative serenity. “You can’t hear it?”

“No!” Apricot nearly groaned. “I mean, I can hear lots of things. But it’s just… noise.”

The breeze shifted abruptly, the leaves hissing around them. Pwyll took a slow, deep breath. “The magic here is very strong… I’m not surprised you find it overwhelming.”

“Could you… hum the song for me?” Apricot asked, as casually as he could manage.

Pwyll tapped his lips, raising an eyebrow. “Would Pollux approve?” he asked, neutrally.

With a guilty shrug, Apricot sighed. “No.” He kicked a pebble.

“I know something that might help, though.”

Apricot looked back up. “Yeah?” He blinked. “Uh, I mean—yes, please.”

“There’s a story every young buck learns when his first antlers grow in,” said Pwyll, shifting to get more comfortable. “Lady Ciaran told it to me when I was a child.”

Apricot looked at him dubiously. “Okay…” He scratched a fetlock, not sure how this would help.

“Long, long ago, even before the war between the gods and the dragons, the world was different. Mortal species had yet to discover magic. Weather moved without intervention, the sun and stars rotated in the heavens of their own accord, and the seasons came and went with a will of their own. It was a time when spirits and fae roamed the earth with mortals and immortals alike. It’s said that sometimes animals could speak, and even the trees had voices.” Pwyll’s eyes glinted as he glanced around at the whispering woods. “The old forests teemed with friendly breezies and fearsome dryads. At night, the dreaded dúlachán roamed beneath the trees.”

“Doo… doolahan?”

“A headless elk who never ceases his hunt for souls. If he catches you, he’ll cut off your own head and add it to the bag he carries at his flank.” Pwyll grinned. “Don’t worry. No one’s ever seen a real one… at least, no one who’s lived to tell about it.”

Apricot giggled, though his eyes flicked nervously around the trees for a moment. Strawberry would like that one. His brother had a penchant for collecting monster stories.

Pwyll cleared his throat and continued. “In a village by the forest, there lived a young elk named Dáire. Each morning, his parents sent him out to the forest’s edge to find mushrooms, but before he left their house, they always delivered a stern warning: don’t stray beneath the trees. It was a warning he always heeded.”

Apricot sensed a but coming. “Until…?”

“One day, as he foraged along the edge of the treeline, he found a perfect circle of mushrooms standing in the grass. ‘Strange,’ he thought, but they were the best mushrooms he had ever seen—plump and savory-looking, sure to make a fine addition to his family’s pantry. As he picked the first cap, a tiny voice cried out indignantly: ‘Hold, thief!’

“The buck turned to see a hare standing on its hind legs, staring at him with beady black eyes. At first, he looked around for the voice’s source, but then it spoke again, and he realized it was the hare itself: ‘How dare you rob my home? Release what you’ve stolen!’

“Dáire dropped the mushroom at once, astonished by the talking creature. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘for I did not know this place was your home.’

“‘That’s no excuse for thievery,’ said the hare, though its anger seemed to have calmed. ‘And one ill turn deserves another. But I can see that you are hungry, and so I forgive you.’ It hopped up to Dáire, tilting its head. ‘If you like, I can show you where other mushrooms grow. Larger and more delicious than mine. I often go there myself to pick a cap or two.’

“Still amazed by the talking rabbit, the buck spared a look at his foraging bag. It was almost empty, and the sun had already crossed its highest point. ‘Thank you for your generosity,’ he said, bowing to the hare. ‘Lead on.’

“‘As you wish,’ said the hare. ‘Now stay close!’ With that, the hare leaped off into the trees. The buck hesitated for only a moment—though he remembered his parents’ warning, he was so curious about the talking rabbit that he could not bear to turn back now. Following the hare, he went deeper and deeper into the forest. Through trees and bushes, over creeks and up hills, the two pushed on into the dense greenery.

“For hours, they went on. The sunlight dimmed, and it grew harder and harder to see the hare ahead of him. The buck stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and when he looked up his guide had vanished. ‘Hello?’ he called, feeling fear rise in his throat. ‘Friend hare, where have you gone?’

“‘I must leave you, now!’ came the mocking reply, coming from the trees all around him. ‘We have reached the center of the forest, and only thieves and villains belong here.’

“‘And what of liars?!’ cried Dáire, panicking. ‘You have betrayed me!’

“‘I did not lie—after you starve, or are eaten by wolves, your remains will blossom with delicious mushrooms, just as I promised. When I return to pluck them, their taste will be all the sweeter for knowing their source. Farewell, thief!’ And with that, the hare disappeared, leaving the poor buck to his fate.

“The young elk wandered for hours, desperately seeking an escape from the forest, but the sun had set and he was hopelessly lost in the dark. He wept bitterly, cursing his foolishness. After much fruitless walking in circles, he came to a clearing with a small pool of water beside a mighty maple tree. Gazing down at his reflection, he bemoaned his terrible misfortune. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘here I will die, and my family will know naught of my fate. A pox upon that hare and his evil ways!’

“Just then, he heard a loud, long howl in the woods beyond the little glade. Another joined it, and another, until the whole night was alive with the cry of the hunt. A healthy young elk could feed a pack of wolves for a week or more; he knew they would not let such a prize escape them. Quickly, he scrambled up the maple tree’s branches, praying that the beasts had not noticed him.

“He was not so lucky. Slowly, dark shapes crept out of the trees around the clearing. One, two, five, eight… the wolves prowled closer, tails swaying with anticipation as they circled the pool and the lonely maple tree. Dáire watched from his precarious perch in the tree, wiping cold sweat from his neck. ‘Come down,’ said a soft voice from within the pack. ‘Come down and join us for dinner. We must show hospitality to the forest’s guests.’ The whole pack rumbled with laughter.

“Having learned his lesson about trusting talking animals, Dáire stayed put in the tree. One of the wolves leaped up, trying to reach him, but he was too high. Another scrabbled at the tree trunk, but its claws could find no purchase on the sap-streaked bark. He was safe… for now. But the wolves were patient. They curled their tails around their legs and sat in a circle, staring up at him with deadly calm.

“Dáire did not sleep that night. When morning came, he hoped the wolves would leave, but not a one of them so much as twitched. As the sun rose into the sky, his growling stomach told him that he could not stay in the tree forever. He remained as still on his branch as he could manage, hoping against hope that the wolves would give up any minute.

“At the end of a nearby maple branch, a pair of goldfinches were building a nest. With nothing else to do, he passed the hours watching them. One frequently took flight, passing into the woods to gather twigs, soon returning to deposit them into the growing mass of sticks. The other stood watch, chirping at things Dáire could not see. When the sun set at last, he spent another night watching their feathers rise and fall as they rested.

“As the dangerous days and sleepless nights passed, he spied more creatures of the forest. A squirrel had used the tree to store its acorns through the winter, and was still nibbling on the last of the hoard. The pitter-patter of his tiny feet on the bark quickly grew familiar. The hours glided by, and the wolves and the elk waited. A tiny beetle crawled across the nearest leaf. Dáire watched it, listening to the buzz of its wings, wishing that he too could fly away.

“His growling stomach became his constant companion. Soon he resorted to scavenging nuts from the squirrel’s hoard, worrying away at acorns with his bare teeth. Dáire began to clack his tongue along with the rattling of a woodpecker. He hummed with the chirping of the nesting finches, buzzed with the beetles, and chattered back at the furious squirrel when it emerged from its hole to gather more food.

“Every midnight, the moon glittered high overhead, and all the wolves lifted their heads to howl. One night, Dáire, half-mad with exhaustion, felt a sudden urge to join their chorus. He raised his chin and let out a howl of his own, binding his own voice to their music. Together, they crooned in the night, a dozen voices wending through the trees.

“And for the first time in his life, Dáire felt truly free: the freedom of nature, of feral ferocity and primal purity, a mind free of concerns beyond the present. He howled and howled, letting go his self, slipping into the stream of life all around. There was the forest, and the thriving creatures within it, and nothing else mattered.

“Dáire leaped down from the tree, and the wolves’ howling ceased. They stood, staring intently at him. And Dáire looked into the pool once more, and saw no antlers, no elk, but the sharp fangs and yellow eyes of a proud wolf. He lifted his head once again and howled, howled with the passion of a hunter. The others threw their heads back and joined him, all raising their voices together.

“Blood pumping, they raced in circles around the clearing, howling and barking with each other. The pack broke suddenly, bursting off into the foliage with Dáire running in their midst. Under branch and over bramble they ran, following the scents of prey on the wind. When they caught a hare, the wolves sank their fangs into it, and Dáire tasted bloody victory. Time blurred together, as the moon waxed and waned and waxed again, and Dáire hunted with the pack.

“He did not know how much time had passed with the wolves, but one night he smelled the familiar old scent of elk. Chasing this new prey, he led the pack all the way to the edge of the trees, where the wolves came to a halt. ‘Stop!’ they warned him, ‘for the land beyond belongs to the hoofed ones! They will kill us if we leave these woods.’

“But Dáire could not stop. He bounded forward, leaving the trees, following the irresistible scent. His family howled behind him, but they dared not follow. Heedless of any danger, Dáire rushed onward, spying distant lights in the darkness. Candles, he remembered faintly, from another lifetime. As he ran, the smell of the ocean reached his senses, and he was thrust back in time.

“He approached the small seaside town where he had once lived. The buildings were all familiar, as were the elk walking the road and the fields. He smelled the sweat of a hard day’s labor, the baking of bread, and the fresh decay of fish. Most of all, he smelled home.

“Stumbling into the town square, he heard gasps of surprise and horror. Dáire felt weak and woozy, making his way unsteadily to the fountain at the center of the village. Looking into its waters, he saw a beleaguered elk staring back up at him, his fur matted and his chin covered with dried blood.

“Though the villagers were terrified, some recognized him. When his parents were brought to him, they embraced their son, who had been missing for months and thought dead. They bathed him, dressed him, fed him. Returned him to civilization, with all its trappings.

“For months, Dáire tried to return to his old life. Yet it seemed a pale and pallid thing now that he’d known the freedom of the forest. What joy could there be in tilling the earth, when he had felt the wind rushing against his face on the hunt? What cleanliness could be found in a still, brackish bath, when he had felt the cold purity of a running stream? What pleasure was there in the taste of bread, when he had sunk his fangs into the beating heart of his prey?

“One day, his parents entered his room only to find that Dáire had vanished. All he had left were words, carved into the walls of his room with sharp claws: ANY WHO SEEK TO LEARN THE SONG OF THE FOREST, FOLLOW ME AND LEAVE YOURSELF BEHIND.

Pwyll fell quiet, smiling faintly up at the swaying trees. “There are always some who cannot be sated by the comforts of civilization. Those who felt the call of the wild followed his message, vanishing into the forest. There, Dáire taught them how to change their skin. And eventually, some of them returned, bringing magic to the rest of us, and the song of the forest spread throughout the lands of the elk. So goes the tale of Dáire, the first spellsinger.”

Apricot blinked, puzzled. For a minute, he simply sat beside Pwyll, processing the story. A few birds flew overhead, chirping. “Um…” He scratched a fetlock. “Huh. It’s not a true story, is it? I mean… I’ve never heard of magic that can turn someone into a wolf. And rabbits can’t talk…”

“Can’t they?” Pwyll stood, brushing some dirt from his hooves. “In order to escape the forest, Dáire first had to become a part of it. And once he was part of it, it was part of him forever after. It started with the smallest creatures—the squirrel, the beetles, even the leaves. He had to sing with the birds before he could howl with the wolves. Think on it for a little while.” He departed, heading back toward the carts with the others.

Apricot still wasn’t sure what the point of the story had been, but he closed his eyes and opened himself once again to the magic. It was just as noisy as before, a chaotic jumble of chords. Leave yourself behind, he pondered. The wind shifted again, and he felt the magic vibrate. Rather than try to hear the whole song at once, he focused on the smallest strain of sound.

A branch above creaked, jolting the birds who sat upon it. They took off again, chirping as their wings beat the air. Apricot heard a fluttering melody burst to life as they went, fading as they alighted on another tree branch. As they touched down, a faint tremolo of energy shook the tree, sending a dozen insects scurrying across the white bark. Each sent a cascade of tiny hums through the surface of the tree, down into the roots, so imperceptible that if he hadn’t been listening to the insects already he’d never have heard it. That tremor carried into the ground, where it flowed back up into the flowers growing at the base of the tree. As the wind changed tack, the flowers bent, and a droplet of dew slid from the petals, splashing to the ground with a vibration that rang in his horn.

Apricot’s eyes snapped back open, and he found himself out of breath. Those currents of magic had been minute, unstructured, yet he had followed them almost without meaning to. After spending so long sharpening his attention on those tiny knots, it was not so different a task to pick up on even the tiniest shifts in the magic. Maybe, instead of trying to hear a larger song, it was time to listen to the little songs themselves. He inhaled deeply, and sank back into the music.

Now he realized what those flashes and fragments of melody he’d been hearing were. They were life itself—birds flitting amongst the trees, worms shifting in the dirt, a fox scampering out of the path of the caravan, a fish winding past pebbles in a stream, a wolf eyeing the intruders warily… All the creatures of the forest, growing and playing and hunting and dying and joining and parting and eating and soaring—

Breath rushed from his lungs like the wind through the leaves. The trees themselves breathed, one vast organism, all their roots joining below the ground in a tangled web of life. Their song was a cold one, quietly hiding at the back of consciousness, yet omnipresent beneath the rest of the melodies. There was anger in them, or disdain, so old its cause transcended mammalian comprehension. Yet even they were part of the grander forest, the Elderwood made manifest in the magic, all the countless insects and birds and creatures of root and burrow swarming in the springtime woods.

It was like diving into the sun. The heat and light of all that life washed over him, annihilating his sense of self. He could sense so much, hear it, feel it, clamoring in his ears with the intensity of a burning star. It was no tuning orchestra; it was a choir, millions strong. There was no way not to sing along, to add his own voice to the greater whole. He felt his horn warm, his magic enwreathed by the forest’s song.

For a moment, he could feel everything. The creatures, the trees, the wind, even the members of the expedition. Kaduat’s muscles ached, making her wince as she lifted a bottle to her lips and tasted the sweet burn of rum. Virgil’s talons clicked as he nervously fretted over the timber saws, running calculations in his head to see if they could make it through the barrier before nightfall. His grandfather Tybalt scowled, watching a pink mare, with a sour pit of self-loathing in his stomach. Zaeneas, glad for any chance to do the only thing she loved, measured out ingredients and crushed them in a pestle. She filled a drinking flask with some strange mixture before handing it to Inger, who simmered with a rage ready to burst to the surface—

Apricot snapped forward, gasping. The connection broke. All at once, the forest seemed to fall silent, his horn winking out. In his chest, he could feel his heart pounding like he’d just run all the way home from the bakery. Short, jerky breaths were all he could manage. “What… what was…” He sank to the ground, feeling the cool grass kiss his skin. His thoughts were racing as fast as his heartbeat.

The soft thumping of hooves on dirt drew his gaze back up. Pollux’s eyes shone from beneath his hood’s shadow. Apricot felt his mentor’s pride, almost physically, emanating toward him like the heat of a campfire. Confused and disoriented, he stood, swaying. “Pollux…?”

“You’ve done it,” said Pollux, his voice thrumming with excitement.

“I don’t… I don’t understand what just happened,” said Apricot, blinking dizzily.

“You were singing with the forest,” said Pollux, simply. “I could feel it. Your music touched my thoughts.”

“How… how could I feel…” Apricot swallowed. “That wasn’t normal magic.”

“Follow me.” Pollux beckoned with a hoof. Still stunned, Apricot stumbled after him. As they departed, he saw Kaduat and some of the other mercenaries coming toward the tree pile with giant two-handled saws. As Kaduat took a drink from her bottle, Apricot perfectly recalled the liquor’s taste, though a drop had never touched his lips. He shivered.

They wandered to the side of the glade, brushing through the thick foliage. Pollux kept a languid pace, moving plants aside with his glowing horn. “Every place has its own song, Apricot. The forests, the mountains, even cities. Canterlot has as much music as these woods, in its own way.”

“But… I’ve never felt anything like that before.” Apricot wiped his brow, feeling cold sweat.

Pollux took a deep breath of the forest air. “All life has magic in it. Earth ponies and pegasi may lack horns, but they have magic all the same. Every living creature has a song of its own. Usually, it fades into the background, part of the ambient magic. Yet here… the old forests of the elk are special places. There’s so much magic in the trees, the creatures, even the ground itself, that you can hear it all.”

“I could… I could hear their thoughts…” Apricot shook his head, steadying himself on a tree. “Or… their emotions, anyway. The mercenaries… my parents…”

“What you felt was an echo. You can’t pass through a place like this without becoming part of it,” said Pollux. “As long as we reside beneath these trees, we’re all joined in the Elderwood’s greater song. Every strong emotion sends an echo through it. Those echoes can carry for a long time, if you know how to listen. Memories, emotions, choices… they sink into the roots of the trees, reflecting back up to us.”

“It’s so much,” whispered Apricot, feeling sick and shaky. “I don’t know if I can handle that again.”

“To hear the song as you just did requires letting go of all boundaries. You can lose yourself if you do it long enough. The greatest elken bard-sages can spend their whole lives communing with the forests, feeling the echoes of a thousand lives all at once. The rarest can walk as the creatures of the forest do, losing all sense and even their forms. They pay a price for this connection, however. They cannot control their magic, for the song is singing them. But you can sing your own song. That’s what can bring you out, if ever you sink too deeply. Listen for your own voice, and follow it back to yourself.”

Apricot hummed, almost instinctively, the same melody he’d sung while breathing with the trees. Pollux stopped and turned, with an eager glint in his crimson eyes. “On the ship, you learned how to hear. Now, you’ve learned how to listen. And with those lessons mastered, I think you’re ready to sing.”

“Haven’t I already been spellsinging…?”

“To an extent. You’ve been singing defined spells, ones that rarely change. Now, you’re ready to learn more complex spellsongs. The kind that are unique every time you cast them.” Pollux tugged the hem of his robe with a wry smile. “It’s time to start learning battlemagic.”

Apricot blinked woozily, lifting his head. “Really?” An hour ago, that would have sent him hopping for joy. But now he was still reeling too much from the scorching experience of the forest-song to feel as excited as he should.

“Really.” Pollux brushed the front of his robes, freeing a few leaves. “Go and get a drink of water, take a few minutes to recenter yourself. Then meet me back here.” He glanced around, at the small clearing they stood in. It was more private than the glade, not open to the sky, and the noise of the saws barely carried past the wall of bushes. “This should do nicely.”

Apricot didn’t want to give Pollux a reason to delay the lesson, so he simply nodded before trotting away. He made sure to put a few trees between him and his teacher before sagging against a nearby aspen.

Resting for a moment, he watched a blue jay flit through the branches above. It had a twig clutched in its beak, carefully threading it into a rough circle of other twigs. The jay’s nest was starting to come together. Was Apricot merely imagining the bird’s feathery feeling of satisfaction? He shivered, before finding his hooves and heading for the cart holding the water barrels.

* * *

The unplanned break had given Cranberry more time than she wanted to think.

These dreams she’d been having weren’t just dreams. It wasn’t the first time she’d had the particular nightmare that had haunted her last night, and the night before. A memory she’d rather have forgotten. One stupid mistake, she thought bitterly. But she’d never had the dream so many nights in a row.

Glancing up again at the shivering aspens, her grimace hardened into a scowl. It was this forest, she was certain of it. That, and—she admitted unhappily—perhaps it was guilt over the way she and Inger had been fighting. His words kept echoing. I wish you’d just be mad at me…

Hoofsteps to her left signaled someone’s approach. Cranberry’s eyes flicked nervously over, relaxing only slightly when she realized it was Pwyll. Swallowing, she nodded to him. The young buck smiled back and returned the nod. He strolled past and sat across from her with his back to a cart, still scratching his velvety antlers. “Hello, Professor. I think we’ve still got some time to go.” Pwyll tilted his head aside toward the front of the caravan, where the cacophony of saws was still hard at work. “It’s quite a roadblock.”

“Mm,” she grunted.

“I was just talking with your son,” he continued lightly. “I told him the story of Dáire the skinchanger. You’ve heard that one, right?”

Cranberry couldn’t resist a smile. “Of course.” She rubbed her chin. “Actually, that was one of the first texts I translated under Professor Locke, back when I was a student.” Her grin turned wry. “On my first attempt, I mistranslated faelcu. Locke found it quite amusing when I told him Dáire was accosted by a pack of howling geese.”

Pwyll broke into a fit of laughter. “You know,” he managed, snickering, “I’ve met some pretty mean geese…”

Ruefully, Cranberry nodded. “It’s a wonder he still wanted to work with me after having me as a graduate student.”

Pwyll’s mirth faded as his eyes sparkled with keen interest. “What’s it like? Working on elkish history, I mean.”

“Mostly, it’s a lot of reading.” Cranberry idly traced an elkish rune in the grass, recalling hours spent in Locke’s dusty office, poring over texts. “Stone fragments are about the only writing that survives from the era, and anything written on stone tends not to be a minute historical record. But there are other things—the ancient pony tribes created troves of writing of their own on the Dominion, and some of that still exists for us to find. We do our best to piece together the past from stone chips and crumbling pages. Sometimes, it’s more art than science.”

“What do you mean?”

She finished tracing the runes stair ársa, meaning ancient history. “A book about elken spellcasting foci might mention in passing the name of a king, who also appears in a reference to the crushing of a rebellion led by a faction known as the faekin. That catches your eye, since you recall a missive from an elkish healer complaining about the faekin hampering the shipment of medical supplies to the newly constructed tower of Vensae Siral near the Antlerwood. And you piece that together when you find a Nordpony record describing how their ancestors were put to work ferrying stone and mortar north of the forest…”

Cranberry grinned. “And that’s how the tower we call Middengard was discovered a few centuries ago. More recently, the clues there led Pad—and now us—here. So in a way, this expedition’s been thousands of years in the making.”

Pwyll bit his lip with unmistakable yearning. “Middengard… It sounds incredible. Actually walking in the halls of our ancestors…” He shook his head. “It feels like Lady Ciaran and all the rest of my village want to pretend our ancient forbears never existed. Whenever I ask about our people’s past, they stonewall me.” He scratched his velvety antlers. “Most of what I know, I’ve learned from old stories the pearl traders tell. And a few books I managed to buy from merchants over the years.”

“Ah…” said Cranberry, suddenly nostalgic. She remembered scrounging through the Canterlot markets for any scrap of nordpony literature, haggling over small artifacts and soaking up every Sleipnordic legend that travelers could share. “Sounds familiar. You ever considered a career in archeology?”

With a bashful laugh, Pwyll rubbed his neck. “That would be amazing, but… I couldn’t possibly…”

“Why not?”

“I’m just a—a country bumpkin,” he said, eyes meeting the ground. “I’ll never match the likes of Professor Locke. Or you.”

Professor Sugar raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? You already know more than half the first-year students I teach. You’re supposed to be educated coming out, not going in. What matters most is that you’re willing to learn.”

“I—I mean…” he stammered, “there’s the cost, too… even after Count Vallen pays me for this job, I’ll only have enough to take a ship to Cariboulla. I was planning to find whatever work I could for a few years. I can’t afford—”

“I happen to know the University of Cariboulla has a very good scholarship program,” said Cranberry gently. “Locke and I have worked with them closely over the years. Professor Deirdre in the history department is always hungry for new students. As you’ve said, most elk prefer to ignore their past.” She smiled. “I’d be happy to write you a letter of recommendation when we get back to Port Faeloch. If you take that to the admissions department, they’ll help you with all the paperwork.”

Swallowing, he lifted his head and met her eyes. In them, she saw a flickering, wary hope. “You really think I could do it?”

Rather than answer directly,Cranberry looked off into the trees with a small smile. “I was afraid the university wouldn’t accept me, either—I was entirely self-taught before then. I knew some ancient languages, but as I learned in Sleipnord, you can’t really learn how to speak a language just from books. I thought everyone at the college would instantly know I was a fake.”

She scratched a foreleg. “Even when I got my degree, the feeling didn’t go away. Surely they’re just currying favor with the Dragonslayer’s wife, I thought. And still, thirty published papers later, that feeling comes back sometimes. You’ll never fully get over it.” With a nostalgic sigh, Cranberry gave him a wry grin. “When I was first starting out, I was scared. Inger was away fighting the griffons in the south, the city was still a mess from the fighting, and I was terrified that after all we’d gone through I couldn’t handle another huge change. I told my friend Rye that I was afraid I wouldn’t cut it. He told me that the only thing harder than pursuing what you want is not pursuing it.”

“Perhaps he’s right.” Pwyll bit his lip. “I’ll consider it, Professor. Thank you.”

A new voice spoke from behind Cranberry. “Rye Strudel… he’s that pegacorn acquaintance of yours, isn’t he?”

Hello, Tybalt. Cranberry’s eyes narrowed. Some ponies wouldn’t have caught the tiny pause in Tybalt’s voice before the word pegacorn, but her ears were finely tuned to the slight. She turned to see her father-in-law lurking at the edge of the path, loitering underneath a swaying aspen. “Yes,” she said, as cordially as she could manage. “Celestia’s Royal Ambassador.”

Perhaps noticing the clipped irritation in her voice, Pwyll froze. He cast a worried glance between her and the count. Tybalt, however, seemed unfazed. “He sounds like a good friend. The two of you must be close.”

Not bothering to stand, Cranberry turned to face him. “He is a good friend. And a good pony. And he’s proven that to all of Equestria more times than anyone should have to.”

“No doubt. My son keeps impressive company.”

She scoured his voice for sarcasm, but couldn’t detect any. Tybalt continued, idly fiddling with the hem of his summer robes. “Forgive my curiosity, but I’ve never met a pegacorn before. It’s said they can’t fly, or do magic, despite their mixed blood. Is that true?”

“Does it matter?” she asked. “Neither can I.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” Tybalt blinked, as enigmatic as ever. “A shame, though. To have your birthright kept from you. Perhaps his children will have those gifts?”

Cranberry remembered her last conversation with Tyria, and that look in the mare’s eye. Pegacorns can’t even have… That painful secret wasn’t hers to share. Especially not to this rude, arrogant—she ground her teeth. “I don’t know,” she said curtly. “Maybe.” Where the hell was this line of questioning coming from, anyway?

From the front of the caravan, Castor’s voice called out. “Pwyll! Get up here!”

Visibly relieved, Pwyll stood. “Uh, it sounds like I’m needed. If you’ll excuse me…” with a final look between Cranberry and Tybalt, he sucked in a tiny breath through his teeth and trotted off with raised eyebrows.

To Cranberry’s displeasure, Tybalt didn’t likewise take the opportunity to end the conversation. Instead, he watched Pwyll go, leaning against the tree and folding his right foreleg over his left. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to speak with you alone,” he said. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?”

“Well, you are my daughter-in-law.” Tybalt looked briefly hesitant. “I thought we should get to know each other a bit better.”

Cranberry was still wary, but she softened a little. “Oh.” Was that stuff about Rye just his attempt at breaking the ice? Gods, he was worse at small talk than Locke.

“I know we haven’t gotten off to the best of starts…” Tybalt cleared his throat awkwardly, leaving the tree to take Pwyll’s seat across from her. “But perhaps that’s my fault. You just remind me so much of—”

“Your wife,” Cranberry interjected sourly. Aha.

“Myself,” he corrected softly. She blinked in surprise. Tybalt held up his hooftip and eyed it pensively. “We have a lot in common; not all of it good. I can be stubborn. Impulsive. Unafraid to speak my mind. That last one, I fear, gets me into more trouble than the rest.”

The frank analysis was a little too on-the-mark for comfort. Her cheeks heated. “And you wonder why we got off to a bad start?”

Tybalt laughed ruefully, setting his hoof down. “Apologies. I came here to make peace, and instead I’m insulting you.” He shook his head. “Father always said I had the manners of a soldier and the muscles of a diplomat… Let me try again. I, ah, I was hoping to ask you something.” He hesitated for a moment, uncharacteristically awkward. “How did you and my son meet?”

“He hasn’t told you?” She blinked in surprise.

“He… gave me the short version. But I’m curious about your perspective. Indulge an old stallion’s curiosity about his son?”

Cranberry searched his face for any sign of falsehood. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but then, they never truly lit up around anyone except Inger. It seemed a genuine request. And yet…

This feels like a trap.

“The war had just started,” she said, carefully. “Word had just reached the princess about the griffon incursion in the south. Things weren’t going well with the council… so she turned to our ancient allies, the nordponies. She sent my friend—”

“Strudel,” he murmured.

“Rye, yes; she sent him to Sleipnord to gather the aid of the thanes. And she sent Inger along with him as a guard.” Cranberry couldn’t help but smile. “And as a minder, in retrospect. Rye was quite young to be taking on such a mission. We all were.” Blinking away the memory, she continued. “I followed them from Canterlot. Partly because I wanted to see the north—I always had—but mostly because I didn’t think Rye should be walking off alone with a stallion who…”

Tybalt raised his eyebrow at the pause. Cranberry flushed. “Inger used to be a little… stuffy.” He used to say ‘pegacorn’ the way you do, she thought. Then she paused. Inger had grown past that. Perhaps his father could, too. She ought to at least give him the chance. “A-anyways, on the way north, the three of us found ourselves in danger over and over again. And each time, Inger defended us. Kept us safe. I got to see that there was more to him than soldierly discipline. He was brave, and gentle, and after some of that icy formality melted, kind, as well.”

Cranberry looked wistfully past Tybalt, recalling the little gestures Inger had made as their journey wore on and they’d gotten to know each other. Offering her some of his precious rations after a trying day of climbing, listening patiently with genuine interest as she prattled on about nordpony history, watching over her while she recovered from her brush with the freezing Sleipnordic elements…

And in her darkest moment, when she let curiosity overpower sense and nearly doomed their mission and their homeland with an act of petty greed, he’d forgiven her in a way that even Rye couldn’t. When she thought she’d driven everyone away, Inger was still there for her. As he always was.

She recalled the comforting weight of his hoof on her shoulder at Papa’s funeral, and felt her eyes mist. Clearing her throat, she wondered how she could put that kind of gratitude into words for Tybalt. “Traveling the world with someone brings you closer. You have to rely on each other. Talking at night under the stars, you tell each other things about yourselves that you hide from the rest of the world. When your life is in someone’s hooves every day, you learn to trust them. And by the time we reached the roof of the world together, we trusted each other. More deeply than I’d ever felt before.”

Tybalt fiddled with his locket. “I hope you realize what a precious thing that is…” His golden eyes held a deep melancholy.

“I do,” said Cranberry quietly.

“If you ever break that trust, you’ll never get it back.” He wasn’t looking at her. “No matter how much either of you want to.”

“I would never do that,” she said, frowning.

“No, of course not. Just know this—I’ve felt what it’s like to hide love for another in your heart. I know what a hollow marriage feels like. How everything you do afterward leaves echoes that remind you of that betrayal. I’ve seen that guilt in the mirror each morning, for ten years, caught between wishing you’d never done it, and wishing you had the strength to simply end this sham.”

Cranberry’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

Tybalt met her gaze, all regret gone, replaced by a steely glint. “And I know how it ends, Cranberry. You can’t fool the ones you’ve betrayed forever. In fact, you never really fool them in the first place. All they have to do is stop fooling themselves. And if that day comes for my son, I only hope he’s strong enough to survive it.”

“Listen to me. Very carefully.” Cranberry’s voice was dangerously low. “I’m not like you,Tybalt. I’ve never betrayed Inger. I didn’t abandon him for a decade. Pin your guilt on someone else.” She leaned forward, fire in her eyes. “I love my husband, and nothing has threatened that in all the years we’ve been together. Not until you showed up. From the moment you barged into our lives, you’ve been dripping poison into his ear. If you think you can destroy us, ruin our marriage like you ruined your own, then I’ll warn you this once: Try to break what we’ve built and we’ll bury you. You’ll lose him forever.”

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t his sudden, cheerless smile. “Good. Just so we understand each other.”

The two locked eyes silently for a few moments, before Tybalt exhaled and stood. He dusted his robes once, before brushing past her to head for the back of the caravan.

Cranberry found that she was breathing hard. That miserable, old, vile fool, how dare he even suggest—

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “He’s just projecting,” she muttered. “Just…”

Glass clinked behind her, like an empty wine bottle on a moonlit night. Cranberry’s head whipped around to see Kaduat digging in the back of the nearest cart before withdrawing her latest bottle of rum. The camel took a long drink without noticing her.

Sweat cooled on the back of Cranberry’s neck. I’ve never betrayed Inger. Not like Tybalt. Not that badly.

She sat there for another few moments, trying to think about something, anything else. The leaves above swished in the wind, hissing all around. Cranberry bent suddenly to place her head in her hooves, wishing for silence, a mere moment to catch her thoughts. The white-barked trees offered no solace.

Maybe writing it down would help. Pull the old sin from her mind and place it onto the page, like an exorcism. Perhaps then she could finally get a night of peace. She stood, shakily, and walked toward the cart with her journal.

Damn those golden eyes.

* * *

By the time Apricot finished drinking from the barrel tap, he’d regained his bearings. The forest song was still there, still endlessly mutating and changing around him, but so long as he did not follow it, the magic was manageable instead of overwhelming. Part of him was terrified that it would be like this forever, now, but Pollux and Pwyll had both said that the forest was unusual. Once they were out of the woods, things would be quieter again.

He hoped.

“You all right, Junior?”

Apricot turned to find his father standing there, sipping from a small flask. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing his temples with a hoof.

Inger frowned. “You sure? You look shaky.” He took another drink.

How could he even begin to put it into words for someone who didn’t hear the song? “It’s just… unicorn stuff,” he said, setting his hoof down.

“Oh. Unicorn stuff.” His father bit his lip for a moment. “Hey, how about I sit in on your next lesson?”

“Uh… yeah!” Apricot blinked in surprise. “You want to see what Pollux is teaching me?”

Inger recapped the flask and let it hang from a cord around his neck. “I want to know more about unicorn stuff,” he said, smiling faintly.

Apricot returned the smile, remembering their last walk to the bakery, and showing off his spells. “I—sure! Pollux is waiting for me right now, actually. You want to come along?”

Casting a brief glance toward the front of the caravan, where the mercenaries were still sawing away at the fallen trees, Inger nodded. “Looks like we’ve got time. Let’s go.”

With a new vigor in his gait, Apricot trotted into the trees as his father followed. Now that he’d had time to center himself, the excitement was starting to rise again. He was going to learn battlemagic, just like he’d hoped when he told Strawberry why he wanted to follow the red-robed mage. Even in his wildest flights of fancy, he sometimes wondered if this day would ever really come. A small bounce crept into his hoofsteps.

They found Pollux sitting in the middle of the little clearing, idly tossing a smooth stone up and catching it with his hoof. “Lord Vallen,” said Pollux, nodding to the unexpected new arrival. “Is something amiss?”

“No,” said Inger, “I’m just curious to see what Apricot’s learned.”

“I see.” Pollux’s forehead creased momentarily. “I don’t object, but… are you sure you wouldn’t rather rest while we’re stopped?”

Now that he mentioned it, something about Apricot’s dad seemed off—he looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, though his green irises burned bright and alert. His feathers were ruffled, far from their usual pristine preened state. And there was that strange echo of anger Apricot had felt from him earlier.

But none of that mattered right now. How often did he get the chance to share magic with his father? For once, Strawberry wasn’t around to get all of their dad’s attention…

“I’m fine,” Inger assured Pollux. “So, what’s today’s lesson?”

Apricot teetered on his hooftips. “Fireballs? Lightning?”

“Warding spells,” said Pollux, giving the pebble another toss.

“Aww.” Apricot settled back onto his hooves.

“Trust me,” said Pollux dryly, “you need to learn shield magic before fireballs. You wouldn’t want to set yourself aflame.”

Sheepishly, Apricot shared a glance with his father. Inger grinned but remained mercifully silent.

Pollux gave the stone a final toss, catching it with a swipe of his foreleg. “There are two elements of any warding spellsong: matter and energy. Do you know the difference?”

“Uh, I think so.” Apricot flicked an ear, racking his memory. “Energy is what you need to move, or change something. Matter’s just… stuff.” He gestured aimlessly at the forest around them.

“Not bad,” Pollux nodded approvingly. “You’ve read some natural philosophy.”

Inger ruffled Apricot’s mane proudly. “He’s a bookworm, just like his mother.” Apricot felt a warm tingle in his chest.

“Here,” said Pollux. “Catch.” He lobbed the stone toward Apricot. It arced gently through the air and landed in the colt’s upturned hooves. Pollux brushed the front of his robes with a hoof. “Energy and matter both affect the quality of the wardsong. The more mass—the more matter—the ward forestalls, the louder your volume must be. Against more purely energetic dangers, like fire or a direct magical attack, the tempo of your spell will determine the effectiveness. Matter and energy are almost always linked; most often, you’ll need both at once.”

“That’s a lot to keep track of,” said Apricot, intimidated.

“It sounds more complicated than it feels,” Pollux reassured. “Using four legs in harmony to walk is a balancing act, too, but after you learn how you barely have to think about it.” Apricot nodded, not sure he was convinced. “Now, listen to my melody.”

Hesitantly, Apricot plunged into the music. The sounds of the forest returned, thrumming in his mind. A thousand different songs tugged at his attention: the croaking of a tiny frog, the chirping of a cricket, the frantic paddling of a duck’s feet beneath the serene surface of a pond. Apricot ignored them all after a concentrated effort, focusing forward on the golden sound of Pollux’s magic. It was like hearing a violin solo pierce through a noisy concert hall. Apricot trilled a magical touch toward it.

“Hello,” said Pollux quietly, smiling at the mental brush.

Apricot grinned, sparing a glance toward his father. Inger glanced between the unicorns with their lit horns in clear befuddlement, but gave Apricot an encouraging nod.

Pollux closed his eyes. “Do you recognize the song?”

Listening closely, Apricot followed his teacher’s notes as they rose and fell. “Yes… it’s the one you sang every evening on the ship.”

“That’s right. But there’s something else, too. Do you hear it?”

Apricot closed his own eyes, following along. Unconsciously, he lifted his hoof, waving it to the music’s time. Buried in the music he caught a familiar series of four notes, woven into the song so smoothly that they seemed a natural part of it. Yet he recognized them. “It’s… it’s the levitation spellsong!” The combined music was beautiful, carried by the warding melody and the forest’s own backing performance to create a breathtaking three-part harmony. He was beginning to understand why Pollux always insisted that simplicity meant strength—he couldn’t imagine a more complex spell melding so easily with the wardsong.

“Very good. Now, throw that rock at me, and listen close.”

Apricot’s eyes fluttered back open. Hefting the rock with magic, he swallowed. With a little hesitation, he tossed it at Pollux.

Inches from the unicorn’s face, the rock struck something. For an instant, a spherical wall of crimson flashed to life, brightest beneath the stone. The song surged, growing loud and sharp for a measure before returning to its previous volume. The stone spun away to land on the grass with a faint thump.

Pollux’s horn glimmered, and the stone returned to his hoof. He tossed it up again, catching it easily. “The more massive the object or objects you want to deflect, the louder you need to sing.”

“Huh. Seems… easy enough.” Apricot tried the melody himself, feeling an electric tingle across his skin. “What about warding against energy?”

“We’ll get there once you’ve got matter wards down.” Without warning, he flicked his hoof and sent the stone sailing lazily toward Apricot.

The colt flung up the wardsong, almost on instinct. Rose light flickered around him, but the song jerked in his head, suddenly discordant. Flying right through his glowing barrier, the stone popped him on the forehead. “Ow!”

Chuckling, Pollux yanked the rock back to himself. “It does take practice.”

Behind them, a bush rustled violently as a bronze-feathered pegasus shoved his way through the foliage into the little clearing serving as their practice area. “Oi, Pollux!”

Blinking at his brother’s appearance, Pollux raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong, Castor?”

“Those fallen trees are sap-filled little devils. Our saws are getting gummed up so fast that we’re barely making progress.” Castor blew out a breath, shaking his head. “I figured a little magic might clean them off faster than Virgil and me scraping at it with rags. I’ve already roped Pwyll in to help, but his antlers haven’t fully come in yet.”

“It won’t be the worst mess of yours I’ve cleaned up,” said Pollux impishly. “You remember that time in Trottingham when you got your hoof stuck in a jar of honey—”

Castor rolled his eyes, masking an embarrassed cough with a hoof. “If the saws were as dull as your wit, we’d be here all week.”

Snorting, Pollux turned back to Inger and Apricot. “I guess we’ll save the rest for later. Think you have enough to practice on your own?”

“I’ll help,” volunteered Inger, scooping up the rock. He winked at Apricot. “Right, Junior?”

Any dismay he felt at Pollux’s departure instantly vanished. “Right!”

Pollux nodded to them both. “Then good luck.” Cracking his neck, he sighed. “All right, let’s hope this goes faster than last time…” Together with Castor, he departed through the trees.

Alone with his father, Apricot bounced once on his hooves. “Did you see my shield?”

“I did,” said Inger, grinning despite his tired eyes. “And I saw that you need a lot more practice. Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Okay.” Apricot summoned up the ward again, stronger this time. He waited a few moments, settling into the rhythm. The forest sang with him, beautiful and alive. He felt a measured tranquility descend as he followed the music, leading the song through his horn. “Ready.”

Inger cast the stone. It arced gently toward him, heading straight for his snout, before a rosy sphere flickered into being in front of it. With a crack, the rock collided. This time, Apricot was ready for the intrusion, and his spellsong surged to meet it. The stone bounced back and landed between them. Apricot blinked before spotting the rock lying at his hooves.

The meditative peace vanished in an instant. Apricot whirled in excitement. “I did it!” He stared down at the little stone, triumphant.

“You did it once,” said his father, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s see if you can do it twenty times in a row.”

“Twenty!?”

With a laugh, Inger picked the stone up again. “Now you sound like Wheatie. Come on, less whining, more magic.”

Wheatie—that was one of his dad’s Firewings. Apricot felt light as a feather as he realized that this was training, real training, just like his dad had given Strawberry and all the Firewings up at the castle.

Inger tossed the rock again, and Apricot deflected it with ease. He’d picked up a lot of spells over the last week, and this one was actually one of the simplest to sing. Cheered, he lifted the stone with magic and spun it around him in intricate loops.

“You’ve gotten so much better,” said his dad, watching with a smile. “I remember a month ago, you were having trouble with doorknobs.”

Apricot tossed the rock back to him. “It’s like… learning a different language, I guess. But sometimes it feels like I’ve always been able to speak it, and Pollux is just teaching me new words.”

Inger rubbed his chin. “What’s the word for duck?”

“Wh—ah!” Apricot jerked back as the stone flew at him, barely raising his shield in time.

The stone ricocheted away as Inger chuckled. “Good work. Keep your guard up.”

“Only eighteen to go,” said Apricot, cheekily jerking his chin up. The two grinned at each other.

After another two successful blocks, one got through and rapped him on the snout. Inger made him start the twenty over again, but Apricot didn’t even mind. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had this much fun together. Was this what Strawberry felt, when he and Dad went flying over the city?

Six stone throws later, he felt confident enough to ask his father to throw harder. Inger did so, hesitantly at first, but when Apricot deflected the next two with ease he began putting real effort into his volleys. Pride rose in Apricot’s chest as the stone bounced away from him again and again.

Inger pulled his hoof back and hurled the rock again. It slammed into the barrier like it had been whipped from a sling, and the notes rang inside Apricot’s head like gongs. The shield held, but he exhaled hard. “That one was tough.”

“Want me to ease up?”

“No! Keep going, as hard as you can. You’re always telling Strawberry he has to push himself, right?” Apricot licked his lips, narrowing his eyes in determination.

Inger hesitated, holding the stone. “Okay.” He smiled. “I’ll trust you to know your limits. Just tell me if you need me to stop, all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, go already!”

His father nodded once and whipped the stone forward. It crashed into the barrier hard, before spiraling away. Apricot winced at the impact, shaking his head. A tiny ache flared in his forehead.

Inger darted after the stone, scooping it up and flinging it again in one motion. It slammed against the shield, so fiercely that Apricot twisted his entire body to face it and knock it aside. Before he could take a breath, the stone came flying at him again, ringing off the magical barrier with a crack.

The rose sphere wasn’t even fading between strikes anymore. The song thrummed loudly in his mind, punctuated by his father’s heavy breathing as he raced back and forth to hurl the stone with all his strength. Apricot cringed at each collision, no longer able to focus on emotions, his father, or anything else besides maintaining the barrier. Squeezing his eyes shut, he was filled with the song, planting his hooves and concentrating on the melody with all his might.

There was a furious gasp of air, and Apricot’s eyes flashed open. For an instant, he saw his father mid-swing, a look of burning, bitter anger on his face.

The stone slammed into the shield, and the rose light burned white. Apricot’s horn flashed as it overloaded, and the sphere shattered into a million prismatic shards. The rock flew through and hit him, right on the bridge of his nose.

Yelping, he dropped to his haunches, clutching his face with both hooves. His horn ached sharply, even more than his nose. With a whimper, he curled up for a moment, his head throbbing from the overload. Deep breaths, he thought, remembering the trick Pollux had taught him. Biting his lip helped a little, but the cut on his nose was already beginning to burn enough to make his eyes water.

“Apricot!” His dad was there in an instant, all traces of that anger he’d seen completely wiped away by terror. “Sisters, Junior, are you all ri—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Nodding, he sat up, wincing as he lifted his hooves from his nose. There was a tiny smear of red on them. Gingerly, he pressed the cut, cringing. Great. This is going to hurt tomorrow. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked Dad to throw it quite so hard. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” said Inger, looking ready to burst into tears. Apricot felt his stomach shift queasily. He’d never seen his dad cry before, not even after Mr. Strudel had died. Inger sat beside him, cautiously pressing his son’s hoof aside. “Let me see it.”

Apricot rolled his eyes before leaning his head out patiently. The cut smarted, sure, but he’d gotten worse scrapes before from horsing around with Strawberry. It had already stopped bleeding; the worst he had to look forward to was a bruise. Why was his dad getting so worked up?

Inger inspected the injury with frantic eyes, tenderly brushing his son’s mane. “I’m so sorry, Apricot, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s fine, Dad,” repeated Apricot, awkwardly patting his hoof. “It was an accident.”

“Sisters, I just got so caught up in venting, I—” Inger took a shaky breath. “This shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Apricot’s brow knit with confusion. “I know. It’s okay, really.”

To his relief, his dad didn’t actually start weeping, but as he settled back he looked dismayingly frayed. There was dirt in his mane from diving after the rock, and his feathers were even more unkempt than before. The worst were his eyes, full of a deep, miserable shame.

Inger pulled him suddenly into a crushing hug, drawing a little oof. He bent his head over Apricot’s, squeezing him. “I love you. You know that, right?”

Apricot had never been comfortable with mushy stuff like this, but he was starting to feel a sick suspicion. The things he’d heard on the boat came back to him, like leaden weights in his stomach. “Dad… is this about Mom?”

The silence was a straighter answer than any words could have been. Inger released him, sitting back and staring past him into the trees with sunken eyes.

Unsure of what to say, Apricot pressed a hoof back to his nose. “Are you two mad at each other?”

Inger’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t have to worry about your parents.”

That doesn’t mean I don’t need to, Apricot thought queasily. A horrible chill ran down his spine as he remembered the exchange after they’d found him in the cargo hold. “Is it because of me?” he asked, his voice nearly a whisper. “Because I came along? Because she wanted me to go back?”

“No,” said his father hoarsely, jerking as though startled. “Sisters, no, Apricot. None of this is your fault. Your mother is upset about a lot of things. And… I…” He pawed the ground anxiously. “It’ll be okay. I promise. All right?”

For all his newfound skills, Apricot suddenly felt powerless. What good was magic at fixing something like this? He wanted to help his parents, make them happy again, but how could he do that if he didn’t even understand what was wrong? It was impossible to shake the terrible feeling that this was his fault somehow, but his father’s pleading look begged him to believe his assurances.

So, he tried. Apricot nodded, doing his best to keep the cold fear in his chest from showing. “Okay.”

Inger sagged in relief. “Good. I’m… that’s good.” He weakly nudged the stone. “Do you want to keep practicing?”

It was suddenly hard to concentrate on the wardsong. The clamoring forest was loud in his thoughts. Faint vestiges of emotion swirled in the air. Shame and buried anger rolled off his father like a waterfall. Swallowing, Apricot shook his head. “Um… let’s take a break. I should catch up on my readings. I’m supposed to finish chapter ten of Kemholtz today.”

His father nodded. “Right. Good. I, uh… I’ll go talk to Zaeneas again. She might have something to put on that scrape.” He stood abruptly, a loose feather fluttering free, and swiftly cantered away toward the carts.

Apricot watched him go, nibbling a hoof.

14. Old Mistakes

… and then the dream ends. I wake in a cold sweat, the vile taste of sleep in my mouth. Every night, it’s always the same. Ever since we began camping under the trees. I’m sure the others are experiencing strange things too, but I don’t dare ask them what they see in their dreams. They might ask me the same.

Cranberry let the quill rest and rubbed her temples, exhausted. Writing it down hadn’t proved the expiation she’d desired.

A sharp whistle broke the air, drawing her gaze up from the pages of her journal. Castor had returned from the roadblock, accompanied by his senior staff and his brother. All of them were covered with spots of sticky sap and sawdust, looking exhausted—except for Pollux, who still had his easygoing smile.

Castor looped a hoof in the air, drawing the members of Katabasis Company from around the caravan into a circle. Once everyone had gathered, he cleared his throat. “Good news and bad news,” he said, making a face and spitting out a small twig. “We’ve cleared the blockage, but we’re running out of daylight.”

Indeed, the light filtering through the aspen leaves was already tinged with orange and pink. The thought of the coming dark beneath the trees sent a shiver down Cranberry’s spine.

With a grunt, Castor nodded toward Pwyll. “According to our guide, the river is about a kilometer ahead. By the time we’d reach it today, night will have fallen. So instead, we’ll camp here and ford the river in the morning.”

Pwyll rubbed his antlers with evident anxiety. “I still think we should cross tonight. The other side of the river is… better. Safer.”

Castor rolled his eyes. “Fording a river with twelve fully-loaded carts in the dark isn’t my idea of safe.” He stamped a hoof, clearly annoyed at the delay. It was the first time since leaving Canterlot that they’d fallen this far behind schedule. “I’d like to get started before sunrise tomorrow, so let’s get the campsite set up now and turn in early. Circle those carts and start staking out tents. Get to it, people.”

Kaduat barked a repetition of the orders in Dromedarian for her camel companions, and the caravan instantly became a bustling hub of motion. Cranberry stuffed her journal back into a bag in the back of one of the carts, looking around for Inger and Apricot. She hadn’t seen the two of them since the caravan had come to a stop, she realized.

She spotted her son first. He was standing at the rear of the line of carts, horn aglow as he moved small pebbles through the air with magic. They looped around in a circle, then criss-crossed in an endless infinity symbol. I ought to ask what he learned today, she thought. That always brightened his mood.

As she approached, he heard her hoofsteps and turned around. His eyes were bright and alert. “Hi, Mom.”

“You’re making that look easy,” she said, nodding toward the pebble with a smile. “And making us proud.”

“Thanks.” Apricot turned back to the stone. His brow knit with concentration and a small rosy sphere of light surrounded it. Apricot tapped the sphere and it flashed, before he let it fade away. “And… thanks for letting me come along. I know you just wanted to keep me safe,” he said, strangely downcast. “I’m sorry I stowed away.”

“It’s okay, Apricot…” Cranberry’s gaze drifted from the stone to her son’s face. Blinking with mild concern, she realized that he had a new cut across his snout. “What’s that about?” she asked, gently touching it with a hoof.

“Oh.” Apricot let the pebble clatter to the ground. “Nothing. I just messed up while practicing shields and got a rock on the nose.”

“Pollux is throwing stones at you?” she asked, frowning.

“Uh—”

Just then, she heard hooves trotting up and a familiar voice, slightly out of breath. “Hey, Junior, I got the—oh. Hello, honey.” Inger swallowed.

Cranberry’s concern rapidly transitioned from Apricot to her husband. He looked awful. When was the last time you preened your wings? Or slept? She bit her tongue, though. Two camels were pushing the nearest cart into the growing camp circle, well within earshot, and she wasn’t sure if they spoke more Equestrian than they let on. The last thing she needed to do was embarrass Inger in front of the mercenaries.

He had an unfamiliar flask hanging from a strap around his neck. Held in one hoof was a tiny vial. Inger yanked out the cork, and tipped Apricot’s chin up as he poured out a dab of foul-smelling ointment onto the cut. “Zaeneas had just the thing,” he muttered absently. “She says it’ll heal up in a day or two.”

“Apricot, you’re not training too hard, I hope…” she said. Her husband and son both seemed curiously subdued. A sudden idea to cheer them both up popped into her head. “Hey, honey, maybe you should sit in on his next lesson. It might be fun for both of you.”

Inger straightened. “Oh… um, sure.” Apricot said nothing.

Before she could ask what was wrong, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she found Beatriz with a towel thrown over her shoulder. “Hey, you three,” she said, “I could use some help getting a firepit dug and dinner going.”

“Of course,” said Cranberry. “Apricot, can you get our tent set up? I’m sure you can get it yourself with magic.” Her son’s ears perked up. He nodded and trotted off toward the cart with their supplies. “Come on, honey,” she said to Inger, giving Beatriz a little lead on gesture with her hoof.

As they headed for the center of the camp circle, she searched for some excuse to get Inger alone in the tent tonight without Apricot. Her earlier conversation with Tybalt still lingered like a weight in her stomach. She realized she’d been avoiding Inger for days, and now she desperately wanted to air things out. Maybe even tell him about the dreams.

Well. Maybe.

Aiding Beatriz turned out to be a much-needed distraction. While Inger helped two of the camels dig a small pit and line it with stones, Cranberry gave her antelope friend a hoof in carrying the large cauldron that would soon hold the night’s meal. She was getting a bit tired of having soup for dinner, but it was hard to argue with the efficiency of feeding dozens from a single pot.

After the camels finished circling the carts, tents began springing up like spring flowers all around them. The sun had fully vanished when Pollux lit the fire with a flash of magic, and by the time Beatriz got the water boiling even the last vestiges of twilight had been eaten by the darkness. The mercenaries pulled the sawed remains of the fallen trees around the campfire like benches. While they waited for dinner, Cranberry sat with Inger and Apricot on one of them, watching the stars with the rest of the company. Familiar constellations twinkled above in the obsidian reaches.

“The sky is so strange this far north,” said Virgil, looking upward from his seat across the fire. “Back home, you’d never see the Mantis and the Antlers out at the same time of year.”

“A bad omen.” Kaduat shifted, sipping from another bottle. Cranberry wasn’t sure where the camel kept getting them from. After her drink, Kaduat cracked a smile. “If you believe in that sort of thing like a good Dromedarian.”

A good Dromedarian? Cranberry couldn’t help but shake her head wistfully as she realized the extent of her ignorance about camel culture. I could spend a thousand lifetimes studying other civilizations, and I’ll never learn about them all. “What do you mean?”

“My people read everything in the stars. They say your whole life can be predicted from the signs over your birth.” Kaduat pointed southward to another glittering constellation. “For instance, I was born under the sign of the Bull, the warrior’s stars. Same with my brother. Maybe that’s why we ended up in the military together.” She shrugged. “The court astrologers are paid handsomely by the pharaohs to keep them appraised of future events. Whether the year’s crop will be good, whether the noble families are fomenting rebellion, whether an invasion of the zebra isles will be successful…”

With a snort, Kaduat shook her head. “They got that one so wrong it ended a dynasty. They’re wrong half the time, and lucky the other half. You can read anything you want out of the stars. Here.” She set her bottle down and stood. Stabbing her toe into the dirt, she traced a few symbols in the soil.

Virgil perked up with interest. “Oh, you haven’t done this in a while…”

Beatriz looked up from the soup she was stirring. “Careful, now. Last time, you said I’d soon suffer a great loss, and I haven’t been able to find my favorite cutting board since.”

Kaduat chuckled, giving a shrug. She finished drawing the arcane symbols and lifted her foot. Quietly, she whispered a short prayer in Dromedarian. “There. Now it’s an official star-reading. Alright, look above us.” Her toe moved to point directly overhead. “The Porpoise means a long journey is coming. We’ll travel the waves to a distant land. Bit late on that one, huh?” She traced the arc of the dolphin’s back over to the next constellation. “Let’s see… the Squirrel’s looking clear tonight. You can see the nebula forming a little acorn in his paws. That means a great awakening is imminent for someone among our number. And the Heron’s beak is pointing west at this hour, which means a deep darkness will soon shadow our path.”

“Literal darkness, or figurative?” Cranberry asked, smiling despite herself. Like Kaduat, she didn’t really believe their fates lay in the heavens, but the ritual itself was fascinating.

“What’s the difference, eh?” Kaduat’s foot moved again. “The Mantis. Either we’ll find ourselves hunted by a great predator, or we’ll find conflict amongst ourselves.” She glanced over at a nearby camel and grinned. “If I catch Alevai cheating at cards again, that one’ll be true.” The camel gestured dismissively and gave some retort in Dromedarian.

“The Antlers, with the star Ishvi at its right tip looking redder than usual. Death, followed by a rebirth.” Kaduat snorted. “Well, at least whoever dies gets a do-over.” Her eyes scanned the sky. “Beside it, the Twins… with Julian’s comet between them.”

The humor drained from her voice. For a moment, no one spoke, the night filled only by the sounds of the crackling fire and the bubbling soup. Kaduat stared upward, suddenly serious. “That one really is bad.”

Zaeneas broke her usual silence. “The end of a long kinship. Bonds of family, shattered forever.” She watched Kaduat with rapt attention. Cranberry was vaguely aware that some zebra tribes had strong astrological traditions of their own. At her side, Apricot unconsciously pressed closer, his eyes wide.

Less steadily than before, Kaduat traced to another constellation. “Ouroborous, encircling two planets tonight… both aligned with the central star inside the ring.” She considered it for a moment, stroking her chin. “That’s very unusual. We face three betrayals, each worse than the last, yet in the end we’ll be right where we started.” With a sweep of her foot, she pointed to another. “And finally, the Spectacles, clear and shining as can be. No transients to be seen. Long-sought knowledge, of ourselves and the world, awaits us. Whether we want it or not.” Kaduat cleared her throat, stepping back and swiping a hoof through the symbols she’d drawn, scattering the dirt and bringing the reading to a close.

Zaeneas bowed her head. “So sayeth the stars,” she whispered reverently. Kaduat gave her a disquieted look.

“Well,” said Pollux dryly, “that was cheerful.” He glanced over at his twin brother. “I guess we’d best watch out for comets, Castor.”

“Like I said,” Kaduat replied uneasily, sitting back down beside her bottle, “it’s all bunk. The readings are so vague you can match them to anything that happens. Like Bea’s cutting board. I may know the words, but I don’t put much stock in star predictions.” She brought the rum to her lips and paused. “Not after believing them got my brother killed.” She shook her head and tipped the bottle back.

The awkward silence that followed was broken by the banging of metal, as Beatriz rapped the edge of the cauldron with her spoon. “Dinner’s ready.”

Everyone lined up, the camels first. Given that they were the ones pulling the carts, they’d earned the choicest servings of the meal. The Sugar family settled in toward the end of the line. They’d only been waiting a few minutes when Apricot tugged on Cranberry’s foreleg. “Mom, can you get mine? I want to show Kaduat my new spell.”

“Okay. We’ll bring yours over.” Cranberry sent him off with a wave and a smile. “Let the poor camel finish her food first, though.”

Apricot nodded brightly, trotting off toward Kaduat, who had retired to the outskirts of the circle with a couple of her camel compatriots. “Hey, Kaduat! Check this out! You got any little rocks over there?”

Cranberry watched him go, breathing the forest air in deeply. The wind was strong tonight, carrying the scent of sap and sawdust from the cleared blockage across the glade. The smell of the trees and the sound of the flickering fire brought her back to happier times. She remembered camping in the Cottontail Woods south of Canterlot with Inkpot and the Strudel family. She and her sister would stay up in their tent late at night, playing games and whispering secrets to each other in the dark.

A voice interrupted her line of thought. “He’s only been doing that for a day, and you’d think he mastered it months ago.”

She turned her head back to find Inger watching their son with an unreadable expression. Following his gaze, she watched Apricot’s horn glow as Kaduat gamely tossed a pebble at him. Rosy light flashed, and the pebble scattered away. Kaduat and the other camels looked suitably impressed, while Apricot urged them to go again.

Inger’s brow creased. “Pollux is a good teacher. Apricot’s been thriving under his lessons. Just like he did with Mr. Strudel.” He mostly sounded tired, but she caught the faint regret in his voice.

Cranberry lowered her voice to a private volume, resting a comforting hoof on her husband’s shoulder. “And like Strawberry does with you.”

“I…” Inger slowly looked away. “I’ve never been there for Apricot the same way.”

“You’re not a unicorn,” she said gently. “You can’t blame yourself for not being the one to teach him magic.”

His wing jerked under her hoof as if stung. “I know I shouldn’t. But he looks up to me, and… I can’t be what he wants me to be. What he deserves.”

“All he wants is for you to be here with him.” Cranberry smiled, watching as her son’s magic demonstration degenerated into a war of pebble tossing between him and Kaduat. Soon the two were rolling in the dirt, laughing and kicking dust at each other. Cranberry sighed, smiling.

“At least he’s outside,” said Inger dryly, watching the show. He exhaled. “I know you’re right. I tell myself the same things. But… you don’t see the disappointment in his eyes when he realizes I won’t understand something he’s learned. Unicorn stuff, he says. It’s like there’s this distance between us, getting wider with every new spell he picks up. I don’t know how to cross it.”

Kaduat and Apricot appeared to have called a truce. Laughing, the two dusted themselves off and let the pebbles lie. After returning to her soup and taking a few spoonfuls, she beckoned him close, whispering something in the young colt’s ear and pointing toward one of the circled carts. With a mischievous grin, Apricot nodded, and set off toward it at a trot.

Inger took a swig from the little flask around his neck. Cranberry’s brow furrowed in concern. “That’s not some of Kaduat’s rum, is it?”

“Huh?” He blinked. “Oh. No, it’s ginkgo tonic. Zaeneas fixed some for me. It’s like tea, but five times stronger.” He smiled wearily. “And it tastes ten times worse.”

So he hasn’t been sleeping well, either. Cranberry hesitated. It was the perfect opening to talk about her own nightmares, but they weren’t exactly alone here. The whole camp didn’t need to hear about it if voices got raised.

“Ow!” came a yelp from the far side of the camp. Cranberry’s head jerked sharply toward the noise, maternal instincts alert, before she spotted Pollux striding toward them with Apricot in tow. The older unicorn’s horn glowed a soft red, accompanied by a soft crimson aura around one of his charge’s ears.

She lifted her eyebrow as the two reached them. Pollux cleared his throat. “Lord and Lady Vallen,” he said, dipping his head gracefully.

“Pollux,” she returned the greeting with a curious look at her son.

“It seems certain bad influences have convinced my student to go rifling through my private reserves,” said Pollux, favoring Kaduat with a momentary glare. The camel, overhearing, blew him a raspberry.

“Private reserves?” said Virgil, from his spot in the line ahead. “Pollux! Did I just hear that you brought a bag of your famous cookies along?”

“Really?” Beatriz leaned away from the cauldron. “Those lemon snaps? Pollux, seriously, you’ve got to give me the recipe for those.”

Behind them, even Zaeneas perked up. “I was not aware that you made more,” she murmured, with interest.

“I see no one remembers what private means,” said Pollux, witheringly dry. “There aren’t enough for everyone, so unless you vultures want to fight each other for them…” He shooed the hungry mercenaries away with a hoof. Virgil gave a disappointed grumble as he slunk back to the cauldron.

Pollux returned to Cranberry with a wry frown, giving the colt beside him a gentle cuff with his hoof. Apricot ducked his head for a moment with a wholly unrepentant grin. “Since my apprentice has such a bounty of free time, I thought we might put him to work. Our water supplies could use a top-off. Pwyll tells us the river is just a short walk north, so I thought Apricot and I might go fill a barrel.”

Apricot’s eyes lit up. “We could practice more wards, too, right?”

“Of course. Though I don’t know a wardsong against cookie thieves.” Pollux’s mouth twitched, but he restrained a smile.

Cranberry had a momentary pang of worry, but realized this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. “All right. Have fun. And try not to scrape your nose again.”

Apricot shared a quick look with his father. “I’ll be careful,” he said.

As the two trotted away, Cranberry and Inger finally reached the front of the line. Beatriz ladled them both out bowls of soup, which they took with a quick thanks, and then headed to the nearest free seat amongst the log-benches.

Per usual, the soup was hearty and filling. Cranberry sipped from her bowl, looking back up at the stars. After Kaduat’s reading, the twinkling felt a little threatening, as if the stars were watching them. She frowned. Knowledge, whether we want it or not…

Her foreleg was jostled, and she was quickly forced to focus on not spilling her soup. “Sorry,” said Inger, setting his own, empty bowl down.

“It’s fine. You were hungry, huh?”

“Felt like I hadn’t eaten all day. Maybe it’s the tonic.” He took a slow drink from his little flask, grimacing at the taste. His eyes were focused across the camp, where Apricot and Pollux were retrieving a small, empty barrel from one of the carts. Apricot hoisted it above his back with a glowing horn, and the two set off for the edge of the woods. Cranberry watched the unicorns melt into the shadows.

Now’s my chance, she thought with trepidation. “I’m thinking about turning in early tonight. Join me?”

“Mm.” Inger regarded the flask in his hoof for a moment. Suddenly he gave a firm nod, capping the flask and letting it drop back around his neck. “Sure. I could use the rest. Long day.”

Her thoughts raced as they made their way through the campsite. She’d tossed her journal into their tent earlier, but now it felt like a time bomb waiting for them. I have to tell him, she thought, swallowing. If I don’t get this out in the open, Tybalt’s going to make him think something even worse.

Inger pulled up the tent flap, gesturing for her to go first. She slipped inside, stepping over Apricot’s empty bedroll. The small bag holding her journal lurked in the nearest corner. With a weary grunt, Inger slumped down into his own bedroll. His wings fluttered.

Cranberry sat down beside him. “Inger, there’s something I should… tell you.”

Blearily, he turned over to meet her eyes. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Sorry. I’m just tired, and nervous. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I don’t think anyone has,” he said darkly. Inger sat up, glancing at the walls of the tent as though they were sinking in on them. “It’s this place.” He considered something for a moment. “I… I’ve been having these dreams, Cranberry.”

“Dreams…?” she echoed.

“About my mother. And… about you.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Memories, only, not quite. And they’re not good ones. The last one was about what happened after I proposed. I ran into Rye at the pub that night.” Inger’s eyes creased. “He was wrecked. I didn’t want to see it at the time. I’d forgotten all about it until yesterday.”

She hunched with guilt. “He told me he was happy for us.”

“Cranberry…” Inger rubbed the back of his neck. “I think he loved you.”

Neither she nor Inger had ever spoken the thought aloud. They might have gone their whole lives without saying it, but now it could not be unsaid. The words lay between them like a dead thing. Cranberry’s mouth had gone very dry. “Once, maybe,” she confessed. “But that was a long time ago.”

“I know,” said Inger, almost desperate, as though trying to convince himself. “But sometimes I can’t stop myself from wondering…” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Was it always one-sided? Did you ever feel the same way?”

She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the journal. “Not the way I feel about you, Inger.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, he nodded his head. “Okay.” Sighing, he slumped. “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t matter, anyway. That was all so long ago.” Finally, he looked at her again. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

At that moment, her courage failed her. To her shame, it seemed she wasn’t strong enough. Cranberry placed a hoof on his and leaned in to kiss him. “Just that I love you,” she murmured, “And that I always have.”

She grabbed his shoulders and kissed him again. Inger jolted in surprise as she pressed her lips against his, almost painfully hard. Cranberry’s hoof traced down his chest, slipping between his legs. Her husband’s breath caught as she touched him.

Inger began to return the forceful kiss. His hoof stroked through her mane, brushing her golden curls. Electric tingles carried across her skin beneath his hooftip. Cranberry planted a hoof on his chest and gently pushed him onto his back. For a moment, he looked up at her with hesitation in his tired, sunken eyes, but then he smiled. Slinking over him, she leaned down to deliver a gentle nibble to his neck.

“Nnh,” he grunted softly. “So this is why you wanted to be alone…”

No need to correct him. “Shh.” She placed a hoof on his lips, and kissed the spot she’d just bitten.

Inger groaned as her other hoof stroked upward. He was starting to relax, to her relief. She pressed herself against him, slowly rubbing her chest against his. I need this, she thought. We both do. Both of them had been arguing because of pent-up frustration from the journey, and the forest, and from not being together in a while, that was all. They hadn’t gotten a chance like this since Apricot’s surprise arrival. Some much-needed physical touch would ease the tension. An apology with words would only ruin the moment.

She kissed him again, slowly rolling her hips against him. His firm muscles supported her easily, strong and smooth as always beneath her touch. She arched her back, pressing both hooves down on his chest as she ground into him. Heat pulsed between her legs as he rubbed against her sensitive skin. “I think I’m ready,” she whispered.

Inger lifted her hindquarters with his hooves as he lined up, and then gave her cutie marks a light tug. Cranberry sank down onto him, and they both gasped as he slid inside. She pressed her forehead against his, exhaling. “Mnh,” she managed. Inger stroked her cheek, sending a little pleasant shiver down her spine. With a deep breath, she started to move, drawing a soft groan from his lips.

This was good. Familiar. As she settled into a rhythm, her eyes closed and she let her mind go fuzzy and blank. The pleasure building between them was the only thing in the world. Their breathing filled the tent, soft and heavy.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, sweeping a strand of her mane out of her face. “I don’t say it enough.”

“Ah,” she panted. “Inger…” It was working. As she rocked up and down, Cranberry let a soft moan escape her lips.

Inger leaned up and kissed her chest. “I love you.”

Something caught in her throat. Cranberry felt suddenly drawn to the corner of the tent, against her will. Struggling against the inexorable pull, she turned to eye the bag with her journal once more. Her rhythm atop him faltered. “Mmh,” she said, before diving down to kiss him again with desperate intensity.

Maybe, if she loved him hard enough, if she made him feel good enough, it would all blow over and things could go back to the way they were before Tybalt had forced his way into their lives. Back before Apricot Strudel had died and her world's foundations had gone crooked.

“Hey,” said Inger, confused. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t pause, kissing him harder as she sped up her hips. Don’t stop, she thought, don’t stop, or you’ll lose him.

“Nngh,” he grunted, blinking, but he didn’t close his eyes and sink back the way she was hoping for. Gently, he broke the kiss by pushing up on her chest. “Cranberry, wait. Hold on.”

“No,” she muttered, shaking her head. “We can’t stop.”

“But you’re crying.” The worry in his voice pierced the fog in her head.

A wet, warm tear dripped from her cheek to land on his nose. Cranberry faltered, coming to a halt. “I… we have to—we can’t stop,” she begged.

“What?” Inger sat up, bringing her with him. “Why?”

“Because…” Cranberry’s shoulders heaved as more tears burst forth. “Because if we can’t even get this right, what chance have we got?” She fell into his chest, pressing into his warm fur as her voice cracked into sobs.

Gods. Now she’d ruined everything. Instead of distracting him, making him forget, she’d made sure he knew there was something wrong. But she found that she was too tired to fight it any more. He hugged her tight, just like he had on that rainy, miserable night weeks ago. Just like he had in Sleipnord, the first time they’d ever kissed.

Cranberry rested her cheek on his chest, closing her eyes as he wrapped a foreleg around her. “Inger, I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she confessed. “I’m so tired. All the time. Taking care of Strawberry and Apricot, teaching classes at the university, dealing with the department politics and my own research and somehow finding time for just the two of us—it’s too much.” She bent her head. “It’s too much. I’ve been giving so much of myself for so long that I’m worried there isn’t anything left.”

Sensing she wasn’t finished, he said nothing. After a moment, she swallowed and continued. “The only thing that’s gotten me through it all is you, Inger. You’re the one I can always count on. You’re my pillar. The one holding me up, more than anyone. More than Rye, more than Windstreak or Apricot. More than Inkpot. It’s you, Inger. It always has been. With you behind me I can face it all, I can keep going.” She took a shaky breath. “But now, with all that’s been happening, for the first time, it feels like… like I could lose you. And if I do, it all comes crashing in. I’ll be buried.” She kissed him, more pain than pleasure. “I can’t bear the thought of it,” she whispered. “I’ve already lost so much of my family. If I lose more now, I’ll fracture like glass.”

“You won’t lose me,” he promised, returning her kiss. “I love you. It would take a lot more than a few arguments to change that.”

The icy pit in her stomach was back. “Like what?”

He blinked. “That’s not what I meant. Nothing would change that.”

She searched his eyes. In them, she found something she rarely saw in her husband. Something that not even griffons or dragons could create.

Fear.

“You’re the only stallion I’ve ever loved,” she said. Suddenly exhausted, she lay down at his side, tugging on his foreleg for him to follow. “That’s always been enough for me. And it always will be.”

She felt utterly weary. Cranberry’s eyes sank closed as she nestled her head against him. She held on to Inger’s comforting warmth as long as she could, her breathing easing as his downy wing wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close. Maybe he could keep the dreams away, like Nightmare Moon had before the Moonfall. Her legs slackened as consciousness fled.

* * *

Even with spellsong, keeping the empty barrel’s dead weight lifted for so long was taxing. A bead of sweat rolled down Apricot’s neck as he concentrated on the melody, trying to divide his attention between the spell and following Pollux through the trees without tripping over any roots. The older unicorn’s horn led the way, glowing a soft crimson beneath the darkened trees.

They’d been walking for at least twenty minutes. Pollux stopped more than once, tapping his chin and checking a magical compass he summoned intermittently. When he cast the spell, a tiny, glowing red needle whirled to life on his upturned hoof and pointed straight north. “Apparently when Pwyll said the river wasn’t far,” he murmured, “he meant as the pegasus flies.”

“We’re not lost, are we?”

“No, but we certainly haven’t been taking the most direct route north.” Pollux squinted around at the trees. “This forest feels like a maze. I don’t appreciate being shepherded.” He shook his head with a wry chuckle, dismissing the compass spell with a shake of his hoof. “Ah. I’m letting our young guide’s superstitions get to me. Come on. We’re almost there. I can hear the water.”

Apricot listened for a moment, and caught the faint but unmistakable sound of a rushing stream. Feeling a little vigor return to his step at the thought of setting the barrel down, he trotted after Pollux again. “We’re not heading back to camp right away, are we?”

“No. The riverbank will be a good place for your next lesson.”

Relieved, Apricot threaded between two trees, pausing when he heard the barrel get stuck as it tried to follow. With a sigh, he poured a little more into his spellsong, lifting the barrel up to a wider gap and squeezing it through. “Wait… am I going to have to carry this back after we fill it?”

Pollux lifted an eyebrow. “Of course. A pegasus has to exercise his wings to get faster. An earth pony’s muscles need stress to grow. Why should a unicorn’s magic be any different?” His mouth twitched. “Now, I might be willing to take a turn…”

Apricot had made enough deals with Strawberry to recognize one. “If…?”

“If you help me get back at Kaduat,” said Pollux, grinning.

Snickering, Apricot nodded. “How?”

“I haven’t decided, yet. Maybe we’ll fill one of her bottles with that disgusting medicinal tonic Zaeneas makes. Steal my lemon snaps, will she…” Pollux muttered to himself. He looked back to make sure he Apricot was still keeping pace. “Speaking of medicine, how’s that nose?”

Apricot’s smile faded. “It’s fine.” He wished the adults would stop asking him about it.

“That’s good.” Pollux blinked, turning back ahead. “I was afraid I might be pushing you too fast.”

“What? No!” Apricot cantered up to him, the barrel bobbing behind. “It’s been great! I just messed up with the shield once, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, it will.” Pollux’s horn flashed, and some particularly thick foliage in their path bent out of their way. “Nopony does magic perfectly every time. Even with spellsinging. You’ll get tired, or forget a note, or let your beat slip, and make a mistake. We all do it.” His mouth thinned. “And if I give you too much to handle, those mistakes might be dangerous.”

“I can handle it,” protested Apricot. “I’ve learned all of your lessons so far.”

Pollux’s pace suddenly came to a halt as they passed another group of tightly packed trees. Ahead, in their combined hornlight, a wide gap stretched forward. The river, about five meters across, flowed gently and surely before them. The dark waters reflected the glowing beacons of their horns, lighting the trees around with a wide glow. The banks sloped smoothly down into the water, vanishing into the surprising depths without a trace.

Apricot sighed with relief. “Finally.” He set the barrel down and sat heavily. He puffed, finding himself out of breath. Leaning back on his forehooves, he looked up at the stars, visible through the gap in the canopy over the river. Pollux sat beside him with a small smile, letting him take a break before the lesson. Apricot looked at him curiously. “Why are you so worried all of a sudden?”

“Because our next lesson is fire warding.” Pollux fiddled with the clasp of his robes.

Apricot’s eyes widened. “You’re going to teach me to make fire?”

“I’m going to teach you to shield yourself from it,” Pollux said, with a measured look, “But in the process… yes. You’ll learn how to make fire.”

“I’ve, uh,” Apricot began, wondering if he should admit this. Well, he’d told his dad before, and hadn’t gotten in trouble. “I’ve actually made fire before. A couple of times. I figured it out myself.”

Pollux lifted an eyebrow. “How’d it go?”

“Um…” Apricot nibbled his hoof for a moment. “Last time, I caught my mane on fire,” he confessed, wincing.

“Mhm.”

“How’d you know?”

“Because,” said Pollux dryly, looking down into the river, “I did the same thing when I was your age.” He trailed a hoof in the water. “Never forget: fire has a will of its own. If you aren’t careful, if you lose control of it, it will spread and spread until it consumes everything around you. And you.”

Apricot fidgeted. “How’d you do it the first time?” he asked. “I figured it out by watching Mr. Strudel.”

“It’s… not a pleasant story.” Pollux grew suddenly reserved, withdrawing his hoof into his robes. “I don’t want to frighten you.”

“I like scary stories.” Apricot grinned, still panting from the trek.

Pollux smiled privately. “All right, I’ll tell you later. But for now, you need to focus.”

“Okay.” Apricot puffed out another breath. He wasn’t quite recovered from hauling that barrel. “Did you have a teacher when you were a colt?”

“No… I had to figure most of it out by myself, at first.” Pollux smiled, but his eyes were suddenly far away. “That was a long, long time ago. Back when Castor and I still lived in Alastria.”

“Where’s that?” Apricot knew all the Equestrian provinces, and that wasn’t one of them. It sounded familiar, though. Maybe Mr. Strudel or his mother had mentioned it in one of their history lessons.

“What do you know about the protectorates?”

“Uh…” Apricot had heard the word before, but couldn’t for the life of him remember what they were. If his mother were here she’d be tut-tutting him right now, he could feel it.

“Nothing, then,” surmised Pollux, looking a little crestfallen. “Forgotten in just one generation…” He fell quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat. “After the war with Grypha; meaning the first one, centuries ago, where the ponies pushed the griffons south and claimed Equestria’s modern borders, the princesses—for there were still two, then—and the council of lords decided to prevent another war with the griffons from ever happening.”

“Ummm…”

“Quite,” said Pollux, flashing an ironic grin despite himself. “Still, they were determined to try. They created a number of small satellite polities occupying the liminal scrubland between Equestria and the Saladi desert.”

Apricot had only understood about six of those words, but he didn’t want Pollux to think he wasn’t following along, so he gave his most knowing nod.

“Officially, they were there to facilitate exchanges between the two great powers. In reality, they only existed to absorb the first shock of a griffon invasion, giving Equestria time to rally her defenses. The unspoken bargain was that, short of an all-out invasion, Equestria would protect them. Keep them safe from griffon raids, supply them with food… the scrubland wasn’t good for farming. The protectorates were dry and dusty. Oftentimes we’d get sandstorms rolling north out of the desert.” Pollux stared into the dark forest, his thoughts far away. “The largest of the protectorates was Alastria. It’s where Castor and I were born.”

“Do you ever go back to visit?”

“Alastria is gone,” said Pollux quietly. “There’s nothing to go back to.”

Well, Apricot understood those words; he just wasn’t sure he could comprehend them. Losing a house, sure, but losing your whole homeland? What would it be like if Canterlot just stopped existing? He rubbed a hoof uneasily. “What happened?”

“For a long time, the princesses kept their bargain. But after Celestia’s sister was banished into darkness, the protectorates were all but abandoned.” Pollux closed his eyes. “Crops failed. Griffon raids went from frequent to constant. In the name of keeping peace, the Equestrians did nothing to uphold their promised protection against Grypha. The government was too corrupt to function, and indeed fell apart completely long before my time. Alastria became a lawless, miserable land.”

He let out a heavy breath. “By the time Castor and I were born, all the other protectorates had already been annexed by Grypha. They were artificial states, to be blunt; propped up by Equestria to serve a purpose, without history or culture to bind them to their land. No one had lived there before, and after all the ponies had been either pushed north into Equestria or taken as slaves by the griffons, the territory was left empty once more. It was just a means to invade the lush fields of Whitetail, over the river.” Pollux shook his head, frustrated. “But it could have been more. If only anyone had tried.”

Apricot remained silent, unsettled. He’d never seen Pollux get so agitated. How could something like this have happened so close to Equestria? And why did no one ever talk about it? Surely he’d have remembered if his mother had said even this much about the protectorates.

“It was an awful place, full of violence, fear, and constant hunger.” Pollux clenched his teeth for a moment. “But it was the only home my brother and I had ever known.” He sighed, and suddenly all the anger seemed to pass out of him. “Our parents died when we were very young. A griffon raid, I think, or maybe just a band of looters. Whoever they were, they burned our village to the ground while Castor and I were out foraging.” He paused for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” said Apricot, dry-mouthed.

“It’s all right.” Pollux took a deep breath. “The two of us wandered the country for a time, moving from town to town, getting food and shelter wherever we could find it. Castor always made sure I got the first bite of anything we took—uh, found.” He smiled.

“So that’s when he gave you that spellbook,” said Apricot. “The one from that merchant.”

“Mhm.” Pollux looked back fondly in the direction of the camp. “Neither of us knew anything about magic, of course. For a while I had to figure it out all on my own, even though I could barely read.” At last he turned his head back to Apricot. “I guess that’s why I want to help you learn. If I can spare you from years of fumbling in the dark like I did, then I’ll have done as much good as any rescue mission.”

“Thanks,” said Apricot, sitting forward. “Without you and Mr. Strudel…” He remembered his first lesson at the bakery, where he’d learned to light his horn, and felt a sudden ache in his chest. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Pollux’s mouth twisted. “Especially to Castor. He’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“Okay,” said Apricot, laughing as the mood lightened. “As long as you promise not to tell anyone that I still get winded just from carrying a barrel…”

“My word as a mage,” said Pollux, pressing a hoof to his chest and bowing. “Now, are you ready for the next lesson?”

“Yes,” said Apricot, his eyes glinting. “I’m ready. Show me how to make fire.”

“Then close your eyes, and listen to the song…”

* * *

Warm light from the campfire flickered on the steepled walls of the tent. Inger wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there, staring at the fabric, with Cranberry fast asleep beside him. Her familiar snoring grated on his ears like the mercenaries’ hacksaws, but that wasn’t why he was still awake.

Some of it was surely the ginkgo tonic. Though its burning, acrid aftertaste was long gone, he still felt like he could go for another hour or two without sleep. But there was something else, too.

A tiny, familiar voice whispered, Go on. Just a peek.

The dragon was lively tonight, gorged on regret, sexual frustration and ever-rising guilt. Inger kept replaying the day in his mind on repeat. The way Apricot had whimpered as he curled into a ball, cringing back from the stone his father had hurled at him. The happiness on his son’s face as he got the chance to spend more time with Pollux, learning what his father could never teach him. The shame of asking Cranberry questions he’d never felt the need to before.

You want to find out.

Annoyed, he closed his eyes, willing the dragon to be silent. He didn’t need to succumb to its foolish urging.

But how else will you know for sure?

His wife’s journal was private. The guard-captain of Her Majesty’s Royal Firewings did not make a habit of snooping through other ponies’ personal belongings on a whim. If he caught any of his soldiers doing something like that, he’d assign them to night watch duty in the castle catacombs for two months. Besides, those journals were for academic logs. There probably wasn’t even anything about him in there.

Oh, come now. Then why did she keep looking at it? The dragon crooned softly in his ear. Just a few pages!

“I don’t need to,” he muttered to himself. “I trust her.”

And look where that’s gotten you.

Things between them were starting to get better. At least she wasn’t avoiding him anymore. Why risk that fragile progress by intruding on her private thoughts? Just for curiosity? He was better than that.

Yes, yes, you’re very noble. So either go to sleep already, or READ IT READ IT READ IT—

Inger sat up, exhaling. He carefully disentangled himself from Cranberry’s forelegs, letting his hoof linger on her side for a moment. “I’m just getting a drink before I go back to bed,” he said quietly.

Of course! The dragon purred. Very reasonable.

He left the tent, stepping out into the fresh forest air. With everybody in their tents, the glade felt deserted. Well, everybody save one. Kaduat, on watch duty beside the fire, looked up at his intrusion on the tranquil night. She smiled. “Hey.”

“Evening.” He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Inger forced his weary hooves to move, approaching the cart with their water stores. Not bothering with a vessel, he pulled the nearest barrel to the edge of the back, sticking his head under the spigot and twisting the valve. Cool water drizzled into his mouth. When he’d had his fill, he shut the valve and shoved the barrel back in.

He avoided Kaduat’s gaze as he returned to the tent. Time to go back in there, curl up beside his wife, and get some much-needed rest.

You think you’ll get any rest with all these dreams?

Inger paused. The thought of another memory tainted by those white aspen trunks was almost too much to bear. Maybe sleep could wait for a little longer.

And you know just how to pass the time…

Inger bit his lip so hard that he drew blood. “Damn it,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. Wiping his lip, he dragged the bag toward him and pulled out the book within. He flipped it open, sparing a wary look to make sure Cranberry was still asleep. Enough firelight was filtering through the tent fabric that he could read his wife’s familiar script. Keeping as quiet as possible, he flipped through, searching for the most recent entry. Hungrily, his eyes devoured the words.

I had the dream again last night. Same as the last one. It’s so vivid that it feels real. More real than my actual memories. I thought maybe writing it down might reveal something, some pattern I’ve been missing while I’m experiencing it, but I don’t know. I’ve never told Inger about what happened. Honestly, it’s never seemed important. But with how tense things have been, I guess… it seems important now.

It always begins the same way.

I’m climbing the stairs.

* * *

“Hey, Cranberry, you coming?”

She blinks, lowering her head. The rough stone steps stretch upward, snaking up the mountainside. High above, the remains of the castle still glitter in the bright moonlight. Thankfully, they aren’t making the full trek up there tonight.

A dozen steps ahead of her, Rye hefts the large sack lying across his shoulders. He fluffs his wings and puffs out a heavy breath. “You know I don’t know where we’re going, right? I’ve just been following you.”

“Sorry, sorry.” She resumes her course, trotting up the steps and passing him to take the lead back. “Just needed a breather. I can’t believe you climb these every day.”

“You get used to it pretty quickly,” he says, following her up. “The old lunar chapel was the only place left big enough to hold the Princess, her guards, the council, and Eberhardt’s entourage all at the same time, so it wasn’t like we had much choice. It’s a miracle it didn’t burn down with the rest of the castle.” He sighs. “I haven’t been coming up here as much since the Nordponies returned home, though.”

Cranberry wipes sweat away with a hoof. “You must be in better shape than I am by now. At least the walk to the university isn’t up the side of a mountain.”

Rye snorts. “First time not being able to fly has been good for my health, I guess.” There’s a twinkle in his eye as he grins. “Most of the regular castle staff take a pegasus-drawn carriage up from the city each morning. I like the exercise, though. The mountain air really clears your head.”

Above, Cranberry spots white tree trunks to the side of the stairs. Beneath the aspens is the memorable boulder that resembles a grumpy mule, marking the hidden trail. “There! Hang a right off the steps at that rock.”

They follow the narrow dirt path away from the stone stairway, rising into the rocky mountainside. They pass bushes and flower patches, as the white trees thicken around them. Rye grunts as he yanks the bag through a stubborn shrub. “How did you even find this place?”

“It’s a lot easier to spot from the air, supposedly,” she says, smiling. “Inger brought me here.”

“You know, sometimes I wonder whether I’d rather have working wings or a horn. Right now, the wings are winning handily.” A low branch smacks him in the face. “Gah!”

Cranberry snickers as she reaches the end of the trees. “Of course, then you’d have had to fly me and the bag up with you.”

“Good point. Oh!” Rye’s eyes light up as he steps forward after her, into the clearing at the cliff-edge.

The two stand on a small, grassy outcrop of rock. It juts from the forested mountainside, open to the world beyond and below. From here, one can see the entire city, laid out like a map and dotted with glimmering candlelights. Beyond lies the verdant Equestrian countryside, stretching out to the nearby Cottontail Woods and off to the endless horizon. It’s as close to flying as an earth pony can get.

“Wow…” Rye inhales, setting the bag down and walking up to the edge. “I admit, I was skeptical, but this… this is worth the hike.”

“Don’t get too caught up in the view before we eat,” she says, nudging the bag. “I’m starving!”

“Right, right.” He undoes the knot of the fabric, revealing its nature as a tied-up blanket. Cranberry helps unroll it, covering the rocks and grass with the comfortable fabric. Rye centers the basket that was held within, before popping the lid open and pulling out the bread to start on their sandwiches. “Shame Inger couldn’t be here to help celebrate.”

“He’s doing important work.” It’s a reminder that she’s given herself many times over the past few months. Cranberry sighs, trying not to show how much she misses her fiancé. “His last letter said the recruitment drive in Weatherforge is going well. And more importantly, they’ve nearly pushed Warlord Lionsclaw out of Southlund entirely. There’s only two fortresses left, and the griffon surrender seems inevitable.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Rye piles his bread slice high with lettuce, onions, and tomatoes, before completing the sandwich with another slice. “The Firewings survived the war, after all. My mother doesn’t have to see the end of her order.” He eyes the sandwich for a moment, frowning. “Inger hasn’t gotten injured again, has he?”

“Not since that scrape from a griffon a month ago. The medic told him it’ll be totally healed up in another few weeks.” Her heart was in her mouth every time she opened one of his letters, but the news she dreaded most had yet to come.

“Good. I guess after you kill a dragon, griffons don’t really stand a chance, do they?”

“I guess not,” she says, smiling. Reaching into the basket, she withdraws the wine bottle. Rubbing the neck with a hoof, she points it away from herself and braces. Tapping the bottom with a wince, she feels it buck in her hooves as the cork shoots out, vanishing over the edge of the cliff. “Whoops!”

Foam drizzles from the bottle for a moment before she pulls it back upright. “Well, we’re not finding that cork.”

“I guess we’ll have to finish it all right here,” says Rye, as he offers her the second sandwich. “That’s a good vintage. Real Silverglen sparkling wine, right from the Rose Valley, 212. It seems almost criminal to drink it straight from the bottle, but I didn’t want to risk bringing any of Dad’s good glassware up the mountain.”

Cranberry takes a sip, feeling the fizzy liquid spill over her tongue. She savors the bright, crisp taste. “Mm. This is good.”

Rye lifts an eyebrow. “I hope I’m not going to have to carry you back down the steps.”

She blushes a deep crimson. “It’s just wine! That nordpony feast you keep making fun of me for had hard liquor.”

“Uh huh. If you start singing viking shanties again, I’m cutting you off.” Rye snickered. “At least there’s no tables for you to stand on up here.”

Harrumphing, she shoves the bottle at him. He takes a drink, nodding his head as he sets the wine down. “Mm. Mmm!” He holds his sandwich up in a toast. “To Canterlot University’s newest professor!”

“Easy, there.” Rolling her eyes, she touches her sandwich to his, before taking a bite. “I’m not a professor yet.” Below them, she can pick out the university with ease. The rounded dome of the College of Historical Studies was where she’d spent almost every weekday and uncountable weekends since returning home from their journey to Sleipnord.

“Okay, fine. But after publishing this paper, it’s only a matter of time.”

“It’s just one paper, and I had a lot of help from Dr. Locke. I technically won’t even have my degree until after next week’s dissertation defense.”

Rye shakes his head, looking down at the university. “With the things you’ve done, they’ll be falling over themselves to give you a position. I’ll bet you’re teaching classes before winter of next year.”

Cranberry takes another bite of her sandwich and smiles. “Thanksh f’r the vote of conf’dence. I hope y’re right.”

“Even if it’s not that easy, you can’t quit.” Rye gives the city a slow, firm nod. “The only thing harder than pursuing what you want is not pursuing it.”

“Hm.” She considers this thoughtfully. “Isn’t that what got me in trouble back in Sleipnord?”

“True. But if you hadn’t taken that book, you would have regretted it forever.”

“I recall you weren’t very happy with me at the time.”

“Well…” Rye shrugs, admitting the point, but waves a hoof to dismiss it. “Things worked out. And in hindsight, if you hadn’t done it, I think it’d still be eating you up inside. I ought to have realized it back then. I still wouldn’t have agreed to it, but… I’d have understood.”

She gives him a look of consternation. “When did you get so annoyingly sagacious?”

Now it’s his turn to blush. “If you spend all day with the princess for months on end, you pick up a few things.”

As the moon drifts slowly across the sky, the sandwiches vanish and the wine bottle drains. By the time the meal is done, Cranberry feels thoroughly happy. Somehow, Rye manages to make even cold sandwiches taste delicious, and the wine has left her bubbly and warm. With a wide yawn, she lies down on her back, watching the moon above. “Gorgeous night out.”

Rye sips the last of the wine respectfully. “It always is, up here. The clouds usually settle on the other side of the mountains. There’s nothing above but the stars.” He gently tosses the empty bottle back at the basket, just missing. It rolls onto the blanket. “Drat.”

“Mhm.” Cranberry lifts a tipsy hooftip to trace circles around the constellations. “So, Rye. You know what my plans are, but I’ve been wondering about yours. What are you going to do now that Eberhardt and his retinue have gone back north?” She glances over at him. “Were you thinking of looking for another job at the castle?”

“I don’t know,” he says, lying down beside her, but on his chest. Propping his head up on his hooves, he kicks his hind legs idly. “I’ve been so busy with the nordpony negotiations that ‘after’ barely crossed my mind.”

“You’re good at it, you know.” Cranberry’s eyes track a shooting star as it crosses the Bull. “Better than you would have been at being a soldier, that’s for sure.”

“Heh. That’s not a high bar.” He shrugs. “But really, I haven’t had time to think about the future until now.”

“I guess we’ve all been busy.” Cranberry shakes her head. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? This time last year, you were still preparing for those officer’s exams, and I was helping Inkpot with the library and scrounging up every book I could on Sleipnord. Dreaming about seeing it someday…” She giggles, lightheaded from the wine. “We’ve come a long way.”

“That we have.” Rye dangles his forehooves off the edge of the outcropping and the bottomless drop below. Cranberry watches nervously, unwilling to get quite so close to the drop, but he is half-pegasus, after all. Neither he nor Inger have ever shown the faintest fear of heights. Rye looks down at the city, musing. “My mother’s retired, the princess knows my name, and my best friends are getting married in a month. It’s a different world. And we’re different ponies.”

“At least some things don’t change,” she says, reseting her forelegs on her breast. “Whenever I visit the bakery, I feel like I’m stepping back in time to be a little filly again. As long as Papa’s baking bread there, we’ll always have a piece of the past to hold on to.”

“You’re right.” Rye smiles, scanning the city. “There it is. Home, sweet home.” He points, but Cranberry can’t spot the tiny building down in the mass of homes and businesses. He sighs. “But I think it’s time for me to move out. Once I have a new job, anyway.”

“Oh.” Cranberry feels bizarrely hurt by this, as if he ought to have asked her permission first. It feels like another little chunk of her past crumbling away. Everything really is changing. Sometimes she wonders if she even recognizes herself anymore.

“Yeah. Now that my mother’s retired, she’s starting to drive me crazy. She keeps hinting that I should get started on grandfoals.” He shakes his head. “Which reminds me… are you nervous?”

She blinks. “About the university?”

“No, the wedding.”

“Oh.” Of course. The wedding. The thing that’s been keeping her up at night for months. “Terrified, actually. The princess told us she wants to turn it into An Event. She says we’ll have hundreds of ponies attending. Nobles and commoners from across the country and half the city turning out to be part of it.” The thought of it makes her stomach swim. Or maybe that’s the wine.

“I don’t envy you,” says Rye, sitting up with a stretch. He nudges a pebble off the edge and watches it bounce away. “When she told me about it, it sounded like she planned on serving you and Inger up on a platter to boost the city’s morale.” He fights to suppress a smile and fails. “You have to admit, though. It’s a good ending to your story. The Dragonslayer and the Professor, saving Equestria and living happily ever after.”

“I’ve never understood why stories end with marriage,” she complains. “Is this really the last interesting thing we’ll ever do? Is it all downhill from here?”

“It’s the start of a new story, rather.” Rye leans back beside her. Together, the two old friends watch the stars. “I think yours will be a happy one. Inger’s a good stallion.”

Cranberry glances sideways at him. Hesitantly, she debates asking. “And what about your story? Meet any nice mares up at the castle?” Pausing for a moment, and emboldened by the drink, she can’t help but voice another longstanding curiosity. “Or… stallions?” It might explain a lot.

Rye just snickers. “I admit, some of those nordponies were impressively built.” His grin fades as he shakes his head. “But no. No mares, no stallions. When you’re a… when you’re like me, you don’t have a lot of options. I’ve never had a…” He falls quiet for a moment. “No one’s ever looked at me the way you and Inger look at each other.”

Twisting over, she puts a hoof on his shoulder. Through the fuzzy warmth in her head, she gives him a serious look. “You will someday, Rye.”

“Maybe.” He stares straight up. “I used to wonder if…” Suddenly he laughs uncomfortably, sitting up. “I suppose time will tell.”

“You will,” Cranberry repeats, her tone turning teasing. “You’ll meet some mare who’s smart, fierce, and head-over-hooves for you. She’s out there waiting. Probably miserable because she hasn’t met you yet.”

Rye can’t resist a reluctant smile. “Let’s hope she doesn’t have to wait long, then.”

“I think someone needs a hug.”

Rolling his eyes, he swats her away. “Cranberry…”

“Come on. Hug.” She sits up and spreads her forelegs.

Sighing, he acquiesces, leaning in to let her hug him. “Thanks.”

Cranberry gives him a squeeze. She hasn’t been this close to another pony in months, she suddenly realizes. The pang of Inger’s long absence hits her again. “Listen, Rye, if you ever need anything, I’m here for you.”

“I know. But I’m fine, really.” He smiles sincerely. “I mean it, this time. After everything that happened in Sleipnord, I’m okay with who I am. As for the rest, what will be, will be.” He gently pushes her back, extricating himself from the hug.

A little put out, she folds her hooves. “What, are you allergic to hugs all of a sudden?”

“No,” he says, giving her a patient yet chiding look, “But it’s different, now.”

“Why?” she asks, already suspecting his answer, and refusing to accept it.

“You’re engaged, Cranberry.”

“Does that mean I can’t hug my friends anymore?” she asks, defiant. “Inger hasn’t annexed me, you know. You’re not going to start a war by showing a little affection.”

Rye doesn’t meet her eyes. “Probably not.”

“He’s been away for ages,” she says, the fire in her belly suddenly going out. “He sends letters all the time, but I… I miss him.” Her voice fades to barely a whisper. “I miss him so much.” She realizes that her eyes are wet, and angrily wipes them. “Sometimes I guess I just—I just want to remember what it feels like to touch someone else.”

This is the alcohol talking. If she keeps going, she knows she’s going to wind up in trouble. Shutting her lips tightly, she stares up into the Mare in the Moon’s black eye. Trying to suppress the rising tide of emotion, she can sense the exact moment she loses her battle. As if controlled by somepony else, her lips move. “I’m not blind, you know. I never was.”

Rye doesn’t answer right away. Nearby, a cricket chirps. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding very small. That he doesn’t ask her for clarification speaks volumes. He scrapes his hoof on the stones, searching for words. “I… I never wanted to get in the way. It wouldn’t have been fair to you, or Inger.”

“What about before?” Dismayed, she realizes the wetness in her eyes is back. “You’ve known me since we were both foals. Is it really so hard to talk to me?”

“About this? Yes.” He slumps. “I guess I always thought there would be more time. For what, I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter now. It hasn’t mattered since the mountain.”

“It does matter.” Cranberry folds her forelegs in her lap, hunching forward. “If you’d asked me a year ago, or a year before that, I would have—”

“Stop!” His voice is suddenly harsh. “Stop. I don’t want to know.”

“So why did you stay so quiet? I might have asked you myself if you ever seemed interested.”

“Because—” His abrupt laugh is weak. “You’re one of the only friends I’ve ever had, Cranberry. I didn’t want to risk losing that.”

She doesn’t bother wiping her eyes again. “Even if I said no, we could still have been friends.”

“But it would have been different.” He looks sick to his stomach.

Cranberry wishes now that she hadn’t let the alcohol push her, hadn’t brought this up. But they might as well get it all out in the open now. “I always thought you were braver than that, Rye.”

“I’m not,” he mutters hollowly. “Besides, I was never sure if it was… real.” For the first time since they’d started talking about this, he looked at her. “I like you, Cranberry. A lot. But more than that? I was never certain if I really felt that way, or if…” Looking up, he shakes his head, as if the words are bitter on his tongue. “Or if I just thought I’d never have another choice. Staying friends was safer. And then I missed my chance to find out.”

“I guess we’ll never know if it could have worked,” she says, looking down at the city, but not really seeing it. Inger’s absence aches like a hole in her chest. She wants him here, to hug her, to kiss her, to make her feel loved again. She was hoping that dinner with a friend could banish the loneliness, but it seems like Rye’s drowning in it too. “You do wonder sometimes, don’t you?”

“Too often.” The words are a ghostly whisper.

She leans closer to him, meeting his eyes. “Remember when we used to play Firewings and Monsters?” she asks, her lip trembling.

“Yes,” he breathes, as his eyes narrow and dart in confusion.

Cranberry closes her eyes and kisses him.

Her head is already warm from the wine, but the feel of his lips on hers sends new warmth flushing through her from top to bottom. It’s like kissing Inger, but just different enough to send a tingle of curiosity down her spine. It’s been so long since she’s felt another pony’s lips against her own.

A rough hoof shoves her away, shattering the moment. Cranberry blinks, tipping off-balance, and fails to catch herself with a drunken hoof as she hits the ground.

“What the hell, Cranberry?”

“I—I—” she blinks again, looking up helplessly at the stars as a bolt of terror shoots through her. “I’m sorr—” The word catches on her lip as her throat seems to seize.

Rye stares at her like a cornered beast, his chest heaving, his face frozen in livid shock. Turning abruptly, he storms away, hurling leftover food into the basket. He pauses on the empty wine bottle, before shoving it into the basket with a grim frown.

Cranberry sits upright, watching him as her legs tremble. All around, the aspen trees hiss with laughter. “Rye, I… that was a mistake. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s time to go home for the night,” he says curtly, pulling the knot tight and hoisting the pack back over his shoulders. “I’ll walk you to bottom of the steps. You should be sobered up by then.”

“Rye, I’m sorry. Please, I… please, don’t…”

“Go home, Cranberry,” he says sharply. “Sleep it off.”

Nodding a little too quickly, she falls in behind him as they set off back into the trees toward the stairs. The leaves around are so noisy that she can barely think. Her mind whirls with the sick gravity of what she’s done, of what she might have done if Rye had kissed her back. As the two reach the mountain steps, Rye pauses at the trail’s edge.

Tentatively, she approaches him. She expects his face to be full of anger, but instead she finds a withdrawn anguish in his eyes. She’s seen that look once before: the time he’d nearly leaped from a cliff just like this one, in despair over his broken body. That time, she saved him. This time, it’s her fault.

He notices her, and his expression goes carefully blank. “I won’t tell Inger,” he says quietly. “Like you said, this was just a mistake. But please promise me we won’t talk about this—any of it—ever again.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, hanging her head. “We won’t.”

* * *

The slamming of a book jolted her awake. After so many nights of seeing that cliff, of tasting that wine, of feeling that shame and guilt boiling up in her gut, she had yet to build up even the slightest immunity. Cranberry felt just as sick and shaky as always.

“You lied to me,” said Inger, his voice dangerously low.

Cranberry blinked in the darkness, seeing only her husband’s silhouette against the dim firelit side of the tent. “What?” she mumbled, still disoriented.

He threw something at her hooves, where it landed with a faint thump. She reached out with a hoof, fumbling in the dark until she felt the familiar cover of her journal. What? she thought blearily. Had he been reading her—

Oh. Oh, no.

“Inger, what did…” She put a hoof to her head, still feeling ill. “How much did you read?”

“Enough to know what you did. Enough to know that you lied to my face.”

Part of her wanted to deny it, to say it was just a bad dream, but her own damning words lay at her hooves. “I… I…” Cringing with shame, she shook her head in despair. “You’d been gone for months, Inger. I was lonely, and drunk, and, and—” Her voice cracked. “And the excuses weren’t good enough then, either. I knew the moment I did it that it was the most terrible thing I’ve ever done to either of you. I’m so sorry, Inger.”

“So you really did it. You took him up on the mountain, got drunk on his wine, and kissed him.” His voice trembled, suddenly hushed. “That was our spot. I—I proposed to you there.”

She could feel the brokenhearted anger cascading off him like mist from a waterfall. Her own guilt, fresh and thick, sat around her shoulders like a mantle. “Inger,” she said, “I didn’t—I didn’t lie to you.”

“Not an hour ago, you told me I was the only stallion you’d ever loved,” he said. “And if you were lying about that, what else have you been lying about?”

“What you read, that wasn’t love,” she said, tears welling. “It was—I don’t know. He and I… we’d known each other for so long. We grew up together. I’d just always wondered if…” She buried her head in her hooves. “Goddess. I screwed up, Inger. I hated myself for it then, just as much as you hate me right now. I swore to myself it would never happen again, and it didn’t. I never spoke about it to him after that, and he never brought it up. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since then, either.”

She fought a small hiccup. “You want to know the stupidest part?” He didn’t answer. “Rye was right. It wasn’t real. Maybe it was wedding jitters, or loneliness, or hell, maybe I was just scared because everything I used to know and be was changing all at once. Maybe I nearly blew my life up because I was afraid.” Cranberry nearly choked on that miserable truth. “But after I married you, I never wondered again about what might have been. I’ve been happy, Inger. Loving you is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“How can I trust that?” The question was filled with more desperation than anger. “After you hid this from me for—Sisters, six years!”

“Because you know me, Inger!”

He turned away. “I thought I did.” A moment passed, and then he threw open the tent flap to leave.

Cranberry scrambled after him, hearing the familiar rush of air under his wings as he took flight. Stumbling outside, she held up a foreleg to shield her dark-adjusted eyes from the fire. She whirled around, looking for him, but all she saw was a lone red feather drifting gently down through the air. “Inger!” she called.

The rustling leaves were her only reply.

She staggered over to the campfire, collapsing beside it. She stared into the crackling flames, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to,” she mumbled. Turning her tear-streaked face upward, she realized—far, far too late—that she wasn’t alone. Across the fire sat Kaduat, frozen in evident embarrassment.

Cranberry cringed, bending her head in shame. Well, if the mercenaries didn’t know we were having trouble before, they do now… At least it wasn’t Tybalt.

After a few moments, she heard a rustle, and a gentle pressure rested on her shoulder. Kaduat cleared her throat from behind her. “Uh… you okay?”

With a shuddering sob, Cranberry threw her hooves up and buried her head in them again. “Goddess, I’m such an idiot. I had a chance to fix this, but instead I tried to—why didn’t I—” Self-recriminations dissolved into wordless tears.

“Er…” Kaduat shifted anxiously. “Do you know where he went? I’m sure he can take care of himself, but he might get lost if he’s wandering around in the woods alone at night…”

Cranberry shook her head, her shoulders still shaking as she tried to catch her breath between hiccups. Kaduat sighed. “All right, look… Bea’s better than me at the whole sympathizing thing, but… here.” She pressed her bottle of rum into Cranberry’s hooves. “Have a couple sips of that, you’ll feel better. Stay by the fire while I go look for him, okay?”

Taking the bottle automatically, Cranberry could only manage a nod. Kaduat gave her another pat on the shoulder and jogged off into the trees after Inger. Cranberry sat by herself at the fireside, gently rocking back and forth. She clung to the cold bottle as though it might keep her afloat in the storm of guilt and regret. There she drowned alone, with no company but her thoughts and the hissing laughter of the trees.

15. New Flames

Between Pollux’s upturned hooves, a tiny flame glowed. It danced and flickered like a tiny fleck of chaos, hot enough to burn, yet not touching the unicorn’s skin. Apricot followed it with his eyes, but it was the song beneath the show of lights that consumed his attention.

The firesong was quick and lively. It reminded him of that jig about seashells they’d played on the ship. The melody bounced incessantly, darting off unexpectedly whenever it pleased. Power thrummed in the spell, a steady stream of Pollux’s magic fueling the little tongue of flame. Whenever it grew too bright, or leaped too far ahead of the beat, Pollux’s voice reined it back. The unruly fire obeyed, matching his tempo for a time, before trying to escape once more. The dance between mage and magic went on and on, yet Pollux’s concentration never wavered.

It was clear to Apricot how fumbling his own early efforts had been. His previous attempts had been hot and bright, but formless and short-lived. In Pollux’s hooves, the fire was a living thing, willful and dangerous, but also fragile, in need of constant nurturing.

“Have you grasped the song?” asked Pollux, firelight glittering in his eyes.

“I think so.” Apricot had been listening to it for at least ten minutes, though it kept surprising him. Without keeping the time signature in his head, it would have been hopeless, but all that counting he’d been doing every night while washing dishes with Beatriz was paying off. He understood now why Pollux had started him with Kemholtz and his boring music theory before even the simplest spells.

“All right. Just sing along with the spell for now.”

Apricot’s horn glowed softly, as he added his own voice to the harmony, letting Pollux lead. He couldn’t help but hum it aloud, his voice lilting with the dancing fire.

The breeze shifted, and the fire swayed. “The first rule of fire is balance,” said Pollux. He lifted his hooves, peering into the light. “It requires air and fuel. Without air, it cannot breathe. Without fuel, it will starve.” The song grew quiet, and the flame shrank to a tiny candle. “Yet, too much of either and the fire’s own hunger will burn it out.” His horn surged, and the flame burst up with an audible woosh. Pollux blew softly into it, sending the fire scurrying away from the turbulent air. It shrank back into his hooves.

That was exactly what had happened to him that time he’d lit his mane on fire, Apricot realized, recognizing the way the flame had flashed in Pollux’s hooves. He hummed the song, feeling the heat on his face, and the song’s energy passing through his horn.

“Your power is the fire’s fuel. Your song is the fire’s breath. You must keep them in balance.” Pollux gave Apricot a studying look. “You have to force it to follow your rhythm, but keep it fed.”

“I understand,” said Apricot.

“Good…” Pollux’s eyes creased with caution. “Now, put your hooves up and take it.”

Apricot cupped his hooves together, and Pollux lifted his own above them. Gently, the mage pulled his hooves apart, and the tongue of flame fell into his student’s waiting hold.

The song flushed with a current of power. Apricot took it in stride, already deep in the magical flow, but he could feel the flame straining to escape into its own rowdy tune. His brow furrowed as he pulled the song back into line, pouring more power into his hold. The little flame flared, doubling in size. A brief flash of panic flitted through him, but he inhaled deeply. “Balance,” he repeated, under his breath.

He counted time almost by instinct. His tempo remained ironclad, and the fire found no escape. It shrank back to a manageable flicker, and then, to his delight, the hot orange light melted into a soft, bright rose.

“Marvelous…” Pollux nodded slowly, gazing at the pink-hued fire with wonder. “Very good, Apricot. Very good.”

He’d expected the warmth in his hooves, but not the warmth that filled his chest and head. The magic circulated through him, power and control in one, so in tune with the fire he held that it was hard to tell where his thoughts ended and the song began. Seized by a sudden fancy, he smiled and gave the flame direction with a mental image. It pulled apart into two strands, both curving up to meet in a laurel wreath of fire. Emboldened, he twisted the two strands, entwining them in a flickering column before letting the fire relax back into a single ball.

“I’m doing it,” he said breathlessly. Look, Mr. Strudel! I’m a mage, just like I always told you I’d be.

His old teacher would have been so happy to see this. The fire sputtered as Apricot swallowed, feeling a familiar pang of loss. The unfairness of it ached. He exhaled, returning his focus to the flame, which burned back brightly.

“Don’t get too fancy with it yet,” said Pollux gently. “Remember what you’re here to learn tonight. Now, watch closely, and listen.” Casually, he placed his hoof into Apricot’s roseate flames.

Instinctively, Apricot jerked the fire away with his hooves. Pollux laughed, and Apricot sheepishly returned it, sensing his teacher’s wardsong. Pollux’s hoof sank back into the flames, yet the fire licked harmlessly at his skin.

“This is the most complex spell we’ve yet studied,” said Pollux, calm but serious. “The wardsong must set the fire’s tempo, match its intensity, and cannot let up. Even a moment’s slip will get you burned.”

Apricot nodded, listening to the spellsong with his horn. “I think I can do it.”

“Well…” Pollux chewed the inside of his cheek as he had some internal debate.

“I know you were worried about going too fast, but I get this. Even more than the levitation song.” Apricot’s heartbeat seemed to thump in rhythm with the wardsong’s tempo. “I can do it.”

“I hadn’t expected you to pick up the firesong so quickly,” admitted Pollux. “All right… but let’s start small.” He cupped his hooves expectantly.

Apricot passed the fire back, feeling a slight chill as the energy left his control. In Pollux’s hooves, the fire’s color returned to a warm orange. The song remained, coursing through the ambient magic. Apricot added the wardsong back to the music with his own voice, feeling the electric tingle of magical energy surround him. There was a frisson in the air like when his matter ward blocked a stone, but sustained, and wrapped around him like a coat rather than a broad sphere.

The fire beckoned. He could feel it tingling on his face. Pollux said something, but Apricot barely heard him. The two songs danced with each other in his mind, fire and shield, danger and safety. With a strange detachment, he placed his hoof down into the fire.

Pollux’s eyes bulged. “Apricot, wait—” But he froze, staring as the flames harmlessly bathed the colt’s hoof.

Hot pinpricks tingled up and down his foreleg, but Apricot felt no pain. It wasn’t even as hot as sitting beside the campfire at night. Entranced, he turned his foreleg over, watching the faint rosy light of his magical ward shimmering on his skin. It felt like he was looking at someone else’s hoof, some disembodied other he could barely sense.

The flames winked out. Apricot blinked a few times as his eyes were suddenly thrust into darkness. He shook his head, as if waking from a dream. Pollux stared at him with a strange look, a mix of awe and worry.

“Did… did I do something wrong?” asked Apricot, letting his hoof rest.

“No.” Pollux’s eyes focused on Apricot’s horn. “Your first try… that was perfect.”

“I just…” Apricot examined his hoof, dazed. “The songs went together.”

Pollux reached up and tugged his hood down, before turning to sit facing the river. He looked into the dark, rushing waters with a meditative distance in his eyes. He was so quiet for a time that Apricot began to fear he’d angered his teacher, or worse, disappointed him. But when Pollux finally spoke, his voice was small and earnest.

“You have a gift, Apricot,” he said, his gaze tracing eddies in the water. “Of a kind I’ve only read about. One day, you’ll be a greater mage than I. Greater than most alive.”

Any pride Apricot might have felt was tempered by that strange, fey look in Pollux’s eyes. “Is that… bad?”

“No. It’s wonderful.” Pollux exhaled slowly. “But it means that you have to be so, so careful.”

Apricot looked at the river, confused and more than a little frustrated. Holding up a hoof, he gestured adamantly. “I was! I didn’t get burned at all.”

“It’s a different kind of careful,” said Pollux. He seemed to be looking very far away. “It’s not just about casting spells safely anymore. Someone like you has to be mindful of the things you do, not just how you do them. If you aren’t, you could wind up hurting people. People you love. People you barely know. More people than you’ve ever met. And worse… you might do it on purpose. Enjoy it.”

“What?” Apricot shook his head in disbelief. “Pollux, what are you talking about? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Even if it gave you anything you wanted? Money. Power. Love. Eternal life…” Pollux’s eyes flashed. “Mages with gifts like yours can do terrible things, Apricot. And they have done them, over and over again, throughout history. Have you ever heard of the Phoenixians?”

Apricot gave a hesitant nod, still confused. “Yeah… Uncle Rye’s told me stories about them.”

“They butchered thousands on their quest for immortality. And the Dominion of the Elk, they did far worse.” Pollux watched the river, unblinking. “Their arcane marvels and medical miracles were purchased with the blood of millions. Slaves, conquered foes, political rivals, all grist for the mill of their magic. When you have the power to do anything, you can convince yourself you have the right to do anything.” His breath hissed out. “In the final stages of that decadence, you’ll find yourself going down roads even the gods dared not tread. Debauchery. Violation. Necromancy.”

At last, he twisted his head to meet Apricot’s eyes. “Blood magic.”

Apricot shivered. “What’s necra… necro…?”

“Necromancy. The foulest magic of all.” All Pollux’s usual wry cheer was gone. “The reanimation of the dead.”

“Reani…” Apricot blinked. “You mean bringing back someone who died?” His eyes widened. “Wait, you can do that? You mean I—” His breath caught in his throat. “Could I bring someone back? Like…” his voice was suddenly very small. “Like Mr. Strudel?”

Pollux gave him a mournful look. “You see the temptations already.”

“Why would that be so bad?”

“Like magic fuels fire, blood can fuel magic. To raise the dead, so much power is needed that you would have to kill dozens of others. No matter how noble your intentions, dark magic is always selfish in the end, Apricot.” Pollux shook his head. “And it’s a false hope. No matter how far you’re willing to go, you can’t steal someone back from death. The things necromancers make aren’t alive. There’s nothing left of their personality, or free will, or anything of what they used to be. Just walking corpses. Puppets of flesh and bone. Monsters.”

An icy chill had settled in Apricot’s spine. Strawberry enjoyed telling him monster stories when they went camping in the Cottontail, and Apricot always loved hearing them. But those were made up. Lurking in Pollux’s eyes was the terrible knowledge of truth, and that frightened him more than a thousand ghosts or dullahans.

And yet… now that the idea had been planted, he couldn’t shake the wistful desire. “Okay. So you can’t bring someone back. But… could you at least talk to them?” He leaned forward, almost painfully hopeful. “That wouldn’t need blood magic, would it? If I could just—” His voice caught. “If I could just talk to Mr. Strudel again, even for a day, show him all the things I’ve learned…”

Pollux rested a weary hoof on his shoulder. “No. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “This is why you have to be careful, Apricot. If you let yourself go chasing that kind of power—even for the most selfless reasons—you’ll sacrifice everything. By the end, you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. There are limits even to our abilities. Unicorns may have magic, but we’re still mortal.”

“Princess Celestia isn’t,” said Apricot, muted. “Could she do it?”

“I…” Pollux considered this, frowning. “I don’t know. But she would never try. It was she who forbade blood magic in all its forms, even before the tribes united under her banner.”

A branch cracked in the forest behind them, and Apricot jumped so violently he nearly took a spill into the river. All at once, the solemn darkness fell from Pollux’s face, and he laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you.”

“I—I’m not scared,” the colt protested, settling back down on the bank. To prove it, he stretched his hooves and yawned. As he set them back down, he cast a surreptitious glance behind them toward the trees. The aspens were pale and foreboding in the darkness, but no monsters peered back at him. The only sounds were the rushing water and the rustling leaves. Apricot cleared his throat. “S-so, um. Have you ever met a blood mage?”

Pollux’s eyes narrowed. “Once.”

“Oh.” Apricot hadn’t actually expected a yes. He twirled a curl of his mane nervously. “When?”

“I suppose I did promise to tell you about the first time I made fire,” said Pollux, rubbing his chin. “But I don’t want your parents upset with me if you have nightmares about it.”

Apricot did his best to scoff. “N-naw! Come on, I’m old enough to hear it. I want to know.”

“Very well…” Raising an eyebrow, Pollux nodded. “I was a bit younger than you are now. Castor and I had been on our own for over a year at that point. We used to travel between towns, doing street tricks to earn money and food.” He smiled at the memory. “We had fun, despite everything. My favorite act was lighting up rings of magic sparkles in the air for Castor to fly through.”

His horn lit suddenly, and shimmering circles of crimson sparks burst to life above the river. Pollux watched them, chuckling softly. “I wonder if we could still do the old routine…” He let them sparkle for a moment before fading. “Anyway. We were busking in a small town called Vindmere, near the Equestrian border of Alastria. We were doing well enough for ourselves—a few of the villagers gave us bread and onions every now and then, and ponies passing through on their way out of the country often gave us spare coins, or food that wouldn’t survive the journey through the scrubland. As the griffon raids took their toll, though, the initial flood of refugees dwindled to a bare trickle. Everyone who could leave, did. Three months into our stay at Vindmere, our tricks got us noticed by a new traveler.

“An Equestrian mage had stopped in the village to watch us. He was a handsome unicorn. Cream-colored fur, with a remarkable violet mane. In hindsight, he must have been a Bellemont. Some second son of a minor lord, no doubt, who chose magic over family politics. He saw our little show and was impressed by my spellwork. After the act, he approached the two of us. I was shy at that age, so he spoke to Castor… but the whole time they talked, the mage’s eyes never left me.”

Adjusting the collar of his robes, Pollux continued. “He said he was leaving that evening, heading home now that his business in the south was done. I had caught his eye. He said I was a rare pony, and he did not wish to leave me behind. He offered to let me come with him to Equestria, and become his apprentice.”

Apricot smiled. “Like I’m yours!”

Pollux gave him a queasy glance. “No…” He looked away. “Not like that at all.”

The mage fell silent again. Apricot tilted his head. “Uh… so…?”

“I was thrilled, of course. I would have accepted on the spot, but Castor refused. He held me back with a hoof, and told the Equestrian mage that I wasn’t interested. I was furious with him. This was our chance, I thought. My chance, at least. But Castor was firm. No, he told me, under his breath. You’re not going with that stallion. The mage sighed, and rolled his eyes. He leaned in close to Castor, whispering, not realizing I could still hear him. He said that he understood… and asked how much my brother wanted for me.”

Pollux’s eyes creased with old pain. “I’m ashamed to say that I hoped Castor would name a price. I thought this would work out best for both of us. He could earn a pile of gold, enough to leave Alastria, and I could leave with the mage. Even as his servant, if that’s what it took. Both of us would find homes where we could be full every night, and sleep under a roof, maybe even in a real bed.”

Apricot swallowed. “But Castor didn’t do that… did he?”

“No. He told the mage to f—” Pollux glanced briefly at his young charge, “—fly right off. Said my brother isn’t for sale, and told him that he’d never get his hooves on me.” The unicorn paused, eyes distant with memory. “It was the bravest thing he’d ever done for me, and I hated him for it. As the mage stormed away, I pounded on Castor with my hooves, crying and screaming. I told him he was jealous of my talents, that he wanted me to stay here in this miserable life with him, dancing for stale bread and rotting vegetables, just because he couldn’t bear to be alone.”

Recoiling, Apricot shook his head. “You said that to your brother?” He’d been mad at Strawberry plenty of times, but he couldn’t imagine hating him.

Pollux nodded grimly. “Castor laid me out on the ground with a single hoof. Told me I was being stupid, and to stay far away from that mage if I wanted to live. I was so worked up that, instead of a warning, I thought he was threatening to kill me. So, that evening, I stole half of what little food we’d gathered, and snuck away while Castor was sleeping. I was going to find the mage, become his apprentice, and prove my brother wrong.”

Crimson eyes narrowed. “But the Equestrian found me first. I’d barely gone half a klick up the road before a bag came down over my head and the world went dark. I heard the mage’s laughter as a strange drowsiness overtook me. I don’t know whether it was a sleeping spell or some drug, but it was clearly well-practiced. Before I lost my senses, I felt him nudge me with a hoof and say never buy what you can get for free.”

Pollux drew his robes tighter. “When I woke again, I found myself in a cage on a small cart. It must have been meant for animals. I wasn’t a large colt, but even so it was too cramped for me to even stand. I called out, yelling that I was awake, and trapped. I was hoping that I’d dreamed the previous night, and that he was here to rescue me. But the Equestrian just grinned at me, and told me to get comfortable. Our destination was still a few days ahead. He said that if I was good, he’d let me out to eat and relieve myself.

“I begged for hours, but all he did was laugh. At first. Eventually, my fruitless pleas curdled his amusement into annoyance, and finally anger. He beat me with a switch through the bars until even my tears fell silent. For three days I cried myself to sleep, bitterly wishing that I’d listened to Castor. I don’t know how, but he’d seen that stallion for what he was. And the last thing I’d said to him was I hate you.” Wincing, Pollux heaved out an unhappy breath.

“At one point, I tried to escape the cage. I didn’t know enough magic to remove the lock, either by force or finesse. Instead I tried to pick the keys from his pocket with magic, but he caught me in the act and beat me bloody. After that, he kept the keys tied on a string around his neck. I made one more attempt, in desperation. I tried summoning fire to melt the lock off the cage, and, well…” Pollux smiled mirthlessly at Apricot. “That’s how I set my mane on fire.

“After putting out the flames, he yanked my head through the bars by my singed mane-hairs. He leaned in so close that I could smell his acrid breath. He warned me that if I tried any more magic, he’d saw off my horn, grind it into a potion, and make me drink it.”

Hooves pressed to his mouth, Apricot’s eyes widened.

“We reached the end of our journey the following day. It was the crumbling ruin of an ancient watchtower, probably built by the griffons before the fall of their empire. Only about three stories of it were still standing, but to a child’s eyes it seemed immense. He pulled me from the cage and, before I’d taken three breaths of freedom, shackled me like a dog with a metal collar.

“Inside the tower, it became clear that he’d been there for a long time. There were shelves full of spellbooks, tables littered with strange, arcane equipment, and dark stains all over the floorstones…” Pollux’s face twisted with nauseous recollection. “I don’t know how long he’d been squatting in that ruin, but I know I wasn’t his first victim.”

Nibbling on a hoof, Apricot asked, “What was he doing there?”

“Research. Experiments that no guild would have permitted. Things that he’d be put to death for, even in gentle Equestria.” Pollux eyed his hooftip dispassionately. “I don’t know what his ultimate goal was. It’s possible he didn’t even have one—maybe he was like the elk, pushing limits just because he could. And I…” He set his hoof down. “Oh, I was going to let him push further than ever. He locked my chains to the wall of his main laboratory, in the circular floor of the tower’s basement.

“Once I was well and truly trapped, he started to talk. About albinos, and the rare qualities of our bodies. Our blood, our eyes, our skin, our manes… and an albino unicorn, well, that was a windfall he’d never expected to find, especially not in a dung heap like Alastria. My horn alone was worth more than half the shelves of ingredients he had stocked down there.” Pollux took a calming breath. “He went on like that for an hour, rifling through his books and arranging equipment, muttering his plans more to himself than to me. I was too scared to do any magic, or even to move at all. At last, he took a rack of empty vials and a knife, and…”

Pollux’s voice petered out. Apricot could feel his teacher’s turmoil through the echoes of the forest-song. Pollux closed his eyes, and braced himself. He opened the front of his robe, revealing his coat of hair for the first time. Apricot’s eyebrows shot up. Running down Pollux’s chest were a forest of thin, light scars. They criss-crossed his skin like thatch. The unicorn let him see the marks for a few moments, before drawing the robe back down and re-clasping it. “He cut me from neck to navel, and began filling the vials with my valuable blood while I screamed. It hurt, but even worse than the pain was the helplessness. I knew that he could do whatever he wanted, and that I had no hope of escape.

“And he wasted no time in using that blood. I couldn’t see what magic he was working, hunched over those tables with his horn ablaze in blue, but I could feel it. Blood magic stinks in your mind, enough to make you gag. It’s a song full of spoiled harmonies and rotting notes, lingering on you like black oil.” Pollux spat into the river. “The power, though, it was like nothing I’d ever felt. My own small spells were nothing compared to what he was doing. I lay there in the corner, bleeding and whimpering, while he plumbed the most vile depths of magic.”

Apricot didn’t dare ask Pollux to stop, even though his hooves had begun to shake. He crossed his forelegs and hunched over, listening with dismay. Pollux’s words poured out, with too much momentum to hold back. “It went on for three days. He didn’t want his supply of albino blood to expire, so he kept me better fed than I’d been for months. In a sick way, I’d been right about finding steady meals and a roof over my head by following him. I mostly stayed quiet, hoping he’d forget about me for a while. It never worked for long.”

How could anyone do this to somepony else? Apricot wondered, horrified. Nothing was worth this nightmare. Not even bringing Mr. Strudel back.

“On the third night, after a lengthy experiment, the mage asked me…” Pollux appeared to struggle with the words. “He asked me which I liked better: my right eye, or my right ear.” His hoof pawed the ground anxiously. “I, uh, I told him my eye. Begged him to take the ear instead. He just laughed and said he would do the left eye first, since I was so fond of the right.” Pollux shuddered. “I think he liked the power. Not just the magical kind. Making me afraid gave him pleasure.

“But then he made a mistake. That night, he forgot to put away all his tools. He left them on the table beside me, heading upstairs to whatever room he was using as his quarters. One of the implements he’d left out was the knife he used to collect my blood. As soon as the creaking of the ancient, rotted floorboards above fell silent, I lit my horn and used it to pull the knife into my grasp. It was so polished that I could see myself in the blade. I sat there with my horn aglow, staring at my reflection, wondering what to do. I could wait until my captor returned, and make a desperate attack with the blade, but I would have only one chance. If I failed, he would never make such an error again, and my torment would last as long as he could keep me alive.”

Pollux paused again. “Or I could use it to end my suffering right then and there.” He seemed almost to have forgotten Apricot. “It was the longest night of my life. I agonized for hours, not ready to die, but unwilling to live like that any longer. Before I could decide, the choice was taken from me.” Pollux lifted his head to look up at the stars. “The sound of breaking glass caught my attention. Steps on the stonework quickly pattered down the stairs toward me. I gripped the knife in my mouth, ready to fight whatever wild animal had broken in, but when the padding reached the basement I dropped the blade in amazement.

“Castor had come for me,” he recounted, closing his eyes with gratitude. “From the moment he woke and found me missing, he’d been searching. It took days for him to find the trail of the mage’s cart, but he’d flown without stopping since then to find me. I’ve never loved him more than that moment. I was crying, thanking him, telling him how sorry I was…” Pollux chuckled warmly. “Even back then, though, he was always focused on the job at hoof. He told me to keep my voice down, and asked about the keys to my chains. When I told him that the mage kept them around his neck, he just grabbed a hacksaw from the mage’s tools and started cutting through the metal links.

“It was slow going, and loud, but it was working. I didn’t know how we were going to get the collar off with a saw, but that was something we could figure out later. I was almost free from the wall when we heard hoofsteps above. The Equestrian liked to visit me sometimes at night, to admire his prize. Hide, I hissed, but there was nowhere good for Castor to stow himself. We could hear the mage coming down the steps to the laboratory. There was no time. Castor dove under a table on the far side of the room, still completely exposed to even a casual search. I let my hornlight go out, and the room went dark.

“But not for long. The blue light of the mage’s own horn soon filled the stairwell. He stepped into the room as I pretended to sleep, walking right up to me, but staying out of hoof’s reach. Well, well, he said, waiting for me, were you? A shiver betrayed me. It’s impolite to use someone’s things without asking, he said, looking over his tools. I suppose I’ll have to teach you some manners. He lifted another tool, some implement with two handles and a curved pair of blades, eyeing me over. Give me that knife, and I’ll let you keep your ears a while longer.

“The sound of hooves and wings rang out, and Castor hit him from behind. My brother leaped onto the mage’s back, wrapping a length of the cut chain around his throat and pulling as hard as he could. The mage yelled in surprise and fury, swinging around and lashing clumsily with his cutters. The fight could only end one way—Castor was going to die, and then I was going to die, unless I did something. But I was too afraid to move, too beaten and broken to fight. I stood there, quivering, watching as the Equestrian threw off my brother and sent him slamming into a cabinet of glassware. Well, he growled, at least I’ll get some raw materials out of you.

“He stepped toward Castor, clacking those cutters together, and something broke inside me. I wish I could say it was loyalty or love that overpowered my fear, but it wasn’t. The only thing I felt in that moment was hate.” Pollux seemed transfixed by the trees around them. “I grabbed the knife with magic and hurled it, harder than I knew I could, sinking it into the mage’s back. From across the room, I stabbed him again and again, until his white coat ran red and shining wet. I plunged that knife into him over and over until he stopped moving, and I kept going until someone grabbed me. Stop, Pollux, said Castor, holding me. That’s enough. You got him. I let the knife fall, weeping, and cried into his forelegs until my tears were spent.

“With the dead stallion’s keys, Castor freed me from the collar and chains. We stripped the place bare of food and water; piled it all onto the mage’s cart. As we gave the laboratory a final pass, Castor asked if I wanted to take the mage’s spellbooks. I stood in front of the shelves, looking at the collection of an entire lifetime’s knowledge, and…” Pollux panted. “This rage rose up in me, the same kind that had left that bloody body lying in the room. Those books were evil, as evil as the stallion who’d created them. The knowledge he’d gleaned from his butchery deserved to be lost. I had to make sure nothing survived.

“I called another flame, larger than before, feeding it with all the strength I could muster. The pages of the books went up like tinder. Soon the shelves themselves ignited. What the hell are you doing? my brother yelled, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop. I set the whole laboratory aflame, with us still inside. I wanted to watch it all burn. Castor had to drag me up the stairs. Even when he pulled me outside to where we’d parked the cart, I scarcely moved, standing on the hillside and staring as the flames crept higher and higher. They consumed the whole tower, billowing up through the stone column like a chimney, until the wood had all burned away and the stonework began to collapse. By the time we left, nothing remained.”

Pollux’s red eyes seemed to flicker with the ghost of the inferno. “The memories are still so vivid in my mind,” he breathed. “I saw him again, just last night. Sometimes I still kill that stallion in my dreams.”

All at once, a cloud lifted from him, and Pollux seemed to return to reality. With a wince, he looked at Apricot, who was staring wide-eyed at him. “Ah… I’m sorry.” He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck through his hood. “I got lost in the memory. That was… that was too much.” Giving Apricot another worried glance, he cleared his throat. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Apricot nodded numbly.

“Good, that’s good,” muttered Pollux, nervously. “So… are you ready to fill up the barrel and head back to camp?”

“Uh…” Apricot blinked, looking into the forest again. The darkness under the trees sent a sudden shiver down his spine. “Could we stay here a little longer? Maybe practice the fire wards some more?”

Pollux opened his mouth as if to say no, but he paused. Giving his student’s trembling hooves another look, he closed his mouth and nodded. “Of course we can. Go ahead and sing the wardsong.”

They worked together in silence after that, Pollux providing the fire, and Apricot shielding himself from it. The warmth of the magic filled Apricot, keeping the chill at bay, but his nerves remained unsettled. Staring into the flames, he felt that he could almost see a tower burning in the fire’s glow.

* * *

This far from the campsite, the only sounds were branches creaking in the breeze and the omnipresent whispering of the forest leaves. Atop the tallest tree he could find, an old oak that rose above the crowded aspens, Inger lay nestled on a sturdy branch. His chin rested on his hooves, eyes staring unblinking into the night.

Cranberry and Rye, his thoughts churned. Was it really just a kiss? All he had to go on was what she’d written in that journal. Was the truth even worse?

“You’re a hard stallion to find!” someone called from below.

Startled, Inger lifted his head. Peering down through the branches, he spotted the faint light of a lantern, lifted by a familiar camel. “Kaduat?”

“Well, not that hard. You’re trailing feathers everywhere.” She sounded out of breath. As Inger squinted, he saw her silhouette looking up at him. “Good thing, too, or I’d still be wandering around bumping into tree trunks.”

Inger sighed, resting his head back on his hooves. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d go away.

“You gonna come down? If I have to holler up there all night I’ll lose my voice.” When he gave no response, Kaduat made an annoyed grunt. “All right, fine.”

There was a soft thump as she set the lantern down. Suddenly, the tree began to shake. Inger was about to snap something irritated at her when he realized the source of the shaking. Kaduat was awkwardly climbing up toward him. The humpbacked camel looked so ridiculous with her spindly legs wrapped around the tree trunk and branches that he almost smiled. Almost.

Finding a branch just below him that could bear her full weight, Kaduat stopped. She slung her forelegs over it like she was resting at the edge of a bath, and panted. “There. Now only one of us will be a little hoarse tomorrow.”

Inger gave her a withering look, receiving only a snicker in reply. Kaduat puffed out air, glancing at his ruffled wings. Her voice turned serious. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” He closed his eyes.

“Look…” Kaduat paused, still trying to catch her breath. “I know it’s none of my business, but—”

“You’re right,” said Inger flatly. “It isn’t.”

Kaduat sighed. “What happened?”

“She lied to me.” His whole body twitched with another spasm of anger. “She’s been lying to me, for who knows how long.” Was their whole marriage a fraud? When he kissed her, was she thinking about another stallion? Shame and jealousy burned in his heart like a forge, the bellows tended lovingly by the little dragon.

Maybe it’s not even just Rye, it whispered. She seems awfully bent on finding Professor Locke, doesn’t she? And then there’s those long conversations she has with Pwyll…

“I’m sorry.” Kaduat’s branch creaked with strain as she pulled herself further up. “It’s never easy, finding out someone isn’t who you thought they were.” More leaves rustled as the branches shook, and Kaduat let out a small ow. “Damned splinters… look. I’m not going to ask you to get over it. But I am asking you to come back with me to camp. We’re technically on alert right now, and Castor will have my ass if our client’s son gets lost in the woods on my watch.”

“I’m not lost,” Inger muttered, finally opening his eyes and looking at her. “I can see the campfire smoke from here.” He pointed.

“Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “Didn’t think of that.” She squinted over the trees, spying the thin trail of smoke rising in the moonlight.

“I can’t go back there,” he said hollowly. “I can’t even look at her right now.”

A loud groan suddenly echoed through the trees. Birds darted from the canopy near the campsite, squawking as they flew away. The groan broke into a loud cracking noise, suddenly followed by a muted crash. Inger and Kaduat both stared, frozen with raised hackles, before the noise of the birds and the rest faded away beneath the leaves.

“Huh.” Kaduat shrugged, relaxing again. “I guess a tree falling alone in the woods does make a sound.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” he snapped.

She pursed her lips. “I used to. But I learned that life’s too short to spend it being serious.” Lifting an eyebrow, she glanced at him. “You might try having fun once in a while.”

“I’m not Wheatie,” Inger muttered. Ignoring her puzzled look, he rested his chin back on his hooves. Maybe the sergeant had been right, after all.

Some of us prefer to play the field… Wheatie always took heartbreak in stride. Today’s passionate fling was tomorrow’s fond memory. Right now, that sounded like freedom.

“Well, if you’re sure you can find your way back,” began Kaduat, dusting her feet, “I’d best go rescue my rum from your wife.”

“Rum?” An icy pit formed in his stomach.

“I lent her the bottle before I went after you. Hope there’s still some left.”

“Cranberry doesn’t drink,” he said. The dragon chuffed. She doesn’t kiss your friends, either, right?

“She doesn’t?” Kaduat looked almost offended at the thought of sobriety. “Then what the hell does she do when she’s upset?”

* * *

22 November, 328 A.C.

More samples retrieved from the causeway. I’ve sent them back up to the secondary base camp by the shaft for later analysis. Hobb seems totally disinterested in the fragmentary texts we’ve been turning up. He and his lot are still studying the pylons, though as far as I’ve heard they’ve had no success. The lack of communication from his team is becoming frustrating. I have to find out what they’re doing through Hermia, who updates me on the mages’ progress regularly over dinner.

Cranberry re-read her colleague’s words, barely absorbing them. Locke’s journal was failing to distract her the way she’d hoped. The bottle of Madame Zenubia sat beside her, untouched; a reminder of all her failings. The page in front of her blurred as more tears welled up.

She wasn’t sure he would forgive her this time. Bitterly, she wished that she’d told him years ago. Why hadn’t she? Was she always scared that it had been too far a mistake, too deep a hurt? Was their whole relationship so fragile to begin with? She’d thought their bond could survive anything, but it had only taken a scant few days to send them flying apart.

With her heart aching, she wished Apricot Strudel were here. Whenever she needed to pour out her burdens, he had been there to listen. Fears over her career, worries about her children… and while she’d never had cause to speak about her and Inger, she was certain he’d have been there to hear these fears just as calmly. Right now, she wanted more than anything to hear him give her some reassuring words and one of those giant blueberry muffins he used to pack her in the mornings. That always made her feel better.

Instead, the voice in her head was Tybalt’s.

Cranberry let Locke’s journal fall closed, staring into the fire. You can’t fool the ones you’ve betrayed forever, his voice echoed, the memory of her father-in-law’s golden eyes baring her soul. In fact, you never really fool them in the first place. All they have to do is stop fooling themselves.

Her eyes fell once more to the bottle of rum. Perhaps she ought to really move things along, just pour it on herself and leap into the fire. She’d already been self-immolating for weeks; surely it would be less painful to get it over with.

Cranberry sighed, standing. Maybe a short walk could clear her head. Sleep, her normal escape, was no option. Not with the aspens still whispering above her.

The wind changed, and the rustling of the leaves grew stronger. Cranberry’s eyes narrowed. The trees were mocking her, their shivering branches sending laughter through the canopy. Then came a crack, a sharp splintering of wood. Jerking her head to look behind her, Cranberry saw the tallest aspen at the edge of the glade, tilted precariously over her head. As her eyes went wide, another enormous crack rang out through the clearing.

A series of sudden snaps, smaller but rising in a crescendo, pattered out. With sleepless sluggishness, she belatedly looked up from the trunk to see the aspen toppling toward her. Adrenaline spiked in her bloodstream, bringing instant alertness, and Cranberry dove to the side. A loud groan echoed through the forest as the tree’s weight shattered its own base. Cranberry covered her head and yelped as outstretched branches smacked her on the back. She heard glass shatter as it landed on the bottle, right where she’d been standing.

Scrambling free of the branches, her heart raced. That could have killed me, she thought, stumbling away from the tree. She stared at it in shock, her eyes traveling up the length of the trunk to the treetop, which was lying at the edge of the campfire. Everything still seemed to be moving in slow motion, swimming lazily through her tear-blurred eyes. Flames licked the leaves, catching on them. I have to stamp that out before the whole thing—

A sudden woosh of rushing air was followed by a flash of light. The alcohol had ignited. Fire raced across the splattered surface of the tree, followed by a violent streak of red that ran through the dead trunk’s hollow core. For a moment, it felt like the whole forest inhaled, and then a massive BANG nearly knocked her over. The base of the tree exploded, sending fiery shrapnel arcing through the air into the nearby treetops.

“Fire,” she rasped, stumbling backward. “Fire!”

Confused heads poked out of the mercenaries’ tents. The camels rubbed their eyes as they tried to process the commotion. From the far side of the glade came Castor, trotting up and blinking blearily. “What the—” He stared at the fallen tree, which was now fully aflame from inside. “Kaduat! Get a barrel from the water stores! We have to smother the flames before—”

The fire surged, and Cranberry was forced to retreat from the intense heat. The whole tree was being consumed, frighteningly fast. Above, the cinders had caught in the canopy, and the leaves of the surrounding trees were beginning to glow like embers. Another crackling bang rocked the campsite as some pocket of sap and oxygen inside the dead tree burst out, sending more sparks scattering. A huge gout of flame leaped upward, flinging ash and flaming splinters across the glade. Shielding her face, Cranberry felt her breath suddenly sucked away by the sudden wash of hot, dry air. Her skin pricked in the heat.

“Damn it!” Castor raced past her and took flight. He beat his wings, trying to fan the flames away from the other trees, but it was too late. Cranberry watched in horror as the fire raced through the treetops, arcing from branch to branch like they were soaked in oil.

“Kaduat! Where are you?” Castor whirled, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Kaduat! I swear to the Sisters, if you’re drunk on watch duty again I’ll kill you—”

Another tree exploded into flames, casting cinders down and causing him to shelter behind an upraised wing. All around, camels were rushing for the carts to retrieve water barrels, but Cranberry feared that it was too late for that. The angry red fire was spreading fast, too fast, encircling the entire glade in with terrifying speed. “Castor!” she cried over the rumbling furnace, “What do we do?”

“No time to clear a firebreak—we have to smother it,” he yelled, retreating from the burning perimeter. “Hell, and not a cloud in the sky—we can’t make rain out of nothing!” Gritting his teeth, he landed beside her. Another loud series of cracks and a terrible groan filled the air as one of the flaming trees toppled backward into the forest. As it crashed against another aspen, the flames leaped to its neighbors. “Where’s Inger?”

“He—” Cranberry stared into the blaze, shaking her head in shock. “He went into the woods. Kaduat followed to bring him back. Oh, Sisters…”

Castor swore violently. “Tybalt! Tybalt, come on, we’ve got to get airborne and get a handle on this!”

The count, his mane a sleep-matted mess, had stumbled out of his tent. He gave Castor an urgent nod, and took flight. From the other side of camp, Virgil came flying to meet them. Castor barked “Virgil! I need you to—”

“Captain, the blackpowder stores!” The griffon’s eyes bulged. “If the fire reaches the demolition materiel—”

“Shit.” Castor pointed at the nearest camel. “Afwala! Take your team along with Beatriz, and keep the fire off that cart. Use whatever you can—water, dirt, spit if you have to. Virgil! My brother went north to the river for water—he must still be there. Go bring him back, on the double!”

“On it!” Virgil snapped a salute and whipped into the air. He punctured a hole through the thickening cloud of smoke above, vanishing. The air was already so heavy with ash and cinders that Cranberry lost sight of him almost immediately.

Hooves grasped her shoulders, tearing her focus away from the growing inferno to meet Castor’s eyes. “Listen up, Professor,” he said, his voice strained but controlled. “We need all hooves on deck for this one. Can you help Beatriz protect the carts?”

Numbly, she managed a mute nod. Castor gave her shoulder a grateful slap. “Good. Get going. I need to help Tybalt try to wrangle up some rain.” He turned sharply and took off into the air.

Get to Beatriz, Cranberry thought, stumbling through the camp. She passed dozens of camels, all racing back and forth with buckets of water, wondering what good they would do against a fire of this size. She’d read about forest fires before, but she’d never seen one in person. It had happened so fast…

On her way to the cart she bumped into Pwyll, who was shaking his head in panic. “Professor! What happened?”

“A tree,” she mumbled shakily. “It—it fell into the campfire.”

They both paused as a sudden gust of wind passed over them, hot and awash with sparks. Pwyll looked around at the burning trees and closed his eyes with a low moan. He held up a hoof to his antlers, as if they ached. “I shouldn’t have let us stop here,” he whispered.

Cranberry tugged him after her, resuming her course toward the water cart where Beatriz was directing camels. “Bea! How can we help?”

“Hitch up,” said Beatriz bluntly, pointing to the nearest harness. “We’ve got to get the carts away from the perimeter.”

As Cranberry and Pwyll hastily began buckling themselves in, she heard a call from above. “Cranberry!”

At the sound of Inger’s voice, her eyes shot wide and she turned her head upward. The wall of smoke burst open as a red blur came streaking down. Her husband landed hard beside them, sending a cloud of dirt flying from the impact of his hooves. A traumatized-looking Kaduat let go of his neck and dropped to the ground, legs shaking. “Camels weren’t born to fly,” she croaked.

“Cranberry, what happened?” There was little trace of fury left on his soot-stained face, merely urgency, though his eyes were still hard and closed-off. “When we saw the smoke we came as fast as we could.”

She felt an overwhelming urge to hug him, but couldn’t while half-harnessed to the cart. “A tree fell and caught fire, and it’s spreading fast. Castor needs you in the air. He and Tybalt are trying to fight it with weatherforging.”

Inger nodded brusquely, pausing for a moment with his wings braced. They shared a look that contained volumes. The argument wasn’t over; the hurt wasn’t gone. But neither wanted to see the other injured in this disaster. There’s no time, thought Cranberry grimly. “Go, Inger. And stay safe.”

With another nod, this time one of understanding, he vanished in a red blur. The smoke puffed again as he punched another hole in it. Cranberry offered a brief prayer to the princess as she watched him go. Beatriz nudged her, bringing her back to earth. “Hurry up! Get that cart moving.”

The other carts were already circling tight at the center of the camp, as far from the blazing edge of the glade as they could get. Gritting her teeth, she pulled against the harness, and the cart slowly ground into motion. One of the tents caught fire as she passed, and she reached for the harness buckle, but a passing camel stopped her with a foot. “Let burn,” he said, in broken Equestrian. “Protect cart.” He kicked some dirt onto the tent as it collapsed.

Swallowing, she resumed her course, watching the growing wall of fire. As the flames crept closer, the camels formed a ring around the gathered carts, bracing their water buckets like spears against a charge. Cranberry’s heart pounded in her ears. The flames whirled around them, so hot that she could feel her sweat baking off her skin.

She wished that she’d given Inger a kiss before he’d gone.

16. Wildchoir

The song shifted.

Apricot blinked, sitting upright. He pulled his foreleg away from the tiny fire in Pollux’s hooves, letting his ward fade. “Pollux…?”

The little flame died as Pollux gazed into the trees, eyes narrowing. “I felt it too.”

“It sounded like an echo, or something…” Apricot closed his eyes, reaching out as he tried to catch that sensation again. “From deep down.”

“I think it’s time we returned to camp.” Pollux stood, dusting off his robes. “Fill the barrel from the stream, would you? I’ll carry it back for a little while.” He lit his horn, squinting into the darkness.

Apricot yanked off the barrel’s lid with magic, carefully stepping down the riverbank. Horn aglow, he dipped the barrel into the current, letting it fill with fresh streamwater. Watching it made him realize how thirsty he was. Dipping his head to take a quick lap from the river, he leaned out over the river’s edge.

A wall of magical sound hit him, so loud and massive that he lost his balance and nearly fell in. Like the dread-soaked groaning of a thousand cellos, the noise washed over him, freezing his blood. His head ripped up from the water as he scrambled away from the bank. But the sound wasn’t coming from the water, it was rising up all around him. The groan pulsed again, louder, and he clapped his hooves uselessly to his ears. A third roaring wail of ethereal strings burned away his thoughts, with a long, low groan. Slowly, insidiously, it faded, pulsing again more weakly before it faded into the background song of the forest.

A hoof shook his shoulder. “Apricot! Apricot, get up!” Dimly, he realized he was lying on the riverbank, curled into a ball and clutching his head. Pollux’s voice seemed faint and distant, even though he was shouting. “Apricot! We have to go!”

Dreamlike, he saw the barrel floating away on the river, filling with water and slowly sinking beneath the surface. “What… what was…”

“Hey!” Pollux gave his cheek a slap. “Snap out of it!”

Apricot blinked, shaking his head, as the sounds of reality rushed back in. Standing woozily, he stumbled back up from the riverbank. “S-sorry…”

Pollux lifted his head, horn blazing, and fired a blinding red light into the air. A magical flare streaked into the sky, leaving a trail of crimson sparks. He looked back down at Apricot, urgency in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I… I think so…”

“Whatever that was, it came from our campsite. We need to get back there, now. Are you able to walk?”

“Yeah…” Apricot held his forehead with a hoof, but nodded. “Yeah, I can walk.” The forest sounded all wrong now. The swarming melodies of the forest creatures had a new, frantic energy to them, racing through the trees in any direction away from whatever had made that hideous sound. It was hard to center himself in the deluge of panic. A flock of birds went screeching overhead, and he felt echoes of their terror.

“That’s not good,” breathed Pollux. “They shouldn’t even be awake right now. Get it together, Apricot, we need to go.”

The flapping of larger, more familiar wings came from above them. Apricot looked up, expecting his father, but the dark shape that descended from the night sky was brown, not red. Virgil landed beside the two unicorns, panting hard. “Pollux! Thanks for the flare. We’re in trouble. Castor sent me to bring you back to camp. There’s a wildfire—”

“A wildfire? Hell,” Pollux glanced up at the sky, his hood fluttering around him in a sudden warm breeze. “There hasn’t been much rain since we arrived… this whole place will go up like tinder.” His head snapped back to the griffon. “We can find our way back. There’s no time to waste, go!”

Virgil snapped him a salute. “Good luck. Stay safe.” His wings flared, and then he was gone.

Apricot danced nervously on his hooves. “A wildfire?” he echoed.

“If we get there soon enough, we might be able to stop it before it’s out of control. Let’s move.” Pollux took off at a full gallop into the trees, and Apricot followed.

Pollux’s bright red light lit the way, revealing tangled roots and treacherous rock edifices that the two bounded over with ease. Apricot’s heart pounded hard, and his legs even harder. They raced through the trees, battering branches and bushes aside with magic. Even without the barrel, this was a more arduous passage, but they were taking it far faster than their trip to the river. Apricot’s lungs were nearly bursting, but he found himself keeping pace with Pollux.

Remember your breathing, he thought, thinking of that last run to the bakery with his father. The trees flashed past them with every hoofbeat. They passed foxes, birds, groundhogs, and creatures he didn’t know the names of, all scampering in the opposite direction. And ahead of them, a growing tremor in the magic.

The light began to change. Pollux’s crimson hornlight slowly melted into a diffuse orange, as the air around them started to glow. Ahead, light filtered through the trees, hazy and flickering. Soon the light was followed by heat, and the air grew thicker, harder to breath. Pollux slowed to a hesitant trot, before coming to a complete stop, and Apricot gratefully followed suit, coughing.

“We’re too late,” muttered Pollux, staring into the orange light. It was so bright now that Apricot could see every detail in stitching of the mage’s robes. “It’s already spread.”

Apricot looked past him and swallowed. The trees cast long shadows over them, lit from behind by the solid orange glow. The fire itself was still too distant to see, but he could hear it. And not just through the magic, he realized. His ears twitched, picking up a faint rumbling. “What do we do now?”

“I need to get in there and help however I can,” said Pollux, gritting his teeth. “And you need to get back to the river. Can you do that?”

“I—what? No!” Apricot looked at him in dismay. “I can help!”

“Not this time, kid. It’s too dangerous.”

Apricot waved an agitated hoof. “But—we were just practicing for this! My fire wards—”

“They’re good,” exhaled Pollux, shaking his head, “but a wildfire isn’t the place to test them. Not after just a few hours of practice. Listen, every second we waste arguing, that fire spreads further. Go back north to the river and cross it, if you can find the ford. It might act as a firebreak if we can’t get this under control. Once you’re there, send up a flare every few minutes. Here, I’ll teach you the spell.”

His horn lit and Apricot felt a new song. Another blazing mote of light leaped from Pollux’s horn, arcing into the air. “Got that?”

“Sure, but—”

“Show me!”

Apricot grimaced and mimicked the song, sending a rosy flare of his own soaring up into the night. Pollux nodded. “That’s it. Now, go!” He gave the glowing forest another anxious glance. “And don’t stop for anything!” Pollux raced into the trees, quickly disappearing into the smoky haze.

As Apricot stood motionless, his heart thudded painfully. Coughing again, he waved smoke out of his eyes. His mom and dad were in there. If things were this bad out here, how terrible was it at the camp? Were they hurt? Was Kaduat, or Beatriz?

He stood locked in place. Part of him wanted to listen to Pollux and flee. Let the adults sort it out, while he retreated to safety. But he couldn’t stop thinking about that sound he’d felt in the magic. This wasn’t just some accidental fire. Something wanted them all gone. Something old and deep. The forest itself seethed with anger as much as heat. It wanted to hurt his family, his friends. He couldn’t just abandon them when he might be able to do something in there.

But I could die, he realized. No one else would save him if he went into that light. Not Kaduat, not Pollux, not his parents.

As the distant rumbling grew louder, sweat clung to his skin. Apricot stared into the ever-brightening glow of the fire, wanting to move, but paralyzed between flight or forging on. While he wrestled with himself, the fireglow crept closer. The thunderous sound vibrated in his chest like a foreign heartbeat. The smoke thickened as sparks sailed past on turbulent air. It was getting difficult to breathe.

And then suddenly, he could see it. The fire was bursting forth through the trees before him. Flames streaked across the canopy, sending streams of fire racing down aspen trunks as they passed. Incendiary gouts of black and red blossomed in the light, consuming leaves and grass, burning so blindingly bright that even the rocks seemed to disappear inside it. Waves of sparks swept across the forest floor like the tides, ebbing and flowing with the heat-soaked air. The fire was fast, barreling toward him like a living thing, hungry for any source of fuel it could find.

Apricot took a step back, watching as the flames crashed past an old, dead tree. The hollowed trunk glowed and then shattered in the sudden flash of heat and pressure. Fragments of burning wood scattered at his hooves. Angry orange light blazed all around, unable to escape the thick smoke, turning night to day as the forest became an oven. Deep red tongues of flame towered into the sky as whole trees became kindling. Apricot wheezed, trying to breath, taking another step backward, as the wall of fire leaped toward him.

No escape, he thought in panic, stumbling back, realize that his delay had cost him too much time. There was no way he could outrun that ravenous flame. Instead, desperate, he plunged into the magic, grasping for the firesong. It was no gentle, warm arrangement; the music was chaotic, immense, almost impossible to comprehend, let alone control. It screamed in his head like the wailing of ten thousand voices, enraged, in pain, lashing out at everything and everyone in blind agony. He seized it nonetheless, following the energy, and shackled it to the wardsong. And then the wall of fire reached him at last.

Fire swept over him, and the roaring inferno was so deafeningly loud that all thought was burned away. Apricot screamed as the heat and light engulfed him, like he was plunging into the sun. Bending his head away, he flung up a hoof to shield himself, waiting in terror for the end—but it did not come. Squinting in the painful light, he blinked and slowly realized that he stood unharmed amongst the flames. The heat pricked his skin like needles, but he was alive. Rose light shimmered across his skin like an oil slick, whorls of magic spinning in formless patterns as it deflected the brunt of the fire’s fury.

Hesitantly lowering his hoof, he took a deep breath, and immediately doubled over as he choked on the thick smoke. Apricot covered his mouth and looked around, taking in the heart of the inferno. The forest floor was alive, writhing in the heat. Carpets of fire rolled across the ground, so hot that the very air bubbled and shook. The churning wildfire was motion incarnate, sweeping and swirling through any gaps it could find. Branches, already dead, hung from the canopy like fiery claws, bleeding sparks. The reddened smoke was so thick that he could barely see ten meters in any direction.

I have to get to Mom and Dad, he thought, clinging to that goal like a lifeline. The warding spell reverberated in his mind like a mantra. If he let it slip, even for an instant, he’d be cooked alive. The seething choir surged around him, but he stood his ground, and forced the nearest voices to match the beat of his wardsong. He maintained control, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up.

Clenching his teeth, he began to trod forward. Forcing himself further into the fire was hard, and not merely from fright. Searing winds battered him as he pushed on, and the ground was slippery from ash as the trees disintegrated under the inferno’s relentless assault. Careful not to lose his footing, Apricot forged ahead into the savage flame, watching in amazement at the unleashed power of nature. Trees around him transformed into radiant pylons of light. The earth vanished beneath him in cascading sheets of white flame. Fiery branches clawed at the air as they turned brittle and snapped, raining sparks down onto his shield like glowing raindrops. Ash and soot fell like snow, billowing in the swirling air. His mouth was filled by the taste of carbonized wood.

As he pushed deeper, things grew only more hellish. The screeches and cracks of breaking trees sounded like death wails on the wind. Sweat boiled from his skin as soon as it appeared, doing nothing to cool him. Even through the ward, it felt like he was walking through an oven. He was getting dizzy from the lack of oxygen as the fire devoured it all. As the edges of his vision started to darken, he whispered a prayer to Celestia that he hadn’t passed the campsite in the impenetrable smoke and light.

A voice—a real one, not the spellsong shrieking of a dying tree—called out somewhere ahead, and relief washed over him. Apricot sprinted forward, hearing more cries of alarm from other voices, and reached a solid wall of fire. Summoning all his strength to the ward, he ran into the wall and burst through, galloping from the blazing treeline into the campsite glade.

The camp was unrecognizable. The outer ring of tents were reduced to ashes. The flaming ruins of several carts lay near the perimeter, half-collapsed into ash. The few that remained were clustered in the center of the glade, next to the charred husk of a fallen tree. Camels surrounded the carts, pouring water onto them as flames fell from the seething canopy of fire around them. Beatriz, covered in soot, was only recognizable by her glowing blue horns as she directed their efforts. Empty water barrels lay discarded around them; it looked like their supply was nearly out.

“Pollux!” came a yell from above. “South side, with me!” Castor swooped out of the smoke-filled sky, wings flapping in a blur. On the ground below, a crimson smear, so hazy in the shimmering air that Apricot could scarcely recognize it as Pollux, ran to join him. The brothers raced to the edge of the gale, where another blazing aspen had begun to topple inward over the perimeter.

“Ready!” shouted Castor, and then Apricot felt a sudden absence of air pressure. There was a BOOM as a tremendous wave of wind blasted through the clearing, popping Apricot’s ears and dragging ash and sparks in its wake. The flames recoiled from the weatherforged gale, followed by a crimson flash as Pollux slammed the collapsing tree away from the clearing with a telekinetic blast so powerful that Apricot could feel the spellsong ringing in his horn. It toppled with a crash, sending another plume of smoke and sparks into the canopy.

Shielding his eyes with a hoof, Apricot scanned the campsite, searching for pink or red, but to no avail. He ran toward the carts, tripping over debris, and shouted hoarsely, “Mom! Dad! I’m here!”

He wasn’t sure anyone would even hear him over the roaring wildfire. The camels spared him only a glance as he reached their ranks, but one pitch-black pony spotted him and dropped her bucket. “Apricot!”

Despite everything, the sound of his mother’s voice was a splash of comfort. “Mom!” He raced toward her, his hooves splashing on the sodden earth. The ground around the carts had turned to mud, softened by countless gallons of water that had been spilled upon it, mixing with the ash to create a sucking mire. It was no wonder everyone was coated in filth; Apricot was half-splattered himself by the time he reached her and flung himself into a hug.

She squeezed him so tightly that he thought his ribs might crack. “Apricot! Sisters, Apricot, I thought—what are you doing here?” Cranberry let him go and wiped her soiled face with a dirty hoof, revealing a smear of pink. “Pollux said you were waiting by the river!”

“There wasn’t enough time,” said Apricot, shaking his head as he looked around at the fire. “And I wanted to help.” At the edge of the clearing, another tree was beginning to crumble. The twins raced toward it with another furious gale, but even Apricot could tell their efforts would be futile in the end. It was a miracle they’d kept the fire out of the glade so far, but the smoke was growing so thick with flying sparks that it wouldn’t be long before the flames spread to the caravan. Even as he watched, the wreckage of the camping supply cart over by the perimeter ignited. “Where’s Dad?”

“Your father and grandfather are up top,” said Cranberry, casting a worried glance above. “They’re trying to make rain, but the heat’s driving out all the moisture—” She cringed as another tree collapsed and flaming shards of wood went flying. Some of the cinders rained down onto the nearest cart, scattering across the soot-stained wood siding. Apricot’s eyes widened as he read the crimson text emblazoned on the wood: DANGER - EXPLOSIVES.

“Form up, Alsafa, Alsafa!” shouted Kaduat, pointing her foot. The camels leaped into action, and Cranberry joined them, swiftly forming a chain from the water barrels to the cart. They filled buckets and passed them down the line, pouring water onto the newborn flames to smother them until the cart was extinguished.

“Hal-fared,” called Kaduat, as the fire died. “At ease,” she offered in Equestrian, giving Cranberry a grateful nod. The line broke apart, many of the camels sagging wearily. Swearing ceaselessly under her breath, Kaduat trotted over to the quartermaster. “Beatriz, how much water do we have left?”

“It’s not good,” said the antelope, wiping soot from her face. “We’re down to our last barrel, and it’s nearly empty.” She banged on the barrel’s side, and the hollow cavity rang like a drum.

“Apricot, listen to me,” panted Cranberry, placing a hoof on his shoulder. “If we don’t manage to—”

A shout of alarm interrupted her. Zaeneas, so covered with ash and mud that her stripes were hidden, pointed toward one of the carts. “There goes another one!” Red flames leaped from the roof, and a white-hot glow radiated from within.

“The armory! My tools!” cried Beatriz, running toward the blazing cart, but she was blocked by Kaduat’s outstretched foreleg.

“It’s done for!” yelled Kaduat, shaking her head. “Get it away from the others!”

Pwyll and Zaeneas ran forward with several of the camels and slammed their shoulders against the cart. The wheels, half-sunk in the mud, refused to turn. The flames burned brighter as the fire spread. Pwyll winced away as a tongue of fire licked his skin from between the wooden slats. “It’s stuck!”

Apricot broke away from his mother, ignoring her yelp of surprise, and splattered through the mud toward the cart. As his horn ignited, his eyes narrowed on the cart’s wheels, and he reached back into the magic. All around, the firesong wailed. He did his best to ignore it, seizing the first wheel with a magical grip. Gritting his teeth with the effort, he pulled as hard as he could. The wheel wrenched free of the mud with a disgusting plop, spinning wildly. The mercenaries continued to shove against the cart, but the other wheels sank deeper beneath the full weight of the arsenal within.

Apricot took hold of the next wheel, hauling on it with all his strength, but he could feel the levitation spell slipping. It was hard to concentrate,to even think in the raging choir of magic swirling around him. The trees screamed with wordless voices, filled with more pain and fury than one lifetime could comprehend. The mocking laughter of the leaves had turned to bitter spite. Apricot coughed, gasping for oxygen in the ash-choked air. More fire burst from within the armory cart, drawing hisses and cries from the mercenaries.

“Stand back!” A familiar voice pierced the cacophony, and Apricot’s heart lifted. He turned with sudden hope to see his father, wings stained black with soot, hovering above them. The camels sprang back from the burning cart, clearing the way, and Inger tucked his hooves in as he began a dive. His wings flared just above the ground and he darted forward. Twisting in midair, he brought his hind legs around to slam into the cart, bucking against it with all his momentum. The wood buckled under the blow, and the wheels yanked violently free. The mercenaries rushed back in, shoving the cart away. It careened toward the perimeter, completely consumed by fire.

Inger landed in the mud beside Apricot, wiping his snout with an ash-coated hoof. He turned, and Apricot could see the instant his father noticed him. Inger’s wings went stiff and his eyes shot wide. “What the—Junior, you’re not supposed to be here!”

Well, at least his parents agreed on something. Apricot opened his mouth to explain, but was interrupted by a bump to his shoulder as his mother rushed past him. Cranberry embraced her husband, exhaling in relief. Inger matched her sigh, hugging her back. “Cranberry. You’re still okay.”

She leaned close to his face, and for a moment looked as though she were about to kiss him. Instead, she closed her mouth and nodded. “I’m glad you’re not hurt. But—”

Another deafening woosh filled the air as one of Castor’s weatherforged windbursts swept past, forcing all three Sugars to brace against it. Their manes flew wildly for a moment, as the loud crash of a falling tree rang out. Cranberry shook her head. “I don’t think we can stop it, Inger. It’s only a matter of time before it catches the blackpowder stores, and then this whole clearing will be a crater.”

“It’s dry as a desert up there,” he said, with a worried glance back up. “We haven’t been able to get a single cloud together. My father suggested we fly you out one-by-one, but—”

“The water’s almost gone,” finished Cranberry, with grim understanding in her eyes. “We don’t have enough time to get everyone out. We’ve got minutes, honey.” She swallowed, looking back at their son. “Take Apricot and get out of here.”

“What, and leave you?”

She averted her eyes and stepped back. “Maybe it’s… what I deserve.”

“Cranberry…” Inger’s eyes creased with hurt and anger. “That’s not…”

“Bring word back to Canterlot. Warn the university not to send anyone else after us. And tell Windstreak and Rye that—” Her voice caught.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, aghast. “Cranberry, I would never abandon—”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “I hope you can forgive me someday.”

“No!” Apricot stomped a hoof in the mud. “If you’re staying, we’re staying!” How could his mother even suggest this?

Before his parents could respond, a blood-curdling scream drew everyone’s attention. Beatriz stood frozen with her hoof outstretched, pointing to the munitions cart. A branch, bearing burning leaves, had fallen atop it, and the bone-dry wood had finally caught fire. Lines of flame streaked across the cart, hungrily seeking their explosive apotheosis within. The camels scrambled to fill their buckets, but shouts rose as the barrel ran dry. Somewhere, Virgil’s voice rang out, screaming “Run! Run! It’s going up!”

The whole world seemed to slow. Apricot could feel his heart thump, each beat pumping adrenaline into his veins. Time divided into frames of motion, every element of the scene thrown into sharp relief: The flames, shooting across the red sigil of Katabasis Company. The camels, tossing their buckets aside and fleeing uselessly for cover. His father, streaking toward the cart like a feathery arrow. Kaduat, a strangely serene look on her face as she watched the cart burn like a fuse. And everywhere, roiling and shimmering, the blazing trees, seething with white-hot fury.

The first rule of fire is balance.

The answer came to him almost quietly, like a whisper in the night. Apricot reached out through the storm of song, gliding through the howling conflagration to find the flames consuming the cart. They were too wild, too strong, too fierce to be snuffed out. It would be pointless to even try. But there was nothing to stop him from pouring more fuel on the flames…

His horn flashed, and energy surged through his body. Matching the firesong with his own voice, he flooded the blaze with magic. The fire wreathing the cart turned a brilliant rose, so bright that it cast shadows across the caravan. Flames leaped into the air, shimmering and soaring into the sky. Inger’s charge faltered as he recoiled from the heat, someone screamed, and then with a titanic woosh the fire turned a searing white and a blast of heat passed over them all. Apricot turned his head, the light too bright even for him. There was a shuddering chill in the magic as the song faltered, as though one of the choir’s voices had suddenly fallen silent.

Blinking, Apricot turned back to see the cart. It was scorched and blackened, but no longer aflame. It was just as Pollux had said; just as Apricot had done on accident back in Canterlot. The fire, suddenly flush with energy, had raged so violently that the air around it had been sucked dry. With no oxygen left to burn, the flame had consumed itself.

“Ap… Apricot…” stammered Cranberry.

He turned to her as if in a dream, still entranced by his sudden understanding. “I think we can stop it, Mom,” he said, blinking. Then the sound and heat rushed back in, as reality returned. Apricot shook his head. “But I need everyone’s help.”

The wildfire was too loud for him to sing with, too chaotic for him to find the rhythm. Casting about for an answer, his eyes landed on the empty barrel beside Beatriz. “Here!” he exclaimed, running toward it. His hooves squelched in the mud as he reached the shell-shocked antelope. “Help me flip it over, please!”

Beatriz tore her eyes away from the cart, with a dazed nod. Together, they turned the empty barrel upside down, leaving the hollow cavity. Cranberry came up beside them. “Apricot, what are you—”

“Listen, I need you all to get the rest of the barrels and give me a beat.” Apricot thumped the top of the barrel, sending out a reverberating echo.

“A—a beat? I don’t unders…” Cranberry’s voice trailed off as she looked at the cart, shaking her head.

“Mom! Focus, please. I need a beat; a drumbeat. It’s the only way for me to catch the firesong.” He began pounded out a rhythm on the improvised drum. Dun dun dun DUN dun dun DUN dun-dun DUN dun dun DUN dun dun…

Another pair of hooves joined him. Beatriz followed his beat, meeting his eyes with a nod. She smiled hesitantly, then yelled “Kaduat! Get the other barrels!”

Apricot stepped back as Cranberry took his place at the barrel, hooves pounding on the wood. Hesitant at first, she fell into the rhythm and helped Beatriz keep it steady. “Good,” said Apricot, turning away. “Keep it going, no matter what happens!”

Not waiting for a response, he galloped away, heading for the absolute center of the clearing. He passed burning tents and the flaming wreckage of other carts, ignoring the clouds of swirling sparks. At the fiery edge of the glade, the twin brothers carried on their lonely battle. He heard another booming rush of wind as they cast a falling tree back into the furnace. The drumbeat grew behind him as the mercenaries turned over more barrels and joined Beatriz and his mother.

He reached the center, coming to a halt. All around, the wildfire surged, snapping and gnawing the edges of the campsite like a hungry beast, roaring as it consumed the forest. To catch the fire’s reins, he would have to open himself fully, the way he had when finding the forest’s song. You could lose yourself, Pollux had warned, but there was no choice.

I have to, he thought. For Mom and Dad and Pollux and Kaduat. Be brave. Like Dad. With a deep breath, he ignited his horn and flung himself open to the song.

It broke over him with the force of a tidal wave, drowning him in light and sound. The wildfire echoed around him like a choir lost in a canyon, howling grief and anger in a threnody of violent sorrow. It was the forest itself, wailing like a searing orchestra of the dead and dying, a thousand alien screeches and groans in a frenzy of pain. At the root of the song he could feel a suffering so deep that it brought him to his haunches, crushing him down into the ash. Tears ran down his cheeks as the howling anguish of the Elderwood crawled up from the roots and twisted inside him.

Breathe, he thought desperately, trying to center himself, trying to keep his own voice from being swallowed by the forest. He could feel echoes of the camels’ panic, of his mother’s guilt and fear, of the twins’ steely determination, of Beatriz’s total focus on hammering out the drumbeat. The drums! Apricot clung to them like a lifeline, letting their steady rhythm serve as a lighthouse in the stormy sea of magic. He sang the firesong, his horn gleaming in the hazy air.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt as though he could see the music in the flames. Towering tongues of fire writhed to the beat, twitching on their own chaotic times. The wildfire’s energy passed through him, looping through his horn and back out into the forest. He took a deep breath, tasting ash, and exhaled. Some instinct made him raise his hooves, as if he could touch the song itself.

“You’re off-tempo,” he whispered. His hooves began to move.

He swayed them with the flames, nodding his head to the beat of the barrel-drums. His own rendition of the firesong followed the beat, and to his astonishment, many of the voices followed him. The fire flooded in, following the new path of least resistance, letting the spellsinger’s voice direct the fury of the choir. Some of the strands of energy resisted, burning fierce and independent. Apricot’s brow twitched, and he snapped his hoof toward the offending flames, raising his voice and focusing on the rhythm until they slowly fell in line.

One by one, he corralled the choir, until the whole glade—perhaps the entire forest—was singing with him. Incomprehensible energy coursed through his horn, like a vast river pouring through a breached dam. Apricot’s hooves never ceased, but he could feel the fire consuming him, even hotter than it had been when he’d stood inside it; burning up from his hooves into his chest, filling his lungs with searing smoke. It was igniting him from the inside out, melting him down until only an echo remained to sing with the forest choir.

And then he heard another voice, not the pale echo of something long gone, but a living, vibrant song. The golden, liquid warmth enwreathed his own music, and he felt a shining spark of hope. Pollux! The firesong, rendered in his teacher’s unmistakable, unshakable alto, shimmered radiantly through the magic. It separated from Apricot’s, diverting some of that overwhelming power away to pass through another conduit; yet it continued to follow Apricot’s beat with impeccable timing. A sensation radiated through the song, not quite telepathy, but an echo of emotion from teacher to student. It was a sensation he’d rarely felt from the adults, more precious than a thousand words of praise: Pollux trusted him.

One of the mercenaries yelled from behind. “Look! What’s happening to it?” All around, the bright orange color of the flames was becoming alloyed with rose and crimson light.

It was time to give the forest what it wanted. “Louder!” Apricot called to the drummers, not turning away from his fiery orchestra. His hooves paced the song, still swishing curtly through the air.

“You heard the kid,” yelled Kaduat. “Louder! Beswit-la!” The drumbeat grew as the mercenaries hurled themselves into the effort. “Whatever you’re doing, kid, keep it up!”

With the breathing room Pollux had given him, Apricot could do more than simply channel the wildfire. He pulled the loop of energy in his horn tighter and tighter, using the wildfire’s own power to concentrate and fuel the ring of fire around the clearing. Pollux followed his lead, and the two unicorns poured out their song like a torrent of oil onto the flames.

The wildfire grew deafeningly loud. The flames surged up, leaping forty meters above the ground, flickering like a watercolor of brilliant rose and rich crimson. The thrill rushing through his veins was like riding lightning. If they lost the song now, the overload would shatter their horns like glass. The fire, devouring the glut of magical energy, crashed against their music as it sought weakness, but the choir had fallen into his trap. With so many voices singing to Apricot’s tempo, they had become self-correcting. Lone trails of fire could not escape the pull of the rest. Eyes glinting, he recalled Pollux’s words. Skill beats power, every time.

As the crescendo reached its peak, Apricot’s hoof swept through the air. The fire followed, titanic tongues of flame whirling in a glowing arc of rosy light and heat. They swirled around the glade like a glowing tornado, drawing cries of terror from the mercenaries, but Apricot didn’t falter. He let the last of his strength pour into the inferno as it spun high around them. Lifting his hooves high, he brought the song to its climax. The rose-colored flame seared white, blindingly intense. His mane billowed wildly in the seething air, until he brought his hooves both slashing downward.

In the apex of its strength and hunger, the fire’s equilibrium collapsed. The wildfire screeched, gasping for air, lain bereft by its own rapacious fury, and sputtered away. Everywhere, the blazing flames fell suddenly low, extinguishing all at once in a choking cloud of ash and smoke. Apricot whirled his hoof in a gesture of finality. A deafening silence reigned.

Rose-colored cinders drifted gently through the haze like motes of glowing dust. The thundering noise of the fire had vanished in an instant, along with the heat and the light. Apricot could hear his own pulse, still pounding frantically. Behind him, the drums had stilled with the fire’s disappearance. In the magic, there was nothing; not even the sounds of forest life that had been so overwhelming earlier that day. It was the peace of a graveyard. Apricot recalled the flower-covered tombstone of his namesake, and shivered.

Cheers rose from behind him, shattering the silence. “You did it, kiddo!” hollered Kaduat hoarsely. He turned to see the mercenaries hugging and laughing with disbelief. An exhausted smile found its way to his lips, and he managed to lift a hoof in acknowledgment, but he was too tired to join them. He simply sat in the singed grass, letting his hooves and his horn rest. Right now he wasn’t sure he could even lift a pebble with magic. The echo of that immense power still ached in his horn.

Drained, he gazed around at the forest, taking in the ranks of blackened, skeletal trees. Their naked branches curled upwards like antlers, sharp and dark. It felt like they were watching him. He could sense nothing from them now, but that didn’t make him feel safe. This cold silence in the magic was even more disturbing than the wailing had been.

His ruminations were interrupted by his mother’s voice, breathless with relief. “Apricot! Apricot, you did it—” She rushed into another crushing hug, not caring about the mud smeared across her coat. Apricot hugged her back with as much strength as he could manage, with a tired yet happy sigh. Right now, all he wanted was sleep.

More hoofsteps drew Apricot’s attention. He lifted his head from Cranberry’s shoulder to see his father, staring around the burned-out glade in total amazement. Inger paced an unsteady circle around them, his head swinging back and forth as he gazed over the forest. “Unicorn stuff,” said Inger, deliriously. Apricot couldn’t help but laugh. Father and son locked eyes, blinking.

“Ha!” Inger let out a sudden whoop and hugged his family like a bear. “Incredible, Junior! You just—that was—that was incredible! You saved us, saved us all!” Even the dark circles under his eyes couldn’t lessen the pride shining in them.

The Sugars held the hug for a few moments before separating. Apricot sagged back on his haunches, rubbing his horn. Someone else cleared their throat, and Apricot perked up when he recognized Pollux’s voice. He turned his head to see the mage lifting a hoof to catch a rosy cinder. “Beautiful…” He examined the glowing mote, before shaking his hoof and casting it back into the breeze. “I knew you had a gift, but that…” Pollux turned to the family and bowed. “I am honored to be your teacher, Apricot Sugar.”

Apricot regained his footing, standing up and returning the bow. “It’s like you said. Fire is balance… I just helped it burn itself out.”

“Yes. But that was no ordinary fire.” Pollux stared at the blackened branches of the aspens. “We’re all lucky to be alive.” His contemplative frown cracked into a smile. “Although, with a cutie mark like that, should we expect any less?”

“Huh?” Apricot blinked. Pollux gave him a knowing nod.

Behind him, Inger inhaled sharply. “Junior! Look…”

“Wait, what?” His eyes shot wide. Suddenly, it felt like all his energy had returned. Whipping his head left and right, Apricot craned to get a look at his hindquarters. There, emblazoned on both flanks, was a slender silver rod enwreathed by a tongue of rose-tinted flame. “Oh my gods!”

“Language,” chided Cranberry, smiling. “Your brother’s bad enough, I don’t need you starting.”

“What is it?” he yelped, chasing his own tail in a circle twice before managing to stop himself. “A wand?”

“A conductor’s baton,” mused Pollux, dusting more soot from his robes. “No wonder you picked up spellsinging so quickly. A great many things are clear to me, now…” He glanced at Inger and Cranberry, his brow furrowing in confusion. “And a few, less so.”

Apricot’s eyes gleamed. All of it, everything, had been worth it. The weeks spent stuck in that cramped barrel, the boredom of fighting through Kemholtz’s dense paragraphs, taking that rock to the nose, even the terror of stepping into the fire. Now, the proof was there for all to see—he was meant to be a mage.

“Mom… Dad!” He spun around again. “Look at it!”

Inger grinned, despite the weary lines on his face. “You’ve earned it, Junior.”

“Oh, Apricot…” Cranberry’s eyes were misty.

“Pollux!” called Castor, as he flew past toward the remaining carts. “Come on, we’d better see what can be salvaged.”

The mage nodded, giving the Sugars another small bow before heading after his brother.

“All right,” said Inger, standing back up and groaning. He rolled his shoulder blade. “We’d better go with them.”

“Yes,” said Cranberry. “Apricot, honey, you should get some rest. I’m sure some of the tents survived, we can—”

“No way!” He bounced. “I have to show Kaduat my cutie mark!” Practically prancing, he trotted off after Pollux and Castor. “Come on, Dad!” Gleefully, he glanced back at the silver baton again. “I can’t wait till Strawberry sees this…”

* * *

As his son cantered away, Inger’s smile faded. The adrenaline rush was running out, and his limbs felt like iron weights. Looking over at his wife, his lips tightened.

Beneath her soot-stained golden curls, Cranberry looked as tired as he felt. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I managed not to get burned,” she said, looking around at the trees. “Somehow. Maybe all the mud helped.”

“Uh. Good.” Inger’s throat felt very dry. “Back there, right before the blackpowder cart caught fire… what you said…”

“Forget about it.” she deflected, not meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to keep Apricot safe. That’s all.”

Maybe it’s what I deserve, her words had been. “Cranberry. I never wanted to see you hurt.”

“And I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I never told you about… about what happened.” She shook her head. “And I wasn’t…” her voice caught, before she continued, “I wasn’t sure you could forgive me.”

She looked at him, and he saw tears making wet tracks through the ash on her cheeks. “Can you?” she whispered.

Of course I can, he thought instinctively, but all that made it past his lips was “Of… I…”

The dragon clenched around his heart, as the words from her journal flashed through his mind. Go ahead, you coward. Tell her it’s all forgiven, that everything’s fine. Pretend the jealousy isn’t still burning a hole in your chest. Pretend that you trust her again.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, turning away to hide his face.

“Oh,” she said, sounding small.

“Look, let’s talk more about this later, all right?” Inger exhaled, putting a hoof to the bridge of his snout. “Right now we should go help the others.”

“Okay,” she said, staring a thousand meters away. With a quiet sniffle, she stood, and walked listlessly toward the mercenaries, where Castor was issuing orders for the cleanup effort. After a moment, Inger followed, willing the damned dragon to be silent.

* * *

Picking up the pieces was a grim affair. By some miracle, no one had died in the wildfire, but it had taken a heavy toll on their supplies. Over a quarter of the tents, two thirds of their food stocks, the carts containing Cranberry’s books and all the digging equipment, and even Beatriz’s flute and Virgil’s fiddle had all been lost to the ravenous flames.

The most costly loss was the armory cart, which had burned so hot that even the steel within had warped. Half the spearheads were bent into useless hooks, and much of the armor had twisted beyond fit. They transferred what little remained usable into the cart that had held the tents, and left the rest in a pile of slag and metal.

Zaeneas’s alchemical stocks had survived, thanks to her cart’s small size and the slanted roof that had deflected most of the falling tinder away. The munitions cart, of course, was also still intact; but neither potions nor blackpowder would fill a grumbling belly. At least they had plenty of empty barrels to fill with water at the river, but the rescue mission looked more dire with every tallied loss.

In the faint moonlight, Inger stood over the ashes of the ruined armory cart. In an upturned hoof he held one of his armor plates, staring at his warped reflection in the ruined, golden metal. Even with a mirror so poor, he could tell how bad he looked. His eyes were sunken, dark pits, and his feathers were unkempt and disheveled. The still-hot air blew his matted orange mane about his head, leaving his visage even more bedraggled. If he saw one of his Firewings in such a sorry state, he’d tell them to go dunk their head in a barrel of water until they sobered up.

Something moved behind his reflection, and he heard soft hoofsteps in the ash. The cadence had become so familiar that he didn’t even need to turn. Still looking into the twisted metal, he sighed. “It takes almost two years for a recruit to earn their armor. It’s our most important ceremony. Once you’ve proven you’re worthy to wear the gold, the whole company helps you put it on for the first time; each of us buckling on a piece. When it’s done, when the whole raiment is assembled, the transformation is complete—and only then are you truly a sister or brother in the Firewings.”

Tybalt came to a stop beside him, glancing at the armor plate. Inger stared wistfully into it, shaking his head. “I’ve had bits and pieces replaced here and there over the years, but this pauldron was part of my original set. I went to Sleipnord wearing this. The Battle of Canterlot, the southern campaigns; it even survived the fight with Merys…” Mournfully, he tossed it back onto the pile of mangled metal.

“I’m sure it can be repaired,” offered his father hopefully. “Norharren smiths can work marvels.”

Inger shook his head. “It would be vanity to carry dead weight when we need every bit of space for food. With the damage from the wildfire, it could take us over a week to get back to Port Faeloch.”

“We aren’t returning to Faeloch,” said Tybalt firmly. “Not yet.”

“What?” Taken aback, Inger looked around at the devastated campsite. “You can’t intend to press on after—”

“We must. This mission is too important to turn back.”

“Even if we found Locke, we don’t have enough food left to—”

“This is bigger than Locke,” said Tybalt, forcefully. “We have to keep going.”

“Why?” Inger frowned.

“For…” Tybalt faltered, exhaling. “For Equestria’s sake. The elken knowledge that Locke found down there could save our nation.”

“I wasn’t aware it needed saving.”

“We’re stuck, Inger. The ponies aren’t withering away, but we aren’t growing, either. The rest of the world is passing us by.” Tybalt’s golden eyes burned with sudden passion. “It’s past time we ended this interminable stasis. We need to level the playing field.”

Inger’s stomach swam. He glanced back at the remains of the campsite, where Cranberry was still helping the mercenaries take stock. Apricot lay against the side of a cart, passed out and slumbering peacefully. “I need more than that if we’re going to keep walking into danger.”

“If Celerity Belle had shrunk from danger, then we’d all be speaking Gryphan right now.” Tybalt caught himself, sighing. “I’m sorry. I know I’m asking a great deal from you all. I don’t take that lightly.” His brow creased as he looked at his son. “But I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t worth it. Medicine, a transportation network, some unknown secret of the ancient elk; whatever it is that Locke discovered beneath this forest, he thought it could change everything. And I believe him. This could be our chance to build a better world, Inger. Together.” He held out a hoof. “Do you trust me?”

“I… don’t know.” Hesitantly, Inger regarded it. “I want to.”

Tybalt let his hoof rest. “Mm…” He bit his lip. “I understand. It can be hard to trust again after you’ve had yours broken.” They stood in silence for a few moments before Tybalt cleared his throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Inger’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Tybalt toyed with his locket. “You weren’t in camp when the fire started,” he said gently.

Scuffing the dirt with a hoof, Inger cleared his throat. “I was getting some air.”

“Inger…” his father sighed. “I heard you and Cranberry fighting. The yelling woke me up.”

There was nothing to say, so Inger looked back ahead at the twisted pile of steel and burned wood.

“If it’s your wish, I won’t pry further, but speaking from experience… keeping it bottled up just makes things worse.”

His mouth had gone dry. “She made a… mistake.”

“A mistake?” Tybalt closed his eyes, inhaling. “Oh, Inger.”

Inger bit his lip, holding his breath.

His father’s eyes opened again, full of weary resignation. “She’s been fucking the pegacorn.”

Dragonfire boiled in Inger’s veins. His face twisted with rage before he could control it. “No.” Imaginary images of his wife and his friend entwined together raced through his mind, like piercing arrows. The dragon clawed at his ribcage for release. “No. She… she only… kissed him.”

Only, hissed the dragon, as if that’s not bad enough. It sounded pathetic even to Inger’s ears.

“I’m so sorry, Inger.” Tybalt let the locket go, hanging his head. “Eurydice didn’t want to believe it, either. She made so many excuses for me… I think she even convinced herself, sometimes.” He surveyed the destroyed armory cart with melancholy. “Is it better or worse to know?”

Worse, the dragon snarled.

“It was just the one time,” said Inger, finding Cranberry’s weak excuses dripping from his own lips. “She… she still loves me,” he whispered.

“Yes.” At Inger’s raised eyebrow, his father nodded. “I believe that, truly,” said Tybalt, stroking the locket. “But… it’s possible for a pony to have more than one love. Would that it were not.”

“She wouldn’t do that. Neither would Rye.” The dragon writhed. Trying to convince him, or yourself? “They… it… it would destroy all of us. Windstreak, Tyria, me, the boys—” He clung to the last one like a piece of driftwood in the ocean. “Cranberry would never hurt Strawberry and Apricot like that.”

“Apricot…” Tybalt looked around at the wildfire-scarred forest. “Your son is a puzzle I’ve been considering for some time.”

“What?” Inger blinked, thrown off balance by the sudden change in subject.

“First the incident on the ship, and now all of this,” said Tybalt, sweeping a hoof at the dead trees. “The boy’s a prodigy. He’s got powerful magic in his blood. It must have come from somewhere. And it wasn’t from our line.”

Inger’s mind went blank. “Cranberry’s got unicorn blood.”

“Yes,” said Tybalt, turning to look into Inger’s eyes. His voice fell to a sibilant whisper that sounded eerily like the dragon’s. “But she doesn’t have a horn.”

There was no sound of leaves or birds in the dead forest air. Inger’s forehead throbbed. Wings trembling, he felt a red-hot lance of fury shiver through his spine. With a victorious howl, the dragon broke free at last, spewing fire as it burst from his chest.

His hoof slammed into his father’s face.

Tybalt fell backwards into the ash, clutching his snout in visible shock. Inger stood above him, shaking, his chest heaving. Growling, he slammed his hoof back to the ground.

As he wiped his snout, Tybalt stared at the blood on his hoof in disbelief. “You hit me.”

“And I’ll do it again if you say another gods-damned word.” The dragon roared, tugging at his hoof, but Inger fought it back. For a moment, he searched for something to say, but no words came. Snarling, he turned away and stormed off toward the edge of the glade.

That punch had felt good. Far too good. He’d just barely had the presence of mind to aim it at Tybalt’s snout instead of his chin, which would have broken bones for certain. And even now, all he wanted was to rush back and pummel out all this rage onto someone who deserved it for a change.

Deserved it? The dragon, luxuriating in its long-awaited release, draped itself across his shoulders. For what? Putting a voice to the thoughts you’d never dare to speak yourself? Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s why your son has always felt so out of reach. Maybe it’s not your fault after all. Maybe it’s HERS.

Inger gritted his teeth. Shut up. SHUT UP. He paced along the perimeter of the ravaged glade, hoping to walk off this dangerous mood.

Violence was his job, and he was good at it. He’d promised himself long ago that no matter what happened, he would never bring work home. Until coming to the Elderwood, he’d kept that promise without fail; now, he’d broken it twice in less than twenty-four hours. First, nearly maiming Apricot with that rock while carelessly venting his anger, and now nearly shattering his father’s jaw. If he fell any further, if he gave in to the dragon’s darkest urges, if, in another outburst of rage, he hurt Cranberry, then he wasn’t sure he could live with himself.

As he walked and forced his breathing to slow, the haze of fury began to fade. The familiar exhaustion after a rush of adrenaline began to set in. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in over a week, and his body was starting to give out. But the bubbling anger and hurt beneath his temper were still there, stubbornly persisting. Diverting his course, he broke from the perimeter and stepped past the treeline.

Though all the aspens were scored black, white bark peeked out from beneath the soot. The antler-esque branches rose above his head, like blackened crowns atop their burned pillars. If he hadn’t seen the trees alive and flourishing mere hours ago, he could have mistaken them for structures of stone, dark and forbidding in the night. Astonishing, how quickly something green and beautiful could crumble to ash.

Finding a spot shielded from the glade, Inger sat beneath one of the towering burned obelisks. There, he tried to gather himself. His thoughts were still racing, a flood of images and feelings that he couldn’t seem to stem. He did his best to simply focus on breathing, letting his lungs fill with the sap-scented air of the incinerated forest.

Stretching out his right wing, he looked it over. The feathers were misaligned, ruffled, covered in splotches of soot. He stank of smoke. Taking another deep breath, he closed his eyes and pushed his snout into the soft, cherry-red down. He began to nudge the feathers back into place, preening them with the ease of long practice.

The ritual was comforting. With each brush of his cheek, feathers righted and fell neatly in line. Making order from chaos, even in something so small, soothed his turbulent emotions. Even the dragon calmed; not safely caged as before, but lulled back to quiescence. He could keep his temper in check. He was the captain of the Firewings, for Sisters’ sake. Bit by bit, feather by feather, he shored up the control that had been so badly shaken by the events of the last month.

Clean wings create a clear mind; page forty-six. He began the other wing with a wry smile. In his youth, he and the other cadets had made fun of Lieutenant Bergeron whenever he quoted from the Firewings training manual, but he found its words wiser and wiser with every passing year. The naked trees creaked as a faint breeze passed, and his musings turned outward.

If he let his own anger burn free like a wildfire, then he’d wind up as barren and scorched as the aspens. At least his outburst at Tybalt had done the same thing as Apricot had to the flames. The sudden violent surge had shocked him awake, had put out the fire—at least for now.

As he finished preening, he pulled his wings back close to his sides, calmly exhaling. Above, he heard a chirp. Looking up in amazement, he saw a woodpecker alighting on one of the blackened branches. Its head swiveled, before rapping against the bark. Rat-a-tata-tatatat-tat. Inger smiled. Despite all its terrible fury, the fire hadn’t damaged the forest beyond saving. This place could be green again, someday.

I want to forgive her, he thought to himself, nodding slowly.

Can you? asked the dragon, cautiously. A few words won’t make it stop hurting.

I don’t know. But trying is worth it. She’s worth it.

Dubiously, it rested its head to sleep. All right. But don’t get your hopes up.

Taking another deep breath, he stood, and strode back the way he’d come. As he picked his way through the burned and blasted trees, he wondered what he could say to her. Or to his father.

When he reached the campsite, he found many of the mercenaries sleeping rough on the ground. With so much of their shelter burned beyond repair, it was likely the new state of affairs until their return to civilization. Tybalt seemed to have retreated to one of the remaining tents, to Inger’s relief. He could deal with that mess tomorrow. Right now, his only concern was for the pair of pink ponies beside the water cart.

Apricot was still fast asleep as he approached. Cranberry, sitting beside their son, looked up as he reached them. She was visibly spent, but her eyes still sparked with the vibrant blue he’d come to know so well over the years. She gave him a guarded, yet hopeful look. “Inger?”

“Hey.” He sat heavily beside her, leaning his head back against the cart.

“Hey,” she echoed, looking off into the trees.

“Cranberry, I…” Inger sighed. Oh, to hell with it. He grabbed her gently, and pulled her chin sideways to plant a kiss right on her lips. Cranberry made a muffled murmur of surprise, before softening into it.

“Um…” she mumbled as they parted, “Wow. I, uh… thought you were still angry with me.”

“Maybe,” he said, shaking his head in confusion, “but that doesn’t mean—Cranberry, I still love you.”

A faint smile cracked the soot on her face. “I’m glad.”

“What you said during the fire… you’ve always been brave in danger,” he said quietly, “but never because you’ve had a death wish. I know things have been hard. But I’m not going to leave you, Cranberry.”

She bent and turned her head away for a moment, before wiping her eyes and looking back at him. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I don’t know if you’re ready to talk about it; but Inger, I am so, so sorry for what I did.” Cranberry’s eyes wavered as she took a shaky breath. “It’s been eating me up for days. The reason I never told you wasn’t to keep it secret, or because I still felt that way. It was because… because I was ashamed.”

The dragon hissed from his shoulder like a wounded animal. Who cares how she feels? You’re the one she hurt.

“I just need to know one thing,” he said. His wife nodded hesitantly. Inger swallowed. “That was the only time, right?”

“Yes,” she said, exhaling. “You have my word.”

“All right.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

The two sat in silence by the cart, as the empty trees creaked in the wind around them. Cranberry reached to her right, where the young colt was curled up asleep, and ruffled his curly mane. “I still can hardly believe it… our little Apricot, doing all that. If Papa could see him now, he’d be bursting with pride.” She smiled. “It’s funny, you know. When he flipped that barrel over and ordered us all to start drumming, he sounded just like you, barking orders to recruits on the training field.”

“Heh.” Inger looked at his son, and the fiery rose sigil imprinted on his flank. Conflicted emotions swirled inside him. Pride, of course, but also a sense of loss: This pony was born to do magic, that mark proclaimed, a symbol that his son would always be part of a different world than his father. “I’m glad he got at least one thing from me.”

“More than you give yourself credit for,” said Cranberry, brushing his cheek with a hoof. “There’s no spell that can grant someone spirit, or courage.” She leaned over and gave him a hug. “Magic training isn’t what makes a good father.”

But having a horn might, said the dragon. Inger felt a cold pit in his stomach. He felt a sudden impulse to bring up his father’s suspicions, while they were clearing the air. “Cranberry—”

Her reply was a faint snore. Cranberry’s forelegs had gone slack around him, as the long day and frantic night took their toll at last. Her head rested on his shoulder as she slept, with a peace on her features that he hadn’t seen since they’d set hoof in the Elderwood. Inger couldn’t help but smile, pulling a few stray mane curls out of her face. Closing his eyes, he let his head rest against hers, and allowed himself to drift away.

No dreams troubled his sleep before morning.

17. Blood on Black Sand

It was no surprise that the company got off to a late start. Everyone was still bone-tired after the previous night’s ordeal, many with minor burns and bruises from fighting the wildfire. The final tally of losses merely confirmed what they already knew—they no longer had enough food to supply themselves for more than a week, let alone Locke’s expedition as well. The rescue mission’s timetable had now shortened dramatically.

The first order of business was reaching the river to restock their water supplies. With space now at a premium, half the blackpowder was unloaded to make room for the empty water barrels. The three pegasi and Virgil dispersed the surplus aerially behind them, in the hopes of avoiding a future concentrated explosion.

The northward march through the dead forest was the stuff of nightmares. Cranberry was grateful for Apricot’s new cutie mark; he was too busy admiring it to look around at the skeletal trees and think about how close they’d all come to dying. She wished that she could be so easily distracted. When she gazed up at those necrotic branches, she could still feel that blistering heat on her skin, the smoke-clogged air burning her lungs…

Still. Despite all the danger and horror, no one had died. A smile kept creeping onto her face as she watched her son trotting in the caravan’s wake. The loss of all her beloved excavation tools was a hefty price, but she’d pay it gladly in exchange for the way Apricot had blossomed. The last time she’d seen him this over the moon was after his first successful levitation at the bakery.

Inger was looking better, too. Cranberry glanced up as he and the other fliers passed overhead. Even a few hours’ uninterrupted sleep had done them all a world of good. She wasn’t entirely sure where the two of them stood now, but they’d shared a kiss before he took to the skies this morning.

Slowly, as they neared the river, the caravan began to see signs of life once again. Green shoots were already springing up from the ashes, and the closer they drew to the water the more Cranberry began to spy living aspens dotting the ranks of the blackened husks. As forest fires went, it had been a small one, incredulous as the thought might be. The white trunks of the surviving trees were scorched and scarred, but still intact. As they passed further north, the surviving trees soon began to carry crowns of leaves once more. By the time they reached the river’s edge, it was impossible to tell there had been a fire at all, surrounded by green and the whispering trees.

Fording the river with the surviving carts required all hooves, including hers. It was a wet, cold, and exhausting endeavor, taking half the afternoon for just the half-dozen surviving carriages, but at least it gave them all a chance to bathe the soot and ash away. By the time they finished, everyone was sopping wet and hungry. Thanks to their reduced supplies, lunch was a grisly affair. With all the fresh vegetables lost, they were left with little besides barrels of hardtack.

“I never thought I’d miss carrot stew so much,” mumbled Cranberry, worrying away a chunk of unleavened bread.

Inger had somehow managed to scarf his ration down in minutes. She gave him an appalled look, but he just grinned. “Could be worse,” he offered. “At least there’s no bugs in it.”

Apricot had been eyeing his own wafer dubiously. Emboldened by his father, he took a bite and winced as the unyielding bread held firm. Cranberry blinked. “Careful you don’t crack a tooth, honey.”

Massaging his jaw, Apricot regarded the undamaged biscuit warily. “Do you think Beatriz would get mad if I told her how to make bread?”

“She knows how, Junior,” said Inger, still grinning. “It’s like that on purpose. This stuff keeps for ages. If you store it right, it can stay edible for years.” He gave a nostalgic sigh. “Sometimes we weren’t even sure what decade ours came out of the oven. During the war we used to use them for seasail chips. And doorstops.”

Apricot gingerly clacked his teeth around the biscuit’s edge again before pulling it away with a grimace. “Want mine?”

Inger laughed. “Try holding it in your mouth for a bit. They soften once you get some moisture in them.” He started to stretch before suddenly going very still.

Looking up to see what had frozen him, Cranberry saw Tybalt approaching them. Her father-in-law’s pace was uncharacteristically hesitant, and his shoulders slumped. As he walked up to the fallen tree where the family was having lunch, his eyes darted across each of the Sugars. If he’d had a hat, Cranberry suspected it would have been in hoof. She glanced curiously between him and her husband, but stayed silent.

“Inger,” began Tybalt, but Inger held up a hoof.

“Look,” he said, “I shouldn’t have—”

“I was out of line,” Tybalt interjected, rubbing a fetlock. “I’m sorry. You were right to be angry.”

“But I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no,” Tybalt held up his own hoof, shaking his head. “Inger, it’s me. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

They were quiet for a few moments. Inger rubbed the back of his neck. “So… is this the apology?”

“Uh… yes,” said Tybalt with an awkward tug of his collar.

Inger nodded, scratching an ear. “Okay, um… Accepted. I’m sorry, too.”

“Thank you,” said Tybalt, nodding soberly. The two shared an uncomfortable, contrite silence.

Cranberry couldn’t hold it in, and snorted. When both of them gave her a confused look, she just rolled her eyes and went back to her nibbling on her biscuit. Stallions, she thought.

Sheepishly, Tybalt pawed the ground with a hoof. “Pwyll thinks we’ll reach the Black Gorge this evening.”

Cranberry’s ears perked up. That was where Locke’s expedition had set up their first base camp. There had to be something left, even after all these months. Perhaps they’d find some evidence of whatever had cut off communications. “I think we ought to send a team ahead,” she offered.

“Hmm.” Tybalt tapped his chin. “I assume you mean yourself.”

“And no more than three or four others. I’d like to get a look at Locke’s camp before our full group tramples all over it.”

“A sound plan. I’ll speak to Castor.” Tybalt gave them a short bow and departed.

Cranberry waited until he was out of earshot before giving Inger a wry, lifted eyebrow. He shrugged defensively. “What?”

Rolling her eyes again, she shook her head and smiled, deciding not to press him on whatever that had been about. “You should come ahead with me to check things out.”

“Sure.” Inger looked ahead down the forest trail. “You think we’ll find anyone alive at the site?”

“I don’t know. If they had access to the surface, then surely they’d have tried to make it back to town…” Cranberry glanced up at the trees, reflecting warily on how threatening a bunch of inanimate plants could seem. “But maybe some disaster like the fire trapped them, and they couldn’t leave.”

“Did they have any mages with them?”

“They did. A small team of four antelopes, under a mage named Hobb.” Cranberry had read through the expedition logs so many times that she could summon them to mind at will. “Locke didn’t say much about them in his journals—apparently they kept to themselves on the trip out. I don’t know if they were good enough to protect against something like what we went through last night.”

Inger shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Mm,” she assented. She smiled. “Come to think of it, I don’t believe you’ve ever been on a dig with me before, have you?”

“Not unless you count Tyorj,” he said, with a wink. “I’m looking forward to seeing you in action, Professor.”

A sigh interrupted them as Apricot set his hardtack down. “Are they going to have food there?”

Cranberry rubbed a hooftip against her biscuit. “I hope so.” For their sake.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was spent at a hearty trot. Pwyll had assured them that they could reach the gorge before sundown, and though no one said it aloud, none of them wanted to spend another night in the open forest beneath the whispering trees. To Cranberry, the lush greenery no longer felt peaceful—merely patient. Each stick snapping underhoof or branch creaking in the wind sounded like a stalking threat, each change in the wind a declaration of intent. She wasn’t the only one on edge. More than once she caught Inger scanning the trees like he was on guard duty, surveying their surroundings for danger. The camels all looked similarly twitchy, especially Kaduat, who was carrying one of the surviving spears slung over her shoulder.

Despite the general mood of anxiety, the caravan arrived at the entrance to the gorge without incident. The faintest hints of pink and orange were just beginning to creep into the sky as they rounded a corner in the path and found themselves facing a narrow gap in the trees. Ahead, a great crack in the earth wound back and forth, widening as it went, open to the sky. Between the trees, the trail sloped down sharply into the crack as two rocky walls rose to either side. It turned a ways down and vanished behind the left wall, as the gorge stretched on. The trees clustering at the edges of the canyon blocked any view of the path ahead, but the gap seemed to continue on for a considerable length.

“That’s not a gorge,” murmured Castor, gazing at the entrance with a frown. “It’s a slot.”

“It widens further in,” said Pwyll, scratching his antlers. “At least, that’s what Locke said.”

Tybalt adjusted his locket. “No turning back now. Will the carts fit through there?”

“Locke’s did,” shrugged Castor. “Let’s get down there while we still have daylight. Pwyll, keep those horns tuned for any more bad feelings, hm?” His frown deepened. “Let me know when we’re safe to make camp.”

Cranberry made a little ahem. “About what I requested…”

“Oh. Yes.” Castor glanced at her. “Take an advance team to check the campsite out. Just be careful, Professor.”

“Inger will be with me,” she said, smiling. “We’ll be safe.”

“Take Beatriz with you, too. She can help you detect any magical traces Locke’s team might have left.” Castor rubbed his chin. “And bring Virgil. Put those sharp griffon eyes to work.”

“I—I’d like to go too,” said Pwyll, raising a cautious hoof, “if that’s all right.”

“Mm.” After a moment’s thought, Castor acquiesced with a nod. “As you will. Stay alert, all of you. And come back to us if Pwyll senses anything wrong. Otherwise, we’ll catch up with you at the campsite.” With Tybalt at his side, he turned back to speak with Kaduat and the camels pulling the carts.

Cranberry waved a hoof as her little party gathered by the entrance to the gorge. “All right, everyone. We’ll be looking for any signs of the last expedition. If you see something, speak up.”

“Understood,” said Virgil, waving her an informal two-taloned salute.

They set off down the trail. To either side, the rock walls quickly rose, and by the time they turned the first corner the sheer cliffs towered high above their heads. Cranberry could see horizontal striations in the rock, layers upon layers of ancient volcanic sediment deposited by lava flows from long before ponies had walked the earth. The narrow crevice was deep and tight, offering no room to maneuver. They could only retreat… or forge ahead into the unknown.

As they took another turn, the place’s namesake became clear. Ahead of them, the dirt path vanished beneath a layer of black sand. The group paused, cautious. “Coal dust…?” offered Beatriz.

Virgil was the first to step forward, scooping a clawful of the stuff up and sniffing it. “No. Not blackpowder, either, but it sure looks like it. I’ve never seen sand like this in the deserts back home…”

Cranberry traced a hoof through the substance. It was coarse and warm to the touch, even though little direct sunlight penetrated down through the narrow slot. “It’s obsidian,” she said, fascinated. “Volcanic glass. Black as night.”

Pwyll radiated excitement. “A natural magic reservoir. Our ancestors used glass in all its forms, but obsidian was special. They say it lets you draw on the power of the earth that formed it. Lady Ciaran has an obsidian broach that she uses as a catalyst for the most difficult spells. I’ve never seen so much of the stuff in one place…” He lifted a few grains and gently blew them from his hoof.

“That might explain this hollow,” mused Inger, running a hoof along the smooth canyon walls. “I don’t think it’s a natural rock formation. I’ll bet we’re standing in an old obsidian quarry. That’s why the trench is so narrow and twisty—they were digging, following veins of glass.”

A gust of wind shrieked through the gorge, setting Cranberry’s teeth on edge. The sand swirled around their hooves in tiny eddies. “Come on,” she said, steeling herself. “Let’s keep moving.”

As the others followed behind, looking around at the smooth stone and black sand, Pwyll joined her at the head of the party. "I can’t wait to see what’s down here,” he said, eyes bright.

“You’ve never been deeper in?”

Pwyll shook his head. “The place where we left Castor and the others is as far as I’ve ever been. Lady Ciaran always forbade me from coming down here myself, even after I led Professor Locke’s company into the forest.” He looked around at the narrow cliffs with breathless awe. “It’s incredible. They must have stood here. Right here!”

“Locke’s team?”

“My ancestors,” he said reverently. “Thousands of years ago… some other elk stood right where we are now. A worker, maybe; digging for glass. Or an engineer, using the obsidian to design a flying city, or an artist crafting marvelous sculptures from the shards…”

“You’re not like most elk I’ve met,” said Cranberry, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity. “Even my colleagues in Cariboulla treat their history with more dread than wonder.”

“I know,” said Pwyll, his enthusiasm damping. He exhaled. “I love Lady Ciaran, but when it comes to our ancestors, she’s just as you say. Growing up, what little I was told about the ancient elk was all about their crimes. How they enslaved whole nations, sacrificed tens of thousands in dark rituals to power their magical wonders. As fawns we’re taught to curse their names. It feels like we’re still trying to repent for the sins of our foredeer.”

Cranberry tilted her head. “You don’t feel the same?”

“I’m not saying we ought to forget what they did. But should we be held responsible for things done before we were born?” A righteous anger she’d never seen in him suddenly smoldered in his eyes. “Our people were strong, once. Should we shut ourselves away in shame because some of them used that strength for ill?”

He looked around at the canyon walls, shaking his antlers. “Many were monsters, yes. Slavers, blood mages, tyrants—but that wasn’t the whole picture. They gave the world so much good, too: writing, money, spellsong, civilization! If it wasn’t for them, no mortals would have even survived the long winter after the gods disappeared. They saved the world! I think that legacy deserves more than fear and hate.”

“I guess it’s easier for me,” Cranberry mused, looking ahead down the trench. “I’m an outsider. When I study the ancient elk, I can be… dispassionate. Admire the good, and catalog the evil without guilt.”

He shook his head. “Ciaran always says some things deserve to be forgotten. It feels like everyone in the Commonwealth wants to strike our ancestors from history. Damnatio Memoriae, as if not speaking about something means it didn’t happen.But the more I learn about our past, the more I find things worth preserving. We were the greatest mages alive; travelers who saw the breadth of the world and spoke the tongues of half a hundred species. Now, our horizons end in Port Faeloch. We’re afraid of even the forests on our own doorstep.”

“You want the elk to rise again?” asked Cranberry cautiously. “A second Dominion?”

“No,” admitted Pwyll. He sighed, and all his anger fell away. He seemed suddenly tired. “The elk never deserved to rule the world, Professor. I just want us to be part of it again.” Wistfully, he looked ahead at the winding canyon. “If we keep on like we have been, we’re going to wither away until there’s nothing left of us besides relics. For the elk to have a future, we have to accept our past. Truth is worth knowing, even when it’s terrible.”

Cranberry nodded slowly. “So… Have you given any more thought to the university?”

“In Cariboulla?” Pwyll’s antlers dipped meditatively. “I haven’t decided yet. It would be a big change.”

“It sounds like you want big changes.”

“I do…” He smiled. “To be honest, it still doesn’t seem real that I’m leaving Port Faeloch after this. I’ve never even left Ellánon’s shores before.”

“They’d be thrilled to have you. Someone with your experience in navigating the Elderwood would be quite a catch for the archeology department. A few years and some papers and you might be leading digs like me and Locke. And if the College of Cariboulla can’t get you a scholarship, I’m sure Canterlot’s foreign exchange program can.”

A warm chuckle interrupted them. “You can’t resist, can you?” Inger walked up on her other side. “Careful, Pwyll. She’ll have you signed up for a semester before you know it.”

Cranberry laughed. “You know how hard it is to find good graduate students these days? Sometimes you have to make your own.”

Pwyll grinned. “I can think of worse fates.” His eyes wandered ahead and he dipped his antlers, deep in thought.

With a wry smile, Cranberry sighed. “If I were that good at inspiring someone to love history, it ought to have worked on Strawberry or Apricot by now.”

“They’ve got their own passions,” said Inger, with a reassuring nudge.

Lost in his thoughts, Pwyll didn’t seem to notice as the couple’s pace slowed. He pulled ahead of them, his mind clearly miles away. The two ponies fell behind as their hooves sank softly into the warm, dark sand.

“This place is strange,” said Inger, looking up at the narrow slot of sky above. “Usually by this point, a quarry would open into a wide pit. This just keeps going, deeper and deeper.”

“I’m no geologist… maybe it’s like you said, they were following veins of obsidian. Or maybe this was something else. A road to the city Locke was hunting for?” The wind whistled through the canyon past them, setting their manes aflutter. “It might not even have any significance beyond appearance. The elk liked to show off, even when no one else was meant to see the things they were making.” She laughed. “Especially then.”

Inger snorted. “They’ll have to show off a lot more than a sandy trench if they want to impress. I’ve seen Tyorj. I still remember those enormous pillars like it was yesterday. You could fit half of Canterlot in that great hall.”

“They might impress you yet,” she said, eyes glinting. “The greatest cities of the elk were like living sculptures. Wood and glass blending together to create beautiful, magical architecture that defied the laws of physics. The Tyorjans were very jealous.” She snickered. “I don’t think mages can resist trying to one-up each other. It’s hard to be humble when you’re wielding the forces of creation.”

“Let’s hope Apricot doesn’t pick that up…”

“I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s as shy as you are.”

“I’m not shy—” he protested, sounding so much like Apricot that both of them laughed.

“No,” she agreed, giving him a swift kiss on the cheek. “Just very reserved. I’ve always liked that about you.” A smile crept onto his face, and the two walked on.

As the hour grew late and the angled sunlight withdrew further up the walls, Cranberry could feel Inger growing agitated. Above, the sides of the trench stretched higher and higher, and the sky narrowed to a thin strip edged by the boughs of quaking aspens. Pegasi as a rule weren’t fond of tight spaces, and the ominous black sand and eerie whistling wind weren’t helping matters.

Virgil, of course, was the first one to spot it. His sharp whistle rang out through the gorge, instantly drawing the entire party’s attention. “Up there.” He pointed with a steady talon at a low, thick arch of rock that crossed the narrow trench above.

Cranberry squinted in the fading light, inhaling sharply as she spied a mark drawn onto the rock with white chalk. It was a familiar sigil: the tip of a fountainhead pen, with the central cavity stylized in the shape of a keyhole. “Locke’s cutie mark,” she exclaimed.

“We must be close to their camp,” said Inger.

“All right, everyone,” she said, assembling them in a huddled circle. “Go slowly. Keep your eyes out for any signs of what happened here, but don’t touch anything before telling me. This is a dig site, now.”

Beatriz, Virgil, and Pwyll nodded. Inger just smiled. Cranberry waved them forward, and they passed under the overhang.

“It’s not often I get to see you be Professor Sugar,” murmured her husband. “Makes me proud, watching you order those mercenaries around.”

“I learned the hard way that bumbling around ancient places taking what you please has consequences.” Cranberry lifted a wry eyebrow. “And you wouldn’t believe how clumsy students can be on a dig…”

As the party turned another corner, they paused. They’d found themselves in a large open space, a roughly elliptical pit between the stone walls. It was nearly fifteen meters wide and at least twice that in length. At several places around the clearing, other entrances led to more narrow corridors that twisted away into the shadows. It felt as though they’d reached the center of a vast, spoked wheel. Scattered about the pit were the remains of carts much like the ones Katabasis had brought, all in various states of wreckage or disrepair.

The remnants of a few scattered tent poles and fabric poked out of the sand near the center of the clearing. Obsidian grains skittered across the sand as a breeze drifted through the clearing. On the left side, the rock wall yielded to a wide cavern entrance. The darkness inside was impenetrable, but in contrast to the smooth sides of the trench, its rough contours looked naturally formed. More chalk signs, weathered beyond legibility by the sand and wind, were scrawled on surfaces around the camp.

“Abandoned,” came Beatriz’s nervous voice from behind. “A long time ago, by the look of things.”

“We don’t have much light left,” said Cranberry, already partitioning the site in her head. “We’ll have to be quick and methodical. Look for any evidence of what happened. Virgil, check the carts by the eastern corridor first. They look the most intact. Inger, can you fly up top and see if there’s anything around the edges of the gorge?” He nodded, stretching his wings.

Cranberry glanced up at the trees poking over the lip of the canyon. “Pwyll, see if you can pick up any traces of magic. Beatriz, you’re with me. We’ll investigate the central campsite, first.” The antelope looked grateful not to be sent off on her own. “If any of you find something, give a whistle. And don’t touch anything yet,”she repeated. “Let’s get to it.”

As the group split away, she instinctively reached back to grab her digging toolkit and straightened in surprise as her hoof bumped bare skin. Inger caught the gesture, and grinned. Cranberry tried not to blush as she set her hoof down. So easily, she’d slipped into the familiar role of excavation director… Primly straightening her back, she rolled her eyes at him, and then headed toward the tents with Beatriz in tow as the others split off to see to their assignments.

The cracked wood of the tent poles rose from the sand like half-buried bones. Sun-bleached brown fabric stretched up over them, unsettlingly reminiscent of decaying skin on an old carcass. Cranberry leaned in to examine the cloth. The exposed hem was rotted away, the shredded fabric fluttering softly in the wind. She puffed a breath onto it, and a few grains of sand shook loose.

“I recognize the pattern,” she said, talking more to herself than Beatriz. “See the black smudges? That’s the Canterlot University seal. Locke must have brought our usual expeditionary supplies. Judging from how faded it is, I’d say this has been here for at least three months. Maybe longer.”

Beatriz looked around the abandoned campsite, eyes flicking between the entrances to the narrow trenches. “Some of those carts look like they were wedged into the passages like barricades. This isn’t a very defensible position, if anything got inside…”

“What would they need to defend against?” Cranberry wondered in bafflement. “None of the reports mentioned anything about enemies…” She spied a few lumps beneath the sand, where the contents of the tent would lie. “Damn it, and all my tools lost in the fire… see those?”

“Mhm.” Beatriz leaned over her shoulder, peering at the buried mound. “Can we touch things now?”

“I think we’ll have to,” Cranberry admitted grudgingly. “I’d like nothing more than a good two weeks and a dozen graduate students to dig this place out and catalog everything properly, but we’re pressed for time.”

Carefully, she began brushing away sand with her hoof. Beatriz moved to assist, her horns glowing a gentle blue. The coarse, black grains shifted, yielding items: a wooden cup, a half-folded sleeping pallet, a roll of bandages… and, glinting in the faint dusky sunlight, the gleaming steel of a sword.

Cranberry traced her hoof along the metal surface. “Hmm. Ponies don’t use blades this lengthy.” Not unless her old friend Eberhardt had been here, at least. “It must belong to one of the griffons.”

Beatriz turned the wooden cup over in her hooves. “So where are they?” She looked around. “There’s no one here. Not even bodies. You think something scared them all off?”

“I don’t think anything, yet,” said Cranberry. “Let’s keep looking.”

They checked several of the other tents, turning up more supplies and personal belongings: rock-hard bread, cracked spectacles, tattered books, weathered clothes, dishware, tools… Every sign said the expedition had abandoned the campsite in a hurry. It looked as though they’d left in the middle of the night, with no time to pack. As Cranberry stood from the sixth tent, ready to shift their search, she heard approaching steps padding through the sand.

Inger and Virgil rejoined them, both looking dour. “The carts are a total loss,” said Virgil, shaking his head. “Broken axles, snapped wheel spokes, rotted wood… if it wasn’t so dry down here, I don’t think there’d be anything left of them. They’ve been here for a while. And the expedition left some supplies in them, too, judging from the smell. But that one…” he pointed to the cart stationed at the northernmost entrance to the pit. It was broken in the middle, splintered wood bowing out from the point where the two halves rested on the ground. “It didn’t fall apart. It looks like it was crushed. Maybe a boulder fell on it… but why would they remove the rock and leave the cart?”

“There’s more,” said Inger. “Check the walls, up near the top. See those lines?”

Cranberry squinted. Now that he was pointing them out, she could—dozens and dozens of criss-crossing scratches marred the smooth rock, stretching for meters across the stone. They were high up, ranging from a meter above their heads to nearly the lip of the canyon. “Weathering…?”

Inger shook his head. “Not like any I’ve seen. It looks almost like blade scoring. See how they start shallow and deepen, until they cut off at the end?”

“Talons might make marks like that,” said Virgil, tapping his beak.

“I’ll be damned if I know anything huge enough to leave clawmarks that big,” said Inger. “Save for a dragon. Though if one of those was living in the Elderwood, I think the Faeloch elk would know about it.”

“Something bad happened here…” said Beatriz, shifting hoof to hoof. “You all can feel it, can’t you?”

“Easy, now,” said Cranberry, trying to ignore the hairs standing up on the back of her neck. “We haven’t seen anything conclusive so far. Let’s go check on Pwyll.”

At the cavern’s entrance, they found the young deer peering into the dark with a contemplative frown. The others joined him, eyeing the opening with caution. “Anything?” asked Cranberry.

“I can sense magic inside,” he said. “But I can’t tell what kind… it’s very diffuse.”

“Hm.” Cranberry squinted. The cave was too dark to discern anything amidst the black sand. “Bea, light?”

Beatriz lit her horns, and led the way as the party ventured inside. They’d only gone a couple of meters before Virgil took a sharp breath. “I’ve got a body,” he said quietly. “Bea, bring that light over here.”

They followed him toward a large, dark lump. Beatriz’s hornlight revealed a female griffon lying half-buried in the sand, her head drooped lifelessly against her outstretched foreleg.

“Allow me, please,” said Cranberry, stepping forward to examine the body. Craning her head down, she surveyed the griffon with an experienced eye. “Ex-military.” Gently, she prodded the metal tags dangling around the griffon’s neck. “Only Grypha gives those to its troops.”

Virgil nodded in confirmation, and made a small, respectful gesture with his right claw over the body. “Find peace, sister.” He sighed. “No griffon should die underground. Looks like she almost made it out…”

“Hermia Valerium,” said Cranberry, reading the name embossed in the steel tags. “Part of Locke’s team. I’ve read her name in his notes. Sixty-two years old, according to these. Middle-aged, for a griffon. A-positive.”

“Hermia?” Inger looked at Pwyll. “Didn’t Ciaran say a griffon named Hermia was the last contact you had with the expedition?”

“Yes…” Pwyll nodded soberly. “She showed up at the ealdordeer’s hut one day, sweaty and panicked. Said that Locke was in trouble, but wouldn’t tell us what kind. She seemed scared to say much at all, to be honest. Asked if we could get a package to Canterlot University. All she had on her was a satchel… but she didn’t say what was in it. Ciaran agreed to send it for her, but a few minutes later, Hermia changed her mind. Said that she was going back for Locke, dangers be damned. She took off flying back toward the forest, and that was the last we saw of her.”

“I guess she didn’t make it,” said Cranberry sadly. The corpse looked far older than the tags claimed. The wind whistled past just outside, drawing moisture away. Hermia’s body was desiccated, just like those Dromedarian mummies that Professor Nilen was always giving talks about. Those took months of preparation and a great deal of labor to achieve, but nature had preserved this poor griffon entirely without aid. “Skin’s dried out, though intact. Eyes are in bad shape, but present…” Cranberry tipped the griffon’s beak open. “And the tongue’s still here. Means no scavengers have gotten to her.”

“Probably not enough food in the gorge for them to forage down here…” offered Virgil, gloomily.

Beatriz lifted her head. “Uh, you mentioned a satchel?” She pointed at another lump, a little ways further into the cave. A leather strap poked out of the sand.

“Hmm…” Cranberry walked over to it and gently dusted it off, revealing a thin bag. Carefully, she extracted it from the black sand, looking around for any other buried items, but seeing nothing. She unclasped the latch, opening the cover, and was met with an eerie blue glow. Curiously, she reached into the satchel and withdrew the source of the shine. It was a glass sphere about ten centimeters in diameter, surprisingly heavy in her hoof. The sphere was smooth and dark, a single mass of obsidian, with thinly engraved whorls all across its surface. Within the translucent glass, motes of cerulean light swirled in a spiraling galaxy of miniature stars.

Inger whistled. “What’s that?”

Cranberry lifted the item in wonder, feeling her heart rate rise excitedly. “It’s a tóirse.”

“A tor-shuh?” asked Inger, fumbling with the Elktic language.

“It means torch. A modern name—we don’t know what the ancients called them.The Dominion made thousands of them, though few survive. They’re solid spheres of glass, used to store magic for a light source, or a power source… See the grooves on the surface? It might fit something somewhere, like a key. I’ve seen a couple of them before, but never this intact.” With great care, Cranberry lifted the sphere between her hooves. “I recognize the color… it’s Locke’s horn aura. He must have lit this with his own magic.” The swirling stars gently illuminated the walls of the cave. Beautiful…

Blinking, she placed it back into the satchel. Her hoof bumped something else inside, and she heard the familiar crackle of creasing paper. Swiftly, she pulled the second object out, her breath vanishing with a strangled gasp. In her hooves, she held a slender book with a familiar red cover. It was the same kind of binding her own journals used, with a familiar fountain-pen cutie mark decorating the cover.

Hastily flipping it open, she spied something scrawled on the inside of the cover. The ink was smudged and barely readable in Beatriz’s hornlight.

Hermi—— to Sugar, INTACT—— all costs. Be c—ful.

K—— AWAY FR—M V—LLEN

The warning was underlined twice. Below it, in even more slapdash, harried letters, the words read:

I’m sorry, CB

She could almost hear Locke uttering the old nickname, Seebee, saying the initials like a single word. The rushed pen strokes were his familiar looping script. The air in the cave seemed suddenly very cold. She turned the page, wondering what was so important that he’d tell Hermia to leave him behind, and so dangerous that she’d turned back to help him anyway.

She was met with a blank page. Confused, she leafed further in, finding nothing but featureless white and intermittent stubs of pages that had been torn out. Almost frantically, she bent the book, flipping back and forth rapidly through the entire journal, but it was completely empty. Her stomach fell. No! What was on those missing pages? Did someone take Locke’s message? Damn it, Pad! What were you trying to tell me? No further clues emerged after a second examination. Crestfallen, she closed the book, and swallowed. “It’s completely empty.”

Her eyes fell back to the body. Carefully, she slid the empty journal backinto the satchel, and shrugged the strap over her head and foreleg so that the satchel sat at her side like a saddlebag. Returning to Hermia’s body, she frowned. “Let’s take a closer look. Bea, can you help me turn her over? I’ll get the head and forelegs. You handle the bottom end. Keep her stable, we don’t want anything snapping. She’s bound to be brittle after all this time… The rest of you, give us some room.”

The remainder of the party stepped back outside the cave, murmuring to each other. With Beatriz’s aid, Cranberry slowly rolled Hermia onto her back. Dusting her hooves, she peered through the dim light of Beatriz’s horns at the dead griffon. It was instantly apparent what had killed her. A deep, wide slice from clavicle to pelvis was gored across her chest. Dried blood matted her feathers and fur, with red streaks splattered across her abdomen. Sand, sticky with coagulated ichor, clung to the wound.

Beatriz gave Cranberry a queasy look. “You’re pretty calm about this.”

“Well, like I said, I spend a lot of time digging up bodies,” she answered absently, inspecting Hermia’s injuries. “Though usually they’re just bones by the time I get to them…” Beatriz nodded, but the queasy look remained.

Cranberry examined the slash across the corpse’s chest. “Look at this,” she mused, shaking her head. “It’s such a clean cut. Almost more like a scalpel than a sword. Sliced right through her ribs, see?” She pointed to the visible nubs of bone in the wound. Thankfully, the arid gorge had dried the body out so much that there was no smell.

“Whoever did that was strong,” muttered Beatriz, covering her mouth and turning away.

“It looks like she was running, or crawling. Maybe trying to get out to the camp for bandages… or trying to flee into the cave? Either way, the poor girl must have bled out in minutes.”

“You think they started fighting each other?” Beatriz looked out toward the camp. “Maybe they dug up something valuable, and some of them decided to keep it for themselves.”

“I can’t imagine th…” Cranberry paused. She shook her head. “I mean, Dominion artifacts are priceless… archeologically. But the private market for them—collectors and the like—has never been very strong. I can’t think of anything they might have found worth killing over.”

“Well, it was either that, or…” Beatriz rubbed her shoulder. “Something else killed them.”

“We don’t know if the others are dead,” said Cranberry, a little too quickly. “If there was a fight up here, they might have retreated into the caves for safety. Maybe they got trapped inside.”

They both turned to look deeper into the darkness of the cave. A faint trail of blood, washed blue by Beatriz’s hornlight, stretched into the depths. “Come on,” said Cranberry, feeling a strange pull into the shadows.

“I… I don’t know…”

“It’s all right, Bea. Inger and Virgil can handle anything we run into.” Her friend nodded slowly, and managed a small smile. Even Beatriz’s jangled nerves had to be comforted by the presence of someone who’d slain a dragon.

Cranberry beckoned the others before setting off into the dark. The group followed, cautiously entering the shadows with her. The tunnel had a steady but shallow downhill slope. About a dozen meters in, just as the incline blocked the portal of daylight above from view, they reached the back.

There, they found the way suddenly barred by a massive wall of volcanic glass that stretched across the entire passage. It was deep black, so dark that it seemed to hungrily soak up all the hornlight that fell upon it. Its surface was covered in hundreds of curling grooves that spread across the glass like ivy. The lines curved and swirled, blooming into lotus flowers and the unmistakable curling tines of antlers.

“By the ancestors,” breathed Pwyll.

“Is… is that blood?” asked Beatriz. Splashed across the wall’s surface in bold red was a single word, painted in broad strokes with such evident strength and anger that it seemed unmistakably an accusation. Ancient, dried-out drips were still visible from the wide brush that had written it on the glass. The aged pigment was cracked and flaky.

“No,” said Cranberry. “Just paint. Very old paint.”

How long might the arid conditions in the valley have preserved this message? No member of Locke’s team had written this. Whoever held that brush might have been here anywhere from a hundred to a thousand years ago. Maybe even longer, judging from the fact that the word was in ancient elkish, rather than the modern elktic dialect spoken in the commonwealth.

“I can’t read it,” said Inger. He glanced at Pwyll and Cranberry. “Can either of you?”

“Taíonnan,” she answered, gazing up at the wall. “It means Usurper.”

Virgil cleared his throat nervously. “Sounds like someone was unhappy with whoever put this here.”

The wall towered four meters high and stretched at least six across the cave; an impossibly vast, monolithic slab of glass untouched by the sun. Something about it felt primordial, as old as the rock and sand surrounding them, though the carvings couldn’t be more than a few thousand years old. The darkness within the obsidian seemed to tug at the air around Cranberry, as gentle breaths of air from the outside brushed past her mane. Entranced, she rested a hoof against the surface. Inger jolted in alarm, but nothing happened.

Tracing the grooves, Cranberry marveled at the artistry. It felt like she could sink right into it, let the whorls twist around her and carry her away. Was the design purely ornamental? It seemed more purposeful than that. Following the curling lines, she suddenly realized that some formed highly stylized script along with the pictures. She could make out fragmentary words in elkish between the lotus flowers and lilies. Sun. Life. Abundance. And over here, nestled in the protective tines of curling antlers, Savior. King. Queen. Abstract to the point of incoherence, but beautiful nonetheless.

The longer she looked, the more she could discern that all the little flowers and antler-curls were building blocks for larger shapes in the glass. The small details came together like a pointillist masterpiece to form a grand tree wrapped in smooth, swooping arcs. Her pulse quickened as her eyes followed a branch to its end, where the tip blossomed into an unmistakable inverted triangle. A quick glance confirmed that there were six such branches, three on each side, each ending in the same pattern. Within each triangle rested a unique symbol that was no elkish letter she recognized. Yet one of them, on the middle branch to the right, felt eerily familiar…

A solid hoof rested on her shoulder, giving her a gentle shake, and she blinked. “Huh?” Turning back, she saw Inger giving her a concerned look.

“You’ve been staring at that thing for almost five minutes without a word,” he said, with a smile belied by the concern in his eyes.

“Sorry…” she murmured, turning back to look up at the black edifice. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

He nodded, giving the wall a wary glance. “So, what is it?”

She looked back to the patterns, focusing on the middle. The grooves had something like symmetry; not a mundane, pedestrian reflection of each side, but an intricate balance of weight and complexity that split vertically at the center of the mass. It traveled up the center of the tree to a dim circle suspended above it. “I think it’s… a door.”

“Yes,” murmured Pwyll, gazing rapturously into the depths of the glass. “It feels like it goes somewhere, you know?”

“So how do we open it?” asked Inger.

“I believe these are bloodlines,” said Cranberry, tracing the whorls. “To open the door, we’ll have to feed them.”

“Feed them?”

Delighted, Pwyll scratched an antler. “Bloodlines! I never thought I’d see any in person…”

“Hey, uh…” Beatriz coughed. “I heard voices outside. I think the others have caught up.”

Reluctantly, Cranberry stepped back. “All right. Let’s go tell them what we’ve found.” The door and its enthralling patterns weren’t going anywhere, and her stomach was grumbling. Further study could wait until tomorrow.

As the group retreated, some more hastily than others, Inger gave her a worried look. “I don’t like this, Cranberry. Any of it. The carts, the griffon, this… door.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “When we were standing beside it, something felt off with my head-compass.”

All pegasi had a tiny deposit of magnetite in their skulls, giving them a sixth sense of perfect direction. Cranberry frowned. “You think it was magnetic?”

“The door itself? No. The sensation wasn’t focused on one path. It was like north kept jumping around.” He shook his head. “Beatriz was right. Something bad happened here.”

After a moment, she frowned. “It doesn’t bode well,” she admitted. As they passed Hermia, she gave the griffon a worried look. “But… maybe the rest of Locke’s team fared better.”

At the entrance, they stepped out into the last vestiges of daylight. To the right, she could see the caravan trundling into the pit from the southern trench. Apricot was at the front by Kaduat’s side, eagerly looking around the deserted campsite. Cranberry winced. “Ah—Apricot doesn’t need to see the body. We should—”

“Actually,” interrupted Virgil, leaning against the cliff wall beside the cavern entrance, “if we’ve learned all we need to from my kinsbird, I’d like to see to her remains.”

“Oh… of course.” Cranberry and Inger stepped aside to make way for him.

“Thank you.” Virgil sighed reluctantly. “I’m no funerary priest,” he said, lifting Hermia with gentle claws, “but I can take her up to the open sky where she belongs. May her death feed the creatures of water, land, and sky, as they feed us,” he intoned. With care, he pulled her over his back and flew away with his grim burden.

“I didn’t know the griffons still did sky burials,” said Inger quietly.

“Officially, they don’t,” said Cranberry, watching Virgil vanish over the lip of the canyon. “But some traditions don’t die easily.”

* * *

Making camp was a more subdued process than usual. Enough tents had been salvaged after the fire that, by doubling up and cramming four mercenaries into each, they were able to put a roof over everyone’s head for the night. The Sugars were spared this inconvenience, already having three in theirs. The watchcamel on duty would account for their fourth.

Since they were camping down in the sandpit, with the trees all high above and safely out of reach, Castor authorized a fire. They repurposed one of the abandoned carts into firewood, and Apricot eagerly volunteered to light it. Cranberry watched with undeniable pride as the wood burst into flame, shimmering with a rosy hue.

Dinner was about as depressing as lunch had been. Circled around the campfire, the group nursed more hardtack biscuits and water. Kaduat had somehow rescued a bottle of rum from the wildfire, and was rationing sips between nibbling on rock-hard bread. Though Virgil and Beatriz had both lost their instruments, Pollux still had his voice; he helped pass the time with a quiet, haunting rendition of an old elktic ballad about star-crossed lovers.

As his song echoed in the canyon, Cranberry’s thoughts turned to poor Hermia. She turned over Pwyll’s description of the griffon’s actions, trying to parse out answers. What could have put such fear into a veteran soldier? And if she’d reached the ealdordeer with her package, why had she taken it back with her when she returned for Locke? Was it the tóirse she believed would save him, or the mysteriously blank journal? And then there was that warning. He’d written Keep away from Vallen, if she’d read it right; though it was hard to be certain under all the smudged ink.

She glanced across the fire at her father-in-law. If Locke didn’t trust him, then why keep all this a secret from me, too? The apology scrawled in her colleague’s shaky script burned in her mind. I’m sorry, CB.

Flipping through the journal again by the rosy firelight, she scoured the empty pages for clues, but found nothing. Even the torn-out pages were scattered intermittently throughout the book, more like removed scraps than deliberate censorship. “Damn it, Pad…” she muttered.

“Hey, come on.” Inger gave her a gentle nudge. “You’ve been looking at that all evening. How about you take a break?”

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head and slipping the journal back into the satchel. “I just… I don’t understand why that griffon would risk her life for a book with nothing in it.”

“Nor I.” On the other side of the fire, Tybalt steepled his hooves. Cranberry could hardly have kept the book a secret from him after all the others who’d seen her find it, though she had not shared Locke’s scribbled warning with anyone. Behind his hooves, Tybalt frowned. “I was hoping we’d find some clue as to Locke’s status.”

Uneasily, Cranberry shrugged. “At least we have a way forward. So long as the bloodlines on that door still work.”

The singing abruptly stopped. Pollux lowered his head, eyes narrowing. “Bloodlines? You found bloodlines in there?”

“Yes. They’re—”

“I know what they are,” he said darkly, glancing at the cave’s yawning mouth. With the sky above black and starry, the interior was filled with impenetrable darkness. “Blood magic.”

“It’s the only way forward, Polly,” said Castor, very gently. He reached out a hoof. “We don’t—”

“So who’s getting cut open, Cas?” Pollux’s red irises shone with restrained fury. “If you think I’m volunteering—”

Castor looked wounded, withdrawing his foreleg. “You know I’d never ask that of you.”

“I can do it,” said Pwyll, suddenly lifting a hoof. He glanced nervously between the two brothers. “I don’t mind…”

“Hold on.” Inger looked pale. “Am I understanding this right? You’re saying we have to… feed that glass wall with someone’s blood?”

Cranberry cleared her throat. Better put a stop to this before it gets out of hoof. “Yes, but not much, and there’s no danger. The bloodlines should only take a few drops to activate. It’s a door, after all; having to exsanguinate someone every time you needed to pass through would be awfully inconvenient.” She raised a calming hoof. “As for who opens it, it doesn’t matter right now. We can discuss it tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” said Castor, in a tone that said the topic had been put to rest.

Pollux looked ready to say more, but his brother gave him a forestalling look. With a huff, the mage stood. “I’ll go catch some sleep, then. Good night,” he said curtly, before sweeping in a circle and striding off toward the tents.

An awkward silence settled in his wake. Pwyll looked especially subdued. The one to break the quiet was Apricot, who hesitantly raised his hoof. “Um… what are bloodlines?”

Rather than answer right away, Cranberry looked to Pwyll. With a hoof, she silently offered him the chance to explain. However, Pollux’s angry departure seemed to have put a damper on his enthusiasm.

The young deer swallowed, and gave her a nod before turning to Apricot. “Well… just like unicorns and deer need horns and antlers to direct our magic, any energy stored inside glass needs to be channeled and directed. The ancient elk carved magical lines into the glass that tell the magic within how to behave. And since the glass could store more energy than any single elk, they could pool their power to do incredible things.”

“So… why do they need blood, then?”

Pwyll looked away, and Cranberry caught the shame in his eyes. “They, uh… didn’t always use their own power.”

“Oh.” Apricot swallowed. “You mean they s-stole it, from, um… with blood magic.”

“Yes,” said Cranberry. “As their designs grew more complex, they needed more and more energy. They took it from their enemies, from slaves, from each other. In fact, that was the main driver of their expansion out of the isles. For the empire to continue growing up, it needed to grow out—the Dominion needed more bodies. More blood. More fuel.”

She saw her son shiver, but he nodded. “What did they do with it all?”

“They built wonders,” said Pwyll, with wistful melancholy. “Towers that carried messages across the skies like lightning. Ships that needed no sails to traverse the seas. Entire cities, fused with trees, hanging high above the ground like vines from the canopy. It’s said some even floated in the air as easily as fish do in the sea…” He hung his head reluctantly. “All beautiful. All terrible. All built on piles of the dead.”

“Floating cities…” Inger rubbed his chin. “Sounds like Cloudsdale. But that’s weatherforging, not magic… What happened to all these ‘wonders’?”

“Lost over the millennia,” said Cranberry. “Some were destroyed by enemies. Others ran out of power and lay dormant for centuries, before being discovered and picked apart by scavengers. As for the floating cities… the only one we know much about was the short-lived Cathaoir, the stronghold of King Caomh.”

Kaduat took a sip from her bottle. “Short-lived? Who managed to crack open a flying fortress?”

“It was Caomh himself who destroyed it.” Cranberry brushed her mane out of her eyes. “A tale of legendary cruelty, still told only in hushed voices by the time of the Tyorjans.”

The camel raised an eyebrow. “He blew up his own fort?”

Well. They had time to kill, given how long it took to gnaw through the hardtack biscuits. Worrying off a corner of her own, Cranberry scooted forward on the log and settled in to begin the tale. “It was about ten years into the Dominion’s campaign of conquest on the Equestrian continent. By then, they controlled everything between the frozen ice sheets of the north and the burning deserts in the south. Ponies, yaks, griffons, all were forced to bow to the might of the elk.”

The mercenaries and Apricot leaned forward, listening attentively. “Save the dragons, of course,” Cranberry added with a faint smile. “If even the gods couldn’t make them bend the knee, no mortals ever could.”

Apricot frowned. “An evil king conquered Equestria? Didn’t anyone fight back?”

“They did,” nodded Cranberry. “And perhaps, if they had all joined together at the start, they could have fended the invaders off. But the pony tribes were still disunited when the elk arrived on the shores of Sleipnord under Caomh’s banner. Rather than call for help, each tribe faced the elk in turn; and so each in turn were conquered. The other creatures fared even worse. The yaks lost their entire army in a disastrous avalanche caused by elken mages, and the desert tribes of the griffons had no answer to the Dominion’s magic.”

“We do now,” Virgil interjected grimly. “The memory of elk raining fire on our forefathers is what drove my people to invent things like blackpowder.” His shoulders slumped. “Evil begets evil, I suppose.”

“You’re not evil,” said Beatriz softly, resting a hoof on his leg.

“No? Tell that to the Alastrians.” He bitterly clacked his talons. “My people turned into tyrants, just as bad as the Dominion ever were. Who will be next in the cycle, I wonder? The Zyrans? The ponies?”

“No.” Unexpectedly, it was Inger who had answered. “Princess Celestia would never allow that. She wants freedom for all of us, not just ponies.” He softened. “It’s what she cherishes above all else.”

Though he’d been looking at Virgil, something about his words sounded meant for another. Cranberry glanced over at her father-in-law. Tybalt, hooves pressed up under his chin, gazed into the roseate campfire. With mild surprise, Cranberry thought she saw doubt in his eyes as he spoke.

“If Celestia and her sister cared so much about mortal freedom, they wouldn’t have taken earthly forms. Is the princess herself not already the latest turn of the wheel?” Tybalt asked softly. “The zebras and the griffons may not bow before her throne, but the balance of global civilization has bent to her will for six hundred years. Soft power is still power.”

Inger’s words were almost pleading. “Would constant war and chaos be preferable?”

“Freedom is always worth fighting for.” Still staring into the flames, Tybalt’s eyes hardened with resolve. “Our ancestors knew that.” His gaze flicked up to Cranberry. “Didn’t they, Professor?”

“Yes…” Cranberry said hesitantly, resuming the tale. “The elk had taken their land, but not broken their spirit. Rebels from all the conquered peoples of the continent were constant thorns in the Dominion’s side. King Caomh grew weary of their harassment, wishing to consolidate his territorial gains and return to Elketh.

“He ordered the construction of Cathaoir an Láidir, which literally means ‘Chair of the Strong’, though we usually translate it as ‘Throne of the Mighty’. It was a massive, floating fortress, meant to enforce his will across the entire continent: large enough to house a force of five thousand elk soldiers; bristling with thirty-six ballistae, twenty trebuchets, and countless arrows; so vast that it contained eight whole plots of farmland, rendering it virtually immune to starvation in a siege; all resting atop a bed of magical glass that hovered twelve hundred meters above the ground. Six thousand slaves, from Sleipnord to Grypha, were gathered to build it. And when construction had finished… every one of them was sacrificed in a vast blood magic ritual to give it flight.

“This final outrage was enough for the rebels to put aside all differences. United in their fight against the tyrant, griffons stood side by side with yaks, the unicorns and pegasi flew their flags with earth ponies, and together the Army of the Free Creatures marched to meet Caomh and avenge their kin. They drew his main forces away with false reports and raids on elk cities to the west and north, and caught the king nearly undefended inside his new military stronghold, with only a tiny guard force. All those trebuchets and ballistae would do no good without elk to operate them. Surrounding the fortress both on the ground and in the air, the Free Creatures demanded his surrender and the Dominion’s retreat from their shores.

“Caomh, realizing he was outmatched and that he could not hold with his armies away, offered to meet their terms on the condition that he and his guards be spared their lives. When the army’s leaders rejected his emissary, the king himself came down to present the terms. But the sight of the monster who had murdered their friends and family, standing arrogant and proud beneath the glass bauble he’d spent those lives to build, enraged the warriors. They raced forward, breaking their lines, clamoring for his blood as he’d taken theirs. The generals lost control, and a gallows was hastily constructed. The king was beaten and hanged.

“As the frenzied soldiers screamed their victory, with bloodthirsty vindication reverberating through their ranks, the king’s corpse shimmered and warped in the bright sunlight. Those close enough to see it watched in horror as the glamour faded, revealing the body as the king’s emissary. Before anyone could react, the sunlight vanished in a sudden shade. There was scarcely time to scream as all eyes turned upward. Even those with wings could not flee fast enough to outrun the coming wave of destruction.

“The fortress fell upon the army with a cataclysmic impact. Records say the resulting earthquake could be felt all the way in Saddlestead and the western coasts, over four hundred kilometers away. Those who ventured near the site in the weeks to come reported that the force of the crash was great enough to liquefymuch of the glass; they say you can still find shards for leagues around to this day. Though many searched for more survivors, none were ever reported, from either the king’s guard or the rebel forces. Only a few Tyorjan unicorns, masters of the dangerous art of teleportation, had escaped to spread the news.

“Cathaoir an Láidir was gone, and its true purpose fulfilled. By enraging the rebels with the sacrifices, and presenting an irresistible target, Caomh had finally found a way to gather all his enemies together in one place and break their strength completely. With the resistance’s leaders slain and their forces crushed, the king—who had the whole time been safely hidden in the ranks of his army, as it marched away intact after ‘falling’ for the rebels’ diversion—could now rule the continent unopposed, turning his attention back to the courtly intrigues of the Elktic Isles.”

Kaduat let out a low whistle. Castor shook his head, muttering a quiet Sisters. Almost apologetically, Cranberry looked to Pwyll, who was staring up at the leafy boughs that stretched over the canyon edge above them. The young deer bit his lip, lowering his gaze again.

“Sometimes,” he admitted with weary resignation, “I understand Lady Ciaran better than I want to.”

“Wait… so the good guys lost?” Apricot looked aghast. “But… but what happened to the king?”

Cranberry shrugged unhappily. “We don’t know. The Tyorjans didn’t have any writings about what happened afterward.”

“You mean he just got away with it?!”

“Sorry, kiddo,” said Kaduat, patting his shoulder. “In real life, stories don’t always get happy endings.” She nodded to the other camel mercenaries, who all stood and stretched as they prepared to take their rest for the night.

“I know, but…” Apricot sagged. “If they all died, then what was the point?”

“That some things are worth fighting for,” said Tybalt, turning his eyes up to the full moon. “Even when they seem impossible. Even if you fail.”

* * *

Cranberry lingered by the fire for some time after everyone else had retired for the night. Kaduat, on first watch as usual, was her only company, but the camel didn’t prod her for conversation. When Kaduat stood to go for a walk around the perimeter, Cranberry just kept leafing through the empty journal.

I’m missing something, she thought with certainty, scanning the blank pages. Pad wanted to get this thing to her at all costs. That poor griffon, Hermia, had diedfor it. There must be something hidden in the book, and it had to be something Pad expected her to be able to find. If he’d enchanted it somehow, she wasn’t sure how he’d intended her to read it—Cranberry was no unicorn. At wit’s end, she gave the book a sniff. There was nothing but the scent of paper.

Sighing, she closed the journal and stuffed it back into the satchel. If she’d hit the point of huffing books for clues, it was time to go to bed and try again tomorrow.

“Can’t sleep?”

Blinking in surprise, she looked up to see Virgil seated a little ways to her left. His beak rested on one claw as he peered wearily into the fire. “I thought you already went to bed,” said Cranberry.

“I tried.” The griffon lifted his head and rubbed his eyes, before dragging his claw down his beak with a sigh. “You’ve been having the dreams too, haven’t you?”

A chill crept up her spine. “W… what dreams?” she asked, unconvincingly.

“They’re different for everyone,” he said quietly. “Beatriz says she keeps seeing Simone, the day he caught the infection that took his life. She tries to stop him, to pull him away before that speartip nicks his hoof and dooms him, but he never listens. She’s woken up crying almost every day since we entered this forest.”

Not waiting for a response, he tapped his talons together. “Zaeneas has never talked much about herself, but I know she left Zebrica for good reason. I heard her thrashing around in her tent last night, calling mapa, mapa. That’s the zebra word for mother, isn’t it?” His eyes darkened. “And me… my dreams are full of smoke and sulfur.”

“Alastria?” ventured Cranberry, dry-mouthed.

Slowly nodding, Virgil dug his claws into the sand at his sides. “In Grypha, the time comes for every citizen to serve. When you turn twenty-five, a pair of soldiers show up at your door with the papers. They only give you an hour to pack and say goodbye to your family and home for at least the next five years. When you arrive at the capital with the other draftees, they sort you out by aptitude for assignment. Sometimes, if they find you suitable for multiple roles, you get a choice.”

Cranberry’s ear flicked. “So… what was yours?”

Virgil’s wings fluttered. “They told me I had the right build for the commandos. I could take the training and, if I was good enough, join General Shrikefeather’s elite vanguard squadrons. The most prestigious posting in the entire Gryphan military.”

Those were the forces that had taken Sel-Paloth at the start of the war, and carried out the swift capture of the Weatherforge province a month later. Inger had tangled with them on more than one occasion in the southland fighting. Cranberry had feared for him every time.

“But based on my mathematics scores, they also felt obligated to offer me a position in the engineering corps. It’s a necessary piece of the military machine, but engineers aren’t afforded much honor. Those who don’t wish to fight on the front lines tend to gravitate toward the corps. My people have little respect for four-eyed cravens, as they call them.” He mimed pushing glasses up the bridge of his beak.

“I was all prepared to follow the commando track,” he continued. “My head was filled with thoughts of honor and glory. But then, on my way to the placement center with the other draftees, we crossed this bridge over the river. It was a humble thing, built by the engineering corps like most of the city’s infrastructure. Just stone and mortar—no fancy carvings, or any decorations; just a plain, simple, honest bridge. I don’t think it even had a name. And I looked around and saw dozens and dozens of griffons striding across it in both directions, without a care, hauling carts and carrying loads that they couldn’t possibly have flown across the water. Over six hundred griffons use that bridge every single day.

“I asked myself, where would I do more good? Fighting in some distant borderland, getting my claws bloody and chasing honor in combat? Or by building things for my people, things to make a tangible difference in their lives?” Virgil blinked. “I chose the engineering corps. Despite my superiors’ scorn, I was proud. I would serve my country in ways that could benefit the whole world. I was ready to build bridges.”

His claws clenched tightly. “Instead, we built bombs.”

The flickering campfire suddenly reminded Cranberry of the flames rising in Canterlot, as the griffons poured down from the clouds and put her city to the torch. The crackle-boom! of distant, detonating firebombs echoed in her memory.

“When Shrikefeather began moving against the last protectorate, he needed engineers. I thought we’d be there to maintain equipment, keeping wheels oiled and lanterns lit, repairing siege equipment and the like. But the general had a more active role in mind for us. I wound up on the front lines after all, rationing out powder and bombs to the soldiers as they hurled them into buildings and fields. The Alastrians barely resisted. Those we encountered were those who couldn’t flee. The old. The sick. The young and abandoned.”

Sweat dripped down his beak, unheeded. “When we took the Alastrian capital, Shrikefeather ordered his troops—ordered us,” he corrected, exhaling painfully as if someone had stuck a knife in his chest, “to raze it to the ground. He wanted to send a message to Equestria that this was Gryphan territory, and that it always had been. Leave no trace that the ponies were here, he commanded.”

Cranberry tried to keep the disgust off her face, but her jaw was so tight that it ached. Virgil’s eyes stared through the fire into the past. “The survivors were herded off as slaves. When the city had been looted and the soldiers had their fill of entertainment, the engineers were called forward to burn it all to ashes. I stood there with a torch in claw as my fellows detonated charges at the base of the walls. The fortifications came crashing down, as the city buildings were consumed by fire. I can still—”

His voice caught. “I can still smell the smoke in my dreams,” he whispered. “Every time I close my eyes.”

What could be said? Cranberry’s stomach twisted. She fidgeted with her satchel. “So that’s why you left.”

“I deserted,” he said hoarsely. “That night, while the others celebrated our victory, I packed my kit and flew north. No one noticed me in all the smoke. I swore I’d find a way to use what they taught me for good, find some way to make amends.” He closed his eyes. “Working for Castor these last ten years, I’ve saved dozens of lives. Maybe even hundreds. But it only took one night to destroy a thousand and more. Those scales may never be balanced.”

He fell quiet, and the fire crackled alone in the night. Cranberry looked away and realized that Kaduat was sitting by a tent at the edge of the shadows, moonlight glinting off her bottle as she drank. The camel watched Virgil with a meditative gaze, evidently unwilling to interrupt by returning to her place beside the fire.

“So you see,” said Virgil at last, “With that in my dreams each night, I haven’t found much peace sleeping beneath these trees.” He raised a brow expectantly. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

But Cranberry had no desire to share her own nightmares. Especially not with Kaduat listening in. “Well, we’re not under the trees tonight,” she offered, pointing up at the open sky above the gorge. “We should both give sleep another try, I think.” With a sharp nod, and without waiting to see his reaction, she abruptly stood and walked away from the fire toward her tent. She bid Kaduat a short goodnight as she passed. At the tent, she lifted the flap and ducked inside.

Apricot was sleeping at the far end in tonight’s arrangement, so she didn’t have to step over him for a change. Inger was sound asleep as well, twitching fitfully. Cranberry dumped her satchel to the floor and crawled onto the empty bedroll beside him. Her whole body thumped down onto the padding like a lead weight. She was exhausted, she realized. Her legs still ached from fording the river earlier that day, and she hadn’t quite recovered from the mad dash while fighting the wildfire.

Yet sleep did not come easily. Virgil’s verbal painting of a burning city was difficult to shake. Perhaps it was that, or the dark canyon they were lying in, or the great wall of bloodlined glass still lingering at the edges of her memory, but Cranberry tossed and turned to no avail. The sound of wind whistling through the rocks, along with Inger mumbling in his sleep, kept her ears a-twitch. Massaging her forehead with a weary hoof, she exhaled heavily.

This canyon was full of ghosts. She could see them in her mind’s eye, dozens of zebras and ponies and griffons and antelopes shifting timber and shovels from the surrounding carts, venturing into the cavern with tools of exploration and the eagerness of discovery. How many digs had she and Pad been on together through the years, five? Six? Cranberry could place herself right there by his side, forging ahead into the unknown to tease out its secrets. Deep down, a part of her wished she’d been here.

Then you’d be missing, too, she reminded herself gently. Shaking her head, she tugged the satchel toward her. Maybe another perusal of the blank book would bore her to sleep. Fishing it out of the bag, she opened it and squinted in the darkness. Frowning in irritation, she realized their tent was too far from the fire for the rosy light to penetrate. She reached back into the bag and withdrew the sparkling sphere of glass. An irreplaceable magical artifact reduced to a lamp, she mused wryly. Pad would be—

Her train of thought stopped dead. As the cold blue light fell upon the page, the paper began to glow. A thin, spidery, and familiar script began to trace out across the page, as if the letters were burning into it.

Of course! She could have slapped herself. Was she really so tired that this hadn’t occurred to her? The book is a lock, and the tóirse is the key. I’ll bet only his own magic can reveal what he wrote in here. That was why he’d filled the artifact with hornlight. The purpose of Hermia’s mission was now clear, if not the driving need behind it.Cranberry watched, transfixed, as the luminescent writing filled the empty spaces all the way to the edge of the margins. Scanning the words from the top, her lungs protested as she forgot to breathe.

Today is the fifteenth of September 328, in the year of our Lady Celestia. My name is Pad Locke, Professor of Elken Antiquity Studies at the College of History in Canterlot University. Together with a team of forty-six others, a group of academics, mages, engineers, and soldiers, we set sail this morning for the ancient island of many names: Elketh, Ellánon, the Emerald Isle.

We seek the place where the elk stole fire from the sun.

18. Invisible Inklings

17 September, 328 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20 September, 328 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few crossed-out words followed, and then:

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

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

21 September, 328 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it possible that this machine still works?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really,” admits Strawberry.

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

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

“No ground,” says the colt plaintively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s it going?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do we have to?” groans Tyria.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You doubted him?” Inger raises an eyebrow.

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

“Some like it that way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, and you love that about me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh… just like that…”

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Air, urged the dragon. Get to open air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She frowned with concern. “You need rest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He bent his head. “But I couldn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Someone else?” she asked, puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scowling, he shook his head. “Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine!” she shouted back.

“Fine!”

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

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

“Stop talking to yourself,” Inger muttered.

19. A Beast of Black and White

Tonight, it wasn’t excitement keeping Apricot awake.

He blinked in the dark tent, still curled up and facing away from the entrance. He hadn’t moved once since lying down for the night; so still that his parents must have believed he was asleep. It was a skill he’d mastered long ago, in order to fool them into thinking their nine o’clock curfew worked at stopping him from reading books about magic under the covers late into the night.

The shouting had ended a while ago. Most of it had been too indistinct for him to make out, but he didn’t need to hear the words to know what it meant. Afterwards, his mother had stormed back into the tent before sinking to her bedroll and sobbing. Apricot had lain there for what felt like an hour, motionless, until at last her quiet crying had faded into the fitful breathing of a fragile sleep.

Apricot’s best friend back in Canterlot, besides Strawberry, had been a colt named Beeswax; Beezy for short. The two had spent many an afternoon playing around in Clement Park, climbing trees and seeing who could skip stones furthest across the pond. Apricot almost always won the stone game, thanks to his horn, but his earth pony friend could swarm up a tree like it was a ladder. Sometimes, they’d share their lessons with each other: the history that Apricot was learning from his mother and Mr. Strudel, and the art of candle-making from Beezy’s parents.

And then one day, he’d come to their meeting place near the park apiary to find Beezy sitting beneath a tree and weeping. Something had happened, his friend explained, between his mom and dad, something bad. The arguments had abruptly turned into icy silence, and finally his mother had decided to leave the city—without his father. She was moving to live with her sisters and all Beezy’s cousins in Fillydelphia, almost five hundred kilometers away on the western coast. His father was staying here at the chandlery in Canterlot. They’d sat Beezy down and soberly given him the choice of whether he wanted to stay here, or go with her.

Tearfully, he told Apricot that he was packing his bags for Fillydelphia. It was too far away to come back and visit—the two colts would never be able to play together in the park again. Apricot’s own tears had flowed then, but with a hug, they promised to make their last week together one to remember. And they had, exploring the city and the wending creeks of Cottontail Wood with a bittersweet zeal. When they parted, Apricot had given him his favorite book about Starswirl the Bearded. In turn, Beezy had left Apricot one of the candles they’d made together after sneaking into the chandlery the night of Beezy’s third birthday. It was still in his room, up on a shelf. He’d sworn to never light that wick as long as he lived.

Almost a year later, on days when the pain felt as fresh as when they’d said goodbye, Apricot kept trying to understand what had happened to his friend’s parents. How could two ponies who loved each other fall so far apart that they just… left?

Flashes of his mother and father, burning with anger as they discovered his stowaway attempt, kept interrupting his thoughts. Other memories, too—his father, assuring him weakly that everything was fine after that hit from the rock; his mother, waking with a start before crying to herself and whispering recriminations in the quiet tent. It wasn’t really that complicated, he suspected, with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He’d done this. They’d been happy and united until he’d snuck into that barrel. Putting himself in danger, only for Dad to defend him against Mom’s fierce worry, that had been the moment that everything had begun to collapse.

Just how far would they go…? Apricot stared, unblinking, at the dark corner of the tent. He could still remember waving farewell from atop the city wall as Beezy turned to give him one last wave in return. He’d watched as his friend disappeared down the road, trudging behind the trundling cart pulled by his mother.

The silver-and-rose cutie mark imprinted on his flanks, a symbol of absolute triumph only the day before, suddenly felt like a sick joke. He could sing with the whole forest, block a cast stone, even flash a blazing wildfire into smoke and cinders, but there was no spellsong to make his parents love each other again.

When he closed his eyes and opened himself to the song—keeping his hornglow dim, so as not to wake his mother—it wasn’t even to do any magic. It was just comforting to hear the music, calm and alive, wending through the air and earth around him. No matter what happened, no matter where he went, at least he would always have this. Usually, listening to it for a few minutes on his bedroll was enough to lull him to sleep.

There was a strange feeling in the music tonight. Apricot’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t a discordant voice, or anything like the angry wailing of the wildfire. Instead, a shadowy silence seemed to lurk at the edge of the magical harmonies. It was a vague, formless cavity, like an acoustic dead spot in a cathedral, where all the noise of the congregation seemed suddenly muted. But even stranger than the presence of a musical void was the fact that it moved.

Apricot frowned, focusing more closely on the void. It was an odd, jerky thing. It seemed to shift and scurry as the music passed over it, reminding him of an ant racing for cover after its stone shelter had been lifted away. Curious, he reached out a tendril of magic toward it, his song quiet and questing. Gingerly, he touched the void.

Instantly, he felt an ice-cold chill in his horn. The emptiness spasmed hungrily, and suddenly clung to his song. It devoured his notes, stealing his voice with silence as he was drawn into the umbral dark. Mentally, he clutched his throat, trying to force sound to emerge from his suddenly mute lips. He was falling into it, unable to escape that terrible pull. With a gasp, Apricot snapped off the contact and sat upright, panting.

“Honey?” His mother’s sleep-slurred mumble drew his attention to the front of the tent. Blinking blearily, she rubbed her eyes. “Oh, it’s you, Apricot… Something wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s fine. Go back to sleep, Mom.” Apricot lay back down, stomach swimming. Whatever that thing had been, at least it was far away. His mind whirled with puzzlement. Every living thing had a song of its own—what could the absence of one signify? He needed to tell Pollux about this in the morning; perhaps his teacher would have answers. Unnerved, he closed his eyes once more, willing oblivion to come with a newly anxious edge. He didn’t try opening his horn to the song again.

* * *

Cool air whistled through the canyon walls. High above the stone fissure, the aspens swayed in the breeze. The calls of crickets and katydids carried down, along with the distant music of spring peepers. The Mare in the Moon, cold and enigmatic as ever, gazed down at the earth. If she had anything to say to her sister’s guard-captain, it was beyond his hearing.

Inger’s eyes traced constellations through the starry expanse, ruminating on the size of the heavens. How far would one have to fly to reach those stars? How long had Celestia and her sister walked together through that firmament in the time before they descended to the earth? What wondrous sights lay up there, beyond mortal reach? He fantasized about walking amongst the glimmering points of light, letting his hooves trail through the nebulae and his wingtips brush the Via Nubilum.

His little dragon had been blessedly quiet since Cranberry’s departure. Perhaps Inger’s fury was finally spent, or perhaps he simply had no more fears for it to prey on. Maybe the worst had already happened.

Soft footsteps in the sand made him straighten. His head dipped back down from the stars, eyes flicking nervously to the side. Had she come back looking for another fight? Or perhaps an apology? The dragon coiled around his neck in anticipation. Then, he heard the telltale slosh of a half-empty bottle, and the tension faded. Slumping forward, he exhaled. “Kaduat.”

“Evening, Hero.” Her voice was subdued, without her usual good cheer. She settled down beside him, on the side opposite where Cranberry had been.

“Some hero,” he muttered darkly. “Surely you heard some of that.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” she admitted, clearing her throat awkwardly. “Got up to take a leak, and when I came back the two of you were going at it. Figured I’d best stay over by the carts till things settled down.”

So she’d heard all of it. No point in trying to play it down, then. Inger put a hoof to the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to simply spread his wings and fly away. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

“I do,” she said, with unexpected vigor. The bottle sloshed again as she offered it.

Inger eyed it hesitantly. He was tempted, sorely tempted, but then the smell of alcohol hit his nose and mingled with the fumes of the ginkgo tonic. The combined stench was enough to turn his stomach. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She tipped the bottle back to her lips. “If being drunk all the time was easy, everyone would be.”

Squinting at her in the dim firelight, Inger raised an eyebrow. “What’s your story, Kaduat?” he asked, seized by a black mood of curiosity. “What sent you chasing the bottom of a bottle?” She’d already seen him at his worst tonight; she could at least return the favor.

Kaduat took the graceless question without a change of expression. Blowing a note across the top of the bottle, she set the rum down and hunched forward toward the fire. “I had seven siblings. I was the second-oldest, after my brother Fadil. He and I practically raised the rest of them. When the two of us joined the navy together, it was the proudest day of my life.”

She blinked. “Before he left to fight in the Golden Isles, Fadil made me promise to take care of his family should anything go wrong. His wife had died years ago, but he had two sons, my nephews Meketre and Nebit. Three and five years old. When Fadil didn’t come back from Zyre, I was granted leave from the military. I gave them the news myself. The boys came to live with me and my sister in Thonis, the small wrack-fishing village where I grew up. Not that different from Port Faeloch, really. I taught the kids to gather seaweed, how to dry and store it, to gather the salt and simmer it down into soup stock, just like my mother and grandmother taught me.”

Her voice shook as she gripped the bottle. “I loved those boys like they were my own.”

Inger stayed silent, wishing he’d held his tongue. Why had he asked about her painful secrets? Did he really need more misery tonight?

“When the civil war started, the officers came into the village, summoning everyone on leave back to duty. I left the boys with my sister, and did my job. They pressed the navy into ground service, because they needed bodies more than ships. For months we fought over the same dozen cities again and again, spilling blood across the sands. I killed and killed, more than I had ever done at sea against my nation’s enemies, but it seemed like we lost ground every day. In the final weeks of the war it became clear that our foes were victorious, and in no mood for mercy. When our commander was killed, my entire unit scattered, fleeing back to our homes in preparation for the coming storm.”

Kaduat paused, her foot white-knuckled on the bottle. “But when I returned to Thonis, I found only ruins. I don’t even know which side destroyed it, but there was no one left. No one to gather seaweed and dry it by the piers…” She took a deep breath. “I don’t think my nephews perished. Plenty of civilians were displaced by the war. They and my sister might have just fled, might still be alive somewhere…” Her eyes glistened in the firelight. “But I had to leave the country with the rest of the defeated forces, or die. So I’ll never find them. I’ll never see them again. If they’re still out there, they probably think I’m dead.”

Inger couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, she smiled, all pain vanishing from her face. “Don’t be. No point in dwelling on the past. I don’t let it define me.”

Don’t you? he wondered, eyeing the bottle. She noticed his glance and her smile turned crooked. As she took another drink, with her free foot she withdrew her silvery knife from her jerkin and began twirling it in her dexterous toes.

Inger watched it dance. “Is it really that easy for you?” he asked, envious. “To just… move on? Forget it all?”

“Easy? No.” Kaduat dangled the bottle by its neck and gave it a little shake. “That’s what Madame Zenubia’s here for.”

They fell quiet for a time, listening to the crackling fire and the breeze in the canyon. Judging from the height of the full moon above, it would be many hours yet before the sun rose. Inger watched Apricot’s gorgeous, glowing flames slowly die down, entirely willing to stay here and watch them burn to cinders rather than go back into that tent or fall asleep outdoors. The tonic was starting to give him a pounding headache, but at least he was awake. The minutes dragged by with insufferable torpor.

Kaduat’s ears perked up. “Did you hear something?”

He’d almost forgotten she was here with him. Inger shook his head, his ears detecting only the calls of the bugs and frogs in the distant forest above.

“Hmph.” She listened for a few more moments before shaking her head. “I’m jumping at shadows. Damned spooky out here.”

It was hard to disagree. The black sand seemed to soak up the moonlight like a sponge, leaving the canyon dark and gloomy. The cavern entrance loomed beside the campsite, like a vast mouth ready to swallow them up. The fragile campfire was a lone candle in all that darkness, keeping the shadows at bay. Inger shivered.

“So…” Kaduat continued, idly swirling the nearly-empty bottle by its neck. “You had a dream about your wife, didn’t you?”

Bristling, Inger looked away. “What of it?”

“Virgil mentioned nightmares of his own, earlier. You’re not the only one seeing things, you know.”

His eyes sharpened as he turned toward her. “Are you?”

“Mmm.” Kaduat’s lips tightened. “No unfaithful lovers in mine. I keep seeing Fadil.”

“A memory,” said Inger. It wasn’t a question.

“Well, it starts as one…” She flipped her knife, deftly catching the blade between her toes without cutting herself. “We’re on the deck of the Aten-Re, the ship we both served on before he was transferred for the attack on Zyre. Every morning we’d get up before the sun rose to go upside and practice knife-fighting.” With a wistful smile, she tossed the knife again, this time catching it by the handle. She studied her reflection in the blade. “He was always better than me.”

“I’ve tangled with knife-users before,” said Inger, with grudging respect. “The good ones are terrifying.”

“That’s not why we did it, though.” With unconscious ease, she rolled the knife around her foot, inverting it. “I’ve learned it’s different for the other species, so you need to understand—in Dromedaria, we don’t have a king. The pharaoh is something more than that. He isn’t quite a god, like your princess, but he is more than mortal. He’s an intermediary between this world and the next, charged with guiding both his living subjects and the dead, as they make the perilous journey to the next world.”

Setting the bottle down, she juggled the knife between her forefeet. “No gratitude is sufficient thanks for such a gift. And so a soldier doesn’t just serve, we belong to our pharaoh. We’re his property. We don’t swear oaths to the state, like the griffons, or serve as vassals to liege lords, like the ponies. We are slaves in armor, existing only to serve his will. By doing so, we secure our place in the afterlife, shepherded there by his guiding grace.”

It sounded like ruthless tyranny to Inger’s ears, but Kaduat seemed entirely unfazed by the concept. It was simply the truth she’d grown up with, he realized with dismay.

“Do you think it’s true?” he asked, as neutrally as he could manage, “About him being more than mortal?”

“Hm.” The knife’s aerial dance stopped as she caught it. Resting the tip on her other foot, Kaduat swiveled the blade as she considered. “No,” she said at last, sounding almost disappointed. “No, not anymore. Hard to believe it after the war. Turns out the pharaohs bleed just like the rest of us.” Shrugging, she tapped the dagger against her foot. “But I used to. Just like I used to believe in star-reading. And when your whole existence is about serving, focusing on your own pleasure is more than dereliction of duty. It’s blasphemy.”

Inger nodded slowly. He couldn’t truly understand living as she described, giving up your freedom for the tenuous guarantee of safe passage after death, but it was clear that beneath the cynical bluster, she missed it somehow. She had total clarity of purpose, he mused. I guess someone could find comfort in that, if it was all they ever knew.

“So we had to find ways to entertain ourselves that furthered the glory of the pharaoh. Some prayed; others carved holy symbols. My bunkmate on the Aten-Re was a fantastic whittler.” She mimed carving a talisman with her knife. “My brother and I chose our daggers as our outlet. No officer could reprimand us for keeping our skills sharp. So we trained and trained, morning and evening, dancing and darting around each other till our legs ached and our mouths were sore.”

She paused. “And that’s what we were doing the morning he got the notice about his reassignment.”

Inger lifted his head with slow realization. “And… that was the last time you saw him.”

“It was,” she said, quietly. “That’s when he made me promise to keep the boys safe. To give them a home, to always be there for them. And he gave me his favorite blade, as a memento, in case things went wrong.” Kaduat held up the silvery knife, exhaling. Reluctantly, she slid the dagger back into her jerkin. “I wanted to go with him. I thought there was nothing that the two of us couldn’t handle; that if I went, he’d be sure to come home safe and sound. Part of me wonders if he’d still be alive if I had. More likely we’d both be dead. But instead, I made that promise, and I let him go to his death alone.”

She swallowed. “And now that I’ve turned my back on my people, I’ve lost our pharaoh’s guidance through the underworld. I’ll never reach the Field of Reeds where Fadil’s akh—you ponies call it a soul—walks in the shallows.”

Despite her denial mere moments ago, he suspected that deep down, she still believed. He had never seen her look this lost. She gazed into the fire with despair in her eyes. “I’m all alone, Inger.”

He wasn’t sure what comfort he could give her. “You’re not alone right now,” he said softly. “And there were camels before the pharaohs, weren’t there? You’ll find your own way to your brother, someday.”

Kaduat gave him a simple, sincere smile. “I hope you’re right.”

Melancholic, Inger kicked a half-burned log deeper into the fire. A cloud of rosy sparks floated away. “You didn’t mention…” he asked hesitantly, “Do you see any aspen trees in your dream?”

“Trees? On the ocean? No,” said Kaduat. She hefted the bottle, watching the rosy firelight play in the glass. “But as my brother turns to leave, the whole ship shakes and grinds like it’s hit something. A reef, maybe, but we’re in the middle of the ocean. There’s nothing to hit.”

Her eyes grew wide and blank. “Fadil drops his daggers, staring toward the prow. And then something rises up out of the water ahead of the ship. A giant black slab, covered in swirling patterns and dark stains. I hear whispers, though no one’s speaking. And then the ship carries forward, touching the surface. It… it sinks into it, slowly, like putty, casting ripples across the surface. The Aten-Re shudders as this thing starts to swallow it whole.”

Shivering, Inger glanced toward the cave. This black slab of hers sounded disturbingly familiar. In the darkness, it felt as though the door with the bloodlines was calling out to him from within. He remembered the way Cranberry had stared at it for ages, lost in a trance.

“I grab my brother,” said Kaduat, rubbing the bottle’s neck, “pulling him away, toward the stern, yelling that we have to get to the lifeboats. He doesn’t move, for some reason. Just stands there, not budging. I scream, begging him to run with me, but he looks me in the eyes and—” She inhaled sharply. “He tells me not to worry. That everything is going to be fine. He says that he’s seen what’s on the other side, and it’s not so bad. He wants me to come with him this time. He thinks I’ll find peace there.”

Haunted, she hunched over her bottle. “He reaches his foot toward it, letting it sink into the surface. I cry his name, Fadil! Fadil! Get away!” Her eyes burned. “And as he’s pulled through, he looks back at me and smiles. The last thing he says is I’ll see you soon. And then he’s gone.”

Inger shivered. “Do you ever follow him through?”

“I always wake up right before I touch the surface.” Kaduat shook her head, before craning back with the bottle held vertically and draining the last of the rum. She wiped her lips and tossed the empty bottle into the campfire. It clanked onto the wood, coming to rest as the label began to peel and curl back in the flames.

With a sigh, she watched the little image of Madam Zenubia burn. “That was my last one. It’s going to be a long trip from here on out.”

“I’ve got some tonic, if you want any,” he offered. “Tastes like the wrong end of a skunk, but it’ll keep you up…”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Kaduat declined with a grimace, echoing his earlier refusal. “I’ve had Zaeneas’s swill before. Took a week to scrub that taste out of my mouth.” Inger shrugged, letting the flask fall back to his chest.

Sitting back, Kaduat looked up at the night sky and smiled. “Besides. Not all of my dreams are bad. In fact, there was one that was pretty good. Funnily enough, it started a lot like this. You and I, alone by the fireside.” She sounded strangely coy all of a sudden.

Blinking slowly, she turned her head toward him, eyes glinting in the firelight. “You know,” she said, “there’s more than one way to forget your troubles.”

The dragon stirred. That sick sensation from his fight with Cranberry was suddenly back, worse than ever. “Kaduat…” he warned.

“Relax,” she said, lying back against the seating log. “That ring on your ear hasn’t escaped my notice. I don’t want to get between you and her. But,” she said with a deceptively casual tilt of her head, “after what I heard tonight, I wondered—are you two still together?”

Oh, purred the dragon, like a cat discovering a mouse. Yes, this would hurt her. This would hurt her worse than anything.

His whole body vibrated like a plucked string. “Enough, Kaduat,” said Inger, dry-mouthed.

Obviously disappointed, but trying to stay aloof, she shrugged. “Okay. I’ll still be here, if things change. One perk of having first watch is the privacy—”

“Enough.” His voice could have frozen a river.

Suddenly looking sober, she withdrew. “As you wish.” She sat up, reaching a hesitant leg out before thinking better of it and letting it rest in the sand. Softly, she said, “I hope it works out. But if it doesn’t, my offer stands. Even if all you want to do is talk.”

The air was filled with that incessant aspen whispering again. He wanted to tell her where to shove her offer. To scream and curse at her, to rage and howl, to let the dragon breathe flame and for once, burn someone he didn’t love.

Instead, he sank listlessly further into the sand. What would be the point? Taking it out on Kaduat wouldn’t fix things between him and Cranberry. It wouldn’t silence the damnable echo of his father’s voice.

She doesn’t have a horn…

“Well,” said Kaduat awkwardly, looking away, “my shift is almost up. I guess I’ll—” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “Hey. There it was again. Did you hear it this time?”

As if he could hear anything under the mocking laughter of the aspens. “It’s just the wind, Kaduat.”

“No… listen.” In the span of a moment, she’d undergone a remarkable transformation from garrulous drunkard to terse, vigilant watchcamel. Inger blinked in astonishment. Craning his ears, he listened, wondering what had her so spooked.

It took him a moment to realize exactly why the trees seemed so loud all of a sudden. All the insects and frogs had fallen silent. And just then, the wind quieted as well, a pause for breath in its endless whispering. In its wake, a new sound echoed faintly through the gorge. A thin, faint scraping noise, like something sharp dragging across stone. It was intermittent, a teeth-grinding shhhhhink tink tink tink that repeated every few seconds. It echoed around them, quiet and diffuse, seeming to come from every entrance to the campsite at once.

“I’ve never heard an animal make that sound before,” whispered Inger, gritting his teeth as it echoed. “Like metal on a chalkboard…”

“Danger?” asked Kaduat, equally hushed. She held a horn, so small that he hadn’t noticed it dangling from her jerkin, hovering near her lips and ready to sound the alarm.

“Shh,” Inger whispered. “If it is, let’s not draw it to us.”

“Every path in this canyon leads right to the center,” she hissed. “It’s bound to find us anyway.”

Before he could answer, there was the unmistakable sound of falling rocks. A small cascade of pebbles and loose dirt scattered down the side of the canyon wall, drawing their joint attention like a lightning rod. At the northernmost passage, the one blocked by a crushed cart, Inger squinted into the darkness.

Then, from high above, came the sound again, this time louder and unmasked by echo. Tink. Tink. Tink. Shiiiiiink.

Inger and Kaduat’s eyes drew upward, and he could feel his stomach falling. Above, perched between the narrow walls of the passageway, an enormous black lump sat motionless in the air. Four spindly appendages stretched out from its sides, pressing against the walls and supporting the dark mass with apparent ease. Large, swaying lengths extended from the thing’s front and back. It swallowed up the moonlight, its silhouette barely visible against the starlit sky.

Kaduat sucked in a breath, bringing the horn back to her lips, and Inger frantically pulled her foreleg down. “No!” he hissed. “If that thing comes down onto the tents—”

She hesitated, the horn trembling in her toes. With incredible swiftness, the thing above them suddenly surged forward. The four legs slid with a scraping shiiiiiiiiiink! across the stone, flinging it toward them. Kaduat and Inger fell back into the dark sand as the titanic mass landed on the tips of its legs near the center of the campsite, with a small thump far too quiet for something of its immense size. Now, lit by the rosy flames of the campfire, the creature was fully revealed.

It was gargantuan, misshapen lump, like nothing he’d ever seen. The central core of the beast was as large as two of their carts. From the back rose a pair of tails, unequal in length, each curling up and over its back like a scorpion’s. Instead of stingers, both ended in a forest of piercing, antler-like spikes. The slender, spider-like legs, double-jointed and bladed on the insides of the scythe-shaped feet, gleamed sharply in the firelight. They had to be incredibly strong to support such an immense weight on four needle-thin tips. From the creature’s front extended a vast, sinuous neck, flexible and tube-like, curving around to end in not a head but a round, jawless mouth, filled with concentric, pulsing rings of jagged and glittering teeth. Its skin was dark, clear, and covered in millions of tiny, hairlike filaments.

The creature had no flesh. Instantly, Inger recognized the material. The entire beast was made of solid obsidian. At first glance, its surface looked smooth, but a closer inspection revealed that it was composed of countless minute facets that shimmered in the firelight. Every part of it was glass—the teeth, those filaments, the lethal spiked tails, and the double-jointed insect legs. It was covered with dark runes, sprawling grooved whorls and spirals like the ones on the bloodline door. It creaked quietly with the sound of scraping glass as it flexed and moved, yet beneath the translucent surface of its skin were neither organs nor any obvious source of motive power. Instead, the firelight glinted off the stark white of bone.

They weren’t the beast’s own bones, Inger realized in awestruck horror. They followed no structure, more a pile than a skeleton. There were broken ribs, cracked spines, shattered skulls and splintered femurs; unicorn horns and griffon claws, deer antlers and antelope prongs. Within them all, forming the base of the central mass’s roughly elliptical bulk, was the giant skull of a dragon. Like the fleshless head of Merys that lay beneath the Sun Castle, it stared out of the onyx depths with black, empty sockets. Mammoth and jawless, it was twisted to the side, glaring at Inger as if promising vengeance for the kin he’d once slain.

This creature was a walking grave of glass.

Its infinitely tessellated neck twisted back and forth with jerky, violent swiftness. Was it blind? Could it hear them, smell them? It seemed to take no interest in Kaduat or Inger at all, that twitching mouth of glass-shard teeth not even pausing as it swayed around the campsite. The whole thing seemed to ceaselessly tremble under an immense tension, those hair-like filaments all constantly rustling like a cat raising its hackles.

A log burning in the fire suddenly collapsed, rattling the glass bottle. Another cloud of rosy sparks flew into the air. With fulminate speed and force, the creature’s neck burst forward. The thing’s head shot directly toward the firepit, halting for an instant above the flames, before plunging fully into the fire. From deep within its throat, a bone-vibrating thrumming filled the air, followed by a rattling series of clicks. The hair on Inger’s neck rose as the creature’s teeth flashed out, and the fire splashed across its obsidian surface.

The grooves across the glass began to glow, streaking upward across the thing’s neck. All the little filaments stood upright, trembling as the luminescent runes refracted through them. The light of the curling symbols was a brilliant rose, unmistakably the same color as Apricot’s hornlight. It swept in alien patterns across the beast’s skin, but as they neared the creature’s central mass the campfire flickered out and died. The runes remained lit for a moment, before fading away.

The grave-glass did not seem sated. Its head jerked back up from the smouldering embers, twitching back and forth like a wolf that had scented prey. The concentric rings of glassy teeth flexed and twitched within its open maw, and Inger heard a faint ringing from within, as if a thousand tiny tuning forks had been struck in unison. Its head swayed aimlessly once again, and it suddenly skittered forward with astonishing agility, passing Kaduat and Inger without heed. Stopping dead in its tracks like a frozen statue, it paused for an instant before resuming its swaying search.

It had consumed the magic within that fire in mere moments. Inger had no intention of finding out what it would do if it found a greater source—like a unicorn. “We’ve got to draw it away from the tents,” he whispered to Kaduat.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” she hissed back, staring at the creature in awe.

A shiver traveled down the grave-glass from its head to its twin tails, and it swiftly reoriented itself toward a single tent. Apricot and Cranberry’s, Inger realized, as lightning shot down his spine. They were out of time. He scooped up one of the stones encircling the firepit, and hurled it far away from the campsite with all the strength he could muster. It smacked the canyon wall with a ringing echo, but the beast’s only reaction was a faint tail-twitch.

Damn. No choice, then. Inger took a deep breath. Hefting another stone, he nudged Kaduat. “I’ll have to draw it off the hard way,” he whispered. “As soon as it’s away from the tents, arm everyone with whatever weapons we have left.”

“Be careful.” Tension lined her face.

Taking wing, Inger flew toward the passage that the creature had appeared from. He tossed the stone up, feeling the weight, and caught it again. It was a good thing he’d gotten all that practice in with Apricot, he thought darkly. Taking a moment to aim, he drew his foreleg back, timing his wingbeats. Then, like a cracking whip, his hoof shot forward. The stone soared through the night, slamming into the creature’s glassy side. Several of the tiny filaments shattered easily away, falling into the dark sand like glittering raindrops.

Instantly, the beast’s head swiveled to stare directly at him with eyeless intensity.

Cold sweat ran down his neck. Oh, it can see, all right. His wings beat frantically, flinging him back as the grave-glass burst into motion. Tails extending behind for balance, it came swarming across the sand like an enormous beetle, eerily quiet as it raced toward him. He had to lead it on a chase through the canyon, as far away as it would follow, giving the others time to prepare or flee—

A blue light pierced the darkness from the campsite. Inger’s eyes bulged, recognizing Beatriz’s silhouette, as she stepped out of her tent with a yawn, her prongs aglow. The grave-glass’s motion toward him instantly ceased, before its head arced up and backward over its body. He saw the entire beast quiver, before that rumbling, clicking sound shuddered out from its throat again.

Beatriz, on her way toward the latrine pit at the camp’s edge, stopped abruptly as she spied Kaduat, still frozen with the horn halfway to her lips. Beatriz’s eyes tracked the camel’s gaze toward the creature, widening as she saw its innumerable facets reflecting the pale moonlight. The antelope trembled, her hornlight wavering, and then the beast whirled into a spin before sprinting toward her and the tents. Beatriz’s scream rent the night, and all hell broke loose.

* * *

As a scream shattered his attempts to sleep, Apricot’s eyes snapped open.

Another fire, was his first terrified thought as he flung his blanket away, but no—he would feel the heat, hear the roar. Besides, there was nothing down here to burn.

“Mom, get up!” he said, hushed, shaking her as he scrambled toward the exit of the tent.

She woke with a start. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, yet.” As Cranberry fumbled with her blanket, he slipped out of the tent.

Stepping outdoors, the first thing he saw as he lifted his head was a plume of dark sand rising in the night just ahead. His eyes were drawn by the bright blue glow of Beatriz’s horns to his immediate left, and then to the enormous, speeding mass of glinting black that was barreling straight toward them.

A tremendous blast of sound filled the night as a horn blared in alarm. It echoed through the gorge, reverberating between the canyon walls. After a moment, shouts followed, as mercenaries began to spill from the tents.

The creature slammed into one of the circled carts in its way, easily knocking it aside with a careless blow that buckled the wooden side. The cart skidded through the sand, wheels spinning crazily. The beast was almost upon them, charging straight toward Beatriz. More on instinct than sense, Apricot ran between them, lighting his horn. This thing was far bigger than those tiny stones he’d blocked before, but there was no time to think as he reached for the wardsong.

As he dipped into the magic, he instantly felt that same cold void from earlier, now careening across the sand toward him. He froze, staring transfixed as the beast trampled over the first of the tents. Its long, wending neck came streaking through the moonlight, jawless mouth vibrating as it plunged forward.

A wall of crimson light sprang from the earth, accompanied by a familiar magical song. The beast smashed headlong into it, its neck folding like a limp rag as its momentum carried its whole body into the magical barrier. Pollux galloped forward, horn blazing in the night. “Get away!” he shouted.

Apricot stumbled backward, less out of obedience than rising panic. What was this thing? Almost as frightening as its size and speed was that emptiness he felt, a ravenous nothing that seemed to have no life or thought behind it.

The collision with Pollux’s barrier hadn’t stunned it for long. It swiftly reoriented itself, slamming both spiked tails against the wall in a brief alternating drumbeat. WHAM-WHAM-WHAM-WHAM! Cracks splintered across the magical surface. A trembling series of clicks emanated from the creature, as it latched its flat mouth onto the wall of light. Pollux yelped like he’d just stepped into a puddle of icy water, and glowing crimson runes suddenly raced across the creature’s head and neck.

Apricot felt a tug. “Come on,” hissed Cranberry, yanking him backward. “Run!” She grabbed Beatriz too, still frozen in fright, and pulled the two into a retreat. Apricot stumbled after her, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the quivering bulk of glass. Red light glittered all across its body as the wall of light shattered into sparks and vanished.

The camels coalesced around the makeshift armory cart, where Kaduat had hopped up onto the back and begun tossing spears out to her fellow soldiers one after another. Many cast fearful glances toward the beast as they caught the weapons and formed their lines. There was no time to put on armor—offense alone would have to suffice. Grabbing the last spear for herself, Kaduat leaped from the cart and landed in the sand at the head of her troops. “Falit-Ka!” she yelled to them, resting the spear on her shoulder with the tip facing forward. The mercenaries rushed forward in a wedge toward the glimmering rune-glass.

The beast shivered as the crimson runes on its skin faded away. Its head—or what passed for such—snapped up to stare directly at Pollux, who had tripped backward onto the sand. Apricot stretched out a hoof, horn igniting. “No!”

A cherry-red streak slammed into the creature’s neck from the sky, sending its head ploughing down into the sand. Inger landed lightly on his hooves, sliding across the ground beside it. Without hesitation, and seemingly unfazed by having its head planted violently into the earth, the thing’s twin tails stabbed forward like lightning. In an elegant pirouette, Inger leaped into the air and twisted between them, pulling his wings tight as he slipped through the narrow gap. His wings sprang out again as he shot back into the air.

The formation of camels reached their foe, crashing into the creature with their charge of spears. The metal tips hit the glass uselessly, scraping the surface and deflecting away. A few spears snapped outright, leaving their wielders holding broken shafts with blank looks of fear. The creature pushed itself back up, whirling in a circle and sweeping its tails into the camels’ ranks. The whole line of mercenaries was tossed aside, tumbling like ragdolls across the ground.

“Apricot,” came a voice, hard and focused. The young colt’s attention finally broke away from the chaos, to find Castor at his side with his mother and Beatriz. Virgil and Zaeneas stood behind them, both staring in horror at the battle. Castor’s eyes were locked on Apricot. “Listen to me. I need you to take the other noncombatants into the cave, do you understand?”

His mouth still hanging loosely open, Apricot nodded. Then he looked back toward Pollux, who was still struggling to stand. “Wait—no! I can help!”

“This is how you help,” said Castor, clapping a hoof to his shoulder and staring intently into his eyes. “Whatever that monster is, it’s too large to fit inside that cave. You’ll all be safe there until the fighting is over. Take your mother, Virgil and Beatriz as far back as you can go. I need you to protect them, all right?” His wings rose as he looked toward the melee, where the camels shouted in Dromedarian as they regrouped. “I haven’t seen Pwyll or Tybalt, but I’ll send them to you if I find them. Now go!” With that, he charged toward the fray.

Apricot still wanted to help Pollux, but Castor had given him an assignment—a real one, an adult responsibility. Apricot couldn’t let him down. Swallowing, he looked around at the others, his horn glowing to light their way. “Okay. Let’s go!” Cranberry gave him a tense but proud smile, and nodded.

Virgil took Beatriz’s shaky hoof in a claw and pulled her beside the others as all five broke into a sprint, with Apricot leading the way. They raced past the empty tents as more shouts and the clanking of metal and glass filled the air. Suddenly, he heard a terrible rumbling, and the telltale rushing of bladed legs across sand. Without slowing, he turned his head to see the beast charging after the fleeing group—straight for the glow of his horn.

“Run,” gasped Cranberry, her hooves pounding beside him.

The cavern mouth was just ahead. A faint orange glow flickered from deep within, like a warm promise of safety. Apricot’s legs shook the sand as he threw everything he had into galloping, but he could hear the thing grow rapidly louder behind him. Turning his head for another moment, he saw it so close that it blocked out the starlight above, those giant lamprey-teeth streaking toward him with the glittering promise of death.

Apricot screamed, twisting in midair as all his hooves left the ground. His horn flared without conscious thought, as he followed the muscle memory from all the practice with his father. As he crashed into the sand, sliding through the coarse grains, a small rose-colored dome of light flashed up over him. The creature’s head slammed into his ward, and before it could stop itself, its whole body followed. The beast crashed onto his shield-dome. In his horn, he felt an incredible strain as, for a moment, his barrier bore the full weight of the monster. It rolled over him with its legs and tails flailing in a frenzy.

The thing twisted, landing on its razor-bladed needle-feet as its sliding bulk cast a cloud of dark sand into the air. The rest of the group jerked to a terrified halt as the beast blocked the entrance to the cave. Its head lashed out again, colliding with Apricot’s glowing ward in a punishing staccato. He stared at it from behind the barrier, too scared to think. He felt that icy absence seize his music again as the thing’s filament-hairs all shivered, and its mouth closed the gap with focused intent. The warmth of his spellsong was suddenly stolen away, and his shield winked out.

An entire supply cart, enwreathed by an aura of blazing crimson, flew from the right and smashed into the creature’s core with a meteoric impact. Splintered wood and shattered glass exploded as the cart burst across the obsidian monstrosity, sending the beast reeling. A huge crack rent the creature’s side, an irregular bull’s eye with a starry corona of lines almost two meters across. It staggered to the left, leaving the cave entrance wide open.

“What are you waiting for?” yelled Pollux. “Move!”

“Go!” shouted Virgil, pulling Beatriz forward. As Zaeneas and Cranberry raced after them, Apricot just stared at the obsidian beast. The barrels and supplies from the cart scattered across the sand around the cavern mouth as debris tumbled through the air. Tiny shards of glass rained down from the new crack as the beast twitched, its head swaying violently as it searched for the source of the attack.

“APRICOT!” yelled his mother, her pale face visible in the moonlight as she paused at the entrance of the cavern.

He found his hooves, keeping his horn doused as he broke back into a gallop. He crossed the gap in a moment, racing inside behind his mother. He felt the breath rushfrom his lungs as he passed into the safe confines of the tunnel. Behind him, the outside air rang with shouts and the scraping of glass.

The two retreated into the depths of the cave, as that orange glow he’d seen earlier grew brighter. At the end, they found the others gathered in the light of a burning torch, held by the safe end in Pwyll’s mouth. “Professor! What’s going on?” he asked. The shadow of the young deer’s antlers wavered on the vast, black wall behind him. Apricot’s eyes were immediately drawn to the curling patterns across the glass. It looked exactly like the skin of that thing outside. He shivered.

“Pwyll?” panted Cranberry in bafflement. “What are you doing in here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “My antlers kept itching.” He gave one an urgent scratch, eyes squinting until he exhaled and set his hoof back down. “So I came back to give the door another look…” As he turned back to the graven glass, he lifted his head and the torch. His eyes traced the grooves. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t you hear the horn?” asked Virgil, harshly. Beside him, Beatriz was sitting on her haunches in the sand, eyes closed as she took short, panicky breaths. “We’re under attack.”

That seemed to snap Pwyll out of whatever strange mood had taken him. “What?!” He looked around at their tired faces in astonishment. “By who?”

“I don’t know,” said Cranberry, still breathing hard as she recovered from the run. “A creature. The size of a house, and made of thick glass. I’ve never seen or heard of such a thing.”

“Some kind of guardian, maybe,” suggested Zaeneas, glancing back toward the exit with weary, frightened eyes.

“No…” Cranberry shook her head. “An elken guardian would look as elegant as it was deadly. That… thing was just a jumble of glass limbs. Did you see the bones inside it?” She shivered. “I don’t think anyone made it. Not on purpose.”

Virgil spread a wing around Beatriz as he pulled her closer. “I guess now we know what killed Hermia,” he said darkly.

More shouting and crashes from outside echoed into the cave. Apricot looked back, starting to light his horn, but then he remembered the way it had attracted the creature, and let it remain dark. He didn’t dare draw it in here to put Castor’s guess about its size to the test. Swallowing, he took up a position between the exit and the others. If that creature did try to get in, his shields might be the only thing that could stop it.

Without his horn, he felt blind, despite Pwyll’s torch burning behind him. He couldn’t feel Pollux or the void outside, completely unable to follow the fight. All he could do now was wait.

* * *

Inger wove through the creature’s slashing limbs as if dancing in a thunderstorm. His hooves cracked against the glass, his wings beating strong as he spiraled between blows like a feather on the wind.

Behind! warned the dragon, as his ears caught a wooshing of air.

He dodged the incoming slash from the beast’s tail, kicking his hind legs against one of the antler-spikes. The tip snapped cleanly away, but it left an edge just as razor-sharp as the spike had been.

We have to find a weak spot, the dragon urged. Sink your teeth in and tear!

Yet the creature seemed to have no such weakness. He’d delivered dozens of powerful strikes across its core, neck, and tails, yet despite the tiny cracks his pounding hooves left, he had the sense that he wasn’t even slowing it down. While he had yet to take a serious blow, he couldn’t keep up his aerial dance forever.

The legs, hissed the dragon. Go for the legs!

Those slender, bladed legs were the creature’s most dangerous weapon. They slashed about at the mercenaries, sharp and strong enough to cleave a pony in two. But they were the thinnest structures on its entire body, hair-filaments aside. If he could just land a blow to one of the joints, it might snap, and cripple the beast.

Easier said than done. The creature twitched and bolted around, moving with incredible speed for something so large. By the time Inger reached one of the legs, a moment would pass and the beast would sweep away out of hoof’s reach. After another close swipe of its tails, Inger broke away, flying up above the fight to gather his breath for another attack.

Below him, the grave-glass roiled across the sand, knocking tents and caravan carts aside with its passage. It whirled like a thresher of blades amidst the scattered camels. The thing was so fast and wild that formation fighting was useless. Under Kaduat and Castor’s leadership, the mercenaries had resorted to evasion, darting in to deliver a single blow before retreating. A familiar tactic—the Firewings called it killing with bug bites, which they employed when fighting monsters like manticores or hydras that were large and strong enough to crush through armor with a single blow. Yet against a creature so agile, it was of limited effectiveness: several camels, unable to pull away before the thing’s counterattack had caught them, already lay bleeding in the sand.

Their sole advantage was the beast’s mindless focus on retaliation. It seemed to act without any concern beyond lashing out at whatever had attacked it last. No matter how inconsequential the strike, any blow to the creature’s body drew its whole attention in an instant. If it was about to cut down a helpless mercenary with one of those bladed scythe-legs, a tossed stone would cause it to abandon its victim without hesitation in favor of chasing the latest assailant across the ravaged campsite.

It was evident that their weapons were dealing cosmetic damage at most to the creature’s smooth glass surface. Spears chipped and clinked harmlessly off of the solid mass. Even Inger’s first diving strike to its neck, which had left a weltering spiderweb of cracks, hadn’t slowed it down in the slightest. The only one who’d dealt it a serious blow so far was Pollux, but hurling that entire supply cart had taken a lot out of the mage. Now he was standing at the edge of the melee, tossing smaller bits of debris at the thing to little effect. A direct magical attack seemed suicidal, given how the beast seemed to suck down any spell it encountered.

In the air, Castor pulled up beside Inger, wings flapping vigorously. “We’re barely making a dent,” he muttered gravely.

“We’ve got to hit the joints,” said Inger, blowing out a hard breath. “If we can take one of those legs out, we’ve got a chance.”

“All right,” Castor nodded sharply. “Together!”

Despite the carnage and the blood and the danger, an undeniable sense of euphoria filled Inger’s chest. It had been such a long time—years, he realized, sourly remembering Wheatie’s joke about flying a desk—since he’d been in a simple, straightforward, good fight. There was no time for emotion or self-doubt. There was only him, and his enemy. Kill or be killed. He’d been longing for this, and here it was: a chance to hurt something, something hostile and alien, not even really alive enough to feel a moment of guilt about slaying it. He could let it all out on this monster, punish it, pummel it with his hooves until it was a pile of crumbled glass.

There was a purity, an honesty to combat that he craved. To be a great soldier, you had to be more than willing to take a life. Some part of you had to enjoy it—the thrill of outmaneuvering your enemy, of shattering his defenses and bringing him low, surviving when he did not. You had to have a lust for battle that Equestria pretended it was too civilized for, that only the nordponies embraced with all the vigor it deserved. It was a side of him that even Cranberry couldn’t understand the way that Wheatie or Windstreak could. This was what he lived for.

Come on, snarled the dragon, clinging tightly to his shoulder. Let’s kill this thing.

“Go!” he barked, and together with Castor, his wings folded and he dove toward the frenzied melee below. Inger locked his hooves forward, ready to put all the power of his dive behind the strike. The wind whistled in his ears as the grave-glass grew larger before him. A hurled spear bounced off its side, and the beast swiveled, exposing its left-sided legs.

His hooves cracked into the second joint of the thing’s front leg, with so much force behind the blow that the limb slid forward and sent the beast’s core plunging to the ground. Behind, Castor collided with the other leg, sending a ringing tone of vibrating glass shuddering through the creature. The legs were cracked, but not broken. Both pegasi flew on, swooping back above for another attack run as the creature stood and followed their arc with its eyeless gaze. “Again!” called Castor, as they tucked their wings tight in unison and plummeted.

As Inger and Castor reached the terminus of their dives, one of the camels below gave a frustrated yell and swiped at the beast with the broken haft of his spear. The wood clunked off the creature’s tail. Instantly, it whirled and slashed a leg across the camel’s chest, sending blood arcing through the night in a crimson geyser. Where the damaged leg had been, a forest of tail spikes now waited. Inger instinctively converted his attack into an aerial roll to the right, just like every Firewing had been trained. Focused on the grave-glass, he missed Castor doing the same in the opposite direction. The two pegasi collided, bouncing off each other in a moment of surprise.

Then the creature’s mighty neck came swinging about and slammed into them both from the side. Castor went flying away as Inger found himself tumbling in the air, his lungs emptied by the force of the blow. Disoriented, his wings flapped crazily as he spun out of control. Up was down and down was up, the stars spinning wildly around him. Then the ground rushed up to greet him as he crashed into the sand.

He skidded through the coarse, dark grains, wincing as the friction seared his side. For a moment, he simply lay there, completely winded, hearing another camel scream in pain from behind. Inger planted one hoof beneath himself, pushing up weakly as he tried to regain his bearings. He’d been thrown clear to the other side of the canyon, which at least gave him a moment to recover.

The sound of moving sand drew his attention. His head snapped up as he sought the source of the noise, and his eyes widened in surprise as the moonlight revealed Tybalt, still dressed in the half-length white summer robe he’d worn the day before, frantically digging in the sand with both forehooves. “Father…?”

At the sound of his voice, Tybalt straightened. His father’s head jerked over his shoulder, landing on the battered pegasus. “Inger!” He leaped to his hooves, rushing toward his son.

As he helped Inger stand, Tybalt’s eyes shone with worry. “Are you injured?”

“Nothing broken,” grunted Inger, fluffing his wings as sand drizzled from his feathers. “Ah! It’ll be a hell of a bruise, though.” He took a step back toward the battle, before the air puffed from his chest and he nearly collapsed again.

“You can’t go back in there.” Tybalt shook his head. “It’s suicide!”

“I’m a Firewing,” said Inger, eyes narrowing on the skittering grave-glass. “I’ve fought worse.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Tybalt withdrew, returning to the spot where he’d been digging. “Here. Help me with this!”

Inger blinked, peering into the darkness, and took a step toward his father. His hoof banged into something heavy and hard, sending up a hollow ringing. “Ow!” With a start, he realized it was Zaeneas’s pewter cauldron, lying half-buried in the sand. Ahead, he now recognized the object of his father’s desperate digging as the zebra’s little alchemy cart, turned onto its side. The back side faced upward, leaving the front doors pinned below, and the whole cart was covered with a thick layer of sand. No doubt it had been knocked over by one of the grave-glass’s frenetic, wide-ranging movements. “What are you doing?”

“The Elyrium,” said Tybalt, panic creeping into his voice. “Zaeneas told me she’d finished the batch before we made camp tonight. We have to get it out of there!”

Elyrium, Inger thought, new hope igniting in his breast. He recalled the way the beast had absorbed Apricot’s flames, and fed on Pollux’s shield. Obsidian’s a powerful reservoir of magical energy, Pwyll and Cranberry had both said. That meant a monster made of the stuff ought to be destroyed from even a splash of Elyrium, if Rye’s tales of its potency weren’t exaggerations. “Yes… yes! That could work!” He joined his father, scooping hoof-fuls of sand away.

The cart was soon freed from the sand, but the doors were still underneath it. Tybalt scrabbled at the underside of the cart, straining with his hooves to turn it over. “Not like that,” said Inger, bracing a shoulder against the cart’s side. “Come on. Push together!”

His father joined him, and the cart groaned with a creak of wood as it tipped. It passed the balance point, rolling onto its side with a loud rattling of broken glass from inside. Not waiting for an instant, Tybalt darted forward and tore open the doors, revealing the inside of the tiny cart. “No, no, no!”

When the grave-glass had bowled the cart aside, the cauldron had done significant damage as it tumbled its way out. The vials and ingredient bottles once carefully organized on the sides of the cart had been smashed and tossed freely about, covering the inside of the cart in splattered potions and wilting herbs. Ginkgo fumes filled the air, mixed with a dozen other unidentifiable smells, but cutting through them all was the incongruous yet unmistakable scent of vanilla.

One bottle immediately caught Inger’s eye. It was a spherical glass container, big enough to hold at least a liter and a half of liquid, with a short cylindrical neck. It was filled with a clear liquid that seemed to glint like it had bits of reflecting metal floating in it, even from within the darkened cart. Though the bottle was still firmly ensconced in the iron framework on the side of the cart that was now acting as a ceiling, a thin crack extended along the sphere’s side. Liquid seeped out like tears, dripping steadily onto the mess of shattered glass and ruined potions below.

“No!” gasped Tybalt, sinking beside it. He reached under the dripping stream, as though he could catch the liquid with his hooves. “It can’t all be—this isn’t…”

Inger glanced down at his chest, and the small flask of tonic still dangling from his neck. Swiftly, he pulled it off and uncorked the top. He jerked it sideways, tossing out the remainder of the ginkgo mixture, and crouched beside Tybalt. “Move over.”

“This can’t be happening,” muttered Tybalt, his eyes wide with terror as he pressed his hooves over the crack in the bottle, doing nothing to stem the flow. “The Elyrium… all gone… all for nothing…”

“Father, I can’t get to it with you in the way.” Inger’s brows furrowed. It wouldn’t be surprising if the monster attack had sent anyone into shock. But he was familiar with those symptoms, and this wasn’t quite the same—rather, Tybalt looked like he was having a full-fledged panic attack. “Father?”

“I can’t stop it! It’s leaking!” Tybalt was hyperventilating.

“Father. Tybalt!” No response. It was like the other pegasus didn’t even know he was there. Those golden eyes were still transfixed with horror on the pouring liquid. Inger leaned in. “Dad!”

That snapped his father back to reality. “Wha…?” Tybalt blinked, looking back at him. “Inger—I’m sorry, I—”

“Move, quickly.” Inger shooed him aside, thrusting the empty flask beneath the dripping Elyrium. Seeing the large quantity that remained in the glass container—too much for his little flask—another idea suddenly sparked. “Actually, here. Hold this.”

As Tybalt took the flask with unsteady hooves, Inger raced away from the cart toward the cauldron. He scooped out sand from the cavity with a hasty hoof. Hefting one of the handles with a grunt at the dead weight of the pewter, he dragged it through the sand back toward the cart. “All right! We can fit all that’s left in here.” Gently nudging Tybalt aside once more, he reached in and unseated the glass vessel. Yanking out the stopper with his teeth, he poured it into the upright cauldron. When it was empty, he tossed the container back into the cart with the rest of the broken glassware.

“Come on. I’ll need your help to carry this.” Inger stood upright, hooking his left hoof under one of the cauldron’s handles. Tybalt stared at the Elyrium, still breathing heavily. “Come on!” barked Inger, and his father jerked again.

After quickly re-corking the flask and stuffing it into the pocket of his summer robe, Tybalt reached down with both hooves to take the other handle. “On three,” he said, shakily.

Inger grunted out the count, placing his other hoof under the handle. “One. Two. Three!” The two pegasi heaved, and lifted into the air with their heavy burden, wings flapping madly. The Elyrium sloshed within the cauldron, full of glimmering specks.

Immediately, fresh pain spread out across Inger’s chest from the hit he’d taken. As his forelegs strained against gravity, he felt the ache radiating under his skin. He ignored it, focusing on the skittering mass of black in the campsite ahead. Katabasis had taken more losses, though in the dark it was impossible to tell how many had fallen. Inger’s stomach fell as he watched one camel crawl away from the grave-glass, only to be carelessly stepped on by one of those piercing legs as the beast swarmed over him to attack another mercenary. The camel jerked violently as the glass blade sheared through his back, giving a cry of pain before falling still.

“Hurry,” gasped Tybalt, wings faltering under the strain. “I can’t hold this for long.”

The two flew toward the creature as swiftly as their burden allowed. Gods, the cauldron was heavy. Inger felt rivulets of sweat running down his neck and back. “We’ll have to get close,” he grunted between clenched teeth. “We can’t afford to miss.”

Tybalt was visibly afraid, but he nodded. “Tell me when.”

Limbs slashed through the night as the grave-glass twisted and struck. It seemed tireless, a constantly-whirling dervish of sharpened glass, overwhelming the mercenaries as they grew exhausted by their constant darting in and out. To the right, Inger saw Kaduat pulling a wounded camel away over the sand. Above, Castor was still making diving attacks at its legs, but having no success as the creature twitched away again and again. Pollux’s artillery of cart debris had paused, as the mage sat slumped in the sand far off to their left.

The Elyrium’s our only hope, Inger thought, gritting his teeth. This had better work.

They hovered for a moment above the beast, as Inger tried to judge the distance. “Alright. Together, now. Drop it on my signal. Let’s go!” His wings pumped, and he broke into a dive with his father. The cauldron swung between them, tipping forward as they fell. Wind rushed past Inger’s face as his wings flapped and his forelegs strained, pulling the dead weight even faster than free-fall.

The glass monster rushed up beneath them, darting out of their travel arc and then back into it, slashing wildly at the mercenaries. Now! hissed the dragon. “Now!” yelled Inger. His legs surged, and the two pegasi hurled the cauldron forward.

His heart leaped into his throat as the pewter vessel sailed through the air. For a terrible moment he thought they had missed entirely, that it would crash uselessly to the ground and spill their precious hope across the sand. Then the cauldron hit the creature’s back with a tremendous CLANG, splattering liquid across the dark obsidian. He could see it glinting as it ran freely over the beast’s whorled surface.

As he and Tybalt pulled away, Inger watched and panted for air. The beast’s head jerked up toward them, and it leaped from the ground with a swipe of its forelegs. Inger barely dodged, feeling the air rush past as the blade sliced it so closely that it took off one of his feather-tips. His wings beat frantically as he gained altitude, out of the beast’s reach. A moment later, it was distracted when Castor came swooping down to deliver another hit to one of its tails, and it quickly bolted after him.

Inger and his father hung in the air, waiting for a few endless moments. Watching the beast continue its frantic chase across the sand, Tybalt cried out, “It didn’t do anything!”

Inger’s heart sank as the beast swiveled beneath them, swarming after Castor. “Did Zaeneas brew it wrong?”

“No! I’m certain the Elyrium works!” Tybalt shook his head, staring in horror. “I don’t understand!”

Suddenly, Inger realized the problem. It’s a reservoir, he thought, recalling the way it had consumed Apricot’s fire. It had sucked that energy into itself, deep down beneath the surface of the glass. “Stay up here!” he yelled. “I have an idea!” He ignored his father’s confused shouts as he dove away, streaking toward the edge of the battlefield and the crimson-robed unicorn who stood there.

Landing beside Pollux with a thump in the sand, Inger tucked his wings to his sides. “Cas?” asked the mage, turning sharply. “Oh—Lord Vallen.” His horn was aglow, with another piece of broken wood from the cart hefted in his magical aura. The unicorn’s exhaustion was evident in his voice. “I just needed a minute. I’m ready to fight again.” He turned toward the beast, cantering forward with his improvised missile.

“Hold on,” said Inger, following him. “Tybalt and I splashed that thing with Elyrium, but the magic’s too deep inside it to have any effect. Do you think you can get it to bring up those glowing runes again?”

Pollux’s legs slowed to a stop as his eyes widened. The aura around his missile vanished and he let it fall. His head jerked between Inger and the grave-glass, before he swallowed and nodded. “I think so.” With a weary puff of breath, he pulled his hood down. The unicorn’s pale mane fluttered around his head in the cool breeze. “I just hope it doesn’t take me with it.” His crimson eyes suddenly blazed beneath his brilliant hornlight, and he charged forward with Inger at his side.

They crossed the line of ruined tents as the beast cornered Kaduat, who stood guard over one of her wounded compatriots. She roared defiantly at it, hefting her spear. Then, a dozen blades of crimson light shimmered into existence, surrounding the creature in a hemisphere. The grave-glass instantly paused, turning its head up. Its teeth shivered as that tuning-fork noise emanated out from its throat.

Pollux roared yah! as every spear of light simultaneously shot inward. They collided with the creature’s glassy skin, seamlessly sinking into it. Beneath each spear, a ripple of crimson spread through the grooved symbols, like the surface of a pond in a rainstorm. Pollux’s horn grew searingly bright as he bent his head forward and fired a beam of pure magical energy. It collided with the creature’s side, where it was effortlessly absorbed. Red whorls of light raced across the thing’s impervious skin. It shivered, reaching its head toward the mage.

Pollux’s eyes rolled back and closed as his hornlight winked out. His galloping legs went slack. Suddenly limp, his momentum carried him forward into the sand, ploughing almost a meter forward. Inger skidded to a stop beside him. “Pollux!” The grave-glass, covered in crimson swirls, bent low and broke into a sprint toward them.

And then, the lights reached the splatter of liquid on the creature’s back.

In an instant, the glow went from bright red to a painfully blinding white. Electricity sparked, surging with blue sparks through the liquid. Blue flames suddenly flared along the creature’s back, streaking over its surface. The grave-glass’s charge faltered as it hunched in apparent agony, trembling violently. Then the thing reared back on two legs, piercing the ground behind it with both tails, lifting its head in a perfect vertical line toward the sky. A terrible, keening wail pierced the night.

Castor came streaking in from the side, moving so fast that he was little more than a bronze blur. He hit the thing’s damaged rear leg, finally shattering the slender joint. It snapped with a loud crack as glass shards went flying. The grave-glass tumbled sideways, crashing down into the sand as its wailing abruptly ceased. One of its tails twitched as its remaining legs moved, scratching at the empty air.

Kaduat raced toward the fallen beast. She passed its back, swiping her speartip through the dripping Elyrium on its back without pausing. She reached its neck, springing up onto the tessellated glass. Grasping her weapon’s shaft with both forefeet, she roared, “Die! Die!” and brought her spear down over and over onto the crack Inger’s first attack had left. “Die, you fucking thing!”

The spear broke through, piercing the center of the crack and smashing down into the beast’s throat. More sparks shot outward as Kaduat snarled. She raised a foreleg to shield her eyes as a gout of flame followed, before swiftly dying out. The creature’s tail rattled for a few moments, gradually slowing as it came to rest in the dark sand. Everything went still.

Inger lifted Pollux’s head from the sand, relieved to see the unicorn’s chest rising and falling with faint, shaky breaths. He crouched, pulling the mage onto his back. With a grunt, he stood, marching with his burden toward the fallen grave-glass, where the other survivors were gathering.

He was dismayed to see only about half of the camels standing beside the body, most with fresh wounds. Kaduat slid down off the thing’s neck, leaving her spear planted in the glass. “Break the rest of its legs off,” she ordered hoarsely. “I want to be sure it’s dead.” She shook her head and repeated the orders in Dromedarian. The other camels scurried to comply, beginning to chip away at the creature’s spidery limbs with their spears.

Castor landed beside Kaduat as Inger reached them. “Pollux!” he cried, racing forward toward his brother.

“He’s alive,” said Inger, and Castor sagged with relief. “But that took everything he had.”

“Here,” said Castor, extending a foreleg. The two pegasi shifted the unconscious mage onto his brother’s back. “I’ll go find Zaeneas. She’s in the cave with the others. Maybe—maybe she’ll have something for him,” he mumbled, with uncharacteristic hesitation. “Come on, Polly, it’ll be all right…” He trotted away.

Inger watched him go for a moment, before sharing a look with Kaduat. The camel’s eyes were as hollow as they’d been when she told him about her brother. Shaking her head, she looked around at the camels trying to break off the creature’s legs. “Twelve of my people,” she said, her voice dour and tense, “dead in less than fifteen minutes.”

All the companions who’d followed her from Dromedaria must have lost their pharaoh’s blessing, too, Inger realized. He swallowed. “Kaduat…”

Bitterly, she shook her head. “I should have blown that damn horn the moment we saw it.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Inger said, staring at the moonlit bones within the obsidian hulk. “You saw how fast it was. That was one of the deadliest things I’ve ever fought.”

She glanced at him in disbelief. “One of?” Then she followed Inger’s gaze to the giant dragon skull, staring out at them from beneath the creature’s translucent skin. “Oh.”

Tybalt alighted beside them, fluffing his wings to shake off some sand. “Are either of you injured?”

“Nothing serious,” said Kaduat darkly. “I can’t say the same for my troops.”

“I can pay for any medical care your people require,” Tybalt promised quietly. “I owe them that. You’ve saved all our lives tonight.”

Kaduat gave him a grim nod. “Thank you, Count Vallen. But we still need to get them there, first.”

Inger looked toward the cave entrance, still surrounded by barrels and crates from the cart Pollux had destroyed. “I’m going to check on the others.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Kaduat. Her eyes finally softened. “We’ll see if the kid’s okay.”

“I’ll join you, too,” said Tybalt, still looking a little pale and shaky.

Leaving the mercenaries to their work, the three picked their way through the wreckage of the campsite. As Inger stepped through snapped tent poles and crushed camping tools, he couldn’t even tell whether the shattered fragments of wood and shredded cloth belonged to Katabasis or the prior expedition. No mystery now what had destroyed the previous campsite. That glowing sphere in Hermia’s satchel must be what had drawn it after her. Retreating from the creature, she’d fled into the cave for safety—just not fast enough, Inger thought soberly. But if this beast was the cause of Locke’s disappearance, then where were the rest of the bodies?

The bones, suggested the dragon ominously, but Inger shook his head. As huge as the grave-glass had been, it couldn’t have fit all the corpses of the entire expedition within itself. And Locke had certainly had no dragon with him. There was something else going on here.

But his curiosity was now thoroughly overpowered by a desire to take his family and get the hell away from this gorge, this forest, and this whole damned island. Nothing his father said now could convince him the risks were worth it. He suspected that with Pollux injured and the loss of so many of the mercenaries, Castor would be in agreement. Once they’d regrouped, they would head straight back for Port Faeloch and then home to Equestria. Maybe they could even leave tonight.

The glow of a torch beckoned them into the cavern. It was crowded inside, Inger thought, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the firelight. Virgil and Beatriz sat beside the right wall, quiet and subdued. Near the opposite wall, Zaeneas and Castor hovered over Pollux, the zebra pulling various vials from the bandolier around her chest and tipping them into the unicorn’s mouth. They appeared to be having little success in reviving him. Cranberry, her mane still frazzled from sleep, sat beside the vast slab of glass with the glowing blue orb in one hoof, staring into the open red-bound journal. Inger wasn’t sure how much comfort she’d find amongst its blank pages. Her hooves were still shaking.

At the sound of Inger’s hooves scraping across the sandy cavern floor, she glanced up. Their eyes met, and for an instant hers widened with relief. But then, her gaze hardened. She looked away, scowling, and slammed her book shut. Inger felt the dragon stir, still hot-blooded and flushed with the thrill of combat, but bit his tongue. Now wasn’t the time.

Beside him, Kaduat sucked in a hissing breath. She stared at the grooved door with wide eyes. “Fadil,” she whispered, with religious terror.

“We’re not going through that,” Inger promised her, muttering, “We’re all getting the hell out of here.” She nodded a little too quickly, not tearing her eyes from the black glass.

“Dad! Kaduat!” Apricot came bounding forward, wrapping Inger’s foreleg in a hug.

“Hey, Junior.” He patted his son’s back. “We’re all right.”

“Did you kill it?”

“I’m not even sure it was alive in the first place,” said Inger, with a half-hearted smile, “but yes. I think we killed it.”

“Good.” Apricot shivered. He looked back over his shoulder. “Pollux is hurt,” he said in a small voice. “I can barely hear his song.”

“He’ll be all right,” promised Inger, hoping that he wasn’t lying. “Is your mother okay?”

Apricot’s eyes fell to the cave floor. He kicked a pebble. “Yeah.” His horn lit dimly as he drew the stone back.

“Oh… good,” Inger mumbled, swallowing. “Apricot—”

He was interrupted by a sudden clamor of shouting from behind. Kaduat was the first to react, whirling around. “Amir! Sariz!”

She was turning to run for the exit when Apricot gasped, his horn flickering. “No! I feel it, it’s still—”

Outside, the shouting turned to screaming. Inger’s wings spread wide as he and Kaduat rushed toward the cave exit. They made it halfway before the portal darkened. The dim blue of night was suddenly replaced by the stygian black of obsidian. The hulking mass dragged itself along on two spidery front legs, tails pushing it forward from behind. The grave-glass’s sinuous neck burst into the cave like a writhing serpent, letting out another ear-splitting shriek.

The two soldiers recoiled, avoiding the thing’s lamprey-like mouth as it thrashed and smashed against the walls of the cave. One of its front legs, covered with fresh blood, squeezed into the entrance, scrabbling for purchase on the rock. Debris from the destroyed cart was shoved inside, a barrel and one cracked wheel rolling down the inclined cavern floor. Inger and Kaduat stepped aside as they passed, staring in horror as their exit was completely blocked. The beast’s central core was too large to fit, crunching against the stone edges of the cave mouth as it pressed forward with mindless, murderous intent. Kaduat’s spear was still lodged in its neck, clanking woodenly off the stones as it flailed.

“Back,” rasped Kaduat, pulling Inger’s shoulder. The two retreated toward the others, who had all pressed up against the massive black wall.

“We’re going to die,” moaned Beatriz, covering her face with a trembling hoof.

A rosy light illuminated the creature, growing more solid as Apricot stepped ahead of the group. The beast’s head stilled, before it let out that familiar rumble-clicking. Then it shrieked again, thrashing violently. The cavern shook, raining dust and soil on them. “Apricot, get back!” ordered Inger.

“No! Dad, if it gets inside—”

Another hideous wail from the beast silenced them both, as they clapped their hooves to their ears. Inger stepped back, his hoof thwacking the barrel that had rolled into the tunnel. As the barrel rolled backward, it came to rest at Virgil’s feet. The engineer sat up sharply, eyes fixed upon it.

“It’s going to bring the cave down on us!” yelled Kaduat.

As the grave-glass’s cry reverberated, Virgil darted forward from his spot beside Beatriz. The griffon rolled the barrel over, revealing the DANGER label painted on the side. “Blackpowder,” the griffon shouted, raising his head. His eyes had a steely glint. “Pwyll! Give me your torch!”

The young deer was paralyzed, staring at the writhing monstrosity before them. With an irritated grunt, Virgil’s claw shot forward and he yanked the torch from Pwyll’s mouth. Inger watched in alarm. “What are you doing? If you set that off, we’ll all—”

“Trust me!” Virgil shouted, prying his claws into the barrel’s cap. He yanked it out, exposing a small, round hole in the top. Carefully holding the torch high above the barrel, he began shaking it out. Stepping forward, he left a trail of powder as he approached the beast.

Inger forestalled him with a hoof to the chest. “That’ll collapse the entire cave!”

“You have a better idea?” Virgil waved his torch at the monster. “Look! See that gap?” Inger followed the line of the torch. Beside the joint between the creature’s scraping leg and heaving body was a hole, exposing the night beyond. “If we can get this wedged in there, most of the blast will travel out, not in. With luck, it’ll take a big enough chunk of that thing with it to put it down for good.” His beak clenched tight for a moment. “We’ll make a trail to the barrel and light it from here. Apricot! Can you put up a shield when the bomb goes off?”

The young unicorn nodded, the fright in his eyes matched by determination.

Inger hesitated. Then another tremor rocked the cave as the beast’s tails smashed against the outside canyon wall. “All right,” he said, releasing the griffon. “Give me the barrel. I’ll get it there.”

“No,” said Virgil, with a curt shake of his head, “I’ve got it. Take this.” He offered the torch. Inger took it without thinking, biting down on the wood.

A hoof landed on Virgil’s shoulder. “No!” Beatriz pulled him away. “This is crazy!”

“Bea,” he said, exhaling. “Please. Let me do this.”

“You’ll be killed!”

He looked into her eyes, stroking her cheek with a gentle claw. “It’s blackpowder, Bea. My blackpowder. It has to be me.” He swallowed. “And if I can use it to save some lives instead of destroy them, save you, then those scales will feel a lot lighter.” Swiftly, he dove in to kiss her. Then he burst away, grabbing the barrel and hoisting it over his shoulder. The powder rained down behind him as he charged toward the beast.

“Virgil!” she screamed, reaching out, but Kaduat grabbed and held her from behind, with an anguished look after the griffon.

The beast seemed completely unaware of Virgil as he entered its reach. The thing’s head continued its wild, aimless struggle, smashing in a frenzy against the sides of the cave. Virgil ducked as it swept over him, crashing against the wall and raining down shattered filaments over his feathers. With catlike grace, he pounced to the other side, weaving out of the flailing neck’s path. His wings spread wide, and he leaped into the low space above it, rolling over the creature’s next swipe as he clutched the barrel in both claws.

Virgil landed beside the thing’s thrashing leg. He shoved the barrel into the gap, turning around and kicking both hind legs to wedge it firmly in the crack. “Now!” he shouted. Inger let the torch fall onto the blackpowder trail, which instantly sparked and popped as fire raced across the sand. White smoke burst from the line, filling the air with haze. It streaked toward the beast as Virgil’s wings stretched wide to flee.

The trail of fire reached the point where the griffon had leaped into the air, and the flame suddenly burned out. Inger sucked air through his teeth. Virgil’s aerial roll to avoid the creature had scattered the powder too widely to burn.

The grave-glass’s leg slashed, catching Virgil’s wing. He cried out, falling back against the wall and clutching it as blood splattered across the rock. The griffon collapsed to the ground as the leg scratched toward him, pressing himself down to avoid the blade. It scraped the wall above him, leaving white scratches on the stone. Virgil scrabbled back, using his hind legs to push himself up against the barrel. The wood creaked and bent as the weight of the creature squeezed it against the rocks.

Virgil’s eyes met Inger’s, and with his beak twisted in a rictus of pain, he nodded. Inger grimly returned the nod, and held the torch out between his hooves. He whipped it forward. The torch sailed across the cave, arcing over the grave-glass’s flailing limbs, before landing in Virgil’s waiting claw.

“I love you!” he called, and Beatriz screamed again, pounding against Kaduat’s restraining grasp. Virgil smiled, and then turned to jab the blazing torch into the open barrel.

Beatriz broke free, shoving Kaduat away as she flung herself toward the chaos, only to slam into a rosy wall of light that appeared in an flash. Then there was a colossal, earth-shaking roar as the blackpowder exploded. A wave of pressure flashed through the cave, enough of it passing through Apricot’s barrier to hit Inger like a river bursting through a dam. He flew back against the slab of glass, his head cracked against the the surface, and everything went black.

* * *

The first sense to return was hearing, as the ringing in his ears grew louder. “Inger,” came a muted voice. “Inger, get up.” It was Tybalt, he thought faintly, feeling two hooves gently shaking him. “Come on, Inger, please. We need you.”

One eye fluttered open. Half his face was buried in the sand, along with his right hoof and wing. Pain radiated throughout his body, and the pounding in his skull was suspiciously concussion-like. Inger puffed for air, blowing sand out of his mouth. “Mnngh,” he grunted.

“He’s alive!” Tybalt exhaled in relief. “Come on, Inger. Can you stand?”

I’m trying, he thought wearily, trying to ignore the lance of pain as he pushed his leg against the ground. Sand cascaded off of him as he slowly rose. The cave was dark, lit only by the flickering rose of Apricot’s magic. Inger blinked, looking up.

Above them, crumbled stones and massive boulders hung suspended, glowing softly in a magical aura. Ahead, where the exit of the cave had been, there was no griffon nor beast of glass, merely a vast pile of rubble. They were sealed in.

Apricot’s mane was soaked with sweat, his eyes wide and dark as he looked up at the cave-in. His entire body trembled with the strain of holding it above them. To the side, Castor held Pollux’s still-limp body, whispering desperately to him. Zaeneas sat beside them, staring at the blocked exit with fatalistic eyes. Near the rockfall, Beatriz was frantically digging with her bare hooves, but for every stone she pulled away, more came tumbling in to fill the gap.

Kaduat sat beside her, reaching out a gentle foot. “He’s gone, Bea.”

Beatriz slapped it away. “No! Just help me!”

“Bea, if you keep digging, you’ll bring the rest of it down on us.” Kaduat tried to still her frenzied digging with her foot. “I’m sorry.”

Apricot let out a strained whine. “Pwyll…” he pleaded apologetically. “I can’t keep this up by myself forever.”

“I’m trying!” The deer’s eyes were shut tight as he gritted his teeth. A few light green sparks snapped around his velvety antlers. “It’s still too early in the spring! If it were two weeks later—damn it, I should have brought one of Ciaran’s foci. Damn it, damn it, damn it…”

“Any ideas?” Tybalt quietly asked Inger. “We can’t dig through all that before Apricot’s strength fails him. Or our air runs out.”

“I… I don’t…” Inger’s head was still fuzzy from the impact. He held it, breathing deeply in the smoke-choked air. “Let me think.”

They were left in the quiet, with only the sounds of Beatriz’s digging to rattle their nerves. Inger could already taste how dead the air had grown. They had maybe half an hour of oxygen left. Less, given how much Apricot and Beatriz were exerting themselves.

“There’s only one way out of here.” Cranberry’s voice cut through the stagnant air, drawing everyone’s attention. She walked forward, almost reluctantly. “Kaduat… I need to borrow your knife.”

With a hesitant nod, the camel withdrew her brother’s silvery blade and offered it, grip first. Cranberry eyed it for a moment, pausing. “Listen up, everyone. Locke came here to find a city. He and I traced it here from the echoes in a magic artifact beneath a tower in Equestria. Locke believed that it was a portal—a gateway—and he thought the other end of that gate lay somewhere below us.”

She took the knife, clenching it in her teeth and walking away to the back of the cave. “We have no supplies, and no one is coming for us. Now, our only hope of survival is to make it down there and activate one of those gateways.” She tilted her head, holding the gleaming knife aloft in the smoky hornlight and running her right hoof along the blade. “The only way out is through.”

With a swift slice, she drew the knife across her fetlock. Shocked, Inger croaked out a noise of protest, but she casually dragged the back of her hoof across the surface of the obsidian wall, just below the paint that read USURPER in elkish. As her blood smeared across the glass, the engravings beneath it instantly began to glow. The light was not red, as Inger half-expected, but a sickly, eerie green. The glow spread quickly, as the whole wall came to life. Antlers and flowers seemed to unfurl as they filled with light, curling and arcing in beautiful patterns across the surface.

As the light rose, racing through the grooves, Inger’s eyes followed it up. At the top, perched at the highest point above the engraved tree, the green lines began to trace out a familiar shape that sent a chill seeping down to his bones. With rapid precision, the bloodlines revealed a circle with eight identical, wavy rays of light extending from its center. Ice filled Inger’s belly as he stared up at Celestia’s unmistakable cutie mark, rendered in perfect detail upon a five-thousand year old relic.

Cranberry poked the wall with a hesitant hooftip, and the glass rippled beneath her touch like water. “Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than the rest of them. Turning her head, she nodded. “Come on. Wounded first. Inger, help Castor with his brother. Kaduat, you next.”

She stepped away from the glass, heading toward the camel. After returning the knife, she placed a gentle hoof on Beatriz’s back. The antelope’s digging had degenerated into weeping, punctuated by weak hoof blows against the wall of rock. “I’m sorry, Bea… we have to go.”

Inger walked over to the twins, anxiously aware of the quivering mass of earth hovering just a scant meter above all their heads. Together with Castor, he lifted Pollux onto his brother’s back. “So,” grunted Castor, eyeing the door with evident wariness. “How does this work…?”

Glancing at Kaduat, Inger remembered how she’d described her dream. Sinking into a vast black slab… “We just walk in,” he answered, exchanging a look with the camel. Kaduat slipped the knife into her jerkin, so focused on the door that she forgot to wipe Cranberry’s blood off it first. Inger bit his lip. “Come on.”

He turned to face the great glass wall, breathing deeply as he centered himself. He reached forward, pressing his hoof into the surface. The glass rippled as his hoof sank in, and he took a sharp breath as he felt a shocking coldness surround his skin. It felt like plunging his hoof into an ice bath, but the consistency wasn’t quite as thin and fluid as water. “Hold your breath,” he warned Castor, before pressing forward. He closed his eyes and sank into the obsidian. As it engulfed him, the shudder that wracked his body was not entirely from the chill.

In an instant, he was fully suspended. Gravity seemed to vanish, and he found himself floating in the void. The pressure of the strange substance around him kept his wings pressed to his sides, like freezing mud. His lungs began to protest, and he felt panic rising. Was he moving at all? It felt as if he was trapped in here, stuck like an insect in amber, drowning, just like in his dream, waiting for sand to come pouring into his nose and mouth and down his throat—

Suddenly his hoof broke through a surface, feeling the kiss of cool air. Then a suction took hold of his entire body, pulling him forward and out. His head emerged after his foreleg, and he gasped hungrily. The air was stale and saline, filling his nose with the salt-soaked stink of a long-abandoned subterrane. The rest of his body followed, as if being pulled from a sucking mire. Inger stumbled out into absolute darkness, a deeper black than even the cloudiest night on the surface. This was a place where light was alien, and sight was meaningless.

He took a few unsteady steps into the abyssal blackness, hearing his hoofsteps echo off the walls. Inger winced as his ears suddenly popped. We’re deep, he realized. Very deep. Dozens of meters down, if not hundreds. That door hadn’t been a simple barrier across the middle of a tunnel. Wherever he’d come out, it wasn’t a very large space, judging from the echoes.

Behind, he heard liquid ripple, and then a gasp for air. He wanted to help, but he couldn’t even see Castor’s hoof to grab and pull. The other pegasus managed without him, staggering out and breathing hoarsely. “Ack! Not a…” The mercenary leader was stricken by a coughing fit. “Not a pleasant way to travel,” he said, audibly wiping his mouth. “Lord Vallen, are you here?”

“Yes.” Inger lifted a hoof automatically before realizing neither of them could see it. “How’s your brother?”

“Still breathing,” said Castor, with suppressed worry. “Can’t tell anything else in this darkness.”

“I…” croaked another voice, “may be able to help you, there.” The gloom was suddenly pierced by a faint red light. As his eyes adjusted, Inger took in the chamber they now stood within. Another wall of glass, identical to the one above save for its darkened bloodlines, stood with forbidding stillness across the width of the space. Aside from that, the chamber was relatively featureless, just a tunnel of pale stone with stalagmites all around them and dripping stalactites hanging above. Opposite the door, multiple tunnels opened up, each stretching on into oblivion beyond the light.

Pollux, horn aglow, lifted his head weakly from Castor’s side. “Thank you, Cas.”

“Oh, Polly, I thought…” Castor closed his eyes, sighing with relief. He carried his brother over to the nearest stalagmite, helping him down to rest against it. “Can you walk?”

“I think so, but…” Pollux laid his head against the damp, lumpy rock. “Let’s just sit here for a moment.” His eyes fluttered closed, but his horn remained lit.

Suddenly the surface of the door rippled again, and a shaky Kaduat pulled herself through. The panicked way she yanked herself out of the wall belied her silence. With a thousand-yard stare, she walked as far away from the door as Pollux’s hornlight allowed, sitting down with her back to one of the stalagmites. She nervously stroked the handle of her brother’s knife, looking anywhere but the wall of glass.

The others followed in an irregular procession. Tybalt came next, followed by Zaeneas. Cranberry and Beatriz emerged together, the antelope clinging to Cranberry like a drowning mare holding on to a piece of driftwood. Cranberry helped her away from the door, over toward Zaeneas, who offered an awkward pat on the shoulder as the antelope sat beside her.

Cranberry adjusted her satchel, looking back up. Inger approached her, swallowing. “Apricot?”

“He had to stay behind to keep the ceiling up until the rest of us were through,” she explained, her mouth tight. “Pwyll said he’d pull him into into the door as he went, to get through before the rocks collapse.”

They watched the door together, as Inger’s heart beat painfully. A minute passed. Then another. “I should go back for him,” Inger said.

“He can do it,” Cranberry answered, quietly. “You wanted to give him the chance to learn—and he has.” Her chilly words softened with sadness. “Faster than a little colt should have to.”

The surface rippled. An antler poked through, and Inger’s breath caught. Then Pwyll’s head, followed by his shoulders, and then beside him a pink snout emerged from the liquefied obsidian. Inger nearly sank to the ground with gratitude as Apricot stepped out after the deer, coughing. “Junior!” he said, running up to greet his son. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Apricot said, sounding every bit as tired as he looked. Looking between his parents, his eyes sank, before passing to the side and suddenly brightening. “Pollux!” Apricot raced over to his teacher, who opened his eyes and beckoned his apprentice with a weak smile.

As Inger watched the two weary unicorns sit and exchange hushed words, he couldn’t help but see the dull resignation in his son’s face. The truth of Cranberry’s words sank in as he exhaled heavily. First Apricot Strudel, now Virgil and the twenty-four other mercenaries who’d fallen before the monster… his son had already seen more death before his fourth birthday than most ponies did in their whole lives.

Inger felt a piercing loss as he recalled his son’s pealing laughter on the last day they’d raced together to the bakery. That carefree young colt must still be in there, buried somewhere behind those grave blue eyes. Wondering how to bring him back out, Inger looked over at Cranberry, but his wife had already turned away.

“Come on, everyone,” she said, tiredly holding the glowing tóirse aloft. “We should get moving.”

Castor lifted his head. “My brother—”

“I’m okay, Cas,” said Pollux, standing stiffly. He took a deep breath and nodded to Cranberry.

“Which way do we go?” asked Tybalt, uncertainly eyeing the multitude of tunnels.

In reply, Cranberry pointed to one in the center-right of the far wall. In the blend of light from the tóirse and Pollux’s horn, Inger spied a pale chalk outline matching the one in the canyon above: the wide, downturned head of a fountain pen, whose gap widened into a keyhole.

Cranberry looked up at it with a weary smile. “Just follow the locks.”

20. Locke's Journey

6 October, 328 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12 October, 328 AC

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

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

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

14 October, 328 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A dead end?” asked Pollux.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom!”

“Cranberry!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if they’re poisonous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

24 October, 328 AC

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

Still. I told Hermia what it reminded me of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

25 October, 328 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am so close, now.

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

26 October, 328 AC

It’s real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pollux frowned thinly. “Are you so sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. That’s okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gems, perhaps?” ventured Tybalt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you holding up, Junior?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But do they still love each other?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pwyll?” Apricot blinked in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

21. Glass in the Garden

Cranberry looked ahead at the little bubble of rose light, bobbing in the dark on the path ahead. When Apricot had barged past them all on the verge of tears, every instinct had been to rush after him and comfort her son. But when she saw Inger, lingering at the back of the group with hollow eyes, everything suddenly clicked for her. Apricot must have been awake last night, after all. Which means he heard us fighting… She squeezed her eyes shut and cursed.

Going after him would only make things worse. Instead, she asked Pollux to try calming him down, but after the mage closed his eyes for a moment and his hornglow brightened, he frowned and shook his head. “He’s blocking me out,” he said, almost apologetically. “I think he wants to be alone.”

So, for a while, she gave him that. It went against every motherly bone in her body, but she stayed with the group and continued their march across the strangely curving lake path, allowing Apricot to walk alone. But her eyes never left the glow of her son’s horn.

Between the shouting match last night and now this, everyone now had to be aware of the conflict between her and Inger. Thankfully, none of them had offered her advice—or worse, sympathy. It was a double cruelty, to have her marriage self-destructing so publicly. All Inger had to do was swallow his damned stubborn pride and apologize, and she’d at least be willing to talk. But he seemed unable to make even that small overture. She at least had the petty satisfaction that he hadn’t spoken to Tybalt, either.

Eventually, just when the tension had grown almost too great for her to bear, Pwyll quietly whispered an offer to go check on her boy. Grateful, she’d nodded and silently wished him luck. Whatever he’d said to Apricot seemed to be working. The two were still talking, far enough ahead that their voices did not carry clearly over the water.

As Apricot and Pwyll reached the outer tip of yet another ray of the path, a wall suddenly loomed in her son’s hornlight. Cranberry perked up along with the others. A large double door was set in the stone—tall, but made of ordinary metal, not glass. “Finally,” grunted Tybalt. “I was beginning to think this place would never end.”

The two advance members waited for the rest of them. As the greater group caught up, Cranberry nervously peered at her son. He didn’t meet her gaze—or even look at her or Inger at all—and there was no smile on his face, but at least his eyes seemed to have dried. While the group took a short rest beside the door, stretching their limbs and cracking necks, she swallowed and approached Apricot. “Hey, honey… Do you want to—”

“How much longer ‘til we can go home?” he interrupted, sullenly staring at the floor.

She exhaled. “I’m not sure.”

He nibbled a hoof, looking about to say something, before he set the hoof down and shook his head. Still not looking at her, his eyes flicked anxiously across the lake. “Yeah. Okay.”

Cranberry jumped as a loud metal screeching filled the cavern. Castor, Kaduat, Tybalt, and Inger were hauling the two halves of the door open. From the sound of the shrieking hinges, it hadn’t been oiled in living memory. Yet Locke had been through here—waiting for them behind the doors was a tunnel with a descending staircase, and a small chalk sigil on the wall. Wooden planks, spaced at the width of a cart’s wheels, were fastened on the sides of the steps.

Apricot bolted past her toward the stairs. Before she could even call after him, he’d begun to trot down the steps, his horn casting pale rose light on the curving walls. The stairwell swerved left almost immediately, vanishing behind the smooth stone. Cranberry sighed again, shaking her head as she followed. The others fell in close behind. Their hooves rang off the stone steps as they descended.

The slope of the stairs was steep, but after the initial sharp turn, the leftward curve of the walls became so subtle that they almost seemed straight. Cranberry suspected they were descending along the outer perimeter of the lake chamber. Perhaps the water went deeper than she’d imagined, or another cavity lay beneath the star-lake. At least their course was clear for the moment.

She had totally lost track of time since entering the obsidian door. Had the sun yet risen above ground? She’d barely slept at all, and knew that the others couldn’t keep up this pace much longer than she could. Maybe Camp Moonstone lay at the bottom of these stairs. They seemed to stretch on forever. The minutes lengthened, filled with the cacophony of hooves in the narrow passage. Ahead, Apricot marched down the steps with his horn aglow and his gaze sunken to his hooves.

All three of the pegasi were growing visibly uncomfortable under the low ceiling and tight walls. When Cranberry caught Inger wiping sweat from the back of his neck, she tried not to feel like he deserved it. But even she was starting to feel claustrophobic as the stairs descended endlessly into the dark. The only way out is through, she reminded herself.

A faint, high-pitched sound suddenly echoed up from below. It was like a faint screeching, from far away. The noise of hooves ceased as every member of the group froze together. Cranberry’s head turned sharply and her eyes crossed a few alert faces before falling upon Beatriz, who stared down with absolute terror. I’m not the only one who recognizes that wail, she thought, her belly cold. It’s the same sound that creature made.

“It’s not dead,” whimpered Beatriz, fumbling at the stair behind her with a hoof. “It’s still following us!”

“That’s not—” Tybalt shook his head, distressed. “That blackpowder blew it up, and buried it in two tons of rock for good measure. There’s no way it could have—”

The keening sound pierced the tunnel again, but quieter this time. It faded slowly, leaving only the wary breathing of the group. They waited in silence for another call, but none came.

“It can’t be the same beast,” muttered Kaduat. “Even if it survived, it couldn’t have come through the door. And that sound is coming from ahead of us, not behind.”

“A shortcut, maybe. There must be more than one way down into these caves from the surface,” said Pollux, his tired eyes glinting in the hornlight. “But I don’t…” His forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I don’t sense it in the magic. If it is that thing, it’s far away.”

“So maybe you’re all just jumping at shadows,” said Castor gruffly. “We’re all tired. No one’s eaten or slept. Time we spend worrying is time wasted.” He sighed heavily. “Besides… it’s not as though we have much choice. Let’s move, while we know it’s safe.”

They resumed their course down the steps with renewed celerity. Everyone kept their ears craned for another wailing cry, but none rose. Now Cranberry found herself wiping sweat away.

She was almost startled when they finally reached the bottom. The stairs leveled out for a few meters before ending in a matching double door to the one above. This one was already ajar, the crack glowing with a pale blue-green light. The group pushed the doors open, revealing the chamber beyond.

It was another cave, not as high-ceilinged as the star-lake, but stretching far into the distance. And it was filled not with dead water but with life. Cranberry’s eyes grew wide as she took in an impossible, vibrant, underground jungle.

Towering mushrooms, with stems the size of tree trunks and caps large enough for several ponies to stand tip to tail upon, rose high above their heads with dangling tendrils. Other mushrooms, so varied in shape and size as to defy a counting, sprouted beneath them in an explosion of color. Mosses and lichens covered the stones like grass, with flower-shaped petals of shredded fungi scattered amongst them. Roots dangled from the ceiling, stretching down like grasping claws at the mushroom canopy below. Vines, or vine-like mycelia, stretched between the huge caps as if they were branches. The enormous mushrooms glowed from within like jellyfish, neon lines of blue and green melding together to fill the entire cave with an unearthly light that was neither day nor night.

The air was thick with moisture, as heavy as the rainforests of the Golden Isles, so dense that the cave seemed to have its own weather. Cranberry could feel a faint breath against her skin, and realized with amazement that there was a gentle underground breeze. The upper reaches of the cave were hazy with clouds of wet air, and flecks of moisture dripped onto her face like a light rain. Glowing spores drifted lazily through the air, reminding Cranberry of falling leaves.

A jungle beneath a lake beneath a forest, she thought, awestruck. The entire group gawked at the sight, stunned silent. A sudden series of clicks and screeches filled the air, and a group of small dark shapes flew overhead. Cranberry blinked, drawing back, and watched as the flock vanished into the strange foliage.

Kaduat breathed a sigh of relief. “Bats!” she said, laughing.

Everyone seemed drawn back to reality, some chuckling or giving sighs of relief. Beatriz was the only one still staring after the bats in wary distrust. Cranberry turned back to survey the underground jungle, shaking her head in amazement. “The garden,” she said, suddenly recalling the journal’s brief mention. “Locke called this place the garden.”

“You think all this formed naturally?” asked Kaduat, her voice filled with wonder.

“I don’t know,” said Cranberry, shrugging with delight. She loved not having all the answers. Nothing to make you feel alive like a mystery. “I don’t know anything about mycology or caves. But it’s gorgeous.”

Ahead, a stone path remained clear of the moss. Bumpy and plain, it ran on into the the depths of the jungle. Above the ground, at the start of the path, floated a glimmering shard. It was obsidian, yet within the black surface gleamed a rainbow of colors, like an oil slick made of glass. It slowly spun as if suspended by a plumbline from the ceiling, though Cranberry could spy nothing holding it up from above or below.

As the group crept forward, still taking in the sights, Zaeneas hesitantly lifted a hoof and tapped the shard. It quivered, and suddenly rang with a familiar piercing wail. Everyone clapped their ears and recoiled. The ringing slowly faded, as Castor gave the zebra alchemist an admonishing glare. “Sorry,” she said, dropping her hooves with a grin. “At least we know it wasn’t a monster making that sound.”

“Just don’t touch anything else, please,” said Castor, like an exasperated parent.

“You sure? I can only imagine the alchemical properties some of these plants must have. Do these even count as plants?” The zebra mare looked around hungrily at the towering mushrooms. “I’d give my stripes to harvest this place…”

“Let’s not linger,” said Tybalt, fiddling with his locket. “Take samples if you wish, but we must press on.” He stifled a yawn. “The camp can’t be far…”

They set off along the path. Cranberry spotted occasional signs of prior passage. The track of a cartwheel imprinted in the moss, or a piece of string caught and fluttering between the branching stems of a multi-capped mushroom. They found more of the floating shards, dangling just like the first above the path every few dozen meters, like mile markers. Cranberry, as perhaps the second-most knowledgeable pony alive regarding the works of the Elken Dominion, hadn’t the faintest clue what they were for.

More of those shrill, ringing shrieks rang out occasionally from ahead or behind. It was not until they’d been walking for twenty minutes through the winding forest path that they saw the cause in person. A glowing spore, drifting on the faint current of underground wind, crossed the path. It gently collided with one of the floating shards, and suddenly its blue-green light winked out. The shard glowed the same color, before whirling faster for a moment and emitting that keening cry.

After seeing the glass siphon the light from the spore, the group began to give the shards a wide berth. Cranberry’s hooves were starting to ache from the hard stone as they trudged onward beneath the mushroom caps. But it was Beatriz who eventually held up a hoof. “I can’t keep going,” the antelope rasped, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, everyone…” She took a deep breath, letting her hoof fall. “I need to sleep. Even for just an hour.”

Tybalt’s lips thinned impatiently, but after he met Cranberry’s stern eyes, he nodded.

“Okay,” said Cranberry. “Everyone, get comfortable. We’ll stop for an hour’s nap. Make it count.”

“At least we’ve got moss for bedding,” said Kaduat, yawning loudly as she lay on the dark and grassy-looking mat beside the path. “Better than bare stone.” The others were swift to toss down whatever bags they carried and join her. The group sheltered beneath one of the massive mushrooms, and after closing their eyes, it was not long before many began to snore. Even Inger, looking reluctant, leaned his back up against the mushroom’s column and let his head rest on his forelegs.

Cranberry kept an eye on Apricot, who was curled up and lying away from the rest of the group. She wished she could guard his dreams, but she was no immortal alicorn goddess. Rubbing her eyes, she instead sat down with her back to the mushroom’s stem. With a yawn, she pulled her satchel open and yanked out the journal. It was unlikely she’d find another opportunity to read this privately. She intended to make it count. Lifting the tóirse to cast its light over the book,she waited for Locke’s script to once more burn itself upon the pages.

29 October, 328 AC

I have had so little time to write these last few days, between the work and the excitement. But I must begin to catalog my thoughts before they slip from my grasp in the flood of new discoveries.

First, our architectural findings: at the bottom of the steps, we found what we’re calling the royal causeway. It features statuary more marvelous than anything in our museums. I have some theories about using them as a dating method that I want to run by Cranberry when we return to Canterlot, but it can wait. The causeway runs through a forest of aspen trees, all made of stone. They look so real that I keep expecting to hear the whisper of leaves, but their branches stand bare.

Bizarrely, the ‘forest’ floor is covered with what seem to be real leaves. Were they carted down here from the living forest above for ambiance? They’re so ancient that they crumble to dust at a touch. Every so often I feel like I can smell sap, or feel a fresh breeze on my face, but after a moment I realize such a thing is impossible. The artistry of these trees is that lifelike and stunning.

In the forest, we’ve found three strange, identical structures. They are spaced evenly around the massive central tree in a circle, each a perfect 120 degrees apart. Hobb broke out drafting tools and a length of string, and measured the angles. The structures are large obelisks, but curved toward the tree like flowers toward the sun.

Hobb has taken to calling them ‘pylons’, which seems appropriate enough. Their surfaces are stone, but I am certain there is another obsidian core within them. Standing beside them makes the glass shard in the pouch around my neck sing. I can feel it whispering with fierce joy at its return to the home of its twin.

The stonework is not smooth like the gates, but patterned like large bricks. The lines run orthogonally across its surface, breaking it into hundreds of irregular rectangles. Within each is elkish script, a dialect I recognize from my work with Cranberry as coming from the Late Dominion. I have scribbled a few samples here.

What followed were pages of rough sketches. Cranberry’s eyes widened as she scanned them, seeing familiar words. From these fragments she couldn’t discern much of the greater text, but she spotted lots of simple verbs. Turn. Push. Connect. Awaken. Sleep. Flow.

And Locke was correct—given the frequency of some of the unusual phonemes she could see in these carvings, she estimated they’d been written sometime between 35 AD-4039 AE. A time when the empire was so diminished that the modern calendar abandoned the label of Anno Dominium for that of Anno Equestrii. The last days of the Late Dominion, swallowed until now by a recordless dark age.

Any artifact from that period would be worth multiple papers by itself, and it was just part of Locke’s preliminaryfindings. She flipped eagerly ahead to the next entry, sinking into the pages as if entranced.

Cranberry would be able to give a more precise date, but my educated guess is that these runes were carved not long before the Dominion’s mysterious collapse. This could be the most recent site of theirs ever discovered, intact or otherwise. It might have been built right at the end! And I believe we’re the first living souls to set hoof here since its construction.

After our initial exploration of the forest, we approached the center. Ah, the grand tree. Such an impressive structure that I feel it should be rendered as a single word—grandtree. It is so large that the old earth pony myth of Yggdrasil comes to mind. Was this perhaps the seed of that legend? Or an elkish attempt to create a World-Tree of their own? Fortunately, this is not the mythical Tree of Many Leaves itself—we found no dragon gnawing the roots, nor a chattering squirrel to greet us.

It seems dead, now, to my unsurprised dismay, the wood long ago petrified. How it ever grew to such a size deep within this cave is a total mystery, but our passage into its hollow interior through the doorway at its base made it clear that it was indeed once a living plant. The wood grain is still visible in its stony walls. I even spied the tiny boreholes of termites or beetles in a few places. How did they grow such an immense thing without the light of the sun? A mystery I suspect we will not soon solve.

Our ascent to the top of the tree was eased by a functioning elken walkway, still powered by some unseen source of flickering magic. Walking on it is an experience I could only dream of as an undergraduate. Hermia found it most disconcerting, and I could not resist teasing her about it. For one who flies on a daily basis, she seemed almost scared of the height.

When we reached the top, it was revealed to be a vast depression, smooth and even on all sides. It slopes down like a wide drinking vessel, so perfectly carved from stone that I could find no seam. The structure appears to be a monolithic bowl carved from stone, but its most marvelous feature is the unnaturally smooth silver mirror that coats the entire interior. A thin layer of that crystal-clear obsidian protects it, shining my dark reflection back up at me from the curving side of the bowl. I can’t imagine the weight of the dish, nor how the elk got it up to the top of the tree, but the way the petrified wood grips tightly around the bottom and edges of it makes it seem as though the grandtree grew up around it.

At the northern edge of the bowl, a large flat platform extends, supported by the tree. Here stands a stone dais, part of the monolith, along with four carved circles. The dais has a small, round cavity, as if ready to receive something. Before it sits the first circle carved into the ground. Flowery patterns extend inward from the perimeter, which contains a shape I’ve been seeing everywhere of late—a pair of intricate antlers.

From the edge of that circle, three lines run outward toward the vertices of a triangle. At the end of each sits another circle, with the same flowery patterns, yet a different symbol lies at the heart of each. I admit, I feel a chill as I recall them. Familiar shapes, like the kind we put on foal’s toys: A five-petaled flower. A pair of outstretched wings. And a thin, spiraling horn. Why is an elkish relic, from thousands of years before Equestria’s unification and located far across the sea from our homeland, engraved with the sigils of the classical pony tribes?

There is more. Three great arches rise from the edges of the bowl, all equidistant from each other—and I suspect, though we have not confirmed it yet, matching the positions of the forest pylons. They meet in a small ring above the very center of the dish. The vast glass helices that coil around the tree all seem to point to this ring as well. It feels like the center of it everything. Not merely the tree, or this chamber, but the entire underground system we passed through to get here. Perhaps even the Elderwood above. The shard sings an answer, and I believe it: this is a place of power.

The six huge branches stretch out from the bowl in a rough hexagon. At the end of each lies a gate, just like the ones I found before. My shard vibrates when I touch them. To think, I’m finally here, at the center of the wheel. If this system was active, I could enter this stone arch and be home in Equestria with one step.

Unusual symbols are carved into the stone bark before each of them—locations, I’m certain of it. I recognize one: the same sign was carved on the floor of the secret chamber in Middengard.

Below Locke’s words was another sketch, of a familiar rune with a right-aligned column and three curving prongs extending left. Cranberry recalled the obsidian door and inhaled sharply. Home, she thought, memorizing the symbol. That’s the gate we need…

The gates are all inactive, like the rest of this place. I wonder if they were ever turned on at all, or if they were abandoned before construction could be completed. I may soon find out, for our greatest discovery was a true treasure trove of information. Hermia found it when she left Hobb and I atop the tree to explore the other chambers inside the grandtree. I had hoped she would find signs of long-term habitation, for thus far the city has seemed quite inhospitable, but she found something even better. A library!

Or something like one, at least. It is filled with scrolls and books, but they are all packaged tightly in slotted shelves. I dare not touch any until we return with preservative oils and Hobb’s mages can assist in opening them without damaging the fragile, ancient parchment. But there are less delicate writings here as well, carved on wax tablets that Hermia found neatly filed beside the other writings.

The desk at the center of the room suggests it was some kind of office. I spied numerous drafting tools on the desk, though we have not touched any of them or opened the drawers as yet. There is a rich rug beneath the furniture, covered with dust and delicate floral patterns. Clearly the occupant must have been wealthy and important, but the tools suggests a functionary, not royalty. I imagine this was the office of the chief architect or overseer for the construction of the city.

For now, I’ve satisfied myself with taking a number of the wax tablets that could fit into my bag. These should tide me over at Camp Moonstone while we wait for Zerrikess to build that lift.

We’re returning from the city tomorrow. But tonight, we celebrate! I plan to open that bottle of Marelot Tybalt sent with us when we departed from Canterlot. The same vintage he and I shared on our first meeting, all those years ago. I hope Hermia likes red wine.

Cranberry turned the page, and blinked. The next entry began with half a dozen crossed-out words, then a few scribbles, then more half-finished words struck through with scratches.

30 October, 328 AC

Things got out of hoof last night. But, Celestia forgive me, I don’t regret a moment of it.

During our little party around the campfire, Hobb passed on my offer of wine. He decided to take one more look at the pylons before our return to Moonstone in the morning. Hermia’s friend—Flavius, I think his name is, but oh, this headache makes it difficult to recall—went to accompany him, and left Hermia and I alone.

She is truly a remarkable griffon. I’ve never spent enough time with one before to realize just how beautiful those feathers can be, or admire the aquiline curve of her beak; and imagine my surprise at what gentle caresses those sharp talons can deliver. When she told me that in Grypha, it’s usually the boys who kiss the girls first, I was such a fool that I thought she was trying to start another talk about pony culture. Well, after another few drinks, she showed me my error, and we retired to the tent for some… further cultural exchange.

Goodness. I sound like a tittering undergraduate in love. Oh, but now I understand them better than I ever have! An old pony like me doesn’t deserve someone as beautiful and vivacious as Hermia. She may be twice my age, but with the long lifespans of the griffons it feels like starting a relationship with one of my students. Highly unprofessional of me.

But I don’t care. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, not even my closest of friends. Many back home would shun her for being a griffon. Her nation’s crimes have left deep scars on our people, it’s true; but I’ve studied the elk for long enough to know that even in the worst regimes, there are always good hearts, and Hermia is one of them. I haven’t yet asked what we’ll do when we’re done here on Elketh… a conversation that can wait until our studies are completed. For now, I think we’re both content simply to enjoy each other’s company.

To think, that the greatest discovery I’d make down here was with me the whole time.

Cranberry stopped, staring incredulously at the string of little hearts he’d drawn after the last sentence. A smile crept onto her face as laughter bubbled up. Oh, Locke…! she thought, beaming with amused delight. She’d never expected her solitary, bookish friend to find this sort of happiness. He’d always seemed married to his work. But it appeared there was someone who could melt his heart, after all. The teasing opportunities this opened up were irresistible.

Then her warm humor was instantly doused by the cold memory of a body lying in dark sand. A pang went through her chest. When we find him, I’ll have to tell him she’s dead, she thought. Her lip trembled. Swallowing, she began the next entry.

22 November, 328 AC

I haven’t written anything in weeks. I doubt I’ve even lifted my nose out of those tablets long enough to pen an entry. Hermia has to keep reminding me to eat. If it weren’t for her company, this dank cave would have driven me mad a month ago.

The lift construction is behind schedule. Getting the materials down all those twisting stairs is turning out to be a taller order than Zerrikess expected. Her new estimate for completion is in a week’s time, at the earliest. At least our food shipments have not been so delayed. Communication with Camp Whisperleaf and the world beyond remains steady, and Tybalt is keeping us well-fed.

I feel guilty for not updating him on our progress beyond a few scant confirmations that we’ve found an elken site and are preparing for further excavations. I am sure Hobb is sending his own reports, though I don’t know if he’s been any more detailed than I—he seems to spend all his time down below, along with the rest of his coterie of mages. Every five days, they come back up just long enough to resupply on food, before demanding the griffons fly them back to the platform in the pit. Then it’s back to the city to do… whatever it is they’re doing.

Hermia went with them last week, and said that they largely stood around one of the pylons, their horns glowing as they tried various magical probes. I could suggest trying blood, but frankly, with how uncommunicative that antelope has been, I’m willing to let him stew on it until the lift is completed.

I was relieved when Hermia returned to camp. Sharing our nights is a balm for the soul, but it’s also good to have someone I can talk to about my work and trust with my secrets. The tablets have not held the information I was hoping for—either about the city and its inhabitants, or about the workings of the strange device atop the grandtree—but what they do contain is invaluable, all the same.

They’re largely a record of timetables and progress reports concerning the construction of something called a solar siphon. Between the lists of material and endless sums of money, I have been able to glean a number of fascinating details. This place was built at the command of an elken king named Síoraí.

It was an ancient elkish word that meant eternal. Cranberry’s eyes widened. She’d never heard of such a figure. But those last years of the Dominion had such scant surviving text that it was possible he’d simply fallen through the cracks of history. And Locke’s tablets were the most primary of primary sources—directly written under this Síoraí’s rule. Was he one of the last elken kings? Perhaps the very last?

Síoraí’s reign was marked by something the tablets refer to only as ‘the Calamity’. This is the first direct mention of an empire-threatening event from this period that I’m aware of. The tablets are light on detail, as no doubt everyone involved in this project was already familiar with it, but I have enough for a rough theory. The Calamity appears to have spread across the Dominion from Ellánon itself. First carried to the other islands by ships, but then crossing the seas to reach even my homeland.

At first I thought it was a disease, perhaps a strain of the scarlet fever that hit Canterlot so harshly sixteen years ago, but one of the tablets regarding worker conditions contained a list of sicknesses present at the site, and none were even remotely fatal. If there were a deadly plague ravaging the entire empire, I expect quarantine procedures would be first and foremost on the overseer’s mind, yet he seems totally unconcerned by infection vectors.

Interestingly, the tablets made an offhand mention of requesting more workers be diverted from the lush wheat fields of Ellánon. Yet Elketh is an island notoriously devoid of arable land. Nothing save root vegetables and flowers has been grown here in recorded history. This always seemed unusual to me, but the forests themselves contain plenty of edible plants, so I thought little more of it.

But what if the verdant fields of the Emerald Isle were not always covered in wildflowers? A growing Dominion would require farmland. It makes sense that crops once grew here in abundance. The question then: where did they go?

The Calamity, I believe, was some sort of crop blight. Given these records of its transmission, I suspect it was a fungus, or perhaps a ravenous pest insect. It spread like wildfire through the farms of Elketh, and then consumed the other islands as well. The Dominion soon found itself starving at home, and became reliant on shipments of food from its far-reaching colonies on the Equestrian continent. When the Calamity reached those distant shores as well, the entire empire was thrown into a justified panic that their sole remaining breadbasket was in peril.

King Síoraí appears to have put forth some kind of solution, but from these records it feels like a desperate one. The entire wealth of the Dominion poured into this city, and the siphon within it. Construction had been ongoing for at least ten years by the writing of these tablets, and I am still uncertain whether it was ever finished. The author of the tablets praises the king as a hero, the savior of the Dominion, an almost holy figure who promises to bring the power of Elendriolanera herself under his control and use it to end the Calamity.

Hobb was right. This place was meant to steal sunlight.

With a hiss, Cranberry lifted her head. Suddenly she recalled the door, both the familiar cutie mark carved at its highest point, and the word splashed in red across the obsidian door. Taíonnan. Usurper. This elk had sought to claim what belonged to a goddess. Even the most deranged and power-hungry rulers of the Dominion had never attempted such a feat.

Cranberry didn’t consider herself a particularly religious pony. Having a personal relationship with the goddess behind all the veneration sometimes made it difficult to see Celestia as the divine being she truly was. The princess herself seemed to encourage those around her to treat her as merely a powerful, graceful pony; not the immortal incarnation of the sun itself.

But reading these words, Cranberry felt a stirring of pious fervor. Every tongue recognized her goddess’s power. She was the Sun Queen to the zebras; Lady of the Sun to the griffons; Elendriolanera to the elk. Even the dragons had a name for her: Solashemesh, a term uttered with both hatred and respect. Trying to usurp her went beyond crime. What this “Síoraí” had attempted was blasphemy.

Her thoughts were shattered by a distant, keening wail. Cranberry looked up in alarm, before realizing it must be another of those floating shards. She tried to relax, lifting the journal, and then she heard a rumbling series of clicks.

Her blood ran cold. It was the same sound she’d heard that lamprey-mouthed monster make, just before it attacked her son. She hastily stuffed the journal and tóirse back into her satchel. Twisting her head to and fro, she scanned the surrounding jungle for any sign of the glass monstrosity. All she saw were mushrooms and moss, glowing quietly in the humid cave air.

Cranberry waited a few minutes, still alert, before she sat back against the mushroom’s stem. Suddenly she was aware of just how long it had been since she’d properly slept. Even her grumbling stomach couldn’t jolt her enough to find the energy to lift her forelegs. She ought to take the journal back out and keep reading, but her eyelids felt like iron weights. Digging into the satchel, she brushed against the tóirse. Her fumbling hoof fell still as her chin slumped down onto her chest.

“Hey, Cranberry, you coming?”

She blinks, lowering her head. The rough stone steps stretch upward, snaking up the mountainside. High above, the remains of the castle still glitter in the bright moonlight. Thankfully, they aren’t making the full trek up there tonight.

* * *

A sob startled her awake. Cranberry sat up, rubbing her eye with a hoof. She felt somehow worse than she had before falling asleep. Everything was sore, and the phantom taste of wine lingered on her tongue. Hunching forward, she massaged her temples. Another sob drew her attention to the side.

Only one other member of the group was awake. Beatriz, her shoulders heaving, sat beside a large boulder, with her forelegs pressed against it and her head buried between them. Cranberry’s brow creased, as she shouldered her satchel and stood to approach her weeping friend.

The crying antelope didn’t react as Cranberry sat beside her, or even when she wrapped her foreleg around Bea’s shoulders to pull her into a hug. It was only when Cranberry whispered “Hey, Bea. I’m here,” that her friend flung herself into a desperate embrace with both forelegs.

“I can’t do this,” choked Beatriz, between sobs. “Not again. After Simone died, Virgil was the only… he was…”

Cranberry tightened the hug. “I know.”

“I don’t have anything to remember him by,” she cried plaintively. “Not even his fiddle. It b-burned up in the wild—in the wildf—” Her voice vanished into more gasping breaths.

“I know. And… I know it hurts even more the second time,” said Cranberry, resting her chin on Beatriz’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” The ghosts of Apricot Strudel and her father Strawberry seemed suddenly close.

She took a deep breath, squeezing Beatriz. “But—you can survive it, Bea. You will. In fact, you don’t have a choice.”

“I can’t,” the antelope cried, burying her face in Cranberry’s chest. “It—it hurts so much, I don’t—”

“Shh.” Cranberry patted her back. “Remember when you tried to cheer me up, back on the ship?”

Beatriz nodded, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Well, it didn’t work,” said Cranberry, with a sad laugh. “But I was so grateful that you tried. And since then, it has gotten easier.” Thinking about Papa, at least. “I guess you reminded me that… I don’t have to face it all alone.” She hugged Bea tight once more. “What I’m saying is, I’m here for you. Whether you want to talk about Virgil, or Simone, or birdwatching, or not talk at all. Whatever you need. Just remember that you aren’t alone.”

Looking up, she took a sharp breath. “Oh… Bea, look…” The antelope lifted her head, wiping away tears, and gasped.

The cave, it turned out, held more than mushrooms and mosses. Countless tiny insects had suddenly risen at some unseen signal of nature, clumsily buzzing through the humid air. They glowed like fireflies, but in a rainbow of colors. Blues and greens, reds and yellows, even bright violets and indigos all flashed in the air like hovering stars. Amidst the enormous fungi, they made the cavern sparkle like a sea of gemstones.

Beatriz watched them, her teary eyes shining, as her mouth quivered into a smile. “It’s lovely,” she whispered.

Together, they watched the glimmering jungle for a time. Even in the darkest reaches of the world, there is still beauty, Cranberry thought, and wondered if it was foolish to find that comforting. Beauty didn’t make them any safer. But as she took in the rainbow-flies, it felt that maybe all the heartache, all the tears, and all the trials could be, in the end, worthwhile.

Beatriz sniffled, wiping her snout. “I wish he could see it…” She sighed, bowing her head. “Thank you, Cranberry. You’re right about… about not having a choice. I can’t… I can’t fall apart. Not now.” Her next breath was deep and shaky. “Like you said. We just… go on.” The antelope turned her head askance. “I’m sorry about your friend Locke, too.”

Cranberry stiffened. “Locke?”

Beatriz gave her a knowing, sympathetic look. Cranberry felt shaken. On the ship, Beatriz had waved Cranberry’s doubts about his survival away. Had that confidence been so thoroughly stripped away? She couldn’t be saying what it sounded like she was saying.

“We haven’t found anything to confirm that Locke’s—” Cranberry looked away. “He’s still alive, Bea. I know it.”

Her colleague’s words leaped off the page with such lively energy, like he was sitting right beside her. Surely, if he were—if he was dead, then she would feel it, wouldn’t she? She hadn’t been able to save her father, or Papa, but she could still save Locke. She had to.

Beatriz bit her lip for a moment, but then she just closed her eyes and hugged Cranberry again.

* * *

Her grieving friend had fallen back asleep a little while ago. The allotted hour had surely passed, but Cranberry didn’t have the heart to force the group back into a march just yet. Instead, she flipped through more entries from the journal, scarcely absorbing Locke’s reports about his ongoing research and the expedition’s progress. She tried not to tell herself that she was searching for some proof that he was alive, that this rescue mission still had a chance to succeed.

The entries started to sound weary. Spending week after week without the light of the sun had begun to take its toll on Locke. He mentioned food losing its taste, and days losing their meaning. Hermia tried to convince him to take a break and go back to the surface for a few days, but he refused, staying down to study more of the tablets being brought up from below.

Cranberry recalled finding him pacing in the bottom of Middengard at three in the morning, muttering to himself. She sighed, frustrated. You always push yourself too hard, Pad.

Sometime near the end of November, two of the expedition’s team disappeared on a routine resupply from Whisperleaf to Moonstone. Locke feared that they’d taken a wrong turn in the caves, so he ordered the chalk signs all redrawn, as well as posted sentries at each major intersection of the cavern path to keep an eye out for them. The missing zebras had left Camp Whisperleaf with plenty of food and water, so hopes were still high that they’d retrace their steps and show back up before they were in danger of starvation.

She was stopped cold by the next entry, penned in an unsteady script. Several abortive attempts at a start were crossed through.

5 Deceb

5 Decem

Zerri

There was noth

5 December, 328 AC

Today we had our first death. While overseeing the final stages of the lift construction, Zerrikess stepped too far out onto the platform. A small rock broke away from the ceiling, hit her on the head, and

and it—

Sisters. I saw her tip over the edge. I was right there, talking to her, just a minute before it happened. My hooves are still shaking. Hermia dove after her, but she couldn’t—

I’ve tried writing a letter, for Tybalt to pass on to Zerri’s family, wherever they might be, but I keep crumpling them up and throwing them away. It feels like it’s my fault. I was pushing her too hard, being too demanding about finishing the lift. I know she felt guilty about it taking so long, but she wasn’t really to blame—it’s a miracle she managed to get all that lumber down here in the first place.

I can’t stop thinking about the argument we had right before she fell. Hermia’s been trying to comfort me, saying it was just an accident, that no one’s to blame; but if I’d just been more patient, if I hadn’t yelled at her, then maybe Zerri would still be

A few torn out pages followed. With leaden hooves, Cranberry turned to the next.

8 December, 328 AC

The lift is complete. None of us found any joy in the occasion. I had originally planned a little celebration, but instead found myself holding a memorial service. I tried not to feel like a hypocrite as I praised Zerri’s dedication and hard work. Hermia and Mistral recovered her body yesterday, and it now travels back up through the caves to return home, with my pitiful letter. I doubt her family will be comforted to know she died in service of a academic cause, no matter how important.

I took the inaugural descent on the platform with our geologist Smoky Quartz and a few others—including Hermia—today. Mistral and Borras preferred to swiftly fly down. I suppose the pegasi are wary of spending too much time beneath the brittle stalactites over the pit after what happened to Zerrikess.

Hobb met us at the bottom, to my surprise. On our way to the city, he brought me up to speed on his team’s progress. He says the mages have discovered that the pylons can be configured into multiple formats. Furthermore, the machine they’re a part of runs up the entire length of the grandtree, and perhaps even further. It’s clear that this ‘solar siphon’ was not built here in the city—the city, rather, was built around the siphon.

A troubling development. I had imagined the gate network to be a transportation hub, but if it was tied so closely to this device then perhaps that was not its function after all.

As we reached the stone forest, Hobb parted from us to return to the pylons with his fellows. Before he left, he told us all to keep a weather eye out for any small glass artifacts. The antelopes believe there is a component missing from the machine, a sort of key required to activate it. I sternly asked what he needed such a thing for, but he laughed at my evident concern. He explained that it could expose the whole inner workings of the machine to them, much like the whispers of my shards had led us to the central nexus of the gate network.

Once we reached the royal causeway, Mr. Quartz quickly set to work on the stone aspen statues. After examining the trunks for a few minutes, he told me he had suspicions about them, but refused to speculate aloud until he could chisel out some samples. I’ve left him to it. That earth pony is good at his job, and unlike Hobb, he keeps me informed. The pegasi, along with one of Hobb’s mages, are heading to the overseer’s office to try removing some of the delicate scrolls there.

Hermia and I returned to the top of the grandtree to study it further. That great mirrored dish continues to baffle me. I wonder if it was meant to be an artificial pond, perhaps filled with fish; the mirror would reflect them to create an infinite lagoon beneath. Yet something about it feels more functional than decorative. On a hunch, Hermia suggested we measure the curve, and she was right—it’s perfectly parabolic.

Suddenly, this whole structure reminds me of the Gazellican Institute Observatory’s immense reflector telescope that I saw when I last visited Dr. Duiker in the Antellucían capital. This is far larger, but I’m not certain what good a telescope would do anyone underground. The ring where the three arms meet above the dish is where the smaller reflector would sit, to divert light to an eyepiece. But the ring is empty. It would be quite a fall if one were to tumble through it, almost twelve meters. I have been keeping to the edges of the bowl, which seem safer.

Nothing further to report yet, save for personal matters. Hermia, bless her, brought me a flower back from her trip to the surface last week. It was delicious, a welcome reminder that life still goes on, green and golden, high above our heads. It’s easy to forget that, sometimes, down here in the dark with only the whispers in the glass for company.

12 December, 328 AC

My clumsiness has led to another discovery. Were Cranberry here, she’d chide me for my lack of care with that exasperated eyebrow of hers. When I tripped and fell into the reflecting basin, I could have been seriously injured, or worse, damaged the mirror. Fortunately, I managed to tuck in and roll until I came to rest at the bottom. An impressively spry feat for a pony of my age, if I do say so myself, though there was no one to witness it. Hermia is still off getting lunch to bring back up for us to share.

I won’t escape this bowl without her help, so while I wait for her return, I did some exploring. The smooth mirrored surface seems completely perfect, so precise and even that it had to have been ground down with magic. But at the lowest point, hidden in the shadows of the arms above, I found something new.

A small glass sphere, covered in graven whorls—bloodlines, I have no doubt—rested in the center of the great bowl. It must have rolled down here eons ago, dropped by some elk in a hurry or panic. Why had they not come down to retrieve it?

I tried to reach into it with my magic, but felt the familiar slipping sensation of my energy being swallowed by dark glass. The last year has given me a great deal of practice in dealing with such devices. I didn’t even hesitate as I pulled the shard from my pouch and made a fresh cut on my fetlock.

With a drop of my blood spread upon it, the sphere sprang to life. The inside began to glow vibrantly with the light of my own horn. A million tiny stars lit within it, and I gasped. It’s an intact tóirse! And I suspect more than just that—I can put two and two together. I can’t see the dais, with its spherical cavity, over the edge of the dish, but I know this device would fit perfectly into it. No doubt I have discovered Hobb’s ‘key’.

While I do believe that he could use it to map the machine’s inner workings—the shard whispers as much to me—I don’t trust his motivations in doing so. For now, I think I shall hold on to it. It will be safe in my saddlebag while we continue our explorations of the ruin. There’s no need to inform Tybalt of it, either.

Ah. I hear familiar wingbeats. I hope Hermia doesn’t scold me too badly for trapping myself down here.

Cranberry set the book down, and cupped both hooves under the tóirse. She regarded the gently spinning galaxy within it with new wariness. So, he put more than just light into this, she thought, recalling the thicket of scars on Locke’s foreleg.

She’d counted new ones appearing on his skin, even after they’d returned from Middengard, and voiced her concerns more than once. But after the day when he’d snapped at her that it was nothing to worry about, she’d stopped bringing it up. He’d become so cavalier about spilling his blood to work the ancient artifacts… Cranberry had wondered if she was watching an accelerated demonstration of how the Dominion’s elk had become inured to the cost of their creations.

And maybe his attitude had infected her more than she’d realized. Nervously, her eyes traveled from the tóirse to the thin red line on her own fetlock. She hadn’t thought twice before making that cut. There’d been no time to argue with anyone about it, especially Inger, and it hadn’t even hurt that much, but… she recalled how right it had felt when she’d smeared her blood on that dark surface, and felt the cold tingle of magic in her foreleg. Cranberry shuddered.

She wished Locke was here in body, not merely in words. Together, she knew they could tease out the answers they both wanted about this siphon device, and the Calamity, and whatever King Síoraí’s intentions had been.

But he wasn’t, and if she was going to have a shot at figuring out how to work this gate network to get everyone home, then she needed to bring at least one of her allies up to speed. Preferably without Tybalt overhearing. Apricot was too young, Beatriz too lost in grief, and the loyalties of Kaduat, Zaeneas, and the twins were not entirely certain. Her usual confidant was someone she couldn’t even stand to look at right now. That left Pwyll.

Cranberry gently shook the deer awake. “Hwuh…?” he mumbled, blinking as he lifted his head. “Time to go?” He groaned.

“Shh, Pwyll. Not yet. I need to talk to you.”

“Of course, Prof—” he yawned, covering his mouth. “Professor.”

Whispering, she told him about the journal. Pwyll’s eyes widened as she described the city Locke had found below, along with what he’d learned from the tablets about Síoraí and the Calamity. “Does any of it sound familiar?” she asked. “The pylons, or the tree? Did Ciaran teach you anything that might help us work the gates?”

Pwyll shook his head, scratching an antler. “I’ve never heard of anything like it before. It sounds incredible, though…”

Disappointed, Cranberry sighed. “I guess we’ll have to figure it out as we go.”

“I’ll help however I can,” Pwyll promised. “I’m sure between the two of us and Pollux, we can get the gate working long enough to escape.”

“Did someone say my name?” came a yawning question from behind her. Cranberry stiffened, turning to see Pollux rubbing his eyes. “I suppose that means we’re moving again.”

“Uh… yes,” she said, wondering suspiciously how long he’d been up. How much did he hear? Will he tell his employer?

Suddenly, the wariness fled, and her shoulders sagged. You’re being paranoid, she thought, closing her aching eyes for a moment. Was it the fight with Inger that had her feeling so frayed and distrustful, or the insomnia? Pwyll is right, anyway. We’ll need his aid with the gates. “Can you two help me wake the others, please?”

The three of them roused the rest of the group, who all looked as if the short nap had done little to ease their exhaustion. Beatriz was the only one who seemed improved, giving Cranberry a grateful nod as she helped her stand. After a few minutes to shake off sleep and gather their things, the group resumed their course through the mushroom jungle.

After another twenty minutes or so, a huge pillar of stone—slightly hourglass, as if a stalagmite and stalactite had met and merged, but far too thick for that—loomed out of the fungi ahead of them. At its base was another massive door, this one yet again different than all the previous ones. It was made not of metal or glass, but stone; a huge rectangular slab of it covered in more swirling patterns. The shapes were not abstract antlers or flowers this time, but dozens and dozens of little elk, all raising their forehooves in reverence. Above, a sun with eight wavy rays hung carved at the door’s highest point, and within the solar circle, another elk stood lifting his hooves above the throng below.

Síoraí the Sun King, Cranberry thought, gazing at the last lord of the Dominion.

“How do we…” Kaduat ran her foot across the stone, pausing as she passed another chalk keyhole cutie mark. “I don’t see a crack to open it.”

“See those?” Tybalt pointed to each side of the rectangle, where large metal rails stretched above. “I think it slides up.”

Kaduat gave an incredulous snort. “This has to weigh at least two tons. There’s no way we can—”

Pollux cleared his throat, lighting his horn. The camel rolled her eyes, sighing. “Show-off.”

“As much as it wounds my pride,” Pollux replied dryly, as his crimson aura slowly wrapped around the stone, “I don’t think I have the energy to do this by myself. Apricot, Beatriz, can you help?”

Apricot didn’t show his usual enthusiasm at being included, huffing as he lit his horn along with the others and closed his eyes. Pwyll watched the three other magic-users in frustration, giving his dark, velvety antlers a helpless scratch. There was a great rumbling of grinding stone as the door slowly lifted. Beyond was another stairway, just like the one before. It, too, curved sharply to the left and down.

Cranberry and the others hurried through, and the three holding open the door made a slower crossing. They let the door slide back down behind them, sealing off the light of the glowing fungi and leaving only the mixed glow of their horns.

“Good thing we took that break,” grumbled Zaeneas, as they set off down the steps. “If these turn out as long as the last stairs, we’d all have fallen asleep and tumbled before we got halfway down.”

Cranberry rubbed her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t prove that prediction a prophecy.

22. Somnolon

As the group descended, the temperature rose. It was no humid heat, like in the mushroom jungle; Inger felt as though they were slowly walking into an open oven. By the time they reached the bottom, his mane was sodden with sweat. Cranberry looked even worse off, peeling golden curls back off her face.

He wasn’t sure what to say to her. After Apricot had fled from him, it was clear that this fight between him and Cranberry was starting to tear his family apart. But every time he worked up the nerve to talk to her, the dragon reminded him, she doesn’t have a horn.

What if his father was right? Inger recalled Windstreak’s pestering, her frustration that Rye and Tyria hadn’t gotten around to having children yet. Perhaps there was more to it than a busy professional life. If it was true, if Rye and Cranberry really had been…

She’d seemed righteously enraged at the accusation of an affair, but Inger had lost all faith in his own ability to read her. With the dragon squeezing around his neck, he found himself poring over every memory of his wife and his friend, searching for hints of anything more than the foster-sibling relationship they’d professed to share.

A look here, a lingering hug there, those gifts the ambassador always bought for her on his trips abroad… not only for Cranberry, true, but the mementos for everyone else could simply be to cover his tracks. When Rye and Tyria offered to watch the kids, was Inger’s friend really just seizing the chance to spend time with a young unicorn colt he couldn’t openly dote upon?

Sweat ran down Inger’s snout as his hooves clopped on the stone stairs. The feverish thoughts whirling in his head would be enough to drive anyone mad. During his brief sleep beneath the mushroom caps, he’d revisited a long-forgotten memory from a night together in Sleipnord.

They’d grown close by that point on their journey, but neither had yet shared their attraction aloud. He and Cranberry had cozied up beside the fire and talked for hours. It was the first time she told him about her parents. He thought she’d come close to giving him a tentative kiss, before Rye had arrived and interrupted them with a suspiciously loud sneeze.

At the time, Inger had just been embarrassed, but now he burned with paranoid reflection. Just how long had Rye been watching them from behind that tent? Was that intrusion an attempt to stop their burgeoning relationship?

This is crazy, he told himself for the hundredth time. I would have noticed before now if she was sleeping with someone else. And Rye loves Tyria.

A pony can have more than one love, came the dragon’s unwelcome reminder. And Apricot was born before Tyria even entered the picture.

Inger wished he’d taken Kaduat’s offer of rum. Right now, all he longed for was to drink himself into oblivion and escape the dreams and the dragon for even an hour. Glancing down the stairs at the camel, he shook his head. Kaduat clearly wasn’t taking sobriety well, either. She hadn’t smiled once since their talk beside the fire.

They reached the bottom of the stairs to find another giant block of stone on rails. “You know the drill,” said Pollux, as the three spellcasters united their auras around it. The door shuddered upwards, and a blazing orange light spilled from the crack below. A wash of shimmering air, even drier and hotter than the stairwell’s, rushed up over the group. Inger squinted as the door ascended, feeling his eyes tear up in the harsh glow.

The intense light within was blinding, forcing him to shield his eyes with a raised foreleg. He stepped under the door after Cranberry and Kaduat, instantly wilting in the heat as they entered the next chamber. It was as hot as the deserts south of Equestria, a place Inger had only visited once during the final days of the war. But the heat baking the sweat from his skin was not the sun’s.

The chamber was a long channel, not a dome. It ran across their path in either direction for a great distance, though it was not that far to the opposite side. The ceiling, high enough that individual stalactites were impossible to make out, arced over to the other wall about two hundred meters away. But the crossing was barred by the thing filling the length of the cavern. As Inger’s eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that he was standing on the bank of a dark river.

Black, glossy obsidian seemed caught mid-flow across the center of the cave. He could see ripples, waves, the gentle rush of a current, all frozen in the surface of the dark glass. Countless lumpy shapes dotted the blackness, some kind of mineral impurity backlit by the glow from beneath. Below, shining up through the translucent glass, was the source of the orange light that flooded the cavern: a moving river of molten glass beneath the cooling obsidian crust. Inger could see it slowly flowing beneath the surface, oozing forward as it carried chunks of half-solidified glass that caused the refracting light to dance on the walls.

Far to the left, at least a kilometer away down the endless cavern, the cave suddenly rose in a cliff. A titanic, obsidian-encrusted waterfall descended from it, the glowing magmatic glass drooling down below its black surface. Blobs and arcing jets of solidified glass surrounded the waterfall’s impact, as if it had been frozen mid-splash. To the right, the river curved until it vanished behind the walls of the arcing cavern. It was impossible to say how far it extended in either direction.

Inger blinked, his pinprick pupils picking up more details. From the surface of the river, between the gentle crests of frozen waves, rose hundreds of spiky extrusions. The spindly glass spires stretched up, branching again and again as they ascended, looking for all the world like the antler-crowned aspen trees of the burned forest after the wildfire. He revised his counting of their number up and up as he looked across the length of the river. There had to be thousands of them, an entire glass forest growing out of an obsidian stream. The air stank of sulfur.

Nothing about this cave could possibly be natural, but he saw no design in it. It looked for all the world like this immense river of glass had simply formed on its own, running down into the cave and sprouting those dead trees like a perverse law of physics. That kind of magic leaves echoes, Cranberry had told him. It wasn’t just the heat that left his mouth dry.

“Oh, gods,” whispered Kaduat. “Look at them all.”

Inger’s eyes sharpened, and he peered more closely at the strange, lumpy shapes suspended within the glass. His breath sucked in as he recognized them at last.

Bodies. Hundreds upon hundreds of bodies, all trapped like insects in amber. The ones close enough to discern in detail were mostly elk, but he saw ponies, zebras, griffons, even a yak… They were up inside the extruding tree-spires, too, so well-preserved within the clear, dark glass that they looked for all the world like they were still alive.

Instantly, Inger recalled a rainy night long ago on the streets of Canterlot, spent huddled together with his mother behind the cobbler’s shop, taking shelter from the freezing rain beneath that wide roof. Pomegranate had soothed her shivering, wet colt by telling him old pegasus stories, of gods and monsters and heroes journeying to the underworld and back. Many no longer believed those myths, and Inger had counted himself among them, but this…

Castor took a step back from the black shores. “Kóree, show mercy on those in your care,” the pegasus whispered in fervent prayer. He gazed with the others at the entombed bodies, making a swift hoof motion as if placing coins upon his eyes; an old gesture to wish safe passage to departed souls.

Even Tybalt looked nervous. “Locke had mentioned a r… riv…” His voice trailed off.

“There’s a door,” said Cranberry, subdued. “See it? On the other side? Another stone block.” She pointed through the spiky forest. Inger followed her hoof, spotting her target. It was almost directly across the river from them, through two hundred meters of frozen forest and slumbering corpses. “Let’s get moving.”

“Wait,” said Castor, licking his lips in the heat. “Maybe we should take a minute to…”

“Locke’s group made it across, pulling heavy carts,” said Cranberry forcefully. “We can, too.”

“I don’t think this is wise,” he said, his eyes darting across the bodies trapped in glass. “We should find another way. Maybe there’s another passage back up by those mushrooms—”

Startlingly, it was Beatriz who spoke. “Come on, Castor,” she said. “I’ve been with Katabasis almost from the start. We’ve walked through a dozen hells together, you and I. Alastria. Southlund. Whitetail.” She paused, looking at the river. “Simone. And now Vergil…” With a deep breath, she nodded. “We’ll get through this one, too.” She offered a hoof and a weary smile. “We don’t have a choice.” Her eyes flashed toward Cranberry.

After a moment’s contemplation, Castor took her hoof and shook it, swallowing. “You’re right.”

She nodded, and gently led him toward the river. Castor inhaled slowly. “You know, I’ve never thanked you enough, Bea. For being with us through it all.” He exhaled. “I’m sorry about Virgil,” he said quietly.

“Look!” called Zaeneas, from the edge of the river. The zebra pointed up at the nearest spire. “Another chalk marking!”

Castor slowly sighed, and then stepped past the others to make his way toward the edge of the glass. “The professor is right. If Locke’s team got carts of food and lumber across this, it must be thick enough to hold our weight. But I’ll still feel safer if we go spread out, in single file.”

“Same,” said Kaduat, nervously eyeing the river’s surface. It was hard to tell how thick the crust was—at least a meter or two—but the flow of molten glass beneath it felt threateningly close.

“And we’ll put a pegasus at the front, center, and rear of the column, in case anyone breaks through the surface. Count Vallen—”

“I’d best take the rear,” said Tybalt.

“Agreed,” said Castor. “And I’ll take point. Dragonslayer, if you’ll handle the center…” Inger gave him a nod. “Good. Everyone: stay calm, stay together, and we’ll make it through.”

The group began the crossing without further preamble. Castor was the first to set his hoof on the river, unable to resist holding his breath. When the hard obsidian remained unyielding beneath his touch, he set off after the chalk markings with Pwyll following close behind. Pollux and Apricot came after, then Cranberry, followed by Inger, with Kaduat and Beatriz behind them. Zaeneas and Tybalt fell in at the rear.

The glass beneath Inger’s hooves was hot. He suspected that laying against it for long enough would burn skin, but the glowing river below the crust seemed buried deep enough to let them pass safely so long as they were quick. It was hard not to look at the faces of those trapped beneath. They all had their eyes closed, as if peacefully asleep, but Inger could see pain and terror in many of their faces. Some, closer to the surface, were still clothed, in garb bearing insignias he didn’t recognize. They could have been trapped in there thousands of years ago, he thought, swallowing. The nations those sigils represented might have long since faded away into history.

The ones deeper in wore nothing, elk and non-elk alike. Some were so far down that they touched the molten glass. Any part of their bodies exposed to it had been burned away, leaving only bones. Inger felt a chill despite the heat. How long did it take a body to sink down through the endlessly melting and cooling crust of the river? Bones beneath obsidian, he thought. Just like the grave-glass. Was this the birthplace of that jagged monstrosity?

“Ah!” Tybalt gave a cry of sudden alarm, causing everyone to stop. The count pointed at a body beneath his hooves. “It’s—I recognize him!”

Inger’s eyes creased with worry. “Father, you’re tired…”

“No!” said Tybalt, shaking his head but not breaking his eyes away from the antelope imprisoned within the obsidian. “It’s, uh, it’s…” his voice shook. “I think his name was… A-Alonzo. He’s one of the mages Hobb brought with him on the expedition. See? He has that pendant they all wore.”

Inger peered into the glass, noting the antelope’s ruddy brown robes and the small pendant his father had pointed out. It hung suspended in the glass as though floating gently in water. The antelope was very close to the surface, only centimeters below it. It looked for all the world like he’d just fallen in, as if Inger could reach a hoof down and pull him back out…

“If that’s one of Locke’s people…” muttered Kaduat, not finishing the thought. She didn’t have to. Inger looked around, suddenly wondering if the rest were likewise entombed beneath this river.

Tybalt, eyes wide with horror, cast his gaze around. “There’s another,” he whispered, pointing to a zebra about three meters ahead. “Zerrikess. Locke said she perished in an accident. I think it’s her, anyway… I always had trouble telling them apart, with the stripes…”

“There’s nothing we can do for them now. Let’s not linger,” said Castor, jerking his foreleg forward. The column resumed its course across the river, hurrying their pace.

As they settled into line again, Inger caught Cranberry muttering to herself under her breath ahead of him. “Doesn’t make sense…”

His gait sped to a light trot as he pulled up beside her. “What doesn’t?” he asked, whispering.

She glanced up at him, hard and wary, but she didn’t pull away. Cranberry looked down as they passed over another body, biting her lip in thought. “Locke said they made it across this river without incident. I think if anyone had been somehow trapped in the glass, he’d have mentioned it.” Her eyes flicked anxiously across every floating pony they passed.

Searching for her friend, Inger realized grimly. “He talked about this in his reports?”

“Barely. He mentioned a river, but didn’t give any details. Not even in his—” Tight-lipped, her words suddenly cut off.

In his journal, Inger thought, realizing with a flash why she’d been staring at that blank book at every opportunity. “You figured it out,” he said, more a statement than a question.

Cranberry nodded reluctantly. “The tóirse’s light reveals his words,” she explained, hushed. “But please, Inger. Don’t tell your father. Locke hid it from him for good reason.”

Of course. It always came back to Tybalt. The dragon puffed smoke, squinting at Cranberry. She hates him for telling you the truth you were too afraid to confront.

Inger bit back an irritated snarl. “What reason?”

“He…” Cranberry sighed, looking almost relieved to talk about it. Her voice low, she leaned closer. “Locke thinks the gate network is part of an elken machine called a solar siphon, at the center of the city below.I don’t know what exactly it does, but my friend believes the elk tried to tap into Celestia’s power to end some kind of famine.”

“So why keep that a secret? My father funded his expeditions, maybe he’s got answers—”

“No!” Cranberry looked panicked. “Inger, Locke wrote KEEP AWAY FROM VALLEN, all capitals,right beside instructions for Hermia to get the book and tóirse to me. He thought—he was worried that your father might misuse whatever he found.”

“Misuse how? We don’t even know what this thing is, or how it works.”

“Inger, if they were trying to steal the power of a goddess, who knows what Tybalt could use it for? A weapon, or a way to blackmail Celestia—” Cranberry drew a sharp breath. “What if he’s trying to become a god himself?”

“That’s crazy.” Inger shook his head. “If you’d ever even tried to talk to him, you’d know that’s the last thing he’d ever want.”

“I did try,” she said with sudden vehemence, looking hurt. “And he accused me of betraying you. The same way he betrayed his wife.” She turned away. “At least I know who put that idea in your head.”

“Damn it, Cranberry,” Inger growled. “I find out you’ve been hiding secrets and lying to me for years—what am I supposed to think?”

“We all have secrets.” Her frown was cold. “And I never lied.”

“No?” he asked, bitterly. “So you weren’t going to tell me in the tent that night, after I told you my own dreams?” Cranberry’s eyes widened. Inger’s scowl was accusing. “But you didn’t. Lies of omission are still lies.”

Her frown softened, and she looked away. “You’re right,” she admitted, “I’m not blameless in all this. But you keep being so, so—” Frustrated, she exhaled. “I’m fed up with it, Inger! I’ve told you the truth over and over, but I don’t know how to make you believe me. All your worries about me, about us, about Apricot—the more you act as if they’re true, the more you make them true.”

Shaking her head, Cranberry clenched her teeth. “And if you don’t wake up, quit being so pig-headed, and stop letting your insecurities control you, you’re going to ruin it all for real.” Her eyes held buried pain. “And I’ll lose you forever.”

Insecurities? snarled the dragon, incredulous. “I can’t believe you’re trying to make this about me,” said Inger furiously, his voice rising. “You’re the one who—”

“Stop it, Inger!” Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. “Please! I’ll beg if I have to. Just—please, come back to me.” Choking, Cranberry suddenly broke into a light canter, returning to her place a few meters ahead of him in single file.

Good going, Hero, he thought despondently. You made her cry again.

She deserves it, the dragon hissed, angrily squeezing around his throat. And worse. You should hurt her the way she’s hurt you. See how she likes it.

Inger tried to ignore that niggling suggestion, bowing his head beneath the towering glass spires as he trudged after her.

* * *

In the dark reflections of the glossy black spires, Apricot watched the scene behind him as his mother split away from his father in tears. He was so distracted that he bumped into Pollux when the chalk marks led the group into a sudden turn.

“Easy, there,” said the mage, gently correcting his course. “Keep your eyes forward, Apricot.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Pollux sighed heavily. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, I… I wasn’t watching—”

“I meant that,” said Pollux, jerking his head back toward Apricot’s parents. “It’s not your fault.”

Suddenly, the fear and sadness were back with renewed weight, just as overwhelming as before. Apricot bit his lip. “How do you know?” he asked desperately. “What if it is? What if they—”

“Shh. Listen to me.” Pollux tipped Apricot’s chin up to soberly meet his eyes. “It’s not your fault,” he repeated, with another sigh. “I’ve overhead them a few times. What’s going on between those two isn’t because of you.”

Apricot’s heart lightened by an infinitesimal sliver. “Really?” Then more crushing worry descended. “Then… what’s…”

“It’s not my place to say,” Pollux apologized. “They’re going to have to work it out themselves. Just know that it’s nothing you did, or didn’t do.”

That knowledge should have made him feel better, but now things seemed even more dire. How could Apricot begin to understand, to fix the problem, to find any hope at all if no one would even tell him what was wrong? He took a shuddering breath, falling back in behind Pollux.

Their hooves clunked across the frozen river as the group wound back and forth through the clusters of spires. Apricot stared at the bodies around him with morbid curiosity. Some of them were species he’d never even seen before. He wondered how they’d wound up inside the glass, and just how long they’d been there, floating like that.

As they wound back and forth across the river, following the chalk markings, they passed a particularly thick glass spire. Apricot’s eyes traveled up, following the dozens of glassy tines that branched from its higher reaches. Inside the trunk, just a head’s height or two above him, rested an elk with the most marvelous antlers that Apricot had ever seen. They matched the spire’s tines, splitting and curling back in magnificent arcs above the elk’s head.

Apricot leaned in close, holding his breath. The dark glass was clear enough for him to see the individual tufts of the elk’s fur. And those fully-grown antlers, so different than Pwyll’s… They weren’t covered in soft velvet. They looked more like bone, but darker. Where Pwyll’s antlers ended in round bumps, these tips were sharp and pointed. Apricot wondered what it felt like, to use magic with such a complex horn.

Half-consciously, he reached forward into the song. There was no music beneath the surface of the glass or within the elk, but he could trace out the pattern of its antlers. Spellsinging with those must be like voicing a whole choir by yourself, he thought, pressing a hoof to the surface of the glass.

A single chord, harsh and flat, burned in his horn. Beneath the glass, the elk’s eyes opened, staring into Apricot’s.

He yelped, leaping back. Ahead, Pollux whirled around. “Apricot, what did you—”

A tremendous cracking sound rent the air. Everyone froze, staring at the glass spire. A huge, thin line stretched up from the base, widening with another crack.

“Oh, gods,” whispered Castor.

The surface of the glass tree suddenly turned white as another sharp crack burst across it, fracturing into a million reflections. The base let out a huge, grinding crunch and snapped clean through. The entire spire began to tilt toward him.

“Run!” roared Pollux. “RUN!”

* * *

Time froze around Cranberry as she watched the spire topple. Apricot’s name formed on her lips, and her throat burned, but her scream seemed caught in her throat like tar. The spire fell, and the pink colt beneath it flung himself sideways to avoid it.

The spire crashed down with a colossal noise, and time suddenly resumed.

The huge mass of shattering obsidian smashed into the crust of the river. sending huge cracks racing through the glass beneath their hooves. Cranberry heard Pollux shouting run, run, but before she could heed his frantic words, the whole world seemed to tilt under her. With a rumbling THOOM, a massive geyser of pressurized, liquefied glass shot up from the impact point. It sprayed through the air as it lengthened along the damaged cracks, splitting and racing toward her.

The plate of glass she stood upon jerked up, flinging her backward. Cranberry’s hooves wheeled in the air, until her back collided with the glass below. She tried to stand, slipping and staggering, as the whole river seemed to buckle and heave beneath her. More gouts of molten silicate exploded around them, and other spires began to crack and topple. With each that fell, new tremors shook the ground, the chain reaction spreading rapidly across the frozen crust.

“Go, go!” yelled Castor. “Get to the door!”

Ahead, through the chaos, Cranberry saw Pollux and Apricot racing after the pegasus, heading for the exit on the other side. Pwyll, just behind Castor, suddenly cried out and fell as a crack stole his footing. The ground beneath him rose precipitously, and he clung to the edge as he suddenly found himself dangling over a yawning gap. Liquid glass sprayed around him.

“Hold on!” Castor’s wings flared as he sprang to aid the deer.

Pollux and Apricot skidded to a stop as the crack raced across their path. “We’ve got to go around!” said the mage, his head rapidly swerving back and forth as he looked for a path.

“Inger,” Cranberry yelled, “help Apri—”

“I know!” A red blur streaked past her after their son.

Cranberry stumbled back, losing her footing again as the slippery glass tilted violently. A sudden jet of liquid glass burst up in front of her, so close that she could feel the heat of it searing her skin, flinging the chunk of crust and her up and away. Cranberry screamed as she tumbled through the air, before slamming once more into the shattering river. She skidded over the glass, bouncing into a shattering spire, before sliding under the collapsing shards and onto an intact plane of obsidian.

Breathless, she tried to stand. The air was filled with shouting and the sound of crashing glass, with the rumbling cracks of the shattering river growing louder and echoing throughout the chamber. Someone grabbed Cranberry’s hoof, hauling her upright. “Come on,” yelled Kaduat, pulling her forward. “We’ve got to—oh, shit!”

A falling spire beside them toppled into another, and the tangled mess of breaking glass came crashing down above. Kaduat hurled Cranberry away, and dove in the other direction. The two went sliding apart as the spires collided with the ground, smashing clean through the crust and vanishing in a burst of burning liquid.

The river had become so broken up that the crust began to look like like ice floes on a glowing sea. More spires fell every minute, rending new holes in the surface. The molten glass below was under such pressure that now, with points to release itself, it was driving the reaction, spreading more cracks and breaking apart the solid obsidian.

Across the new gap, Kaduat stood unsteadily. “Professor!”

“I’m fine,” Cranberry croaked, looking around for a way forward. The ground shook and nearly sent her falling again as her chunk of glass broke away, carried by the current below. “Ah!”

Kaduat ran parallel to her, dodging another falling spire. “You’re going to have to jump!”

“I can’t!” yelled Cranberry, panicking. “It’s too far!”

“I’ll help you!” From behind, she heard Beatriz’s voice. Cranberry whirled to see her antelope friend’s horns blazing blue. Beatriz was clinging to the broken trunk of a half-missing spire from the other shore of the crust. “Take a running start, and you’ll make it!”

“What about you?”

“I’m okay for now, but you’ve got to get off that chunk before you get carried away! Now go!”

There was no time to argue. Cranberry took a deep breath, and sprinted toward Kaduat. Her hooves pounded across the glass, feeling it tilt and wobble beneath her. It was moving faster, pulling away from Kaduat’s semi-stable section of the crust. The gap widened another meter. Cranberry reached the edge, flinging herself into the air. Blue light shimmered around her, as she felt a weak tug upward.

Her forehooves hit the edge of the glass, and her body slammed into the side. Mere centimeters below, the churning river of molten silica burned. Cranberry scrabbled at the edge. “Help! Help!” One of her hooves slipped, dangling.

The camel skidded to a stop above her. Kaduat’s feet grasped her hoof, pulling. “Come—on!” she groaned, hauling her back and up. Cranberry’s other hoof gained purchase, and she came clambering up over the edge to relative safety.

The two lay gasping beside each other for a moment. “Thanks,” panted Cranberry.

“Can’t stay here,” breathed Kaduat, rolling over to stand. “Got to move.”

“What about Beatriz?” Cranberry looked across the gap toward the antelope, still clinging to the broken pole of glass. It was at least ten meters, too far for even a magically aided jump.

“Nothing we can do. One of the pegasi will have to—”

An enormous, echoing crack from upriver drew their attention. Cranberry’s eyes widened as she watched a glowing line sear its way across the frozen waterfall. “Oh, gods,” she whispered. “If that goes, it’ll fill this whole cavern with molten glass.”

“When that goes,” corrected Kaduat through clenched teeth. “We’ve got to get out, now.” She cupped her feet to her mouth. “Just hang on, Bea! We’ll send back—”

She was interrupted by a cry from Zaeneas, who came running past them. “Incoming!” yelled the zebra, pointing behind her. Cranberry’s eyes fell to the newest danger.

A massive tangle of bodies, broken crustal fragments, and pieces of fallen spires, all carried by a bed of molten glass, was sliding across the solid surface with gathering speed. It crashed into more spires as it went and rolled over them without pausing, adding more mass to its barreling momentum. Liquefied glass burbled around it as it flowed over the edge of the crust, sinking it down and cracking off another chunk. Corpses, exposed by the breaking glass, rolled limply under the crushing progress of the wave as it headed for them like a mudslide.

Cranberry and Kaduat ran after Zaeneas, darting past more glass trees and over the rippled surface of the still-frozen river. Cranberry panted heavily as they galloped. “We’re heading the wrong way!” she warned, watching as the door receded further upriver.

“No choice!” said Kaduat. “It’s gaining on us,” she panted, looking around. “There!” She diverted course, and the others followed her. Kaduat led them toward a massive tree-spire, the largest that Cranberry had seen. The crust beneath it, broken from below by the pressurized glass melt and sinking under the spire’s weight, tilted it upriver. The incline was severe enough for the three to run up along its length.

Zaeneas shook her head as they reached the base. “The hell kind of plan is this?”

Kaduat didn’t hesitate, running up along the spire and weaving past the branch-tines. “We can’t outrun that wave, so we’ll go over it. When it hits this tree, the whole spire will tip over like a lever, and put us down on the other side.”

“That’s crazy,” gasped Zaeneas, but Cranberry couldn’t think of any better ideas, so she followed the camel up. Staring after the two of them for a moment, the zebra swore, before following.

The three clambered up the spire, sparing glances toward the oncoming wave of debris. Cranberry caught Beatriz’s horns glowing from the far side, and allowed herself a sigh of relief that the wave had missed the antelope. She wasn’t sure that the she and the others were going to be so lucky. This was a desperate idea, but it was already too late to turn back. She tried not to look at the bodies entombed in the glass beneath her hooves, or muse that she might soon be joining them.

Near the top of the glass tree, where the spire had grown so thin that they could no longer walk on it without balancing, the three of them all took precarious hold of the glass branches. The sharp tines twinkled threateningly in the warm light. Cranberry watched with her breath held as the wave rolled inexorably toward them, then under them, until finally it collided with the base of their refuge.

The trunk of the spire snapped like a twig. Cranberry couldn’t restrain a scream as they suddenly tilted and fell. The wave passed below, leaving a wake of cooling glass and the stubs of shattered spires behind. The air rushed past them as their tree came toppling down. Cranberry closed her eyes and clung to the branch.

They slammed into the river surface with tremendous force. Glass tines exploded all around them as the tree’s crown fractured. Cranberry’s branch snapped, and she was flung free. Her eyes snapped back open as she went rolling across the glass, still searing hot from the wave’s passage. Her scream turned from fear to pain as it singed her coat. Cranberry stopped her rolling with an outstretched foreleg, quickly regaining her footing as she stood.

The tree had fallen over a gap in the crust to the edge of the wave’s wake, its crown resting at the edge of the still-glowing trail it had left. The impact had tossed Kaduat free onto a thick plate of glass, strong and unshattered by even the fall of the spire. Cranberry raced toward the camel, feeling her hooves shriek in pain as they trod over the superheated glass. She exhaled in desperate relief as she crossed onto the cooler crust.

Kaduat was lying motionless where she’d fallen. Cranberry reached her and knelt beside the camel, lifting Kaduat’s head. “Hey! Come on, don’t die on me, please, please…”

A fragment of glass had struck the camel’s head, leaving a gash between her ear and eye. Blood streamed freely down the side of her face, but Cranberry held up a hoof to the camel’s mouth and felt breath. “Zaeneas,” called Cranberry, “help me carry her!”

“Aaaah!” cried the zebra. Cranberry’s head whirled back to see Zaeneas on her back, her hind legs pinned beneath the body of the glass tree.

Cranberry’s heart pounded. “Hold on,” she said. “I’ll—I’ll—”

Flapping wings from above drew her eyes up, and she felt sudden relief course through her. “Inger!”

“Apricot’s safe,” he said, dropping to the ground beside them. “He and Pollux are holding that door open, but we don’t have long before the waterfall breaks and floods this place. It’ll make that last wave look like a splash.”

“Kaduat’s out cold,” said Cranberry. “Can you carry her to them?”

He nodded. “What about you?” Zaeneas let out another shriek of pain, and Inger’s eyes widened as he saw her predicament.

“I’ll help her,” Cranberry said, hoisting one of Kaduat’s legs up over her shoulder. “Go on, the faster you get Kaduat to safety, the faster you can come back for us. And tell Castor that Bea’s still trapped on the other side of the river. She needs a ride.”

“Got it. Where’s my father?”

Cranberry shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since everything started collapsing. He might be over there, too.”

“Damn.” Inger’s face was tense as they settled Kaduat securely onto his back. “All right. Once you get Zaeneas out, head for the door. I’ll meet you halfway and carry her, if need be.”

“Thank you. Now go!”

With a nod, he was off. Cranberry meditatively watched him soar away. She wondered how to reconcile her husband’s unshakable calm in a crisis with that panicky, jealous stallion from the argument mere minutes ago. Oh, Inger, she thought mournfully, am I really so much scarier than mortal danger?

Another yelp of pain from Zaeneas shattered her moment of contemplation. Cranberry raced over to the zebra, who was straining against the spire with her forehooves. “Help,” Zaeneas gasped weakly.

“If I push on it, I think I can give you enough wiggle room to pull yourself out,” said Cranberry, leaning against it with her shoulder. She paused for a moment as she laid eyes on an earth pony, his eyes peacefully closed, frozen just a hoof’s breadth beneath the glass.

“Nnngh,” managed Zaeneas, nodding with clenched teeth. “Hurry. Leg hurts,” she panted.

“I know,” Cranberry gravely acknowledged. “That’s probably two hundred kilos of glass lying on it. I’ll do my best.”

Clenching her teeth, she pushed against the pillar with all her might, but Zaeneas screamed. “Ahh! Stop!”

Cranberry let it rest, shaking her head in puzzlement. “What’s—”

“Leg—!” the zebra whimpered.

Cranberry ducked her head to peer below the spire, and her eyes widened. Zaeneas’s right thigh was surrounded by pooling blood. After a glance around at all the shattered branches, a gruesome realization clicked. One of the shattered tines, still attached to the trunk, had impaled the zebra’s leg. Aside from the horrific pain she must be in, it was trapping her under there as much as the weight.

“Oh, Celestia,” Cranberry breathed. “Zaeneas, there’s no way I can lift this far enough off of you to get that out. I think we’ll have to just… pull you hard enough to break the glass spike off with you.”

“No, no—” choked the zebra. “The wound’s bad enough already, if you—we can’t! I-I’d lose my leg,” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry,” said Cranberry, feeling tears in her eyes. “I don’t see another way.”

“Wait for… wait until your husband…”

A sudden crack rent the glass beside them. Apparently, the crust here hadn’t survived the impact, after all. Cranberry watched in horror as the crack widened toward them, glowing liquid seeping up through it. “There’s no time,” she said. “I’m sorry, Zan.”

Hollowly, and with a few shaky breaths, the zebra nodded. Cranberry took a deep breath. “Okay. Grit your teeth. Here we go.”

She pushed again, and Zaeneas screamed. The zebra planted her forehooves on the spire and pushed, trying to free herself. Her eyes closed as sweat streaked down through her striped coat. She pounded a foreleg on her thigh, trying to snap off the glass branch, her whole body twitching violently with every impact. The crack in the crust crept closer, oozing and spraying little jets of molten glass. Cranberry strained with all her strength, but the immense weight of the spire wasn’t budging.

Suddenly, the ground tilted. The plate that they were on was breaking free. The whole thing jerked, suddenly dropping them a few inches, and Zaeneas’s scream rose in pitch before cutting off. The zebra’s eyes rolled back as she let her head drop, wheezing with pain.

Cranberry planted her hooves back on the ground, trying to keep her balance as the plate shifted. “Zaeneas! Come on, we have to try again. There’s no time…”

She heard the sound of wingbeats again. Back already? she thought, her heart lifting. But when she looked up, it wasn’t her husband coming to their aid.

Tybalt hovered just above them, looking at the pony and the zebra with those piercing golden eyes of his. Cranberry met them, feeling a sudden chill despite the heat. She could see the guarded hostility in his face, a grim knowledge that they both suddenly shared.

Well, she thought, gazing up at her father-in-law, if he wants to be rid of me once and for all, he’ll never get a better chance than this. All he has to do is leave… and then Inger will be his alone, forever.

“Help me,” she begged anyway. “Please, Tybalt.”

A long moment passed. Tybalt glanced at the zebra. “Come, then,” he said at last. “Take my hoof.” He offered it to Cranberry.

She blinked. “No, I mean help me get her out of there!”

He frowned. “It’s too late for that, Professor. We should go.” His eyes flicked back to the zebra, and he exhaled. “I… I am sorry.”

Zaeneas’s eyes bulged. “Wait! You can’t just leave me!”

The crack widened again, jerking toward them. Cranberry staggered as the plate tilted beneath them again. The whole thing was sinking under the fallen spire’s weight. Molten glass crept up from the edges, oozing toward them. “Tybalt! Please!”

He swooped at her. Cranberry recoiled, before the pegasus swung through, threading beneath her and lifting her onto his back with one smooth motion. She flopped over his back, feeling his wings beat beside her, widening her eyes in shock. “Wait!” she yelped, as he carried her up.

Below, Zaeneas screamed as the crack in the glass raced underneath her. The screams went louder and louder as blazing orange liquid sprayed up from beneath her. She writhed as the glass sank, suddenly falling silent as the obsidian beneath her buckled, and her head vanished into the glowing liquid. A hoof stretched up, before going limp and collapsing to the surface as the river took her.

Cranberry pounded on Tybalt’s flank as he flew away, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Damn you,” she gasped, her head sinking to rest on her foreleg. “Damn you!”

“There was nothing we could do, Professor,” he said, his voice strained.

“You could have at least tried!”

“And tired myself out too much to carry you?” He fluttered unsteadily, and they dropped a meter before his wings regained their rhythm. “Then we’d all have died. Sometimes the few must be sacrificed for the many, Cranberry.”

As they soared through the cavern, another immense series of cracks echoed through the air. Cranberry turned her head upriver to see that the waterfall was finally beginning to fail. Jets of glass melt sprayed from the huge cracks in the wide cataract, and above it she could see the glow beginning to intensify. It seemed like the entire river was about to burst.

They suddenly careened into a sharp descent. As Tybalt landed, one of his legs gave out and they toppled to the ground. Real ground, made of rock, not glass. Cranberry scrambled back to her hooves, finding herself standing before the massive stone door to the exit, held aloft by a blend of crimson and rose light. On the other side stood the rest of the party. Pwyll, Inger, the mages, and Kaduat—her eyes open once more, one foot massaging her bloody forehead—all stood anxiously behind the giant door. Cranberry and Tybalt darted under it to join them.

“Cranberry! Father!” Inger rushed forward. “I’m sorry, Cranberry. I had to catch my breath after getting Kaduat here; I was just about to come b—”

“It’s all right,” she told him vacantly, still reliving the memory of that striped hoof sinking into the glass. “Tybalt saved me. But Zaeneas—she didn’t make it.”

Kaduat and Pollux’s eyes sank at the news. The camel swore quietly, lowering her bloodstained foot to stare at it.

“Thank you for getting her out, Father,” Inger said, giving the other pegasus a desperately grateful look. Tybalt returned a ghostly smile with a nod.

Cranberry just thought about his cold apology to Zaeneas, and shivered. “Apricot,” she asked, trying to focus on anything else, “are you all right?”

“Yeah,” her son said weakly, staring up at the door. His horn flickered. “But I’m… I’m so tired…”

Beneath a shining crimson horn, Pollux wiped sweat from his brow. “Hold on just a bit longer, Apricot.”

“Wait, who’s still missing?” Cranberry asked, starting another headcount. “No—Beatriz! Did anyone—”

“Castor went to get her,” said Inger.

Cranberry looked back out at the chaos on the river. Geysers of liquid glass and raining shards of exploded tree-spires filled the air. “Sisters! They’ll need a miracle to get through all that. How long has he been gone?”

“He left moments before you arrived,” said Pollux, straining with the effort of holding up the door. “Don’t worry. He’ll get her out. Look! There,” he said, pointing with a trembling hoof as he panted with exertion.

Cranberry spied the antelope then, illuminated by the blue glow of her horns. She had climbed up one of the surviving spires, the base of which had completely sunk into the river. Beatriz clung to the highest branch-tines as she sank lower, holding out a hoof. Castor was darting through the tumultuous rain of glass and collapsing spires toward her, his bronze wings flashing as he did a somersault to avoid an angled spray of glass melt. Against all odds, it looked like he was going to reach her.

A roar filled the air. Cranberry looked right up the river and felt her breath vanish. A tidal wave of molten glass burst through the frozen waterfall, obliterating it in a glowing tsunami. The river above exploded with it, erupting in a flood that filled the cavern nearly to the roof. The molten glass crashed the cliff, barreling toward them. It was so high that it would completely bury the doors once it reached them.

“Come on, Castor,” muttered Kaduat, leaning forward. “Come on!”

Pollux panted. “Apricot. The moment they’re through, we have to drop the door. Are you ready?”

“R… ready…”

Inger’s wings lifted, but Cranberry held up a foreleg. “No, honey—You won’t reach them in time to help. Castor can do this.” She squinted at the distant pegasus as he reached Beatriz. Castor fluttered beside her, helping the antelope climb onto his back. The spire slipped away as she kicked off from it, finally toppling and sinking beneath the surface. With visible effort, Castor’s wings beat mightily and he came soaring back toward them.

The surging torrent of molten glass raged hungrily down the tunnel toward them. Cranberry’s heart was in her mouth as the pegasus and antelope drew closer. A gout of liquid sprayed up in their path, only narrowly dodged. It was going to be close, desperately close. The wave crested, curling in on itself as the tremendous force of thousands of tons of melted glass careened forward.

“Come on—hurry—” strained Apricot, watching them with wide eyes beneath his blazing horn.

The incredible roaring of the wave filled Cranberry’s ears and chest. A few leading splashes of glass flew past Castor. He was close enough that she could see the glinting determination in his eyes.

“All right—Apricot,” grunted Pollux. “On the count of five!”

Apricot nodded, biting his lip and shuddering beneath the magical strain.

“One!”

Cranberry leaned forward, clutching a hoof to her breast. Go, go! she urged silently.

“Two!”

Beatriz clutched Castor tight, pressing her head to his neck in a desperate bid for an extra scrap of aerodynamic speed.

“Three!”

The wave arced over them, so close that splattering drops singed Castor’s wingtips.

“Fo—”

Pollux was suddenly cut off with a gasp. Cranberry’s head jerked to the side to see him staggering back, as Tybalt hurled the unicorn away from the door with both forehooves. Pollux’s horn winked out, the crimson light vanishing from around the stone slab.

Apricot cried out, “I can’t—” before his horn flashed a brilliant white and extinguished. The massive stone door crashed to earth, mere inches from Cranberry’s snout.

An instant passed in shocked silence. Then there was a deafening, bone-shaking THOOM as ten thousand tons of liquid glass slammed into the stone.

5. Katabasis Company

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

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

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

Where on earth did my father find these people?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Younger by five minutes,” scoffed Pollux.

“And don’t you forget it.”

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

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

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

“As well as the humility, clearly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inger shivered. “Caves, you say…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You love me? You don’t even know me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry… sorry…” he ducked back out.

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

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

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

“You think they’ll be ready soon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cranberry’s stomach sank. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vallen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But they didn’t even let me ask!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For… say, two whole weeks?”

Apricot blinked. “Huh?”

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

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

“What are you saying…?”

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

“Not pink, cer—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12. Memories of Mares and Mead

The light of the flickering campfire casts shadows across the fresh snow. Beside him, Cranberry shivers and pulls her thick cloak tighter around her shoulders. Inger rubs his hooves and presses them toward the fire. Even with a pegasus’s natural resistance to the elements, the heat is welcome in a land as cold as this one. Their other two companions look equally grateful for the flames. All four ponies’ breath rises visibly in the air, freezing as they exhale.

“Well,” says Eberhardt, in his thick Sleipnordic accent. “Is late. We must sleep soon. Crossing frozen lake again tomorrow.”

Around them, the empty tundra is hidden from view by a circle of pale trees. They rustle gently in the frigid wind. Above, however, the open sky is filled with Sleipnord’s glorious aurora. Colors slowly whirl and waver, vast sheets of light that drift silently between the earth and the stars. It’s the most magnificent sight in all the north.

As Eberhardt stands, Rye puffs out a misty breath. “Let’s hope the crossing goes better on the way back than it did the first time.”

Beside Inger, Cranberry laughs. “I’ll try not to let anything bite me.”

“No monsters, anyway,” Inger murmurs, so quietly that only she can hear him. She swats him with a hoof, but can’t mask her grin.

Rye appears to have missed the exchange, rubbing his eyes. “Night, Eberhardt.” The nordpony bows his head to the Equestrians before vanishing into one of the two tents. With a yawn, Rye lifts the cast-iron pot that held dinner out of the flames, dumping out the remaining water into the snow. A cloud of hissing steam rises.

“How’s the hammer, Rye?” asks Cranberry, scooting closer to Inger. She leans into him with a sigh of relief at the added warmth.

Rye shrugs, scooping some snow into the pot to cool it. “It’s fine…” He glances down at the hammer hanging from his side. “I still can’t feel any magic from it. But it’s got to be the right one, or that spirit wouldn’t have protected it so fiercely.”

Inger slides a hoof under the hem of Cranberry’s thick cloak, brushing against her cutie mark. Biting her tongue, she gives him a light nudge with her snout. “Patience, silly,” she whispers. Raising her voice, she asks Rye with veiled innocence, “You think you’ll be up late?”

“No. Eberhardt’s right; tomorrow’s going to be a long day. We’ll have to climb that cliff again…” Rye stuffs the cooking implements back into his pack, hauling it over his back and standing. With a pause, he glances between the two of them. Inger can feel Cranberry tense slightly, but Rye’s face is perfectly neutral. “Good night,” he mutters, nodding before heading into the tent after Eberhardt.

“Finally,” breathes Inger, burying his face in the crook of Cranberry’s neck, kissing her.

Rolling back into the snow with him, she giggles. “Goodness, Inger. It’s only been a day.”

“Can you blame me?” He grins, running a hoof along the curve of her leg. “Something about you makes me impatient.”

“Where’s that Firewing discipline?” They trade kisses. The warmth of her lips is the perfect antidote to Sleipnord’s bitter chill.

This—kissing her, being with her—is still new, still thrilling, more exciting than flying, more nerve-wracking than battle. It’s only been five days since he first kissed her, beneath the stern stone of Mount Jormundr. And it’s only been three days since they first pushed their bedrolls together to share a blanket, and tenuously begin exploring this new relationship. His heart pounds with the still-fresh terror and delight of newfound intimacy.

Who could have thought that this mare, who once punched him in the nose by way of introduction, could become the one he loved most in the world?

“Mmnh,” she whispers, “not out here.”

“Why not? I can’t think of a more beautiful place…” Inger turns his eyes up to the infinite sea of shifting color in the sky. Cranberry’s gaze follows, and both pause for a moment, breath stolen by the magnificent aurora.

“It is beautiful,” she admits, before shivering. “But I’m not a pegasus. My blood doesn’t protect me from the cold like you and Rye.” Giving her frostbitten ears a pointed flick, she raises an eyebrow.

“I think we could find a way to stay warm…” says Inger, grinning stupidly. “But point taken. The tent it is. After all, wouldn’t want my tongue to get frozen to something embarrassing.”

Cranberry rolls her eyes. “I swear. You give a stallion one kiss and he turns into a hound.”

Inger lifts her over his back, as she yelps in delighted surprise. “Are you planning to stop at a kiss…?”

“Go on, to the tent!” she laughs.

Inside the tent they’ve been sharing since leaving the mountain, the two tumble into the warm blankets. Kisses rain down as hooves rove across each other, turning her mane into a mess of curls and frazzling his feathers.

“I think we’re getting better at this,” she says, her chest already heaving. As Inger trails more kisses down her stomach, she gulps. “D-do you think you could do that thing with your t—oh!”

Inger’s head dips between her legs. Cranberry claps a hoof across her mouth to silence a yelp of pleasure. “Mmmmm!” she manages, squeezing the sides of his head.

He loves the way she wriggles beneath his assault. Kisses turn to licks as he intensifies the pressure of his mouth on her warm, wet skin. Cranberry is panting, twisting her head to and fro as his tongue presses into her. “Ssso,” she breathes, “good…” A low moan escapes her lips.

Lifting his head for a moment, Inger lets his hoof take over. His eyes sparkle with delight at the pleasure he’s causing her. “I can’t stop thinking about you all day. Every time I try to focus on the mission, all I see is you.”

“I love you,” she whispers, stroking a hoof against his chest. “Mmf!” Her eyes close as he tweaks his hoof against her most sensitive spot.

Lunging down, he kisses the nape of her neck. “Sisters, Cranberry. I love you, too.” His head is cloudy, hot and thick, as their warm breath mixes.

“Nnh,” she moans, muffling herself with a hoof. “I want… I want more.”

“Gods, so do I,” he admits, using his hoof to pull one of her legs aside. “All I could think of while we were eating dinner.”

“Inger!” She sounds more amused than appalled. “And here I thought you were a gentlecolt.”

“Is this not gentle enough?” he asks, his head sinking back down.

It’s too much. She gasps, crying out before slapping both hooves to her snout. Inger snorts, unable to hide a laugh. “Go ahead. Let it out.” He feels a thrum of excitement. “I like hearing you.”

“I can’t,” she whispers. “Rye might not be asleep yet.”

Inger shrugs. “Does it matter? This isn’t any of his business.”

“No, but… I don’t think he knows we’re, um, doing this. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Oh.” Inger returns to his ministrations, but a twinge of unease penetrates the amorous fog in his head. He’d wondered how their companion would react when he realized the two had struck up this new romance. So far, Rye hadn’t said anything about it, not even after he’d seen them kissing by the fire two nights ago.

“Why would he be hurt?” he asks.

Cranberry wilts. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m being foolish. But after that mess I made with the book and the hammer, I just think it’s better if we keep this quiet for now.” She looks away for a moment. “I don’t want to hide this, Inger—Sisters, you make me so happy.” She beams back at him for an instant. “It’s just… He never liked it when I stole one of Inky’s romance novels to read out loud. I think he’s sensitive about it.” Her face falls. “I hate to say it, but maybe even bitter. You know, because he’s…”

A pegacorn. Inger understands instantly. Swallowing, he nods.

“Oh, I’ve spoiled the mood,” she says, sighing, but Inger kisses her again.

“You could never spoil anything,” he exhales. Her legs press against his sides as he adjusts his position on the bedroll. Damp warmth presses between them. He feels a twitch of eager excitement as Cranberry’s eyes glitter.

“Mmnh. Okay,” she whispers. “Just be quiet.”

“Shhh,” he whispers conspiratorially, as their lips meet once more.

“Don’t be rough,” she pleads, squeezing her forelegs behind his back.

“Soft as pegasus down,” he promises, before sliding into ecstasy. She cries out this time, unable to contain it, clinging to him. “I love you,” he whispers again, as the leaves whisper on the wind.

* * *

A bang from outside shattered his slumber. Inger sat blearily, rubbing his eyes. “Wha…?”

There was another bang. Who’s causing a racket at this hour? he thought, still half asleep. Outside the tent, he heard Virgil grunt. “Watch the barrels, boys and girls.” Kaduat’s voice muttered an acid rejoinder in Dromedarian. Bright morning sunlight filtered into the tent. The entrance flap fluttered in a sudden gust of wind.

I guess the question ought to be who’s still in bed at this hour, Inger thought, blinking. A glance to his side revealed that Cranberry and Apricot had both already left the tent. He’d overslept, it seemed, despite feeling like he’d just closed his eyes minutes ago. Yawning, he resigned himself to another day of sleep-deprived stumbling through the woods, but his wings perked up at the smell of cooked eggs on the air. Maybe he could at least still snag some breakfast.

As he cast aside his blanket, he realized with a fierce blush that the dream had gotten him more excited than he’d first realized. It wouldn’t do to go outside like this. Stalling for time, he set about rolling up the sleeping pallets and tying them off. While he worked, he couldn’t help a smile creeping onto his face.

Those first few weeks in Sleipnord together with Cranberry had been something special. Their first kiss under the falling snow beneath the mountain had lit a fire in his chest, a fire that hadn’t faded as the days and nights passed on their way back south. Despite all the danger they’d been in, this one thing—young love, exciting and new—had seemed simple and pure. The way her eyes lit up, the whispered I love yous, and knowing they were for him set his heart aflutter even now, remembering.

Sighing happily, he finished tying up the third bedroll, and hoisted all three over his shoulder by their cords. He’d settled down enough to go out in public, so he stepped through the open flap.

The camp was swarming with mercenaries, busy tearing down the other tents. Inger dropped the bedrolls beside the Sugars’ tent and swiftly set to breaking it down himself. The practice he’d gleaned from dozens of military tours all over Equestria’s provinces made short work of it. In less than two minutes, the tent, poles, and stakes had all been neatly rolled and packed. He carted the lot toward the supply wagon with the others and stuffed them inside.

Dusting his hooves off, he surveyed the rest of the campsite. The mercenaries were clearly almost ready to get moving, but he still had a few minutes to snag some food. Belly grumbling, he made his way past the others toward the remains of the campfire. The only one sitting down was Cranberry, an untouched bowl of breakfast beside her, scribbling furiously in her journal. Inger, with an impish smile, snuck up behind her and put his hooves over her eyes. “Guess who?”

Cranberry jumped, slamming her journal shut. “Inger! Good morning.”

"Morning,” he said, sitting beside her. “Gonna finish that?”

“Go ahead,” she said. She pushed the bowl toward him. and resumed her scribbling.

Inger scarfed down the eggs, along with the shredded potatoes he discovered beneath them. Beatriz had apparently gone all-out this morning; shame he’d slept through it. “What’re you writ’n?” he asked, with a full mouth.

Face paling, she fidgeted with the journal. “Just—the journey so far. Since we’ve entered the forest, I’ve been taking notes on everything I see.” Quickly, she muttered, “And remembered.”

“Funny,” Inger grinned, setting the half-empty bowl down. “I was just remembering something nice, myself…” With an eyebrow coyly lifted, he leaned closer, kissing her neck. He expected her to roll her eyes and push him off, snicker, or even kiss him back; anything but the way she stiffened and abruptly leaped to her hooves. Inger sat back, blinking. “Sorry. Something wrong?”

“No—I—” Behind them, one of the camels slipped and fell against one of the carts. Glass rattled inside, and Cranberry cringed.

“Cranberry…” he kept his voice low, but he wasn’t going to let even the presence of the mercenaries put this off any longer. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting strange for days now. Is this about our—our fight?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, pursing her lips. “It’s nothing, Inger. I just… didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Then why do you jump whenever I touch you?” He gave a frustrated sigh. “If you’re mad at me, I’d rather you were just mad at me. Hiding it isn’t like you.”

“I’m not mad,” she said, her eyes flicking nervously left and right. “Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.” Her eyes focused back on him for a moment, and softened. “I love you,” she whispered.

It did little to alleviate his concerns, but the words warmed him anyway. “I love you, too,” he said gently, reaching out an inviting hoof.

For a moment, she seemed about to take it, to sit down with him and finally tell him about what had her so spooked, but a sharp whistle rang through the camp. Castor trotted by, wings fluffed and back straight. “Let’s go, let’s go! We’ve wasted enough daylight.”

The carts creaked into motion as the caravan set out back onto the path. Cranberry clutched her journal to her chest with a foreleg, turning away. “You’d better get that bowl back to Beatriz. I’ll see you later.”

Inger let his hoof drop, mutely nodding. His wife disappeared between the supply carts, leaving him beside the ashen firepit. Frowning, he dumped out the remaining food. He’d lost his appetite.

The day’s hike proved grueling. Though the forest terrain was mostly the same rolling slopes they’d passed through to reach the Elderwood, the supply carts turned what might have been a pleasant walk in the woods into an exhausting march. Gnarled tree roots and patches of mud caused constant delays, and an unlucky rock nearly popped one of the wheels from its axle. A simple ditch, merely a meter deep and double that across, cost the expedition nearly two hours to navigate around, thanks to the dense aspens surrounding it on either side. At one point, all three pegasi had to manually lift Zaeneas’s small-yet-heavy cart into the air (with a little help from Pollux and his eager apprentice) to clear a ledge too high for its smaller wheels to surmount.

By noon, everyone was noticeably flagging. Inger was no stranger to difficult treks; he’d had more than his share in the Firewings. But it had been two days now since he’d gotten a good night’s sleep, thanks to those strange, vivid dreams. He was rubbing his eyes before long, wondering if Beatriz had any strong teas stowed away in their supplies.

When Castor called the halt for lunch, Inger stepped away from the main group. Once he’d put a few trees between himself and the noise of the mercenaries’ conversations, he slumped against the nearest tree. Just a quick rest before we eat, he thought, his eyes fluttering closed. The clunking and shifting of wooden barrels as the camels retrieved rations faded as he slid down the aspen’s trunk. Just resting for a moment…

* * *

Through the white trees, he can hear the sounds of the tavern. Clattering mugs and laughter spur him on through the underbrush. Even the whispering leaves aren’t loud enough to drown out the distinct plinking of a hammer dulcimer and lute, nor the voices of the revelers.

Finally breaking through the treeline, Inger pulls himself out of the pitch-like blackness and steps into the street. Excitement thrums in his chest. After all, this day’s been coming for months. He can scarcely believe he finally worked up the nerve—less still that it went so well. Perhaps Cranberry would think him silly for worrying, but it had taken more courage than facing that vast dragon in the skies above Canterlot.

Ahead, the tavern’s windows glow in the night. The Salt Lick has been doing a lot of business in the last two months, as one of the few pubs in the city to escape the griffons’ arson in the siege. It was Rye who introduced him to the place, meeting him there for drinks when they could catch time between their frantic schedules.

Inger pushes through the door, blinking in the warm candlelight as his eyes adjust. The musicians’ music grows louder, filling the pub with lively song. Before he can get his bearings, he hears a friendly cry of “Eyyy, there’s our conquering hero!” from the bar. With a laugh, he waves to his brothers and sisters.

They’re all here, every surviving Firewing. His stomach lurches for a moment at that thought. Just six months ago, there were over three hundred pegasi in golden armor living at the castle. Now, the survivors can fit in a single pub.

The mare who hailed his arrival, Misty Sprinkle—the sergeant who’d run his basic weatherforging training all those years ago, he remembers with a smile—waves him over. “All hail the Dragonslayer,” she says, lifting her ale as he takes a seat beside her.

All the others toast him with a shout. It’s a good thing Inger’s coat is cherry-red; it makes it hard for others to tell when he blushes. He still isn’t used to the whole “Dragonslayer” thing. It seems to be more than a sobriquet—ponies use it like a title, like a surname, as if it’s all he is now. An honor, but an isolating one. If he ever marries, his spouse will keep her name, rather than take “Dragonslayer” as her own.

Not merely academic anymore, he thinks, grinning down the bar. At the far end, slightly shaded from the overhead candelabra, the Firewings’ former captain sits perched on a stool. Windstreak’s wings are still bound with linen bandages, but she’s finally smiling again, something he hasn’t seen since the siege. She lifts her own mug of ale, winking at him.

Does she already know about his surprise? That would mean Cranberry stopped by the bakery this afternoon. He was looking forward to telling Windstreak himself, but he supposes Cranberry had the better right.

“Well, well,” says another pegasus, snorting. It’s the youngest member of the ‘Wings, Wheatie. He was barely a fresh recruit when Inger left for Sleipnord. Now, he’s seen more battle than even Inger himself. “The Dragonslayer deigns to arrive. You’re only an hour and twenty minutes late, you know.”

“I was, uh, held up,” says Inger, waving down the bartender. “Hey, Bottlecap. I’ll get a pint of mead, if you please.”

“Put it on my tab!” says Wheatie.

Bottlecap nods, beaming. “I’ll be a minute. We keep the good stuff downstairs.” He vanishes through a door behind the bar.

“Generous of you,” says Inger, raising an eyebrow at Wheatie.

“I figured I’d get a head start on buttering up our new captain,” says the young pegasus with a wink.

From her seat, Windstreak snorts. “Don’t give him an inch, Inger. If you don’t watch him he’ll sneak off all day to sleep in that tree by the practice field.”

“Can’t,” mourns Wheatie, sipping his ale. “Dragon burned the tree down.” He sighs. “I’ll never nap quite so well again…”

Though he snickers, Inger steals a glance over at Windstreak, his wings anxiously fluttering. He still doesn’t feel ready for this. It ought to be Sprinkle, or Fitz, or hell, even Wheatie taking command of the unit. All of them have more combat experience than himself—killing a dragon didn’t magically make him a great leader. Better yet, Windstreak could stay on.

He knows that it’s impossible. Her wings were broken in that final battle with Shrikefeather. She’ll be lucky to ever fly again, let alone fight with the Firewings. But her stepping down feels like more than the end of an era. It feels like losing a parent.

Windstreak gives him a brief nod, with that confident smile of hers. You can do this, it says. Princess Celestia seems to agree—though part of him is still convinced that the only reason she chose him was because slaying Merys had turned him into a folk hero.

“You’re looking a little green,” says Sprinkle, nudging him. “Go on, get some mead in you.”

Bottlecap has returned, setting down a pint on the bar in front of him. Inger takes it with both hooves, gulping down the sweet, golden drink. It’s delicious; so good that he takes a second sip before setting it back down. “You weren’t kidding, Bottlecap. That’s fantastic.” He wipes his lips. “Shame we can’t take some with us to Southlund.”

Though General Shrikefeather is dead, and the main force of his army broken like a wave against Canterlot’s walls, Equestria’s southern provinces are still swarming with thousands of invaders. A general named Lionsclaw has declared himself Warlord of the Southern Reaches, making enemies of both Equestria and his own homeland. Next week—so soon! Inger thinks, with regret—the Firewings are shipping off to help Duke Dalamant and Baron Aubren take the fight back south, to end the war for good. Tonight is their last free night before the preparations begin.

“For the heroes that saved Canterlot?” Bottlecap winks as he cleans a glass. “I’m sure I can misplace a barrel from our stores.”

The Firewings cheer, and all of them toast the proprietor. Inger smiles outwardly, but winces inside. A whole barrel of fine aged mead like that is worth hundreds, if not thousands of bits. It was an idle compliment, not a request. He’s not yet used to the weight his words now carry.

Behind him, beneath the music, he hears the door creak open. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes widen in surprise. An olive-robed figure of diminutive stature is leaving the building. Though the pony’s hood is pulled up, Inger would recognize him anywhere—and besides, there aren’t many ponies that short who are old enough to visit a tavern at this hour. “Rye! Is that you?”

His friend turns, wincing, as though he’s been caught trying to escape. He smiles weakly. “Inger!”

“Come on, join us!” Inger waves him over. The other Firewings, now well into what must be their second or third round, all give the pegacorn a toast. Sprinkle vacates the seat beside Inger, gesturing magnanimously. As Rye slides onto the stool—he has to hop a little—Inger claps him on the back. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Rye lifts a foreleg, parting his robes and revealing a bottle of brandy held in the crook of his leg. Setting it on the bar, he leans forward—a little unsteadily. “I, uh,” he mutters, “didn’t realize the Firewings would be here tonight.”

“I could say the same to you. What are the chances?” Inger laughs. “This is good, though. Means I don’t have to hunt you down, later.” He clears his throat. “Hey, everyone,” he calls, lifting his mug of mead. “I’ve got an announcement.”

His brothers and sisters peer at him with curiosity. Inger feels a feathery flutter in his chest again. It’s been there, off and on, all day long, since last night when he’d taken Cranberry to their little spot off the mountainside trail, where they’d changed their lives forever. “We’ll all be fighting in Whitetail and Southlund for the next few months, but when we return, we’ll have more to celebrate than the end of the war.”

Inger swallows, his breast swelling with excitement. “I, uh—I’m getting married!”

A shocked moment of silence travels down the bar, before the Firewings burst into cheers, drumming on the bar and shouting congratulations. Wheatie claps him on the back. “Ha! So she finally asked you, eh?”

“I asked her, actually,” says Inger, grinning sheepishly.

“Really?” Fitz, sitting to Wheatie’s right, leans in. “And here I always thought you’d be a traditionalist stick-in-the-mud, Inger. You must have it bad.”

Inger grins. “I’ve come to appreciate the unconventional.” He turns and winks at Rye.

His friend doesn’t return the smile, but he nods. “Congratulations, Inger,” he mumbles, taking a drink of brandy. As he sets the bottle back down on the bar, Inger hears it slosh hollowly—it must be nearly empty.

“Thanks,” says Inger, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re planning the wedding after I get back from the south. She’ll probably kill me for spoiling the surprise—I think she wanted to tell you herself.”

“She already did,” says Rye. “This morning.”

“Oh.” Inger watches him take another drink as a number of things begin slowly clicking into place.

“Anyway,” Rye stands, stumbling a little. “I should get home while I can still walk.”

The Firewings are still hooting and raising their mugs around him, but Inger’s world feels suddenly much smaller. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Rye, with a dry smile. “After all, if anyone gives me trouble on the way, I’ll just warn them I’m friends with the Dragonslayer.”

Before Inger can say anything else, a jostle from the side draws his attention. Wheatie lifts his ale. “Here’s to our new captain, and his blushing bride-to-be!”

A chorus of cheers affirms the toast. Inger reluctantly grins and clacks his pint against Wheatie’s. They all drink, and for a moment, the rich mead reminds him of the warmth of Cranberry’s lips, of the deep kiss they’d shared right after she said “yes”.

When the moment ends, Inger sets his drink back on the counter, looking around. Rye’s vanished. Out of the corner of his eye, he just barely catches the door swinging shut.

Briefly, he considers going after his friend. He’s just about to stand up when Sprinkle slides back over onto the adjacent stool. “So, you popped the question? Did you give her an earring?”

Inger grins. “Mhm. Got it from a jeweler on Farrier Street.”

The other Firewings all have their own questions, and soon Inger’s worries slip away. He lifts his mug and takes another draught of mead—

* * *

“Come on, wake up.”

The mead-soaked memory dissolved. Someone shook him again. Inger blinked, lifting his head with a quick shake. His father, wearing a wry smile, lifted a flask. “Lunch is nearly over. You ought to at least drink something.”

“Mm,” grunted Inger, taking it and sipping. Cool, fresh water. “Thanks. Must’ve dozed off.”

“You all right? You’ve been walking around like the undead all morning.”

“Tired,” Inger said, yawning.

“You should see Zaeneas about that,” said Tybalt, sitting beside him at the base of the aspen. “She’s got this, uh, what did she call it… tonic of ginkgo, I think. It’ll perk you right up.”

“You’ve used it?”

“How do you think I got this expedition together in just five weeks?” Tybalt laughed. “I was so busy running around hiring mercenaries and buying supplies that I went four straight days without sleep at one point. I was downing that brew like water.” He yawned, then muttered. “I might ask her for some more, myself.”

“Huh. All right, I’ll go see her.” Inger took another drink of water. “Thanks.”

“Ahh,” groaned Tybalt, leaning against the tree. “I’m getting too old to go traipsing about the countryside.”

“Good,” said Inger, slightly smiling. “That means I’ve got another decade before I am.”

“Hmph,” his father grumbled. “The impertinence of youth.” He stifled a yawn, flicking an ear. “Who’s Rye?”

Inger blinked, momentarily thrown. “Huh?”

“You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“Mm.” Inger swore internally. The last thing he wanted to do was dwell on that dream. “Rye Strudel. He’s—”

“Oh, yes, yes, Celestia’s pegacorn ambassador.” Tybalt nodded to himself. “I remember, now. Your wife mentioned him, before.”

“He’s a good friend. Probably the closest I have outside the Firewings.” Inger rubbed the flask with a hoof, ruminating. “I was just reliving old times.”

“You traveled to Sleipnord with him, right?”

“Yes. In fact, at first it was just the two of us. Cranberry followed along on her own.”

Tybalt smirked. “Like mother, like son.”

“Heh. She wasn’t pleased when I pointed that out.”

“They were close, I take it?” Tybalt craned up to watch the leaves fluttering in the breeze.

“Who, her and Rye? Yes. Childhood friends. Foster siblings, practically.” The flask was nearly empty. Inger took another sip. “Apricot Strudel took her and her sister in after their real parents perished in a freak blizzard.”

“A terrible storm,” said Tybalt, his head drooping. “I remember that year. We heard about the deaths even in the Rose Valley.” He sighed, and a quiet fell on them both for a time. With a slow shake of his head, Tybalt brightened again. “So, why did she follow the two of you to Sleipnord?”

“Say one thing for the northlands, they’re full of history. And there’s nothing my wife loves more than history.” Inger watched a fuzzy caterpillar crawl across the nearest root. “Once she found out we were going to visit the nordponies, nothing could have stopped her from coming along.”

“She was there for her friend, too, surely.”

“Well, of course.” Inger felt a nudge of old guilt. “And she was right to worry. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a very kind pony, when Rye and I first met. It took him saving our lives for me to realize what an idiot I was being.”

“But you became friends?”

“Mhm. He changed my life.” Inger gazed fondly through the trees at the line of carts, where Cranberry and Beatriz were birdwatching. “If not for him, I’d have never met Cranberry. And I’d never have become the kind of pony she’d marry.”

“How, er…” Tybalt cleared his throat. “How’d he feel about that?”

Congratulations, Inger, Rye’s dream-voice echoed, devoid of warmth. Inger swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just that… even historians avoid Sleipnord in the winter. Not to mention the ongoing civil war at the time. For someone to walk in there willingly takes a lot more than academic curiosity. I just thought that, ah, well, maybe there was more than childhood friendship between them, at one point.”

The dragon stirred in Inger’s chest, icy cold. He stared at the flask as if it were that empty bottle of brandy. “He…”

“Sorry. No need to answer.” Tybalt shook his head. “Just thinking out loud.”

“They’ve always been close,” said Inger, carefully. “And he was… very happy for both of us.”

His father’s ear flicked again. “Then, he wasn’t jealous?”

“Rye—” Inger took a deep breath. “I think he tried his best not to be. So we did our best not to rub his nose in it. Especially while we were still in Sleipnord. He needed to focus on the thanes, and getting the Nordponies’ aid for the war.”

“And… seeing the two of you together would have been a distraction.”

Inger remembered, vividly, the closest he and Cranberry had come to getting caught together. It had been a week before the new year, and Rye had been busy dealing with the thanes. It was a purely political situation, leaving Inger with little to contribute, so he had spent the day exploring Hoofnjord’s market with Cranberry. It was the first real time they’d had together that wasn’t overshadowed by their journey or some mortal peril.

It had been a wonderful day, and promised to be a wonderful night, until Rye barged in with news of an assassination attempt. Though the couple were thankfully no further than kissing, he couldn’t have missed the significance of them pressed together int he bed like that. The look on his face…

Of course he was furious. Someone had just tried to kill him, Inger chided himself. You’re just imagining things because of that dream, he thought plaintively. We never wanted to hurt him. Either of us. Rye had never said anything about it after, and Inger had never asked.

A sharp whistle carried through the trees. Castor was signaling the end of lunch. “That’s a neat trick,” said Inger, changing the subject. “I’ll have to ask him how he does that so loudly.”

“Could come in handy training those recruits, eh?” Tybalt stood. “Time to go…” He nodded to Inger and trotted off.

Inger watched him go, feeling uneasy about the whole conversation. It felt like his father had been quietly probing for something, but hell if Inger could figure out what. Tybalt, Cranberry, everyone seemed unwilling to tell him what they were thinking, all of a sudden. He stretched, feeling somehow more drained than he had before his nap. Rubbing his eyes, he stood wearily to head back to rejoin the group.

As he stepped forward, his hoof caught on a root and he stumbled. Inger fell, crashing to the ground and landing on his shoulder. Instantly, pain lanced through him, radiating through his entire body. Above, the rustling of the leaves seemed like hissing laughter. Laying in the dirt, he felt the cool kiss of the breeze through his mane.

All at once, the dragon flared to life. Not cold, now, but burning hot. He was fed up with all of this, with these stupid dreams and the lack of sleep and most of all with the way Cranberry was avoiding him. Snarling, he pushed himself upright. Why did everyone have to speak to him in riddles? Why couldn’t anyone just talk, instead of masking their feelings with smiles and hollow reassurances?

The anger felt good. For the first time since that fight on the ship, Inger felt awake, aware, felt ready to move, ready to do something besides wait and hope and mope. Maybe he’d get lucky and one of the carts would get stuck again. He could use a workout. Or a fight.

Fuming, he marched off toward the caravan. Rubbing his eyes, he spied Zaeneas’s little wagon, and altered course, There was still time to pay her a visit before heading back onto the trail.

Who needs sleep, anyway?